The Stranger Beside Me

by Caroline England

Genres: Domestic Thrillers

Synopsis

A new dark, twisty psychological suspense by bestselling author Caroline England, author of Betray Her and My Husband's Lies.

Katy Henry is lost and lonely. A single mother, plagued by fatigue and anxiety, she rarely has time for friends. But when she encounters Sibeal Matthews, all this changes. Sibeal is everything that Katy is not: assured, headstrong and charming.

Katy soon finds herself pulled out of her isolation into a fierce friendship. But Sibeal is not all that she seems. Tragedy haunts her, and for all her feistiness, she is startlingly dependent on her brother, Gabriel. And when her life begins to spectacularly unravel, Katy is swept up in the storm.

As Katy fights to protect herself and her son, it's not just Sibeal who threatens to endanger them - Katy's own past starts to rupture. Who can Katy trust? Can she even trust herself?

Praise for Caroline England:

'Stunning . . . dark undercurrents and sinister twists' AMANDA ROBSON

'In the very top tier of psychological thrillers' M W CRAVEN

'The duchess of dark domestic noir strikes again' HELEN FIELDS

'Powerful . . . psychological menace and dramatic plot twists' DAILY MAIL

'A twist that I didn't see coming!' T. M. LOGAN

'Kept me gripped' B. A. PARIS

'Incredibly twisty . . . deliciously satisfying' CLAIRE ALLAN

'A taut, tantalising thriller' SHERYL BROWNE

'Truly terrific!' MARTINA COLE

Release date: August 3, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

Save for her red shoes, Sibeal Matthews is all dressed in black.

Despite her clanging agitation, her eyes sweep the stifling room with a will of their own. A waxed leather sofa and low tables, lantern lights and wicker cushions. Even an artificial bamboo. No doubt there’s a tea house or a pagoda on the lawn at the back.

A snort of derision escapes. Camouflaged by the plethora of suburban trees, she’s watched this modern build in Wilmslow from outside many times, and now she’s finally crossed the threshold. Just one of many fucking, fucking ironies. How often did she covet it from afar? The house that should have been hers. And yet now she’s here, it’s so depressingly tasteless.

She reverts to the salt and pepper crown of the bloke in the queue ahead of her. A bald patch is developing and she can smell the sour stench of his body odour from here; he’s probably unaware of both. Blissfully smug and unknowing like she was. Ignorant of what loitered, pernicious and deadly. What became that devastating and irrevocable knockout blow.

The man gravely murmurs to the four-person line-up, shakes hands and walks away. Like taking communion in church, it’s her turn to step forward and open her mouth. Can she? Can she do it without roaring alcoholic fire in their faces? Or crying, misbehaving, making a scene? Or maybe just bolting. But Gabriel is beside her, his hand cupping her elbow.

Though his tiny frame draws her like a magnet, she tries not to glance at the boy. She can’t bear to look at her either, but she said she’d be here if this day ever came. Standing tall and beautiful and civilised, her make-up perfect, her crimson lipstick bright, she’s here as she promised.

She focuses on the wife’s knuckles, white and sharp on the child’s narrow shoulders. Robin’s boy. And hers. Yes, hers, Sibeal Matthews, from his sandy blond hair to his dimpled square chin and hazel brown eyes. At four years of age he’s too young for a funeral, for shaking hands with tearful adults, for this. He should be outdoors, playing on the pristine square of grass at the front, kicking a ball, laughing and carefree. Not on display like . . . a medal? No, like a possession, like proof.

A second passes, then another. She’s never been this close to Joseph before. Can she really hold back from peeping at him? Staring and touching, stroking his silky locks, caressing his warm flesh and inhaling his smell? Absorbing the living, breathing clone of her lover? But of course that’s a no-no, even for her, and she promised Gabriel she’d behave. So she allows her gaze to slip and sucks in his mini-Robin features for as many moments as she can. Same as last week, last month, through that pane of glass. His boy, Robin’s boy, who changed everything.

Gabriel clears his throat loudly and her words fall out. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ She turns to the parents. ‘Sibeal and Gabriel Matthews,’ she says, using the phonetic ‘Sibeeal’ she adopted at eleven rather than the Irish pronunciation her saintly mum gave her. She gestures to her brother. ‘We went to university with Robin. We’re so—’

The mother’s eloquent tone cuts in. ‘Yes, of course,’ she says. ‘Please help yourself to beverages from the kitchen island.’

