Someone You Know

by Erin Kinsley

Genres: Domestic Thrillers

Synopsis

A gripping, emotional and twisting thriller from the bestselling author of FOUND, this will be loved by readers of authors such as Heidi Perks, Claire Douglas, Cara Hunter and Gillian McAllister

SOMEONE KILLED YOUR DAUGHTER. SOMEONE YOU KNOW...

Your daughter isn't answering your calls.
She's not replying to your messages.

You rush to her house.
She's slumped in the basement, dying and alone.

You desperately call for help.
She whispers a single word.

Someone is keeping secrets.
And it must be someone you know...

Praise for Erin Kinsley:

'Brilliant, compelling, heart-wrenching writing.' PETER JAMES

'An unputdownable thriller.' ELLY GRIFFITHS

'Sensitive and moving...but with a core of pure tension' SUNDAY TIMES

'Full of twists and turns to keep you guessing, this is a gripping and compelling read you won't want to put down' HEAT

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: July 6, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 432

Sample

ONE

A day in early spring, towards the end of March.

Wilf has come to feed the swans, as he always does on Thursdays. He’s a man of regularity and routine, and this weekly ritual is a habit formed early in his life.

The riverbank is muddy below the red-­brick bridge, which village folk claim has spanned the river for a thousand years.

But Wickney folk don’t know much.

Wilf treads very carefully as he makes his way to the water’s edge, anxious not to slip or dirty the polished leather of his shoes. Only last week, the river was glazed with ice; now the celandines blooming by the war memorial offer a hint of warmer seasons. Wilf, though, still feels the cold. Under his overcoat, he wears a lambswool sweater over his shirt, and his old university scarf – the black, blue and white of Bristol’s School of Arts – is draped over his shoulders in case of need.

Dipping his hand into a Tesco carrier bag, he scatters an arc of yellow corn kernels over the ground.

The five swans dabbling in the reeds on the river’s far side are already on their way, barely rippling the sluggish water as they glide across. The single male swan reaches Wilf first, and as it waddles from the water, he feels a frisson of intimidation at the creature’s size. If it chose, the swan could do him significant harm, but Wilf has learned a balance over the years between standing his ground and not appearing to be a threat, and so the birds have come to trust him, or at least tolerate him in return for food.

Like many fenland villages, Wickney straddles the river. The main road passing through runs along the eastern bank as far as the bridge, where it takes a right angle to cross over to the village’s western half. Along that far stretch, a white van is approaching, braking to make the turn. Partially hidden by the bridge’s parapets, it soon reappears and continues along the eastern carriageway, making its way past a row of shops – a pork butcher, the Spar, a pizza takeaway, an empty premises for sale, the Mystique hair salon and a hardware store – and disappears out of sight.

Greedy for the corn, the swans surround Wilf on the bank, close enough that he could touch them if he dared. Throwing them the final handful, he begins to break up the heel of a stale loaf.

As he tosses the birds the first pieces of crust, he realises he’s being watched.

Only a few metres away stands a little girl, pretty as a picture in her utilitarian grey school dress, eyes wide with lively curiosity.

A little girl Wilf knows.

Her name is Ruby.

 

Ruby’s mum, Natalie, is caught up in conversation with the school-­gate mums she calls her friends: Hannah, Jess, Sarah, April. Jess is going through a bad patch at home, and wants to know Natalie’s opinion on whether she’s better off staying with Paddy, or making the break and going it alone.

‘Best thing I ever did, leaving Justin,’ declares Natalie. ‘What do men do for you? They just hold you down, stop you being yourself. Who wants a life like that? Life’s for being free, being who you want to be. Their idea of what’s good for you ends up being what’s best for them, if you ask me.’

‘But what about money?’ Jess asks. ‘Me and the kids couldn’t live on my wage.’

‘You’re a good-­looking woman,’ says Natalie. ‘You’ll never have a problem finding work.’

A white van is coming along the lane, making its way through the tight spaces left by the parked school-­run cars. As the van reaches Natalie and her friends, it slows to a crawl and the driver beeps his horn. The women turn round, and the man in the passenger seat – blond hair in a ponytail, stud earrings and a confident smile showing teeth in need of work – blows Natalie a kiss.

Natalie laughs and, blushing, turns her back.

‘Who’s that?’ asks April, following the van with her eyes as it makes a turn for the main road.

‘Eric,’ says Natalie, apparently uninterested. ‘I’ve been seeing him for a couple of weeks.’

