Flat 401

by Kingsley Pearson

Genres: Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

All Jay wants is to start again, to set himself up in a small, quiet town where no one knows him. Because here, no one will let him forget what they think he did the day his neighbour died in Flat 401.

He just needs to keep doing what he's always done: treat people with kindness and respect, and try to stay out of trouble. But when a threatening note makes its way into the hostel he's forced to call home - Everyone is going to know what you really did - his hope for a fresh start begins to crumble.

Jay fears that the secret he's fought so hard to hide, that he went to prison to protect, might finally come out. How far is he willing to go to keep his freedom alive? And with a shadowy figure from his past tracking Jay's every move, perhaps it's not just his freedom Jay should be worried about being taken from him, but his life...

Flat 401 is a tense, character-driven thriller perfect for fans of Lisa Jewell, Paula Hawkins and Mark Billingham.

Release date: July 3, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 368

Sample

As Jay waited behind the till, the smell of leather and keys grounded him. Sighing in the stuffy heat, he moved a square white notepad on top of the counter, a few millimetres to the left. Now it was in its proper place.

His phone buzzed.

Come on son, what’s the harm in meeting up?

Mouth dry, heart pounding, Jay stared at the screen. Put it away. Distracted himself by contemplating his photo, which peeped out from among the others on the staff noticeboard. He traced a finger over his image. Checking that Esther was still out at lunch, he unpinned his photo and slid it behind hers. His boss’s image was watching what it could see of the real him.

The door ‘beep-boop’ed, but this wasn’t a customer; the man coming in didn’t have keys or shoes in his hands. What a grin, though. His T-shirt looked brand new, and hugged the muscles on his arms and chest, and his little belly. Jay tugged at his Timpson polo shirt, which clung tight to his own muscles.

Jay stopped shuffling as the man came up to the counter.

‘Any jobs going, buddy?’ the stranger asked, looking up at Jay.

Jay ran a hand over his left arm, self-soothingly. Planning his words before he spoke. ‘You can apply online. Or there’s a paper form.’

‘Sick!’ Another flash of that cheeky grin.

‘Paper forms do get more attention from the manager because there are so many online ones,’ Jay let slip, reaching for a form in spite of himself, and pushing it across the counter. ‘You can fill this one in now and leave it with me if you like,’ he offered.

‘Are you the manager?’

Heat crept across Jay’s cheeks as he shook his head. What nonsense. He remembered his training, and smiled encouragingly at the young man as he handed him a pen. Remembered to put on his front. ‘Not yet, mate!’

The stranger’s tanned hand moved across the page, the warm brown of his skin tracing up his arm, ending abruptly at a pale white territory of bicep. Jay pushed away the urge to ruffle the man’s thick curly black hair. He distracted himself by reading the stranger’s name upside-down, from the box he was slowly filling in. Noah. About five years younger than Jay, going off his birthdate. Jay tried to relax. His heart rate and breathing didn’t entirely comply.

Noah slid the completed form back across the counter, pursing his full lips and looking right up at Jay with warm, hazel eyes. Jay shifted his gaze down after a moment too long, a smile invading his face.

‘I’ll pass it on to my manager when she’s back from lunch,’ he stuttered.

‘Cheers, nice one, buddy.’

Noah treated Jay to another cheeky grin before turning to the door. Jay looked at the form. Would Timpson be Approved by Noah’s probation officer too?

The door ‘beep-boop’ed again, announcing Esther’s return. She smiled at Noah as he held the door open for her. Placing her lunch on the counter, she turned her head to get another eyeful of him as he walked out. When she turned her head back, she pulled a face at Jay, eyebrows raised, chin dipped, mouth open – thirsty. Jay shrugged, telling himself he had no idea why she was implying, not for the first time, that he might be gay. But … His heart beat frighteningly fast at the thought of how he’d seen gay peers treated when he was younger.

He involuntarily glanced over Esther’s frizzy hair, and peeked through the shop window.

Noah stuck his tongue out. Jay started at the tease and turned away.

‘He left this for you.’ Jay indicated the form on the counter.

Esther glanced at it. ‘Noah. Nice name,’ she conspired. ‘Looks alright, I’ll get him in for an interview. Give him a good roasting.’

Her wink was unnecessary.

