Copyright 2017 Amy Cross

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

Kindle edition

First published: February 2017

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

The Murder at Skellin Cottage

Prologue

Leaving the engine running and the headlights burning through the late-night rain, she clambered out of the car and splashed down into ankle-deep mud. Ordinarily she'd have picked her way carefully across the yard, but tonight she ran as fast as she could manage.

“Harry!” she called out, before reaching the door and pounding with her fists. “Harry, please! Wake up! He's after me!”

She tried the handle, but of course the door was locked. Taking a squelching step back, she was just about to go and try the back door when she spotted a light flicking on inside the house. A moment later she heard the bump of feet on the stairs, and finally a familiar figure lumbered into view, still tying his dressing gown.

“Harry!” she shouted, her voice filled now with a mix of panic and relief. “Harry, please, you've got to let me in! I'm sorry about earlier, but I need your help!”

The figure made its way to the other side of the door and then stopped, peering out through rain-spattered glass.

“Harry!” Deborah continued, trying the handle again. “Help me!”

“Go home, Debbie,” he replied, with regret in his voice. In his eyes, too, and the slope of his shoulders. “It's late.”

“Harry, please, I need you!”

“Like you needed me earlier?”

“Harry -”

“I'm not an idiot!” he continued. “Debbie, you... I don't have time for this, okay? I'm sorry, but I have to draw a line somewhere. The days of me running after you are over. Just go home.”

“Harry, I -”

Before she could get another word out, Harry drew a curtain across the door and began to walk away.

“Harry, no!” she screamed, banging her fists once more against the door, this time until it rattled in its frame. “Harry, you have to listen to me! Harry, he's coming! He's really coming this time! I know I was wrong before, but he's really here now! He's found me!”

She waited, but a moment later the light inside the house flicked off again. As rain continued to fall all around, Deborah stared at the locked door as if she couldn't quite believe that it hadn't been flung open for her.

“Harry,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes, “please...”

She hesitated a moment longer, before turning and wading back through the mud, heading over to the car. Without even stopping to wipe the mud from her boots, she climbed inside and swung the door shut, before reversing across the bumpy yard and then flooring the throttle, sending the car shuddering past the darkened house and shooting out onto the main road.

Grabbing her phone from the dashboard as she drove through the darkness, she brought up a number and tapped to call, before changing her mind and tapping to cancel. She scrolled through a list of names, hesitating on some before moving on, almost calling one or two but giving up each time. Finally, just as she brought up the name Susannah on the screen, she spotted a flickering light in the car's rear-view mirror, and she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see another vehicle on the same dark road, running a few hundred meters further back.

“No no no,” she stammered, dropping the phone onto the passenger seat and then gripping the wheel with both hands. “It can't be him. It can't be, it just can't...”

She drove on like this for a couple of miles, stiff with fear and paying as much attention to the mirror as to the dark country road ahead. The other car remained at the same distance, not getting too close but not falling too far behind either. A knot of fear was starting to tighten in Deborah's chest, and she was muttering under her breath as she continued to drive along the deserted, winding road. She told herself that she was imagining the whole thing, that this was just another panic-driven hallucination, but no words could counter the shivering fear that had begun to crawl up through her body. Finally, just after she'd gone around a sharp left turn, she shocked herself by slamming her foot on the brakes and then shifting the car into reverse, backing into a discreet spot behind a crumbling old stone wall. Still muttering, she switched the car's engine off and then sat in darkness and silence, waiting.

“It's not him,” she whispered, trying to make herself believe those words. “It can't be.”

A few seconds later, the lights of the following car began to pick out the road just a few meters away.

“It's not him. He's not here.”

Deborah watched with wild, fear-filled eyes as the vehicle crawled around the corner. She tried to see the figure in the driver's seat, but there was too much rain for her to get a clear view. At least the vehicle didn't stop, although it slowed a great deal and for a moment it seemed as if the other driver was about to pull over. As fresh rain drops fell on her windshield, Deborah leaned forward slightly in the dark and squinted, trying to get a better view of the other vehicle. All she could really make out was the side of a face in the vehicle's window, but then the car accelerated and headed off into the night, leaving her sitting quietly and watching as the red taillights disappeared into the distance.

Finally, realizing she'd been holding her breath, Deborah sighed and grabbed her phone from the passenger seat. She'd left the screen on Susannah's contact details, but still she hesitated for a moment before tapping to call. This time, she waited for someone to answer.

“What do you want?” a voice said suddenly, sounding terribly weary and irritated on the other end of the line.

“It's me!” Deborah stammered, still staring out at the dark road and watching for any sign that the other vehicle might be coming back. “Susannah, he's coming for me! I know -”

“Oh, knock it off,” Susannah groaned. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Susannah, he's coming!” she hissed. “I'm not making it up! He's out here somewhere and he's coming for me!”

She waited, but all she heard was the sound of rain falling against the car's bonnet and windshield and roof, and rustling against the nearby trees too.

“Susannah? Are you still there?”

“Go and wake Harry up.”

“I knocked on his door but he wouldn't let me in!”

“Well there's a surprise. Listen, Debs, I just -”

“Can I come over?”

“It's two in the morning.”

“I don't want to be alone,” she continued, her voice trembling now with fear. “I can't be alone. Suzie, please -”

“You know you can't come over,” Susannah replied, lowering her voice a little as if there was someone else with her, someone she wanted to keep from hearing her conversation. “You know why, too. Give it a rest, okay?”

“I'll do anything, Suzie. I'll say anything. Whatever you want, it's yours this time. Please, just -”

Suddenly she burst into tears. She instinctively put a hand over her face, sobbing wildly as tears streamed down her face and her bottom lip trembled.

“Please, Suzie,” she whimpered finally, barely able to get the words out at all, “I'm all alone out here and he's coming for me, I know he is, and this time I don't know where to go. Suzie, I know it's late and I know you probably don't want to see me, but I'll do anything if you'll just let me stay at yours for a night or two. I can't go home, you know I can't. Suzie, if you can find it in your heart to just forgive me and help me, I'll do anything. Anything! Just help me! I need you!”

Sobbing so hard that her shoulders shuddered, she let out a breathless, gulping gasp as more and more tears ran down her cheeks. She tried to wipe the tracks away, but they were coming too fast now.

And then, with nothing more being said, the call was cut.

Wiping away more tears, Deborah looked down at her phone's screen and saw that Susannah had hung up. She almost tried to call back, her finger hovering over the green circle for a few seconds, but she waited a little too long and finally the screen dimmed and went black, and now Deborah sat in trembling silence, frozen as if she'd completely run out of ideas and could barely even think to breathe anymore. And all the while, fresh tears rolled down her face while rain pounded against the car's roof, and her eyes stared at the steering wheel as she desperately tried to come up with a plan.

Finally, switching the engine on again, she rolled the car back out onto the road and set off again through the darkness, sniffing back more tears as she drove. Constantly checking her mirrors, she watched for any sign that she was being followed again, and she kept her vigil up for almost an hour until finally she reached a bend in the road and took a right turn, driving between the old stone posts of a ruined gate and parking in the muddy yard outside Skellin Cottage.

“Mummy's here,” she said as soon as she'd unlocked the cottage's front door. “Merriwig? Where are you?”

Grabbing a backpack from behind the door, she hurried to the kitchen and began to collect as much food as possible.

“Merriwig!” she called out. “Come on, honey! We're getting out of here!”

Keeping the lights off, she hurried back into the front room and dumped the backpack on the sofa, before hesitating for a moment and listening to the silence of the cottage. The only sound came from the constant ticking of the electricity meter in the hallway cupboard, and after a moment Deborah made her way through to the other downstairs rooms, checking the windows to make sure there were no signs of a break-in. Once she was satisfied, she hurried up the narrow carpeted stairs and into her bedroom, where she immediately hauled a suitcase onto the bed and began to throw clothes in from the wardrobe.

“Merriwig! Where are you?”

Closing the suitcase's lid, she had to push down hard so she could get the zip closed. Then she headed to the dresser in the corner and opened the top-right drawer, taking out her passport and a little black pouch. Opening the pouch, she took a moment to check that the cash and credit cards were still inside, and then she shoved the pouch into her coat pocket and turned to grab the suitcase from the bed. Heading to the door, she stopped for a moment and looked back into the room, as if she was trying to figure out whether she'd forgotten anything, and then she began to lug the case down the stairs toward the hallway.

“Merriwig! Come on, move it! We're leaving.”

She set the suitcase next to the door and then hurried around the sofa. Reaching down, she pulled out a travel crate and set it on the coffee table. A moment later, hearing a faint bumping sound nearby, she turned and saw a black cat slinking its way into the room, rubbing its back against the door as it calmly made its way over to her.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Deborah said, scooping the cat up into her arms and taking a moment to stroke her chin. “Do you fancy a fresh start, huh? Somewhere a long way from here? Does that sound good? We'll figure something out once we're on the road.”

The cat let out a brief meow, before Deborah turned and slipped her into the crate. Closing the door, she twisted the plastic lock and then peered through the bars, seeing the cat's eyes staring back out at her.

“We'll find somewhere else,” she explained. “Somewhere better than this. Somewhere safer. You trust me, don't you? We can't stay here, Merriwig. As nice as it was once, we have to go. Everything'll be okay, though. I promise.”

With that, she grabbed the handle on top of the crate and then headed to the door. Hurrying across the dark yard, she opened one of the car's doors and set the crate on the back seat, before making her way back into the cottage and fetching the backpack. Once that was securely stowed in the boot, she hesitated for a moment and looked around at the dark outbuildings. There was no sign of anyone, and the doors to both the shed and the barn were shut, but at the same time she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Telling herself that she was just being paranoid, she nevertheless hurried back into the cottage and grabbed her suitcase, before taking a sheet of paper and scribbling a note. Then, after she'd left the note on the sideboard in the kitchen, she stopped for a moment and looked around at the cottage's dark interior. For a few seconds, she seemed lost in thought, as if her memories of the place were starting to dig into her flesh and hold her back, urging her to reconsider and stay.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, as fresh tears began to well in her eyes. After a moment, she looked over at the note. “Please try to understand.”

Grabbing her suitcase, Deborah hurried to the coffee table and tossed her front-door keys down. Then she turned, lugging the suitcase toward the hallway until finally she pulled the door open, hurried outside, and ran straight into the blade of a waist-level knife.

Chapter One

Today

Clutching her belly, she slithered down against the door-frame and slumped against the mat. She hesitated for a moment, holding her breath, before sliding onto her side and reaching a hand out toward the open doorway. And then, with her other hand still pressed against her stomach, she stared out with unblinking eyes toward the gray, muddy yard.

For a few seconds, a cold breeze blew through the open door, whistling as it entered Skellin Cottage.

Suddenly Jo Mason sat up and took a moment to brush dirt and dust from her face. Leaning back against the side of the counter, she slipped the photo from her jacket pocket. Dull morning sunlight caught the image, so she had to tilt the picture until she could see the picture properly. She peered for a moment at the photo of a dead woman slumped on the floor with bloodied rips all over the front of her shirt, and then she lowered the photo and looked down at the same piece of floor, now bare and empty but with a few signs still of the brutal attack that had taken place there just six months earlier.

Crouching down, she peered at the door jamb and saw several pock-marked indentations, caused when the blade of a knife had sliced out through the woman's back and had butted into the wood. Reaching out with a gloved hand, she ran her fingers across the wood's surface, and then she looked at the photo again, taking a moment to examine the exact position in which the woman's body had been found.

“Stabbed here,” she whispered, before looking at the mat. “Fell here.”

She paused, staring at the mat, waiting for some flicker of realization. She knew something was wrong, that there was something she hadn't noticed or figured out, but the exact nature of the problem just wouldn't come. After a moment she looked up at the open doorway, trying to imagine the killer towering over her.

“What did you do next?” she whispered. “You stabbed her, but she probably didn't die instantly. So what did you do?”

Getting to her feet, she turned and stood in the doorway, now staring down at the spot where the body had been found. She clenched the fist of her right hand, as if she was holding an invisible knife.

“She's bleeding,” she said out loud. “Dying. You know that. Do you kneel down to check? It's cramped here, so...”

She paused again, before suddenly getting back down on the floor and rolling onto her side, trying once again to replicate the body's position. Propping the photo against the jamb, she arranged her arms to mimic the corpse, and then she lay completely still for a few seconds, not even daring to blink. After a moment, she moved her right leg a little, shifting her knee so that it was closer to the cabinet, to better match the way the dead body had fallen. Then she waited for a moment longer, with the side of her face pressing against the doormat's bristles, before finally she sat up and took the photo again. Leaning back against the wall, she continued to stare at the photo in silence.

“There was no struggle,” she said finally, turning the photo over and seeing her own handwritten note about Deborah's age and date of death. “Not even -”

Before she could finish, a distant twinkle of light caught her eye. Glancing out toward the yard, she saw that a car was approaching along the country road, so she immediately pushed the front door shut and clicked the latch before hurrying into the kitchen and crouching down. Peering over the top of the counter, she watched as a police patrol car rumbled between the gate posts and stopped out in the yard, and then she ducked down as the engine switched off and two officers climbed out of the vehicle.

A moment later, she heard someone trying the door handle. She held her breath as she heard footsteps crunching across the gravel, and then she heard the familiar chatter of voices over a radio.

“We're at Skellin Cottage now,” a man's voice said, sounding cold and tired. “Looks like a false alarm. There's no sign of a break-in. We'll check the out-buildings to be sure, but I'm pretty sure there's no-one here.”

Still holding her breath, Jo waited as she heard the officers' footsteps heading around the side of the house. As she waited, she spotted several empty red wine bottles on the opposite counter, each with dribbles of wax running down from the neck. Furrowing her brow, she noticed that there were more empty bottles on the floor, next to an unused vegetable rack. A moment later, she saw someone approaching one of the other windows, so she ducked down even further in an attempt to keep out of view, as she saw a shadow moving on the floor. One of the officers was peering through the window directly above the counter.

Carefully, Jo pulled her feet closer, trying to make herself as small as possible so that she wouldn't be spotted.

***

“So you've been out to Skellin Cottage already, have you?” Lord Chesleford asked as he poured whiskey from a decanter into a crystal tumbler. “That's very keen of you. I'm starting to think, Miss Mason, that you were the right woman for the job. Or, I'm sorry, is it Mrs Mason?”

“You left all her belongings there,” Jo replied. “Her clothes, her papers. Everything the police didn't take. Even the empty wine bottles. Six months later, it's all still there.”

“I have no contact details for her family, and I didn't have the heart to throw it all out. Perhaps I'm getting sentimental in my old age, but I just couldn't bring myself to shove all her things into a bunch of black sacks. By the way, have you eaten? I was just about to sit down for lunch.”

“Did you go through any of it?”

“Her things?” He hesitated. “No. The police checked for anything of interest. I believe they were concerned about her laptop computer, which was missing. Other than that, it has all remained where it was left, completely undisturbed.” He held the whiskey decanter up for her to see. “Can I interest you in a lunchtime tipple?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, go on,” he continued, grabbing a second tumbler and then checking his watch. “I know it's a little early, but this is good stuff. It's twenty-year-old Scotch from -”

“I really don't drink.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all.”

“Not even a half?”

“No, thank you. How well did you know Deborah Dean?”

“I'll be blunt with you,” he said with a heavy sigh that seemed to rumble up from his extravagant belly. “Skellin Cottage has been in my family's possession for many generations. It came originally with the land when my great-grandfather purchased the farms in the valley, and I have always been very careful when it comes to renting Skellin Cottage out. In fact, there have been periods when it has remained vacant while I waited for a suitable tenant. But Deborah Dean seemed like a very nice young lady. A good person. If it were to turn out that she had some kind of secret, or that she was hiding something, well... Frankly, I would start to wonder whether I can still consider myself a good judge of character.”

“She'd been renting the cottage for about half a year?”

He nodded. “I ran advertisements in certain reputable publications. None of this internet lark. Every year, I'd receive solicitations from prospective tenants, but I usually turned them down. Then one day I received a phone call from a woman asking if the cottage was still available, and something about her voice made me decide to give her a chance. So I invited her here to the manor house and, well, she stood almost exactly where you're standing now and told me how much she'd like to rent the cottage from me. She seemed to appreciate the cottage for what it was.”

“In what way?”

“Well, just...”

He hesitated, struggling to find the right way to explain.

“She had very pretty eyes,” he said finally. “Very deep. Soulful, I thought.”

“So you rented the cottage to her because of her eyes?”

“It's difficult to describe. She just seemed like the right person.”

“Did you ask for references?”

“No. I don't have time to go phoning people up. I've always relied on my own judgment.”

“Did she pay a deposit?”

He shook his head. “Just each month's rent. Upfront. She was very good about that. Very fastidious, never late.”

“How did she pay?”

“Cash.”

“Didn't you find that a little odd?”

“Why should I?”

“How much was the rent?”

He hesitated for a moment, watching Jo carefully and with a hint of concern.

“Eight hundred and fifty pounds,” he said finally.

“And Deborah Dean just showed up here at your door each month with eight hundred and fifty pounds in cash?”

“Yes.”

“What did she do for a living?”

“I'm not entirely sure. She -”

“You didn't ask her?”

Lord Chesleford hesitated, as if he was quite unaccustomed to being interrupted in such a manner.

“She was a writer,” he continued finally. “I forget the finer details, but I was certainly satisfied by her explanation at the time. That was why she wanted to rent Skellin Cottage, you see. She was searching for somewhere a little off the beaten track, somewhere she could be left alone to work on her latest book. I suppose something about that idea rather appealed to me. You must admit, Skellin Cottage has a rather romantic feel about it, stuck out there all alone in the valley.” A faint smile flickered across his face. “She was a very fine writer. Very good.”

“You read some of her work?”

“No, I could just tell. It's difficult to describe.”

“What kind of book was she writing?”

“I don't recall.”

“Fiction or non-fiction?”

“I'm afraid I really -”

“What about her other books?”

“Other books?”

“You said she wanted to work on her latest. That makes it sound as if there were others. Plus, if she could afford eight hundred and fifty pounds in cash each month, she must have been fairly successful.”

“I don't recall her mentioning any details of her work.”

“So let me get this clear,” Jo replied. “A stranger phone you up, a woman, and she asks to rent your cottage. And you agree, even though you're usually very picky about your tenants. You ask for no references and no deposit, and no guarantees that she has the resources to pay the rent, and you simply let her move in. And then once a month she shows up with a thick wad of cash, talking vaguely about books she's writing, and none of this strikes you as being a little odd?”

He took another sip of whiskey, while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her.

“Deborah Dean was a loner,” he continued finally. “If you ask me, the ability to keep oneself to oneself is very much undervalued in today's society. She lived in her mind. Now, that doesn't mean she lacked friends. I believe she was close to Susannah Marriott in Chelmsbury, and to Harry Morgan as well. You might want to ask them about her, although I did notice that neither of them appeared at her funeral.” He hesitated for a moment. “I telephoned you the other day, Miss Mason, because six months on from that awful night, the police are no closer to identifying whoever murdered Deborah. Justice must be done, her killer must face the music. My confidence in the police is at an all-time low, so I decided to hire a... Well, whatever you people call yourselves these days.”

“I'm a private investigator, Lord Chesleford. I explained over the phone about my -”

“Yes, yes, I remember all that.” He paused, as if he was having second thoughts. “And you will identify the scoundrel, won't you? I have to think of poor Deborah being murdered and nobody ever paying.”

“I'll do my best,” she told him. “I can't promise anything, but I'm not the police. I do things differently, and that can be an advantage sometimes.”

“I've already paid your retainer and your first batch of expenses,” he continued, “but if there's anything else you need, anything at all, you mustn't hesitate to ask. I consider this a matter of great personal importance. All of my considerable resources are at your disposal until you get to the bottom of this.”

“Actually,” she replied, “there was one -”

Before she could finish, she heard a bumping sound from out in the hallway. Turning to look over at the open door, she was just in time to spot a shadow scurrying out of view, accompanied by the flutter of socked feet on the stairs.

“Is it that damnable boy again?” Lord Chesleford muttered, storming to the door and leaning out. “Get back up to your room!” he roared. “I told you not to come down until dinner! Don't make me come up there and lock you in your room! Do you hear me?”

He paused, and a moment later a door could be heard swinging shut in a far-off part of the house.

A little red-faced and flustered now, Lord Chesleford turned to Jo.

“I'm sorry, that was my son Phillip,” he explained. “He's not... I mean, he's harmless, but he's not all there, if you know what I mean. There was an accident several years ago. He was a very talent and intelligent boy, bound for Oxford or Cambridge I'm certain, but now...” He paused, before taking another, longer sip of whiskey and then wiping his mustache dry. “I took a very strong liking to Deborah,” he added finally. “Call me an old fool, but in idle moments I sometimes felt she was the daughter I never had. The child I never had. I mean, Phillip's next to useless, but Deborah was a remarkable, quietly impressive woman. Good to her core. I need to know that her killer has been brought to justice so, as I said earlier, my resources are all yours. You have only to ask.”

“Actually,” Jo replied, “there is one thing I was going to mention. Skellin Cottage is empty at the moment, isn't it?”

He nodded.

“I was going to check into a B&B in town,” she continued, “but when I was at the cottage earlier, I realized that since I'm going to be there a lot anyway...”

Her voice trailed off.

“Oh,” Lord Chesleford said finally, “I see.”

“I wouldn't ask usually,” she explained, “but it might help me to get a feel for the place. And to understand how Deborah spent her time. I mean, I can go to a B&B if you'd prefer, but I'll be at Skellin a lot anyway so it would make sense, in the circumstances, if I could just sleep there at night.”

“Of course,” he replied after a moment's pause, “that's absolutely fine. I suppose so, anyway.” Still, he seemed a little shocked for a few seconds, before forcing a smile. “You already have the keys anyway, and as you point out, the place is empty. If you feel it would help you to stay there, then by all means be my guest. There's no heating, though, and I'm not sure I can get any wood delivered until tomorrow. There's water, but I'm afraid it'll be very cold.”

“I'll be fine,” she told him. “I've got a sleeping bag in my car.”

“It takes a special kind of person to live out at Skellin Cottage,” he continued. “It's not for everyone. It's so far from anywhere else, so remote. The nights especially can reach into one's mind and draw out fears, terrible fears, that one doesn't even know one possesses until one finds oneself alone in such a place. I don't know, Miss Mason, if you're used to being alone, but -”

“I'll be fine,” she said again, checking her watch. “If you don't mind, I'd like to get into Chelmsbury before dark. There are a few people I want to track down.”

“You're already showing more initiative than the police,” the old man replied as he guided her out into the hallway. “I never had much faith in them, right from the start. I felt I was always having to hurry them along and prod them, especially that foul Byron chap. They say the file on Deborah's murder is still open, of course, but I'm sure they've already moved on to other matters. Perhaps I'm something of a traditionalist, but I believe that no stone should be left un-turned in the pursuit of someone who commits a crime, especially when the victim is somebody as wonderful as Deborah. I believe in good old-fashioned justice, even if it's a little harsh.”

By the time he opened the door, there were tears in his eyes.

Jo turned to him. Before she could say anything, however, she spotted a faint hint of movement at the top of the stairs, as a figure darted back out of view.

“Find this bastard,” Lord Chesleford said firmly. “Pardon my language, but find him and make sure he rots. It's scandalous that we have to take matters into our own hands and deliver the killer to the police like this, but the most important thing is that the killer, whoever he might be, is apprehended. I only wish we could hang him. Perhaps when we're finally out of Europe, some more of the old ways will return to the statute books. You won't hear any complaints from me on that account, I assure you.”

Jo watched the top of the stairs for a moment, before turning to the old man.

“I'll do everything I can,” she told him. “I can't guarantee anything, but there's no such thing as a perfect murder. There's no such thing as a perfect detective, either, but I've already got some leads to follow up. And like I said earlier, the police have a lot of restrictions and a lot of drains on their time. I don't. I already know where they've been focusing their investigation, so I know where to pick up the threads they've dropped. With any luck, one of those threads will lead to Deborah's killer.”

A few minutes later, as she made her way to her car, Jo couldn't help but glance back at the large house and wonder how Lord Chesleford and his son could bear to live in such a place, with just the two of them rattling around. As she reached the car and began to unlock the driver's door, she spotted a face watching her from one of the higher upstairs windows, although the figure immediately pulled out of sight when he realized he'd been spotted. After waiting a moment in case he reappeared, Jo finally climbed into the car and started the engine.

Chapter Two

Six months ago

“There you go, Merriwig,” Deborah said as she set a saucer of milk on the floor, just inside the cottage's front door. “Don't get used to it, though. I just had some left over and it seemed a shame to throw it away.”

Stroking the cat's back, she watched as Merriwig drank from the saucer. After a moment, having licked up every drop, the cat turned and rubbed its face against Deborah's arm before letting out a brief meow.

“You're very welcome,” Deborah replied, taking the saucer and getting to her feet, before turning to head back into the kitchen. “Now, have you thought any more about the chapter I'm working on? Come on, I'm getting desperate here. Remember what I told you? How can I make the chapter more -”

Suddenly spotting a face at the back door, she let out a startled gasp and stepped back, only to sigh as soon as she saw the smiling features of her landlord. She quickly forced a polite smile, trying to mask the fact that a visitor was the last thing she wanted.

“Sorry!” Lord Chesleford called out, before knocking gently on the door. “I wasn't watching you, I promise. I just dropped by and then I saw you down there with the cat, and I suppose I thought I should wait for an opportune moment to disturb.”

Setting the saucer aside, Deborah headed over and unlocked the door, pulling it open and gesturing for him to enter.

“Sorry,” she said, clearly still a little startled, “I didn't hear a car pull up outside.”

“Oh, I'm on foot,” he replied, stepping into the hallway and looking around. After a moment, his gaze settled on the laptop that was resting on the coffee table. He squinted slightly, seeing that a word processor file was open. “Did I catch you in the middle of some work for your new book?”

“I'm working on a chapter,” she said, hurrying around the sofa and closing the laptop's lid. “I was just typing out some ideas.”

“Writer's block?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Are you suffering from a case of writer's block?” he asked. “If you are, I'd be happy to assist in any way that I can. Perhaps you'd like to let me read what you've done so far?”

“Thank you, but that won't be necessary.”

“It's no trouble.”

“I prefer to work on these things alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“So were you just out for a walk?” she asked, sidestepping any more discussion of the matter as she headed through to the kitchen. Glancing up toward the ceiling for a moment, she stopped at the counter and checked the kettle for water before switching it on. She turned just as Merriwig slunk into the room with Lord Chesleford close behind.

“You know how it is,” the old man said, looking around the kitchen as if he was keen to inspect his property. “Some mornings, one just wakes up and decides that one wants to get out of the house. Besides, I haven't been up this way for quite some time, and I suppose I should keep an eye on things.”

“You were here on Tuesday,” she pointed out.

“Was I?” He furrowed his brow. “Well, it certainly feels like longer.”

“I'll get the rent,” she replied, heading to the dresser in the corner.

“Oh, there's no need for that right now. It's not due for another week.”

Opening one of the drawers, she fumbled for a moment with a tightly-clipped wad of cash, before counting out some £50 and £10 notes and then sliding the drawer shut.

“I can pop by for that next week,” he told her.

“There's really no need,” she replied, heading over to him and holding the money out for him to take. “It makes sense to do it while you're here. That way, you won't need to go out of your way again.”

“Oh, this is hardly out of my way,” he muttered, taking the money and slipping it uncounted into his blazer pocket. “Truth be told, I'm very interested to hear how living in my humble little cottage is helping with your work.” He watched as she headed back over to the kettle. “Does the isolation out here make it any easier for you to tap into your creative stream?”

“Into my...” She hesitated, before turning to him as if she hadn't quite been paying attention. “I'm sorry, my what?”

“Perhaps that was the wrong turn of phrase. I was just wondering whether Skellin Cottage is conducive to a writer's work. I most certainly hope so.”

“It's great here,” she told him. “Really great.”

“That's wonderful,” he said with a smile, before looking at the kettle as it finished boiling.

For a moment, an awkward silence fell across the kitchen.

“I'd invite you to have a coffee,” Deborah said suddenly, “but I'm afraid you caught me just as I was about to go out.”

“I'd never dream of imposing,” he replied. “Another time, perhaps?”

“Another time. Sorry, I've just been running around all morning and I still have to go into town.”

“Shopping, eh?”

“No, just...” She paused for a moment. “Yes. A spot of shopping.”

“Groceries?”

She nodded.

“The refrigerator is big enough for your needs, I hope?” he asked. “I could always buy another and have it sent over.”

“It's fine. Really. I just need to go into town and get some things to put in it.”

“I'll speak to a man in town. See about getting a bigger one.”

“There's no need.”

“Oh, it's not a problem.”

She opened the fridge door, letting him see the few items she kept around.

“Space really isn't a problem,” she pointed out.

“You know,” he replied, “you could have all of that delivered to the door. In fact, I could pick things up for you later today when I'm in town, and bring them right here. That way, you'd have plenty of time to work on your book.”

“Thank you, but I need a few other things too.”

“Nonsense, I'm happy to help! Just write a list and I'll collect it all for you.”

“I need to pick up a prescription as well.”

“Oh? What for?”

She hesitated, as if for a moment she couldn't think of a reply.

“Just some things,” she said finally. “You know... Things.”

She waited for him to get the hint, but he in turn seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate.

“Is that the time?” she asked, checking her watch. “Wow, I had no idea it was already half three. I hope you don't mind, but I think I should probably get going. I'm not sure when the chemist closes and -”

“Five,” he said, interrupting her.

“Is that right?”

“I'm quite certain. It closes at five. You have lots of time.”

Another pause, as silence fell between them again.

“Perhaps I've kept you long enough,” Lord Chesleford said finally, forcing a smile as he took one final look around the kitchen. “I should get going anyway. I've still got rather a long way to walk home, and my knees aren't what they once were.”

He waited, as if he was hoping she'd offer to give him a lift.

“Well, quite,” he added, turning and heading back through to the hallway.

Deborah followed him and saw to her relief that he was already stepping out into the yard. Still, she knew from experience that even the final stage of a Lord Chesleford visit could easily drag on for twenty minutes or more.

“I'll bring the rent to you next month,” she told him. “There's really no need to pop by like this. I'm sure you're very busy.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised how much time I have on my hands,” he replied, turning back to her. “Truth be told, I rather like getting out and about like this. One can get rather bored when one just spends all day in one's own home. Well, maybe that's not the case for you. You've got your work to keep you busy.”

“Absolutely,” she said, already starting to swing the door shut. “Goodbye. See you next month.”

“Feel free to drop by the house before then,” he told her.

“I will.”

“And I might come past again some time. I hope you won't mind if I drop in.”

“Of course not. Have a nice walk home. Take care.”

Without giving him a chance to restart the conversation, she shut the door and then froze, listening to make sure that he left. After a moment, hearing footsteps heading away, she peered out through the kitchen window and saw that sure enough Lord Chesleford was already out on the main road, heading down the hill that led toward town. Still worried that he might come back, however, she waited a couple more minutes until the old man was out of view, and then she looked down as she felt Merriwig brushing against her left leg.

“I know,” Deborah said with a sigh. “I thought he'd never leave.”

The cat meowed in agreement.

After reaching down and briefly petting Merriwig, Deborah headed to the door and slid the bolt across, and then she made her way to the stairs and hurried to the bedroom. Stopping for a moment at the landing window, she looked out at the yard, just to make absolutely, doubly sure that Lord Chesleford was long gone, and then finally she pushed the bedroom door open.

“He's got a crush on you,” Harry said, sitting up in bed with his bare chest exposed. “You realize that, right?”

“He does not,” she replied, swinging the door shut. “He's just a lonely old man.”

“A lonely old man with a thing for you,” Harry continued, reaching toward her and beckoning him to join her in the bed. “He's probably sick of being holed up in that big old manor house with only his retard son for company.”

“Hey! Don't say things like that!”

“It's true, isn't it? Come on, we're adults here, we don't have to be all PC about these things. Old Chesleford'd give anything to be right where I am now. Naked, in your bed, about to screw you into the mattress. Then again, at his age, maybe he doesn't have the stamina.”

“You're being mean,” she pointed out, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I don't like that.”

Leaning toward her, he moved the hair from her shoulder and kissed her bare neck.

“I need to get on with my work,” she continued, flinching slightly. “Would you mind?”

“How about one more round and then I'll leave.”

“How about I get on with my work?” she asked, pulling away and turning to him. “I'm sorry, I just need to get on with this chapter.”

He reached for her chest, but she carefully moved his hand away.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

She swallowed hard.

“Maybe at the weekend,” she said finally, with a cautious smile. “I can't be doing with too many distractions right now.”

“Is that what you call it now?” He lifted the sheet and looked down at his bare crotch. “A distraction?”

“Get dressed,” she muttered, standing and heading out of the room before stopping in the doorway and glancing back at him. “If you're quick, you can have a cup of tea before you leave. But only one. I really have to get on with my book.”

“Still not gonna tell me what it's about?”

She shook her head.

“Is it about me?” he asked with a grin. “Is it about a handsome pig farmer who woos a successful writer and teaches her a few things in the sack?”

“Get dressed, Harry,” she replied, finally stepping out onto the landing. “Your tea'll be getting cold.”

Chapter Three

Today

“Harry Morgan?” Jo called out, knocking again on the door before hearing a scraping sound coming from around the side of the house. She hesitated for a moment, before heading over to take a look, and finally she realized someone was busy in one of the farmhouse's barns.

Making her way over, she had to step around a large patch of scattered manure. The whole yard was a mess, with rusting old pieces of machinery having been left all over the place, and an old greenhouse stood a little way off with several broken windows. Even the barn itself looked as if it had seen better days, with a rusted corrugated roof and several holes in the walls.

“Harry Morgan?” she called out again. “I'm sorry, I'm looking for someone named Harry Morgan.”

A moment later, a muddied figure emerged from the barn, carrying a couple of dead ducks in his right hand and an old rake in his left.

“You're just in time,” he said with a grin, holding the ducks up for her to see, as blood spattered down against the concrete floor. “I'm running low. Don't reckon I'll get any more in until next week. Even without my bloody phone, I'm getting swamped with buyers.” He hesitated for a moment, eyeing her up and down. “You're not here for a duck, are you?”

***

“So what exactly have people told you about us?” Harry asked a short while later, as he finished drying his face in the kitchen. “Chelmsbury's full of gossip. If anything happens around these parts, you'll hear five different versions in the town square by midday.”

“I know you and Deborah were friends,” Jo replied, leaning against the sideboard and watching as he filled the kettle. “I know you visited her at Skellin Cottage sometimes. I know the police found your fingerprints in several of the rooms. Including the bedrooms.”

“Did you know I was a suspect for a while?”

She watched as he set the kettle on to boil.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I did know that.”

“Prime suspect, I believe,” he continued, turning to her. “That Jack Byron fella had me in for questioning three times. Wanted to know exactly what I was doing, spending all that time over at the cottage. I think he thought he was in some kind of CSI thing. He kept prodding the table with his finger, like he was trying to be tough. It was all I can do not to laugh in his blinkin' face.”

“And what -”

“So let me get this straight,” he added, interrupting her. “You're not a cop?”

“No.”

“You're a private detective?”

She nodded.

“Someone hired you?”

“Lord Martin Chesleford is paying me to look into Deborah Dean's murder.”

“Lord -”

He hesitated for a moment, as if the news was a genuine shock.

“And private detectives still exist, do they?” he asked finally. “I mean, I thought they were some kind of American thing that died out after the Second World War.”

“There are a few of us around.”

“And how do you end up as a private detective, anyway?”

“When did you last see Deborah Dean alive?”

“I don't have to tell you anything, do I?” he replied, leaning back against the counter. “Not if you're not a cop.”

“You can tell me to leave right now, and I'll leave.”

He paused, eyeing her with a hint of suspicion.

“I last saw her on the night she died,” he said after a moment. “I'm assuming you've read the police reports about it all?”

“Not all of them. Where you at Skellin Cottage that night?”

He shook his head. “She came over here.”

“What time?”

“About half one in the morning.”

Taking out a black notebook, Jo jotted the information down.

“How long was she here for?”

“Just enough time for me to tell her to go away,” he replied. “I didn't open the door.”

She glanced at him. “I thought she was your friend?”

“She was,” he said, emphasizing the second word, “but things were bad between us.”

“What happened?”

“Just a disagreement.”

“About?”

“About nothing. About stupid things.”

“But -”

“A lover's tiff. There, are you happy?”

She made another note.

“So I turned her away,” he continued, as the kettle began to boil. “I'm not proud of it. If I'd known she was in trouble, I'd have let her in, of course I would. Instead, I told her to get out of here, and then I went back to bed. I was sick of the way things had been going between us. She was a woman who gave out very mixed messages. One minute she was pushing me away, the next she was begging me to go over. And yes, believe me, I've relived that moment over and over, thinking about how things might have been different if I'd just unlocked the door.”

“So your relationship with Deborah was over by this point?”

“It's complicated.”

She waited for him to explain.

“It's not relevant to what you're asking about,” he continued. “The night she came here, she was saying something about someone coming after her. She sounded scared.”

“And you still didn't let her in?”

“It wasn't the first time she'd done that. You didn't know Deborah, but she could get a little paranoid from time to time. She never wanted to talk about her life before she moved here, she always changed the subject and then she flat-out refused to discuss it if any of us pressed her on the matter. The one thing she couldn't hide, though, was her fear. There was something that scared her, as if she was terrified of someone from her past coming back and finding her. She never said what it was, or who it was, but there were times when she seemed convinced that someone was following her. That's what I thought was going on, anyway.”

“Did you ever see anyone?”

He shook his head.

“Over time,” he said with a sigh, “I started thinking she was just being dramatic. She was a writer, right? I started assuming she was just a little paranoid. And then we had our little disagreement, and not long after she turned up here shouting about someone coming for her, and I just assumed she was trying to trick me into opening the door. I thought she was being a bit of a prima donna, to be honest. Or that she'd been on the wine.” He paused. “I guess I was wrong. I guess someone was after her.”