‘What, another one?’ asks Hannah. ‘I don’t know where you get the energy.’

They talk for a few minutes more, giving the kids a chance to let off steam before they head for home. By the time Sarah notices Ruby isn’t with the other children, Ruby might have been gone two minutes, maybe five. Worst-­case scenario, ten.

‘Nat,’ asks Sarah, ‘where’s Ruby?’

Natalie looks round the playground, over towards the climbing frame, down the lane beyond the fence. Ruby’s nowhere to be seen among the other children chatting and playing.

‘That little madam,’ says Natalie, seriously annoyed. ‘Always wandering off.’

Walking away to find her daughter, she calls back over her shoulder, ‘See you tomorrow, ladies.’

As if all time to come is hers.

 

‘Hello, Ruby,’ says Wilf.

Ruby’s slight build is unusual for this area, where so many of the children, even the girls, are – in Wilf’s view – overfed and bulked out like wrestlers. She reminds him an awful lot of Margot. On the piano at home there’s a photograph of Margot at a similar age – four, he supposes, or five – in a similar uniform, and they have the same elfin daintiness about them, the same delightful air of fun and mischief.

And seemingly Ruby is intrigued by him.

Which is a novelty.

‘You’re our next-­door ­neighbour,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen you from my bedroom window.’

Wilf smiles. ‘I am.’

‘My name’s Ruby.’

‘I know,’ says Wilf. ‘I’ve heard your mother . . .’ about to say shouting at you, he corrects himself. ‘. . . Calling you for dinner. I’m very pleased to meet you, Ruby. My name is Wilf.’

Ruby lifts the skirt of her dress and bends her knees in a curtsey. A lump comes to Wilf’s throat as he remembers Margot doing the same, decades ago in an apple orchard with petals of white blossom on her head. Life’s passage is hard and cruel, and Time will play the same dirty tricks on this child as it did on Margot, stealing away her innocence and loveliness, leaving her the sagging flesh and painful infirmities of old age in their place.

But Ruby has no inkling of that future yet.

‘That’s what princesses do when they meet people,’ she says. ‘Why are you feeding the swans? Can I help?’

Wilf is happy to hand her his last remaining piece of bread, and Ruby throws it at the feet of the nearest swan, who gobbles it and looks to her for more.

‘That’s it, I’m afraid,’ says Wilf, folding the carrier bag for reuse.

‘I like your tie,’ says Ruby, gazing at his immaculately tied silk bow. ‘Yellow’s one of my favourites. My dad has a tie like that but he only wears it sometimes and his is black. Do you wear yours every day?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do. I think a bow tie makes every day extra special. Ruby, where’s your mother?’

‘Talking.’ Ruby manages to make talking sound tedious beyond bearing, and Wilf laughs. ‘When she’s talking, I’m not to interrupt. I expect she’ll come looking for me in a minute, though. Your garden’s much bigger than ours. Ours is tiny. If our garden was bigger, I’d have a duck pond like yours.’

‘You’re welcome to come and feed my ducks, if you’d like. They’re always hungry. Maybe your mum would bring you.’

‘I want a kitten but she won’t let me. Mila Ferguson’s cat’s got kittens and Mila said I could have a ginger one but Mum said no.’

‘I have a cat,’ says Wilf. ‘But he’s much bigger than a kitten. He’s an old man of twelve and very grumpy.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mr Grimes.’

‘Is he ginger?’

‘He’s a big ball of grey fluff.’

‘Can I stroke him?’

Wilf looks doubtful. ‘I’m afraid he does occasionally bite. Probably better not.’

Realising there’s no more food, the swans have wandered back to the water.

‘I remember,’ says Wilf, pointing to the reeds where the birds are rummaging, ‘when my sister and I were the same age as you, we used to come and pick the reeds here sometimes and make them into candles.’

Ruby’s eyes widen. ‘How do you do that?’

‘I’ll show you.’ He bends and picks one of the slender stems. Digging his thumbnail into the epidermis, he runs it to the top of the stalk, splitting the outer green from base to tip before peeling it back to show the fragile creamy pith beneath. ‘All you do is peel the skin right off, dip the pith in the leftover fat when you have pork chops or lamb for Sunday lunch, and when it dries it will burn for hours. Nature’s candles. People in villages like Wickney used them as lights for centuries, in the days before we had electricity.’

‘Ruby!’ The voice is strident and Ruby winces. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Natalie is standing on the road above the riverbank.

Wilf turns round to face her, and smiles.