‘Thank you.’

His hand in the small of her back, Gabe guides her away like a minder, a carer. Or perhaps a jailer. And why the hell is he here anyway? ‘Robin has no interest in anyone but himself,’ he said only weeks ago. And as always she knows what her older sibling will say moments before he utters it.

‘You didn’t go to university with Robin,’ he hisses.

Her dear lovely Gabe. Pedantic to the nth degree.

‘You don’t say.’ She turns to his scowl and mimics the mother. ‘ “Beverages from the kitchen island.” As opposed to from the fabby chabudai. That’s the short-legged table in the . . .’ She sighs at Gabe’s frown. ‘Never mind. I don’t know why you’ve come. Why did you come, Gabriel?’

‘Because I did go to uni with Robin. He was a close friend for seventeen years,’ he replies tersely. ‘More to the point, why did you come?’

She turns to the boy. If only she could have kissed his soft, apple cheek. ‘Funeral practising,’ she replies. ‘I told you last night.’

‘For God’s sake, Sibeal, stop acting so, so . . .’ He picks up two drinks and hands one to her. ‘Well, weird.’

‘Weird. Hmm, how charming.’ She nudges him playfully. ‘Is that why you’re at the end of your tether, as you so eloquently put it? Have I inherited the freak gene from our dearest Imelda?’

‘Mum wasn’t a freak, Sibeal. And I said that because of the drinking. It’s not just wine these days, you’re on the hard stuff too. It’s embarrassing. You become . . . Well, someone I don’t recognise.’

‘Or like?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s a good job Dad loves me.’

‘If you say so.’

A stab of hurt hits her chest, but it feels so familiar she shrugs it away. She theatrically wafts her glass. ‘At least this friend is reliable.’ Anticipating the consoling burn, she inhales the fruity alcohol, then slugs it all back in one go. ‘Cheap plonk, but who cares. I’m getting another.’

Gabriel catches her wrist. ‘Not now, Sibeal. You can do what you like in the privacy of your own home, but you behave when you’re with me. Understood?’

His handsome father-brother face clouds with irritation. Hiding her alarm with a grin, she slicks back his dark fringe. ‘Absolutely, my darling, sensible Gabe. You know your wish is always my command.’

He flinches away. ‘Don’t mock me.’

‘I’m not, I’m really not.’ How she hates it when Gabe’s angry, when he sucks in his cheeks and says ‘end of his tether’ types of thing. Though she swallows, she has to say it. ‘You just said Dad doesn’t love me.’

His cheeks lightly flush. ‘Don’t be silly, Sib. I didn’t say that at all.’

‘Not in so many words. But you said—’

‘No, Sib.’ He looks her in the eyes. ‘I was just annoyed. What you said about Mum. And Dad loves us both very much, OK? You just need to stop the booze, or at least cut down. He doesn’t like it and nor do I.’

‘I don’t drink when I see Dad—’

‘I know and that’s great. It shows you don’t always have to.’ He moves to the lounge door and watches the milling mourners for a while. When the wife clearly clocks him, he finally turns back, his eyes shiny with emotion. ‘I see what you mean about the chabudai table. And too much black leather for my taste.’ He offers his arm. ‘Come on, little sis. There’s nothing for us here any more. And I am your friend, your forever friend. You know that.’

It’s the local village fete, so of course it’s raining. Though Katy splashes through the downpour as fast as her wellies will allow, Bridget is already in position by the park gate. ‘Sorry I’m later than we planned; I was chatting to Dad.’ She turns towards the wind to blow back the ribs of her brolly. ‘So, what are we supposed to do again?’

The blue reflective vest almost reaching her knees, Bridget looks the part. She narrows her eyes and studies Katy for a moment or two before speaking. ‘We’re to stop cars from coming in this way.’ As if it’s an indicator of Katy’s well-being, she peers at Katy’s old cagoule. ‘I can do it on my own if you’re not feeling—’

‘I’m fine. Really. And I promised I’d keep you company.’ She takes a quick breath and smooths her hair. ‘I can cope with a drop of rain, even if these damned tresses can’t! Shame for the kids though.’

‘That’s what happens when the powers that be decide on May. Will you bring Milo later?’