“Did you tell the police about this?”

He nodded.

“Do you know what they learned about her earlier life?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know where she was from?”

Again, he shook his head.

“Do you...” She paused. “Do you even know for sure that Deborah Dean was her real name?”

“It was the name on all her bills. On her credit cards, too.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean it's the name she was born with. I've had trouble tracking down any record of her life before she arrived in the area.”

“I'm not stupid,” he replied. “I had plenty of questions, but she wasn't giving out any answers. There was one night when she'd had a few glasses of wine and she seemed like she might be about to tell me something, but then she clammed up. She was like that sometimes. We might have been seeing each other, but it wasn't the kind of arrangement where either of us ever really opened up. She kept her defenses in place.”

“Did she have an accent?”

“Not really. London maybe.”

“Any tattoos or distinguishing marks?”

“Well, she had a mole somewhere not a lot of people would've seen it,” he replied, “but I don't suppose that'll help you much.”

“You'd be surprised,” she muttered, making a note regardless.

“I had a photo of...”

His voice trailed off.

“A photo of what?”

“Doesn't matter,” he replied. “Anyway, my phone got nicked a while back and the photos were all still on there.”

“What kind of photos?”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “The kind of photos a woman sends a guy if she wants to lure him to her place on a cold and stormy night. I'm sure you get the idea. Nothing too racy, but... Well, let's just say that they did the trick.” He sighed. “I ran over there like a little puppy.”

“Did she ever talk to you about the future?”

“How do you mean?”

“You were seeing her, weren't you?”

He nodded.

“And sleeping with her.”

“Sometimes I even stayed over at Skellin Cottage. Old Chesleford wouldn't have liked that, if he'd known about it.”

“Why not?”

“He had the hots for her. Nothing serious, nothing dodgy, but it was pathetically obvious. Debbie never wanted to admit it, she always said I was wrong, but the poor old sod was always showing up there, bugging her.”

“She didn't like his attention?”

“She tolerated him. I mean, he was her landlord.”

“But you never discussed the future with her?” she asked. “You never talked about where your relationship was heading?”

“I don't think she was the marrying type,” he replied. “Or the mothering type, either. That was the thing about Debbie. I always felt like she was one little fright away from packing up and running away. Every single time I went over to Skellin Cottage, it occurred to me that I might find she was gone. Judging by the way she was talking when she came here that last night, I think maybe she was on her way. Only, she was too late and whoever was after her managed to stop her before she could run. I think even the cops accepted that in the end. The killer wasn't anyone from round these parts. It was someone from her past. That's where you need to be doing your digging.”

***

“Try every variation you can think of,” Jo said a short while later, as she stepped out of her car and looked across the town square. With her phone against one side of her face, she hesitated for a moment, watching as people wandered from shop to shop. “Maybe Dean was her mother's maiden name. Or her father's first name. If she changed her identity, she might not have chosen something completely random.”

Feeling a couple of drops of cold rain, she looked up at the dull gray sky.

“Or it might have been completely random,” she added. “Plucked out of thin air.”

“It'll take me a while to run all these checks,” Kevin replied from the other end of the line. “I'm not supposed to be using police records to help you, you know. We've been given a warning about that.”

“They'll never -”

“I mean about you specifically,” he continued, lowering his voice a little as if he was worried about being overheard. “You-know-who sent a memo around last week, warning everyone that they'll be in deep shit if they're caught helping you with anything at all. I think he's onto you, Jo. He knows you're sniffing around and he doesn't like it.”

“A woman has been murdered and -”

“Relax,” he replied, interrupting her, “I'll do it, I'm just saying it might take a little longer. I'll call you if I come up with anything.”

“Check for missing women in the mid-twenties to mid-thirties age range,” she added. “Try London first, but check other areas too. Deborah Dean, or whatever her name was, had to have come from somewhere. And wherever she was before she was here, someone must have missed her.”

“No problem,” he replied. “While I'm at it, should I just download the entire PNC and send it over to you on a thumb drive?”

“That would be nice.”

“Someone's coming!” he hissed, and suddenly the call was cut.

Slipping her phone into her pocket, Jo made her way across the parking lot and over to the side of the street, where she stopped and took a moment to look around. At the same time, she reached into her pocket and took out a small white bottle, unscrewing the lid and tipping a couple of white and blue lozenges into the palm of her hand. After chasing them down with a swig from a water bottle, she began to make her way along the street until finally she spotted the local off-license on the next corner along.

Stepping closer, she stopped again as she saw a pub on the opposite side of the road. She hesitated, glancing at each of them in turn, before choosing the off-license.

***

“I do remember her, as it happens,” the man behind the counter said, as he continued to tear open another crate of wine. “What made you come in here and ask, though?”

“She was a writer living alone in the middle of nowhere,” Jo replied. “Call it a lucky guess. I get the feeling she wasn't the pub type.”

“She was a pretty regular customer in here for a while,” he continued, taking two bottles and setting them on the shelf. “She was on a dozen bottles a week. I've got to admit, I was a little surprised when I found out she was living alone, but it's not my place to lecture people on what they do with their time.”

“Did she come in alone?”

“Always.”

“And what exactly did she buy?”

“Red wine. Never anything else. Not the cheap stuff, either. She knew her wine, or at least she knew what she liked. Spanish and South American, mainly. She had good taste.”

“Was she an alcoholic?”

He turned to her.

“Did you see any signs that she had a problem?” she continued, rephrasing the question. “A dozen bottles a week is almost two a day.”

“I'm not allowed to serve anyone who's clearly already drunk,” he replied a little defensively. “Beyond that, I'm not anyone's bloody nanny, okay? But let's just say that she never bought a bottle of old Chesleford's alcohol-free red.”

He pointed at a set of bottles on a nearby shelf, and Jo saw that the labels showed a picture of Chesleford Manor.

“He has his own wine?” she asked.

“Imports the grapes himself. He says he only produces alcohol-free 'cause he wants to be responsible, but if you ask me, he's just too broke to arrange the proper licenses to make actual booze.” He chucked to himself. “He won't remake his fortune with that foul stuff, and that's a promise. It tastes like diluted yak's piss with a few grapes tossed in.”

“How did Deborah Dean pay for her wine?”

“Cash.” He hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, always cash. Rare thing, these days.”

“Did she ever make small-talk?”

“Are you kidding?” He grabbed two more bottles and set them on the shelf. “Some people like to natter away when they come in here. Others know what they want, bring it to the counter, and get out as fast as possible. She was one of the latter. Kept herself to herself, and it was pretty bloody obvious that she wasn't up for much of a chat. No skin off my nose either way. I remember she was a little jumpy a couple of times, though, like she thought she was being followed. She was in a few days before she was killed, and there was another guy here too, and she seemed really worried about him.”

“Do you have footage?” Jo asked, glancing up at the security camera behind the counter.

“Sorry,” he replied, “that's just for show. And the one outside only stores pictures for forty-eight hours, then it gets recorded over. Fat lot of good, eh?”

“And this guy... Did you recognize him?”

“Nope. Never seen him before or after. I don't think he was from around here. But she was acting strange that night, like she was scared. In fact, I know it might be bad to say something like this, but she seemed almost...”

His voice trailed off.

“Almost what?” Jo asked.

“Almost ill,” he continued, tapping the side of his head. “Like maybe something wasn't right in her head, if you know what I mean. And then... Yeah, I remember now. And then she bought some wine. Red and white. It was always red until that night, and then she bought some bottles of white for the first time. And the last time, too, as it turned out. Almost like she was panicking and she just wanted to get out as fast as possible, without attracting attention.”

Jo added a few scribbled lines to her notebook.

“One last thing,” she said finally. “Did the police ever come and ask you about her?”

He shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Then maybe they didn't know she was scared someone was following her,” she pointed out. “Or that she was just paranoid. Either way, it sounds like she was definitely running from someone.”

“From the guy who was in here that night?”

“Maybe,” she replied. “I'm going to need you to give me a description of him. Anything you remember might be important, even if it seems like a small thing.”

“You don't think he's the one who killed her, do you?”

She paused for a moment. “I think I need to find out who he is. Maybe Deborah was just paranoid, but there's a chance he was someone from her past. Someone she really didn't want to bump into.”

Chapter Four

Six months ago

Pushing the off-license's door open, Deborah headed straight for the shelf with the red wine. Grabbing a basket along the way, she immediately crouched down to take a look at the Chianti selection.

A moment later, the bell above the door rang again as a second customer entered the shop.

Glancing over her shoulder, Deborah watched as a man headed toward the spirits shelf. She waited for a moment, only able to see the back of his head, and then she turned to look at the bottles of red. This time, however, she seemed unable to concentrate on the Rioja, and instead she was almost frozen, as if she wanted to wait for the man to leave.

Over at the counter, the shopkeeper was barely paying attention to either of them. Instead, he was flicking through a newspaper.

For the next few minutes, Deborah remained in place, still waiting for the other customer to leave. Finally, however, the man made his way around the central display and stopped right next to Deborah, towering over her as he took a bottle from the shelf and examined the label. After a moment he set the bottle back on the shelf and began to examine another.

Suddenly Deborah got to her feet and headed away, stopping at the white wine shelf and quickly putting two bottles into her basket. As she did so, she glanced over her shoulder and looked at the man, and they briefly made eye contact before Deborah turned away again. Grabbing the nearest two bottles, she carried them to the counter and set them down, quickly adding the bottles from her basket and then taking a wad of cash from her pocket. Her hands were trembling and she kept telling herself that she was wrong, that the other man couldn't possibly be who she thought he was. At the same time, she knew that the resemblance was too close, too uncanny.

“Fancy a change, eh?” the shopkeeper asked as he started scanning the bottles.

Without answering, Deborah turned and looked at the other customer again.

“That'll be twenty-nine pounds and eighty pence, please,” the shopkeeper continued with a smile, “and -”

“Keep the change,” Deborah replied, tossing three £10 notes onto the counter and then grabbing the bottles, clutching them to her chest before turning and hurrying to the door.

“I'll put it in the tin!” the shopkeeper called after her, but she was already outside.

Heading along the dark street, Deborah finally stopped outside the shuttered butcher's shop. Turning, she looked back toward the off-license and waited, and a moment later the man stepped out and stopped to look both ways along the street, as if he was searching for someone. Deborah pulled back for a moment, making sure to stay in the shadows, and then she watched as the man headed over toward the parking lot. As he walked, it became obvious that he'd emerged from the off-license without buying anything.

Still clutching her bottles of wine, Deborah crouched down in the darkness and kept her eyes fixed on the man. A moment later, hearing her phone starting to buzz in her pocket, she muttered a few curses under her breath and re-balanced the wine bottles before taking the phone out and seeing that Harry was trying to get in touch. Rejecting the call, she set her phone to silent and slipped it away, before looking out at the parking lot and seeing that there was now no sign of the man from the off-license. Instead, all she saw were the lights from the Chelmsbury Royal Hotel, and a few random drunks who'd obviously spilled out from one of the nearby pubs.

She waited, but the man was definitely gone. Finally, cautiously, she got to her feet and took one more look around, before turning and darting off through the darkness, heading toward the spot where she'd parked her car. With each step, she told herself the same thing over and over again.

It wasn't him.

It can't have been him.

How could it have been him?

***

Taking another sip of white wine, Deborah stood in the dark kitchen and stared out the window, watching the yard. Her own car was parked over by the gate, but apart from that there was no sign of life at all. A strong wind was starting to blow, however, and swaying thorn bushes cast their moonlit shadows against the glass.

She took another sip of wine, before heading over to the other counter and pulling open a drawer. Taking out some long candles, she wedged them into the necks of a few old wine bottles and then lit them with a match, finally daring to allow herself a little light. After taking the bottles and placing them on the coffee table in the front room, she made her way to the window and looked out again at the yard, eyeing the shadows carefully as if she expected one of them to move at any moment, to perhaps briefly take human form and slither a little closer to the house.

Nothing moved, however, so finally she pulled the curtains shut and headed over to the sofa.

For the next couple of hours, she worked on her book, typing steadily with just a few pauses to think. She drank as she worked, getting through a large glass of wine every twenty minutes or so, until she was finished with one bottle and had to set the laptop aside so she could go and fetch some more wine from the kitchen. On her way, she grabbed another candle from the drawer and forced it into the neck of the now-empty bottle, although this time she was a little more forceful and muttered a few curses under her breath. She wasn't drunk, but the glasses of wine had certainly set her a little more on edge. As she headed back to the coffee table and set the next bottle down, she began humming to herself.

Suddenly something bumped against one of the windows, and Deborah's head snapped around to look over at the curtains on the far side of the room. Frozen, her eyes wide with fear, she remained completely still now as the candlelight flickered against the side of her face, and a moment later she heard a series of heavy trudging steps, as if someone was walking through the flowerbed that ran between the garden path and the wall of the house.

Stepping around the sofa, she quickly blew out the candles, leaving herself once more in darkness.

She waited, and sure enough the trudging footsteps returned, this time making their way around toward the house's rear. Slipping through into the hallway and then along to the old dining room that she used for storing boxes, Deborah reached the next door just in time to spot a shadow against the curtains, slipping around toward the back door.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, turning and heading back through to the kitchen, where she grabbed a carving knife from one of the drawers.

A moment later, she heard the familiar creak of the back door's handle being turned, along with a bump as someone found that the door was locked.

Making her way to the hallway, she peered through just in time to spot a figure stepping away from the back door. With the knife in her right hand, she stayed completely still and listened, waiting for the footsteps to return. Looking over at the kitchen window, she saw thorn bush shadows still dancing in the late-night wind, but there was no sign of movement. And then, after a few seconds, she heard a faint bumping sound coming from the back door, and she turned to see that the figure had returned.

With a key.

Pulling back out of the way, Deborah heard the back door creaking open. The sound of the storm outside was much louder now, although a few seconds later the door clicked shut again and the house returned to darkness.

She waited, listening to the silence, ready for footsteps. Sure enough, she finally heard the loose floorboards creak at the bottom of the stairs, which meant the intruder was making his way slowly toward the kitchen. Taking care to remain completely silent as she moved away from the door, Deborah backed into the corner and then crouched down in the shadows, while keeping her eyes fixed on the doorway. A moment later she heard soft padding bumps running down the stairs, followed by Merriwig's familiar meow, and the cat eventually slunk into the kitchen and headed over to the bowl by the fridge.

And then, as Deborah watched, the shadow of a human figure began to move slowly across the far wall as the intruder edged closer to the kitchen.

Adjusting her grip on the knife's handle, Deborah saw the figure entering the room. Tall and shrouded in darkness, the intruder stopped for a moment and looked around, before heading over to Merriwig and reaching down, giving the cat a pat on the back, then turning and looking toward the lounge area. Still holding the knife tight, Deborah remained crouched in the corner as the figure took a couple of steps away and stopped next to the sofa. She could see the figure's hands now, and to her relief there was no sign of a weapon. At the same time, glancing down at the knife in her own hands, she felt her heart pounding as she tried to imagine defending herself.

Suddenly hearing soft padding steps coming closer, she turned and saw Merriwig wandering over.

Deborah shook her head, but it was too late and the cat meowed as it brushed against her arm. She tried pushing it away, but then she looked up and saw that the dark figure had already come back over from the sofa and was now standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring straight at her.

Filled with panic, Deborah got to her feet and held the knife up, while reaching with a trembling hand for the switch on the wall. Finally finding it, she pressed to bring the lights flickering to life, and then she stared in horror as she finally saw the intruder's face. Too shocked to react, she watched him for several seconds before slowly lowering the knife and setting it on the counter. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

Chapter Five

Today

After setting the sleeping bag on the bed, Jo took a moment to wipe away some crumbs and stains, and then she grabbed the old blankets she'd found in the wardrobe and began to lay them out ready for the night. As she did so, she could see her own breath in the cold air, and she was starting to realize that Lord Martin Chesleford hadn't been kidding when he'd warned her about the cottage being cold.

Unfolding the last blanket, she was briefly startled as a couple of moths fluttered toward her face.

Grabbing her laptop from the bedside table, she sat on the end of the bed and opened the lid, bringing up the webpages she'd been checking out earlier. She'd been trying to find any mention of missing women who might match the description of Deborah Dean, but so far nothing had shown up. She'd also been trying to dig up a little more about Deborah's supposed writing career, and again she'd had no success whatsoever. Nobody by the name of Deborah Dean had published anything that could remotely have been written by the woman who'd been staying at Skellin Cottage, and Jo was starting to feel as if the identity of this Deborah Dean woman had been completely fabricated. All of which left the questions of who she really was, and where her money had come from, and what she'd been working on when she'd claimed to be writing a novel.

And where Deborah's laptop had gone.

Even as she checked some more things on her own laptop, Jo couldn't help but wonder why Deborah's machine had vanished after the murder. The obvious explanation was that it had been taken by the killer, which in turn meant that some of the files would have exposed Deborah's true identity. In that case, Jo was starting to think that maybe Deborah's book hadn't entirely been a work of fiction.

Finally, closing her laptop, Jo sat in silence for a moment before getting to her feet, grabbing a towel, and heading through to the cottage's cramped little bathroom. With midnight fast approaching, she figured it might be wise to get some sleep and then start early the following morning, but first she had a little late-night routine to complete. Even though there was no chance whatsoever of hot water, and even though she was already on the verge of shivering, she switched the shower on and began to get undressed. She never went to bed without washing first, and she was already trying to focus on the thought that a cold shower might actually be healthy.

That was the theory, anyway.

Suddenly spotting a section of loose tiles on the floor, she crouched down and took a closer look. She had to dig her fingernails into the crumbling plaster between the tiles, but slowly she managed to ease them up, revealing a hollowed section under the floor with a dirty old cloth bag wedged between two boards. Reaching down, she wiggled the bag free and pulled it out, untying the top and peering inside, only to find bundles of cash divided into scores of smaller chunks, each held together using black hairpins. Further down in the back, there were tons of prepaid debit cards. Spotting a piece of notepaper, she pulled it out and saw some kind of handwritten ledger, marked with various differently colored pens, as if Deborah had been keeping track of her spending over a considerable period of time.

“How long were you running for?” she whispered, reaching back into the bag and counting one of the bundles of money, before counting the number of bundles themselves and realizing that there had to be more than £20,000. “And where did all of this come from?”

She checked to make sure there was nothing else hidden under the tiles, and then she set the money aside and sat on the toilet lid for a few minutes, staring at the bag as she tried to figure out what Deborah Dean had really been doing at Skellin Cottage. Wind howled outside, whistling through gaps in the cottage's roof, and finally Jo got to her feet and headed over to the shower cabinet. Already, cold night air was pocking the flesh on her arms and causing her to shiver slightly.

“Wow, no!” she gasped as soon as she felt the freezing water, although after a moment she reached her hand into the cabinet again and winced as she tried to get used to the cold. “It's good for you,” she muttered under her breath. “Good for your heart, something like that. What are you, some kind of wimp?”

She hesitated a moment longer, before stepping into the shower and letting out a horrified shriek as she felt the thousands upon thousands of icy droplets fall all over her naked body. Fighting the urge to flee, she instead grabbed her shower gel and forced herself to get on with the job of washing, even going so far as to run water through her hair and add some shampoo. The experience became no more pleasant as the minutes went past, and she was shivering as she began to rinse her hair. She took a moment to brush her teeth in the shower, too, before finally turning the water off and stepping out. Grabbing a towel, she began to dry herself as quickly as possible, and then she started getting dressed.

Setting the towel next to the sink, she reached for a pack of dental floss, and then she froze as she saw that a human eye was staring at her through the crack in the door.

The eye blinked, and then slowly pulled back into the shadows.

Jo remained completely still, too shocked to react and convinced that the eye had to be some kind of optical illusion, until a moment later she heard footsteps hurrying away along the landing.

“Stop!” she yelled, racing out of the bathroom and immediately spotting a figure running to the top of the stairs.

By the time the figure reached the hallway, Jo had clattered down and almost caught up to him. He was already reaching for the handle on the front door, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him around before shoving him back against the wall. As the man let out a startled cry, Jo realized with a sense of shock that she recognized him.

“What are you doing here?”

***

“Do you have to tell him?” Phillip asked, his voice twisting into a frightened whine as they sat at the kitchen table. “He'll be mad at me. I promise I won't do it again.”

“I've already called him and asked him to come and pick you up,” Jo replied, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his terrified features. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and her heart-rate still hadn't quite returned to normal. After a moment, she looked down at the key that lay on the table between the pair of them. “Did you steal that from your father?”

“I never steal!” Phillip stammered breathlessly. “I just... I know where he keeps things. That's all.”

“So you snuck out here without telling your father?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He paused, briefly meeting her gaze but quickly looking down at the table, as if he was ashamed.

“I didn't hear you come in,” she continued. “I'm good at hearing things, but you got all the way upstairs and I didn't notice a thing. Even with the shower running for a few minutes...” She paused, still watching him carefully. “There's a creaking board at the bottom of the stairs, but you -”

“I know how to avoid that,” he replied eagerly, with a big, proud smile that lingered for a few seconds before he remembered he was in trouble. “I mean...”

“You've done this before, haven't you?”

She waited for an answer, but now Phillip was once more staring at the table. A moment later, he began to examine his own fingers.

“Phillip? Did you ever sneak into the cottage when Deborah Dean was living here?”

Again she waited, but Phillip seemed far more interested in his the palms of his hands.

“I need to know,” Jo continued. “Phillip, something very bad happened to Deborah in this cottage. Do you understand that?”

He glanced at her briefly, but only for a second, before looking back down at his hands and mumbling something.

“How old are you, Phillip?” she asked.

“I'm twenty-two.”

She hesitated, watching him and seeing that even though he looked like a fully-grown man, something clearly wasn't right in his head.

“I saw you naked,” he whispered finally.

A faint shudder passed through her chest. “I know you did.”

“There's something wrong with you.”

She took a deep breath. “Phillip -”

“Why don't you have boobies?”

She swallowed hard.

“Why do you have big scars where your boobies are supposed to be?” he added, glancing at her again and this time managing to meet her gaze.

“Did you ever sneak into the cottage when Deborah lived here?” she asked, trying to sidestep the question. “Did you spy on her, the way you spied on me?”

“I'm not allowed to spy on people.”

“I'm sure you aren't. But did you do it anyway?”

“You'll tell him.”

“I won't tell your father anything you tell me right here,” she replied. “But it's very important that I know about your relationship with Deborah. Did you see her very often?”

He hesitated, before finally nodding.

“Were you friends?”

“She was my girlfriend.”

“She -”

Jo paused, before taking a deep breath and then letting out a sigh.

“She was!” Phillip continued, as if he could already tell that she didn't believe him. “She was my proper girlfriend and everything!”

“And what did you do when you were here with her?”

“She talked to me sometimes.”

“About what?”

He shrugged.

“Please, Phillip. It might be important.”

“She let me sit with her sometimes when she was writing.”

“Did you see what she was writing?”

“Sometimes.” He paused. “It was very complicated.”

“What was it about?”

“I didn't...”

She waited.

“You didn't what, Phillip?”

“I didn't understand. I tried to, but I couldn't. She said that was okay.”

“I don't suppose she ever gave you a copy of anything she was working on, did she?”

He shook his head.

“I guess that'd be too easy,” she added with a sigh. “Phillip, I really need you to answer the question I asked just now. You do understand, I take it, that sneaking into a house is wrong?”

“I had a key.”

“That doesn't mean it isn't wrong. Do you understand that?”

He seemed reluctant, but finally he nodded.

“And do you understand that spying on someone is wrong? Whatever they're doing?”

He nodded again.

“Did you, or did you not, spy on Deborah Dean the way you spied on me tonight?”

He shook his head.

“Phillip -”

“I didn't need to.”

“And why's that?”

“Because she let me see.”

“I find that difficult to believe, Phillip. Are you lying to me?”

He shook his head.

“Phillip, you're...”

Her voice trailed off as she stared at the frightened, confused half-man, half-boy in front of her. She could tell that he must have been very handsome before his accident, but at the same time she could also see the innocence and fear in his eyes, and she knew without a doubt that nobody could ignore the fact that something was missing from his mind. For a moment, she tried to imagine any situation in which a woman like Deborah Dean would take a boy like Phillip Chesleford into her bed, but she just couldn't get past the improbability of the idea. The whole thing just seemed so utterly wrong.

“Phillip, have you lied to me at any point so far?”

He shook his head.

“Do you promise, Phillip?”

“I don't lie. Lying's wrong.”

“But sometimes people feel they have no choice,” she continued. “Do you ever feel like that, Phillip?”

He hesitated, before shaking his head again.

“But you liked Deborah, didn't you? You liked her a lot.”

“She was my...” He paused. “I mean, she -”

Before he could finish, the lights of a car suddenly swung into view outside, briefly filling the dusty window before switching off as the engine was cut. A moment later, a car door could be heard opening and then slamming shut, and finally steps hurried angrily toward the front door.

Phillip flinched. “Please don't tell him what I did!”

Jo got to her feet. “You're scared of your father, aren't you? Why is that?”

Suddenly the front door swung wide open and Lord Chesleford burst into the room, immediately storming toward the table and reaching out to grab Phillip's arm.

“I'm dreadfully sorry about this,” the old man blustered, his face red with anger. “Phillip! Go and wait in the car!”

“Dad, I just -”

“Go and wait in the car!” Lord Chesleford roared. “Now! Or so help me...”

Stumbling to his feet, Phillip scurried around his father and ran to the door, before stopping and turning to look back at Jo.

“I'm sorry!” he stammered with tears in his eyes. “Please don't hate me! I won't tell anyone about what's wrong with you!”

“I don't hate you, Phillip,” she replied.

“We'll talk about this later,” Lord Chesleford said firmly, heading over to his son. “Right now, I want you to wait in the car while I tell Miss Mason what an awful, wicked boy you are!”

Phillip hesitated, before leaning closer to his father and whispering something in his ear, while peering back toward Jo.

“I saw her naked!” Jo could just about hear him saying. “She's got no boobies!”

“Get out of here!” Lord Chesleford shouted, shoving Phillip so hard in the chest that the boy stumbled back through the open doorway and landed in the mud outside. As his son got to his feet, the old man slammed the door shut and then went over to the window, looking out and watching to make sure that Phillip got into the waiting car as he'd been ordered. Finally, still a little breathless and red-faced, Lord Chesleford turned to Jo. “I cannot even begin to express my profound apologies for the awful intrusion you have suffered this evening.”

“It's fine,” Jo replied, taking the key from the table and handing it to him. “Perhaps you should find a new place to keep this, though.”

“I've tried everything with that boy. Ever since his mother died, I've been left alone to raise him, and the injury he suffered has left him in a state of perpetual childhood. I tell him things over and over again, but they never sink in. Sometimes I think he should just be...”

His voice trailed off, but he was clearly lost in thought and his anger seemed to be still rising.

“Do you know about your son's relationship with Deborah Dean?” Jo asked after a moment.

“Phillip barely knew the woman.”

“That's not what he told me.”

“He's a fantasist.”

“He told me he used to come here and spend time with her.” Looking out the window, Jo saw Phillip's eager, innocent face staring back at her from the interior of the car. “He was quite specific.”

“That boy is full of nonsense.”

“Do you keep track of his movements twenty-four hours a day?”

“Of course not, but I have a general gist of what he does with his time. He runs around, he goes to the village, but he doesn't do anything important. No, the idea of him having any kind of relationship at all with Deborah is quite out of the question.”

“He said she was his girlfriend.”

At this suggestion, Lord Chesleford couldn't stifle a brief, pitying smirk.

“Phillip is not capable of understanding anything about the sexual side of life,” he explained. “Not beyond childish tittering about body parts, anyway. Believe me, I am eternally regretful of the fact that he shall never produce offspring of his own. Since he is my only child, I have reluctantly been forced to face the realization that the family line might very well stop with him.” He paused for a moment. “I was born into money, Miss Mason. Money and power and prestige. I really only had one job, and that was to secure offspring so that the Chesleford name would continue. And as you can no doubt appreciate, I have failed miserably. Phillip was supposed to be enough, but then the accident...”

His voice trailed off.

“I'd like to talk to him again,” Jo said.

“There's really no point. Phillip isn't your only lead in this case, is he? If he is, you might as well pack up and go home immediately. The boy is extremely unreliable. He can't even remember how to tie his own laces, for Christ's sake.”

“I have other avenues of investigation,” she replied. “Tomorrow I need to speak to Susannah Marriott. I wasn't able to track her down today. I spoke to Harry Morgan, and I'll be going back to him as well. There are some other leads, but I'd rather not say anything about those until I've firmed them up a little. I think Phillip might know more than he realizes about Deborah, and I need to tease out some of that information. That's what I was trying to do when you arrived.”

“This cottage is bloody freezing,” Lord Chesleford replied. “Are you sure you want to stay here?”

“I like the lack of distractions.”

“Well, will you at least come to dinner tomorrow evening? At my home? I would like to speak to you some more about Deborah, and to hear how your investigation is going.” He hesitated. “And if you really insist upon talking to Phillip again, I suppose that would be as good an opportunity as any. He might be a little calmer in a more familiar environment.”

“I could just drop by during the day,” she suggested.

“Out of the question. You must come to dinner. I insist.”

“But -”

“People don't tend to refuse my dinner invitations,” he added. “They're rather rare, and I do think it would be useful for us to maintain a close working relationship during your time here. Miss Mason, I am rather at a loss to know what to do with myself at the moment, so even if you don't think you'd get anything out of the evening, I would be grateful if you could humor an old man and offer a little company for just a few hours. I'm paying for your time here, after all. Besides, if you wish to speak to Phillip some more, it would be the only real opportunity I can offer.”

Jo hesitated for a moment, before feeling the last of her resistance starting to crumble.

“What time should I be there?” she asked finally, with a sinking feeling.

Chapter Six

Six months ago

“I am dreadfully, dreadfully sorry about my son's intrusion,” Lord Chesleford said as he stood in the doorway, with the lights of his car framing his portly figure against the yard. “Deborah, will you allow me to make this up to you in some way? Perhaps you'd like to join Phillip and myself for dinner one evening this week?”

“That's a very kind offer,” she replied, “but I have so much work to get done and I've been falling behind lately.”

“I understand, but -”

“Maybe next week,” she added, “or the week after that, or some other time. Would you mind if I took a rain-check?”

The old man opened his mouth to reply, before forcing a smile as if he'd finally accepted that there was no point trying to force her.

“I suppose I should respect your need to work,” he said finally, unable to hide the sense of disappointment in his voice. “The writer's life must be such a wonderful and rewarding way to spend one's days. I hope you won't mind if I ask how your book is going?”

She rolled her eyes. “I'm starting to think I should ditch the whole thing and start again.”

“Nonsense! I'm sure that if you persevere, you'll get somewhere eventually. Again, if you need anyone to cast a second pair of eyes over what you've done so far, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to work alone.”

“Of course. I suppose I shall have to content myself with serving as a mere patron of the arts.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I just mean that by renting Skellin Cottage to you, perhaps I am in some small way easing your burden and contributing to your ability to create a space that's conducive to your work. That, in itself, is something of an honor. Perhaps you might even include a small mention of me in a dedication at the start of the book? Only if you wish to do so, of course.”

“Sure,” she replied, forcing a smile. “I can definitely do that, I just...” She glanced toward the car, where Phillip was waiting patiently. “If I could ask one more favor, Lord Chesleford?”

“Name it, my dear.”

“Could you try to make Phillip understand that he shouldn't come out here again? Especially late at night.”

“Of course.”

“It's nothing against him personally, I just got a little startled earlier when I heard someone sneaking around outside. Well, not sneaking exactly, but it was still a little freaky.”

“I understand completely. He's a very trying boy. Harmless, but trying. I shall have a severe word with him when we get home, and I shall ensure that nothing like this ever happens again. I'm afraid the task of keeping him under control has been rather challenging for me, and I haven't entirely performed as I should. I feel so very protective of him, and he has nobody else in his life. It has been very difficult for me, ever since my wife died. I'm afraid I'm the kind of man who needs a wife, but I'm sure I can do better. Phillip won't disturb you again.”

“Thank you,” she replied, placing a hand on the door, ready to swing it shut again. “Well, good -”

“It can be very lonely for us out at the manor house,” the old man continued. “It's such a big place, and Phillip isn't exactly very good company. If you could ever see yourself taking pity on us and dropping by, at any time of the day or night, there would be a very warm welcome waiting for you. Very warm indeed.”

“That's very kind, but -”

“We even have spare rooms,” he added. “Skellin Cottage can be rather cold and lonely. If you were ever to need somewhere with a few modern conveniences, you mustn't hesitate to ask. In fact, you'd be doing both Phillip and myself a great kindness. I know a man with a van in town. He could come out tomorrow and move all your things to the manor house, and there'd be very little inconvenience. You could write through the day, there'd be no need to pay rent I'd even -”

“Thank you again,” she said, interrupting him, “but Skellin Cottage is perfect right now. It's all I need.”

“But -”

“I'll consider your very kind offer, though. It's very generous. Too generous.”

He opened his mouth to try again, before taking a step back and offering a faint, sad smile.

“I shall bid you good night,” he told her, “but I hope we shall meet again soon. Very soon.”

“I'm sure we will. But please, Lord Chesleford, I'd be so grateful if you could persuade Phillip to not show up again the way he did tonight. I've tried to be subtle about it, but he doesn't seem to realize that I need peace and quiet. He's a nice boy, I get that, but I really, really need to get on with my work.”

Once the door was finally shut after a few more pleasantries, Deborah poured herself another glass of wine and watched as Lord Chesleford drove his son away. She waited at the window until the car's lights were out of sight in the distance, and then she took a big gulp of wine before leaning back against the wall and letting out a sigh.

“This place,” she muttered under her breath, “is going to drive me out of my goddamn mind.”

***

“This place is full of boring bloody Middle Englanders,” Susannah said with a scowl as she took another drag on her cigarette the following lunchtime. “I'm telling you, if it wasn't for the fact that the hotel has finally taken off, I'd have been out of here by now.”

“At least the hotel is doing well,” Deborah pointed out, as a waitress emerged from the pub and set their food down on the table. She waited until the waitress had gone back inside, before turning and looking across the sunny beer garden. “Anyway, it's not that bad here. A lot of people'd kill to move out to the English countryside.”

“You could leave,” Susannah pointed out, taking off her sunglasses and setting them on the table. “I envy you, Debs. With your lack of ties, you could just up and leave at any moment. You could even go and live abroad. The south of France, or the wine-growing regions of Italy, or the cobbled streets and long, sandy beaches of Croatia. God, it makes me sick just to think about it. The whole world's waiting out there, but you insist on sitting around in this dump.”

“I happen to quite like Chelmsbury.”

“At least you keep me sane,” Susannah continued, as she slipped the burger bun aside and examined the meat. “Before you showed up earlier in the year, Debs, I swear I was the only normal person in the entire place. All these bloody country people drive me insane. And the mud, and the vast empty fields where nothing ever happens, and the piddling little restaurants with their crappy food. I include my own establishment in that critique, by the way. Look, they can't even get the bacon nice and crispy. I'm going to have to tell that chef to perk his ideas up. I can't stand this town.”

“You've lived here all your life,” Deborah pointed out.

“And I always swore I'd get the hell out by the time I was eighteen,” Susannah added, holding her knife up and jabbing the air as if to prove a point. “Then I swore I'd be gone by the time I turned twenty-one. Then twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five. And now look at me. I'll be forty in a few years' time, and what have I got to show for it?”

“A successful hotel business?”

“Apart from that? What have I got to show for my life? At least you're writing books. That's something.”

“I'm completely stuck,” Jo muttered.

“Writer's block?”

“Something like that.” She hesitated. “I've never actually asked anyone to do this before,” she continued cautiously, “but Suzie... If I gave you a couple of chapters, would you mind taking a look some time? I just feel like maybe I'm at a point where a fresh pair of eyes could actually help.”

“I thought you'd never ask,” Susannah replied with a grin. “Just print them out, or email them and -”

She stopped suddenly, as something caught her eye in the distance.

Turning, Deborah shielded her eyes from the sun as she saw several locals milling about near the shops. Just as she was about to ask Susannah what was wrong, however, she spotted a familiar figure half-shuffling, half-running along the side of the road, his lips twitching as he mumbled to himself. For a few more seconds, she watched as Phillip scurried past the Post Office, and then she turned to see a hint of tears in Susannah's eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” Deborah said. “Suzie...”

“It's nothing,” Susannah replied, looking down at her plate but clearly no longer hungry.

“It doesn't get any easier, does it?” Deborah continued, as she heard Phillip nearby. Turning, she watched him mumbling to himself as he jogged past, and then she waited until he was out of sight.

“It is what it is,” Susannah said, her voice tense with the effort of holding back tears.

“But if -”

“There's no point talking about it,” she added, swallowing hard. “He's not the same person he was. The Phillip I knew is long gone. He doesn't recognize me. He doesn't remember me.”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“Of course I can,” she spat back. “He's a bloody retard!”

“That's not -”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she continued, raising her burger to her mouth but then lowering it again after a moment. “He still looks like Phillip Chesleford, but he's not Phillip Chesleford. He's certainly not the Phillip Chesleford I was going to...”

Taking a deep breath, she paused to compose herself, and then finally she forced a smile that struggled to belie the glistening tears in her eyes. For a moment, the force of keeping those tears from trickling down her cheek seemed almost too much.

“I know you don't mean that,” Deborah said finally. “I think I know why you say things like that about him, though.”

“Shall we talk about something a little more pleasant?” Susannah asked, although she couldn't help glancing over her shoulder to check that Phillip was well and truly gone. “Are you still shagging Harry the pig farmer?”

“It's not like that.”

“Well, he is a pig farmer,” Susannah replied with a faint smile, “and I know for a fact that his van was parked outside Skellin Cottage when I drove past earlier yesterday morning, so I'm guessing some shagging has taken place. My shagging radar has been going off twenty-to-the-dozen.”