‘Sick. Cheers, buddy.’ He caught himself imitating Noah too late, but his boss didn’t seem to mind. Esther only laid the papers on the counter. Tapping an area of the form where Noah had written additional content outside of the tick-box, she made knowing eye contact with Jay.

‘Oh, don’t know actually, two of you who didn’t do what you were convicted of?’ She laughed throatily. ‘Can’t ’ave two innocent souls working here!’

His toes curled up.

‘Gotta keep the faith,’ Esther said as she moved away towards the back office.

‘Yeah, no worries, only a month to go!’

Esther shook her head, and shut the office door behind her.

The shop door opened and a familiar face rolled in, the buzz of her wheelchair providing a comforting bass beneath the intrusive beep of the door.

‘Hi, Margaret,’ said Jay.

‘Alright, Jakey.’ Margaret nodded as she came up to the wooden counter.

He grimaced, and rubbed the side of his beard at the nickname. Even though she must be close to retirement, she always greeted him as if he were still a small boy. He leaned forward on the counter to make his height feel less intimidating.

‘You can have this, I’m done with it,’ Margaret said as she hunted around in her bag.

She slid a crumpled copy of the News Shopper onto the counter. His chest tightened at the headline she’d left exposed. Was she going to bring up some rumour about what ‘really’ happened that day, as she usually did?

‘Freezer Killer’ Flanagan: 1 Year Until Release

Jay took a deep breath, remembering to act professionally. Not too much of a smile, only as much of one as would come naturally with the words. Not so much that he would crack.

‘Collecting your man’s shoes, Margaret?’ He hid the newspaper under the counter.

‘Yes, just the shoes please.’ She rummaged in her bag, and dropped a note and some coins in front of him.

‘The soles were worn out unevenly. Boots up the road might sell insoles, no?’ Jay suggested. He stroked the shoes’ brown leather as he handed them over.

Margaret smiled but shook her head as she left. Jay couldn’t hear what she said over her shoulder, but laughed along anyway. He scraped the coins into his hands. Maybe he shouldn’t have presumed to give a nurse advice about something health-related.

He paused in the middle of closing the till.

Most people paid by card; it was understandable he’d made a mistake. He stared at the segregated gold, silver and bronze discs. The lone pound coin he’d meant to give her as change didn’t look away, reminding him how much Margaret probably needed every penny she could get.

He should have checked her receipt, should have counted the coins she’d dumped on the counter while she’d still been in front of him. A memory of Esther giving him a bollocking grabbed him round the throat; he’d owned up to making a similar mistake before, after someone had left their store a scathing two-star review. ‘We’ve got to beat the big supermarkets on customer service!’

The metal of cut keys winked at him from behind the counter.

No one need ever know what he’d done.

He grabbed the coin, slammed the till shut, and ran out, pulling the door of the shop closed behind him.

Margaret hadn’t gone far. She was all smiles as she turned her wheelchair to face him. ‘Oh, Jakey, you didn’t have to do that.’ She leaned familiarly towards him as she gripped the much-needed coin and ensured it made its way safely into the empty space in her purse.

Other people were staring. A woman on the other side of the road lifted her phone to get a clear shot. The would-be witnesses moved away once they’d seen Margaret had carried on.

Embarrassed, Jay shoved his hands in his pockets and rushed back to the shop. Shoulders hunched in an attempt to make himself disappear.

Esther was waiting, paperwork in hand.

‘It’s not quite your lunchbreak yet, matey.’

‘Sorry, I had to give a customer something they’d forgotten,’ he panted, taking the papers and picking up the pen on the counter. As he held it over the place marked for him to sign, he looked up from the counter and through the shop window. All kinds of people moved along the high street outside, at their own pace; a flock of birds flew up from the pavement and out of sight. It would be kind of sad to move away from where he’d grown up and lived for over thirty years, but then he wouldn’t have to worry about people recognising him. Then, he could get rid of this beard, and wouldn’t have to disguise himself with this messy hair.

He scribbled his name at the bottom of the page.

Esther took the store transfer request form back, her broad, gappy smile shining out from her dark skin.

‘Have I been that bad of a manager?’ She winked, and cast an eye over the form. ‘Isle of Wight, is it?’

