Copyright © 2024 Jodi Taylor

The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2024 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

1

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,

this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,

in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of

the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in

accordance with the terms of licences issued by the

Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication – other than the obvious

historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 0354 1651 6

Cover design by Leah Jacobs-Gordon

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Author photograph © Accent Press

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

About the Author

About the Book

Also By

Storm Christopher

Acknowledgements

Discover more about Jodi Taylor

About the Author

Jodi Taylor is the internationally bestselling author of the Chronicles of St Mary’s series, the story of a bunch of disaster prone individuals who investigate major historical events in contemporary time. Do NOT call it time travel! She is also the author of the Time Police series – a St Mary’s spin-off and gateway into the world of an all-powerful, international organisation who are NOTHING like St Mary’s. Except, when they are.

Alongside these, Jodi is known for her gripping supernatural thrillers featuring Elizabeth Cage, together with the enchanting Frogmorton Farm series – a fairy story for adults.

Born in Bristol and now living in Gloucester (facts both cities vigorously deny), she spent many years with her head somewhere else, much to the dismay of family, teachers and employers, before finally deciding to put all that daydreaming to good use and write a novel. Over twenty books later, she still has no idea what she wants to do when she grows up.

About the Book

With their children off on a school trip, Russell and Jenny are contemplating their first peaceful weekend for many years.

SPOILER ALERT: That doesn’t happen.

The telephone lines are down.

The lights have gone out.

The weather is closing in.

And that’s not the only thing . . .

By Jodi Taylor and available from Headline

time police series

doing time

hard time

SAVING TIME

About time

The Chronicles of St Mary’s series

Just One Damned Thing After Another

A Symphony of Echoes

A Second Chance

A Trail Through Time

No Time Like the Past

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Lies, Damned Lies, and History

And the Rest is History

An Argumentation of Historians

Hope for the Best

plan for the worst

Another Time, Another Place

A Catalogue of Catastrophe

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE HISTORY

short story collections

The Long and Short of It

Long story Short

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

The Chronicles of St Mary’s digital shorts

When a Child is Born

Roman Holiday

Christmas Present

Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING

The Great St Mary’s Day Out

My Name is Markham

A Perfect Storm

Christmas Past

Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now For Something Completely Different

WHEN DID YOU LAST SEE YOUR FATHER?

Why is Nothing Ever Simple?

The Ordeal of the Haunted Room

the toast of time

christmas pie

Time Police digital short

SANTA GRINT

Elizabeth Cage novels

WHITE SILENCE

DARK LIGHT

LONG SHADOWS

Frogmorton Farm Series

The Nothing Girl

The Something Girl

Little Donkey (digital short)

Joy to the World (digital short)

Storm Christopher (digital short)

––––––––––––––

A Bachelor Establishment

‘Mum, have you seen my pink top?’

‘Airing cupboard.’

‘And my blue top?’

‘Airing cupboard.’

‘No, not that blue top. My other blue top.’

‘Airing cupboard.’

‘Mum, I’ve lost my Argentinosaurus.’

‘Already . . . packed.’

‘No, that’s my Spinosaurus. I need my Argentinosaurus.’

‘On your bookcase, but if you pack that one, then Spino . . . saurus has to come out.’

‘Aw, Mum . . .’

‘One dinosaur only, Jamie – that was the rule.’

‘How come Joy gets to take a million clothes and I only get one dinosaur?’

‘Joy had better not be taking a million clothes,’ shouted Russell from the safety of his studio.

‘She took the big suitcase, Dad, and I wanted it for my sauropods. And now she can’t get it shut properly and—’

‘Joy – you’re going away for less than forty-eight hours. You don’t need to take your entire wardrobe. Just pick up a coat, shove a pair of knickers in one pocket and your toothbrush in the other. Done. And then I won’t be giving myself a hernia trying to drag your entire wardrobe outside to the car.’

‘Mum! Dad says I can’t take any clothes with me and—’

I sighed. ‘Three tops – plus the one you’re travelling in. Two pairs of jeans. Underwear and . . . toiletries, Joy. That’s all you need.’

‘But Mum—’

‘It’s a youth hostel, for heaven’s sake,’ shouted Russell. ‘Not a fashion parade. Just pack a change of clothes in case you get wet. Which you will because the weather forecast says it’s going to be rough this weekend. I mean, yes, you could take half a dozen strappy wisps of nothing but you’re going to look pretty silly when all your mates are snug and warm in their hoodies and you’re dying quietly of pneumonia in the corner.’