‘Yeah. Or Dad will.’ Katy gives up on the umbrella and lobs the torn remains into the bin. ‘He’s to blame for my tardiness. Dad, that is. A letter arrived in the post just as I was leaving. Some guy asking him to visit.’ She pictures her father’s ashen face as he studied the notepaper. ‘He’s in a hospice, poor man, so . . .’

‘Oh no. Anyone we know?’

‘Some old schoolfriend of his I’ve never heard of. He’s fifty-five, same as Dad, so far too young to be dying.’ Her chest tingles at the thought. ‘Dad looked pretty horrified. He—’

‘Oh look, it’s Harry,’ Bridget cuts in. She waves enthusiastically to a man with a dog, so Katy steps back and contemplates whether it’s too late to lift her hood. The trickle of cold water down her spine suggests it is, so she smiles politely at the families trundling in, then reverts to Bridget, noting with some envy that Harry has sensibly opted for a baker boy cap. As she watches Bridget, she chuckles to herself: she’s talking animatedly, barely pausing to breathe as usual. Not that Katy minds, it’s great to have a friend who launches into embarrassing silences to break them, as it saves her from struggling to do it, and generally not succeeding. Though is ‘friend’ the right word?

‘Did you hear that, Katy?’ Bridget’s eloquent Scottish tones interrupt her internal debate. She goes back to Harry. ‘How can you possibly hate him? He’s so cute.’

Gathering they’re discussing the dog, Katy eyes the silver pug at the man’s feet. It looks familiar, but most local ones do, as it’s infinitely easier to communicate with pet than owner.

‘A golden retriever, a handsome black lab, even a German shepherd. But this is what I got,’ Harry says. ‘What did Lydia say when she brought him home? “I like him. I’ll walk him and I’ll feed him, so that’s pretty much that.” ’

Bridget laughs her high trill, then turns to her. ‘You’ve met Rex before, haven’t you, Katy?’

Though in all honesty ‘cute’ isn’t the description she’d use, she has met him before on a tromp with Milo, but the keeper was a woman, not a tall guy with a broad grin and dimples who’s clearly flirting with Bridget.

‘Doctor Harry said he always wanted a dog called Rex, so that’s what he got,’ Bridget says, lifting her eyebrows meaningfully.

The penny finally dropping, Katy studies him. So this is the Harry Bridget’s always wittering on about. With his trendy clothes, striking eyes and fair hair, he’s pretty much as she described. He’s not Katy’s type, though. What that once was, she can barely remember.

Bridget continues to chatter, so Katy lifts her hand to another mum from Milo’s class, then glances around the sodden scene. The red hawthorn blossom is shedding from the trees, landing on hats and hoods like confetti. It’s quite a comical sight, but when she follows its journey to the ground, she can’t help but equate the trodden petals to blood spatter. Forcing the image away, she focuses on another stream of wet and dejected fete-goers entering the park. She’s lived in the village for all her life, but it feels strange to be in this familiar place, out and about, yet feigning confidence. She’s much better these days, but she can still feel the anxiety just under her skin like a bruise.

‘Bye, Katy,’ she hears, so she turns. Harry gazes a moment too long for comfort. ‘Nice to meet you again.’

Again? As he walks away, she racks her brains for a previous meeting, but Bridget is speaking, her voice squeaky with pleasure. ‘Did you see that? A hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Wait until I tell Andrew.’

‘So Andrew fancies him too?’

She laughs. ‘Absolutely, who doesn’t. Though rumour has it that—’ She abruptly stops as a van tries to enter the gates. ‘What the . . .? Right. Watch this!’

She trots to the offending vehicle and converses with the driver for some time. Bridget is so open about everything, who knows what she might be discussing with the poor man. Eventually accepting defeat, he closes his window and reverses to join the wet traffic queue.

‘So this friend of Alexander who’s in the hospice,’ she says when she returns, as though the intermission hasn’t happened. ‘Who is he and how come he’s in touch? Apart from the obvious?’

Katy shifts her thoughts to earlier. From the initials on the front, she’d assumed the handwritten envelope was for her, so she opened it and glanced at the first sentence before twigging that it wasn’t and calling her dad. He motioned her apology away with an, ‘Oh, don’t worry’, but his face paled when he read it. Which was hardly surprising. Her father is still youthful and athletic, fitting in tennis and squash between his long working hours, so it must’ve been a dreadful shock to learn that an old pal was dying, a reminder of his own mortality.

Here one minute, gone the next.