Clearly feeling uncomfortable, Deborah looked down at her food.

“It's nothing,” she explained.

“Just a fling?”

“I can't get involved with anyone. Not seriously.”

“Because you don't know how long you'll be in town? Or because there's someone else?”

Deborah glanced at her.

“I know that look,” Susannah continued. “I've seen it before. Sometimes even in the mirror when I'm going through another rotten break-up. Harry might be a bit of fun, but he's not the one, is he? You're in love with someone, someone you can't have for some reason. You might as well tell me, 'cause I'll figure it out eventually. Who's the brave knight who captured your heart, Debs?”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“You'll tell me some day.”

“It's not important. It's over.”

“You'd rather I butt out, huh?”

“Exactly,” Deborah replied, and now it was her turn to force a smile in an attempt to look untroubled. “There's no point getting tangled up in someone else's life.”

“Oh, I think it's a little late for that,” Susannah pointed out. “We're only human. We're tangled up in one another's lives already, whether we like it or not.”

Deborah hesitated for a moment.

“You might be right,” she muttered finally. “Do you think maybe -”

“There she is,” another voice sneered suddenly nearby. “God knows what anyone sees in her.”

Turning, Deborah saw that Harry's ex-wife Vivian Nettles was wandering past with a friend, wrinkling her nose as if she was filled with disgust.

“Bloody whore,” Vivian continued.

Deborah looked away, feeling intensely embarrassed. After a moment, she began to double-check that there were no familiar faces among the beer garden's other customers.

“Sod off, Vivian!” Susannah called out. “Harry divorced you years ago. He might be a pig farmer, but he's got some standards!” She turned back to Deborah as the other women walked away. “Ignore her. Bitter bitch.”

“I should go,” Deborah muttered, getting to her feet.

“Don't let idiots like Vivian bloody Nettles chase you away, Debs. The woman's known all over town as a complete... Well, I won't say the word, but you know what I mean.” She paused. “Sit down. Come on, we haven't even touched our food.”

Deborah hesitated, before slowly retaking her seat.

“You don't like attracting attention much, do you?” Susannah asked.

“Not much, no,” Deborah replied, glancing over her shoulder to check that Vivian was well and truly gone, before turning back to find that Susannah was eyeing her with a hint of amused suspicion. “I guess I just don't like confrontations.”

“It's more than that, though, isn't it?” Susannah continued. “Never mind. You'll tell me eventually. I'll get you drunk one night and all your secrets'll come spilling out. You'll feel better for it, too.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Deborah whispered, as she glanced over her shoulder yet again and double-checked that no-one else in the beer garden was looking her way.

Chapter Seven

Today

“I'm sorry,” the hotel receptionist replied, “but Susannah Marriott is out of the office at the moment. If you'd like me to take a message, I can ask her to call you when she gets back.”

“I'd like to speak to her in person,” Jo replied. “Do you know when she might be available?”

“I'm afraid she's very busy,” the receptionist continued with a calm, flat tone that suggested she had no intention of being helpful, “but if you'd like me to take a message, I can -”

“I get the picture,” Jo replied, taking a simple cream business card from her pocket and sliding it across the desk. “Can you please tell her it's urgent? I've tried calling her, I've tried emailing her, but I can't seem to get hold of her at all. Tell her I need to speak to her about Deborah Dean.”

“I'll certainly pass that on.”

“And ask her to call me at her earliest convenience.”

“I'll certainly pass that on.”

Jo hesitated, before turning and heading toward the exit. She felt certain that Susannah Marriott was avoiding her, but she figured she'd track her down eventually. As she held the door open for an elderly couple, she happened to glance back toward the area behind the desk, and she saw that one of the office doors had opened a little. A middle-aged woman was staring out at her, although the door quickly swung shut and Jo couldn't help turning to look at the receptionist, who offered a forced and very false-seeming smile.

Suspicion confirmed.

Once she was outside, Jo made her way down the steps and slipped her phone from her pocket, bringing up another number.

“Joanna Mason,” a voice said suddenly. “What a surprise.”

Startled, she turned and saw a familiar figure standing just a few feet away, leaning against the wall as if he'd been waiting for her to come out from the hotel.

“We need to talk,” Detective Inspector Sam Bartleby said firmly, with a hint of great irritation in his voice. “Now!”

***

“You can't run around pretending to be a private detective six -”

“Deboran Dean was living under an alias.”

“Six months after leaving the police and -”

“She was hiding something.”

“Six months after being deemed medically unfit for duty.”

“She paid for everything by cash, of which she seemed to have a fair amount. I discovered her stash at the cottage, which also underlines the fact that robbery probably wasn't the motivation for the murder. I'm still looking for her laptop. As far as I can tell, the police didn't find it either. I know she had one, so it has to be somewhere. Obviously there's a chance that whatever's on that laptop, she was killed by someone who wanted to get their hands on it.”

Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow, before taking his pint from the pub table and sipping the foam from the top.

“What was Deborah Dean's real name?” Jo asked.

“You should be taking it easy.”

“I know you know.” Reaching into her pocket, she took out her notebook and opened it to a fresh page. “Tell me.”

“I can't share operational information with you,” he pointed out. “You're a civilian now. And believe me, Kevin has had this pointed out to him very firmly and very clearly.” He sighed. “And Jack Byron would have me strung up by the gizzards if I told you a goddamn thing.”

“I'll find out eventually.”

“I know you will.”

“So you might as well tell me now,” she continued. “Shouldn't it have been made public by now? I've been through news reports from the time of the murder, but none of them mention the possibility that Deborah Dean had another name. Surely it'd be standard procedure to -”

“That was a decision taken by the leads on the case,” Sam said, interrupting her. “They chose to hold certain information back due to some sensitivities.”

“What sensitivities?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because they're sensitive.”

“I need to know.”

“The investigation into the murder at Skellin Cottage is still very much open,” he replied, “and as such, I need to ask you to back off. Right now, right this minute.”

“Are you actively looking into Deborah Dean's death?”

“We have to prioritize -”

“What was her real name?”

“We have to prioritize -”

“You've given up on it,” she continued, glaring at him with barely-disguised frustration. “Sure, it's still technically an open case, but I know what happens to cases that are still open six months later. If someone comes and drops some information in your lap, you'll get involved, but other than that the Deborah Dean case is going to be left moldering at the bottom of a stack of files.” She paused for a moment, watching his face and spotting several subtle tics that let her know she was right. “You know there's not some homicidal maniac out there. Deborah was killed because of who she was or what she did or what she knew, or something else that was very specific to her. And you've already moved on to another -”

“How's your health, Jo?”

“I was hired to look into this.”

“Oh yeah, right,” he added with a chuckle, “I forgot. You're a private detective now. Jesus Christ, Jo...”

“I'm being paid by Lord Chesleford to -”

“That old duffer?”

“To look into a murder that occurred on his property.”

Sam sighed.

“Did you know,” Jo continued, “that Deborah Dean – or whatever her name really was – had a sexual relationship with a local farmer named -”

“Harry Morgan. Yes. I did know that.”

“Did you know that she was possibly being followed by someone?”

“I assume someone had to follow her in order to murder her.”

“But before that. She was being tailed by someone. Someone who caught up to her in the local off-license.”

“Come again?”

“Or at least she believed someone had caught up to her. Her suitcase was packed, so I have a theory she was considering getting out of here. She was jumpy, she had very few possessions. She was acting like someone who might have to leave at any moment.”

“That's -”

“She also spent a lot of time with Lord Chesleford's son Phillip.”

“The kid with the head injury?”

“I know you weren't the investigating officer on this case,” she continued. “It was Byron, and you and I are both aware that Byron is not the world's sharpest detective. Sorry, he might be your brother-in-law, but facts are facts.”

“He gets the job done.”

“Not in this case, because Deborah Dean's murderer is still out there somewhere. Plus, evidently his team didn't find Deborah's stash of money, because -”

“What stash of money?”

“Because I found it in the bathroom last night, under the boards. It was well hidden, I'll give him that, but still... Byron's men can't have exactly turned the cottage inside out, can they? What else do you think they missed?”

“Alright, so -”

“And her two best friends, Harry Morgan and Susannah Marriott, didn't show for her funeral.”

He opened his mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment.

“And Phillip Chesleford seemed to have had a habit of using a spare key to get into the cottage without knocking first.”

“So who did it, then?” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Come on, Einstein, who was the murderer? Give me a name.”

“I've been here less than twenty-four hours.”

“You don't have a bloody clue.”

“Sam -”

“You don't have any resources,” he added, jabbing his finger against the tabletop. “You're all alone, flailing around and pretending you can do this, but you can't and you've got nothing!”

“I'm talking to people.”

“You hate talking to people.”

“I'm learning.”

“It's one thing to keep yourself entertained and busy during the treatment,” he continued with a sigh, “but this is real life you're messing around with here. I assume Lord Chesleford is paying you?”

“I'm not going to discuss the arrangement.”

“You can't do this, Jo. You're running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to convince yourself that nothing's wrong, when we both know that you're way too sick to be doing this. Is the cancer even -”

“Whatever Deborah was hiding from, she seems to have hidden pretty well until her death.”

“What kind of person hires a private detective, anyway?”

“I think there are two possibilities. One, she was running from someone dangerous. An abusive partner, maybe. It'd be useful to know if her body showed sign of earlier injuries, but for that I'd need to see the autopsy report.”

“Seriously. Why would someone hire a private detective?”

“The other possibility is that she'd done something. Something bad. Perhaps even something that involved the police. After all, she got that money from somewhere.”

“Are you not even going to acknowledge my questions?”

“You're right,” she replied, slipping her notebook back into her jacket, “I should get going.”

“You've lost your mind, Jo. Is it the drugs? Are they making you go all weird? Is the chemo -”

“It was nice to catch up,” she said firmly, getting to her feet. “We should make this a regular thing. Same time next year?”

“Sit down, Jo. I didn't only come to talk about the case.”

“I -”

“I haven't heard from you in months!”

“You're right about one thing,” she replied. “I'm not with the police anymore. And since there's nothing to stop me doing what I'm doing, I'm going to have to leave you to finish that pint on your own. I'm doing nothing wrong, I'm breaking no laws, I'm interfering in no active investigations or -”

“It's still an active investigation.”

“In name only. I'm not causing any trouble, and frankly I don't know why you even bothered coming all the way out here this morning just to lecture me on something that's none of your business. If I had -”

“I'm worried about you.”

She opened her mouth to continue, but those four simple words caused her to hesitate for a moment.

“Lecture over,” he continued. “Sit down, Jo. Please. You haven't been returning my calls, you haven't been answering my emails, you didn't even reply when I invited you to Sarah's birthday party. Believe it or not, that invitation wasn't some kind of provocation. It was a genuine attempt to reach out and remind you that we're still friends. But apparently you're too spiky and angry with the world to consider something like that, so instead you're running around trying to take up some ludicrous new job, all in a desperate attempt to avoid facing the things you don't want to face.”

“I just -”

“You don't look well.”

She paused for a moment.

“Please let me help you,” he continued. “Sit down. Let's talk.”

“I have to go and speak to someone.”

“Who?”

Stepping around the table, she began to make her way toward the door, only for Sam to reach out and try to grab her arm. Slipping free, she threaded her way quickly between the other patrons before emerging at the front of the pub. Before she could even begin to walk away, however, Sam hurried out after her and tapped her arm again.

“Promise me you'll go home and get some rest,” he said with a sigh. “Promise me you'll take it easy!”

“I am taking it easy,” she replied, before turning and walking away, leaving him to sigh on the pavement outside the hotel as he realized that there was no way in hell he could get through to her.

“You're also dying,” he muttered, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and heading over to his car. “That's what you're doing.”

Chapter Eight

Six months ago

“These are the first three chapters of the book that's killing me,” Deborah explained, as she set a set of carefully stapled print-outs onto Susannah's desk at the hotel. “Something's wrong, and it's wrong in these chapters.”

“Is this all you've written so far?”

“No, I'm much further along, but the whole thing has ground to a halt. I'm convinced that the root of the problem is somewhere at the start of the book. The foundations aren't there, so the later sections are falling flat.”

“Well, I'm honored,” Susannah replied, picking up the print-outs and flicking through them. “I know Harry's been begging you to let him read some of your stuff for a while, and I'm sure that old fart Chesleford'd cream his pants to get a glimpse.”

“You won't show them to anyone else, will you?”

“Like who?”

“I just don't like sharing my work until it's ready.”

Grinning, Susannah put on her reading glasses and peered at the first page.

“Annie Pelt thought the rain would never stop,” she read out loud. “As she waited for her boyfriend to come home from medical school, a threatening evening sky -”

“Stop!” Deborah said firmly. “Please, I don't want to hear it like that.”

“A threatening evening sky seemed to chime with the fear in her heart and promise something terrible to come. No matter how -”

“That's enough!” Deborah added. “Please, don't do that.”

Susannah's grin grew broader. “You're cute when you're embarrassed. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“I hate hearing my own work,” Deborah replied, clearly flustered now. She hesitated, before reaching out to take the print-outs back from Susannah's hands. “Forget it. This was a mistake and I -”

“I'm sorry!” Susannah replied, moving the papers away. “I won't do it again, I promise. I'd really like to read these chapters, though. Can I get back to you tomorrow with all my terribly important opinions? I'm sure I'll make a wonderful literary critic.”

“I've never, ever shared my work with anyone I know before,” Deborah muttered, starting to blush slightly. “It just feels weird, that's all.”

“Well, I can only thank you for this opportunity,” Susannah replied, before her phone began making a beeping noise. Checking the screen, she tapped to stop the alarm and then she got to her feet. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to a meeting with a bunch of frightfully boring people from an advertising company. The only light at the end of that particular tunnel is the thought of a nice cool G&T waiting for me at the bar when I'm done.”

Smiling, she led Deborah across the office and pulled the door open. In the reception area, several guests were at the main desk, while a man was making his way down the stairs.

“Oh, and Debs,” Susannah continued, “I also -”

Before she could finish, she was shocked to see that Deborah had stepped back behind the door, as if she was hiding from someone.

“Debs?”

Deborah peered through the crack in the door's hinges, her face filled with fear as she watched the guests.

“Debs?” Susannah said again. “Are you alright?”

Deborah still didn't reply, instead watching the reception area as one man in particular reached the bottom of the stairs and headed toward the main door. The man stopped for a moment to fix his scarf, before stepping out into the morning sunshine.

“It was him,” Deborah whispered, stepping back and leaning against the wall.

“Someone you know?” Susannah asked.

Deborah hesitated for a moment, before turning to her.

“You look like you've seen a ghost, Debs!”

“Can I see your guest list?”

“I beg your -”

“You must have a list of every guest staying in the hotel!”

“Of course, but -”

“I need to see it!”

“Why?”

“I need to see it!”

“I'm not sure we're allowed to just dish it out willy-nilly,” Susannah replied. “I'm sure there are some laws about that kind of thing. Data protection and all that rubbish.”

“Please!” Deborah said firmly. “I need to see your guest list! It's important!”

“Wait here,” Susannah muttered, clearly a little taken aback by the fear in her friend's voice. Nevertheless, she headed out to the reception desk and returned a moment later with a clipboard and a printed list of names and room numbers. “Okay, so who are -”

Snatching the list, Deborah checked the names and then flipped through to the second page, before staring in horror at one name in particular.

“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Susannah asked. “No offense, old thing, but you're acting more than a little weird. Even weirder than usual, in fact.”

“Lucas Evans,” Deborah whispered.

“You mean the rather hot doctor who checked in two days ago?”

Deborah turned to her.

“Don't think I hadn't got my eye on him,” Susannah continued with a faint smile. “I always check out the more interesting and eligible male guests. I believe Doctor Evans is in town for a couple of days, just to visit a colleague. I certainly didn't eavesdrop on him talking to someone on the phone in the lobby, if that's what you're suggesting. Shame he's not sticking around, really. We could use an attractive doctor in Chelmsbury.” She paused for a moment, seeing that Deborah still seemed extremely uncomfortable. “Why? Do you know him? Can you introduce us?”

“He's here to see a colleague?”

“I told you, he -”

“Have you seen him with the colleague?”

“I haven't been actively stalking the man,” Susannah replied. “Unfortunately, I've been too busy for that.”

“Then maybe it's just a coincidence,” Deborah continued, as if she was desperately trying to reassure herself. “Coincidences happen. The whole thing...”

Her voice trailed off, and she seemed oblivious of the fact that Susannah was watching her with an increasingly suspicious frown.

“Okay, Debs. Spill.”

“What?”

“The beans. Spill them. How do you know this guy?”

“I don't.”

“You can't bullshit a bullshitter!”

“I don't know him!”

“So you won't mind if I talk to him later? If I -”

“Don't do that!” Deborah said firmly, clearly panic-stricken by the idea. “Just let him do whatever he's doing here and leave. When's he due to check out?”

“In a couple of days.”

“Then maybe it's all okay. But if you hear him asking about me, you have to let me know.”

“So what's the deal? Old boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

“And is -”

“I can't see him again!” Deborah continued. “Please don't make me explain, Suzie. You know what it's like. Some things are just better left in the past, and this is one of them. It's something I don't ever want to think about again, so I just need to wait until he's gone and then everything'll be okay again. Just promise me you won't mention it to anyone. I've told you before, there are things... people... Look, I just I came here to get a fresh start, okay?”

“Sure,” Susannah replied. “Whatever. I'm not in the business of screwing up my friends' lives. Your wish is my command.” She mimed zipping her lips shut. “But you're okay, aren't you? Is he... He's not the chap you're secretly pining for, are you? The one you're trying to get over by rolling around in the hay with Harry Morgan?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Deborah muttered, before peering back out at the reception area and then stepping out from behind the door. “I might use the back exit. I think I'll go through the kitchen. You don't mind, do you?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Deborah began to head out of the office, but Susannah grabbed her arm at the last moment.

“Hey, do you wanna meet up later and get wasted? You know I don't mind drinking alone, but company's a bonus. And if you're worried about the mysterious Doctor Lucas Evans spotting us, we can go incognito to the Cock and Sparrow on the edge of town.”

“I can't meet you tonight,” Deborah muttered, adding a mumbled apology before hurrying out across the reception area and quickly slipping through the door that led into the kitchen.

“Huh,” Susannah said with a faint smile, leaning against the door-frame for a moment before looking down at the guest-list in her hands. “Who are you, Doctor Lucas Evans, and why have you put the willies up my friend?”

Chapter Nine

Today

“No, that's her,” a voice muttered as Jo made her way past the restaurant's beer garden. “It is!”

Glancing over her shoulder, she slowed as she saw that two women were watching her with keen interest. Stopping next to the gate, she briefly considered going over to the women and asking if she could help them with something, but finally she decided to try a slightly different approach. Pushing the gate open, she made her way into the garden and over to the bar's back door, and then she went inside and ordered a coffee. Emerging a few minutes later, she took a seat not too far from the women, and she immediately realized they were whispering about her.

After a few more minutes, one of the women got to her feet and headed over to Jo's table.

“Are you the private detective?” she asked.

“I'm a private detective,” Jo replied. “Can I help you with something?”

The woman glanced around for a moment, as if she was worried about being overheard, and then she took a seat.

“My name's Vivian. Vivian Nettles. I'm gonna guess you've probably either spoken to my ex-husband Harry Morgan, or you're gonna pay him a visit soon. You're looking into the murder of that Deborah Dean bitch, aren't you? The stuck-up cow who was living out at Skellin Cottage?”

“Did you know her?” Jo asked cautiously.

Vivian sniffed derisively, as if the idea was preposterous.

“I didn't mix with her sort,” she muttered. “Posh whore, coming here and thinking she was better than anyone else.”

“What exactly did you have against her?”

“Just her way, you know? Her way of going about things.” She sighed. “The bitch was having a thing with my ex.”

Jo nodded. “How long have you and Harry been separated?”

“Divorced, love. And it'll be five years next month since the papers went through.”

“Are you and he on good terms?”

At this, Vivian let out a brief, amused chuckle.

“You didn't approve of him seeing Deborah?” Jo asked.

“I suppose in some ways they were perfect for each other. Both whores. Both full of themselves. They probably had more in common than they ever realized. They still didn't need to flaunt what they were up to.”

“How did they flaunt it?”

“Well, I used to see his van parked up there outside the cottage,” she explained. “Almost every time I drove past, I'd see it sat there.”

“Did you drive past a lot?”

“It's on the way to the train station?”

Jo furrowed her brow. “Which -”

“The point is, the police were all over Harry six months ago. They had him in for questioning, but they never made anything stick.”

“You sound as if you think he got away with something,” Jo suggested.

Again, Vivian looked around, as if she was worried someone might be listening to their conversation. After a moment, she shifted a little closer to Jo and leaned in conspiratorially.

“Harry's not a good man,” she said finally. “He's friendly enough, and he's all pally when you first meet him, but I was married to the man and there are things about him that nobody else knows. He's got a dark side.”

“You think he could hurt someone?”

“Well, he hurt me, so there's that.”

Jo hesitated for a moment, aware that she was potentially wading into difficult territory. Tactful questions had never really been her strong point, but she knew she had to figure out what Vivian meant.

“Do you mind if I ask what he did to you?”

“It's the reason I left him in the end,” Vivian explained. “We'd had our rows, of course, and we'd been miserable for a few years, but then one night he...”

She paused, before tilting her head and tapping at a small scar just above her left eyebrow.

“Harry hit you?” Jo asked cautiously.

“He threw a pot at me. Hit me right here. There was so much blood, I damn near passed out, but I managed to get away. The point is, he's got a hell of a temper, but he can also manipulate people. I reported him to the police when he did this to me, but he persuaded them it was an accident. I had him charged, but he got away without doing time. Harry Morgan's got a silver tongue, you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. It's only those of us that are close to him, those who've been around him a while, who get to see the truth about him.”

“I'm sorry you went through that,” Jo replied, “and I'd never try to excuse the fact that he struck you, but throwing a pot isn't quite the same thing as murdering a woman.”

“But it's his temper, see?” She tapped her scar again. “It comes out in short, brief flashes. It's not easy to wind him up, but when it happens, it comes out real sudden. Like lightning. And it's over just as fast. That's what makes it so nasty.” She hesitated, before getting to her feet. “I've said too much already,” she added finally. “All I'm trying to tell you is that there are sides to Harry you might not see at first. He can charm you. He can get under your skin and make you feel like he's a good person. It takes a long time to see the real Harry Morgan, and people like you and the cops don't stick around enough. I'm not saying he killed that bitch, but I am saying he's capable of it. Just don't write him off too soon, okay?”

With that, she turned and hurried away, and her friend from the nearby table immediately went after her.

Left alone with her coffee, Jo tried to make sense of everything she'd just been told. In truth, she had come to see Harry Morgan as a fairly harmless man, albeit slightly intense, but the scar on Vivian's forehead wasn't something she could ignore. At the same time, the nature of Deborah's murder – a single stab wound to the belly – struck her as less an act of passion and anger, and more an act that had been very carefully planned. The wound had caught Deborah in just the right place cause a fairly quick death, which made her think that the killer was someone who'd planned ahead.

And who'd executed that plan with merciless calm.

Chapter Ten

Six months ago

“And that is me done for the day,” Susannah muttered with a sigh as she closed her briefcase. “Monica, if anyone calls this evening, tell them to eff off until tomorrow. Short of a nuclear explosion, I don't want any more hassle.”

“Of course, Miss Marriot,” her assistant replied. “Should I ask Greg in the bar to make you usual and have it sent up to your room?”

“I don't want to be disturbed once I'm up there,” Susannah replied. “I'll go and fetch it myself.”

“Good night, Miss Marriot.”

Once she'd finished tidying her desk and setting the paperwork up for the next morning, Susannah took her briefcase and headed to the door. At the last moment, remembering Deborah's manuscript, she grabbed the set of papers from the coffee table and then made her way out into the hotel lobby. Her heels tapped loudly against the marble floor as she crossed to the bar, and then she slowed as soon as she saw that although the bar was mostly empty, a familiar figure was sitting on one of the stools, staring into a glass of beer.

After a moment, Susannah made her way over to the bar, trying very hard to keep from looking too obviously at Doctor Lucas Evans. Within just a couple of seconds, however, they'd already made brief eye contact and exchanged a nod, before Lucas looked back down at his drink.

“The usual, Miss Marriot?” the barman asked.

“Please.”

She watched as he headed around to the other side of the bar and started mixing her drink. For a few seconds, she managed to keep her gaze firmly on the cash register, but finally she couldn't help but glance over at the doctor. She'd already noticed earlier in the day that he was handsome, and now up-close she was struck by the intensity of his gaze as he watched his barely-touched drink. He seems lost in thought, brooding even, and she had to remind herself that he was off-limits. Had it not been for her conversation with Deborah earlier in the day, she'd have thrown herself at him.

Still, she figured a little light flirtation wouldn't hurt.

“Is your drink okay?” she asked finally.

He glanced at him. “I'm sorry?”

“Your drink. If there's a problem, you must order something else and it'll be on the house.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Suzie Marriot,” she continued, reaching a hand out toward him before she could stop herself. “I own the hotel.”

“Right.” He shook her hand with a calm, steady grip. “It's a very nice place you have here.”

“I inherited it from my father,” she told him, unable to keep herself from chatting. Deep down she knew she should leave him alone, but curiosity was already getting the better of her. “I've changed a lot of things, though, and I really pride myself on making sure that all our guests have a good time. So if there's anything wrong with your drink at all, you mustn't hesitate to ask for a new one.”

“The beer's fine,” he replied. “I guess I'm just not...”

His voice trailed off.

“Not in the mood to drink alone?” she asked.

He nodded. “Something like that.”

As he looked back down at his glass, Susannah realized that on a normal evening, this would be the moment she went in for the kill. She'd sit herself down right next to him and make small-talk, and she'd get a few G&T's down her throat just to loosen herself up a little, and then she'd casually suggest some reason why they might want to go up to one of the rooms. She always hated herself on mornings when she woke up next to a guest, but the evenings were completely different. Morning-Susannah might have some blushes, but Evening-Susannah could never hold back.

“Is your room okay?” she asked finally.

“Huh?” He turned back to her, as if he'd zoned out for a moment. “Oh. Sure. Yeah, my room is perfect. Thank you.”

“And the bed?”

She immediately knew she was going too far, but she also knew she couldn't possibly hold back. He was just too handsome, and his mysterious connection to Deborah made him even more interesting.

“Everything's fine,” he said, forcing a faint smile. “I think I'm just not feeling the whole bar thing tonight. I might take a short walk, just to get some night air before I go back to my room.”

“But it's so early!” Checking her watch, she saw that it was, in fact, almost eleven. She knew that eleven wasn't early, not for most people. Not for people who didn't drink themselves silly every night. “I suppose I shouldn't keep you,” she added, realizing that Morning-Susannah would be thankful for her restraint, even if right now she hated Morning-Susannah with every fiber in her being. “I'll be heading up myself shortly.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, she watched as Lucas headed toward the door.

“Do you mind if I ask one more thing?” she said suddenly.

He glanced back at her.

“I don't think you mentioned why you're in town,” she continued, as the barman set her G&T down. “Are you visiting someone, or maybe looking for someone?”

“Just visiting.”

“You're not looking for anyone in particular?”

“No.”

“Well, I hope she's worth your time.”

“It's a man,” he replied. “A colleague.” He hesitated, as if he was on the verge of saying something else, but finally he wished her a good night and made his way out into the reception area.

A moment later, hearing the hotel's main door swing open and then bump shut, Susannah turned and took a sip from her drink.

“You've got a secret, Debs,” she muttered under her breath, as she twisted the straw between her fingers. “A very attractive secret. And I would really, really like to know what it's all about.”

Chapter Eleven

Today

“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said over the phone, “but Miss Marriott has already left for the day. Can I give her a -”

“I already left several messages,” Jo replied as she sat in her car with the engine switched off, staring out at the large, mostly-unlit edifice of Lord Chesleford's manor house looming ahead in the darkness. “I was hoping she might find time to give me a call some time today.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sure she -”

“Please tell her I called,” Jo added. “Again. And please tell her that I really need to speak to her. Tell her it's important.”

“I'll most certainly do that.”

“Tell her it's about Deborah Dean.”

“I believe I mentioned that to her earlier.”

“Tell her again.”

“I will.”

“I'm sure it'll do a lot of good,” Jo muttered after hanging up. “I know this feeling. I'm being avoided like the plague.”

She hesitated for a moment, before leaning back in the seat and closing her eyes. For a few seconds, she felt as if she lacked the strength to even get out of the car, let alone to spend the evening with the venerable and very sociable Lord Chesleford. Finally, however, she forced herself to open the door and climb out onto the gravel driveway, and as she swung the door shut again she could already see Lord Chesleford waving at her eagerly from one of the windows.

She had no choice but to wave back.

***

“Chesleford Hall has been in my family for a very long time indeed,” the old man explained a short while later, as he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. “I once traced our roots in the area back to the mid-fifteenth century, and I'm sure there's further to go when I eventually find the time. I rather think I shall find some mention of us in the Doomsday Book!”

“That's fascinating,” Jo replied, raising another forkful of slightly pink chicken breast to her lips and hoping once again that she'd survive the evening without a bout of food poisoning. “When Deborah -”

“If you ask anyone in town about the Chesleford name,” he continued, as if he'd not even heard her, “they'll tell you that we're really the most important family in the entire area.” He looked up toward the oil painting that dominated the dining room, showing a picture of a man who bore a strong family resemblance to the current Lord Chesleford himself. “There's pride in our blood. You can't shake that, whatever the circumstances. And although Phillip has turned out to be incapable of continuing the bloodline in a proper manner, I still have hope that something can be done regarding the need for another heir.”

Jo glanced at Phillip, who was hunched over his plate as he ate, and who seemed oblivious to his father's pronouncements.

“About Deborah Dean,” she said cautiously, “I was wondering -”

“I am fifty-seven years old,” Lord Chesleford continued, with a sense of great importance. “That is not too old for a man to sire fresh offspring.”

Jo stared at him. “Um...”

“James Doohan.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The actor. Scotty from the television series Star Trek. Have you ever seen an episode?”

“Of course,” she replied, furrowing her brow a little as she tried to figure out exactly what path the conversation was now taking. “Why do you ask?”

“To boldly go,” he continued, “where no man has ever gone before. In this particular case, I am referring to the fact that Mr. Doohan fathered a child at the age of eighty. I mean, when one hears about something like that, one realizes that one still has plenty of time. I mean, fifty-seven suddenly seems rather sprightly and young, does it not? I still have another twenty-three years before I reach Mr. Doohan's level. Plenty of time to...”

He hesitated for a moment, red-faced and seemingly a little out of breath.

“Plenty of time,” he continued finally, with a broad grin, “to find a nice young lady who could see her way to entering the world of the Cheslefords. It's a happy world, I think, even if there have been tragedies along the way.” He glanced at Phillip, and for a moment a hint of disdain crossed his features before he looked back toward Jo and raised his glass in a toast. “To happier times! To children! Useful children, anyway!”

Jo put the glass to her lips, just enough to taste the wine, before setting it back down.

“You've barely drunk a drop!” Lord Chesleford pointed out, as he topped up his own glass for the fourth time since sitting down for dinner. “You're going to fall behind, young lady!”

“I'm fine, thank you,” she replied, glancing at Phillip and briefly catching his eye. Having clearly been watching her for a moment, Phillip quickly looked down at his food and muttered something under his breath.

“More wine, more wine,” Lord Chesleford continued, taking a big slurp from his glass and then grinning at Jo, evidently unaware that his lips and teeth were stained red. “It's so nice to have company here in our humble home. Isn't it, Phillip?”

“I wanted to ask you about Deborah Dean's arrival at Skellin Cottage,” Jo replied. “From everything you've told me so far, it seems like she just came out of nowhere. Did you see any ID when she came to rent the place from you?”

“ID?”

“A passport? A driving license?”

“Oh, I don't remember. It was so long ago.”

“What was it about her, specifically, that made you decide to let her take the cottage?”

“My nose.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I have a nose for people. I'm quite well-known for that, in fact. I can judge a person's character with great alacrity.” He sighed, before taking another sip of wine. Already, his glass was almost empty again. “I could tell immediately that Deborah was a troubled soul. I wasn't blind to the fear in her eyes. At the same time, I could also see that she was fundamentally a good person. You never met her, I know, but trust me, she had a strong core. She was stable. I knew within a couple of seconds of meeting her that she was just the kind of person to rent Skellin Cottage. She was in many ways quite remarkable.”

He paused, clearly lost in thought.

“She would have made a wonderful mother to a child,” he added finally, his voice so low that it wasn't quite clear whether he was talking to Jo or simply to himself. “Wonderful indeed.”

Before she could reply, Jo heard a faint giggling sound, and she turned to see that Phillip was laughing at something while still staring at his food.

“What's so funny, boy?” Lord Chesleford asked.

Phillip immediately fell silent, although Jo could still see the side of a smile on his lips.

“What's so bloody funny?” Lord Chesleford roared, slamming his fist against the table.

Jo tensed.

“Are you eating or not, boy?” the older man continued. “This is a sophisticated evening, Phillip! I almost told you to eat in your room, but I supposed that perhaps you could behave yourself. Evidently I was wrong, so I think now you should excuse yourself.”

Phillip looked at him.

“That means you should leave the table!” Lord Chesleford said firmly.

“Is that really necessary?” Jo asked.

“Leave the table now!”

Phillip hesitated, before getting to his feet with such suddenness that the legs of his chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. Running around the side of the table, he bumped hard against Jo's chair before stumbling out to the hallway and then disappearing into the depths of the house, and finally he could be heard thudding up the stairs.

Jo looked toward the open doorway for a moment, before hearing the familiar glug of Lord Chesleford's wine glass being refilled. Turning to him, she saw that his hands were trembling now, and he filled the glass almost to the brim before setting the bottle back down.

“That infernal boy,” he muttered darkly, “is good for nothing at all. Not since the accident. He's a complete waste of meat and air. Sometimes I think I should have pulled the plug when he was at the hospital, and let his organs go to more worthy individuals. He might actually have been useful as offal.”

Jo took a deep breath, before figuring that she needed to try a different approach while Lord Chesleford was still just about sober enough to answer questions.

“You seem to have known Deborah very well,” she pointed out. “Did she ever talk to you about her life before Skellin Cottage?”

“How do you mean?”

“Where she came from. What she'd been doing.”

“She'd written a novel.”

“You mentioned that, but do you know what it was called?”

“Oh, I don't remember. I think she'd self-published it.”

“And she was working on a second?”

“She never let me read it. I'm a great reader, you know, and something of a scholar. I've read all the classics. Joyce, Dickens, Tolstoy, Faulkner and the like. I told her several times that I'd be only too happy to give her a critique, but she never took me up on the offer. Perhaps she didn't quite realize that I'm a student of literature. I'm sure I could have helped her out, if only she'd let me take a chapter or two for study. Still, I take solace in the knowledge that she was going to let me read her work eventually.”

“She was?”

He nodded. “Oh yes. Indeed.”

“So she'd offered to give you a copy before she died?”

“Not quite. But she was a sensible girl and she'd have seen the light eventually. Oh yes, I am quite sure that Deborah and I were destined to become a great deal closer. We were becoming more familiar with one another all the time. I might seem like a man of advancing years, Miss Mason, but I am young at heart and Deborah was very perceptive. There are men who appear young on the outside, yet who are old and cold in their hearts. And then there are men such as myself, men who never let their souls become old. Yes, Deborah understood such things. She was a writer, after all. She saw the truth about people.”

“But she never told you the truth about herself?”

“I saw the truth in her eyes,” he muttered, pouring himself another glass of wine but managing to spill as much again on the already-stained tablecloth. “The goodness. The potential. The kindness. Yes, she would have made such a wonderful mother for a child.”

He paused, before letting out a long, slow sigh of regret.

Jo tried a couple more times to ask about specifics, but Lord Chesleford was already off on another speech about the importance of children, and finally Jo realized she had no choice but to wait the rest of the evening out. Already, she was starting to think about places she could look in her continued search for Deborah's laptop, and she had to force herself to pay attention to Lord Chesleford's mumblings. After all, she figured, he might eventually say something of interest, even if only by accident.

On the wall nearby, the grand painting of a previous Lord Chesleford watched proceedings with pained, paint-flecked eyes.

***

By 10pm, Lord Chesleford's loud snores were filling the house as he sat slumped in his chair at the dining table. Having made it through almost two full bottles of wine unaided, he'd finally slipped into unconsciousness without ever fetching the dessert he'd promised, and faint dribbles of pink chicken juice had begun to run down his chin.

Stopping in the hallway, Jo carefully took her jacket from the hook. She'd waited patiently while her host had slipped into an alcoholic stupor, but her hopes of learning anything new about Deborah Dean had been dashed early in the evening. She'd wanted to leave hours ago, and she'd stayed only because she felt she had to be polite to the old man, and because she'd held out in the vain hope that something useful might crop up. Now, however, she was planning to go back to the cottage and work on finding the laptop. She'd never considered herself to be a tech whiz, and during her time on the force she'd always relied on others to dig around in computers. Still, she felt she could give it a shot, although first she had to tear the cottage apart in the hope that she might find some more of Deborah's hiding places.

Just as she was about to open the front door, however, she heard a faint giggling sound coming from upstairs.

She paused, realizing that Phillip was clearly awake, but telling herself that she really ought to just leave. Still, as the giggling continued, she thought back to the previous night's encounter at the cottage, and she began to realize that this might be her only opportunity to speak to Phillip without Lord Chesleford making constant interruptions. Still wearing her jacket, she headed over to the foot of the stairs and paused for a moment, before starting to make her way up toward the dark landing.

“Phillip?” she said a few minutes later, knocking on the bedroom door as she looked through and saw him sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he replied, his face bathed in the glow from a cellphone that seemed to be drawing all his attention.

“Are you okay up here?” she asked.

She waited, but he seemed too absorbed in the cellphone.