‘Quietly?’ I said, grinning, sticking my head round his door.

He paused, standing in front of his easel, brush in hand. ‘Oh. Yeah. You’re right, Jenny.’ He raised his voice. ‘Forget the quietly, Joy. Never going to happen. Unlike the pneumonia.’

‘No one in this family does anything quietly,’ I said. ‘It’s ten past, everyone. We have to . . . be out of the door by quarter past. Anything not . . . packed now gets left behind.’

Given the ensuing packing frenzy, I actually wasn’t sure that was the right thing to have said. And it would probably be a very good idea to go and check exactly what was being rammed into suitcases and sports bags. On the other hand – did it matter? It was perfectly possible – actually, it was very likely – that Jamie would wear the same pair of underpants throughout the entire weekend no matter how many pairs I put in his bag. And we all knew that Joy would wear every item of clothing she possessed throughout the same time period, so I suppose, in the end, they cancelled each other out.

I’d said quarter past because this is the Checkland family and assembling more than one of us at any given point and at any given time is a bit of an uphill struggle. We didn’t actually need to depart for another thirty minutes, but I always build in at least half an hour’s arguing time.

As a family we have a great deal to say for ourselves. Well, Russell, Joy and Jamie do. I don’t. I have a bit of a stutter. It’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be although it does come back if I’m tired or anxious. It can be quite difficult to get a word in edgeways sometimes. Most times. Mine is a very . . . articulate . . . family.

Although not this weekend.

This weekend was School Trip Weekend. Russell had been counting down the months, then the days and now the final hours. I had more mixed feelings. This was the first time both Joy and Jamie had been away without us and it was certainly the first time they’d been away overnight. Two nights actually. They were bubbling with excitement at the thought of getting away from their parents. One of their parents – Russell – was bubbling away for exactly the same reason. I agreed that yes, it was good they were looking forward to their trip. That they were independent. That they were confident enough to see it as an adventure rather than abandonment – but deep down, I couldn’t help wondering if just a little sadness at being separated from their parents might not be such a bad thing. They could at least pretend. Just a little bit.

We assembled outside in the farmyard by the water trough. The official Checkland assembly point.

Our farm – Frogmorton Farm – is not particularly picturesque. ‘Ramshackle’ is a word frequently used to describe it. No black and white timbers or thatched roofs. It’s built mainly of red brick and Russell always says the windows look as if they’ve been hurled randomly at the building by a bad-tempered giant. It eats money and never ever looks any less dilapidated no matter what we do to it. Russell says it’s a bit of a mystery and he’s baffled. Andrew, his cousin, says it doesn’t take much to baffle Russell.

The barn and stables are flanked by oddly shaped wooden sheds – original purpose unknown. Opposite them is the big gate to the lane. Another gate opens into Boxer’s field and a third leads to our biggest field, which is frequent home to Martin Braithwaite’s surplus sheep. Sensibly, given the weather forecast, he’d brought all his livestock in under cover, so the field was empty.

The yard was comparatively uncluttered, which, given the way the wind was blowing us around, was just as well. The water trough is heavy and never likely to blow away. The chicken coop is also a substantial affair, with several new wings (!) and another storey added over the years. Since it was usually weighed down with sleepy, overfed chickens who hadn’t quite got the hang of exchanging board and lodging for daily eggs it seemed safe to assume that wasn’t going anywhere, either.

All doors were bolted. Everything firmly secured. We could safely leave for a while and, fingers crossed, it would all be here when we got back, because the weather forecast was not reassuring. A big storm was brewing. There had been images of swirling masses of weather enveloping Britain on the breakfast news, and flood alerts and gale warnings were being broadcast. I cast a glance around at the tossing tree branches and heavy, scudding clouds.

‘Should we bring the animals in before we go, do you think?’

‘No,’ said three voices simultaneously.

Russell was slinging cases into the boot. ‘We don’t want to lose momentum, Jenny. Never allow the herd to scatter.’

‘Herd?’ said Joy indignantly. ‘Mum, Dad’s calling us a herd. That’s pretty disrespectful.’

‘Please get into the car – we’re going to be late,’ I said.

We weren’t, but I’m quite an expert at deflection.

Everyone climbed into my car. The gate was already open and we pulled out into the lane. The Checklands were on the move. Finally.

Just a word about us – the Checklands.