Swallowing the usual jolt of grief, she comes back to Bridget’s inquisitive peer and considers the question. ‘Oh, the letter; I don’t know. There wasn’t time to talk about it in detail . . .’ Instinctively knowing he’s near, she rotates to the pavement. Wearing a bucket hat someone must have left at their home, her father is approaching, holding her son’s hand. ‘But talk of the devil. Here he is. You can ask him yourself.’

He bends to kiss Bridget’s cheek. ‘Made the mistake of telling Milo about the goldfish Katy won here many moons ago.’ He theatrically lowers his voice. ‘Between you and me, we were relying on a quick exit, but the damned thing lived for years. Tried everything from solitary confinement to starvation, but it seems goldfish like being neglected.’

‘As though you’d neglect anyone, Alexander.’ Bridget laughs, the trill back. ‘Though I believe it isn’t PC to sell them at fairs any more. A pet shop’s the thing and these days they vet you. Make sure the tank is large enough and so on. Probably do a spot visit from time to time, check the fish is getting five a day.’

‘Oh lord.’

Milo tugs his hand. ‘That’s a swear word, Grandad. And you promised me a fish.’

Katy squeezes her son’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, Milo, but with Grandad’s fishy history, I don’t think they’ll let him buy one. Best stick with Poppy.’

‘Poppy’s so old. All she does is—’ Milo begins to reply, but he’s stopped short by a loud wailing from the park. A windswept lady is trotting towards them, her arms tightly around a little girl.

‘Anyone from the police? Is there a police officer anywhere?’

Blue uniform flashes in. Thrown back in time, Katy freezes, but when she resumes her respiration, her father is lightly holding the woman’s elbow. ‘What can I do? Slowly inhale and exhale. Don’t panic, I’m here to help.’ Like a father to a child, he crouches on one knee, gently pressing her with questions. Breathe deeply. What’s the problem? Where exactly did it happen? How long ago? What did the man look like?

Clutching Milo’s hand, Katy watches intently as her father steps away, makes a call on his mobile, then leads the woman to the administrator’s tent. Though worried about the mother’s clear distress, alarmed by the thought of what must have happened to her daughter, she can’t help feeling a flush of pride for her dad.

After ten minutes, he returns. ‘A man flashing from the bushes, today of all days. I know people like that need help, but when it comes to children . . . Bloody disgrace. Of course he’ll be long gone, but I’ll give Dave Masters a call and fill him in.’ He ruffles his grandson’s hair. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Milo. Some people are plain bad, but most people aren’t. Look, the sun’s peeping out. I think it’s time for me to buy my special boy an ice cream.’

Merged as it has into her dream, it takes Sibeal several minutes to realise the hammering is for real.

‘Sibeal? Sibeal, for God’s sake wake up.’

The rap of pebbles against glass and Gabriel’s deep voice finally reach her. She scoops up her mobile to peer at the time, but she turned the damn thing off. Closure before bed. That desperate need to prevent the spurt of expectation and pleasure at the sound of the ringtone before brutal reality slapped them down.

Robin is dead; he’ll always be dead.

Rushing from the bedroom, she almost slips on the stairs, but grabs the banister just in time to stop her breaking her bloody neck. When the dizziness finally passes, she flings open the front door and the fragrant Yorkshire air breezes in.

‘What?’ she says to Gabriel’s shadowy features. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Dad,’ he replies. ‘The hospice have called. They say he’s near the end.’

‘That can’t be right. They said months. And he was fine when we saw him last week.’ She finds herself shouting. ‘He was laughing, Gabe. He said he’d be there for my bloody thirtieth!’

‘Shush; it’s four o’clock in the morning; you’ll wake the neighbours.’ He ushers her back into the house. ‘I know; I’m shocked too, but you have to get dressed.’ He puts his hands either side of her shoulders. ‘Are you listening, Sib? It’ll take an hour and a half to get there. We need to go now.’

She digs her toes into the soft carpet. ‘No,’ she says. Though her brain is rebelling, her jaw, her fingers, her whole body seems to know. She folds her arms to stop the shuddering. ‘Maybe they’re wrong. How can they possibly tell?’

‘I’ve no idea, Sib, but they can. Get dressed quickly. We have to go.’

Lifting her chin like she did as a toddler, an infant, a girl, Sibeal takes a huge breath and steps into the dim hospice room.

