Broken Home

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Action & Adventure; Mystery

Synopsis

Hope Randall has lived a quiet life. But that peace is about to be broken.

When a stranger turns up on her doorstep telling Hope she has a half-sister, her instinct is to turn him away. But Michael Flint won't give up that easily - he believes Hope's sister Connie is in serious trouble. Connie's childhood was a world away from Hope's comfortable upbringing - she's endured poverty, hardship and abandonment. Connie's future doesn't look much brighter. If Hope doesn't care about her, who will?

The father the girls shared - who Hope can't even remember - was murdered twelve years ago. To find her sister, Hope must enter the dark underworld of the East End, full of violence and vice. She'll have to toughen up, and fast. It turns out that Connie had links to the notorious Street crime family. With a killer on the loose targeting working girls, will she be the next victim? Hope has to do everything she can to find her sister - even if it involves getting close to the enemy . . .

Release date: June 2, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

It was almost six o’clock and the tube was full to bursting. The carriage was hot and sticky, humming with the stink of sweat, of overly powerful perfume and damp coats. As the human cattle truck rocked along the tracks, bodily contact was impossible to avoid. Arms brushed against arms, thighs against thighs. No one paid Connie any particular attention. Dressed in the bland uniform of an office worker, and with a pair of ugly glasses perched on her nose, she was just another weary commuter on her way home.

Connie Tomlin was always careful in her choice of victim: they were usually men, the type who wore designer suits and flashy watches, City boys with more money than sense. The younger ones were the best; cocky and careless, they were usually too busy posing or eyeing up the talent to notice her deft fingers relieving them of their wallets. It was surprising how many suckers kept them in their back pockets. She already had three in her bag from her previous journeys. Plenty of credit cards, she was sure, not to mention a fair wad of cash. She hadn’t had time to check them out yet. Hopefully it had been a lucrative couple of hours.

Connie had already chosen her next mark: he was a twenty something male sporting a Rolex and a February suntan. He was holding on to one of the straps attached to the ceiling of the carriage, and his jacket had risen at the back. She smiled. This was going to be easy. The silly sod hadn’t even bothered to do up the button on his pocket. That wallet was simply calling to her!

Connie glanced around to make sure no one was watching. The commuters who were sitting down all had their noses in newspapers, magazines or books. The ones who were standing were all studiously avoiding each other’s eyes. That was the law of the tube: never meet another’s person’s gaze if you could possibly avoid it. It was a law that had served her well over the past couple of years.

This, she decided, would be her last job of the day. No point in pushing her luck. Anyway, her feet were sore from all the standing around in her cheap high heels. She wiggled her toes. What she needed was a hot bath, some soothing music and a good strong drink. She’d pick up a bottle of voddie on her way home, and later, when Pony came round to pick up the credit cards, she’d buy a bit of weed off him.

Sometimes Connie worked with the other girls, but today she was playing it solo. As usual she was standing by the doors – always useful for a hasty exit – and she waited until she knew they were close to the station. When the train gave a jolt and everyone lurched forward, she made her move. She was carrying her coat over her arm, and from beneath its cover her hand snaked out to whip the wallet from its resting place.

She had the usual adrenalin rush as she waited to see if he’d realise. It was a heady mixture of excitement and dread, the biggest kick she’d ever known: better than drugs or alcohol or sex. Her heart was thrashing as she waited for a reaction, but the man continued to gaze straight ahead, utterly oblivious. There was no indication that anyone else had clocked her either. She breathed out a soft sigh of relief. Once again she’d got away with it.

Connie didn’t feel guilty as she stepped briskly out on to the platform. Why should she? You had to take care of yourself in this city; no one else would do it for you. The flash git probably earned more in a day than most people did in a week. He didn’t give a toss whether she lived or died and so she didn’t care that he mightn’t have quite as good a Friday night as he’d originally been planning. And it wasn’t as if she’d stolen all his worldly possessions. In fact, she was doing him a favour, teaching him a useful lesson about securing your valuables when travelling on public transport. He’d never make the same mistake again.

As the train pulled away from the platform, Connie made her way up to Liverpool Street station, crossed over the forecourt and went down to the Ladies’. Rummaging in her bag, she found the change she needed to get through the turnstile. Once inside, she picked out a cubicle at the far end and locked the door behind her.

