to the car and drove slowly past the entrance, peering up the drive. Theo was standing motionless, staring at her. For some reason, she shivered.
She found the Devonshires’ holiday home pretty easily with the directions she’d been given. The car had wheezed and bounced down a long rutted track that looped and curved down a hill until she reached the flint cottage that stood stark against the sky. Alex had to walk round the cottage to find the front door. She could see why. Whoever had originally designed the cottage had wanted visitors to marvel at the view. The sea, less than a hundred metres from the door, was grey and endless. She could have been at the house at the end of the world. The only sounds were the screams of gulls above her and the crash of the waves onto the shore. She looked to her right: grass and open fields with the beach below; to her left, in the distance, she could see cliffs, rocks, sea defences, the beautiful building that was The Drift.
Somewhere along there Elena had fallen.
The key was where she had been told it would be: under the stone pig guarding the front door. Marvellous, she thought, people still left their keys the first place a burglar would look. She felt comforted by the thought that the world up here hadn’t changed much in the last couple of years that she’d been living in London, where, if you left your key under a stone pig, you’d more than likely get back to find your house stripped bare.
The air in the hallway was pleasantly cool and the rooms of the cottage were large and tastefully furnished: polished rosewood tables juxtaposed with modern settees. A cracked leather sofa. An old-fashioned upright piano and a couple of Ghost chairs. The kitchen had what she thought must have been the original pamment tiles, but there was every mod con, including a rather alarming-looking coffee maker. In the fridge she found a cold chicken and a bowl of salad as well as milk, eggs, butter, and a bottle of wine. Cat had been true to her word and had asked her housekeeper to stock up the fridge with essentials so she wouldn’t have to go shopping straightaway.
She brought her case in from the car and took it upstairs to the main bedroom, which was furnished with an iron-framed bed, a dressing table, chest of drawers, and a door through to a small bathroom. Again, everything tasteful and charming. Cat had come a long way since their schooldays. Peering through the window there was that view again: endless sky and sea, the sun high and unforgiving. She was conscious of the sweat on her forehead. Fresh air, that’s what she needed.
A cooling breeze was coming off the sea as she walked along the stretch of beach below the cottage. She’d walked across the grass to shallow steps that had been cut into the cliff enabling her to scramble down. She stood for a moment, imagining she was the only person in the world, for that’s what it felt like, then she turned to her left, walking along the shoreline in the lee of the cliffs.
After ten minutes of walking she reached the section of cliff where the road above had been swept away in the ferocious gales and sea surge of the previous year. As she looked up she could see the remnants of blue and white police tape fluttering in the breeze. She imagined Elena standing at the edge of that road, looking down onto the beach and the rocks below. What had been in her mind that dark, cold December night? Had she been frightened? Or calm; sure of what she wanted to do. How unhappy must she have been to overcome her fear of heights? It was a long way to fall, but then it took only a split second decision to jump, and once that decision was made, you couldn’t go back.
If she had indeed made the decision for herself.
Alex looked around and saw the rocks that Elena had most probably landed on, the seaweed draped over them like throws on a chair. Nearby, a family was picnicking, their red and blue tartan rug spread out underneath them, two boys – one aged no more than two – digging in the sand. A short distance from them, a young man and a woman lay on two towels soaking up the sun. Near to where the sea sucked at the shore, a woman was throwing a stick into the waves for her retriever to fetch. The scene was summertime on an English beach. Pity it was a beach where a teenager’s broken body had lain for an old man to find.
She looked up again, along the clifftop. A chalet bungalow teetered right near the edge, gripping the last of the land for dear life. It looked as though it only needed a wisp of wind to send it toppling onto the sand below. It was weather-beaten and abandoned, with a broken door and smashed windows. Alex imagined the owners had given up the fight.
Suddenly a missile barged into her legs almost knocking her over. As she regained her balance, she saw the now very wet retriever sitting at her feet, a stick in its mouth. It dropped the stick, looking hopefully up at her, wagging its tail across the ground, distributing sand everywhere. Alex laughed, bending down for the stick before throwing it as far as she could.
A woman hurried up to her. ‘I’m so sorry about Ronan. Are you okay?’ She frowned, looking worried as she pushed dark corkscrew hair off her face.
‘I’m fine,’ laughed Alex, brushing sand off her clothes. ‘I love dogs and he’s a beauty.’
‘He still hasn’t learned obedience, however many classes I take him to.’
Ronan bounded up and dropped the stick at Alex’s feet again. She picked it up.
‘He’ll be having you doing that all day if you’re not careful. And he loves going into the sea.’ The woman had an open smile, though there was a sadness around her eyes and what looked like a wariness in them. She was wearing a smart, short-sleeved shirt and dark linen trousers, rolled up over her calves. She was barefoot and carried sensible sandals in her hand. Alex saw a small tattoo of an angel’s wing on her ankle. Alex smiled back.
‘I might be tempted myself.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t if I were you. North Sea’s freezing even at this time of year. It’s almost acceptable in September. If you’re a masochist. My feet are like ice blocks.’
Alex threw the stick again. ‘You live here then?’ Alex’s question was, in fact, disingenuous, as she had recognized the woman as a teacher from The Drift. It hadn’t been a waste of time trawling through the school’s website and imprinting the faces of the teachers on her mind. This was Louise Churchill, English teacher. And another thing she knew about the woman, thanks to Catriona, was that she had been Elena’s English teacher.
‘For my sins.’ A flicker of sadness crossed Louise Churchill’s face before she smiled again, though this time there seemed to be more effort behind it. ‘No, it’s a great place to live. I’m a teacher, though. That makes it hard.’
‘Really?’ said Alex. ‘A teacher. That is a tough gig. I admire you. I don’t think I could stand up in front of a class of kids and make them listen to me.’
She called to her dog. ‘Ronan, come here. Don’t go so far out.’ Ronan continued to paddle, stick in his mouth. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad. It’s not as if I’m at some inner city school or failing academy. The students are supposed to be the cream of society. Moneyed society, that is.’ She pointed upwards and there, in the distance, The Drift stood: imperious, looking out over the sea. ‘That’s where I am. The Drift. Posh boarding school for posh kids.’
‘Nice.’
‘It is, mostly. What makes it hard is living in the village, but I guess I’m luckier than some who have to live in the grounds. They never get away from it. It’s not a bad place to teach, though it took a while to find my feet.’ She looked at her watch then clapped her hands. ‘Ronan. Here. Now.’
Alex thought about what Cat had told her about the young teacher. She and her husband had moved to the school and started in the January of the year Elena died. Her husband taught Maths. Or was it Physics? Some subject Alex was useless at anyway. She thought they might have had young children. Twins? Damn, her brain was turning to mush; she wasn’t concentrating enough. There was a time when she wouldn’t have forgotten any of those facts.
At that moment, Ronan bounded up to the pair of them and shook