He knows her by sight; he’s watched her many times from his windows as she takes Ruby to school, carries in shopping, comes and goes in taxis at weekends. In her red coat and black patent boots, she’s very striking, and plainly the origin of Ruby’s dark eyes and hair. But in Wilf’s eyes, like so many modern women she spoils herself with too much fakery: stuck-­on lashes, sprayed-­on tan, plastic nails. Take all that away, and she’d be beautiful. At least, she would if she didn’t always look so irritable.

‘Who the hell are you?’ demands Natalie. ‘Get away from my daughter. Ruby, get over here.’

Without looking back, Ruby walks slowly up the bank and goes to stand by her mother. Seen side by side, the likeness between them is remarkable.

Wilf moves to follow her, his hand extended. ‘We haven’t formally met. I’m your next-­door neighbour, Wilfred Hickling. Please do call me Wilf.’

Natalie glares. ‘So you’re the peeper. Don’t think I haven’t seen you, hiding behind your curtains, getting an eyeful.’

Wilf feels a deep flush of indignation and embarrassment spread from his neck up into his face. ‘My dear lady, I must object in the strongest terms . . .’

Natalie’s expression is of surprised amusement.

‘You what? Are you for real?’ Pushing Ruby ahead of her, she begins to walk away, putting insufficient distance between them for Wilf not to hear when she mutters, ‘Disgusting old perv.’

 

‘I’ve told you not to go wandering off! Why can’t you listen?’

Natalie has Ruby tightly by the wrist, pulling her fast along the road towards where the car is parked. Ruby’s pink unicorn schoolbag bounces on her back as she trots to keep up.

‘Mummy, you’re hurting me. I was talking to Wilf. He was telling me about candles. He said I can go round and help him feed the ducks.’

Natalie keeps firm hold of Ruby’s wrist. ‘Well, you can’t.’

‘Why not? I bet Daddy would let me.’

‘Not all men are nice, Ruby. Some men are bad people.’

‘Wilf is nice.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Daddy’s nice too.’

Silence.

‘And Grandpa. Do you think he’s finished painting my bedroom?’

‘I sincerely hope so, he’s been at it long enough. Days and days he’s been doing it, and that room’s hardly as big as our fridge.’

‘He told me he’s taking his time so he can keep an eye on us.’

‘Did he now? He and I might have to have a word about that. I don’t think we need keeping an eye on, do you?’

‘Don’t you think it’s kind of Grandpa to be looking after us? I like having him there. He makes me laugh. Wilf’s cat is called Mr Grimes. I think it must be that fluffy one that watches for mice by the hole in the fence. I asked if I could stroke him but Wilf says I’d better not. Sometimes Mr Grimes bites. I don’t think he’d bite me though.’

Natalie’s hunting for the car keys in her handbag.

‘Shall we invite Wilf for tea one day?’ asks Ruby. ‘I think he’d like to come. I think he might be lonely, all by himself in that big house. We could make fairy cakes with pink icing and those silver sprinkles Daddy put on my birthday cake.’

Natalie finds her keys. As she unlocks the car, her phone begins to ring. When she glances at the screen, the corners of her mouth lift in an almost-­smile.

As she climbs into the car, Ruby listens to the one side of the conversation she can hear and frowns.

‘Hello you . . . I’m good . . . Not tonight, babe . . . You know I would (giggles) . . . How can I get a babysitter at this short notice? Anyway, I have other commitments . . . Yeah, those kind of commitments . . . I know you don’t . . . Because no, simple as. You’ll just have to wait . . . Anyway, you can keep it nice and hot for me till then . . . Yeah, no worries . . . You be good too . . . Miss you too, babe. See you soon. Bye. Bye.’

Ruby is staring through the windscreen, watching a woman walking a small white dog.

As Natalie starts the car, Ruby says, ‘Am I going to Daddy’s tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

Ruby’s voice is without its usual fizz. ‘I knew I would be.’

Natalie pulls out of her parking space. The road’s quiet, no other traffic. As they drive over the bridge, Ruby turns her head to see if Wilf is still watching the swans. And he’s there, smart and dignified as an old soldier, though his head is bowed as if he’s feeling sad.

‘How did you know?’ asks Natalie.

‘Because you’re seeing that man.’

‘His name’s Eric, Ruby. And he happens to be a very nice man.’

‘Eric’s a stupid name.’ For a few moments Ruby’s silent, until they turn away from the bridge and Wilf and the swans are out of sight. ‘And if Eric’s nice and Grandpa’s nice and Daddy’s nice, why should Wilf be the only one who’s not nice? I don’t think Eric’s very nice. He smells like toilet cleaner.’