Timpson had shops all over the country. The Isle of Wight’s branch was dead in the island’s centre. Living and working there would be a world away from being here in South London. So much open space around the few cosy towns, with only sea surrounding the island. Bright, sandy beaches; quaint, winding roads; and friendly, welcoming people. The air would be fresh, the noise pollution would be non-existent, and no one would know what he’d—

‘Remember, now,’ Esther continued before he could reassure her, ‘if Timpson House approves this, you just go on a list for possible vacancies. Don’t guarantee you’ll move anytime soon.’ She frowned.

He knew how precarious his freedom was. An offender must: (f) not undertake work, or a particular type of work, unless it is approved by the supervising officer, and notify the supervising officer in advance of any proposal to undertake work or a particular type of work.

‘That’s fine, I’m not that set on moving, I just want to have the option.’ Jay put the pen back where it belonged, and straightened the glossy Timpson leaflets promoting their work recruiting ex-offenders. Wasn’t always a good thing for customers to know about that.

When he was off licence, he could get whatever job he wanted: he wouldn’t need his probation officer’s permission. He could become a digital designer again, and put his degree to good use; he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about moving on. No need for an Approved Address: he could move away, somewhere cleaner. Would it really be somewhere totally different, like the Isle of Wight? Or somewhere still seaside and fresh, but nearer, like on the Kent coast?

Wherever he ended up, what would he change his name to? ‘Dan Lane’ still took his fancy. Dan Lane could wake up feeling like he wanted to go to the beach, and just go. Dan Lane could walk down any street, any time of day, and be happy to see any familiar face. Dan Lane would be a man with no past.

A tap on his shoulder from Esther.

‘Go and have your lunch. Don’t be late back.’

He ate outside, in the Eltham churchyard, because it was warm, because it was summer, and because he was allowed. In prison, everything had been confined, no space or time to rattle around. The other prisoners kicking their doors, screaming for spice, setting off alarms. The noisy threats bouncing off the walls. The walls, the doors, the locks, the routines keeping him in. Keeping him in with the toilet in his cell, the stench of unwashed men, the windows that didn’t ventilate. The things other prisoners might do to him. ‘Because.’ Or the things they might get him to do. ‘Or else.’

Jay breathed in the scent of the open, natural space. He savoured the taste of the sandwich he’d made for himself. His bench enjoyed the protection of a few trees and the low stone wall around the churchyard’s boundary. Most days it was a good place for staying away from familiar eyes.

But sometimes there were days like today.

‘Oi oi! Long time no see!’

Jay’s sandwich tasted dry in his mouth.

‘Jay Ginige, you remember us? From the estate!’ One of the youths sat to his left. It was always worth not looking up at first.

‘Jay Ginige. Moved away to live in a fancy flat.’ Another shaven-headed young man cuddled up at his right. When in pairs, sometimes they circled his raft for a bit.

‘Not even man enough to get done for a proper crime.’ The third voice came from above, as its owner, the tallest of the three, stood over Jay. When there were more than two sharks, he stayed still, in case it was true that they could smell fear.

The Lynas brothers: he’d decided soon after he’d got out of prison to cross the road whenever he saw them back in Woolwich. Hadn’t they lived in the same block as his family? They were different sizes, but all had blond hair shorn down to sour stubs. Physical hunger, lack of opportunities, and feeling they were looked down on, through no fault of their own, gave them something to prove to a society which had treated them so badly.

As the eldest leaned down, getting into Jay’s face, a wave of deodorant smashed into him. Not Lynx. But something still spicy and struttingly masculine. At least they were pronouncing his name correctly, the ‘Gin’ of his surname sounding like ‘Begin to feel uncomfortable’, and the ‘ge’ like ‘Get the hell out of here’.

He was determined. Determined not to give in, determined not to be sent back inside, determined not to undermine his chance to live.

The middle brother called attention to his uniform with a whistle from one side. The youngest flicked Jay’s maroon name-badge from the other.

‘Alright for some. Go to prison, get a job,’ said the middle brother.

‘Fair enough. Kill your neighbour, get off benefits?’ sniggered the youngest, as he mimed his hands being around someone’s neck.

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Jay protested. ‘Perverting the Course of Justice—’

‘We know what you did, Ginige.’

Jay didn’t look up. His chest tightened. Just more people who believed everything they’d read about him online.

A sharp shove to his left shoulder. He breathed deeply and tensed his upper body, still not looking up. He imagined the keys on the counter shining like red, pointing fingers in the sunlight at the end of the day. Esther shaking her head and kissing her teeth. ‘Just watch yourself. It’s all well and good you being a nice guy, but someone puts in the wrong word with your probation officer …’ He couldn’t escape the fixed rules upon which his freedom hung. An offender must: (a) be of good behaviour and not behave in a way which undermines the purpose of the licence period.