“Your father's taking a nap,” she explained diplomatically. “Phillip, I was wondering if I could ask you a few more questions about Deborah. You remember Deborah, don't you?”

He chuckled again, still staring at the cellphone.

“I asked you before,” she continued, taking a step into the room, “how well you knew her, and whether you went to the cottage often. You didn't really get a chance to answer before your father interrupted us last night, but I was wondering whether you could tell me now. How well did you really know Deborah Dean?”

“She was my girlfriend.”

“I'm sure she was your friend, Phillip, but I want to know what kind of things she talked about when you were alone with her. You were alone with her sometimes, weren't you?”

“Yes!” he said eagerly, still not looking up from the phone. “I told you, she was my girlfriend.”

As she got closer to the bed, Jo could see that thick scars ran not only along one side of Phillip's head, but also through his hair. From the state of the scars, it looked as if his head must have been almost cracked open in the accident all those years ago. Nearby, a framed photo stood on a desk, showing a very different and very happy-looking Phillip. For a moment, Jo couldn't help staring at the photo and wondering what he'd been like before the accident had left him so badly injured. Finally, she forced herself to look back down at him as he continued to sit on the bed and fiddle with his phone.

“Maybe she told you things she didn't feel she could tell other people,” she suggested cautiously. “Maybe she found it easier to talk to you, than to people who might judge her.”

“She was nice.”

“Do you remember any of the things she told you, Phillip?”

“She was my girlfriend.”

“So you keep saying. It's okay for you to tell me what she talked about. I think she'd want the truth to come out now. She'd want people to know who hurt her.”

She waited, but Phillip simply giggled again.

“Phillip,” she continued finally, “do you -”

“I don't know who you are,” he replied suddenly, still looking at the cellphone. “I don't know if you're supposed to be here.”

“My name's Jo. We've met a couple of times.”

“I don't know.”

“You don't remember me?”

“I don't know.”

She opened her mouth to try again, but suddenly Phillip began to giggle once again and Jo realized that he seemed lost in his own world.

“Do you remember anything Deborah said to you?” she asked.

“She was nice.”

“Did she tell you her real name?”

“She was my girlfriend.”

“Did she tell you where she was from? Or why she -”

“She was nice.”

“Phillip -”

“She was my girlfriend. I liked her.”

Jo paused again, before realizing that her attempted conversation with Phillip was no more useful than the conversation with the wine-soaked lord. The whole evening had, in fact, been a bust.

“I think I'm going to let you get to bed,” she said finally. “Your father's sleeping in the dining room and I'm not sure he'll be awake any time before the morning. Hopefully not, anyway. Will you be okay, Phillip?”

“She was so pretty,” he mumbled.

“I'm going to guess you're quite used to your father passing out like this,” she continued. “Phillip, is there anything you want me to do for you, before I leave? Or is there anyone I can call? It doesn't seem right, leaving you here without anyone to look after you?”

She waited, but he was staring at the phone and now it seemed as if he hadn't even heard the question.

“Okay, then,” she added, feeling as if there was nothing more she could do for him. “I'll be going now. Just go to bed, Phillip, and... I don't know, tell your father in the morning that dinner was...”

She tried to think of the right word.

“Lovely,” she muttered finally, before turning and making her way toward the door. After a moment, however, she stopped as she saw various trophies arranged on top of a small bookcase. Peering closer, she saw that when he was younger, Phillip had won several events at schools sporting events, as well as first place in a debating competition. As she looked at the trophies now, she couldn't help wondering whether Phillip even understood what they were for, or whether his father simply insisted on keeping them around. They certainly seemed to have been regularly dusted and polished.

“Look!” Phillip said suddenly. “Deborah was my girlfriend!”

Jo turned to him. “Yes, I -”

Before she could finish, she saw that he was holding his phone out for her, and that the screen showed a close-up, slightly blurred photo of Deborah's smiling face.

“Where did you get that picture from, Phillip?” Jo asked cautiously.

“She was my girlfriend!” he said yet again, before swiping to another picture, this time showing Deborah staring into the camera with a smile while holding an arm across her bare chest. “She sent them to me!”

“Can I take a look?” Jo asked, heading back over to the bed.

“They're mine!”

“I just want to see.”

“I have to hold the phone!”

“Okay, that's fine. Just show me the photos she sent.”

He hesitated, before swiping to another message.

“Hey Phillip,” Jo read from the top of the screen, “I can't wait for you to come over again.”

“She was my girlfriend,” Phillip said proudly, before swiping down to reveal yet another photo, this time a selfie taken by Deborah on the bed at the cottage. In this picture, she was flat on her back, holding the camera high above her head, smiling at the lens and leaving her bare breasts on full display.

“Where did you get these?” Jo whispered.

“She was my girlfriend,” he said yet again. “She sent them to me, dummy. Some of them are rude, though. In some of them, you can see her boobies.”

With that, he swiped through several more pictures, some of which simply showed Deborah smiling at the camera. Some, however, showed photos she'd clearly taken of herself in bed, offering various poses. In one, she'd even pulled the sheets down to reveal her belly, with her crotch barely hidden by a well-placed leg, along with a message reminding Phillip to drop by one day soon.

“What the hell?” Jo whispered, sitting on the bed and staring at the screen as Phillip brought up more and more photos. “Deborah sent these to you?”

“I told you, dummy!” he said proudly. “She was my girlfriend!”

Chapter Twelve

Six months ago

Sitting alone in her darkened car, Deborah watched the entrance to the hotel. An elderly couple had just emerged, but they were of no interest and Deborah was instead waiting for some sign that Lucas Evans was heading back to his room. So far, unless he'd slipped in through the back of the building, he seemed to have been out for several hours.

“Alright, love?” a voice called out suddenly.

Startled as someone knocked on her window, Deborah turned and saw a couple of drunk teenagers bending down and leering at her.

“Waiting for someone, are you?” one of them asked. “Wanna come to a party?”

“Go away!” she hissed, looking around in case they were attracting attention.

“What's wrong? Been a while?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Look at her!” he said, stumbling back drunkenly toward his friend, who helped steady him a little. “I reckon I was right. She hasn't had any action for a long time.”

“Go away!” she said firmly, looking around again to make sure that Lucas Evans hadn't chosen that exact moment to come wandering along the street. Her heart was racing, and finally she reached out to grab the keys and start the engine, figuring that she had to get out of the area fast.

“Alright, keep your knickers on,” the drunk guy said suddenly, banging his fist against the roof of the car as he and his friend set off along the street. “Not that they probably come off much anyway. Stupid bitch.”

Not even daring to breathe, Deborah watched her rear-view mirror and saw that the two drunks were already rambling to another passerby. Although she kept telling herself that the pair of idiots had just stumbled out of a local pub and were completely harmless, in the back of her mind she couldn't help worrying that somehow she was being set up, that the two supposed drunks were in fact actors who'd been sent to get a closer look at her. Already, her mind was racing with even more possibilities, and her hand was still resting on the keys as she debated whether or not she should get home as quickly as possible.

And then she saw him.

A figure had just come around the corner at the far end of the street. He was still in the shadows, barely even a silhouette walking past the supermarket and now past one of the charity shops, but she recognized him immediately. Still barely breathing at all, she watched with shocked, wide-open eyes as he made his way toward the hotel's entrance. As he passed into the pool of light cast down from the restaurant's electric sign, his features came into view and she felt her heart miss a beat as she saw the face that she'd tried for so long to forget.

He was older now.

He looked tired.

But it was still him, and she knew immediately that all her feelings for him were still very much alive.

Telling herself that she'd drive away as soon as he was inside the building, she watched with keen interest as he began to make his way up the steps. At the last moment, however, he stopped and took a phone from his pocket, and then he strolled back down the steps and stopped to answer a call. A few seconds later, he headed over to a bench and took a seat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he continued to talk to whoever was on the other end of the line.

Is it me? Deborah thought. Is he talking about me? Is he here in Chelmsbury because of me?

She told herself that he was probably just chatting to a colleague, that the story Susannah had overheard was most likely true. At the same time, she couldn't help squinting and trying to see his face more clearly, even though she knew there was no point trying to read his lips. Besides, he was sitting at a slight angle, looking more toward the off-license and the pub. Whoever he was talking to, it seemed to be something very important, although Deborah realized after a few seconds that she might be reading too much into his expression.

She began to turn the key in the ignition, before stopping herself at the last moment.

The sound of an engine starting up might, she realized, draw his attention.

She sat completely still for a few seconds, her heart pounding as she continued to watch Lucas, and then an idea rushed unbidden into her mind, an idea that she instantly knew she had to resist. Still, she couldn't help considering the possibility. After all, she'd changed her hair style and color since the last time she'd seen Lucas, and she'd changed her dress style too. She had a pair of sunglasses on the dashboard, and she told herself that Lucas quite probably wouldn't recognize her if she walked past. Even though she knew the idea was crazy, she couldn't shake the feeling that she desperately needed to hear what he was talking about, so that she could reassure herself that he wasn't in Chelmsbury to look for her.

Finally, grabbing the sunglasses, she put them on before getting out of the car and very carefully closing the door as quietly as possible.

Lucas was still on the bench, still talking to someone.

Stepping around the car, Deborah made her way across the street and headed toward the front of the hotel. She was walking slowly, poised to turn and head away if Lucas so much as turned and glanced in her direction. A voice in her head was screaming at her to turn back, to leave well enough alone, but another voice was telling her that she had to hear at least part of the phone call. After all, if he was in town to look for her, she'd have to get out of Chelmsbury immediately. She'd have to ditch the cottage and run. But if he was just in town for some other random reason, she could relax and just wait for him to leave. Every atom in her body seemed to be screaming at her to turn and walk away, but somehow she kept going until she reached the bottom of the steps and finally found herself in earshot of the phone call.

“No, it was good to see the old bore,” she heard him saying, and his voice sent a shudder through her chest. Instinctively, she reached up and adjusted her sunglasses to make sure they were properly in place.

Lingering near the hotel's entrance, Deborah told herself that she really had to leave now. Still, though, she couldn't quite bring herself to walk away, and instead she wandered over to the hotel's menu board, pretending to take a look so that she could listen a little more to Lucas's conversation.

“I'll be leaving the day after tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, I think that'll be long enough. There are just a couple more things I need to check out here, but I can't stay too long. Anyway, this isn't exactly my scene, you know? Chelmsbury seems like a one horse kinda town and...”

His voice trailed off.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the menu, Deborah didn't dare turn and look to see what Lucas was doing now. She already regretted getting out of her car, and she was debating whether or not to turn around and walk away immediately. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, however, so she simply continued to look at the menu as she waited for Lucas to say something.

“You know what?” he muttered finally. “I'm tired. I'm gonna call you back tomorrow, Teddy. Okay? We'll arrange something.”

Teddy.

She knew that name.

Teddy was Lucas's best friend from school, a guy who showed up to any party, any night out, and always got blackout drunk. She'd found him a little tiring over the years, but she was glad that he was still around to help Lucas out. She had no idea how Lucas had handled her disappearance, and she'd consoled herself over the years by focusing on the thought that Teddy would certainly have helped.

“Whatever,” Lucas said suddenly, getting to his feet and walking right behind Deborah, heading up the steps and into the hotel. “Talk soon, man. I'm just feeling a little weird right now, but I'm sure it'll pass. Enjoy the diapers.”

Diapers?

Was Teddy a father now?

That seemed... improbable.

Suddenly she froze as she caught a whiff of his cologne, and she recognized it immediately as the type she'd always bought him years ago. Was he still using the last bottle she'd given him? Or had he carried on buying it for himself, now that she was no longer around? For a fraction of a second, she felt as if she had to know, but she quickly reminded herself that it didn't matter, that Lucas and his cologne arrangements were no longer any of her business.

Still, the smell lingered for a moment, tormenting her.

Finally daring to glance at the steps, Deborah saw that Lucas had headed inside. Once she was sure he'd gone, she turned and hurried across the street, breaking into a jog until she pulled the door open and climbed into her car. Letting out a sigh of relief, she set the sunglasses on the dashboard and leaned back, checking her pulse and finding that it was racing.

“You bloody idiot!” she muttered under her breath. “What the hell were you thinking? Don't ever, ever do anything so stupid again! Are you completely out of your mind?”

With that, she started the engine and backed out of the parking spot, before starting the long drive back to the cottage. As she drove away, she failed to notice that Susannah had been watching the whole time from one of the bar's windows.

Chapter Thirteen

Today

“These have to be fake,” Jo muttered to herself as she stepped out through the manor house's front door, staring down at the photos of Deborah that she'd copied from Phillip's phone. “There's no way a -”

Before she could finish, she heard screeching tires in the distance. Looking across the dark courtyard, she was shocked to see the lights of a car racing toward the house at high speed, and a moment later a vehicle sideswiped one of the gate posts and then screeched to a halt, skidding sideways and bumping against the edge of the unused fountain.

Startled, Jo watched as the door opened and a woman stumbled out. Quickly tripping and falling, the woman was muttering to herself as she hurried toward the steps, and Jo realized quickly that she seemed to be drunk. In fact, the closer the woman got to the house, the more it became apparent that she was very drunk.

“Who are you?” the woman asked, before pushing Jo aside and tottering unsteadily into the house. “Never mind.”

“Who are you?” Jo replied, turning and following her.

“Phillip?” the woman yelled as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Phillip, where are you?”

“Who are you?” Jo asked again.

“Oh piss off, whoever you are,” the woman muttered as she began to make her way up toward the landing. “I'll find him. He's probably in bed by now. It's past his bedtime, isn't it? He should -”

Suddenly she lost her footing and slipping, falling back. Jo reached out and grabbed her arm, keeping her upright, but the woman brushed her away and started once more stumbling up the stairs.

“Phillip!” she yelled. “It's me!”

“Wait!”

Hurrying after her, Jo wasn't sure whether to try pulling the woman back or to just focus on catching her in case she fell again.

“Tell old fart-face to keep out of my way,” the woman continued, stopping at the top of the stairs to get her breath back. After a moment, she turned to Jo. “Who are you, anyway? You're not his latest girlfriend, are you? Let me guess, he promised you wealth and a life of luxury, and all you have to do in return is squeeze out a few heirs. Don't think you're special, he makes that offer to anything with a pulse.”

“My name is Joanna Mason,” Jo replied, “and I -”

“You called me!” the woman stammered. “Oh God, it was you leaving those messages at my office all day!”

“Are you Susannah Marriott?”

“Leave me alone,” she replied, turning and drunkenly lurching along the landing, heading toward the door to Phillip's room. “I have to see him. I know I've been drinking, but I had an idea and I think I know how to get through to him.”

Stumbling yet again, she had to steady herself against a half-table. Unfortunately, the table immediately tipped over, sending a vase crashing to the floor, but Susannah somehow managed to stay upright as she continued to make her way toward Phillip's bedroom.

“Get through to him how?” Jo asked, following her closely. “Listen, maybe we should go somewhere and talk. Phillip was tired when I left just now and you don't seem to be in any fit state to -”

“Don't tell me what I'm in a fit state to do,” Susannah slurred, stopping in the doorway and looking into the room, where Phillip was staring at her from the bed. “Phillip,” she continued with a smile, stumbling toward him, “it's me! Phillip, you remember me, don't you?”

Clearly shocked, Phillip scrambled out of bed and backed away into the corner of the room.

“I'm here!” Susannah continued, holding her arms open as if she expected a hug. “Phillip, you have to -”

“Get her out of here!” Phillip shouted, clearly panicking as he crumpled down onto his haunches and put his hands over his face. “Dad! There's a woman in my room!”

“Susannah,” Jo said cautiously, “please -”

“It's me!” Susannah yelled again, stopping in front of Phillip and crouching in front of him. Mascara was smeared around her eyes, and her lipstick was smudged on one side. “I know you remember me. I know you remember the time we had together.” She reached out to touch the side of Phillip's face, persevering even as he recoiled and tried to push her away. “Phil, it's me! It's Suzie! I've been thinking about it tonight, and I finally figured out how to make you remember me again! We're going to go down to the river, to where we used to sit when we were first dating. Do you remember that?”

“Leave me alone!” he whimpered.

“Just come with me!” she continued, trying to take his hand. He kept slipping free, but she persisted until finally she simply held his wrist tight. “I know you're still in there, Phil. I know about the damage, and I know you've forgotten most of your old life, but I know that deep down the real Phil is still in that broken head of yours somewhere. He just needs to be teased out, and I'm going to do that by jogging your memory. Phil, it's me! Don't you remember? I know you do. You have to. Your whole personality can't have just died that day. Let's go away together and I'll get you the help you need.”

With tears in her eyes, she waited for him to reply, but he simply buried his face deeper into his hands and let out a slow, persistent whimpering sound.

“Phil! Listen to me!”

“I don't think this is doing any good,” Jo said after a moment, stepping up behind her. “It's late. Why don't you come with me and -”

“Who the hell asked for your opinion?” Susannah snapped, not even looking at her but instead tilting her head to try to get a better view of Phillip's face. “Phil? Darling? I brought something for you, something that once meant a lot to you.”

Reaching into her pocket, she took out a silver necklace with a dangling half-heart.

“You have the other half somewhere,” she continued, as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Is it in this room right now? Is it hidden somewhere? Can you fetch it for me?”

Jo waited, not knowing how to interrupt as Phillip sobbed gently.

“I know you have it!” Susannah said firmly, wiping away tears. “Phillip, you remember! You have to! You gave me this necklace a long time ago. I know the memories are in there somewhere so please, think back to those days.” She placed a hand on his trembling shoulder, which only caused him to shake even more furiously. “I know you remember,” she continued. “I feel it in my heart, and I know you do too. Phillip! Remember!”

***

“Do you want to know the most pathetic part of it all?” Susannah asked half an hour later, staring out the window of Jo's car as they drove back into town. “Tonight wasn't even the first time. I do it about twice a year. I go to him, convinced I can make him remember, but...”

Her voice trailed off. Tears were welling in her eyes, and a moment later she had to wipe one away as it trickled free and tried to make a break down her right cheek.

“It's like a never-ending cycle,” she continued finally, taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. “Now I'll go back to accepting his mind is gone for a while, but the seed of hope will still be somewhere in the back of my mind. And as sure as eggs are eggs, in a few months' time I'll get drunk and go right back to that bloody house and try again, with some fresh harebrained scheme to make him remember.”

She looked down at the necklace in the palm of her right hand.

“He's gone. I should just accept that this time.”

“Do you mind if I ask what exactly happened?” Jo said after a moment, as she slowed and took a left turn at the junction, heading along another dark country road.

“You mean the accident?”

“I saw the scars. They looked...”

She paused trying to think of the right word.

“Extensive,” she managed finally.

“He was riding his bike home from seeing me one day,” Susannah explained, turning to her. “His father, the great Lord Shitface, always hated the fact that we were together. I wasn't good enough. Too common. Anyway, one day Phillip and I had been at Skellin Cottage. The place was empty at the time, so we often snuck off to spend a few hours together. I waved Phillip away on his bike, and that was the last time I saw him. I mean, the last time I saw the real him. Just a few hundred meters from his father's house, he was going around a blind corner and a truck came the other way. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived at all. His helmet came loose, but it wouldn't have done much good anyway, not against a truck that size. His head...”

Her voice trailed off for a moment.

“Sometimes I think he died that day. His mind, anyway.”

“And you and he were dating at the time?”

“More than dating. We were going to get married. I'd found a ring in his pocket, so I knew he was going to ask me. It was just a matter of when.”

“I'm so sorry,” Jo replied, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. “That must have been...”

Her voice trailed off. She knew there was nothing she could say, nothing that could possibly help.

“I can't shake the feeling that he's still in there somewhere,” Susannah continued after a moment. “Deep down, lost and frightened, trying to get out, the Phillip I loved is still in that head. I know you probably think it's the wine and the gin and the rum talking now, but you can ask me again tomorrow when I'm sober and hungover, and I'll tell you the same thing. He has to be in there. A person can't just disappear in the blink of an eye, leaving their body still wandering around. Besides, I see it in his eyes sometimes. Just a flicker, something that I don't think anyone else would recognize. It's the kindness that I remember from the old Phillip. He has to be in there.”

Jo took a right turn, and now the lights of Chelmsbury were visible in the distance.

“But you didn't call me all those times at the hotel to talk about Phillip,” Susannah continued, before taking a deep breath as if to reset herself. “You called to talk about Deborah Dean, and I deliberately didn't reply because I'm sick of talking about Deborah Dean. I'm sick of even thinking about her. Still, I suppose that was rude of me, and I apologize.”

“You and Deborah were friends?”

She waited for a reply, but now Susannah seemed lost in thought.

“Once,” she replied finally. “For a while. Not at the end, though.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“It's complicated.”

“But you weren't talking by the time she died?”

“No. We weren't.”

“And you didn't go to her funeral?”

“I don't think many people did. Maybe just a priest. Sad, huh? She was in her thirties, and when she died there was no-one at the side of her grave. What kind of person is like that?”

They drove on in silence for a moment.

“Do you mind if I ask,” Jo said finally, “what happened between the two of you?”

“I saw the real her,” she added, a little defensively, “and I didn't like it. Nothing relevant to her death, and I didn't murder her, if that's what you're thinking. Let's get that out of the way right now.”

“Did she ever talk about her past?” Jo asked, trying a different tack.

“Not much.”

“Do you know where she lived before she came to the Chelmsbury area?”

“She didn't want to talk about it, and I learned to respect that. I'm not in the habit of trying to force people to discuss things that they'd rather keep to themselves. We're all entitled to our private lives, and to keep them private.” She paused for a moment. “I'm sick of getting mixed up in the lives of other people. It's boring, and far too tiring. As far as I'm concerned, Deborah Dean was just someone I knew for a short while, and someone with whom I eventually no longer cared to sustain a friendship. She might have seemed bland and inoffensive, but she wasn't...”

“Wasn't what?” Jo asked.

“She wasn't a good person.”

“In what way?”

Susannah hesitated for a moment, before shaking her head.

“Never mind.”

“But do you know about her past?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No, I just -”

“I'll get out here,” she added as they reached town, suddenly seeming extremely uncomfortable. “I'd rather walk the rest of the way to the hotel.”

“It's no problem. I can drive you to the -”

“Please stop the car,” Susannah continued. “You're not the police, are you? So I'm under no obligation to speak to you about any of this. Or do you intend to kidnap me? Because then the police actually might get involved. Is that what you want?”

Realizing that she had no choice, Jo brought the car to a halt. Susannah immediately unbuckled her seat-belt and opened the door.

“Please don't bother me again,” she said as she climbed out of the car. “Deborah Dean isn't my favorite topic of conversation. I'd really rather forget that I ever knew her.”

“If you could just tell me why you -”

“Good night,” Susannah added, turning to swing the door shut.

“What about her novel?” Jo asked. “Can you tell me anything about that?”

“Never read a word,” Susannah replied, slamming the door and then walking away along the cold, windy street.

The lights of the hotel were just about visible in the distance, but the town center seemed completely deserted and Jo could only sit and furrow her brow as she tried to figure out why Susannah Marriot had suddenly become so prickly and defensive in the space of just a few minutes. She watched until Susannah was out of sight, and then she turned the car around and began the drive back to Skellin Cottage.

Chapter Fourteen

Six months ago

“Suzie? Hey Suzie, wait up!”

Hurrying out of the charity shop, Deborah had to wait for a couple of cars to pass before she could cross the busy street. She could see Suzie up ahead, walking quickly through the morning crowd, but so far she'd been unable to get her attention.

“Sorry,” Deborah continued, trying not to bump into anyone, while still trying to reach her friend. “Suzie! Hang on!”

She was a little breathless by the time she finally reached Susannah, and she couldn't help but notice that she'd still not been acknowledged.

“So I guess it's too soon to ask for your opinion?” she said with a faint, nervous smile. “I know it's not exactly a masterpiece, but do you see what I mean about there being something missing? I feel like I need a different way into the story, and I'm also worried about the main character. Do you think she's too unlikable? I'm starting to think that might be the problem. People are going to hate her.”

While she waited for an answer, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure there was no sign of Lucas Evans, and then she realized that Susannah had already begun to speed up, pulling away from her.

“Suzie! It's me!”

She had to jog to catch up, at which point Susannah suddenly crossed the road and began to make her way toward the hotel. Something about the way she was walking seemed very deliberate and determined, almost as if she was trying to make some kind of point by hurrying along and not acknowledging anyone.

“Is something wrong?” Deborah asked, struggling to keep up with her and this time tapping her arm. “Suzie?”

“I'm busy.”

“Sure, but -”

“I'm busy!” she said again, more firmly this time. “I don't want to talk right now.”

“Did something happen?”

Reaching the door to the hotel, Susannah turned to her and seemed for a moment as if she was about to say something. There was no hint of friendship in her expression, not this time; instead, Deborah couldn't help but notice a fresh harshness, perhaps even a trace of disappointment.

“Never mind,” Susannah added finally, clearly a little flustered. “I'm busy, Deborah. It's a working day for most people. Not everyone can afford to sit around, twiddling their thumbs and pretending to be a writer. That must be a really easy life you've got set up for yourself there.”

“Did I do something to upset you?” Deborah asked.

Susannah sighed.

“Tell me!”

“You've got some real nerve, haven't you?” Susannah replied. “Coming here to Chelmsbury and expecting to just start a new life, expecting to throw away your past and act like nothing happened.”

“Have you been -”

Deborah paused, her mind racing as she tried to work out exactly how much Susannah had figured out.

“Have you been talking to someone?” she asked cautiously.

“Look at you,” Susannah continued, looking her up and down with a faint hint of disgust. “I've got to admit, you did a good job of acting like a normal, decent human being. I don't blame myself for being fooled. You're obviously very good at lying. You've obviously had a lot of practice.”

“Did Lucas -”

“I haven't spoken a word to your precious Lucas!” Susannah spat back at her. “Maybe I should, but honestly I don't want to get my hands dirty. I already figured out who he is. To you, I mean. Poor guy.” She hesitated for a moment, as if she was struggling to contain her anger. “You know, we're not that stupid out here in the sticks. We do have brains, and we can figure out when we're being played for fools.” She paused for a moment. “That book... It's a kind of confession, isn't it?”

“Suzie,” Deborah replied, holding back tears, “can we go somewhere and -”

“Talk?” The idea seemed to amuse her, albeit with an edge of real anger. “This is the last time I want to talk to someone like you. Ever.”

“Someone like -”

“I know what you did!”

Deborah opened her mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment.

“I know exactly who you are,” Susannah continued. “I put two and two together and came up with four, thanks to a few little hints and nods in that trashy manuscript of yours. Jesus, you're so brazen, aren't you?”

“I can explain. I just -”

“You're lucky,” Susannah added, “that I don't go straight to the police and tell them about you. I probably should.” She paused for a moment, as if she was considering the possibility. “But don't worry, I'm not going to do that. I won't tell anyone your disgusting little secret. I'm just going to hope that you have the decency to leave Chelmsbury as soon as possible and to never come back. Because even if I don't tell everyone your dirty little secret, you need to remember that muck always leaks.”

“Suzie -”

“People like you,” she hissed, jabbing Deborah's chest with a finger, causing her to take a step back, “make me sick! And what's worse, you thought you could somehow tell your life story by writing it down as a novel? Seriously? When I read those first three chapters, they rang a bell somewhere in the back of my mind. I don't know how, but I remembered something I'd read in the news a few years ago, so I did some checking online. And sure enough, there you were. I mean, you look different, you've managed to change your whole appearance quite a bit, but as soon as I saw the photo, I knew it was you.”

“If you'll let me explain -”

“Just leave me alone. Just go away and don't bug me again. If I ever hear from you, if you ever so much as set foot in my hotel or call me or email me ever again, then I really will start telling people about you.” She took a step back, clearly flustered. “Maybe if you'd been honest from the start, I'd have been able to see past all of this. But you've been lying your ass off ever since we met, and that's what hurts the most. But now I know. I know everything about you, and you make me sick.”

With that, she made her way up the steps, before glancing back at Deborah.

“Oh, and your book stinks. Maybe try a career change. Or better still, do the right thing and turn yourself in. You're sure as hell no writer.”

She headed inside, leaving a shocked and horrified Deborah standing alone on the street. For a moment she seemed too stunned to move, too stunned to even react, but finally she looked around at the passersby and checked to see whether anyone seemed to have overheard the argument.

After a moment, she turned and hurried away, threading her way through the crowd.

***

“Thank you for staying with us,” the receptionist said with a smile as she handed the receipt and card to Lucas. “I hope we'll see you again soon.”

Turning and heading toward the door, Lucas was about to go outside when he spotted Susannah coming the other way.

“Nice place you've got here,” he told her. “Better than any of those big hotel chains.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Work calls, and I've got a long drive. But thank you again for the hospitality.”

“Oh, it's our pleasure,” Susannah replied as he stepped past her, heading through the main door. “I was just telling my friend Alice how we pride ourselves on offering a warm welcome to guests.”

At the mention of that name, Lucas froze for a moment, before turning back to her.

Susannah watched his face carefully, and it wasn't difficult to see that she'd caught his attention.

“She's a funny one,” she continued. “My friend Alice, I mean. Always has an opinion about everything. Every time I talk to her, Alice gives me new ideas about the hotel. I honestly don't know where I'd be without Alice. It's hard to believe she hasn't lived here all her life. She only showed up a while back, but we've become good friends since. Thick as thieves, you might say.”

She waited, as Lucas seemed poised on the verge of asking her a question.

“Good old Alice,” she added finally. “I don't know what I'd do without her.”

“Does she work here?” he asked, his voice sounding a little tight and nervous.

“Who, Alice?”

She hesitated for a moment, before realizing that perhaps she didn't want to go too far. After all, Lucas seemed like a nice guy, and she figured she shouldn't cause him any trouble.

“Well,” she continued, “I was just talking to her outside, not two minutes ago, and -”

Before she could finish, he hurried out to the top of the steps. Following, Susannah saw that he was looking both ways along the street, as if he was searching for some sign of the mysterious, elusive Alice.

“I'm sure she's long gone,” she told him, leaning against the wall. “Why? Do you like that name?”

He turned to her.

“What's her surname?” he asked.

“Well, I...”

She paused again, realizing that although she now understood the truth, she didn't want to cause trouble. Not for Lucas, anyway.

“Smith,” she said finally.

“Smith?”

“Just Smith.”

Seeing the concern in his eyes, she told herself that perhaps this wasn't the moment to start stirring things. Besides, she'd only wanted a little extra confirmation of her suspicions, and now she figured she should just let him leave.

“Anyway,” she continued, forcing a smile, “that's enough about me. I hope you have a pleasant drive home.”

“Yes, I...”

He hesitated, before nodding.

“I think I should get going,” he added, before mumbling something else under his breath as he hurried away toward the parking lot.

“Probably for the best,” Susannah muttered, watching until he disappeared around the corner. “The snake's out of your life. You don't want to let her back in.”

Chapter Fifteen

Today

“Come on, where are you?” Jo muttered to herself, as she tested another floorboard in the cottage's main bedroom. “There are only so many places to hide a laptop.”

She'd been up for a couple of hours by now, having woken as soon as the first light of morning sun streamed through the windows. So far, she'd discovered no sign of any other hiding places, but after finding the stash of money a couple of nights earlier she already knew that Deborah had been somewhat sneaky. The police had gone over the place, of course, but they hadn't found the cash and Jo figured they could easily have missed a whole lot more.

All of which meant that the laptop might still be stowed away somewhere.

A short while later, a little after 9am, she heard the sound of a car turning into the gravel driveway outside the front of the cottage. Peering out from the bedroom window, she spotted a familiar silver Mercedes, although she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing until the door opened and Detective Inspector Sam Bartleby climbed out. She watched as he struggled to find a mud-free path to the front door, and as he tried jumping over one particularly large puddle only to land in another and splash the legs of his trousers.

A faint, unintended smile crossed her lips, although she caught it quickly.

“What do you want?” she muttered. “Why -”

Before she could finish, she heard him banging on the front door. She briefly considered pretending to be out, only to spot her own car in the driveway and realize the game was up. Besides, she knew the door was unlocked, and she also knew that Sam wasn't the kind of guy to stand on ceremony. Sure enough, a moment later she heard the front door creaking open.

“Jo?” Sam called out. “Jo, come on, I know you're here.”

Sighing, she turned and headed out of the bedroom and then down the stairs, finally meeting Sam in the hallway.

“Bloody hell,” he said, rubbing his arms for warmth, “it's cold in this place. Haven't you got any central heating?”

“I'm fine here. What do you want?”

“I'm freezing my balls off just standing here!”

“Nice trousers.”

He opened his mouth to reply, before looking down at the blotches of mud that stretched almost to the knee of his right leg.

“It is just mud out there, right?” he continued after a moment, turning to her. “Please, Jo, tell me that brown stuff in the yard is just mud.”

“I thought we agreed yesterday that you wouldn't bother me.”

“I don't think we agreed any such thing.”

“I'm trying to get some work done. This isn't an active investigation for you, not in any meaningful sense, but -”

“It wasn't an active investigation yesterday,” he replied, interrupting her, “but it is as of a little before 7am this morning. I though I'd better be the one to come out and tell you personally, Jo.”

“Tell me what?”

“There's been another murder,” he continued. “A body was found in the car park behind the town's hotel this morning. That body has just been formally identified as Susannah Marriott.”

***

“Jack Byron is going to be here in about twenty minutes,” Sam explained as he raised the police cordon so that he and Jo could enter the hotel's parking lot. “You can't be here then. He'll go ballistic.”

“Isn't ballistic his natural state most of the time?” Jo asked.

“I shouldn't be letting you anywhere near the crime scene,” he continued, flashing his badge at an officer and leading Jo toward the spot where several white-suited SOCA investigators were working.

“Then why are you?”

“Because if Jack Byron's running the police case, we're gonna need all the help we can get.”

Stepping around a group of forensic workers, Jo stopped as soon as she saw Susannah's body on the ground. Still wearing the same clothes from her previous night's trip to Lord Chesleford's manor house, the dead woman was slumped on her side with several bloody red rips in the fabric on the back of her coat, clearly indicating that she'd been attacked and stabbed from behind. Her eyes, meanwhile, were open and staring toward the steps that led up to the hotel's kitchen entrance, while her left hand was resting at a slightly odd angle, as if she'd been reaching for something as she died. Her mouth was slightly open, and there were bloody cuts on her chin.

“Morning, Sam,” Doctor Carter, the forensic examiner, said as he got to his feet. “I think we're looking at around -”

He froze suddenly as soon as he spotted Jo.

“She's with me,” Sam told him.

“Of course she is,” Doctor Carter continued with a friendly but concerned smile. “Long time, no see. How are you doing, Joanna?”

“I'm fine,” she replied. “Do you have a time of death?”

“I'd say around three or four in the morning.”

“Just after I dropped her off,” Jo whispered.

“As you can probably see for yourselves,” Doctor Carter added, turning to look back down at the body, “she was killed by a series of knife wounds. She appears to have been stabbed six times in the back, all around the same spot quite low down. Then there's one additional wound on her chest, piercing her heart, although I think it's likely she'd have already been very close to death by that point.” He stepped over the body and crouched next to her head, pointing at the cuts on her chin. “I think she was dragged a short way across the car park. Face down. That would account for these, and also for the grit in her nostrils and eyes.”

“So she was killed somewhere else and dumped here?” Sam asked.

“I think she was killed close by, and then for some reason she was moved over here to the door.”

“To get her out of the way,” Jo muttered.

Sam turned to her. “How do you mean?”

“If someone was waiting for her to come back,” she continued, turning and looking along the side of the building and then pointing at a low wall near one of the kitchen windows, where several workers were already peering out at the grizzly scene, “then that might have been a good spot. It's also one of the few areas in the car park where the cameras don't seem to have any coverage.”

Sam looked up at the various cameras and quickly realized that she was right. Besides, some of the cameras were in such a bad state, it was hard to believe that they still functioned.

“So the killer waited for her to walk past,” Jo explained, “and then came up behind her.”

“Stabbing someone in the back is pretty cowardly,” Sam pointed out.

“Stabbing someone in the anything is cowardly,” Jo replied. “Six times is a lot, especially lower down on the back. Maybe this is someone who didn't really know what they were doing and wanted to make sure. Unlike with Deborah Dean.” She paused for a moment, before looking back down at the body. “And then, wanting to make absolutely certain she was dead, the killer rolled her onto her back and stabbed her one more time in the chest, aiming for the heart. Then he or she dragged her closer to the building so she'd be a little more out of sight.”

“One of the kitchen workers found her,” Doctor Carter explained.

“What's up with her hand?” Jo asked, stepping around the body and crouching down to take a closer look at Susannah's outstretched left hand.

“Reaching for something, maybe?” Sam suggested with a shrug.

“Or holding something,” Jo muttered. “Holding something tight. The killer might have had to force her fingers open to get to it after she was dead.”

“Possibly,” Doctor Carter said. “I can check for any kind of residue on the palm and let you know.” He hesitated, before turning to Sam. “Well, I can let you know. I mean, isn't Jo...”

His voice trailed off.

“Jo's just helping me out with something,” Sam replied.

“Something you'd prefer Byron doesn't find out about?”

“Got it in one. Don't mention that she was here.”

“I don't think this was exactly a professional hit,” Jo said, getting to her feet again. “I think this was someone who didn't want to do it, but who felt he had no choice. Or she. Someone who wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

“I'll have a full autopsy report by the end of the day,” Doctor Carter told Sam. “I'll make sure a copy gets to your desk, too. From there, it's really none of my business where else it ends up.”

He glanced briefly toward Jo.

Sam nodded. “Appreciated.”

“Looks like her purse and keys are still here,” Jo pointed out, peering at the edge of Susannah's open coat pocket. “We can rule out a simple mugging or a robbery. And judging by the state of her clothing, I'm guessing there won't be any sign of a sexual assault.”

“The knife wounds look to have gone in at an angle,” Doctor Carter added. “Just slightly, but enough to suggest that the killer was a little taller than her.”