‘He does not smell like toilet cleaner.’

‘He does to me. Why don’t you love Daddy?’

Natalie’s going almost too fast to make the turn into Saddler’s Drove.

‘For God’s sake,’ she says, braking so hard Ruby’s pitched forward in her seat. ‘Not this again. Give it a rest for once, will you? All your questions are giving me a stinking headache.’

TWO

At the café in the town-­centre marketplace, the service is surly but the coffee’s fragrant and hot. In this part of the world, where the choice of venues is limited, you forgive plenty for drinkable coffee.

Natalie’s mother, Dee, sits down opposite her oldest friend, Tina, and removes her dark glasses, so incongruous on this deteriorating March day.

Tina studies Dee’s face, blinks her kohl-­lined eyelids and says, ‘I ordered you a latte. What happened to your face?’

Dee has tried the same useless trick that failed to fool her mother thirty years ago when she was trying to cover teenage love bites on her neck, and has dabbed a mixture of foundation and toothpaste on the bruising around her eye.

The waitress brings two coffees in tall glasses, not apologising for the milky spills in the saucers, nor offering to fetch a cloth to wipe up the crumbs left on the table by previous customers.

‘Did you want anything to eat?’ Tina asks Dee, but the waitress is already gone.

Dee brushes the crumbs on her side of the table on to the floor. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘I’m thinking Frank.’

‘Only indirectly.’

‘An indirect black eye. That’s a new one.’ Tina takes two packets of brown sugar from the bowl at the centre of the table, rips off their corners and pours both into her drink. As she stirs, Dee picks up her own long-­handled spoon and stirs her coffee too, even though she’s no reason to except to buy a few moments to muster her thoughts. Tina knows a thing or two about men who’ll take a swing, but that’s never been Frank.

Frank’s bad behaviour lies in a different direction.

‘I know you won’t believe me, but it was just a stupid thing. I dropped my glasses and when I bent down to pick them up, I caught myself on the corner of the dining table. That’s it.’

‘A likely story.’

‘Dull but true.’

‘So where does Frank come in?’

Dee takes a sip of her coffee. ‘I was putting on my glasses so I could read the messages on his phone. Serves me right for trying to spy on him.’

Tina looks at her in that way she has, weighing things up, choosing her words. People judge her by her appearance, thinking her long skirts and bangles and sandals mean she’s nothing but a hippy stuck in the past, but Tina has an uncanny gift for untangling human relationships.

‘You think he’s having another affair,’ she says, reaching across the table to touch her friend’s hand. ‘How do you know? Are you absolutely sure? Is there a chance you’re being oversensitive, seeing things that aren’t there? Not that I would blame you, with his past form.’

‘It’s the same old stuff,’ says Dee. ‘Phone calls he won’t answer while I’m around. Messages pinging at odd times, long silences, extra showers. And he keeps going AWOL, hours and hours he can’t account for. I don’t really think there’s any doubt.’

Recounting the evidence rekindles the hurt. How could he take her for such a fool?

She tries to smile through the tears pricking her eyes.

‘I’m such an idiot,’ she says, though her voice comes out small. ‘He promised me he wouldn’t, and he swears blind he isn’t. But how can I believe him when all the same signs are there?’

‘Oh, Dee, I’m so sorry. What a bastard. You must want to kill him.’

‘Not this time. I’m not angry at him so much as myself, for giving him another chance. And I told him last time if it happened again, I’d divorce him, but now it looks like the time has come, I feel afraid to be alone. And I don’t want to upset Ruby.’

‘What about Nat? What would she say? I expect she’d want you two to stay together.’

Dee shakes her head. ‘Natalie wouldn’t care. Hard as nails, that girl is, and if her father upped and left, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear her tell him good riddance.’

‘What will you do?’ asks Tina. ‘You can stay with me a while, if you need time to think. You know it’s not luxurious, but there’s always wine and chocolate.’

Dee gives her a grateful smile. ‘Thank you. It helps to know there’s somewhere I could go. But I suppose I’m going to wait and see what the next few days bring.’ Her smile fades. ‘I’ve left it too late, haven’t I, to leave him?’

‘Not if that’s what you want.’