‘I don’t want any trouble, I just want to get on with my—’

The brother on his left waggled his fingers in front of Jay, mimicking someone manipulating a puppet. ‘Right little Pinocchio, aren’t you?’

The brother on the other side laughed. ‘Yeah, Flanagan pulled your strings good. Guess that makes him Geppetto then, don’t it?’

‘Don’t even joke about Shaun Flanagan!’ The eldest Lynas brother slipped a look down at something on his phone. A message from an Uncle, the name snatched away as he turned and summoned the others: ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

The youngest slowly knocked Jay’s lunchbox to the ground as he got up. ‘It was an accident.’ He raised his hands in a show of innocence. ‘Do you believe me and all?’

Jay watched them enter McDonald’s across the road. His appetite didn’t come back.

He checked his phone instead. Reread Tony’s text.

Come on son, what’s the harm in meeting up?

He couldn’t afford the risk, could he? Knowing what Tony would likely be after. An offender must: (b) not commit any offence.

Jay put in his earphones. All he had to do was get to the end of his licence period. He daren’t believe he was only four weeks short of his final supervision session. The last five years – two and a half inside, almost two and a half out – spent burrowing up through the damp soil, groping towards the light. He knew what followed him, closeted in the dark.

He shook his head three times to get rid of the thoughts.

He wouldn’t let anything stop him emerging from Probation.

Margaret was waiting patiently on the pavement as the bus’s yellow ramp beeped towards her. Other passengers were sighing and shuffling in their seats. Jay checked the time. Was he late for meeting Olu? (d) Offenders must keep their appointments with their probation officer.

Margaret buzzed up the ramp and into the space Jay had vacated for her, as he swapped seats into the row behind the wheelchair space. He sat at an angle, and stretched out his legs. Reached up to and opened the window to get some air. The sinister, secretive hum of electric vehicles mixed with the louder roar of vans and cars still powered by petrol as they passed by the bus. Tapping his foot, he checked his phone again. Low credit, and a mental image of the receptionist telling him off for calling to say he might be late, made him put it away without dialling.

The bus driver impatiently gripped the lever retracting the wheelchair ramp. His short-sleeved shirt was tight around the coiled snake of his bicep. How often did he go to the gym? Jay would work out in his room after his appointment.

The bus’s digital display showed the time in blurry orange. Jay shuffled in the seat. Thought about putting his earphones in.

‘Fancy seeing you again, Jay! My old man will get jealous!’

Jay smiled at Margaret in spite of himself. Her joke gave him some release. He sank back into the cushioned seat, his muscles relaxing, his breathing slowing down.

Sitting side-on to him, Margaret got out a tablet. She peered at its screen, nodding as she read.

26 per cent of miscarriages of justice involve a false confession

Seriously? Jay looked away.

The bus moved off. Would he make it on time? The trees of Eltham Common scrolled into the brown bricks of Greenwich Free School, which then scrolled into the flat grass of Woolwich Common. When he looked back, Margaret had moved on from the news article to Facebook.

She shifted her body, and turned her head to face him. ‘Are you alright? People treating you OK?’ Her voice was warm, caring.

A flash of memory invaded his mind: football hooligans threatening him as a teenager, the same way the Lynas brothers had in the churchyard earlier. And doing worse to him.

‘Yeah, yeah. Great.’ He shrank in on himself.

‘I still think you were hard done by.’ Her voice was low, intruding.

Had Margaret kept count of how many times they’d had this conversation over the past two and a half years? He glanced at the thread she had up. Playing along was the best way to get this over with quickly.

‘Yeah, it’s mad what people say.’

‘So, there was no … you know?’ She mimed with three fingers.

He baulked at her typical bluntness and glanced around, making ‘shushing’ motions with his hands. ‘No, fake news.’ The effort of forcing a thin smile making his eyes feel tired.

‘This post says you were the victim’s boyfriend?’

Margaret loved to gossip: Jay remembered overhearing her chit-chat with Amma and Dad after her home visits during that particularly bad time of Amma’s mental health.

‘Didn’t even know him, he was only a neighbour.’

‘Were you’ – peering at the screen – ‘the killer’s boyfriend?’