“This can't be a coincidence,” Jo muttered, staring back down at the body.

“Heads up,” Doctor Carter whispered suddenly, nudging her arm. “Byron at nine o'clock.”

“And we're outta here,” Sam said, grabbing Jo's arm and leading her toward the hotel's back door.

“Wait!” she hissed, trying to pull back toward the body. “I need to -”

“Keep walking!” he said firmly, forcing her up the steps and into the kitchen area, before glancing back outside just in time to see the portly figure of Detective Inspector Jack Byron arriving at the scene. “Well there's a surprise,” he added under his breath. “He seems to be in something of a bad mood.”

“I was with Susannah Marriot last night,” Jo said.

Sam turned to her.

“She showed up at Lord Chesleford's house,” she continued, watching through the window as Byron knelt next to the body. “She was drunk, she wanted to see Lord Chesleford's son Phillip. The pair of them were an item back in the day, before Phillip's accident.”

“That's the kid who's a vegetable now, yeah?”

“He suffered a significant head injury,” she replied. “He didn't seem to recognize Susannah. Eventually I persuaded her to leave with me, and I drove her into town. I tried asking her about Deborah Dean, but she immediately clammed up and insisted on getting out of the car. I pulled over a few hundred meters away and out she got, storming off into the night. Whoever killed her must have been waiting.” She paused for a moment. “If I'd just driven her straight to the hotel's front door, she might still be alive.”

“You can't blame yourself.”

“This is connected to Deborah Dean's death.”

“We don't know that for sure.”

“I think Susannah knew the truth about Deborah. Or part of it, at least. That's why she didn't go to the funeral, and it's why she didn't want to talk about her. But Deborah was stabbed once, in a very clinical and targeted manner, whereas Susannah was stabbed multiple times. Why the difference?”

“Deborah called Susannah on the night she died,” Sam replied. “It seems she wanted to go over and talk, but Susannah wasn't having any of it.”

“I need to know Deborah's real name,” Jo continued.

He shook his head.

“Sam, I'm going to find it out eventually anyway!”

“I can't give you any operational information from the case,” he said with a sigh. “I could lose my job. I'm sorry, Jo, but that's just the way it is.” He paused for a moment. “I can't share any details from the Deborah Dean or Alice Pritchard investigations. Not a sausage.”

“Alice Pritchard?”

A faint smile crossed his lips.

“Whoops,” he said, before glancing out the window and seeing that Jack Byron was already taking charge, barking orders at Doctor Carter and generally making a racket. “I should get out there. God, I wish I didn't have to listen to that gasbag going on and on again. He could bore for England.”

“So Deborah Dean was originally named Alice Pritchard?” Jo continued. “Who was she running from?”

Sam turned to her. “Us.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was running from us. From the police.”

“She had a record?”

“It was a little more than that.”

“She was on the run?”

“You can figure the rest out yourself.” He turned to go back outside, before stopping and glancing back at her. “Oh, and by the way... In the extremely unlikely event that a copy of an autopsy report happens to end up getting posted through the front door of Skellin Cottage, I hope you know that you mustn't look at it. Not even a peek. You must simply burn it and pretend it was never there.”

“Got it,” Jo replied, and now it was her turn to allow a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“I've missed you,” he added.

She hesitated for a moment. “I -”

“Where's Sam Bartleby?” Byron roared from the car park. “Somebody find that lazy bastard and bring him here right now!”

“Seems I'm wanted,” Sam said, patting Jo's shoulder before turning and heading outside.

Looking out the window for a moment, Jo watched as Sam began discussing the case with Byron and Doctor Carter. She'd been involved in such discussions many times during her time on the force, but this was the first time she'd watched from afar. There was a part of her that desperately wanted to go back out there and ask a thousand more questions, but she knew full well that Jack Byron would toss her out immediately, and that she could end up getting Sam into trouble too.

“Alice Pritchard,” she muttered under her breath, before turning and heading through toward the front of the hotel. “Who were you really?”

Chapter Sixteen

Six months ago

“Where the hell can I go?” Deborah whispered, standing in the bedroom at Skellin Cottage and staring down at her half-packed suitcase. “They're always going to find me, they...”

Her voice trailed off for a moment, and she stood in complete silence until finally Merriwig jumped up onto the bed and wandered over, purring as she brushed against Deborah's arm.

“Don't worry,” Deborah continued, stroking the back of the cat's head, “I'll take you wherever I go.”

Sitting on the bed as Merriwig continued to purr, Deborah seemed lost in thought for a moment.

“I've been such an idiot, Merriwig,” she said finally. “I thought I could run forever, or at least long enough to finish the book. I thought I could leave the past behind and start again. I thought no-one would ever find out the truth about me. And then just to really screw things up, I even let Susannah read three chapters of the damn thing.” Putting her head in her hands for a moment, she tried to figure out what to do next. “Every time I make a decision, I make the wrong decision. Every single time. What's wrong with me?”

Merriwig purred as she settled down next to the suitcase for a nap.

“I can't go,” Deborah said suddenly, getting to her feet. “Not yet. As long as Susannah keeps her word and doesn't tell anyone, I can stay to the end of the month, to the end of my agreement with Martin Chesleford.” She turned and looked down at the cat. “This is it, Merriwig. We're getting out of this place at the end of the month, and until then I'm just going to focus on writing my book and nothing else. I've been an idiot again, I let myself get sucked into having a social life and spending time with people, but that was a mistake. I have to finally get that book done, and then...”

She paused as a shudder passed though her chest.

“Nothing matters after that,” she added finally. “It was always about the book. That book is the most important thing in the world.”

She hesitated for a moment, before turning and heading out of the bedroom, leaving Merriwig sleeping peacefully on the bed. Hurrying downstairs, Deborah made her way into the kitchen and began to boil a fresh kettle of water, before walking over to the sofa and reaching down to pick up her laptop.

Suddenly someone knocked at the door and she turned, startled by the sight of Harry Morgan. Before she could even think to say anything, however, Harry turned the handle and tried to get the door open, only to find that it was locked.

“I'm busy!” Deborah stammered.

“Can I come in?” he called out.

“Can't you come back later?”

“I still don't have a new phone,” he replied. “I came all the way out here, Debbie. Can we talk?”

She hesitated for a moment, before heading over to the door and turning the key in the lock.

“I'm working,” she told him as she opened the door, only for him to kiss her on the cheek as he stepped into the cottage. He also touched her waist briefly, a moment of intimacy that made her flinch. “Harry, I really need to work. I've been falling behind and I have to start focusing more.”

“Do you know what's up with Susannah?”

She tensed at the mention of that name. “Why?”

“I bumped into her earlier and she was acting really weird.” He headed over to the cupboard and grabbed an extra cup, adding a teabag before wandering to the fridge and taking a look inside. “She seemed to get particularly freaked out when I mentioned you and asked if she'd seen you. It was like I'd said something awful. Are you out of peanut butter?”

“I don't know anything about Susannah,” Deborah replied, “but I think I'm not going to be seeing anyone for a while.”

“Sick of us all, are you?” he asked, leaning further into the fridge. “Got any jam? I'm starving.”

“I think you should go now.”

Stepping back and swinging the fridge door shut, he turned to her.

“I mean it,” she continued. “I'm sorry, Harry, but I need to focus on my work, and that means cutting all the distractions out of my life. All of them.”

“It almost sounds like you're...”

He paused for a moment, eyeing her with an increasing sense of suspicion.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but I think it's for the best. It's been fun, and you haven't done anything wrong, but I can't let myself lose focus. I came here to work on my book, I came specifically to get away from the world so I could just work all day every day. And since I arrived, I've slowly let myself slip into bad habits, into old habits, and I can't do that anymore. The only thing that matters from now on is my book. It's all I have.”

“So you're ending it between us?”

“Please don't make this difficult.”

She waited for him to reply, but he seemed genuinely shocked. Behind him, the kettle finally boiled, but neither of them went over to pour tea water.

“I've got to admit,” Harry said finally, “this has come out of nowhere. I know we weren't necessarily gonna end up tying the knot and pushing out kids, but I thought that over the past couple of months we'd come to mean more to each other than just sex.”

“We did,” she replied. “I mean, we are. I mean...”

She sighed.

“So why are you doing this?” he asked.

“I told you, I need -”

“You need to focus on your book,” he replied, “yeah, you said that a few times already. So in order to do that, you want to cut everything and everyone else out of your life? I mean, I come over about twice a week, for a couple of hours at a time.”

“It used to be twice a week. Now it's three, sometimes four.”

“Is that really so bad?”

“It's more than I can afford right now,” she said with tears in her eyes. “It's more than I wanted at the start. I shouldn't have been weak, I shouldn't have wanted human contact. Please, Harry, just try to understand. There are things I can't...”

Her voice trailed off.

“Things you can't what?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You know,” he continued, stepping closer to her, “sometimes when you're talking, I feel like you're holding a hell of a lot back. Big things. Important things.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, only for her to pull away. “What aren't you telling me, Debbie?”

“It's nothing like that,” she replied. “Please, just accept my decision.”

“But -”

“Please, Harry! I just need to work!”

He stared at her for a moment, before turning and heading to the door.

“It's not you,” she called after him. “It's me. It's because my life is so messed up and -”

“Save it!”

“Harry, I'm -”

“Whatever.”

Stepping outside, he swung the door shut until it slammed in the frame. Deborah hurried over and pulled it open again, just in time to see Harry marching toward the gate.

“I'm sorry!” she shouted. “Please try to understand!”

“Go to hell!”

Standing in the doorway, she watched as Harry walked past the gate and climbed into his truck, which he'd parked at the side of the road. For a moment, filled with a sense of regret, Deborah considered running after him and asking him to stay after all, but then the truck's engine started and she could only watch as Harry drove away. Finally, left all alone, she stepped back and swung the door shut, before turning the key in the lock and stopping for a moment to listen to the silence of the house.

Slowly, she turned to her laptop. She knew what she had to do, and she knew she'd delayed for long enough.

Chapter Seventeen

Today

Even before she reached the manor house's front door, Jo could hear the sound of someone wailing loudly inside. She hesitated for a moment, before reaching out and finding that the door had been left unlocked. Stepping inside, she realized Phillip seemed to be sobbing loudly in one of the upstairs rooms.

“Oh shut up!” Lord Chesleford shouted, storming through from the dining room, heading toward the staircase. “You stupid little -”

Stopping as soon as he spotted Jo, he paused for a moment before his usual friendly smile returned.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, clearly still a little flustered, “but as you can no doubt hear, we are having a rather troublesome morning here at Chesleford Manor.”

“Is he okay?” Jo asked.

“He's absolutely fine. He's just having one of his regular meltdowns. Truth be told, I made the mistake of mentioning this morning's grizzly news about that damnable Marriot woman. Phillip doesn't remember that he used to know her, but evidently he's decided to throw a tizzy about the whole thing. Don't worry, he'll calm down as soon as he's worn himself out, and then he'll be back to his usual self.” He hesitated for a moment. “I'm terribly sorry, but my memory of last night is a little blurry. Did we arrange to meet or...”

“No,” she replied, “it's nothing like that. It's just... I wanted to run something past you. Have you ever heard of a woman named Alice Pritchard?”

“Pritchard?” He furrowed his brow, as Phillip continued to sob upstairs. “No, I don't think so. Why?”

“Deborah Dean never mentioned her to you?”

He shook his head.

“And the police never mentioned her?”

“Should they have?”

“That's surprising,” Jo muttered. “I thought that maybe you'd be the one person she might have confided in. Or at least that the police would have brought her up at some point.” She paused. “Then again, they might have been playing that particular card close to their chests.”

“Might I ask what this is about?”

“I'd rather get everything straight first,” she replied. “The death of Susannah Marriot has muddied the waters and I'm still trying to figure out how the two murders are connected.”

“Must they be?”

“I think there's a good chance.”

“Dear oh dear,” he said with a sigh. “We're not used to such excitement in these parts, Miss Mason. Why, I don't know when somebody was last murdered within fifty miles of Chelmsbury, but now we appear to have suffered two such incidents in the space of six months. Still, the Marriott woman was somewhat loose and wild. Isn't it possible that this whole thing is just an awful coincidence?”

“It's possible,” Jo replied, unable to keep from looking up toward the top of the stairs as she heard Phillip crying out. “I'm keeping an open mind. Are you sure your son doesn't need help?”

“I'm quite sure, thank you.”

“When you told him about Susannah Marriot's death -”

“He doesn't have a clue who she is. Or rather, who she was. All of that was lost when he suffered his accident.”

“But he and Susannah were engaged to be married.”

“Where did you hear that?” he roared, as if the idea was preposterous. “Of course they weren't! Phillip was going to attend Oxford or Cambridge, he had his whole life ahead of him. I know he and the Marriott girl had some kind of fling, but that was just Phillip testing the waters, so to speak. He'd never have married a common little scrubber from the local town. He was destined for bigger and better things. And for better people.”

“I got the impression they were in love,” Jo replied.

“I suppose she told you that, did she?” He rolled his eyes. “She was delusional. Completely out of her mind. The very idea that someone like Phillip would be interested in someone so lowly is just... I do hope you have the good sense, Miss Mason, to realize that the whole idea is utterly ludicrous. Before his accident, Phillip was prime breeding stock. Chesleford stallions do not waste their valuable seed on common stock.” He sighed. “Not that I wish to speak ill of the dead, of course. May she rest in peace and so on and so forth.”

“And you're sure he doesn't remember her at all?” Jo asked, still horrified by the sound of Phillip wailing and sobbing somewhere upstairs in the house. After a moment, however, her attention was briefly drawn to a crate of empty, used wine bottles near the door.

“I'm quite sure he doesn't remember,” Lord Chesleford said firmly. “Now if you don't mind, I rather think you should be focusing on what I'm paying you for. And please, call ahead in future before you come to the door. We value our privacy here a great deal.”

“But -”

“This is just how Phillip is nowadays,” he added, as his son continued to weep upstairs. “This is just him.”

***

“I'm not sure it's such a good idea for you to pack and leave town,” Jo said a short while later, standing in the yard outside Harry Morgan's home and watching as he loaded two more suitcases into the back of his truck.

“And why's that?” he asked. “Am I a suspect?”

“Have the police been to speak to you about Susannah's death yet?”

“No, but I'm sure they'll want to. Don't worry, I'll leave a forwarding address.”

“The incident with your ex-wife,” she continued, “when you were accused of hitting her...”

He turned and glared at her.

“That's not going to help you much,” she pointed out. “Even if charges were never brought.”

“I never hit anyone!”

“I just -”

“It was an accident!” he hissed, stepping closer as if his temper was about to boil over, before stopping and taking a deep breath. “I don't want to want to talk about any of that, but I promise you it's got nothing to do with Debbie or Susannah or any of the things that are going on now.”

“But -”

“Nothing!” he shouted, banging his fist against the car before turning and storming away.

Jo watched as he thudded back into the house, and then she wandered over to the doorway and looked into his home. Harry was rifling through some mail now, clearly in a state of panic, and Jo couldn't help noting that – even though he was far from her chief suspect in either murder – he was certainly acting in a rather suspicious manner.

“So why are you leaving?” she asked.

“I'm sick of this place, that's why. I'm sick of the town and the people and all the terrible things that keep happening. I should've moved away after I got divorced, but this bloody farm kept me here. It's like a millstone around my neck.”

“Were you and Susannah close?”

He hesitated, as if the question troubled him and he wasn't sure how to answer.

“The police will find out,” Jo continued. “Were you and Susannah Marriott seeing each other?”

“It wasn't like that,” he replied cautiously. “After Debbie died, Susannah and I spent a lot of time together. We'd both been shocked by what happened, and we both felt bad about turning Debbie away on the night she died. It's perfectly natural that after a while, after being together night after night and talking about how we felt, Susannah and I eventually...”

His voice trailed off.

“How serious was it?” Jo asked.

He shrugged.

“You don't know?”

“Susannah could be a hard woman to pin down,” he explained. “She made it quite clear that she didn't see me as marriage material, if you catch my drift.”

“So it was purely physical between the two of you?”

“Well, we talked a little sometimes too.”

“Where did you meet? Here?”

He nodded.

“When was the last time?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“The last time was...” He sighed. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“The police are going to find out about that,” she told him. “They're going to want to talk to you, and they're going to be suspicious if they find you've bolted like this.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Sit around and let them treat me like a suspect again?”

“Again?”

“After Debbie, I mean. I was their chief suspect for weeks. They hauled me in for questioning a couple of times, and I could tell they thought they'd got their man. I sat there for hours and hours in that room, telling them everything I knew, but that bollock-headed Byron guy wouldn't listen. Even when they let me go, I could see it in his eyes. He was convinced it was me who killed Debbie. And now when the same cops find out about Susannah, I'm going to be right in their cross-hairs.”

“Which only makes it more important than you stay,” Jo pointed out. “I understand that you're upset, but leaving town right now is going to be a big red flag.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, before leaning back against the counter.

“They're going to think it was me anyway,” he said finally.

“Where were you last night, between about one in the morning and five?”

“Here,” he sighed.

“Can anyone confirm that?”

He shook his head.

“So you were asleep?”

“On and off. To be honest, I haven't slept very well for the past few months. And when I do, I usually dream about...” He paused. “I dream about that night. I think about what might have happened if I'd just opened the door and let Debbie in.”

“And you honestly have no idea who she was running from?”

“Him. That's all she said.”

“But you don't know who she meant?”

He shook his head.

“When you were seeing her, or dating her or whatever you want to call it, did she ever send you... compromising photos?”

“Excuse me?”

“Photos of herself in various states of undress.”

“Why do you ask?”

Reaching into her pocket, Jo took out her phone and brought up the pictures she'd copied from Phillip.

“I'm not sure you're going to want to see these,” she muttered, swiping through the various shots until she found one that wasn't too explicit. Turning the phone around, she held it up so that Harry could see the picture of Deborah sitting topless on her bed, covering her breasts with her arm. “When you were with her, did -”

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“That's not something I can tell you right now. I just -”

Before she could finish, Harry stepped over to her and took the phone, quickly swiping through the rest of the photos. Some were fairly tame, but a few were explicit and Harry's hands seemed to be trembling slightly as he finally swiped back to the beginning of the album.

“I'm sorry to have to ask,” Jo continued, “but did Deborah ever send you photos like these?”

He stared at the phone for a moment, before turning to her.

“No,” he said finally. “She sent me these exact photos, a couple of months before she died. And then I lost them when my phone was nicked. So where the bloody hell did you get them from?”

Chapter Eighteen

Six months ago

“What the hell?”

Turning quickly, Deborah looked across the darkened kitchen and stared at the window. She'd heard a noise, she was sure of it, but now the cottage was silent again. Quickly heading to the door, she turned the hall light off, leaving herself in complete darkness before heading to the window and peering out at the yard. She waited a moment, her heart pounding faster than ever, and then a few seconds later she heard a distant creaking sound.

“It's just the cat,” she muttered under her breath, “it's just -”

Before she could finish, she heard a bump coming from outside in the dark yard, and this time she couldn't contain her panic. Hurrying into the front room, she grabbed her phone and brought up a number.

“Harry!” she said as soon as he answered. “I need you to come over right now!”

***

“There's no-one out there,” Harry said with a sigh as he stepped into the cottage a while later. “It's a windy night, Debbie. That's all.”

“Did you check the shed?”

“I checked the shed.”

“Did you check the place where the wood goes?”

“I checked the place where the wood goes.”

“Did you -”

“There's no-one there! There's no-one within a mile and a half of this bloody place!”

She opened her mouth to ask again, before hesitating for a moment. At the same time, as if to underline Harry's point, a gust of wind caused the front door to shudder slightly in its frame.

“I shouldn't have called you,” she said finally, turning to him.

“And I shouldn't have come,” he replied. “It's just... You sounded so scared on the phone.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're jumpy as hell.” He sighed again. “Do you have any idea how many men would come rushing over to help, after what you said earlier? Anyone else would've left you to stew in your own juices, but I came running because...” He paused for a moment. “Debbie, what's going on? You broke up with me, and now you're a nervous wreck. I want to help you.”

Reaching toward her, he tried to touch the side of her face, but she immediately pulled back.

“Don't tell me it's nothing,” he continued, “because even I'm not stupid enough to believe that.”

“What about the stone wall?” she asked, hurrying past him and looking out the window again. “What if someone was hiding behind there?”

“I looked behind the wall, Debbie.”

“But -”

“I looked everywhere!” he said firmly. “You're acting all paranoid. What's going on?”

Ignoring him, as if she was so wrapped up in her fears that she hadn't heard a word of his question, she continued to look out the window. A moment later another gust of wind caused the roof tiles to rattle slightly, and she immediately took a step back as if she was convinced that somebody was up there.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Harry continued.

“I should never have called you,” she replied, before turning to him. “I need you to leave.”

“Who did you think was out there?”

“Harry, please just -”

“It's not some random burglar, is it?” he continued. “There's someone specific, someone you think is after you. Why don't you just tell me? Then maybe we can go to the police and tell them, and they'll do something about it.” He stepped closer, and this time Deborah didn't pull away when he put a hand on her arm. “Is it an ex-boyfriend? An ex-husband, even? Debbie, I've been trying to find a way to ask this for a while, but are you running from an abusive relationship?”

“What?” She stared her him with barely-disguised incredulity, before pulling her arm away. “You don't know what you're talking about. You need to leave right now!”

“But -”

“You don't know me!” she continued. “You don't know anything about me, and if you did...”

“If I did what?”

“You'd hate me.”

“I couldn't hate you, even if I tried.” He paused for a moment, watching the fear in her eyes, and then he stepped closer again as the wind howled through the yard. “Debbie, I love you.”

“No, you don't.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You don't love me. Not the real me. You don't even know the real me.”

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “that's not exactly the response I was hoping for but -”

“Leave!”

He sighed.

“Get out of here!” she hissed, grabbing his arm and starting to drag him toward the door, which she quickly pulled open, letting the wind blow into the cottage. “I mean it, Harry! I'm sorry I called you, it was a moment of weakness but it won't happen again! I need you to leave and never come back. Don't even think about me again, okay?”

“Debbie, I love -”

“Don't say that again!” Pushing him outside, she quickly slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

“What the hell is going on with you?” he called out from the other side of the glass. “Debbie, I meant what I said, but you can't act like this! One minute you're telling me to leave, then you're calling in the middle of the night and begging me to come back, and then -”

“I won't call you again!” she said firmly, with tears in her eyes. “I swear! And if I do call you, just ignore me! Promise you'll ignore anything I ever say again! Even if I come banging on your door, screaming blue murder, you have to ignore me!”

“Debbie -”

Pulling the curtain across the window, she turned and dropped down onto the mat, leaning back against the door as she began to sob. A moment later, she heard Harry trudging away through the mud, before finally his car started and she listened to the sound of him driving away.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered through the tears, “but that doesn't matter. I'm only -”

Suddenly the house creaked again in the late-night wind, and she looked up toward the ceiling. Filled with fear, she told herself that there was no-one around, that her fears were just getting the better of her. Still, she knew it was going to be a long night, and that she had to keep working. Getting to her feet, she poured herself a glass of wine in an attempt to steady her nerves, before carrying the bottle over to the coffee table where her laptop was waiting.

And still the storm hammered against the house, as she finally got back to work.

Chapter Nineteen

Today

“There's no way in hell Deborah was sending these pictures to Phillip bloody Chesleford!” Harry said firmly as he stepped out of Jo's car in the hotel's parking lot. “I mean, the idea's...”

He paused, clearly struggling for the right word.

“It's sick” he added finally. “Phillip Chesleford has the mind of a child!”

“The pictures weren't being sent from Deborah's phone,” Jo pointed out, swinging her door shut before stepping around and leading Harry toward the hotel's main entrance. “When exactly did you lose your phone?”

“A few weeks before Deborah was murdered.”

“I think someone else was sending the pictures to Phillip,” she explained. “Someone who wanted him to believe that Deborah liked him. It probably wasn't too hard to trick the poor guy, but what would be the point?”

“The whole thing's disgusting!”

“Did Deborah ever talk to you about Phillip?” Jo asked. “I know he had a habit of showing up at the cottage.”

“You don't think Phillip's the one who killed her, do you?”

“No, I don't think he's capable of that, but I'm starting to think that Deborah's murder was a little more carefully planned than I'd initially realized. Someone must have been plotting for quite a while, in which case -”

Stopping suddenly, she spotted a familiar figure in the distance. As Detective Inspector Jack Byron emerged from the front of the hotel, flanked by two uniformed officers, Jo stepped behind an old red telephone box.

“Great,” Harry muttered, stopping as soon as he saw Byron. “That's the asshole who kept questioning me over Debbie's death and -”

Before he could finish, he saw Byron turn and glance in his direction, and he immediately realized he'd been recognized.

“He's seen me.”

“You have to talk to him some time,” Jo replied, still keeping out of sight behind the phone box. “I'd rather stay out of his way, but this is a murder investigation. It's natural for you to be a suspect.”

“But -”

“Get it over with.”

“Harry Morgan!” Byron called out, heading toward him. “I'm gonna take a wild stab and assume that you remember me. I was just about to come out to your place and pay you a visit, but it looks like fate has intervened and served you up to me on a platter. What's up, did you decide to pop down and take another look at the scene of the crime?”

“Just tell the truth,” Jo continued. “Stick to the facts.”

“I think we'll do this down the station,” Byron said as he reached Harry, stopping just a couple of feet from Jo as she waited out of sight around the corner of the box. “Harry Morgan, your pals seem to have a habit of dropping dead, don't they? To lose one friend is unfortunate, but losing two in the space of six months? I think maybe you've got some explaining to do.”

“I didn't do anything to Susannah,” Harry replied defensively.

“A little dickie-bird tells me you were doing something to her about twice a week,” Byron said with a satisfied grin, as if he was already convinced that he'd caught his man. “Susannah Marriott was killed with a knife. Did you know that? Seems rather similar to the fate that befell poor Deborah six months ago. I wouldn't be surprised if the same bastard was behind both attacks. Now, who around these parts was intimately involved with Deborah Dean and Susannah Marriott? Oh, that's right. You were!”

“I didn't hurt anyone,” Harry stammered. “You can't -”

“Are you coming down the station under your own steam,” Byron asked, “or do I have to ask Constable Sykes and Lady Constable Mortimer to assist?”

Harry glanced at Jo, his eyes filled with fear, before turning back to Byron.

“I'll answer your questions,” he said with a sigh, “but I want a lawyer, and I'm telling you right now that you're wasting your time. You'll never -”

“No, you're wasting my time,” Byron replied as he gestured for Harry to follow him to a nearby patrol car. “Fortunately, you'll have a chance to fix that by telling the truth once we're at the nick. Come on, move.”

Harry looked at Jo again, before following the police.

Still keeping out of sight behind the phone box, Jo listened as Jack Byron continued to make insinuations about Harry's guilt. After a moment, she peered around the corner just in time to see Harry getting into the back of the car, and then she waited as Byron and the officers drove away. Once they were out of view, she stepped around the phone box and made her way toward the hotel, quickly hurrying up the steps and into the reception area. With the police having taken the body away and completed their sweeps of the building, the hotel's employees were trying to get things back to normal, although shocked guests were still milling about in the lobby and it was clear that nobody knew how to handle the situation now that Susannah was gone.

Slipping through the crowd, Jo managed to slip unnoticed past the reception desk, and she quickly made her way through the unlocked door that led into Susannah's empty office. Once she'd gently pushed the door shut behind her, she paused and saw that the drawers of the desk had been left open, which she knew meant that Byron's officers had already conducted a full search.

As full as they ever managed, at least.

Stepping forward, she made her way over to the desk and saw an assortment of hotel documents. Picking up one of the many print-outs, she saw that it contained a guest list for the previous night, which she folded and slipped into her pocket before making her way around the desk and crouching down to take a closer look at the open drawers, which had clearly been stripped of anything that Jack Byron and his team had considered useful or relevant. Still, reaching inside, Jo felt to make sure nothing was taped to the top of each opening, just in case Susannah might have hidden something that had been missed.

There was nothing.

Getting to her feet, she headed over to the bookcase and saw that most of the titles were related to the hotel and catering industries. She pulled one out and began to flick through, before realizing she was wasting her time. Slipping the book back into place, she turned and looked across the office, and she was already starting to think that perhaps she wasn't going to find anything useful. For once, perhaps Jack Byron and his men had done a halfway decent job and had scoured the place thoroughly, although she couldn't ignore the nagging thought that Byron was notorious for always screwing up a case somewhere along the way.

Always missing something.

Always overlooking things that others later noticed.

After all, Byron had a reputation for rushing his investigations, and for trying to get everything figured out by shouting at people. That included his officers, who were usually being harangued and rushed by their boss to such an extent that they never had time to really examine a crime scene properly. Sure, Byron had a decent case closure rate, and he fairly often stumbled to the right answer, but Jo knew that along the way there'd surely be a collection of missed opportunities. At that moment, for example, Byron was surely interrogating Harry Morgan with unmatched ferocity.

And while she still didn't know who'd killed Deborah Dean or Susannah Marriott, she was fairly sure that Harry Morgan was not responsible for either death.

Still, after searching the office for a few more minutes, she found nothing of interest. Out of sheer desperation, she began to sift through the rest of the documents on the desk, although deep down she already figured that she was unlikely to strike gold in a bunch of paperwork about the day-to-day life of a hotel. Finally, telling herself that it had been worth a shot but that she needed to get going, she made her way around the desk, only to bump her foot against the wastepaper basket.

Looking down, she saw that the basket was filled with dumped pieces of paper. Byron's men would certainly have gone through it, but they'd obviously not seen fit to take very much away. Crouching down, she started looking through the various scrunched-up pieces of paper, finding nothing of interest until finally she pulled out a thick, folded wad of pages that had been stapled together. Taking a look at the first page, she realized to her surprise that she'd found what appeared to be the first few chapters of a novel.

At the bottom of each page, a printed date-stamp showed that the chapters had been printed out a little over six months earlier, just a few days before Deborah Dean's death.

“Seriously?” she muttered, flicking through the pages as she began to consider the possibility that she'd located at least a portion of Deborah's manuscript. She knew that Susannah had once seen a copy, but that didn't explain why it was suddenly in the bin now, half a year later.

Suddenly the door opened and the receptionist stepped into the room, stopping as soon as she saw Jo.

“Who are you? Are you with the police?”

“I was promoted to the rank of Detective Sergeant a few years ago,” Jo said, not strictly lying as she got to her feet and slipped the novel pages into her jacket pocket. “Sorry, I just wanted to nose around.”

“I thought the police had all left.”

“That is certainly the case at this particular moment,” Jo replied carefully as she headed over to the door.

“So we can start cleaning up?” the receptionist asked. “I'm sorry, it's just that everything's so chaotic this morning and we don't know where to start.”

“Did Detective Inspector Byron not give you any instructions?”

“Not really. He just sort of yelled at me when I asked.”

“I think that means he's done here,” Jo replied. “I think he thinks he's got his man. Feel free to start tidying up.”

Stepping back out into the crowded reception area, she began to make her way over to the front door. People were still milling about, still talking excitedly about the morning's awful events, and Jo wasn't entirely surprised to find that the people of Chelmsbury were already gossiping about Susannah Marriot's death. She overheard half a dozen theories about the murder before she even reached the door, and then she felt someone nudge her arm as she was about to head outside.

“Your boss is a right tosser,” the man from the off-license said grumpily.

“Oh, he's not my -”

Jo hesitated for a moment, before realizing that there was no point admitting to anything that wasn't strictly necessary.

“Sorry about that,” she continued. “Detective Inspector Byron doesn't have a very good bedside manner.”

“I was only trying to tell him what I'd seen,” the man continued, “but he said it wasn't relevant. Wouldn't even let me finish a sentence.”

“And what did you see?” Jo asked.

“It's probably nothing,” he replied, “but do you remember when you were in my shop the other day, and I told you that some guy had freaked Deborah Dean out one night?”

“I remember.”

“Well, that's the thing,” he continued. “I know this is gonna sound like a coincidence, but I saw the same guy again last night. Whoever he is, it looks like he's back in town.”

“What exactly does he look like?”

“Dark hair, early forties. But I can do a bit better than that. He was in my shop last night and he used his card to pay. I managed to catch his name. He's called Lucas Evans, and I think he's staying in this hotel again.”

Chapter Twenty

Six months ago

“Merriwig, what is it now?” Deborah asked, as the cat brushed against her arm yet again, causing her to mis-type a word. “Half the typos in this book are going to be your fault!”

Merriwig meowed again, before hopping off the sofa and heading over to the door.

“Use the cat-flap,” Deborah muttered. She made some corrections to her work, before glancing over and seeing that Merriwig was sitting next to the cat-flap, waiting for the door to be opened. “You know how to use it,” she continued with a sigh. “Come on, I'm really in a groove here.”

She turned back to the laptop, but Merriwig meowed again before she had a chance to set her fingers on the keyboard.

“I'm going to ignore you until I've finished this chapter,” she continued, determined to focus on her work and nothing else. “There's nothing you can do to distract me.”

She typed a couple more lines, before realizing she could hear the faint patter of rain falling against the window. A moment later, unable to help herself, she glanced over at the door and saw that Merriwig was staring at her. Exhausted but consumed by the desire to keep working, Deborah leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain as she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Finally, she opened her eyes again and leaned forward to continue with the book.

Another meow.

“Oh fine!” she muttered suddenly, getting to her feet and heading around the sofa, quickly unlocking the door and pulling it open so that the cat could get out. As Merriwig slipped into the yard, Deborah held her hand out and felt a few spots of rain falling against her palm, and a moment later she heard a distant rumble of thunder. “Great,” she said with a sigh, “a storm. That's just what I need with a leaky roof.”

Merriwig slunk across the yard, quickly disappearing into the barn.

Turning, Deborah stepped back into the kitchen.

“I knew it was you in the off-license,” a familiar voice said suddenly.

Deborah froze, not daring to move a muscle, not even daring to turn and look. The voice had been so clear, so close and direct, and she already knew it couldn't possibly have been a figment of her imagination. At the same time, she felt that as long as she didn't turn, as long as she didn't see his face, she could still hope that somehow this wasn't really happening.

“It was you outside the hotel last night, too, wasn't it?” he continued. “I assumed I must be imagining things. Then I came back out, but you'd already gone. It was you, though. I'd recognize you anywhere.”

Still not turning to look at him, Deborah reached out and steadied herself against the counter. Her legs felt weak, as if her knees might buckle at any moment, but finally she realized she had to see his face. Turning slowly to look over her shoulder, she felt her chest tighten as she spotted Lucas standing a few feet away in the middle of the yard, with rain beginning to fall more steadily all around.

“Hello Alice,” he said after a moment. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I don't...”

She paused, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way out of the situation. After all, that was what she'd always been so good at. Wriggling free.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said finally. “My name -”

“Don't try that.”

“It's true,” she continued. “Alice? My name isn't Alice. My name is Deborah.”

“Your name is Alice Pritchard,” he replied matter-of-factly. “That's your maiden name, anyway. While you were married to me, your name was Alice Evans.”

“No. I'm sorry, you're quite mistaken. My name is Deborah Dean and -”

“Oh, come off it!” he snapped. “Alice, I know you far too well for you to try pulling this crap on me. I know you better than anyone else on the planet, remember? That tends to happen when you're married to someone for five years.”

“Married?” She shook her head, before forcing a smile that she already knew was far too weak and unconvincing. “I'm very sorry, but whoever you are, you've obviously mistaken me for someone else. My name is Deborah Dean and I'm a... This is my home, and I don't know why you've shown up here like this, but I'd be grateful if you could accept your mistake and leave me alone.”

“Or what? You'll call the police?”

“I'll have no choice.”

“You wouldn't call the police,” he continued. “Not even if I was standing here with a bloody knife in my hand. And we both know why.”

“I don't think I can help you,” she replied, stepping back and starting to swing the door shut.

Before she could manage that, however, Lucas hurried forward and slipped his foot in the way, forcing the door to stay open just a little.

“I can do anything I want,” he pointed out, “and you won't dare call the police, because calling the police would mean drawing attention to yourself and drawing attention to yourself would mean getting caught. Because we both know, Alice, that you're on the run.”

“I don't -”

Suddenly he pushed against the door, trying to force it open. She just about managed to keep it shut, but her heart was racing now and she was starting to realize her attempt to deflect his attention was never going to work. Her mind was spinning and she just wanted to get rid of him so that she could grab her suitcase and run.

“I only came to town to see an old friend,” Lucas continued. “Mac Holliday. Remember him? That's a hell of a coincidence, isn't it? Then again, you should have known that eventually someone would spot you. You can't hide forever, Alice. No-one can, least of all you. We both know that you always have rotten luck. And now here we are again, face to face after all these years, and your last resort is trying to pretend that you're not really you. That's pretty pathetic, Alice, even by your usual standards.”

“I'm not -”

Before she could get another word out, Lucas slammed his shoulder against the door, forcing it open with such force that the side caught her face and sent her stumbling back. Losing her footing, she slumped to the floor as the door banged against the counter, and a moment later she felt a trickle of hot blood running down her face from a cut just above her right eyebrow. Reaching up to check the wound, she suddenly saw Lucas stepping into the cottage, and she looked up just in time to find him towering above her.

“Is this all you can manage?” he asked, as rain began to fall more heavily outside, tapping with increased urgency against the shed's in roof. “You're pathetic, Alice. You realize that, don't you? Everything you've done, all the people you've hurt, and what's it been for? Just so you can live like a scared little mouse in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, terrified of every sound, knowing full well that your freedom can't last forever? Did you really think you could keep running?”

“Please,” she stammered, as blood trickled all the way down to her lips, “Lucas...”

“Are you begging, now?”

“Just let me finish my book!”

He chuckled.

“Please let me finish it!” she shouted, before suddenly he stepped closer and she instinctively raised her hands to protect her face. Trembling with fear, she pulled back across the floor, but he kept coming. “You know that's all I want! When I've finished the book, I won't hide anymore! I'll turn myself in!”