Dee’s eyes become distant, looking back into the past. ‘Why is it so hard to put your finger on where things go wrong? When we were first married, Frank and I were really good together, and Nat was such a bright and sunny child, always full of fun. I thought that was it, happy ever after. But then, I thought we were happy when Frank started playing his games, which goes to show what I know. Now I wonder why I put up with it, why I didn’t throw him out, but I never quite dared. Sometimes I think if only I’d had the confidence, I could have had a different life, got a little flat for me and Nat, been independent. I always wanted to go travelling. All those places I wanted to see, Venice, Florida, even just Edinburgh Castle. But Frank wasn’t keen and I’d no one else to go with.’

‘You could still go. I’d go with you, if I could afford it.’

Dee nods an acknowledgement and goes on, wistfully. ‘Shall I tell you something, something I’ve never told anyone? Once upon a time, years ago, I got caught in a downpour, and I did something I never do, I took shelter in a pub. Soon as I was through the door I wished I hadn’t gone in. It was full of businessmen drinking their lunchtime pints, barely another woman in the place, and when I got to the bar, I felt really awkward. The barman hadn’t noticed me and I was going to leave, but then a man standing next to me asked if he could buy me a drink. He was nice-­looking, handsome even. Frank and I were going through one of our bad times, and I thought what the hell, and I said yes. I asked for a glass of wine and this guy made a big show of making the barman open a fresh bottle of something I’d never tried before. It was lovely wine, and he was a lovely man. He was actually interested in me, asked me questions about where I was from, what I did for a living. We chatted until our glasses were empty, and then he offered to buy me another. And I so wanted to say yes, to be irresponsible, forget about where I was supposed to be and what I had to do later and just give myself up to whatever it was that was happening, because that’s what Frank would have done. Because I was already thinking I really, really liked this man, and he really liked me.

‘His name was John. But when he offered me that second drink, I told him I couldn’t stay, even though he did his best to persuade me.

‘I walked out on him. And from that day to this, I’ve never forgotten him. A few times after that, I went in there, hoping I’d see him again, but I never did.’

Among the chatter from other tables, a melancholy silence hangs over them, until Tina says, ‘That’s such a sad little tale. A missed opportunity.’

‘Story of my life,’ says Dee.

 

Wilf feels the spattering of rain.

Hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, he wanders up the riverbank, crossing the road to go into the Spar, hesitating when he reaches the shop door.

His encounter with Natalie has unsettled and embarrassed him. Did anyone witness how she spoke to him? Do other people view him the same way?

Inside, the shop is warm. Martine is behind the counter, chatting as she serves a young woman holding a boy about Ruby’s age by the hand, scanning and bagging fish fingers and spaghetti hoops. There is, Wilf notices, a bit of a queue. If he’d come earlier, he’d have avoided what passes in Wickney for a rush hour.

Somehow, though, he wants to be part of the crowd.

He picks up a wire basket and takes his time browsing, even though he already knows what’s on the shelves. He takes a small Hovis loaf, a pint of semi-­skimmed milk, a bag of frozen peas. By the cat food he dithers a while, undecided between pilchard, rabbit and turkey, in the end choosing none of them and plumping for beef. On his way to the till, he passes the bakery section again and decides he will after all have the packet of almond slices he resisted when he picked up the bread.

The queue has grown shorter. He stands at its end. No one speaks to him.

When his turn comes to be served, Martine smiles, as always. In the last three years she has buried her farmer husband and all but lost her teenage daughter to drugs, and behind the home-­tinted hair and supermarket lipstick she has the air of a conscripted soldier, trying to make the best of whatever life pummels her with. But her cheeks retain the ruddiness of a life spent outdoors, and Wilf wonders how she gets through her shifts in this place, with the fluorescent lights and cramped aisles and lack of windows.

‘Hello, Mr Hickling.’ She scans the cat food, the peas, the almond slices. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘Oh, as well as can be expected,’ says Wilf. ‘It’s still rather cold, though, isn’t it? I suppose that’s why I haven’t seen you out our way recently. You’ll be staying closer to home.’

Martine scans the bread and the milk. ‘That bridle path can be so muddy this time of year. I’m afraid Rocky will slip and do himself a damage, and that’s the last thing I need. But I expect he’d enjoy a change. Maybe we’ll have a ride over sometime soon.’

‘I’ve got some Polo mints for him in the cupboard.’

Martine manages another smile. ‘He’ll be your friend forever. Anything else?’

‘No, thank you.’

As he picks up his shopping, Wilf wishes her good afternoon, but Martine’s moved on to the next customer and doesn’t reply.

