Chapter 5: The Complaint
The letter arrived on Monday.
It was from the council's Neighbourhood Relations team.
Formal headed paper, reference number at the top.
It informed us that a complaint had been received regarding alleged harassment and intimidation by residents of our address toward a neighbour.
Paul read it standing in the hallway.
He read it twice.
"Harassment," he said.
"We knocked on her door four times in three weeks."
"I know."
"And had her car towed.
Which we were legally entitled to do."
"I know, Paul."
He set the letter on the side table next to the note she'd put through our door.
They sat there together.
"What do we do?" he said.
"We respond.
Formally.
In writing.
With everything we have."
---
I spent that evening at the kitchen table with the notebook, the photographs, the workplace records, and the two letters Denise had left — the one on my windscreen in June and the one through the door after the tow.
I typed a response to the council.
Four pages.
Every date, every time, every photograph referenced by filename.
I included the workplace letter confirming I had been late and the conversation I'd had with my manager.
I included a photograph of Denise's note.
I included Carol's name as a witness and asked if her testimony could be submitted separately.
I sent it at eleven-fourteen that night.
---
Carol called the next morning.
"I've had the letter too," she said.
"What?"
"A different one.
As a named witness, apparently.
They want a statement."
"Carol, I'm sorry — I should have asked you first before I gave your name."
"Don't be sorry.
I've been waiting for someone to ask." Her voice was steady.
"I have records going back four years.
The Okafors gave me copies of their correspondence before they moved.
I have the dates she blocked the disabled bay.
I have photographs."
I held the phone very still.
"You've been keeping records for four years?"
"I didn't know what I was going to do with them," she said.
"I just knew I should."
---
The council assigned a caseworker named Mr.
Hendricks.
He called me on Wednesday afternoon, professional and neutral, the way people are when they've heard both sides of something and haven't decided yet.
"I want to be clear," he said, "that we treat all complaints seriously, including the one filed against you."
"I understand."
"I've received your written response and I've reviewed the photographic evidence.
I do need to ask — was there any verbal altercation beyond the conversations you've described?"
"No.
I knocked on her door four times over three weeks.
The conversations are documented in my statement."
"And the vehicle recovery — you arranged that yourself?"
"Yes.
The car was blocking our private driveway.
I contacted a licensed recovery company.
I have the invoice."
A pause.
"You have the invoice."
"I have everything, Mr.
Hendricks."
Another pause, longer.
"I see.
I'll also be speaking with the witness you named.
Is there anything else you'd like to add at this stage?"
"Yes," I said.
"I'd like to add that a letter addressed to my family was found in a neighbour's postbox three streets away, and that our recycling bin disappeared the week after the vehicle was recovered.
I've reported both separately, but I want them on record here as well."
Silence.
"I'll note that," he said.
---
That night, Denise's porch light was on until past midnight.
I wasn't watching for it.
I just noticed when I went to lock up.
Paul came up behind me at the window.
"She's still awake," he said.
"Yes."
He put his hand on my shoulder.
"Do you think she knows how much we have?"
I thought about the four years of records sitting in Carol's spare room.
The Okafor files.
The photographs with timestamps.
The invoice.
The workplace letter.
The council reference number now attached to all of it.
"No," I said.
"I don't think she does."
His hand tightened slightly on my shoulder.
Then my phone lit up on the windowsill.
A number I didn't recognise — different from Carol's, different from anyone in my contacts.
I picked it up.
A text.
May you like
Eight words.
*She's calling people on your street about you tonight.*