“Criminals don't get to decide when they're caught, Alice!”

“I'm not a...”

Her voice trailed off as she bumped her back against the sofa. She tried to speak again, but fear kept her throat gripped tight and dry.

“Nobody outruns their judgment day,” Lucas continued, stepping closer until he was staring straight down at her. “It comes for all of us eventually, Alice. It'll come for me one day too. And when it does, I know I'll have questions to answer. On my judgment day, I'll have to account for what I do to you on yours.”

“Please -”

Suddenly he reached down and grabbed her by the throat, hauling her up despite her screams and then throwing her down. Clambering onto the sofa, he pushed her down against the cushions and held her firmly with his right hand, before adding his left a little lower on her throat and starting to squeeze.

“No!” she gasped, grabbing his hands and trying desperately to peel his fingers away one by one. “Please, don't!”

“You'll never get your stinking book finished!” he sneered. “I'll destroy it! I'll destroy the whole bloody thing! And then I'll make sure everyone knows what you are, Alice!” He leaned closer, as she began to cough and splutter for breath. “You're a lying, thieving, whoring fraud with delusions of grandeur, and now you're going to pay the price. I guess I'll see you in hell.” With that, he leaned down even further and kissed the side of her face, before squeezing tighter on her throat.

“Lucas...”

“I hate you!” he screamed. “You ruined my life! You ruined everything!”

“No!” she gurgled, as the rain came down louder outside. “Lucas, please...”

And then she leaned her head back and waited for the end. All the fight drained from her body, and she realized that all she had to do was let him get it over with, and then all the running and all the hiding would end. The pain was intense, but she figured that was no more than she deserved, and after a moment she realized she could feel his firm hands starting to crush the bones in her neck. Just a few more seconds, a few more brief seconds of agony, and everything would be over.

“I deserve this,” she heard her own voice whispering.

Suddenly sitting up on the sofa, she clutched her throat and found that now the only hands on her neck were her own. Gasping for breath, she turned and looked around, but there was no sign of anyone else in the room and a moment later she heard a familiar meow coming from over by the door. Spotting Merriwig still sitting and waiting to go outside, she stared in shock for a moment before realizing that the whole encounter with Lucas must have been a dream.

Stumbling to her feet, she looked around, but the room appeared undisturbed. She headed to the door and tried the handle, only to find that the cottage was still securely locked. At the same time, her heart was pounding and she could still somehow feel the tightness of his grip on her throat, as if he was reaching out from the dream and trying to drag her down.

Next to her feet, Merriwig meowed.

Outside, rain was falling steadily.

Peering through the glass in the door, Deborah looked out at the yard, waiting in case there was any sign of a figure watching. There was no-one, of course; not even when she looked at the exact spot where Lucas had first appeared in her dream. She tried to tell herself that she'd just imagined the whole thing, that her fevered mind had spat up the image of Lucas as a warning, but after a moment she glanced over her shoulder as if she still expected him to suddenly appear and attack her. Finally, reaching up, she touched the side of her face, but now there was no wound and no blood, and it was this simple fact that allowed her to calm her racing thoughts just a little.

Merriwig meowed again.

“Fine,” she muttered, unlocking the door and pulling it open just far enough for the cat to slip out, and then pushing it shut and turning the key again.

Outside, rain was falling and turning the yard to mud. Deborah stared out from behind the door's glass panel, her eyes wide and fearful. All thoughts of working on her book had been lost, and instead she remained at the door and simply watched the yard for any hint of movement.

Finally, she stepped back from the door.

“I have to get out of here,” she whispered, as she began to realize that she only had one option. “I have to leave tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Today

Looking down at the print-out of the guest list, Jo took a moment to double-check that she had the right room number, and then she knocked. A moment later, she heard someone moving about inside, and finally the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged, dark-haired man with a weathered but open face.

“Are you Lucas Evans?” she asked.

“I am. Why, who are you?”

“I need to talk to you about Deborah Dean,” she replied. “Or maybe you knew her better as Alice Pritchard?”

Immediately, she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“You knew her before she came to Chelmsbury, didn't you?” she continued. “I need to know what why she was here, and who she was running from.”

“Are you the police?” he asked cautiously.

“No, but I'm investigating her murder, and the murder of the woman who owned this hotel.” She paused for a moment. “And so far, I can't help noticing that you've been in town on both nights.”

***

“Alice and I were married ten years ago,” Lucas said as he and Jo sat in the hotel room. “We were young, I was twenty-one and she was a year younger, but we were in love. We really were. We had no money, we were living in a spare room at my parents' house, but we had each other and I thought that would be enough while we got started.”

“So her name was Alice Pritchard before she was married,” Jo replied, “and then Alice Lucas?”

He nodded.

“We were dirt poor,” he continued, sitting hunched next to the window, his rounded shoulders silhouetted against the net curtains. “I borrowed money from my parents sometimes, just for food and basic things. I was still training to be a doctor, so I wasn't exactly bringing in much money. It was the typical starving student situation, really. Living on noodles and rice half the time, barely having enough for a pint at the pub once a week. Times were tough, but that was the price we had to pay in order to work for the future we wanted. We were making sacrifices so that one day, we'd be able to have a home and a family of our own. It all seemed possible back then.”

“And Alice?”

“She was writing.”

“Fiction?”

“She'd finished one novel, and she'd started on a second.”

“Had she sold anything?”

“No. She occasionally sent short stories to magazines and websites, and a few pieces got published here and there, but nobody was offering money. You have to understand that I believed in her. I read her work, I knew it was brilliant, and I was willing to support us both while she waited for her big break. She got up at five o'clock every morning and wrote for twelve hours a day. Novels, short stories, she tried everything, and all the while she was working on the novel she hoped to eventually sell to a publisher. She was really driven, and I would have done anything for her. You have to believe that. Anything!”

He sat in silence for a moment, as if telling the story had already begun to drain him.

“She just needed a break,” he added.

“So what went wrong?” Jo asked.

“Suddenly she had money,” he continued, his voice tightening a little. “Not much, but just enough for me to notice and start wondering. She took me to a local pub for dinner one Sunday. She said she'd been saving. Then she took me again the following week, and I realized there was no way she could have saved that much. I asked my parents, but they said she hadn't asked to borrow anything, so naturally I began to wonder where she was getting it from. Eventually she told me she'd made a little money online, writing for blogs. I didn't know anything about that kind of thing, so I just believed her. I thought it was possible, especially for someone smart like her.”

“And where was the money really coming from?”

“She'd been doing some Saturday work in a local shop. Nothing much, certainly not enough for her to make a lot of money. Stacking shelves, working on the till. It was one of those little places that's a convenience store and a post office all rolled into one. Then one day there was a police car outside the shop, and it turned out that someone had been stealing money from the till. It hadn't been noticed at first, because she always waited until the day's takings had been counted, and the owner of the shop was very trusting, very kind. But over a period of two months, Alice had stolen almost £500.”

He paused for a moment, with tears in his eyes.

“She wasn't a bad person,” he added. “You have to believe me.”

“I do.”

“She was just so sick and tired of being poor, and of relying on me for money.”

“So she saw an easy answer,” Jo continued, “and she tried to take it?”

“We had to move out. Mum and Dad couldn't look at her. I'll never quite understand how she avoided jail time, but it was her first offense and she cooperated fully with the police, so she ended up with just probation and some community service. I remember her sobbing and sobbing, telling me she was sorry. She tried to run away, but I caught her and told her I still loved her. I told her I'd stand by her, no matter what. We rented a basement room in a new town, and somehow we made it work. We were back to having no money again, but I stood by her because I still loved her. I never stopped. It almost cost me my relationship with my parents, but Alice was my wife and there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. I forgave her. I understood why she'd done it, even if I couldn't condone her actions. And I still trusted her. She was still the same girl I'd loved for so many years already.”

“And then what happened?” Jo asked.

She waited, but he seemed unable to say another word.

“I need to know,” she told him.

“She was a good person!”

“You have to tell me what happened next.”

“She was a really good, wonderful -”

“I get it,” Jo said, interrupting him. “I still need to know how she ended up in another mess.”

“She had a problem,” he continued, touching the side of his head. “That's the only way I can describe it. One terrible flaw that she could never beat.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Tell me,” Jo said finally.

“I was almost finished with my studies,” he continued, “and suddenly Alice wanted to take me out to dinner. She swore that this time she'd been saving money from a job she'd taken in another corner shop, and I forced myself to believe her. I thought it was my duty as a loyal husband to keep from getting too suspicious. The truth is, I had my doubts, but I knew that those doubts could destroy my marriage so I pushed them from my mind. I took pride in believing that she'd never do anything like that again, that she'd learned her lesson. And everything seemed perfect. I was about to qualify as a doctor, and we'd be able to get everything we'd worked for. I was already planning how to support Deborah so that she could continue to work on her book. We were so close to everything we'd been working toward.”

He hesitated.

“And then... I'll never forget walking around the corner and seeing another police car outside our flat.”

“She'd stolen money again?”

He nodded.

“From the shop where she worked?”

Another nod.

“She would have been given a custodial sentence the second time,” Jo pointed out. “She had form.”

“She was a good person,” he replied, with fresh tears in his eyes. “I know that must seem difficult to believe, but she was pure and good in almost every way. She just had this one flaw, which was the belief that she could take a short-cut to success. Both times, when she stole money, she was convinced that she was about to make it big, that she'd be able to pay it back before anyone noticed. The second time it happened, she was sobbing in our bedroom, telling me that she knew she'd let me down. She'd sent out hundreds of query letters to publishers and agents, desperately trying to get an advance for her work so she could fix things, but she'd run out of town. Even then, she was convinced she still had a chance.”

He sat in silence for a moment, before wiping his eyes.

“So you left her?” Jo asked.

“Of course not!”

“I'm sorry. So...”

“I still loved her,” he continued, “and I was prepared to stand by her, no matter what. But the morning before she was due back in court, before she was due to be sentenced, I woke up and she was gone from our bed. There was a note downstairs, telling me that she loved me but that she knew she was destroying my life. And then a little while later I found out that she'd stolen some other money from a different shop as well. As far as the police could tell, she must have had around £10,000 in cash when she ran away. They searched for her, of course, but she'd vanished. I searched too, but she'd gone to ground and there was just no sign of her until...”

He took a deep breath.

“I came to Chelmsbury six months ago,” he continued, “to see a friend. A colleague, really. And on the first night, I was in the off-license and I saw this woman. I told myself I had to be wrong, that there was no way I could have stumbled upon her after all these years. She looked a little different, but at the same time her eyes...” Again, he paused. “I didn't dare say anything. I still thought I had to be wrong. I followed her outside, but I lost sight of her in the dark street and I never saw her again. I stuck around for a couple more days, and then I left. But on the morning I checked out, I spoke to the woman who owned the hotel.”

“Susannah Marriot?”

He nodded.

“And what did she say?” Jo asked.

“She mentioned a friend of hers named Alice. I remember she said the name over and over, like she was trying to watch for my reaction.”

“So she knew,” Jo whispered.

“When I asked what she meant, she clammed up,” he continued. “I told myself it was a coincidence, and I left. I keep thinking that things could have been different if I'd stayed and dug some more, but I couldn't believe it was her. So I left, and then a few weeks later I saw a news report about the death of a woman named Deborah Dean in the area. They showed a photo and...”

His voice trailed off.

“You knew it was Alice?”

“I told myself it couldn't be. That's why I didn't go to the police. They came to me, eventually. They told me they'd made a DNA match to a sample from Alice's arrest record, and that she'd had been living under the name Deborah Dean. I didn't know what to tell them, so I simply listened and they went away. I found it hard to believe the whole thing was true. Deep down, I told myself that Alice was smarter than that, that she'd never let something so awful happen to her. And then finally, last week, I decided to come back and try to find out as much as possible about her life here at Chelmsbury. Maybe it's dumb, but I just want to know what she was doing. How she was living. Whether she was okay. And who killed her.”

“In her final days,” Jo replied, “she thought that someone was following her.”

“It wasn't me.”

“Did you ever go out to Skellin Cottage?”

“Not yet. I was planning to, but I've still not worked up the courage. I've been trying to go to her grave, too, but... I just can't. God, I'm such a bloody coward!”

“So the only time you saw her in Chelmsbury was in the off-license?”

“And even then, I wasn't sure it was Alice. I mean, I don't think I was sure. To be honest, I don't know anymore. And the police still haven't caught her killer.”

Jo nodded.

“And another woman is dead, isn't she? The owner of this hotel. You don't think that has anything to do with what happened to Alice, do you?”

“Susannah Marriot and Alice were friends for a while,” Jo told him. “They had a falling out, but I think there might be a connection between their deaths. Also, Alice was dating a local man and -”

Stopping suddenly, she realized she might have said too much. She could see the flicker of pain in Lucas's eyes, although he quickly looked down at his hands.

“I'm sorry,” she continued, “I...”

“It's okay. She had to have a life after she left me. I hope she was happy, I hope...”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment he seemed too overcome to say anything.

“I just wish,” he continued finally, his voice trembling as he fought back tears, “that I'd been able to see her one more time. I still loved her. I would have tried to get her to come home, to make her realize that I was ready to stand by her no matter what, to promise that I'd wait for her if she had to go to jail. And if she didn't want any of that, then at least I could have let her know that I still knew she was a good person. That I didn't hate her or regret anything between us. I just hope that when she died, she knew that I still loved her. Do you think she did?”

He paused again, and this time the tears couldn't be stopped. Putting his head in his hands, he leaned forward and let his shoulders shake slightly. A broken man.

Jo sat and watched him for a moment, not knowing what to say.

“You have to find the bastard who did this,” Lucas sneered finally, turning to her.

“I'm -”

“Don't tell me you're working on it!” he said firmly. “The police used to say that. I used to call them every single day, hoping they'd have finally made a breakthrough, but all they ever said was that they were working on it. At one point, they even seemed to have a suspect, but then the case went cold. Alice wasn't perfect, she had a massive flaw that ruined our chance of a happy life together, but that doesn't mean she deserved to die. Someone murdered her, and that person is still out there somewhere. She -”

Before he could finish, his phone briefly buzzed and he glanced at the screen.

“Is there anyone you can think of,” Jo said as he checked the message, “who might have come looking for Alice? Maybe someone from her old life, someone who could have tracked her down? If she stole money from several separate places, it's not impossible that someone decided to come after her for revenge.”

“Actually,” Lucas replied, scrolling down a webpage, “it looks like you can save your breath. I have an alert set up in case any news comes in about Alice's case, and something just made the headlines.”

“What is it?” Jo asked, just as her own phone buzzed and she saw that she'd received a message from Sam.

“They've made an arrest,” Lucas said, tilting his screen so she could see the BBC headline. “A local man named Harry Morgan has been charged with the murders of Alice Pritchard, or Deborah Dean as she was known around here, and of Susannah Marriott. Maybe this nightmare is finally at an end. They've caught the bastard!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Six months ago

“Think, damn you!” Deborah hissed, reaching for her purse but then freezing, as if all her thoughts had collided and left her momentarily unable to even function. “This isn't going to work. This is a mess.”

Taking a step back, she sat on the arm of the sofa and tried to figure out exactly what she was supposed to do next. She knew she had to leave, that Skellin Cottage suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and exposed. She understood that the encounter with Lucas had been some kind of fevered waking nightmare, but this this realization didn't exactly make her feel any more at ease. After all, she'd felt for a while now as if she was on the brink of madness, and now she was starting to hallucinate.

She'd run before.

She'd been scared before.

She'd never doubted her sanity before.

Finally, grabbing her phone, she brought up Harry's number and tried to call him.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, “please pick up. Please, you have to. Please, Harry, please...”

A moment later, the call was cut. She tried again, with the same result, and she quickly realized that he probably didn't want to talk to her. For that, she figured, she couldn't blame him one iota.

Frantically searching for Susannah's contact details, she tried her number too, only to once again have no luck. Mumbling under her breath, she tried Harry one more time before letting out a gasp of frustration as she threw her phone across the kitchen and put her head in her hands.

“You can do this,” she whispered finally. “You've run before, you can do it again. You can go somewhere else, somewhere new, and this time you can finish your book. That's all that matters. It's the only thing. And then you can publish it, and then Lucas will read it and understand, and maybe...”

She paused, before looking over at the coffee table. Her eyes were full of tears, but now a fresh idea was forming in her mind. No matter how bad things got, fresh ideas always came. Those ideas could be useful when she was writing, when she needed to get her characters out of a jam, but they could be dangerous in real life.

“I just need to -”

Before she could finish, she heard a banging sound outside. She looked toward the dark window, but all she saw was the sparkle of rain drops. A moment later, however, she heard another bump, as if someone had just slammed a car door shut. Stumbling across the kitchen, she turned the light off and froze, staring out at the dark yard but not seeing anyone.

“Please don't be him,” she stammered, “please, anyone but him...”

She waited, and after a few seconds she began to tell herself that she'd imagined the bump. She focused on the fact that her nerves were playing havoc with her thoughts, and she took slow, deep breaths as she began to calm herself just a little.

“There's no-one there,” she said out loud, trying to give herself a little extra courage. “There's -”

Suddenly someone banged on the front door, and she saw a hand outside in the rain. Immediately ducking down out of view, she held her breath and waited.

“Deborah?” a familiar voice called out. “My dear, are you quite alright?”

She stayed completely still, hoping that Lord Chesleford would just go away.

“Who's in there?” he shouted. “I saw someone through the window as I arrived. I'll call the police if I have to!”

Filled with panic, she stumbled to her feet and raced across the room, quickly turning the key and pulling the door open just in time to see that Lord Chesleford was tapping at his cellphone.

“Oh, it is you,” he said with a faint smile, putting the phone away. “You had me worried there for a moment, I was thinking I'd have to call the police and report an intruder.”

“Don't do that!” she stammered. “I mean, it's me. It's just me. I'm fine.”

He peered past her, into the pitch black kitchen.

“Is the power out?” he asked.

“What?”

“Why are you in there with no lights on?”

“Oh, I...”

She paused, trying to think of an excuse.

“I was sleeping,” she told him finally, “and then I got up to fetch a glass of water and I guess I just didn't bother with the light-switch.”

“Being economical, eh?” he replied with a grin. “Very commendable. To be honest, I was just passing and I thought I'd pop by and see how you're doing, even though it's a little late. I tried phoning you earlier, but you didn't pick up.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, absolutely not. I just... Well, I suppose I missed our little chats. That's all, really.”

“You were here yesterday,” she pointed out.

“Was I?” He hesitated, as if he hadn't quite realized. “Well, sometimes it can feel like much longer, when one is all alone. It's such a cold and rainy night, and I only have Phillip for company up at the house, and I suppose one starts to get lonely, doesn't one?” He hesitated, eyeing her cautiously, before holding up a bottle of wine. “And then sometimes one realizes that one knows someone else who might be lonely, and one realizes that two lonely people...”

He paused, watching her closely, before reaching out and placing a hand on the side of her arm.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Did you see anyone else out there?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Stepping past him, she stood in the doorway and looked out at the rain-lashed yard. For a moment, every shadow seemed to twitch and turn, as if dark figures were simply deciding when and where they'd appear. They were in her mind already, straining at the edges, and she felt certain that at any second they'd start to appear in real life.

“Perhaps I should stay a while,” Lord Chesleford continued cautiously. “My dear, I hope you won't mind if I say that you don't seem quite yourself this evening. Do you know what would help? A couple of glasses of wine!”

“I feel him watching me,” she whispered.

“I'm sorry?”

“Maybe it was my mind's way of warning me. Maybe my subconscious mind knows that he's out there somewhere, that he's coming. I can't ignore that. I can't ignore my own mind.”

“What do -”

“You should go!” she added, turning to him. “Please. I don't need... I'm fine.”

“But -”

“I'd like to be left alone now.”

Stepping back past him, she turned and waited for him to leave the cottage.

“I would prefer to stay for at least a short while,” he told her cautiously. “I can't pretend to understand precisely what's wrong here, but are you scared of someone?”

She shook her head.

“I can protect you, you know,” he continued. “I know you probably think of me as some dreadfully old, infirm fool, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve and I might be more use in a sticky situation than you realize. If someone is threatening you, Deborah, you must let me stay and look after you. Even in these supposedly enlightened times, I'm still a man and you are still a woman.”

“Please, just leave me alone.”

She grabbed the door, ready to swing it shut, but Lord Chesleford was still standing in the way.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Who's what?”

“Who are you so very scared of?”

“No-one.”

“I see it in your eyes, my dear.”

“You're wrong. You're imagining things. Please, it's late and I'm very tired, I just want to get to bed.”

“But -”

“Please!” She began to push the door shut, only for it to bump against the side of his shoe. “I'm absolutely fine,” she continued, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “All I need is a good night's sleep.”

He hesitated, before taking a step back.

“Well,” he said finally, “I'm not one to impose when I'm not wanted. I still think you should let me stay, even if it's just for a few hours. I can tell that something has scared you, my dear, and I desperately want you to let me protect you. You might end up seeing me in a new light.”

“Thank you, but I'm fine.”

With that, she shut the door and waited for him to leave. He remained on the other side for a moment, barely visible through the rain drops that ran down the glass, and then finally he turned and walked away. Deborah remained at the door, watching until she saw his car leaving, and then she hurried to her phone and tried Harry's number again. When that didn't work, she tried Susannah, and then she grabbed her car keys from the counter.

Glancing at her from the sofa, Merriwig let out a casual meow.

“I'll be back soon,” she stammered. “I'm going to work this out. I'll figure out a plan.”

Hurrying into the yard, she headed straight for her car and started the engine. By the time she drove out onto the dark country lane, she'd already changed her mind a couple of times, and finally she began to drive away from town, heading toward Harry's farm. Her hands were trembling on the wheel and she was still desperately trying to think of something, anything, she could do to make everything alright again. One moment she was resolved to stay in the area, the next she felt she had no choice but to leave, and the next she felt certain that Lucas was following her. She went back and forth between the various ideas until finally she reached Harry's farmhouse and took a right turn into the driveway. By this point, she was more convinced than ever that Lucas was nearby.

Leaving the engine running and the headlights burning through the late-night rain, she clambered out of the car and splashed down into ankle-deep mud. Ordinarily she'd have picked her way carefully across the yard, but tonight she ran as fast as she could manage.

“Harry!” she called out, before reaching the door and pounding with her fists. “Harry, please! Wake up! He's after me!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Today

“You've got the wrong man!” Jo pointed out as she followed Sam across the police station's car park. “You realize that, don't you?”

“It's Jack Byron's case, Jo, and -”

“Jack Byron's an idiot!” she continued, stepping in front of him to keep him from going through the door. “Harry Morgan didn't kill either of those women.”

“I can't discuss the -”

“And you know that full well! Jack Byron is doing what Jack Byron always does. He latches onto a suspect at the beginning of a case, and he gets this kind of tunnel vision! He doesn't consider any other possibilities! He considers it a matter of personal pride that his first instinct is always right!”

“Over here!” Grabbing her arm, Sam led her around the corner so that they were less likely to be seen. “Until a couple of hours ago,” he continued, “I would have completely agreed with you. But Jo, the evidence is starting to pile up. For one thing, Harry Morgan was involved in a sexual relationship with both women, and in both cases the relationship had hit the rocks shortly before they were killed. For another, Harry had no alibi on the nights of the murders. And for another, it turns out that he'd been packing suitcases at his farmhouse. The man was planning to run away.”

“I talked him out of that,” Jo replied. “I persuaded him to stick around.”

“It's not looking good.”

“All the evidence so far is circumstantial.”

“What about the fact that he was seen loitering outside the hotel on the night Susannah Marriott died?”

“What?”

“Two separate witnesses both saw him. He denied it at first, but then he said he just waited to see her and then went home when he realized she wasn't there.”

“Well, I...”

“Plus,” Sam continued, “Harry's ex-wife Vivian says she saw him driving toward Skellin Cottage on the night Deborah was killed. Harry says that's not true, but Vivian has given a sworn statement confirming that she saw Harry's car near Skellin Cottage. Come on, Jo, even you have to admit that this is looking very bad for him.”

Hesitating for a moment, Jo tried to think of an explanation.

“Maybe you didn't know,” Sam continued, glancing over his shoulder to check once again that they hadn't been spotted, before turning back to her, “that he was also seen leaving his farmhouse on the night Alice, or Deborah, was murdered. He denied that too, until he realized Byron had a witness, and then he started going on about how he likes driving alone late at night to clear his head. Even you have to admit that he's starting to seem pretty slippery.”

“That doesn't mean he killed anyone!”

“No, but it means he's been caught lying to the police. Twice. In two separate murder investigations. Jo, it's starting to look as if despite everything that went on in her past, Alice Pritchard aka Deborah Dean was killed because of a simple lover's tiff. She rejected Harry and he couldn't handle it. Then the same thing happened this week with Susannah Marriott and boom, he did it again. Byron's calling in a psychologist to speak to Harry and determine his state of mind.”

“But Harry denies it?”

“Harry denies it. If this goes to a jury trial, though, you know how it's going to look. Juries don't take kindly to people admitting that they lied to the police, and Harry has lied multiple times.” He paused for a moment, seeing from the look in her eyes that she still wasn't convinced. “Maybe this case is done and dusted. Maybe you need to go and tell Lord Chesleford that justice is being served. I still can't believe you were hired as a private investigator. I mean, what kind of person hires a PI in the twenty-first century, eh?”

“Someone who wants to know who murdered his friend,” Jo pointed out. “And Harry Morgan is not the killer.”

“My hands are tied,” he continued. “Even Jack Byron gets it right occasionally, and it looks like his bull in a china shop approach has actually worked for once. Harry Morgan has been charged with both murders, and he's going to appear before magistrates in the morning. Then he'll be remanded in custody until he can be tried in court, and we both know that the jury won't think twice before convicting him. This is over, Jo.”

Shaking her head, she took a step back.

“In case you've forgotten,” he added, “Harry Morgan also gave his ex-wife a nasty little scar back when they were married. The man has a temper.”

“He didn't kill anyone!”

“So who did it, then?” Sam asked. “If not Harry, who?”

“I don't know.”

“Seems like you've got a problem, then.” He sighed again. “Let this one go, Jo. There's nothing to fight here. Jack's got his man, and I can't believe I'm saying this but for once I actually agree with him.”

“I'm going to prove you wrong,” she replied, before stepping past him and hurrying back across the parking lot. “You've got an innocent men in that cell!”

“Jo!” he called after her. “Laura and I are having a barbecue for the kids on Saturday! I thought you might wanna pop along! It'd be good for you to see people again!”

Not even noticing the invitation, Jo was already at her car. Her mind was racing, but she knew one thing without any doubt. Harry Morgan hadn't killed anyone.

***

“If you want me to say I'm surprised, I can't,” Vivian told Jo as they stood outside her house. “If you want me to say I'm sorry, I can't say that either. Harry's a violent man, and I'm just shocked that it took this long for the police to do something about him.”

“You said you saw him driving toward Skellin Cottage on the night Deborah was murdered.”

She fold her arms. “That's right.”

“What time?”

“Not long before she died.”

“What time exactly?”

“I don't know exactly,” she said with a sigh, “but it was him, alright. Apparently he's told the cops it's not true, but he would say that, wouldn't he?”

“But he -”

“Look at this!” she added firmly, tapping the scar just above her eyebrow. “Any man who does something like this to a woman deserves to rot in jail for the rest of his life!”

“I'm not trying to excuse -”

“He didn't even spend one night behind bars!” she continued. “Can you believe that? He could have given me concussion! He could have killed me! And what happened? Community service and that's it! It's a travesty when people can go around doing things like that, and then they just get away without any punishment at all!”

“When you saw him on the night that Deborah was murdered, did he -”

“I don't have to tell you anything!” she added, turning and heading to her front door.

“I'm just trying to figure out the timeline,” Jo replied, hurrying after her. “Nothing else that I've seen so far has made me think that Harry's a murderer.”

“Then you're as dumb as the cops,” Vivian muttered, turning to her and putting a hand on the door, ready to push it shut. “How does it feel to have been taken in and manipulated by him, eh? Do you feel like an idiot? Do you feel like a bloody fool? Welcome to my world, love. I never liked Susannah Marriott and I bloody loathed that Deborah Dean woman, but I wouldn't wish this on them. I wouldn't want either of them to get mixed up with Harry and end up dead.”

She began to shut the door, before hesitating for a moment.

“I tried to warn Deborah, you know,” she added. “I bumped into her and Susannah just a couple of days before the first murder, and I tried to warn her away from Harry. As God is my witness, I tried to do the right thing, but the stupid cow laughed in my face. Some people just won't be told, will they? And now they're both dead, but at least this time Harry'll end up in jail. He's belonged in there ever since the night he gave me this scar! Face it, Harry Morgan is a murderer!”

With that, she slammed the door shut, leaving Jo standing on the front step.

***

“The victim was stabbed six times in the small of the back,” Jo muttered as she sat cross-legged on the sofa, reading the coroner's report into Susannah Marriot's murder while rain tapped at the cottage window, “and then once in the chest. The final blow pierced the heart, but the previous six were -”

She turned to the next page.

“- sufficient to cause death. The weapon was a medium-length knife, no more than five or six inches long, and minor bruising around the wounds on the back indicate a small handle. Tears inside the wounds also suggest a non-serrated blade with a tapering tip.”

Sighing, she leaned back for a moment and tried to imagine Harry stabbing Susannah six times in the back and then once in the chest. Even in her mind's eye, the entire scenario seemed impossible, and she couldn't shake the feeling that even if Harry had attacked Susannah after some kind of argument, it was highly unlikely that he'd have stabbed her so many times. Besides, the final wound on the chest seemed very calm and deliberate, as if someone had been keen to ensure that Susannah was dead, and that kind of calculation seemed beyond Harry.

Hearing a sudden bump at the door, she looked over but saw no sign of anyone. She waited, and a moment later she heard the bump again.

Getting to her feet, she headed across the room and peered out, but there was still no sign of anyone in the rain-spattered yard. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, only for a cat to slink inside and brush against her legs.

“You must be the famous Merriwig,” she muttered, crouching down to give the cat a welcoming pat. “I've heard a lot about you. Did you take to being an outside cat after she died? Well, welcome back inside. I don't suppose there's any way you can tell me who killed your mistress, is there?”

Letting out a loud meow, the cat slunk away and headed to an empty food bowl.

“I thought not,” Jo said as she stood up again. “I didn't get any cat food in, but I'm guessing you don't run short of mice in a place like this.”

Hearing her phone start to buzz, she headed back to the coffee table and saw that Lord Chesleford was trying to get through. She hesitated for a moment, before picking up.

“Hi,” she said cautiously, “I was just about to -”

“What the hell is all this nonsense on the news?” he spluttered. “They're saying Harry bloody Morgan has been charged with Deborah's murder!”

“The police -”

“I don't give a damn about the police! The police are a bunch of dribbling incompetents! There's no way Harry Morgan killed her!”

“I agree, but -”

“So what the hell am I paying you for, then?”

“I haven't stopped looking into the -”

“I thought you'd get to the bottom of this!” he continued furiously. “I thought you might actually be smart enough to figure out the truth. Instead, you've spent several days swanning around town doing next to nothing, no doubt building up a nice expenses claim, while another woman has ended up dead and now the police have picked up Harry bloody Morgan! For Christ's sake, they've got the wrong man! Even a simpleton can see that!”

“Harry lied to them about his whereabouts,” she pointed out.

“So? A man has a right to lie now and then, without getting arrested for murder!”

“I'm reviewing some documents at the moment,” she explained. “I don't think this is over, Lord Chesleford, but for now the police seem very much convinced that they've caught the right person. There's nothing I can personally do to change their mind, other than keep looking into -”

“Oh, you're bloody hopeless!” he continued, his voice trembling with rage. “How much have I paid you already? Five hundred pounds? And what have you done to earn that money, eh?”

“If you're not happy,” she replied, “I can certainly refund you the -”

“I wanted results!” he yelled, loud enough for her to move the phone a little further away from her ear. “I wanted poor Deborah's killer to be brought to justice. Instead, I turned on the news a few minutes ago and learned about this ridiculous sham!” He muttered something else under his breath, and a moment later there was a bump on the other end of the line. “Go to your room, Phillip! Now! I don't have time to deal with your constant whining! Stop blubbing like a baby!”

“I completely understand if you've lost faith in me,” Jo said, trying to stay calm. “If you want me to stop looking into this, I'll give you a full refund of every penny you've paid me, but I'd really like the chance to spend at least a few more days looking into the two murders. I think what happened to Susannah is connected to Deborah's death, and I'm convinced -”

“You're an idiot!” he snapped.

“I'm not sure that I -”

“Phillip, go to your bloody room this instant!” he shouted. “I won't tell you again! This is adult business, so stop gawping at me like that and get out of my sight!”

“I have -”

“Now!” he screamed, so loud that the phone briefly buzzed.

“I have a copy of the autopsy reports,” Jo explained after a moment, “and I'm going through them right now. I was planning to call you this evening and tell you about my findings so far. I've tracked down Deborah's real identity and her real name, I've spoken to her ex-husband, I know why and how she ended up in Chelmsbury. I agree with you, Harry Morgan isn't the killer. I need to -”

Before she could finish, she heard a pained cry on the other end of the line.

“What was that?” she asked.

“What's that infernal child up to now?” Lord Chesleford muttered, and from the sound of thudding footsteps it was clear that he'd begun to make his way upstairs. “Phillip!” he roared, as another cry rang out. “You're testing my patience beyond all reason! You're lucky I don't keep a cane in this house!”

“Are you sure everything's okay?” Jo asked. “It sounds like -”

“What are you doing?” Lord Chesleford said suddenly, and now there was a hint of fear in his voice. “Oh God, Phillip, please don't hurt -”

Suddenly the call went dead, leaving Jo standing in stunned silence in the middle of the cottage's front room. Quickly bringing up the number again, she tried to call back, only for the phone to ring a couple of times and then cut off. She tried one more time, and now no connection was made at all, as if the phone on the other end had been switched off.

Grabbing her keys from the counter, Jo hurried out the front door and made her way toward her car. She told herself to stay calm, that most likely Lord Chesleford was just drunk again, but in the back of her mind she still couldn't shake a hint of concern. Phillip's voice had sounded so pained and anguished, and she help worrying that something was seriously wrong. As she began the drive to Chesleford Manor, she tried the number again, still without any luck, and finally she began speeding along country lanes, desperately trying to get to the house in case someone was in danger.

As soon as she pulled up in the driveway at the front of the manor house, she saw that the front door was wide open. Racing out of the car, she hurried up the steps and into the hallway, and then she stopped as she heard more muffled cries coming from upstairs.

“Hello?” she called out, her heart pounding as she began to make her way up toward the landing. “Is there -”

Suddenly Phillip cried out again, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding in the distance and then a door slamming open and hitting a wall.

“In here!” Lord Chesleford called out, his voice trembling. “Hurry!”

Running along to Phillip's room, Jo stopped in the doorway and saw to her horror that Lord Chesleford was on the floor, clutching a bloodied wound on his right arm. Another thick wound ran across his face, as if he'd been slashed by a knife.

“It's Phillip!” he gasped. “He's out of his mind! He's trying to kill me!”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Today

Pushing the door open, Jo ducked down and stepped through the small opening that led out onto the manor house's lead-lined roof. A cold evening breeze was already whipping between the various chimney stacks that rose up from the depths of the building, and the uneven lead beneath her feet meant that she had to reach out and support herself against one of the stacks as she looked around and tried to spot Phillip.

“Okay,” Sam said over the phone, “there'll be an ambulance and a response team with you in about ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Are you with the old duffer now?”

“He's downstairs in Phillip's bedroom,” she replied, picking her way carefully across the large roof area, still trying to find Phillip. “I told him to leave the knife in the wound. He'll live. The front door's open.”

“Alright, but where are you?” Sam asked cautiously.

“I'm -”

Before she could finish, her foot slipped and she fell, slithering down an angled sheet of lead before bumping against the side of another chimney stack.

“I'm on the roof, obviously,” she replied, getting to her feet again and looking around, this time spotting a silhouetted figure at the far end. “I'll call you back.”

“But Jo -”

Cutting the call and setting her phone to silent, she began to clamber around the nearest stack and across the roof. As she got closer to Phillip, she realized he was standing with his back to her, right at the edge of the roof and staring down at the gravel yard more than twenty meters below. There was an anguished whimpering sound coming from his lips, and finally Jo realized that he was sobbing. Struggling to keep from slipping again, she clambered over the top of another small lead ridge and then stopped, seeing that Phillip's trembling right hand – though empty – was caked in blood.

“Phillip?” she called out. “Phillip, I think you should come away from the edge right now!”

Turning to her with tear-filled eyes, he seemed shocked by the intrusion.

“Why don't we go back inside?” she asked, inching closer while reaching out to him with her right hand. She was trying to not make any sudden moves, to keep from startling him. “I don't really like heights that much, Phillip, and it's cold up here. That's not much fun. You're in absolutely no trouble at all, but do you mind if we go and talk inside?”

“I'm not like that,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Phillip, first let's -”

“Don't come any closer.”

“Phillip -”

“Don't come any closer!” he screamed.

Stopping, Jo saw that blood was dripping from the fingers of his right hand.

“I was a good person,” he stammered, shivering as the cold ruffled his jacket and blew his hair back, exposing the scars on his head a little more clearly. “I think I was. No, I know I was! I don't remember, but I think I was a good person.”

“You're a good person now as well,” she told him, reaching her hand out yet again. “Phillip, seriously, there's no need to be up here. Can you come away from the edge? Please?”

“I didn't want to hurt anyone!”

“I'm sure you didn't hurt anyone at all, Phillip.”

“I liked Debbie!”

“I know you did. You went to visit her, didn't you? You went quite often. Sometimes at night.”

“She told me to stop doing that.”

“I know, but -”

“But I forgot. I forget a lot of things.”

“I know, and -”

Suddenly letting out another anguished cry, he pressed his forearms against the side of his head, as if some kind of pressure was squeezing his brain.