It’s a death chamber, she knows, yet her immediate thoughts are of the sweet shop at the top of her childhood road. Pear drops, she decides, or perhaps those sugary candies in the shape of a Coke bottle or teeth or a dummy. An innocent smell, which is ironic given that she used to steal them.

‘The acetone odour is caused by changes in the metabolism . . .’ Gabe mutters, as though he’s a flaming doctor, rather than a musician. He gently presses her towards a bedside chair. ‘You sit here and I’ll go the other side.’

Glad she swigged the mouthful of whisky before leaving the house, she does as she’s told, but instead of facing grim reality, she closes her eyes.

Gabe’s clotted voice breaks her cusp of sleep. ‘Take his hand if you like.’

She squints at her brother’s terse features. ‘Really? Have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK.’

Beginning at the outline of the prone figure’s feet, she works her way up the bed to the arms. They’re covered by the stripy pyjamas which belong to her dad, but when she reaches the hand, it’s huge, far too lifelike and human in comparison to the shrunken shape. Perhaps it isn’t her father James Matthews after all; maybe it’s an imposter who wears the same Claddagh wedding band. But that’s little Sibeal being silly or running away, so she continues her journey to look at his face.

Oh God, it is him. Though he’s pallid and waxy and gaunt, though his gossamer skin is stretched over his cheekbones like latex, it’s definitely him, her daddy. Asleep, unconscious or dead? His mouth is slack; she can’t tell.

‘He looks like a skeleton, a fucking skeleton, Gabe,’ she says over the clatter of her thrashing heart. Then, more quietly, ‘How can that happen in just a few days?’

Gabriel shakes his head, but she needs him to speak, to pierce the threatening panic. ‘He’s so cold. These fingers, these skeleton fingers are icy, Gabe. Are yours? Or did you go for the warm hand, the right side of Dad?’

He smiles faintly. ‘Both are the same, Sib.’

Her pulse slowing, she stares at their father. He’d be unrecognisable if she passed him in the street. A good thing or not? Better to lose someone who’s no longer her dad? She jerks back at the abrupt bubble of sound from his throat. ‘Bloody hell, Gabe. He’s gurgling. Is that normal?’

‘He’s dying, Sib. Nothing will be normal today. You have to go with it. OK?’

‘Sure, but how about ditching the patronising tone? I’m nearly thirty, not three.’

‘I’m not—’

Her father, alarmingly, yawns. ‘Should we call a nurse? Perhaps it won’t be today. Maybe they’ve got it—’

‘You heard what they said. Twitching, moving, sighing. It’s all usual.’ Gabriel stands and walks over. ‘Do you want me to leave the room so you can say goodbye?’

‘God no!’ Then, after a moment’s thought, ‘Why? Do you? I mean, do you want me to go?’

‘Maybe just for a minute?’

Like a claustrophobic cloud of smoke, the old image descends: their mother smiling and whispering in her cherished Gabriel’s ear; that intimate, cosy club of just two.

‘But why?’ she asks. ‘Why would you want to speak to Dad without me?’

‘No reason.’ He pulls her into a hug. ‘I just feel embarrassed, that’s all,’ he says into her hair. ‘Stay, please stay, it’s fine. Just pretend you can’t hear.’

Though she wants to hang on to his solid warmth and reassuring patchouli smell, she disentangles herself. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Sorry for being . . .’ Paranoid? Jealous? Hurt? Yes, all those things, despite the years of feigning deafness. ‘For being stupid. I’ll give you a few minutes.’

Once in the corridor, she hunches down on the floor and rests her throbbing head on her knees. As the seconds pass, her thoughts snap to Robin. Robin, her Robin, regardless of what the world thinks. She pictures the woman in her widow’s weeds, the strange glance between her and Gabe before they left. Did she sit beside him as he died? Was he transformed, turned to bones like her dad? She doesn’t know because she can’t ask anyone, not even Gabe.

‘Go to the funeral service by all means, but who attends the wake of someone they briefly dated at sixteen?’ he’d said. ‘If it was in a hotel or church hall, fair enough, but it’s at his home, so it’s meant for family and close friends.’

‘It was more than briefly.’

‘Fourteen years ago.’

‘Well I’m going.’

‘OK. But why?’

Gabe’s croaky voice in her ear brings her back to the present. ‘Your turn,’ he says. ‘Your turn to say goodbye.’

‘Not without—’

‘I know. I’ll come too.’