First she took off the glasses and placed them in their case. Then she removed the mousy-coloured wig and folded it neatly into her bag. She shook out her long dark brown hair and ran a comb through it. Using a compact mirror, she applied mascara to her lashes and put on some lipstick. Finally she turned her reversible raincoat inside out and put it on so that the blue side was showing. No matter how convinced you might be that you were free and clear, it was always worth taking precautions.

Next came the bit she looked forward to most. Please God, let it have been worth her while. After pulling down the lid of the toilet, Connie perched on the edge and took the stolen wallets from her bag. Her smile widened as she slipped out their contents. Four hundred and twenty quid in all, a fistful of credit and store cards – including one Gold American Express – and a bit of loose change. Yes! She couldn’t complain about that little haul. It was a damn sight more than she’d get tending bar or flipping burgers.

She could have dumped the wallets in the bin, but Lana had taught her to be careful. You could never tell when the bins were going to be emptied, and if some cleaner happened to remember you leaving the cubicle . . . There were other bins of course, but then there were CCTV cameras to be wary of; the streets were full of them these days. There were fingerprints to worry about too. Connie never wore gloves when she was working – your fingers had to be free and nimble – and so every wallet, if it was being disposed of, had to be properly wiped. It was easier to take them home and do it there. She put the cash and cards in her own purse and dropped it, along with the empty wallets, back in her bag.

The only time Connie ever felt a pang of guilt was when she came across photos, especially of kids. On those occasions she told herself that no one with any sense would carry around the only copy of a picture. But it still niggled, taking the edge off her pleasure in the other spoils.

Before leaving, she checked the floor to make sure she hadn’t dropped anything. Then she stepped outside the cubicle and went through the process of washing and drying her hands. A few minutes later she rejoined the bustle of the forecourt. The trains ran every twenty minutes at this time of day, and there was already one waiting on the platform. She jumped on, and after a quick walk through the compartments found an empty seat by a window.

It was only a short journey from here to the East End borough of Kellston. She settled down, happily anticipating the hours ahead. No more work for her today; she was going to have a well-deserved drink and chill out in front of the TV. Tomorrow, as usual, she’d go up West with Lana and cruise through the crowds. There were always good pickings on a Saturday.

About six months ago, she’d discovered a tiny gold cross and chain tucked into a pocket at the back of a black leather wallet she’d lifted in Piccadilly. There had been over eight hundred quid in the wallet, the best result she’d ever had from a single lift. She should have thrown the cross away, or given it to Pony to get rid of, but she hadn’t. Something had held her back. Connie wasn’t religious, she wasn’t even particularly moral, but she’d still baulked at passing this particular item into the grasping, nicotine-stained fingers of Pony Adams. Lana would kill her if she ever found out. One of the first rules of the game was never to hang on to anything you thieved – well, nothing but the cash. Connie didn’t wear the cross, but sometimes, if she was feeling down, she’d take it out of the box she kept her special things in and hold it in the palm of her hand. It was like a good-luck charm that always made her feel better.

Connie only ever wore one piece of jewellery. Lifting her fingers to her neck, she touched the silver locket that nestled at her throat. She thought of her mum and dad, both dead now. The locket had been a gift for her tenth birthday. Scenes from the past rose up in her mind, but she quickly pushed them down again. That time was over. There was no going back.

It was dark and still raining when Connie got off the train. At the exit to the station, she turned right, in the opposite direction to the high street and its fancy shops. Tanner Road was a five-minute walk away. Because of its location, sitting right on the edge of the local red-light district, property was more affordable than in other parts of Kellston.

Even in this rather dubious area, Connie never worried about walking around on her own. She glanced to her left, along the length of Albert Street. Some of the girls were out already, loitering near the kerb, puffing on cigarettes while they scanned the passing cars for likely punters. She knew most of them by sight, skinny regulars touting for trade. She shivered, not from the cold, but from the knowledge that she could quite easily have been standing there beside them. If it hadn’t been for Lana, for the twist of fate that had brought them together, she too could have been desperate for her next fix and willing to do anything to get it.