‘I was no one’s boyfriend!’ Too loud: anxiety ramping up the volume. Jay glanced up at the other passengers, and then reiterated in an insistent whisper: ‘I was no one’s boyfriend.’

Margaret scrolled to investigate some more. ‘So how come this Shaun Flanagan’ – Jay shuddered as she uttered the name – ‘said you knew? It says it here. About the f-r-e-e-z-e-r,’ she spelled out unnecessarily.

She meant well, the NHS ID card on the blue lanyard around her neck and all. Or maybe she felt guilty about how things had gone for him at home, despite her appointments with Amma.

Jay shrugged. Looked around. The few other passengers were all trying to look like they were minding their own business. ‘Look, we both said what we needed to get shorter sentences,’ he whispered truthfully. ‘Doesn’t mean any of those rumours are true.’

Margaret tutted. ‘Unfair that you had to spend all that time in prison. Just because of what he said about you. After all, he was the one who …’ She lay her tablet in her lap. Raised her hands to mime again.

‘I’m gonna be able to put this behind me soon. On my way to one of my last … meetings, you know what I’m saying?’ Jay smiled broadly – his expression more fake news – putting his hands behind his head and stretching back.

His phone buzzed. Why had he given his number to Tony after that Probation group they’d been forced to attend together?

I’m just trying to look out for you, sonI’ve got a job that’ll earn you a lot more than Timpo’s

His probation officer before Olu had warned Jay about guys who never went straight. Jay hadn’t pointed out this was often not their fault; it could be hard to make an honest living even before going to prison, let alone after coming out. When Olu had taken him onto his caseload a few months ago, he’d said Jay didn’t seem like the kind of guy who enjoyed having an identity as a criminal. Jay wanted to prove him right, he really did.

Margaret returned to her screen, her eyes sneaking back to check on Jay every so often. Jay pushed away the mental images of him having embarrassed himself somehow during her latest gossip session. He also pushed Tony’s text message as far out of his mind as possible. But caught himself thinking about the bus driver’s arms again. Why should he push that away? He was just admiring another guy’s discipline and good genes.

An intrusive memory of being picked on in football stadium toilets, for being ‘gay’ as a teenager, flashed into his mind. He slowly closed and opened his eyes three times to get rid of his thoughts and feelings.

He rang the bell and got off the bus soon after. He’d made it just in time. Lewisham Probation Office awaited, the same as always: unclean windows looking down on him as he skirted around bins to get to the side entrance. He took and released a deep breath as he psyched himself up to stride through the door. He was going to sail through another session, everyone would think he was calm and above suspicion, and he’d be one breath closer to life as ‘Dan Lane’.

The dark doorway scrutinised Jay. Why had he had such an exposing conversation with Margaret in a place where so many people could listen in? Could he avoid doing anything else he’d regret until his licence period was up? Would today’s be the session when Olu would use his power and turn on him, recalling him to prison?

The bus drove past, leaving him with the smell of the roadside, and his shame. He tried to imagine his anxieties going with it. He couldn’t escape Margaret’s brown eyes.

He strode through the doorway.

Jay kept his head down as he hurried home, his uniform hidden beneath his grey hoodie. So frustrating that they’d only told him his Probation appointment had been cancelled when he’d turned up at the office. ‘Are you sure Olu didn’t leave you a voicemail?’ At least he’d get it over and done with next week.

He glanced behind him, scanning along the busy urban street, but not directly into anybody’s face. A smartly dressed woman crossed the road when she saw him coming. Shrinking down further, he tried to conceal his height, muscles, and brown skin. He didn’t want to intimidate anyone. He checked down the discreet back alleys he would normally take, then pushed himself along the more exposed route towards the main square. The endless noise – traffic and trains, market traders finishing up for the day, chattering groups cluttered around the square – crowded in on him.

Jay’s heart slowed as he approached the cheap Ukrainian food van that served the run-down square on Fridays. No other customers this early in the evening. Perfect. He looked across the main road at the development where he wasn’t allowed to live anymore after what had happened five years ago. Coming up to the van, he fixed his face into a hollow, friendly expression.

‘Alright. Just some veggie varenyky, please.’

The woman at the front didn’t say anything out of the ordinary as he counted out his money. He peeked over her shoulder at the skinny man boiling his order of dumplings. The man’s full lips were pursed in concentration as. . .