Chapter 32

Tuesday 2nd November, 5:32am

A dark, deserted high street. The only thread of light spilling across the frozen pavement comes from an upper-casement window of Lovett and Lyle Solicitors. A silver estate car is parked close to the railings.

I turn left, run away from the solicitor’s office and head towards the church at the end of the street. My footsteps ring in the still air, murmuring in doorways, whispering behind me. My eyes search each shop entrance as I tear past. I glance over my shoulder. I’m being stupid, there’s no one hiding, jumping into my path. No sign of Oliver Lyle. Frosty air burns my lungs, rasps cold in my throat. I jog into the lane, drop my pace and tuck my chin deeper into my scarf. I’ve let Shirley and Mr Whittle, the empty isolation of this place, unnerve me. It’s only ten, maybe eleven minutes’ brisk walk from Shirley’s to Haverscroft. I’ve covered it in half that time, even Tom will be impressed.

High hedges kill the moonlight as I pick my way past the church. Icy puddles skid and crack beneath my boots, my breath puffs hot and damp against the woollen scarf. The graveyard is black. I fix my eyes straight ahead and don’t allow them to find a shadow, a yew tree moving in the wind, a night creature prowling. If the twins were here, I’d reassure them that nothing hides behind the headstones, nothing to fear other than their own imagination.

Haverscroft is lost to the darkness, the twins in there somewhere. I picture them in my mind and keep moving forward, one step after another. They’ll be sleeping, night lights on. I hope they’re with Mark, or together in Sophie’s bed, Blue Duck keeping them safe. The moon slips into cloud. I stop, try to make out any shape to guide me towards the house. I’m at the top of the driveway staring up into a cold sky patched with pockets of stars and streaked with cloud. The moon’s not coming back anytime soon. It was stupid not to have stayed on at Shirley’s and wait for the taxi. I can’t turn back, not now. Mrs Havers’ instruction to leave without delay rings in my head. I have to get the twins.

A shriek, sharp and primeval, makes my heart thud harder. A fox most likely, from the direction of the graveyard. We laughed the first night here, spooked by similar screams. Now I don’t feel so brave. All Whittle’s talk about land sales and Lyle’s dodgy dealings unsettles me. I’ve no idea how we afforded Haverscroft, what we paid for it, what our London home sold for. I don’t know why Mark refuses to get the roof repaired. My husband always played straight, that’s one of the things I loved most about him when we first met. It made life simple, or so I thought. Usually I’d be certain Mark wasn’t involved with Lyle. But lately, I wonder if I really know my own husband. What he’s been up to, what he might be capable of.

I have to keep moving. I try to follow the tyre tracks churned into the driveway as it slopes and spirals away from the lane towards Haverscroft. A red glow rises in front of the house, deepening the closer I get, window frames, the front door and steps picked out. Apprehension tightens in my chest. I turn the bend in the drive, feet stumbling on uneven, frozen ground. A taxi waits, tail-lights blaring a warning into the night. The engine hums, a miasma of exhaust fumes behind it. What is it doing here, is someone leaving? Is Mark taking the twins to his mother’s after all?

Light chinks through gaps in the kitchen blinds, the rest of the house in darkness. No sign of the Audi. Shirley thought Mark was staying here, for now at least, with the children. Even so, my chest tightens another notch. He knows I’m friendly with Shirley, would he lie to her if he intended taking the children away?

I run the final few yards, at last able to see enough to move without fear of tripping. The overstuffed skip has been replaced by a smaller, empty one, the Armstrong Siddeley parked where the gravel slopes up to meet the lawn. The car’s larger than I imagined, the sweep of the coachwork from wing to slim running board accentuates its length. A tall grill, rusted and bent, must once have been elegant. The car that killed Mrs Havers’ children. Despite all that’s gone on, Mark’s still found time to have it towed from the garage. I can hardly believe it.

The taxi driver hunches low in the cab, his eyes watching my approach in the wing mirror. His window winds down a fraction as I come alongside.

‘Are you going in the house?’

His voice is full of irritation. I nod and stop beside the vehicle, my breath clouding in front of me. I’m relieved he’s not the cabbie from earlier.

‘Who are you waiting for?’

‘No idea. A guy called to pick up a fare from Haverscroft House. This the right place?’

I nod again, glance up the steps, the front door, closed. No sign of activity.

‘I’ve been here ten minutes or more already. Blasted the horn twice. I can’t wait all night.’

5:41am on the taxi’s dashboard.

‘Hang on,’ I say, ‘I’ll find out what’s happening for you.’

Whatever is going on here? I jog up the front steps, my hands shake as I root through my bag and find my keys. I need a clear head, to be calm and rational. I take a breath, put my key into the lock. It won’t turn. I try several times, rattle the key and put my shoulder to the door. Has Mark changed the locks?

I stop, how stupid. I must calm down, the door isn’t locked. Mark’s leaving so he hasn’t locked the place up as I do before bed. I try the handle, it turns easily but the door won’t budge, stuck yet again. Shirley would have this open in a second. I lift the handle and put my shoulder to the woodwork. The door stays shut. I reach for the knocker. The door rattles and shakes, stops me dead in my tracks. Someone inside trying to open the door. Mark must have heard me. Swollen and sticking, it shakes again, the brass knocker clatters. The door jerks open.