“Phillip!” Jo called out, seeing that he was shaking as if he might fall back over the edge at any moment.

“Stay back!” he yelled as she stepped toward him. “Don't touch me! I don't want to hurt you too!”

“Phillip, I don't believe you've hurt anyone,” she replied, trying to stay calm. “Can you come away from the edge and then we can talk properly?”

“I put it in her tummy!” he whimpered, with fresh tears streaming down his face. “I didn't mean to! I wanted to show Debbie that I could be strong, that I could look after her and defend her!”

“Phillip, just -”

Hesitating for a moment, Jo watched as he continued to sob.

“What did you put in her tummy, Phillip?” she asked cautiously. “What did you do to Debbie?”

“I thought she'd want the knife!” he wailed. “I thought she could use it to protect herself! But then when she opened the door, she came out and ran straight into me! She was scared, and she didn't look, and she ran straight into me and then she was dead! I did something really bad!”

“You stabbed Deborah?”

“I didn't mean to!” he screamed.

“Calm down!” Shocked, she saw that he was a little closer to the edge now. If he took even one step further back, he'd trip over the ankle-high railing and fall. “Phillip, we can talk about this downstairs, but first -”

“I didn't mean to hurt her!”

“I believe you, but -”

“I didn't mean to hurt Suzie, either!”

Jo opened her mouth to reply, before watching as he reached up and held his hands on the sides of his head. As he did so, he wiped patches of glistening blood against his cheek.

“I just wanted to talk to her!” he sobbed. “I wasn't even supposed to be out late, not after dark, but Dad was drinking that stuff that always makes him sleepy, and Susannah had been here to see me but I'd been too upset to talk to her. After I calmed down, I wanted to go and tell her that I... I...”

His voice trailed off for a moment.

“I wanted to tell her that I remembered her,” he whimpered finally, his bottom lip trembling as he broke into a series of heavy, convulsive sobs that shook his shoulders.

“You went to see Susannah that night?” Jo asked. “Outside the hotel?”

“I don't even know why I took the knife that time,” he continued, the words barely able to be heard as tears flowed freely down his face. “I didn't mean to hurt her! I didn't mean to hurt anyone, but she was mean to me! She told me she was tired and she wanted to go to bed, and she said there was no point talking to me! I wanted to tell her, but I couldn't get the words out!”

“What did you want to tell her, Phillip?” Jo asked, her mind racing as she inched closer and tried to figure out when she could safely hurry forward and grab his arm. “That you remembered your time with her? The old days?”

“I wanted to tell her that I loved her,” he continued. “I remember loving her. I remember I used to go places with her. I don't remember much, but I remember Suzie!”

“She knew, Phillip.”

He shook his head.

“Deep down, she knew you remembered her. Phillip, I don't understand why -”

“I got angry when she walked away!” he sobbed, holding out his right hand and forming a bloodied fist, and then twisting the hand as if he was holding a knife. “I don't know why I did it, but I did! I was -”

Suddenly hearing distant sirens, he turned and looked toward the horizon, where flashing blue lights were now racing toward the house. An ambulance was just about visible in the distance, along with two police patrol cars.

“Don't worry about them,” Jo said firmly. “Focus on me. Focus on coming away from the edge. Why don't you take my hand?”

She reached out toward him.

“Just take my hand, Phillip!”

“I'm not a bad person!” he screamed, turning to her just as she was about to try taking hold of his arm. “Stay back! I might hurt you too! I'm not a bad person, I don't want to hurt anyone but I hurt Debbie and I hurt Suzie and now I can't trust myself!”

“Phillip -”

“Why did I kill them?” he whimpered. “I liked Debbie so much, she was my girlfriend. She sent me pretty photos of herself. I didn't understand them, but they were always so pretty. And Suzie... I loved Suzie. I didn't always remember her, but when I did, I loved her.”

“We can figure this all out,” Jo told him as the sirens sped closer, “but first I need you to step away from the edge and come down into the house with me. Can you do that, Phillip?” She kept her hand held out toward him, waiting for him to go with her. “I promise, I'll make sure that no-one will be mean to you. We'll just figure out exactly what happened, and then we'll get help for you.”

“I don't deserve help,” he stammered. “I'm a bad person.”

“I don't think you are.”

“I've done awful things!”

“I still don't quite get why you killed them,” she continued, “but we can talk about it. I'll be there the whole time, Phillip. I'll help you, however I can.”

“I don't think you should be my girlfriend.”

“I'm not going to be your girlfriend. Just your friend. Now please, come away from the edge.”

Phillip hesitated, turning briefly to look down at the yard, before glancing back at Jo. As he did so, his right foot bumped against the low railing and he stumbled slightly.

Jo stepped toward him.

“No!” he yelled, somehow steadying himself. “Don't touch me!”

“Phillip...”

She was just a couple of feet away now, close enough to maybe make a lunge if she could time it right.

“Will you help me put it right?” he asked. “Is there any way to bring them back?”

“We can't bring them back, Phillip, but we can talk about other things. Please, just come with me.”

He hesitated, before finally looking at her outstretched hand.

“Come on,” she continued, watching as he began to raise his bloodied hand toward her. “Don't be scared. Just stay calm and -”

“Get back!” Lord Chesleford screamed suddenly, stumbling across the roof behind Jo. “He'll throw you off the edge!”

“No!” Phillip stammered, taking a step away, bumping once more against the railing.

“Phillip, come with me!” Jo said firmly.

“Don't touch me!”

She stepped toward him, but a hand grabbed her from behind and pulled her back. She tried to get free, but Lord Chesleford was gripping both her shoulders now.

“He's insane!” the old man hissed. “He stabbed me in the arm, he slashed me, and before that he confessed to murdering those two poor women!”

“Don't say those words!” Phillip yelled, once again putting his hands on the side of his head as tears flowed down his cheeks.

“He killed poor dear Deborah,” Lord Chesleford continued, “and then to top it off he also killed that wretched Susannah Marriot woman. In cold blood! Two women he claimed to like, and he murdered them both in cold blood!”

“Go back inside!” Jo said firmly, pulling free and stepping away from him. “Let me handle this!”

“He's a disgrace to the family name!” Lord Chesleford sneered. “Look at him! I've always known, ever since the accident, that he was a pathetic shell. I didn't realize until today that he was also a cowardly, sniveling murderer! I should have put a pillow over his head a long time ago!”

“No!” Phillip shouted. “Don't say that!”

“He stabbed Deborah and Susannah to death!” Lord Chesleford yelled. “Why did you have to do that, boy? You're not safe! You can't be trusted around anyone! You're a killer!”

“Stop!” Phillip shouted, putting his hands over his ears.

“You ought to be locked up forever! Or better still, someone should tie a rope around your neck and -”

“I'm sorry!” Phillip screamed, turning and stepping over the edge. “I didn't mean to hurt them!”

“No!” Jo shouted, lunging toward him and trying to grab his arm. Before she had a chance, however, Phillip toppled over the edge of the roof and let out a brief cry as he fell from view. Stumbling forward, Jo dropped to her knees and grabbed the railing, looking down over the side of the house just in time to see Phillip slam into the driveway. Even before his body had fallen still from the impact, a large patch of blood had already splattered from one side of his cracked head.

The ambulance and police cars had just pulled up, and a paramedic immediately rushed over to Phillip, stopping to check for any signs of life. Immediately, from the man's body language alone, Jo could tell that nothing could be done, and that Phillip was gone. Trembling with shock as she continued to hold the railing, she watched as the second paramedic headed over to the body to take a look, and then she saw several police officers hurrying up the steps and into the manor house.

Sam was down there, too. He went over to check the body, before looking up and seeing Jo.

“Will you think I'm an awful person,” Lord Chesleford said calmly, standing right behind Jo and clutching his bloodied arm, “if I say that all things considered, it's probably for the best that he jumped?”

She turned and looked up at him, and now there were tears in her eyes.

“I'm only saying what I truly believe,” he continued, peering down at Phillip's body for a moment longer before taking a step back. “He was no use to anyone, and evidently he was a danger. I'm not going to stand here and lie to you, Miss Mason. Although I recognize the tragedy of his life, I am rather glad that he's gone. And that, I suppose, is another tragedy to add to the pile. I only wish he'd died in the accident all those years ago. At least that way, poor Deborah would still be alive.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Today

“An accident? Her death, this whole mess... It was all just an accident?”

Crouching in front of the gravestone, in the little cemetery of the Chelmsbury town church, Lucas Evans set a bunch of flowers on the grass. His hands were trembling, and he took a moment to rearrange the flowers.

“It was nothing to do with her past?” he continued. “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Before he died,” Jo explained, standing a little way back, “Phillip Chesleford confessed to both murders. He didn't get a chance to tell the full story, but from what he said it seems that he didn't really know what he was doing. Deborah, or Alice, was clearly panicked that night. It seems she ran out of the cottage and straight into Phillip, and he was holding the knife out and she just...”

Her voice trailed off.

“Because she was scared of me,” Lucas whispered.

“You can't blame yourself.”

“I wanted her back,” he continued, looking at the name Deborah Dean carved into the tombstone. “After everything, I still held out hope that one day I'd get her back, and that I'd make her understand that she could just work on her book. You probably think I'm a complete idiot, but even after everything, I wanted to take her back.”

“Her laptop was found in Phillip's bedroom,” Jo replied.

He nodded. “The police have already released it to me. I'm going to get someone to see about recovering the files, and if the book's there, I suppose I'll try to have it published. Even if I have to do it myself online. You can do that now, can't you? Put books out there yourself.”

“I read the first three chapters,” Jo told him. “Susannah Marriot had a copy. It seems to have been autobiographical. A very long confession, I guess.”

“Was it good?”

“I'm not much of a critic,” she replied, “but I'd definitely read the rest, if I could.”

“I should change this,” he muttered, reaching out and running his fingers against the carved letters that spelled out Deborah Dean's name. “Or should I? Which name do you think she'd have wanted on the stone?” He paused, before getting to his feet and taking a step back. There were tears in his eyes, and he seemed utterly ruined by the sight of the grave. “She wasn't a bad person. I know I keep saying that, but it's true. She just fixated so much on writing her bloody books, she was willing to do anything to give herself more time. She was convinced that success was just around the corner.” He paused for a moment. “After she left me, I found a crumpled list she'd made. She'd been planning an around-the-world holiday, for me and her. She wasn't a selfish person. She just let her goodness and kindness come out the wrong way. She was always dreaming.”

“I should leave you alone for a while,” Jo replied. “There's nothing more for me to do here.”

“I'm going to take that holiday,” he continued, his voice trembling slightly. “God knows whether it's a good idea, but I'm going to book some time off work and go around the world. I'm going to follow the itinerary Alice planned. It'll be almost like... I know this'll probably sound stupid, but it'll be almost like having her with me. And then maybe when I get back, things'll seem easier somehow.”

As she walked away, Jo couldn't shake the feeling that she should have found something else to say, something to ease Lucas's sorrow. Reaching the cemetery gate, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was on his knees again, and that his shoulders were shaking as if he was sobbing. She almost went back over to him, before realizing that perhaps he needed to be alone.

***

“This time,” Harry Morgan said as he shoved another suitcase into the back of his car and them slammed the boot shut, “I don't think anyone can object if I get out of town for a while. My cousin's coming to look after the pigs, and he might be interested in taking over full-time. I need a fresh start.”

“I'm sorry you had to spend a night in a cell,” Jo told him. “Jack Byron -”

“You should have seen his face when he had to let me go,” Harry replied. “He looked gutted. I think he actually wanted me to be the murderer. I reckon some people are more bothered about being right, than about getting the right man.”

“I still don't...”

Her voice trailed off as she remembered the moment when Phillip had disappeared over the edge of the roof. She'd been replaying that image over and over again, and running through their final conversation, and she still couldn't quite get the facts to settle in her mind. Perhaps, she realized now, it was the coldness of Lord Chesleford that had really struck her, and the realization that the old man was actually pleased to be rid of his son.

“So Debbie had a husband?” Harry asked after a moment. “I mean, you told me all about her, but I still can't believe...”

He paused.

“I loved her, you know,” he added finally. “I accepted a while back that she didn't love me. Still, it's weird to think that she'd lived that whole other life before she ever set foot in Chelmsbury. I always knew she was hiding something, and I figured it must be something pretty big. I remember right before Debbie died, Susannah said she'd learned something about Debbie's old life, but then she refused to tell me what it was. She said she didn't want to speak ill of the dead, but that Debbie wasn't the good person she pretended to be. I went to ask her again just a few nights ago, but she wasn't home. That was the night I was spotted loitering outside the hotel. The night Susannah died.”

“Keep an eye out for Deborah's book,” Jo replied. “Or Alice's, rather. Her husband's planning to get it tidied up and published.”

“I know sometimes people do bad things,” Harry continued, “and obviously Debbie did things that were worse than most. But that doesn't mean everyone else has to enjoy pointing out her faults. It'll be the good times I had with her that I remember, not all the stuff that's coming out now.” He paused for a moment. “I know what it's like to do something that fills you with shame. Something that makes you question deep down whether or not you're a good person.”

“Your ex-wife -”

“Vivian and I had been arguing once,” he explained, “and after she left the room, I was furious and I threw a mug. Just a stupid little mug. But she happened to storm back in, and the mug hit the side of her face and... My God, she bled so much. She told the police I'd done it on purpose. At first I protested my innocence. I told them it had been an accident, but eventually I realized that none of that mattered. It was still my fault, and it still happened because of my temper. Ever since then, I've worked hard to keep myself under control.”

“I believe Vivian has admitted she lied about seeing you going to Skellin Cottage on the night of Deborah's murder. From what I gather, she's going to get a nasty lesson about wasting police time.”

“She thought I should go to jail for giving her that scar,” he replied. “I guess she was still looking for an opportunity to make me pay, after all these years.” He paused again, lost in thought. “Maybe she had a point,” he added finally. “I never talked to Debbie about the whole thing, but maybe I should have. I think she might have understood what it's like to always be trying to make amends for something you did wrong in the past.”

“You said it was an accident when you threw the mug at your ex-wife,” Jo pointed out. “If that's true, then -”

“Don't tell me I shouldn't be too hard on myself,” he added, interrupting her. There was sadness in his eyes now, and maybe a little fear too. “I'm not going to run from my mistakes. If I've learned anything from Deborah's story, it's that you can never outrun your own actions. You have to face them someday.”

Turning, he headed back into the farmhouse, before glancing back at Jo.

“One more thing. Did you ever figure out which sick bastard was sending those stolen photos to Phillip Chesleford?”

Jo shook her head.

“Susannah, maybe,” he said with a sigh. “She could be vindictive at times. Still... I know Phillip wasn't quite right in the head, but I had no idea he could actually be dangerous.”

“Me neither,” Jo muttered, turning and heading over toward her car before stopping again as she realized that despite everything else that had happened, there was no way Susannah Marriot would have sent those photos to Phillip.

***

“We always get our man!” Jack Byron announced proudly, holding up his beer bottle so that the others could add theirs in a toast. “We might take a few wrong turns along the way, but we always, always get the bugger banged up or out of the way eventually. And that, my friends, is what makes our job so very rewarding. We keep the country safe for ordinary, decent folk. So I'd like you to join me in a toast to another job well done!”

A smattering of applause broke out across the crowd, as children played nearby.

“People sometimes ask me for advice,” Byron continued. “They ask me how they can sleep safely at night, when there are such awful people out there in the world. They ask me what things will be like for their children, when they grow up. And most of all, they ask me how honest, humble men such as myself are able to look into the seedy underbelly of human society and not get tainted ourselves. And to those people, I simply say that truth and honor are essential to the work of the police. I don't do this job in the hope of getting some kind of honor or fame, or an MBE one day to recognize all my hard work. No, I do it for more noble reasons.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam said as he flipped some more burgers on the barbecue, and as Jack continued to give his speech, “I had to invite him. What with him being my brother-in-law, and all.”

“Don't worry about it,” Jo replied, watching Byron and briefly catching his eye, and then smiling as he turned away. He was still speechifying, and as far as Jo could tell he wasn't even past the introduction yet. “It's almost worth it, just to see how uncomfortable he still is around me. He seems very pleased with himself, though. Maybe he's forgotten that at the time Phillip confessed, he had the wrong man sitting in a cell.”

“And how are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I'm fine.”

“You saw a man plummet to his death.”

“The official verdict is that he tripped,” she replied. “That he wasn't mentally capable of killing himself.”

“You don't believe that, do you?”

“It seems the great Lord Chesleford didn't want the stain of suicide on his family's name, so he applied a great deal of pressure to ensure that Phillip's death was ruled an accident. I guess money still talks.” She paused for a moment, before turning to Sam. “Phillip was his son, his only child, and he didn't really seem to have an emotional reaction at all when he died. Instead, he just viewed it as Phillip... tidying himself away.”

“Most of those toffs are like that,” Sam muttered, turning some sausages. “Stuck-up, self-righteous wankers who only care about money and the family crest and all that bollocks. And did you see the state of that Chesleford Manor place? Plenty of cracks in the walls. If you ask me, old Chesleford's another of those mad old bastards clinging to the glory days. In fact, I'll make a bet with you. In ten years' time, Chesleford Manor will have been sold off to become some kind of fancy weekend leisure resort.” He sniffed as he cut into a sausage to test the meat. “From one type of stuck-up wanker to another. God help the human race, eh?”

Jo opened her mouth to reply.

“Joanna!” a voice called out suddenly. “I'm so glad you could make it!”

Stepping up behind her husband, Laura Bartleby placed a hand on Sam's waist and leaned close to kiss his cheek, while keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Jo.

“I was wondering where you'd gone off to,” she continued in a very sweet, very fake-sounding tone. “Why, I'd begun to think that we'd never see you around these parts again. In fact, I was rather worried that you might not ever make it back. I mean, you hear about people wanting to go away and face their mortality alone, don't you?”

“Do you?” Jo replied, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“It's an animal instinct, isn't it? Like how cats crawl away and die in a corner.”

“Um...”

“But here you are,” Laura added, forcing a smile that was far too broad to ever be genuine, “gracing us with your presence once more. Fancy that, eh? How lovely!”

“Fancy that,” Jo replied with a forced smile. “I'm not staying around. I was just working on something that brought me back here for a few weeks.”

“Are you leaving?” Sam asked, clearly surprised.

“I have another case to look into,” she told him. “I need to get up to Newcastle.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask another question, before shrugging.

“Well, I suppose that's that, then,” he said after a moment, looking back down at the sizzling burgers and sausages. “It's not like you're tied down by the job anymore. I've heard Newcastle's nice. Lot of coal, isn't there?”

“And you're working as a private investigator, I believe?” Laura continued. “So funny. I didn't think they were real, not in this country anyway. I thought they only existed in old American movies!”

“There are a few of us knocking about,” Jo told her.

“Well, good for you, not letting the cancer beat you down completely. How is the cancer, by the way?”

“The cancer?” Jo just about managed to keep her smile, even though she felt sick inside. “It's still there. Still doing its thing.”

“But you look quite well,” Laura continued. “All things considered. A little pasty, maybe, and...” Her eyes were briefly drawn toward the front of Jo's shirt, and then she broadened her smile as she looked at Jo's face again. “You must keep fighting the good fight, Joanna. There's no point letting a bad diagnosis get you down. You must use whatever time you have left and keep yourself busy! There's no point collapsing into a chair and wasting away until you absolutely have to, is there? I mean, there'll be time for that at the end.”

“I guess there will,” Jo muttered, taking a sip of water.

“Darling, do come and mingle,” Laura added, kissing Sam's cheek again. “Jack'll take over the meat. It might shut him up.”

“I'll be there in a moment,” he replied.

“Come on,” she continued, taking his hand. “I want you to talk to David and Louise Withers. They're so boring, it's almost hypnotic!”

“I'll be there in a moment.”

“But -”

“Two minutes,” he added, slipping his hand free. “I promise.”

“Right.” Laura hesitated, as if she was considering grabbing his hand again, and then she seemed to realize that perhaps she was being a little forceful. “Husbands are such horrors,” she continued finally, rolling her eyes theatrically and then patting Sam's backside. “Joanna, sometimes I think you're the lucky one, being single and carefree. You only have yourself to care about. That must be so freeing.”

She turned to walk away, before glancing back at Jo again.

“And do pop by whenever you're in the area again,” she added. “If you make it back, that is. But no pressure. I'm sure we'll all understand if you don't get time before... Well, you know what I mean. Nice to see you, though! Charming, as always!”

“Sorry,” Sam said as his wife wandered away into the crowd. “She, uh... She means well.”

“I should be going, anyway,” Jo muttered, checking her watch.

“I was surprised you came at all,” he told her. “Barbecues and parties were never really your kind of thing.”

“I guess I felt like I didn't say goodbye properly when I left before. I kind of just took off, and a text message probably wasn't the right way to let people know.” She put the last chunk of hot-dog into her mouth and took a moment to chew, before swallowing and then chasing it down with a final gulp of water. “Newcastle's quite a drive, so I should get some rest before I set off.”

“And you promise you're okay?” he said, reaching out and putting a hand on her arm as she began to step past him. “You know what I mean.”

“I'm fine.”

“And you'd tell me if you weren't? If there was anything I need to know?”

She hesitated, before nodding.

“What I mean is...”

He glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure they weren't being watched, and then he stepped a little closer.

“You'd tell me,” he continued, “if...”

She waited for him to finish.

“If what?” she asked after a moment.

“Well, you know, if you were... I mean, if you'd reached the stage where...”

Again he hesitated, as if he couldn't get the words out.

“That's a way off yet,” she told him. “Besides, either one of us could get run over by a bus tomorrow. Cancer isn't the only way to die.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I suppose that's one way of looking at it. But you're still fighting it, aren't you? There's still a chance of...”

His voice trailed off.

“I really should get going,” she told him. “Time, you know?”

He paused, as if there was still something else he wanted to say, and then finally he let go of her arm.

“Private detective, huh?” he continued with a smile. “Who'd have thought you'd get into that line of work? Then again, I should've known you wouldn't take forced medical retirement very well. I couldn't exactly imagine you sitting around with your feet up.”

“I tried that,” she replied, with a faint smile. “I lasted about half an hour.”

“And then you set yourself up as a private detective?”

“I like being my own boss.”

“Still, I can't believe that there are actually people around who hire private detectives. No offense, but it just seems a bit weird and old-fashioned. Like, I can't quite wrap my head around the idea that there are people like you out there.” He hesitated. “I don't mean people like you, I mean private detectives.”

“I know what you mean.”

“It's just odd to think about. But good too, in a way. That you're out there. I don't mean private detectives, I mean you. Well, people like you. Well, no, I mean...”

His voice trailed off.

“I think I know what you mean,” she replied with a smile, before spotting Laura watching her from over on the far side of the garden. “And now I think I really should get going, before your delightful wife gets a bee in her bonnet about me monopolizing your time.”

“I just don't get guys like Lord Chesleford,” Sam said, as he placed a sausage in a bun and added some ketchup from a squeezy tube. “I mean, I know I've asked you before, and I know it's probably not nearly as weird as I think it is, but seriously... What kind of person hires a private detective?”

“Someone who wants the truth to come out,” Jo replied.

She turned to walk away, as Sam took a far-too-big bite from his hot-dog. And then suddenly she hesitated as a moment of realization reached her thoughts, and finally another word slipped from her lips.

“Or...”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ten years ago

“I have to!” Phillip said with a smile, before leaning close and kissing Suzie on the cheek again. “My dad'll kill me if I don't get into Oxford or Cambridge.”

“Your dad,” she replied, leaning against the counter in the kitchen at Skellin Cottage, “is a bit of a dick. No offense.”

Smiling, Phillip grabbed his helmet and headed toward the door, but Suzie hurried after him and grabbed his hand, causing him to turn back and face her.

“One more time?” she suggested.

“I can't.”

“We could be quick.”

“I'd spend the rest of the day here, you mean.”

“Would that be so awful?”

“You're never satisfied, are you?” He gave her another kiss, this time full on the lips and with passion. The kiss lasted several seconds until he finally pulled away. “How about Sunday? I'll meet you right here at Skellin Cottage on Sunday morning. How does ten sound? I'll tell Dad I'm going to see some friends. Sundays are just about acceptable for me to have a life. Besides, he's always drunk on Sundays.”

“I can't wait until Sunday!”

“One day,” he replied, “there'll be no waiting at all. I promise.”

Biting her bottom lip, Suzie hesitated for a moment before leaning back against the wall.

“Sunday's fine,” she told him. “It'll give me time to think of more things I can do to you when I get you back into that bed.”

She followed him out into the yard, where his motorbike was waiting.

“There's something I want to talk to you about on Sunday, too,” he told her as her put his helmet in place and climbed onto the bike's seat. “I think I've figured out how you can move with me when I go.”

“Don't get my hopes up.”

“I mean it. I'm not leaving you behind, Suzie. If I go, you're coming with me.”

“That sounds good,” she replied, “but you know my bloody father wants me to start learning the ropes at the hotel so I can take over from him one day.”

“Our fathers can want things all they like,” he replied, “but it's our lives. We're the ones who choose. I'm going to let anyone trap us here.”

With that, he started the bike's engine.

“Wait!”

Hurrying over, Suzie reached into the top of his jacket and pulled out his half of the silver half-moon necklace, holding it against her half for a moment.

“Almost forgot,” she said with a smile.

“I love you,” he told her.

“And I love you.”

“Are you sure you don't want a ride into town before I head back to the pile?”

“And risk us being seen together? Nah, I reckon the walk'll do me good. Give me a chance to think, you know? Besides, I don't want to get back to that bloody hotel a moment sooner than I have to. Dad wants to give me a lesson in filing. As in, how to organize a filing cabinet. I think I might scream.”

“One day we won't have to sneak out to places like Skellin,” he told her. “One day we won't have to hide anything. We'll be together, on our own terms. I promise.”

As Suzie stepped back, Phillip turned the bike around in the yard and began to drive out onto the main road.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her waving at him, and then he turned to face the road ahead. He allowed himself to go just a little over the limit as he sped along the country lanes, but there was a part of him that wanted to just turn around and go straight back to the woman he loved. He hated having to sneak away to meet her at the cottage, and he hated having to hide his relationship from his father. Still, he had a semblance of a plan, and he felt certain that eventually he and Suzie would be free.

As he raced along the empty lanes, he felt as if he had at least a shot at a decent future.

After a while he spotted Chesleford Manor up ahead, and he knew his father would be waiting to pepper him with questions about his afternoon. Phillip had no problem lying to the old man, and he knew he simply had to manage his father's temper and focus on the bigger picture. As he raced around the tight bend that led toward the house, he was already thinking about Sunday, about his next chance to speak to Suzie about the future. He'd been planning to ask her to marry him, but he'd chickened out twice so far. Sunday would be different, though. He was determined to find the courage and pop the question.

For a moment, his thoughts switched to the ring in his jacket pocket.

Suddenly a lorry appeared ahead, as if out of nowhere. Unable to stop in time, Phillip tried to turn, but the bike bobbed over a bump in the road and tipped, sending him skidding straight under the truck's wheels.

As he fell, his helmet came loose and he let out a scream.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Today

Stepping out of her car, Jo stopped for a moment and looked up at the grand facade of Chesleford Manor. The house's windows reflected the gray sky, but Jo's gaze was quickly drawn to the top of the building, where she saw the exact spot from which Phillip Chesleford had fallen to his death just a few days earlier. A shudder passed through her chest, but she knew she couldn't turn back now. With a heavy heart, she began to make her way toward the front door.

***

“Lord Chesleford?” she called out, walking into the hallway and then stopping for a moment as she realized that the house seemed completely quiet. “Is anyone home?”

Behind her, the large oak door slowly creaked shut.

“Hello?”

She wandered over to the foot of the stairs and looked up toward the landing. On her previous visits, there'd always been some hint of Phillip's presence, but now he was gone and the house felt different somehow, as if the walls themselves knew that something had been lost. At the same time, nothing else seemed to have changed, with the same dusty old ornaments and antiques decorating the tables in the hallway.

“Lord Chesleford?” Jo said again. “Are -”

“Is someone there?” a familiar voice replied suddenly, and Jo stepped over toward the doorway that led into the study. Stopping again, she saw that Lord Chesleford was in the process of pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

“Joanna Mason, is that you?” he asked with a faint smile. “I could have sworn you said you'd be heading off before now. Newcastle, wasn't it? Or Nuneaton? Somewhere up north, anyway. I'm afraid I don't pay much attention to the north of the country. Nowhere above Cheshire really has any relevance for people like me. Not that I'm not glad it's there, of course.” He smiled. “What are you doing still here? Your job is done.”

“The front door was open,” she told him cautiously.

“To tell the truth, the lock is a little broken,” he replied, before raising a finger to his lips, urging her to keep the secret. “The house is a listed building, so even the smallest repair is going to be very costly. I suppose I shall just have to hope there are no burglars any time soon. Still, I'm sure I can trust you, at least. After all, you're a fine, upstanding private detective. And a former police officer to boot. It was that last part that assured me you were the best person for the job. And I was certainly proved right in the end, wasn't I? Well done, Miss Mason. Well done indeed!”

“I heard Phillip's body was released by the coroner.”

“Was it? Oh, perhaps. I shall have to arrange a funeral. I must call the undertaker in the morning. Something discreet and tasteful, I think. No stone. There's no point erecting a stone for someone who...”

His voice trailed off.

“For someone who what?” Jo asked.

“Well, one should earn a headstone,” he continued, “by living a useful life that deserves commemoration. And if one does not, one simply fades from the records, does one not? As if one was never really here in the first place. Headstones are frightfully expensive, you know.”

“You want him to be forgotten?”

“You must beg my pardon,” he replied, “but I think I missed the explanation as to why you've returned. By the way, would you like a whiskey?”

“No thank you.”

“I believe I paid your full account, did I not?”

“You did.”

“And there are no further expenses?”

“No. No further expenses.”

“So...”

He took a sip of whiskey, while waiting for her to say something.

“I'm afraid my time is rather valuable,” he continued finally, “despite appearances. If there's something I can do for you, Miss Mason, please be so good as to come out with it, and I shall endeavor to oblige.”

Stepping a little further into the room, Jo stopped next to one of the coffee tables.

“I was just running through a few things,” she said cautiously, “and I kept going back to the question of why you hired me in the first place.”

“I think I explained that, did I not? I was sick of the police doing their usual incompetent job, and I wanted to ensure that poor Deborah's murderer was brought to justice.” He took another sip of whiskey. “Of course, as things turned out, I was inadvertently responsible for my own son being outed as that murderer. A double murderer, no less. I must say that hearing his confession was one of the most shocking moments of my entire life. Worse, even, that when he stabbed me a few moments before you arrived. Thank you, by the way, for coming when you did. I daren't think about what might have happened.”

“How exactly did Phillip end up stabbing you, again?”

“I've already told the -”

“You said it was when you found Deborah's laptop hidden in his room.”

“That's right.”

“And you were searching his room because...”

“I always did so, periodically. Just to make sure that everything was safe. On this occasion, evidently the boy had left Deborah's laptop out of its usual hiding place. I was shocked when I realized what I'd uncovered, and even more shocked a moment later when Phillip came up behind me with that knife.” He finished his whiskey, before immediately pouring another. “I cannot tell you what it feels like, as a father, to realize that not only is one's son a waste of space, but also that he has caused such harm to others in this world. I don't blame myself, however. The accident caused it all. My Phillip, the real Phillip, would never have done such things.”

“Head injuries don't usually turn people into murderers,” she pointed out.

“But they do upset thought processes,” he continued. “That's what the police say, anyway. That Phillip's actions were a combination of mistakes, errors of judgment and downright panic. How I wish I had seen the truth earlier, but that is why I availed myself of your services. I'm quite sure, Miss Mason, that it was your arrival here that helped spur events on and help us reach this resolution.”

“And that's why you hired me? To get to the truth?”

“What other reason could there possibly be?”

“That's exactly what I've been asking myself.” Reaching into her pocket, she shifted her phone slightly, while keeping it out of sight. After a moment she stepped past the chaise lounge and over toward one of the other tables, trying to get a little closer to Lord Chesleford while still keeping a safe distance. “I was talking him down off the roof,” she pointed out. “I think he was about to take my hand.”

“Nonsense. If he'd taken your hand, he'd have surely pulled you over the edge as he went.”

“I don't think so.”

“I'm afraid it's rather obvious, Miss Mason.”

“No. He wasn't going to do that.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because Phillip was not a murderer.”

He opened his mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment.

“The night I came here for dinner,” Jo continued, “you ended up passed out after drinking so much wine.”

“And I have apologized for that.”

“Except that when I saw one of the empty bottles, I noticed that it was alcohol-free wine.”

“Well that must be a mistake,” he replied. “I certainly have no habit of getting drunk on glorified grape juice.”

“You weren't drunk. You were listening. You were hoping that I'd go up to Phillip's room. You knew he'd be making a noise, because you knew his triggers and you'd planned ahead. So you pretended to get drunk, and then you waited as I went up to your son's room, which is exactly what you wanted. You also knew I wouldn't drink any of the wine, because I'd already mentioned to you that I don't drink alcohol these days.”

“Had you mentioned that?”

“Yes. The first time I came to see you.”

She watched his face, and now she could see a hint of irritation in his features.

“Maybe you even knew that Phillip would show me the photos on his phone. There had to be a good chance he would. The photos you stole from Harry Morgan's phone. You knew Harry was seeing Deborah, so one day when you went to his farmhouse to buy meat, you took his phone. You found the photos and you sent them to yourself, but they also ended up on Phillip's phone because he wasn't trusted to have his own, was he? His phone was set up on your account, and you didn't realize at first that photos in your cloud were also shared to his device.”

“That seems like an awfully convoluted theory,” Lord Chesleford replied, with a hint of grit in his voice now.

“Phillip didn't understand the photos,” she continued. “Not really. Sexual things were beyond him after the accident, weren't they? I realized that when he saw me in the shower and reacted the way he did. He became very fond of Deborah, in a completely innocent way. But you, Lord Chesleford, had a different interest. You thought she'd make good breeding stock, didn't you? I'm sure that's how you saw the whole thing. You wanted to have more children, and you thought Deborah would be perfect. Did you ask her outright, or did you just try to ingratiate yourself into her life?”

“I never uttered a word to her!”

“So you just tried to get her to like you?”

“You don't know what you're talking about!” he sneered.

“Deborah was a troubled woman. Married once, too, although I doubt you knew that at the time. She was still in love with her husband, even though she'd tried to move on by forcing herself to have a relationship with Harry. Eventually her demons caught up to her and she thought, mistakenly, that Lucas had found her. You knew she was going to run, didn't you? How did you know that, exactly? Did you have the cottage wired?”

“That's -”

“I'll find out. I'll have the place ripped apart, and when I do, I'm confident I'll find microphones. Maybe even cameras.”

Finishing his whiskey, he began to pour another.

“So you went to the cottage to stop her,” she continued, “and to beg her to stay. Were you planning to kill her if she refused?”

“Nonsense.”

“Or was it genuinely an accident? One that had to be covered up, to protect your good name, but an accident nonetheless. There's no point denying it, Lord Chesleford. I know Phillip didn't really kill anyone, even though you managed to make him think he did. You went to Skellin Cottage that night, and you were the one who murdered Deborah Dean, or Alice Pritchard as she was really called. You murdered her and then you framed your own son.”

“It wasn't murder,” he replied, staring down at his whiskey glass for a moment before finally turning to her again. “I assure you, it was a terrible, terrible mistake.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Six months ago

Grabbing her suitcase, Deborah hurried to the coffee table and tossed her front-door keys down. Then she turned, lugging the suitcase toward the hallway until finally she pulled the door open, hurried outside, and ran straight into the blade of a waist-level knife.

Letting out a shocked gasp, she dropped the suitcase and reached out, holding the door-frame to support herself. After a moment she looked down and saw the blade embedded deep in her belly, and then she looked up into the eyes of Lord Martin Chesleford.

“You stupid woman,” he stammered, stepping back and pulling the knife out in the process. “What the hell did you -”

Clutching her belly, Deborah felt blood rushing from the wound. She held her hands tight for a moment, as if she was trying to somehow hold the blood inside. Then she flinched slightly, as if she felt just the slightest flicker of pain.

Suddenly her knees buckled and she fell forward. Lord Chesleford stepped out of the way just in time, letting her slump out onto the muddy ground, and then he stood and stared at her for a moment before looking at the bloody knife in his right hand.

“No!” he hissed, reaching down and grabbing Deborah's shoulders, struggling as he dragged her shuddering body back into the cottage. Setting the knife on the counter, he got down onto his knees and rolled her over, only to see that a thick bloody stain had now spread across her belly, glistening in the soaked fabric of her shirt. Blood was dribbling down onto the floor, and a moment later the old man looked at Deborah's shocked face and saw that more blood was running from her lips as she stared up at him. Already, she looked paler.

She let out a faint gasp, but she seemed unable to get any words out.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, his voice trembling with fear. “I was only trying to help you! I heard you talking to yourself earlier, you seemed to think someone was after you! I even followed you when you drove to Harry and Susannah's houses, but then I lost sight of you so I came back here. I was going to protect you and take you back to my home! I was going to look after you and keep you safe, and all I wanted in return was -”

Suddenly she tried to sit up, only to turn and bump against the counter. Slumping back down, she tried to reach up and catch the counter's edge, as if she was trying once more to haul herself off the floor, but her fingertips slipped and she crumpled back down. She let out another groan as Lord Chesleford turned her onto her back.

“I shall call an ambulance,” he continued, reaching into his pocket for his cellphone. “I'll tell them I -”

“No!” she gasped, grabbing his wrist.

“Deborah -”

“Let me!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me!”

“Let you what?”

He stared at her, shocked by the sense of peace in her eyes.

“Let me,” she whispered again.

“I don't understand!” he stammered. “You're hurt! You might -”

Suddenly she squeezed his hand, in a moment of tenderness that somehow matched the old man's daydreams.