She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets and hurried on, not wanting to dwell on what might have been. She was young and had her whole future ahead of her. The bad years, the ones she didn’t like to think about, were behind her now. Her life might not be perfect, but at least it was tolerable. She smiled. No, it was better than that. She had a warm place to sleep, food to eat and friends she could rely on.

When she reached Tanner Road, Connie stopped at the corner and went into the shop. Jamal was standing at the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, staring up at the TV. The news was on, some politician gazing earnestly out of the screen, spewing out the usual slimy lies.

‘Hey,’ he said, giving her a nod. ‘You all right, love?’

‘Not bad, ta. Give us a bottle of voddie, will you, and a bottle of red wine. That Merlot stuff if you’ve still got it on offer.’ Her eyes scanned the shelves behind him. ‘I’ll have a pack of fags too. The usual. Oh, and some Rizlas, the green ones.’

She watched as Jamal carefully put her purchases into a carrier bag. He was a plump middle-aged man with wily dark eyes in a heavy face. A small brown mole lay just above the left corner of his upper lip.

‘You should watch yourself out there. Another girl almost got it a couple of nights ago. Left her for dead, the bastard did.’

‘I know,’ Connie said. ‘I heard about it.’ Gemma Leigh was the third working girl to have been violently assaulted that month. The first had been in Hoxton, the second in Bethnal Green. And now it was Kellston. The attacker was clearly concentrating his attentions on the East End. She glanced up at the TV. ‘Any more news on her?’

Jamal shook his head. ‘Still in intensive care. And you shouldn’t be walking around on your own. It’s not safe.’

‘It’s early yet,’ Connie said, suppressing a shudder. She didn’t want to think about that poor girl lying in the hospital, or what her assailant had put her through before dumping her in an alley near the Mansfield Estate.

‘First there was that business with the funeral parlour, and now this. Where’s it all gonna end, huh?’ Jamal slowly shook his head again. ‘That’s one sick bastard out there. Men like that . . . they should string ’em up, get them off the streets for good.’

Connie turned up the collar of her coat. It was warm in the shop but a chill had just run through her. It wasn’t only Gemma’s fate that was making her skin crawl. Any mention of that funeral parlour gave her the creeps. The business had been closed down a couple of months ago after a young man had been killed in the basement. The story had hit the headlines, been splashed all over the front of the papers, because Toby Grand hadn’t just been murdered – he’d also been meticulously embalmed.

Jamal spread his hands on the counter. ‘Anything else, love?’

‘That’s it, ta.’ Finding her head full of the kind of images that only ever gave you nightmares, Connie quickly got out her purse and paid. She wanted to get home, to close and lock the door behind her. Grabbing the carrier bag, she mumbled a hasty goodbye, and left.

Back on the street, she headed towards the flat. The cops were keeping quiet about the more disturbing details of the attack on Gemma Leigh, but Lana had heard rumours from the girls, tales of disgusting brutality and torture. She’d recited the details over breakfast. It was an attempt, Connie knew, to scare the hell out of her. And what if it’s him? Lana had said, peering at her over the rim of her mug. Danny Street’s a psycho and everyone knows it. Stay away from him. You want to be the next poor cow on his list?

Connie felt her stomach twist. Maybe Lana had a point, but nothing was going to stop her from searching for the truth. She might be playing with fire, but how else was she going to find out what had really happened to her dad? There were some risks that simply had to be taken. She was halfway down Tanner Road, hoping that the bottle of vodka might help her get back in Lana’s good books, when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

‘Stop there! Police!’

Connie stopped dead in her tracks, her brown eyes widening with alarm. She remembered the empty wallets in her bag, the stolen cards in her purse, and her heart began to race. Damn, damn, damn! Should she try and make a run for it? But she didn’t stand a chance of escaping in the high heels she was wearing. Turning, she stared at the man behind her – and suddenly realised who it was. A wave of relief flowed over her. Raising a hand to her chest, she heaved out a groan. ‘You rotten sod! I thought . . . ’

He grinned. ‘Jesus, that’s one face you’ve got on you there. If I was the filth, I’d arrest you just for looking so guilty.’

‘Good thing you’re not, then. What are you doing here?’