As she follows him inside, the thin curtains billow. He’s opened the window – not for fresh air as most people would suppose, but for family tradition. ‘You’ve set him free.’

His expression tight and unbearably sad, he smiles thinly in reply. Her lovely, lovely big brother. The only person in the world who speaks the same language. He’s desperate to cry but he’s being brave for her, just like always.

She kisses her father’s forehead. ‘Bye, Dad,’ she says, guilt sizzling in her chest at her own lack of tears. After all, this is a man she’s entitled to grieve for. As a daughter she can shout her anguish from the rooftops or the trees; she can beat her chest, weep and wail. Have people say they are sorry for her loss. Host a tasteful bloody wake.

‘His breathing is more laboured,’ Gabriel mutters. ‘I think that means he’s near the end.’

Retaking their seats, they listen in silence. Sound in reverse. Waiting for the rattle of death. But no final noise comes, just a couple of pants, then the rasp of their own lives.

‘Do you think that’s it?’ she whispers eventually.

‘I don’t know. Fucking hell, Sib. Is this surreal or what?’

Her Gabe, who’s usually so steady, suddenly guffaws so much, it makes his shoulders shake. Consumed with flat panic, she simply gapes, but after a few moments his strange laughter stops.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘Thank God,’ he says. ‘Thank God it’s all over.’

Although it’s pitch black when she wakes, Sibeal immediately knows where she is from the cold. And the bloody smell. Dank and fusty, Brook House always had the aroma of old things – from the plethora of antique furniture and decaying tomes which clutter every room, to chalky floorboards, dead mice and ancient wax. Then there was the tang of oil paints, liquin, linseed and turps, mixed with the stench of her dad’s tobacco. She just didn’t notice any of it until she returned the first Christmas after starting university in Durham.

‘Oh my God, Gabe, it stinks in this house,’ she declared, hurling herself next to him on the scuffed Chesterfield sofa.

‘Yup,’ he replied, his attention on the newspaper he consumed from cover to cover. ‘You just never noticed, like you don’t notice anything.’

‘What a load of old tosh. As it happens, I observe everything. Dad’s secret stash of a million cigarettes, whatever you’re currently hiding in your sock drawer, for starters. In fact, I haven’t had a nosy in your bedroom for aeons. I need to investigate what Santa’s buying me this year . . .’

As ever, he didn’t rise to the bait. ‘You only see what you want to see, Sib. That’s how you are.’

Though only five years older, Gabriel was her father-mother-brother even then. She would have had an apposite answer, but she can’t remember it now.

Surprised at the darkness, she gropes for her mobile. There’s strangely no bedside table, but a standard lamp on the floor. When dull light finally floods the room, she realises it’s the front parlour and not her bedroom, which explains the toasty warmth from the leather beneath her body, the scratchy blanket above.

Wondering if she does only see – and smell – what she wants to, she squints at her surroundings. It’s undoubtedly shabby now, but from the fiery red Moroccan rug, the 1940s marble fireplace and the lion’s paws sideboard, to the heavy pinch-pleat curtains and shutters behind, the room still has stately elegance. Her eyes catch a brown and yellow damp patch on the far ceiling cornice, so she follows the bumps in the textured wallpaper down to the tiered skirting, snug against the worn carpet. No doubt it’s a leak from the bathroom, the roof, a radiator, the sink in the attic or the decrepit toilet closet; like her private outpour of grief, there’s a constant trickle of water from somewhere in Brook House.

Self-pity surfacing, she presses her eyes. When she moved to Yorkshire, she deliberately bought a new build with easy-to-clean units, modern plumbing, plain walls and coving. But in truth she missed this, the aromas and her dad.

James Matthews, her lovely, gentle father. Bloody hell, the man in the hospice is deceased, gone for ever. She saw it for herself, and yet it feels improbable, impossible, outlandish. As though waiting for the credits of an old black and white movie, she and Gabe stayed pinned to their seats for over an hour, wanting to seek out the fresh air but feeling too rotten to leave. A nurse finally appeared and gave them dispensation to go. They’d intended to drown their sorrows in a pub, any pub, but instead they drove here to Brook House, their forever home. Gabe put the key in the lock with shaking fingers, opened up and they tiptoed across the freezing hallway like thieves.

‘So he is dead,’ she said when they stood in this room. ‘The skeleton in the hospice was him.’

Gabe frowned, but she knew . . .