“Let... me...”

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but slowly he was starting to realize. After staring at her, shocked, for a moment, he began to shake his head.

“Laptop,” she continued, with tears in her eyes. “Password is Merriwig, one word. The book's almost done anyway, it can stand. It can go as it is, it can...”

She hesitated, her pupils enlarged now, as if she was struggling to remain conscious.

“Merriwig,” she added. “Password. Don't forget. Everything's on there, just...”

He stared at her wound.

“You're dying,” he said finally.

“I don't want to go to jail.”

“Jail? What are you talking about?”

“No more running,” she continued, her voice starting to fade now as she began to lose consciousness. “I just want to... the book...”

“No, stay awake!”

He slapped the side of her face as her eyes slipped shut. Although she briefly opened her eyes again, she quickly turned her head away and closed them again.

“Tell Lucas I...”

She let out a brief cough, spraying blood across the floor.

“Tell Lucas I...”

She hesitated, before suddenly turning and looking toward the coffee table.

“There's one more thing I need to change,” she added suddenly, her voice filled with a frantic burst of desperation. “Pull me over there. I have to change one more line before... I figured out what's wrong in chapter one, I need to...”

She reached out toward the laptop with a bloodied hand.

“What are you talking about?” Lord Chesleford asked.

“I need to change it,” she gurgled, as her hand trembled. “Put me on the sofa, I just need to change one thing before I... Lucas...”

Her voice suddenly choked, and finally she slithered down until her head bumped against the dirty linoleum and her dead eyes stared at the side of the counter.

“Lucas?” Lord Chesleford stammered. “Who the bloody hell is Lucas? For God's sake, woman, what are you going on about?” Grabbing her head, he turned her back to face him, but now her glassy eyes stared up at him with no hint of life. “Deborah!” he shouted, slapping her face a couple more times with no response, before checking the side of her neck for a pulse. Detecting nothing, he tried her wrists too, before leaning back with an expression of stunned disbelief.

For a few minutes, he simply sat with his back against the side of the counter, staring at Deborah's dead body as light rain continued to fall outside in the yard.

“They'll never believe me,” he whispered finally, looking down at his bloodied hands and then up at the knife on the counter. “They'll have me for murder, they'll think...”

He hesitated for a moment, before stumbling to his feet and grabbing the knife. Heading out into the dark, muddy yard, he took a few steps toward the gate before stopping and looking back. Staring through the doorway, he saw Deborah's bloodied corpse on the floor, and the horrific sight spurred him to turn and run, rushing out of the yard and away into the night. As his car's headlights finally raced away into the distance, Deborah was left on her back in the doorway, her dead eyes staring up toward the night sky.

***

Half an hour later, after Deborah's body had remained undisturbed, the lights of a car swung between the gateposts and then came to a halt outside the cottage. The headlights and engine were quickly switched off, and finally Lord Chesleford climbed out of his car and hurried around to the other side. Pulling the door open, he reached inside and began to unbuckle his son's seat-belt.

“Now listen to me,” the old man stammered, his voice filled with panic. “You might not be much use, but at least you're strong, and you're going to help me move something. I need you to not ask questions, Phillip. I need you to be your usual docile, unthinking self and just do what you're bloody told. Do you understand?”

He looked into his son's face and saw that Phillip was already staring out toward the doorway. He'd already spotted Deborah's body.

“Don't look at that!” Lord Chesleford hissed, grabbing Phillip by the chin and forcing him to turn away. “Look at me, and listen to my voice! I need your strength, boy. This is the only time in your waste of a life that you're actually going to be useful to me. You're nothing but a brute, but at this moment a brute is what I need. We're going to move something, and you're not going to ask any questions. Then we're going to go into the forest and dig a hole. You're strong, you can dig fast, and you have to be done before morning. Then we'll put something in the hole and fill it in again, and then you'll never speak of this to anyone! Is that understood?”

He waited, as Phillip's gaze slowly returned to the cottage's open doorway.

“Is Deborah sleeping?” he asked finally. “Is she okay?”

“Phillip, I need you to focus!”

“Why's she sleeping there?” he continued. “Isn't she cold? She should be sleeping in bed. That's where people usually sleep.”

“Oh for God's sake, just get out of the bloody car!” Grabbing Phillip's arm, Lord Chesleford pulled him out into the mud and then led him toward the cottage. Already out of breath, the old man finally stopped next to the door and stared down at the dead body, while Phillip hung back slightly. “We'll have to be careful transporting her,” he muttered. “We don't want the police finding fibers in the car. Damn it, how am I going to do this? If they find out what I've done, they'll think I killed her on purpose. We have to get rid of the body and then tell them she went away. She doesn't have many friends around here. We'll tell everyone she just upped and left.”

“Why's she sleeping on the floor?” Phillip asked.

“She's not sleeping, you cretin! She's dead! Even you should be able to see that! For God's sake, the woman is dead!”

“No, she -”

“This isn't going to work!” the old man hissed, stepping past the body and heading over to the kitchen, where he paused for a moment and leaned against the counter. Out of breath and filled with panic, he tried to come up with another plan, and his mind raced as he struggled to come up with an explanation that would satisfy the police. In the space of just a few minutes, he imagined himself doing everything from confessing and throwing himself on the officers' mercy, to cutting Deborah's body up with an ax and burning the pieces. Each plan had its advantages, but also plenty of drawbacks, but he told himself that he'd come up with something if he just focused a little more. His thoughts were only finally broken when he heard Phillip sobbing gently.

“Cut that out!” he muttered. “You're distracting me!”

“I didn't mean to hurt her,” Phillip whimpered.

“What are you talking about?”

“Was it my fault?”

“Your fault? Of course it wasn't your fault, you simpering little moron.” Sighing, he turned and paced through to the front room, where he spotted Deborah's laptop resting on the coffee table. “I need a better plan. A better idea. There has to be a way out of this.”

“I'm sorry, Deborah,” Phillip sobbed, stroking her dead face.

“They'll never believe that I didn't kill her,” Lord Chesleford continued, trying to set his thoughts straight. “My prints on the knife. Her blood on my hands. And they'll find the camera in the bathroom, and the one in the bedroom, and they'll find the microphones. Even if they don't, they'll figure out somehow that I was maintaining a close interest in her comings and goings. They'll frame me for this!”

“Please wake up.”

“I can't go to jail. I just can't. For hundreds of years, Cheslefords have been the pride of this parish. I will not be the one who lets the family name go to ruin.”

“Please, Deborah. I'm sorry. Wake up.”

“She's dead!” Lord Chesleford sneered, turning to see his son still sobbing over the body.

Phillip shook his head.

“Look at her! Christ, you stupid little bastard, she's dead!”

“But she can wake up!” Stumbling to his feet, Phillip stepped back against the counter. Spotting the bloodied knife, he picked it up and stared at the blood.

Lord Chesleford watched his son for a moment, as an idea began to form in his mind. He dismissed the notion quickly, but it crept back after just a few seconds and this time he allowed himself to consider the possibilities. As Phillip stood over the body, holding the knife, Lord Chesleford saw the confusion and fear in his son's eyes, and his mind raced as he tried to work out whether his new idea could work. Every time he thought of a problem, a solution seemed to present itself with remarkable ease, until finally he took a step toward Phillip and saw that the knife was about to slip from his son's trembling hand.

“Phillip,” he said cautiously, forcing his voice to sound calm and collected, “what have you done?”

Phillip turned to him.

“What have you done, Phillip? Why is Deborah on the floor? Why are you holding that knife?”

Clearly confused, Phillip looked down at the knife and then let go. Stepping back as the knife clattered to the floor, he tripped against Deborah's torso and stumbled, bumping against the door-frame and then backing out slowly into the yard.

“Stay right where you are!” Lord Chesleford roared, heading over to Deborah's body and crouching down. He made a show of checking her neck for a pulse, before looking up at his son again. “She's dead, Phillip. Did you do this to her?”

Phillip shook his head.

“It's okay,” the old man continued, getting to his feet. “Phillip, the most important thing is that you don't panic.”

“Deborah was my girlfriend,” Phillip whimpered, as fresh tears ran down his cheeks. “I liked Deborah!”

“I know you did. Of course you did.” He paused. “But sometimes bad things happen, Phillip, even to people we like very much.”

Phillip shook his head again.

“Oh, but they do, Phillip. It's terribly sad. Perhaps you don't understand the way of the world very well, but we do things that we can't explain. All of us. We make terrible mistakes. And let me promise you, at one point in all of our lives, we all have reason to look down at our hands and say those four awful words.”

He took a step closer, as Phillip looked down at his own hands.

“What,” Lord Chesleford said calmly, “have I done?”

“What have I done?” Phillip whimpered.

“Exactly, my boy. Those are the four words.”

“What have I done?” Phillip stammered again.

“That's right! Say it one more time!”

“What have I done?”

“You've killed a woman you cared about, Phillip. That's what you've done.”

Phillip began to shake his head, before freezing for a moment and then looking down at Deborah's body.

“You killed poor, dear Deborah,” Lord Chesleford continued, before reaching over and placing a hand on his son's shoulder. “Fortunately, I know exactly how to help you. All you have to do is trust me.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Today

“I thought it would take them all of a few hours to come for Phillip,” Lord Chesleford said as he stared into his whiskey glass. He took a moment to swirl the liquid, before gulping it down and then starting to pour yet another. “I thought even our dependably stupid police force would be able to put the pieces together and come to the conclusion that Phillip was the murderer.”

“But they didn't,” Jo pointed out.

“Quite right. They didn't. Somehow, the idiot in charge of the investigation zeroed in on Harry bloody Morgan instead. They found Phillip's fingerprints, of course, but they assumed he'd gone there with me some day previously. I denied such a thing, but they still didn't seem to believe Phillip was responsible. I suppose the cretinous child seemed too innocent and too stupid. As for my fingerprints, well, the cottage was mine and I was known to pay visits, so that wasn't questioned at all. I thought they'd get the picture once they searched Phillip's bedroom and found the laptop I hid there, but they never bothered to check here at all. They just took Harry Morgan in for questioning, and that was that.”

“And then they let Harry go.”

“That didn't change anything. As far as I can gather, the fool in charge of the investigation still believed in Harry's guilt. All of which meant that the case remained open.”

“And while that was the situation,” Jo continued, “you couldn't rest, just in case something went wrong and the police realized you were the killer.”

“I didn't realize how nervous I'd feel. Can you imagine what it's like to frame your own son, and then for the police to miss an open goal?”

“How could you do that to Phillip?” Jo asked, unable to hide her disgust.

“Oh, the boy was pointless!” he spat back at her. “Don't get on your high horse with me, young lady. He was a waste of blood and bone! I'd long since given up on him ever being of any value to me at all, ever since the accident. But then I realized that I could use him to take the blame for Deborah's death. He wouldn't have minded spending the rest of his life in jail. He barely had a mind, he'd have been just as happy in a cell as he was in his bedroom. It didn't matter to him. In fact, it might even have been a kindness on my part. They'd have looked after him in jail.”

“But you made him believe he'd killed Deborah.”

“And I persuaded him to keep quiet, too. It's not like he had any friends. I just needed to keep him calm until I could find some other way to make the police notice him.”

“Which is why you called me in?”

“Eventually I gave up on the idiots at the station. I realized I needed outside help, so I hired you. I thought you'd push things along a little, I assumed you'd come to the conclusion that Phillip was the killer. I needed him to be apprehended, you see? I needed the case to be closed, so that I could rest easy at night. God knows, my nerves have been frayed these past few months.”

“I don't know how you could sleep at all,” Jo told him.

“Spare me your sanctimony,” he muttered. “I made a wise choice.”

“Do you seriously believe that?”

“Phillip's life was ruined from the moment he suffered that head injury. He should have been grateful to me, for finding some use for him at the end. I even invited you here for dinner in the hope that you'd become suspicious of him, but you didn't seem to get the hint.”

“You could have told the truth to the police in the beginning.”

“They'd never have believed me. They'd have asked why I was holding a knife outside her door in the first place.”

“And why were you?”

“I wanted her to see that I could protect her!” he spluttered. “I wanted to look strong!”

“Why did Susannah Marriott have to die?”

He opened his mouth to answer, before hesitating.

“I know it was you,” she continued. “Don't bother lying.”

“No-one else was supposed to get hurt,” he said cautiously. “I'm not a murderer, not really. It's just that, on the night she drunkenly stormed in here while you were visiting, I realized she was going to destabilize Phillip. Once she'd gone, he seemed upset, as if he was starting to forget everything I'd drilled into her head. Then I realized I could kill two birds with one stone, if you'll pardon the expression. I could stop the Marriott woman interfering, and I could give you and the ridiculous police yet another nudge.”

“So you killed her in cold blood?”

“Such a stupid phrase,” he sneered. “Anyway, her life wasn't worth much more than Phillip's. I simply realized that her death would be useful.”

Chapter Thirty

Two nights ago

“Good night,” Susannah said, reaching out to swing the car door shut.

“What about her novel?” Jo asked from the driver's seat. “Can you tell me anything about that?”

“Never read a word,” Susannah replied, slamming the door shut and then walking away along the cold, windy street. “Barely a word, anyway,” she muttered under her breath. “Just a few chapters. Just enough to know that it was the thinly-disguised confession of a thief. And badly-written to boot.”

Hurrying toward the hotel, she spotted some of the night porters outside the front steps. Preferring to keep from being seen while she was still a little tipsy, she began to make her way around to the rear of the building. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Jo's car disappearing into the night, and then she cut across the corner of the car park and hurried past the low wall, making her way toward the steps that led up into the darkened kitchen. She was still fuming, still muttering angrily to herself, although after a moment she thought back to Phillip's horrified cries earlier in the evening.

Finally, as she got closer to the back door, she took her part of the necklace from her pocket and looked at the silver half-heart.

Suddenly hearing steps behind her, she began to turn. Before she had a chance, however, a hand covered her mouth and she was pulled back, and a knife sliced into the small of her back several times. She tried to cry out, but her legs quickly buckled and Lord Chesleford dragged her back into the shadows before carefully lowering her shuddering body down onto the ground. She gurgled as she began to choke on her own blood, and then she rolled onto her side, causing a trickle of blood to start running from her mouth and spattering against the ground.

Letting out a gasp as he leaned against the wall, the old man struggled for a moment to get his breath back, before checking once more that no-one was nearby and then hurrying toward a car parked nearby. Pulling the door open, he reached in and pulled Phillip out of the passenger seat.

“Not one word!” he whispered, placing a finger against his lips. “Do you hear me? I don't want to hear so much as a peep from you!”

“It's cold,” Phillip replied, “and -”

Before he could finish, his father slapped him hard and then took a cotton gag from his pocket.

“Turn around. I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.”

“I just -”

Stepping behind him, Lord Chesleford placed the gag over his son's mouth and then tied it tight around the back of his head. Phillip let out a faint, muffled cry as he was pushed forward, but then he let his father lead him through the shadows until they reached the corner of the car park. Stopping, Phillip saw the dead body on the ground, and his eyes opened even wider as soon as he recognized Susannah. He turned to run, but his father pressed the knife into his hand and shoved him forward. When Phillip tried again to hurry away, Lord Chesleford grabbed his shoulder and forced him down onto his knees, right next to the body.

“Give me your hand,” he blustered, kneeling next to him and taking hold of Phillip's wrist, guiding the knife down toward Susannah's chest. Without saying another word, and ignoring Phillip's muffled groan, he pushed his son's hand down and forced it to drive the blade into the woman's chest, causing her to jerk one final time as the blade pierced her heart.

“I don't want to!” Phillip whimpered, trying to pull the knife away as the gag came loose.

“Oh, grow a spine, boy!”

“I don't want to hurt her!”

Staring down into Susannah's eyes, Phillip saw her staring straight back up at him. And then, a moment later, her gaze shifted slightly and she was dead.

“Wait for it,” Lord Chesleford muttered, forcing Phillip's hand to twist the knife a little until the blade scratched against a rib. “We have to be sure, boy.”

Phillip was sobbing and trying to cry out through the gag, but Lord Chesleford kept his hand pushed down firmly for a moment longer before finally pulling it up and sliding the blade out.

“Look what you've done,” the old man said after a moment, his voice trembling with nerves. “Oh Phillip, look, it's Suzie! Do you remember Suzie? You must. You -”

Phillip let out a pained yelp and tossed the knife aside, but Lord Chesleford held him firmly.

“Look, Phillip, at what you did! You loved Suzie, didn't you? This must be very upsetting for you. Very upsetting indeed.”

Phillip hesitated, with tears still streaming from his eyes, and then he muttered something under his breath. Pulling his arm free from his father's grip, he reached down toward Susannah's body and began to peel back the fingers of her left hand, until the half-heart necklace dropped onto the gravel. Picking up the necklace, Phillip turned it over for a moment, as if he recognized something about its appearance.

“It's like the one you used on Deborah, isn't it?”

Phillip shook his head, staring in horror at the blade as blood dribbled down onto the gravel.

“Come on,” Lord Chesleford muttered finally, getting to his feet and pulling his son up too, “it's time for us to get out of here before some nosy parker comes along and sees us. You know what people are like in this godforsaken town.” He began to lead Phillip to the car. “Always interfering in one another's business and lives. Honestly, it's hard to believe that most of them don't have anything better to do with their time. People these days are so utterly ridiculous.”

After forcing Phillip back into the passenger seat, he hurried around and climbed in the other side, before starting the engine and driving out of the lot. Glancing toward the hotel, he saw that there was no sign of anyone going near the spot where Susannah had been left, and he realized that she might not be discovered for a few hours yet. Turning his attention to the road ahead, he drove along the dark, deserted street for a few minutes before looking over at Phillip and seeing that his son was almost catatonic in the other seat, staring ahead with a horrified expression in his eyes.

“Oh, what have you done this time, Phillip?” the old man asked with a sad, doleful tone. “Have you hurt someone again? Have you hurt another woman?”

After a moment, he spotted something glinting in Phillip's hand. Reaching over, he took the necklace and saw the inscription mentioning Susannah's name.

***

“Of course you did!” Lord Chesleford yelled, leaning down toward Phillip and causing his son to immediately flinch away. “You killed her! You killed Suzie Marriott last night, you wicked boy!”

“No!” Phillip sobbed, shaking his head. “Please, I'd never -”

“I saw you! I saw you plunge the knife into her chest!”

“No, I -”

Before he could finish, Phillip looked down at his trembling right hand. Morning sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window, and he paused for a moment as if he was remembering the previous night.

“You were holding a knife,” his father continued. “It was the same knife you used when you killed poor Deborah. I know you remember that.”

“I...”

“You remember, Phillip. Just focus on that particular memory. Focus on the memory of your hand, forcing the blade between her ribs and into her chest. Focus on the memory of the tip slicing into her heart. You must have felt that, Phillip. A little resistance as the metal pushed against the wall of her heart, and then the give as the blade cut through and blood erupted into her chest. She even jolted one final time for you. You remember that, don't you? And the look in her eyes. She saw you, Phillip. She knew it was you.”

He paused, before leaning closer. This time, Phillip simply stared back at him with tear-filled eyes.

“Yes,” the old man purred, “you do remember.”

“Why did I do it?” Phillip stammered. “I liked Suzie! She was my -”

“Never mind that right now,” Lord Chesleford continued. “I'm going to look after you, Phillip. Don't breathe a word of this to anyone else, not yet. Let me deal with the situation. You trust me, don't you? I've always been here to look after you, for as long as you can think back. I'm your father, Phillip. No-one else in the whole world is going to look after you the way I'll look after you. You don't have anyone else.”

“Why did I hurt her?” Phillip asked, his voice still trembling with fear. “Why did I hurt either of them?”

“That is a mystery that remains locked up for now in your heart. I daresay you'll tell someone about it some day, but not now.” He reached out and brushed the back of his hand against Phillip's left cheek. “I was so proud of you, you know. Back in the old days, when you were destined to really be someone. I want you to know that, Phillip. You had the whole world in front of you, and I couldn't have been more satisfied. But now, in your own way, you've become useful to me still. Take some strength from that knowledge, boy. It's not a bad thing, to be useful. Most people never -”

Suddenly Phillip broke down again, letting out a series of loud, gulping sobs that quickly became a haunting wail. A moment later he turned and leaned against the wall next to his bed.

“Oh, not that again,” Lord Chesleford said with a sigh, rolling his eyes as he took a step back. “Do you have any idea, boy, how much that awful noise gets on my nerves? There'll be a time for you to let it all out, but for Christ's sake, not now! You'll enjoy prison! You'll have an easy life!”

He waited, as if he expected Phillip to suddenly sit bolt upright, apologize for his lack of manners, and go back to the studies he'd been following before the accident. Instead, Phillip simply curled into a ball on the bed and continued to shake as he wept.

“Lord, give me patience,” the old man whispered, closing his eyes for a moment and clenching his fists. “Give me the strength I require, that I might suffer this wretched boy for a while longer. I should be elevated to sainthood for not throttling him.”

He paused, before opening his eyes and seeing that Phillip was still sobbing on the bed.

“All this disappointment,” he continued, “has been so hard to accept. At least now, there might come a little relief.”

Turning, he made his way out of the room and then paused to look back at his son. Rocking back and forth, sobbing wildly, Phillip seemed consumed by grief, as if he was trying desperately to push through the horrific memories that crowded his thoughts.

“Play-acting,” the old man muttered. “You're not capable of feeling remorse or sorrow. I'm sorry, boy, but you're just not.”

He stared at his son for a moment longer, filled with a sense of disgust, before making his way along the landing and down the stairs. He knew he had to alter his plan slightly, that he still had to figure out how to draw attention to the boy, but he felt certain that he'd find a way eventually.

Heading to the drawing room, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and tried to focus on his thoughts, but a moment later he heard Phillip wailing upstairs. He waited, determined to hold his resolve and keep his temper under control, but after a few minutes he began to feel his blood boiling once more.

“Not now,” he muttered under his breath, before taking a sip as he waited for his son to quieten down. “Just give me one bloody minute of peace and quiet, won't you? You wretched little waste of space!”

He closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the sound and find some inner peace, but his son's agonized cries still found a way to seep into his thoughts. No matter how hard he worked to calm his mind, he could feel Phillip's sobs running through the cracks in his own soul, never letting him forget the intelligent, proud boy he'd lost on the day of the accident. Finally, opening his eyes, he stared down at his whiskey glass while trying to think of some other way he could get a moment's silence. Still, however, the plaintive sobbing filled the house, until he could stand it no longer.

“Oh shut up!” he shouted finally, losing his temper once more and storming through from the dining room, heading toward the staircase. “You stupid little -”

Stopping as soon as he spotted Jo coming through the front door, he paused for a moment before his usual friendly smile returned.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, flustered by her sudden arrival but quickly realizing that he could perhaps turn the situation to his advantage, “but as you can no doubt hear, we are having a rather troublesome morning here at Chesleford Manor.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Today

“And what did those bloody idiots do the very next day?” Lord Chesleford muttered darkly. “They only went and arrested Harry bloody Morgan again!”

“Your murdered Susannah Marriott in order to frame your son?” Jo replied, horrified by the fact this his only reaction appeared to be frustration that the plan hadn't worked.

“I was actually considering going to the police myself,” he continued, “and telling them that Phillip was the killer. I'd tried leading them to his door subtly, but evidently that wasn't working so I thought perhaps I should be blunt. The idiot in charge of the case seemed utterly fixated on the idea of Morgan being the killer. All they had to do was search Phillip's room and they'd have found Deborah's laptop and Susannah's necklace, and there'd have been more than enough for them to figure it out. If the bloody police had just shown a little initiative and actually done their jobs properly, all of this horribleness could have been avoided.”

“Except for Phillip.”

“He'd have been happy enough in jail,” the old man said dismissively. “Probably happier than he was here. People sometimes told me I should put him in a care home. I'm sure our perennially soft legal system would have packed him in cotton wool, the way they do with most criminals these days.”

“But he -”

“Murderers should get life!” he added. “And life should mean life! None of this namby-pamby rehabilitation nonsense that goes on these days.”

“He was your son!” Jo pointed out, still shocked by what she was hearing.

“Oh, he'd have been absolutely fine!” he spluttered, setting his whiskey glass down. “We both know that. I wanted him locked away, but he didn't have to die. That wasn't the plan until the very end. But then the other day he finally cracked and started going on about how he couldn't live with the guilt. It never occurred to me that he might have feelings, not like that. Unfortunately, it turns out that not only did he feel guilt over the deaths of Deborah and the Marriott woman, but he actually remembered Suzie. He remembered enough of their time together, before the accident, to become overwhelmed by what he'd done.”

“What you made him think he'd done,” Jo pointed out.

“They were the same thing in his mind.” He sighed. “I decided to use the situation to my advantage. I phoned you and pretended to be terribly upset and frightened. Phillip was going on and on about how he didn't want to be a danger to anyone. I'm afraid that at that point, I realized I had to do something frightful. I took no joy in the matter. In fact, I felt rather sorry about it, but there was simply no other option.”

“You stabbed yourself in the arm.”

He nodded.

“And you slashed your own face.”

“I had to. To prove a point. It seemed rather extreme but, well, you know what they say about desperate times and desperate measures.”

“And then Phillip went up on the roof?”

“I couldn't believe my luck. For the first time in this whole sorry affair, everything came together perfectly. It was really only then, only when he went up there, that I realized death might be a better option for him. It's not like he had any life ahead of him. He was basically dead after the accident happened anyway, so this was just a case of his body following his mind. What little was left of his mind, at least.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking back to the moment when Phillip had fallen over the edge. “I didn't push him,” he added finally. “It was still suicide, regardless of the circumstances. I can't be framed for his murder.”

“Nobody's going to frame anyone,” Jo replied.

“And Deborah was an accident!”

“I believe you.”

“I didn't mean to hurt her!”

“You should have gone to the police at the start.”

“They'd never have believed me!”

“They might, if you'd let them hear the recordings from the microphones and cameras you installed at Skellin Cottage.”

“Oh, but...”

He hesitated, before furrowing his brow.

“That never occurred to me,” he said finally. “I had so many... Yes. Yes, you're right. Why did I not think of that?”

“You'd have had to explain why you had the cameras in the first place. The police don't usually take kindly to people who do that sort of thing, but at least you wouldn't have had to set your own son up for murder.”

Chuckling to himself, he headed over to the desk by the window.

“Well,” he muttered, “I certainly see now that I should have done that. It's amazing how blind one can become, isn't it? Once one gets some other idea in one's mind, one can develop a kind of tunnel vision.” He opened a drawer. “But I want to make it very clear, Miss Mason, that technically I did absolutely nothing wrong. I did not murder Deborah Dean, nor did I push Phillip off the roof.”

“You murdered Susannah Marriott.”

“Well...”

He paused for a moment.

“Well, okay,” he added, “I suppose I did. Yes, you're right, but that was... Oh, never mind. The whole thing snowballed a little, but I had my good name to protect. I was simply thinking on my feet every time a difficult situation emerged. If you don't mind the question, might I ask how you became suspicious of me?”

“For one thing,” she replied, “I realized there weren't many other people with a motive. For another, I met Phillip and I was pretty sure he was no murderer. And finally, I'd like to think that I'll always realize if I'm being used. Because that's what you were doing, isn't it? Using me as part of your plan, hoping I'd push the police in the direction you wanted. I'll be sure to pass on your fee for this case to an appropriate charity.”

Reaching into the drawer, Lord Chesleford took out a long-bladed letter opener.

“I don't suppose,” he continued, “that a small payment of, say, ten thousand pounds, might be enough to secure your silence on this matter, would it?” He glanced at her, while still holding the letter opener. “I'm a little short of cash at the moment. You wouldn't believe the heating bills that a place like Chesleford Manor racks up.”

“You're going to be charged with the murder of Susannah Marriott,” Jo told him, “and there'll also be charges relating to the other deaths. Concealing evidence. Manslaughter, maybe. There'll be a whole long list.”

“Will there?”

“You're going to go to jail for a very long time, Lord Chesleford.”

“Am I?” He looked down at the letter opener's blade, and then back at Jo again. “Only if the police find out. It seems to me that, outside of this room, everybody else is quite content with the notion that Phillip was the murderer.”

Jo looked at the blade.

“You live a rather itinerant lifestyle, do you not?” he continued. “I suppose people don't know when to expect you, or where you are at any given time.”

“I've been recording this entire conversation,” she told him, reaching into her pocket and holding up her phone. “It's been uploaded automatically. I also didn't come alone.”

He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, before hearing footsteps in the hallway. Looking toward the door, he saw Detective Inspector Sam Bartleby stepping into view with two uniformed officers.

“Oh,” the old man muttered, glancing back down at the letter opener for a moment longer before gently setting it back in the drawer, as if he'd meant no harm in the first place. “Well, then. I suppose that's that, isn't it?”

“Martin Chesleford,” Sam said, stepping past Jo and heading across the room, “you're under arrest for the -”

“No!” Grabbing the letter opener again, Lord Chesleford stepped back and held the blade against his own wrist. “Stay back! I'm warning you, if you come any closer, I'll do something dreadful! I can't go to jail, I just can't! I'm not that kind of person!”

Stopping in the middle of the room, Sam sighed.

“I'll do it!” the old man continued. “I swear, I'll... I'll cut my wrists and it'll be all your fault!”

Sam tilted his head slightly, as if he was just waiting for the old man to admit that he was bluffing.

“I'll, I'll... I'll do it, I'll... I will! I'll do it!”

Lord Chesleford hesitated, before looking down at the blade as if he was trying to find the strength. Finally he simply set it aside once more, and Sam immediately signaled for the two officers to go to him.

“I'll read you your rights in the car.”

“How long will I have to spend in jail?” Lord Chesleford asked, as the officers began to lead him out of the room.

“Quite a while,” Sam told him. “It's called justice.”

“But how long exactly, do you think?” Stopping for a moment, held on either side by the officers, he seemed momentarily lost in thought, as if yet again he was trying to think of a way out. “The courts are quite lenient on men of my age and position, are they not? I can acquire character references from several titled fellows, and it's not as if I'm a danger to anyone else. I might have to spend ten, fifteen years, maybe even twenty in jail, but then I'd be out probably in my late seventies or early eighties.” He paused, before looking over at Jo. “There'll still be time, then. After I get out, I mean. If Scotty can have children at that age, then I can too. There'll still be enough time for me to find a nice young lady who knows which side her bread is buttered, and to arrange for her to carry a new child for me. One who turns out to be a better heir than Phillip.”

“For God's sake,” Sam muttered, clearly disgusted, “get him out of here.”

“Yes,” Lord Chesleford continued with a faint smile. “With a good lawyer, there'll still be time when I get out. All's not lost! Where there's a will, there's a way!”

As the officers led him away, Sam turned to Jo.

“Are they all like this?” he asked.

“All who?” she replied.

“Toffs. Rich guys.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Makes my skin crawl, a place like this,” he continued, stepping back to the middle of the room and looking around, before finally stopping to look up at the large, unlit chandelier high above them. “It's so cold. I mean, the 'leccy bill alone must be four figures a month, just to keep it from freezing. Laura keeps on at me, saying she wants a little chandelier in the living room, but I'm dragging my heels. If you ask me, chandeliers are way too poncy.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Give me a nice single bulb with a five quid Ikea shade any day. No-one needs anything more than that.”

He hesitated, before turning to Jo and seeing that she was at the window, watching as Lord Chesleford was helped into a waiting police car.

“If I have anything to do with it,” he added, wandering over to join her, “by the time that old bugger gets out, if he gets out, he'll be well past his shagging days. I mean, he should be past them already, shouldn't he? It's disgusting to think of him wanting to use his money to get some young girl into bed. Makes me want to puke. Then again, I know how the world works. Even if he's pushing a hundred when he gets out, he might be able to scrape together enough money to buy himself a bimbo who'll...”

He paused, and then a shudder passed through his chest.

“Doesn't bear thinking about, does it?”

“I have to get going,” Jo replied, turning and heading through to the hallway.

“You don't wanna come back to the barbecue? Might be a good chance to see Jack Byron literally pop a blood vessel when he realizes he was wrong again.”

“Enjoy that.”

“Oh, I will. Sure you're not game?”

“I have to go.”

“Right,” Sam said, hurrying after. “Newcastle, wasn't it? I'd better get the old bastard down the station and charged, anyway. I'm already gonna have hell to pay when I get home, running out from the barbecue like that with you. Laura won't be happy, but Jack... Well, that's gonna be worth seeing.”

He watched as Jo headed to her car.

“Give us a ring, yeah?” he called after her. “Just now and then. Just to let us know you're doing alright out there. Don't be a stranger this time!”

She turned to him and paused for a moment, before nodding and then getting into the driver's seat.

Sam hesitated, as if there was something else he wanted to say, but finally he headed to the patrol car and sat in the back, where he began to read Lord Chesleford his rights. As he did so, however, he couldn't help glancing out the window and watching for a moment as Jo's car disappeared into the distance.

Also by Amy Cross

PERFECT LITTLE MONSTERS

AND OTHER STORIES

A husband waits until his wife and children are in bed, before inviting a dangerous man into their home...

A girl keeps hold of her mother's necklace, as bloodied hands try to tear it from her grasp...

A gun jams, even as its intended victim begs the universe to let her die...

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories is a collection of short stories by Amy Cross. Some of the stories take place in seemingly ordinary towns, whose inhabitants soon discover something truly shocking lurking beneath the veneer of peace and calm. Others show glimpses of vast, barbaric worlds where deadly forces gather to toy with humanity. All the stories in this collection peel back the face of a nightmare, revealing the horror that awaits. And in every one of the stories, some kind of monster lurks...

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories contains the new stories Perfect Little Monsters, I Hate You, Meat, Fifty Fifty and Stay Up Late, as well as a revised version of the previously-released story The Scream. This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.

Also by Amy Cross

THE BRIDE OF ASHBYRN HOUSE

“I have waited so long for your return.”

In the English countryside, miles from the nearest town, there stands an old stone house. Nobody has set foot in the house for years. Nobody has dared. For it is said that even though the lady of the house is long dead, a face can sometimes be seen at one of the windows. A pale, dead face that waits patiently behind a silk wedding veil.

Seeking an escape from his life in London, Owen Stone purchases Ashbyrn House without waiting to find out about its history. As far as Owen is concerned, ghosts aren't real and his only company in the house will be the thin-legged spiders that lurk on the walls. Even after he moves in, and after he starts hearing strange noises in the night, Owen insists that Ashbyrn House can't possibly be haunted.

But Owen knows nothing about the ghostly figure that is said to haunt the house. Or about the mysterious church bells that ring out across the lawn at night. Or about the terrible fate that befell the house's previous inhabitants when they dared defy the bride. Even as Owen starts to understand the horrific truth about Ashbyrn House's past, he might be too late to escape the clutches of the presence that watches his every move.

The Bride of Ashbyrn House is a ghost story about a man who believes the past can't hurt him, and about a woman whose search for a husband has survived even her own tragic death.

Also by Amy Cross

THE BODY AT AUERCLIFF

“We'll bury her so deep, even her ghost will have a mouth full of dirt!”

When Rebecca Wallace arrives at Auercliff to check on her aged aunt, she's in for a shock. Her aunt's mind is crumbling, and the old woman refuses to let Rebecca stay overnight. And just as she thinks she's starting to understand the truth, Rebecca makes a horrifying discovery in one of the house's many spare rooms.

A dead body. A woman. Old and rotten. And her aunt insists she has no idea where it came from.

The truth lies buried in the past. For generations, the occupants of Auercliff have been tormented by the repercussions of a horrific secret. And somehow everything seems to be centered upon the mausoleum in the house's ground, where every member of the family is entombed once they die.

Whose body was left to rot in one of the house's rooms? Why have successive generations of the family been plagued by a persistent scratching sound? And what really happened to Rebecca many years ago, when she found herself locked inside the Auercliff mausoleum?

The Body at Auercliff is a horror story about a family and a house, and about the refusal of the past to stay buried.

Also by Amy Cross

THE GHOST OF SHAPLEY HALL

“Georgette Shapley died outside this house. Her ghost has spent the past century trying to get back inside so she can be reunited with her child.”

James Spence doesn't believe in ghosts, so he has no worries about going with his girlfriend Rachel to visit an old, abandoned country home.

Rachel, meanwhile, is convinced that a weekend at Shapley Hall will make James change his mind. After all, she knows from bitter experience that the the house is haunted by a woman who once died in the most horrific manner possible, and who now waits to be reunited with her long-lost child.

As the weekend continues, however, James starts to realize that maybe ghosts are the least of his problems. Rachel's behavior is becoming increasingly erratic, and it soon becomes clear that she'll stop at nothing to fulfill a promise she once made to a dead woman. Did Rachel imagine a terrifying experience during her childhood, or are the hallways of Shapley Hall really haunted by a terrifying, vengeful creature?

The Ghost of Shapley Hall is a horror story about two people who venture into a dark, abandoned house, and about the echo of a terrible crime that still haunts the Shapley family to this day.

OTHER BOOKS

BY AMY CROSS INCLUDE

Horror

The Bride of Ashbyrn House

The Body at Auercliff

B&B

Laura

Asylum

Meds (Asylum 2)

Annie's Room

The Farm

The Haunting of Blackwych Grange

The Devil, the Witch and the Whore (The Deal book 1)

The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories

Twisted Little Things and Other Stories

The Disappearance of Katie Wren

The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel

The Printer From Hell

The Nurse

American Coven

Eli's Town

The Night Girl

Devil's Briar

The Cabin

After the Cabin

Last Wrong Turn

At the Edge of the Forest

The Devil's Hand

The Ghost of Shapley Hall

The Death of Addie Gray

A House in London

The Blood House

The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1)

Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2)

The Border

The Lighthouse

3AM

Tenderling

The Girl Clay

The Prison

Ward Z

The Devil's Photographer

Thriller

The Girl Who Never Came Back

Other People's Bodies

Dystopia / Science Fiction

The Dog

The Island (The Island book 1)
Persona (The Island book 2)