He frowned, pretending to be offended. ‘Now what kind of a welcome is that?’

‘The best you’re gonna get after scaring the bloody life out of me.’ Connie finally gave him a smile. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work? I thought you usually . . . ’

‘Yeah, I’ve got to get back. I just wanted to run something by you if you’ve got ten minutes. It’s to do with that stuff you were talking about the other day.’

Connie looked towards the flat, where a light was shining from the living room window. Someone was home. ‘Okay. But we’d better not do it here.’

‘How about I buy you a drink? You look like you need one.’

‘And whose fault is that? God, you could have given me a heart attack.’ She raised her free hand to her chest again. ‘It’s still going like the clappers.’

‘Sorry, love. Shall we go to the Fox? I’ve left the car there, so I can drop you off after.’

‘Okay, just a quick one then.’ The Fox was a large, busy pub near the station with a car park round the side. Most of the local streets were permit parking only, or so jam-packed that it was impossible to find a space. They started walking back in the direction she’d come from, but as they turned on to Station Road he stopped.

‘Not that way,’ he said. ‘It’s quicker to cut through the lane.’

Connie hesitated. She could see Railway Lane from where she was standing, a thin, straight alley, bordered on one side by a ten-foot fence and on the other by a series of abandoned station buildings. Had she been alone, she wouldn’t have considered walking down it. It was long and shadowy, lit only by a thin orangey light escaping from the end of the platforms.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Scared I’ll get the urge to jump you when we’re halfway down?’

She narrowed her eyes and laughed. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

They were ten yards in when Connie, who had taken hold of his arm, felt his whole body stiffen. It was the kind of flinching that made her glance automatically over her shoulder. There was no one there. There was no one ahead of them either. She looked at him. ‘What’s the matter?’

His mouth, which had been smiling a moment ago, was now tight and grim. ‘Nothin’.’

‘Yes there is.’

‘You want the truth, hun?’ He stopped walking, shook off her hand and glared down at her. ‘As it happens, I have got a bit of a problem – a problem with you, that is.’

Connie was aware of the sudden change in his voice, of its ominous overtones. His expression had altered, becoming hard and cold. Jamal’s warning flashed into her head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean,’ he said, leaning down to bring his face closer to hers, and lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘is that I know everything. You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?’

‘I haven’t . . . I don’t understand. I don’t—’

Connie didn’t have time to finish her protestations. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed her back hard against the fence. She felt the force of his shove resound down the length of her backbone. Wincing with the pain, she tried to fight him off. But it was too late. He had her firmly pinned.

‘You know what you are, love? You’re a bitch! A fuckin’ lying bitch!’

‘What are you—’

Connie had barely opened her mouth before she felt his hands move to grip her throat. The carrier bag slipped from her fingers and fell to the pavement. She was aware of the clatter of the bottles on the concrete. Had they smashed? Even as the thought entered her head, she realised how ridiculous it was. She had more to worry about than a couple of broken bottles.

His voice was now a menacing hiss. ‘And do you know what happens to bitches like you?’

Clawing at his hands, Connie desperately tried to free herself. She could barely breathe. His fingers were tightening round her windpipe. She struggled, but he was too strong for her. His voice, full of hate, full of venom, was the last thing she heard before her knees buckled and she crumpled to the ground.

Hope was standing by the sink when the doorbell rang. She paused for a second, in two minds as to whether to answer it. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and her friends knew better than to call round unannounced. Then the sound came again, another two sharp rings. She sensed, although she wasn’t sure how, that the caller wouldn’t stop until someone eventually responded.

With a sigh, she flapped the excess water off her hands and dried them on a towel. Then she strode through to the hall and yanked open the door. There was a man standing on the other side. He was in his late thirties, about five foot eight, lean and thin-faced. She scowled at him, certain that he was about to try and sell her something – gas or broadband, politics or God. Well, whatever it was, she didn’t want it.

‘Yes?’ she said sharply.

‘Hope Randall?’

It briefly crossed her mind to deny it, but some fundamental streak of honesty – or maybe simply the fear of being found out – prevented her from going through with the deception. Instead she gave a small, barely perceptible nod.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name’s Flint. I was wondering if I could have a word.’