Joy is technically a teenager, but in reality she’s been a teenager since the age of two. And we still have another five years to endure. Russell says to hang in there because one day a mature and responsible adult will emerge – just like him. He never appears to be aware of the silence following this remark.

Jamie is . . . well, Jamie. Completely dinosaur obsessed. Apparently he’ll grow out of it and it could be worse. Although when questioned closely, no one seems to know how. Russell says he’ll either grow up to be massive in the field of dinosaurology and able to keep his parents in the manner to which we’d love to become accustomed, or we’ll have to lock him in the attic for the rest of his life and tell everyone he’s gone to live abroad. It could go either way. I’m just happy they’re healthy. Normal sometimes seems a bit too much to ask for.

I’m married to Russell Checkland. Russell’s an artist. A good one. I think his stuff is wonderful. Now that he’s matured – although Andrew says that statement is open to discussion – his paintings are less showy but with more depth. Fewer visual fireworks and more thoughtful. He’s built himself a reputation and even been the subject of one of those arts programmes on TV – although they never came back for the follow-up episode after Marilyn tried to eat their director’s jacket, which she was wearing at the time. He has a steady stream of commissions from people who also admire his work. Having a family suits him although, again, as Andrew says, you’d think the burden of domesticity would have worn him down just a little, wouldn’t you? Speedy answer – it hasn’t. He still shouts – especially at his daughter. Before anyone dials Childline – she shouts back. They enjoy it, I think.

Both children were firmly secured in the back seat because Russell’s style of driving can be very . . . impulsive. And, occasionally, multidirectional. Joy, as usual, was as far from Jamie as she could possibly manage – which in my little car is not that far. Russell had pointed out she’d have a lot more room if we’d taken his Land Rover, only to have Jamie remind us that Joy had refused to get in it ever again after the last time, when she’d seen someone who knew her and had spent the entire trip into Rushford lying on the floor and panicking lest any more of her friends spotted her in this well-known-but-for-all-the-wrong-reasons rust bucket. Especially Gary Franklin. We had no idea who Gary Franklin was. Nor were we ever likely to. Apparently she’d rather die than expose Gary Franklin to her family. As Russell had remarked – dramatic but understandable. Reviewing my family, I couldn’t help feeling the unknown Gary Franklin might have had a lucky escape.

Anyway, the pair of them – Joy and Jamie – were in the back seat: Jamie glowing with excitement at the thought of being old enough for his very first school trip ever and two whole nights away from home, and Joy staring fixedly out of the window, because everyone knows that being seen in public with your younger brother has a very negative impact on your street cred.

‘It’s not fair,’ she announced. ‘They should make them go somewhere else.’

I assumed she meant the youngest children should have had a separate trip. Separate dates. Separate destination. Separate continent, even.

Russell pulled up at the traffic lights and turned round.

‘Who are they? Who are them? And where is somewhere else? I’ve told you, Joy, if you’re going to complain, you have to be more specific. Otherwise your complaint is just a whinge and lacks impact.’

Russell and Joy are very alike. Jamie is unique. Enough said, I think.

Anyway, this was their first trip away from home overnight. Russell and I were to have almost an entire weekend to ourselves. Russell was really looking forward to it.

He turned to me now. ‘Do we have time to put the house on the market and move away within the next forty-eight hours? If we keep moving, Jenny, they’ll never be able to track us down.’

‘I heard that,’ said Joy from the back seat.

Jamie was reciting facts about dinosaurs. ‘Mum, did you know a baby T-Rex was covered in fuzz? Like a baby duck. Can we have a baby duck? Please.’

‘Say yes,’ muttered Russell, pulling away from the lights, ‘or he’ll breed a baby T-Rex from two of our chickens and something he cooks up in a Petri dish.’

‘The biggest dinosaur bone ever found was heavier than a tank, Mum. Just one bone. How cool is that?’

‘Oh God,’ said Joy, covering her eyes. ‘Please tell me I’m adopted.’

‘Dad, did you know dinosaurs could get colds? Just like us. Imagine when a sauropod sneezed. The snot would be as big as a house.’

Russell grinned. ‘Jamie, you’re annoying your sister.’

I don’t know whether Jamie genuinely is in his own world or whether he’s a clever boy simply winding up his sibling. I do know that, despite all my best efforts, he’d managed to cover himself in something sticky seemingly just by sitting in the back of the car.

‘Jamie, what have you . . . ?’

‘It’s just the paint coming off my stegosaurus, Mum.’

‘Why is the paint . . . coming off your stegosaurus?’

