In a Cottage In a Wood: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Woman Next Door
and a sign bearing the name ‘Beswick, Robinson, Carter, Meade’. A man in overalls is currently washing the large windows and he moves to one side with a grin as she heads towards the door.
Pushing it open, she looks around a small reception area. A middle-aged receptionist with blonde coiffed hair and bright pink lipstick sits at a curved reception desk.
Neve says, ‘Hi, I have an appointment with …’ but the receptionist holds up a finger imperiously and lifts the receiver to her ear. She smiles brightly at Neve as she speaks to the caller.
‘Beswick-Robinson-Carter-Meade-solicitors-how-may-I-direct-your-call-today?’ she says all in one breath, still beaming at Neve, who shifts on the spot.
Finally, she has the woman’s attention and a few moments later is directed to wait in one of the chairs for visitors.
The square leather chairs are very low to the ground and Neve settles her five-feet-nine-and-a-half frame into it awkwardly, knees to the side. The glass coffee table is covered with copies of The Lady and Country Life. She pretends to study her phone while she waits.
After a few moments she hears her name and looks up to see a woman about her own age smiling coolly down at her.
Her glossy red hair is twisted in a neat knot on top of her head and she wears a white silk top and a tight black skirt with high heels. Neve feels a stab of something uncomfortable. She always feels wrong-footed by uber-professional people like this. Really, she’d been hoping the solicitor was some middle-aged twinset and pearls type. She wouldn’t feel any need for comparison then, she thinks, placing her hand over a mark on the knee of her trousers she’s just spotted.
‘Miss Carey?’
‘Yes.’ Neve gets up with difficulty from the low chair and shakes her proffered hand. She always finds this ritual odd when between women. The other hand is small and cold and perfectly dry. Her own feels sweaty and ham-like in comparison.
‘I’m Laura Meade, would you like to—’
Before she can finish her sentence they are all distracted by the door to the street opening with almost violent force.
A tall bear of a man with curly dark hair bursts in and looks as if he has forgotten why he’s here. Bright blue eyes peer out of a chubby, unshaven face. He’s wearing some sort of brown corduroy jacket, baggy trousers of an indeterminate colour and wellies that are thickly rimed with claggy brown mud.
A black Labrador bounds in after him, heading for Neve and burying its face in her crotch.
‘Oh!’ she laughs and fusses with its ears in an attempt to distract it.
‘Jarvis!’ the man barks. The dog, ignoring him, leans its considerable weight against Neve’s legs, almost pushing her over. She grins but when she glances up, sees that Laura Meade is bright red. She keeps looking between Neve and the man, and the receptionist, one after the other. Then she seems to gather herself.
‘Richard,’ she says coolly to the man. ‘Didn’t we cover everything earlier?’
‘Don’t suppose I left my bloody phone in here?’ Richard’s voice is rich and fruity, like an old Shakespearean actor’s.
Laura looks at the receptionist, who is taking all this in with bright-eyed avidity. She shakes her head.
‘I’m afraid not,’ says Laura.
‘Bugger. Better try the bank then,’ he says with feeling. And then he’s gone.
Neve sees a look pass between Laura and the woman on reception, whose eyebrows are almost at her hairline, and wonders what she isn’t getting about this whole scenario.
‘Apologies for that,’ says Laura now, gesturing towards some double doors behind the reception desk. ‘Do come through.’
Neve follows the solicitor into her office, and the door is shut.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ says Neve five minutes later. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to swear. Sorry.’
She picks up the glass of water she was offered on arrival into the office and puts it down again, sloshing a little onto her trousers as she does so.
Laura Meade regards her with an expression she can’t quite read.
‘I assure you, I’m not,’ she says. ‘Look, I appreciate this is a shock. It is why I wanted you to be here in person. I thought this had to be a face-to-face conversation, rather than being discussed by letter or over the phone.’
‘But how?’ Neve blurts out, her voice too loud. ‘I mean, how can she have given me a fucking cottage? Sorry. But how? She didn’t even know me.’
Laura nods patiently.
‘It’s a special type of bequest,’ she says, ‘that can be made separately from a will. It applies when someone dies intestate, like Isabelle did, and is known as donatio mortis causa.’ She pauses. ‘Basically, it’s a deathbed gift.’
Their eyes meet and both look away at this uncomfortable term then Laura continues crisply. ‘There are a few basic requirements for this to be legally binding,’ she says, ‘and they have all been met, however unusual the circumstances may be.’
‘But why me?’ says Neve after a moment.
Laura sighs. ‘We can only guess that she wanted to make this bequest to the last person she saw before she took her life.’
Neve thought of the envelope, clutched in Isabelle’s thin, white hand.
She never even saw it fall to the ground when she’d dropped it a couple of minutes later. The shock of the other woman climbing up and throwing herself into the cold, dark water had thrown it violently from her mind. ‘What exactly was in the envelope?’ she says.
Laura lifts a coffee cup to her lips and takes a sip before placing it carefully back on its coaster.
‘It contained the deeds to the cottage, plus a written note. You may remember she also recorded a message into her phone, confirming your name, just before …’ she clears her throat ‘… just before she did it.’
‘God,’ says Neve quietly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ After a moment, she adds, ‘Did you know her?’
Laura seems to lose her professional veneer for a moment and makes an anguished face.
‘We were at school together, years ago, but we weren’t really good friends. She was …’ she pauses. ‘She ran with a bit of a different crowd. I hadn’t heard from her in years. Then … well, then we received this.’
Neve chews her lip.
‘I can’t take it, anyway,’ she says.
‘Why not?’ Laura slightly tips her head to the side.
‘Because!’ Neve lets out a humourless, stressed laugh. ‘Because it’s not right. And what do her family say? Don’t they mind?’
Laura looks down at her skirt and brushes something off before looking up at Neve again. The shutters are back down now.
‘She only has a brother,’ she says. ‘And …’ she pauses. ‘I have no idea whether he wanted it or not.’
Neve shakes her head in wonder.
‘I just can’t understand why someone would do this though, with a complete stranger. I mean, why not leave it to, I don’t know, Barnardo’s, or Battersea Dogs Home or something? Why a random person on a bridge?’
Laura sits back in her seat with a sigh.
‘We can’t possibly know what was going through her head now,’