“You’re both going to need to come with us to answer some questions,” he practically growled. “Anyone else here?”
“No. Just us. I’ve not seen anyone for a few days. I only look after the cottage and animals.”
“We need access to the main house. Do you have a key?”
“Do you have a warrant? And ID?” The words came automatically, years of watching TV crime shows paying off. “I’ve never been in the house. Only Harold and his team go in there.”
He passed me a crumpled piece of paper that resembled what I thought a warrant should look like then flashed his badge. I retrieved the key from the box, thanking my lucky stars Harold had finally parted with the code a few weeks ago.
As Amy and I were being led to the police cars, a gunshot rang out from the trees behind the cottage. Four masked men burst out, firing at the police. One officer went down with a blood-curdling scream, clutching his leg. His colleagues ran to him. We ducked for cover, hearts pounding.
I enjoy writing stories, not being in one.
Harold then appeared from the woods, sprinting for the main house. Within minutes, smoke poured from the windows, and flames licked the glass. The orange glow gave the place an even eerier appearance than before.
Harold looked down from an upper window and smiled, an actual chilling smile, then, with a small wave, he vanished.
“Shit,” someone yelled, “they’re burning it all!”
While the officers ran to fight the fire, Harold’s expensive sports car shot out of the back drive and disappeared. He must have escaped through the kitchen door. I didn’t even know he was on the estate. The realization that he might have been watching me all this time turned my stomach.
Amy and I were taken to the station. During the interview, I told them what I knew—my restricted access, the regular security calls, the strange deliveries, but they learned nothing worthwhile. When they accepted that this was the truth, they took us back to the cottage. We immediately packed, then moved into a local hotel to get out of there. Staying on the estate felt dangerous.
A week later, the police confirmed we could leave. They had our details if they needed any more information.
So, Amy and I filled my battered old car full of our stuff and headed back to London. Another new beginning.
Chapter twenty-one
Katie
We moved into Amy’s flat on our return. It made sense— two bedrooms, and neither of us could afford London rental prices on our own. We could either live together in a nice area or apart in a pokey flat down a passage filled with drug dealers.
The flat is spacious and airy, high ceilings giving a sense of being bigger than it is. All the walls are painted white, and simple white voiles hang at the windows. It’s filled with a mix of furniture; some are quality pieces, and others look as if they were collected at a junkyard. The walls lay bare, as they had been filled with Terry’s film memorabilia.
“We need to get some pictures,” I say. “It looks as if you’ve just moved in.”
“Well, I have.” Amy smiles. “The new me has just moved in. We’ll fill the place with girls’ stuff. Like pictures of flowers, and cushions, and candles. Terry hated all the clutter. He used to moan about it when we first moved in together, so I kind of gotused to not having any.” She shrugs. “It’s time to put my stamp back on my home.”
I smile. Her whole energy has changed this last week. She’s talking about the future again. What it might look like, rather than what’s missing.
“Good idea,” I reply. “Tomorrow we’re going shopping for everything and anything girly. This place will be pink, fluffy, and sparkly by the time we finish with it.”
Saturday in London is overwhelming after months in the Highlands. The pavements heave with shoppers carrying armloads of bags, wobbling down the streets in sky-high heels. It’s summer, and the sun is out. Ladies are dressed to impress, while the men wear smart casual attire.
We wander in and out of the various shops on Oxford Street., picking up plenty of bargains in the ones we can afford, but many are out of our price range. I like to browse and dream of times when a £400 handbag won’t be a huge dent in my monthly budget.
Laden with bags of pink candles, potpourri, and squishy cushions, we decide to stop at a swanky-looking cocktail bar. The sign outside reads ’Squires’,and the huge glass frontage displays the cool-looking interior. Inside, swathes of green jungle foliage hang from the ceiling and spiral down pillars. The furniture is heavy wood teamed with vibrant tropical colors. You can hear the beach-bar style music from the street. It looks like the sort of place where your mood improves as soon as you walk through the door.
Picking a high table near the bar, we climb onto the stools as gracefully as they allow. Wearing a tight pencil skirt today was not my best idea. I shuffle on my seat and attempt to cross my legs to look demure. Amy sits serenely and assumes her position full of grace. In comparison to my slim and fit companion, I resemble an elephant.
My mind strays to Lance. What did he ever see in me?
Thinking of him still hurts.
The hours pass, and we try every cocktail on the menu. It’s the most fun I’ve had in months. Various groups of men in suits enter the bar throughout the evening, and we chat away with them merrily.
Amy’s the focus of their attention, but there’s always at least one of the group willing to spend time with me. I find my confidence growing as the night continues. I survive one conversation with a stranger, then another, when the questions become interesting rather than surface level.