In a Cottage In a Wood: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Woman Next Door
belch. ‘Oh you can fuck off, Celia.’
Celia’s mouth drops open and it occurs to Neve she has never seen this happen quite so cartoonishly before.
‘How dare you speak to my wife that way!’ bellows Bill.
‘STOP IT!’ Lou bursts into tears and the sound sets off Maisie from her bedroom. Lou is almost panting, her fists clenched at the sides of her head. She looks just like Lottie for a moment.
Neve feels her anger dull and makes a move to touch her sister’s arm, alarmed. But Lou shakes her hand away as if it burns.
‘Just stop it, all of you.’ She looks at Neve, her eyes gleaming. Her expression is one of genuine puzzlement when she says, ‘Why do you have to spoil everything?’
Monday 12th March 1996
Dearest Granny,
Can I just say that everyone is really overreacting?
Look, I’ve always been funny about blood – you know that. Remember when Rich broke his nose playing rugby? And I fainted and gave myself concussion? Then there was the time Mummy cut her finger when I was little and I got all hysterical.
It’s what I do. Funny old Izzy, etc! Big drama queen. As Dad always says.
And this time there were what you call them – extenerating (???) circumstances. I hadn’t eaten my lunch and was about to come on, so I was a bit wobbly.
The stupid thing about it is that the paint didn’t even look that realistic, not really.
We were in art and because it was almost Halloween, people were telling silly stories and trying to scare each other. And Sasha Picket, who always has to be at the centre of EVERYTHING, thought it would be really funny to cover her hands and arms in red paint.
She let out this horrible shriek and when we looked at her, her eyes were all wide and mad.
Everyone says that almost straight away she went, ‘Out, out damned Spot!’ and then cracked up. But I don’t really remember any of that.
All I know is that everything went tight and hot and there was no air. I wanted to make myself really small. I don’t remember screaming like they all said I did. I think they’re exaggerating about that part.
But anyway of course there was a big hoohah about it and all the teachers went nuts.
I am FINE.
F.I.N.E.
Okay? Promise!
So you can stop worrying about me. I hate school, but there’s nothing new there.
Can’t wait to see you and to give you and Bruce the biggest cuddles. Tell him I’m taking him for walkies SOON! Hope he’s being a good boy.
All my love,
Izzy xxxxx
I miss Mummy so much. She never went off the deep end like Dad does. I know you miss her too xxxx
January crawls along with skies the colour of cement and unseasonable temperatures. Sad little patches of bright daffodils break out in the parks and are largely ignored, like early party-goers. No one feels they have earned these signs of spring yet.
It all adds to a sense in Neve that everything is off kilter. She has been thinking about the woman, Isabelle, a lot. One night she even found herself contemplating calling the Samaritans. Not because she is depressed – she knows that a general feeling of my-life-is-shit-right-now is on a different continent to real mental illness – but because she thought maybe someone could explain to her what kind of thoughts were going through Isabelle’s head that night.
She keeps trying to step inside that moment again, when Isabelle spoke into her ear with that harsh whisper. Could she, Neve, have grabbed hold of her and stopped her doing what she did?
Could she have been kinder when she saw her there?
Every time she thinks about how irritated she had been at the hold-up to her journey home, she feels a nauseous lurch of guilt in her stomach. If only she had a bit more information. She forgot the woman’s surname as soon as the police had revealed it. Why didn’t she make a note of it somewhere? And how could she have forgotten? This feels like a terrible thing.
They have reached an uneasy truce at the flat. She has apologized, and so has Steve, but they both know their only regret is having upset Lou.
Lottie and Lou and the baby have all been felled by a vicious cold. Neve has the constitution of an ox but can feel a general sniffly misery pulling at her senses and knows it’s only a matter of time before she gets sick too.
At least she might get a day off work.
Miri is on maternity leave now and Neve is keenly aware of the space she has left behind. Two of her closest friends have moved away from London in the last year, both because they have married and started reproducing. There are invitations to go to Wales and to Sussex, or wherever it was, to visit, but she feels curiously dispirited by the prospect of admiring their wood burners and their big gardens and hearing all about how they ‘should have done this years ago’.
This particular morning has crept by with soupy slowness. There is an uneasy feeling at PCC because of a rumour that a German magazine company based in Beckenham are interested in buying the company and merging it with one that specializes in magazine part-works.
Neve has finished up all the jobs she has been asked to do this morning and now sits staring down at Facebook on her phone and giving desultory swipes at various posts.
She remembers that she had stuffed some letters into her bag this morning before leaving for work. A small pile was building up on the table and she knew Steve was going to start getting all twitchy about it soon, so she had resolved to take it to work to read and dump, depending on what it was.
Flicking through now she finds a couple of bills, an interesting-looking letter in a white envelope, which turns out to be from an estate agent of all things, and finally she opens an A3 brown envelope, knowing it is bound to be something to do with tax, or National Insurance, or some other unpleasantness.
But inside, she is surprised to see first a compliment slip with ‘Met Police’ printed at the top and a couple of sentences scrawled in blue Biro beneath.
Ms Carey, we were asked to pass on this information. Kind regards.
There is no signature.
Neve flicks the switchboard over to automatic and feels her heartbeat kick faster as she unclips the compliment slip and looks at the letter beneath.
The paper is thick and creamy; official-looking. The letterhead says ‘Beswick, Robinson, Carter, Meade, Solicitors and Commissioners of Oaths’.
The address is in Salisbury.
Neve quickly unfolds the letter, ignoring the lights that have started to flash insistently on the switchboard.
Dear Ms Carey
We have been instructed to act on behalf of trustees of the will of Miss Isabelle Shawcross, who died on 21st December 2016.
We would be very grateful if you could ring the office and arrange a time