Hope glared back at him. ‘What about?’ Just one mention of favourable energy rates or the love of Jesus and she’d be ending this exchange pronto.

The man hesitated, screwing up his eyes. ‘It’s a bit, er . . . delicate. Could we talk inside?’

‘No,’ she said bluntly. Although the small resort of Albersea was hardly renowned for its mad rapists or sweet-talking conmen, Hope had no intention of inviting a total stranger into her home. She’d lived in London for eight years before coming back up north, and had developed a healthy suspicion of anyone she didn’t know.

‘But you are Jeff Tomlin’s daughter? I’ve got the right Hope Randall, haven’t I?’

Hope stared at him, suspecting now that he might be some kind of debt collector. He didn’t really look the part, although never having met one before she wasn’t entirely sure what they did look like. He was casually dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a navy blue jumper. His face was pale, fine-boned and clean-shaven. It was a pleasant, almost sculpted face, only marred by a small kink in the centre of his nose, as though it might have been broken once. A lock of pale brown hair flopped over his forehead, and although he seemed friendly enough, there was something determined about his cool grey eyes. His accent was southern but she couldn’t exactly place it; neither coarse nor refined, it occupied that vague middle ground in between. He was holding a supermarket carrier bag in his left hand.

‘Who?’ she said, playing for time. She had a bad feeling growing in her guts and was beginning to wish she’d never answered the door.

‘Jeff Tomlin,’ he repeated patiently.

Hope knew very little about her biological father, other than that he was (according to her mother) ‘trouble with a capital T’. He’d left before she’d even been born and she had no idea of where he’d gone or what he’d done next. And she hadn’t been interested either. His name might be on her birth certificate, but that didn’t make him anything more than a casual sperm donor. It was Lloyd Randall who was her real dad, who’d always been there for her.

‘I don’t have any contact with him,’ she said firmly. ‘And I don’t know where he is. If it’s money you’re after, you’ve come to the wrong place.’

‘This isn’t about Jeff, or money,’ he said. A frown appeared on his forehead. He glanced briefly down at his shoes before looking up again. ‘Christ, you don’t know, do you?’

Hope, although she rarely thought about her father, felt an unexpected tremor run through her. She could tell from Flint’s expression what was coming next. ‘Is he . . . ?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with what seemed like genuine concern. ‘I presumed you’d have heard. It was years ago.’ He paused as if doing a swift calculation in his head. ‘About twelve, I think.’

Hope wasn’t upset. How could she be? She’d never even met her father. But she did feel something. It was a kind of bewilderment, along with a growing resentment that now she’d never get the opportunity to tell him exactly what she felt about men who abandoned their children, who couldn’t or wouldn’t face up to their responsibilities. She wondered if her mother had known that he was dead. Well, it was too late to ask her now. Fay Randall had succumbed to cancer over six months ago. To cover up her confusion, Hope put her hands on her hips and kept her voice sharp. ‘So what are you doing here? What do you want with me?’

‘It’s about your sister.’

‘I don’t have a sister.’

As if she was being deliberately pedantic, Flint’s voice assumed a slightly caustic edge. ‘Sorry, your half-sister then.’

‘I don’t have—’ Hope stopped abruptly, suddenly realising that she had no idea whether she had a half-sister or not.

‘Connie? Connie Tomlin?’ As he looked at her, Flint’s face twisted. ‘Ah, you didn’t know about her either. She was never sure. I mean, she knew about you, but . . . ’

‘What do you want with me?’ Hope said again.

‘Your help,’ he said simply.

‘With what exactly?’

Flint hesitated again. He glanced over his shoulder at the house across the road, instinctively aware perhaps of the twitching curtains. Hope followed his gaze. She still hadn’t readjusted to the inquisitiveness of her neighbours, especially the likes of Edith Barry. In London, people had kept their distance – she’d liked that – but here there was always someone in your face, watching everything you did. It had bothered her when she was a teenager, and it still bothered her now.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this inside?’

Hope thought about it, but then shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’m busy.’

‘I’m a friend of Connie’s,’ Flint said. ‘She’s disappeared. I’m trying to find out what’s happened to her.’

‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with me.’ Hope knew it sounded cold, callous even, but she didn’t give a damn what this stranger thought of her. She was still trying to deal with the grief of losing her mother and had no room in her heart for anyone or anything else.

‘You’re her only living relation,’ he said harshly. ‘If you don’t care about her, who will?’

Hope raised her eyebrows at the vehemence of his reply. She thought of suggesting that he clearly did, but instead she asked a question of her own. ‘How did you find me?’

‘It wasn’t hard,’ he said. ‘Connie mentioned where you lived. She didn’t have the exact address, but she knew that you’d grown up in Albersea. I got the details from the electoral register. To be honest, I thought it was a bit of a long shot – you could have moved away years ago.’ He gave a small smile. ‘But here you are.’

Hope could have told him that twelve months ago he wouldn’t have been quite so lucky, but she wasn’t prepared to furnish him with any more information than he already had. It made her feel uneasy being tracked down like this. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t see what use I can be. As you already know, we never met.’

‘You could come to London and help me search for her.’

Hope barked out a startled laugh. ‘What?’

‘Why not?’ he said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

Flint gave her a long, steady look, his gaze travelling over her face. Suddenly, as their eyes met, something unexpected happened. It was as if a connection had been made between them, a spark ignited. His lips parted a little. ‘There’s nothing ridiculous about it. I want to find out what’s happened. Someone out there knows more than they’re saying. You could help me get to the truth.’

Hope’s breath caught in her throat. What had just happened there? A faint blush had risen to her cheeks. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Hope couldn’t work this man out. He had an unpredictable quality, one moment sympathetic, the next provocative, as if he were trying to goad her into some kind of reaction. ‘Both,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ve had a wasted journey. I don’t want to get involved.’

‘You’re already involved. You’re her sister.’

‘No,’ Hope said again. Eager to be rid of him, she took a step back and prepared to close the door. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind, I really have to get on.’

Flint gave a light shrug of his shoulders. ‘Okay, I get the message.’ He lifted the carrier bag and offered it to her. ‘Here are some of her things. Her landlady gave them to me. Connie’s been gone a while now and she didn’t know what to do with her stuff. There’s not much, just a few bits and pieces, but I thought you might like to have them.’

‘I don’t,’ Hope said, shrinking back.

Flint, ignoring the response, put the bag down by her feet. ‘I’ll be here for a few days. I’m staying at the King George on the front. My number’s in the bag. Give me a call if you want to talk.’

Without another word, he turned and walked away. Hope watched as he sauntered down the street, his hands deep in his pockets. He had a graceful sort of walk, smooth and light-footed, utterly devoid of any male swagger. Quickly she transferred her attention to the bag, and frowned. Why had she let him leave it? But it was too late to give it back now; he’d already disappeared around the corner. She picked it up, went inside and slammed the door behind her.

She flounced through to the living room and threw the bag on the sofa. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling so angry. The past few minutes had had a surreal quality that she was still trying to come to terms with. She felt disoriented, upset. Part of her distress was down to her privacy being invaded; ever since her mother’s death, she’d done her best to avoid unnecessary contact with other people, to keep her barriers in place, but Flint had just crashed straight through her defences like some invading army.

What right did he have to come here, to tell her that her father was dead, to ask for her help in finding someone she’d never known? She stared resentfully at the carrier bag. So she had a half-sister. So what? Her reckless biological father could have spawned an endless number of kids. Was she expected to feel responsible for them all? But maybe, mixed in with her anger, was just a tiny bit of guilt. The missing Connie Tomlin, whether she liked it or not, was still connected to her.

Hope walked over to the window, folded her arms, and looked outside. It was a bright September afternoon, but cold, with a brisk, chill wind sweeping off the Irish Sea. If she opened the window she’d be able to smell the salt on the air. It was only a five-minute walk to the beach, and she was tempted to take a stroll, to get out of the cottage and let the wind whip away her bewilderment. There were so many thoughts buzzing around her head, she couldn’t think straight.

She sighed as she gazed down the street. The trees were at the start of their magnificent transformation, their leaves turning from green to gold, to russet and bronze. She drank in the colours, grateful for the distraction. She wasn’t sure what she was still doing in Albersea. Her intention had always been to return to London, but after her mother’s death she ha