‘I gave it a bath. So it would be clean when it went on its holiday.’

‘I’m sure the paint should be waterproof.’

‘I used Joy’s finger-removing stuff.’

‘My nail polish remover?’ screamed Joy. ‘I’ve told you before not to touch my stuff. Mum . . .’

Fortunately, at that moment, we pulled into the school car park. Four coaches were already drawn up and waiting. Parents and pupils milled around everywhere.

‘Oh my God,’ said Joy, panicking. ‘We’re late. They’re loading the luggage already. They’ll go without me.’

‘They will not,’ said Russell grimly, pulling into a parking space. ‘Even if I have to chase them down the motorway myself.’

It was chaos. Teachers stood like islands in a sea of shouting confusion. Pupils greeted each other as if they hadn’t seen each other for years rather than just yesterday. Greetings were shrieked, outfits inspected, friends were gathered close. Parents – now that we’d performed the function of taxi service – were ignored. Slowly, however, order emerged as pupils lined up in their classes. Teachers began to call the registers.

Jamie looked up at me. Small, skinny, sticky. ‘Bye, Mum.’

‘Got your Spinosaurus?’ enquired Russell.

Jamie patted his coat. ‘In my pocket, Dad.’

‘Enjoy your weekend. Give me a hug.’

Fortunately, Jamie wasn’t old enough to be embarrassed about hugging his parents in public. Now we were sticky, too.

‘What are you and Mum going to do?’

‘Oh,’ said Russell vaguely. ‘Our lives have no meaning unless you’re with us so I expect we’ll just sit around waiting for you to come back again.’ He winked at me. ‘On the other hand . . . we might find something much more interesting to do, mightn’t we, Jenny?’

‘Oh,’ said Joy, pulling a face. ‘Gross.’

‘Give your mum a hug,’ said Russell.

‘Bye, Mum.’ She grinned. She had a very likeable grin. One day she was going to be a wonderful human being. Russell said so and he should know. ‘Try to help Dad cope with his loss this weekend.’

‘Cheeky monkey,’ said Russell without rancour.

‘Would it help if I said I was never coming back again?’

‘Enormously,’ said Russell, and they grinned at each other. ‘Have a great time.’

‘I will.’

‘We’ll miss you.’

She nodded. ‘I expect you will.’

‘Just get on the bus,’ said Russell and the two of them laughed. They really were very alike.

We watched them join their classmates.

‘Isn’t this exciting, Jenny?’ said Russell.

I wasn’t so sure. ‘Russell . . .’

He rubbed my arm. ‘They’ll be fine.’

‘Suppose they miss us.’

‘They won’t. A hundred yards down the road they’ll have forgotten we even exist. I did when I went on school trips – didn’t you?’

‘I wasn’t allowed on school trips.’

Sad, but true. After my parents died, I went to live with Aunt Julia and Uncle Richard and they were always very careful to ensure I was isolated from the outside world. School trips, school clubs, extracurricular activities – nothing like that ever happened for me. No holidays. No excursions. Until I met Russell, my world was very, very small.

‘Hey,’ he said, putting his arm around me. ‘How about I take you on our own school trip somewhere soon. Just you and me. Where would you like to go?’

I smiled up at him. ‘I’d love to, but what about the kids?’

‘Oh, Andrew and Tanya will have them. We’ll dump them on their doorstep, ring the bell and run away. They’ll have no choice but to take them in. What do you think?’

I smiled again and shook my head.

‘No, seriously, Jenny. We’ll go away somewhere. Soon. Think about it. Spa weekend? Posh hotel? Activity weekend? Seaside? London? What would you like to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, bemused, as always, by the prospect of choices. ‘Can I think about it?’

‘Of course. Unless “can I think about it?” means “I won’t mention it again and Russell will soon forget”.’

He was smiling down at me.

‘No, it doesn’t. As long as when I do decide, you won’t be too wrapped up in your latest painting . . . to . . . take time off.’

‘I promise, Jenny. This weekend is the first step to getting our lives back. We did have a life before our two turned up. Remember?’

I laughed. ‘Our lives were – still are – full of neurotic ex-racehorses, an omnivorous donkey and a cat who regards us as her own personal body slaves. We just dash from crisis to crisis.’

‘Well, we’re going to have a wonderful, crisis-free, relaxing weekend now – the first of many. Hey up – they’re off.’

Pupils were scattering to their allocated coaches. A teacher stood at each open door, checking off every pupil as they climbed aboard.