 

He drives his Toyota over the bridge and then steadily along the rain-­glossed lanes, taking the same route as Natalie out of the village. Daffodils blow along the roadside dyke, and he recalls – years ago – planting some of those bulbs, him and Margot and Ma and Pa clambering up and down the steep bank sides, Ma complaining all the while how her back was killing her. For all that hard work, she saw them bloom only once before she was gone.

Beyond the dyke, flat fen farmland stretches to a sky which some might call drab but where Wilf always sees shades of blue, even when they’re bleached almost to grey. There was a time when spring saw these fields ablaze with tulips, a glorious spread of crimson and pink. For days, sometimes into weeks, they were a sight to behold.

Now it’s just the monochrome green of leeks.

There are only two houses on Stickpike Lane. As he passes Turle’s Cottage, he notices Natalie’s little Peugeot is in the drive.

Turning through the gateway of Nine Brethren House, he drives over the gravel to park in his usual spot, well out of sight of potential thieves.

Mr Grimes is yowling on the doorstep. Wilf’s pleased by the welcome, and chatters away to him, asking the cat how his day has been as he fumbles for his keys.

He sets the kettle to boil and puts away his shopping.

Mr Grimes is rubbing round his legs. Wilf spoons cat food into a dish and places it on the cold kitchen floor.

 

Mention of Natalie has made Dee think she could call her, go over there, delay the inevitable return home. Natalie will have picked Ruby up from school, and time spent with her granddaughter is always cheering.

When Dee dials the number, Natalie answers on the second ring.

‘Hi, Mum.’ She doesn’t sound pleased to hear from Dee; she seems distracted, like she’s been interrupted.

‘Hi,’ says Dee, far more brightly than she’s feeling. ‘I’m just thinking about popping over, if you’re home.’

‘What for?’

The blunt question takes Dee aback. ‘No special reason. Just to see you and Ruby. Cup of tea and a chinwag type of thing.’

In the background, Dee hears Ruby ask, ‘Who is it?’ and when Natalie tells her it’s her grandmother, she calls out, ‘Hi, Grandma!’

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ says Dee. ‘How was school?’

‘Ruby, go and get changed out of your uniform,’ says Natalie. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, this isn’t a good time. I have work to do.’

Natalie’s new work seems to take up a lot of her time.

‘Why don’t I come and get Ruby, then?’ suggests Dee. ‘I’ll give her something to eat. She can come to us for a sleepover.’ And keep the peace between me and Frank. ‘Then she won’t get on your nerves.’

Natalie hesitates, and Dee thinks she’s going to say yes.

But instead she says, ‘Another time, Mum, OK?’

‘Won’t she be in your way?’ Dee persists. ‘I’ll be there in no time, get her out of your hair. Just put her some pyjamas and her uniform in a bag, and I’ll whisk her away.’

‘It won’t work for me tonight. Sorry but I have to go.’

‘Are you all right, Natalie?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘You just sound so stressed.’

‘I’m not stressed, Mum, I’m busy.’

‘And I was offering to help.’

‘Well, thank you. I have to go.’

Dee takes a deep breath. ‘Nat, your dad . . .’ But now isn’t the time.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘C’mon, tell me. What?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Never mind. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, maybe.’

‘Bye,’ says her daughter, and ends the call.

Leaving Dee to head back to the house she’s no longer sure is home.

THREE

Over the weekend, intervals of sunshine fail to lift the outside temperature. Wilf decides to venture into the garden anyway, thinking he should refill the bird feeders and cut back the elder he’s been meaning to prune for weeks.

He wears a fleece-­lined gilet and hat against the cold breeze, and puts on a second pair of socks before pulling on his wellingtons. Mr Grimes sits on the conservatory windowsill staring out at the early blossom on the apricot tree, but although Wilf tries to tempt him, he shows no inclination to leave the house’s warmth.

So Wilf goes outside alone.

The elder grows in the border adjoining the lane. Readying his cutters, he pats his pocket to make sure the Polo mints are there. It’s not a bad day. Martine might possibly bring Rocky out this way.

Wondering if they could already be on their way – this is about their usual time, somewhere around mid-­afternoon – he steps into the road, scanning the distance for a horse and its rider.

Someone is there, but it’s not Martine and Rocky.

Still a fair distance off, a woman is walking slowly, pushing a buggy.

Wilf begins to cut at the tree, stepping back from time to time to check the shape he’s creating, working carefully to keep it even.

After a while he hears the rumble of small wheels and peeps through the thinned branches to see who’s there.

The woman with the buggy has stopped outside Turle’s Cottage. The little girl in the buggy is fast. . .