Jamie’s class boarded first.

‘Jamie Checkland,’ called his teacher.

He stumped up the steps. Without a backward glance, I noticed. I watched him work his way down the coach. Would he have to sit alone as I so often had in class activities? Friendless and forgotten? Someone called to him. He sat down and, contrary to my fears, was immediately surrounded by his fellow pupils, some of whom actually looked quite nice and normal. He looked up, saw me watching, waved quickly, and pulled out Mr Spinosaurus, showing it to his friends who crowded round to look. Now they were sticky, too.

Joy’s class was boarding another coach. Which was just as well. Both our children have a strict policy of never being seen in public with each other. I sometimes wonder if this is normal, but lack the nerve to interrogate other parents in case it isn’t.

‘Joy Checkland.’

Shouldering her handbag, she climbed the steps and headed straight to the back of the coach.

‘They still do that,’ said Russell, in delight.

‘Still do what?’

‘The troublemakers always sit at the back. Long-standing tradition.’

The noise levels were off the chart. I felt really sorry for the teachers accompanying them. Perhaps they’d brought ear protectors.

Groups of parents surrounded each coach, all waving like maniacs.

‘They’re checking their offspring are actually on board and haven’t doubled back to the car when no one was looking,’ whispered Russell.

The coaches started their engines. We all got out of the way. Engines roared as they pulled out in a convoy. Out through the gates – down the road – round the corner . . .

And they were gone.

There was a moment’s silence. And then someone cheered. And then someone else. Parents were heading towards their cars, laughing and joking.

‘We should have brought champagne,’ said Russell.

We drove back to Frogmorton Farm. We’re not really a farm any longer. Russell rents out his land, and these days we just use the two fields next to the house for our own menagerie. Two horses, a donkey, a cat and an unknowable number of chickens. Russell says they’re like the Rollright Stones. Every time you try to count them you get a different number.

Boxer’s an ex-racehorse. Russell took him in because he was rubbish. Not at running – he goes like the wind – but because he’s neurotic and frightened of nearly everything. And he hates the wind because it blows terrifying leaves at him. One glimpse of a looming leaf and he’s half a mile away, picking up speed and heading for the horizon. He doesn’t like the rain because it makes him wet. He doesn’t like bright sunshine because it casts scary shadows. He finds his own shadow especially frightening. Basically, he’s not built for the great outdoors. He likes his cosy stable.

Then there’s Marilyn, the omnivorous donkey. Boxer adores her, so all we have to do is lead Marilyn wherever we want Boxer to be and he’ll happily follow on. As long as the water trough doesn’t attack or a chicken doesn’t look at him the wrong way, obviously. Marilyn’s a tiny donkey who punches well above her weight, is entirely without fear, and has lungs courtesy of the NASA wind tunnel. People occasionally come round to complain. We produce our tiny donkey – they don’t believe something so tiny can generate so much noise – and they go away. Crisis averted. Until the next time. And forget Baby Jesus – it’s Marilyn who’s the permanent star of the local nativity play and has her own Facebook page.

We pulled into our yard.

‘I’ll go and shut the gate,’ I said. ‘We won’t be going out again today.’

I never learn.

The chickens, under the mistaken impression they were about to be fed again, emerged from their five-star accommodation and began to cluster around our ankles. I looked at Russell. ‘Do you . . . need a hand getting the horses in?’

Russell surveyed the sky. ‘Normally, no, but Boxer might give me a bit of trouble. Can you bring Marilyn?’

Fortunately, Boxer couldn’t wait to be rescued from the elements, barging into his box with an air of one determined never to leave it again. Russell left me filling hay nets and checking water buckets and went out to deal with the chickens. I did not offer to join him. I try to be a good wife – with mixed results, Russell says – but when it comes to our chickens, he’s on his own.

Other people have chickens. We have Patagonian Attack Chickens. They’re infamous. Known far and wide across the county for all the wrong reasons. We started with six. They’re still with us – Agatha, Boudicca, Clytemnestra, Desdemona, Elfriede and Francesca – but now they’re submerged in the other twenty or so. Normal people have a flock of chickens. We have a herd. Stampedes are a daily feature of our lives.

Sadly, our rooster, Cogburn, finally departed to the land of his ancestors last year. Of exhaustion, we’d assumed at the time. Not that we are safe from an exploding chicken population, even now that he’s gone. ‘There must be boy chickens in there somewhere,’ Russell had said, darkly, eyeing them all after yet another headcount. ‘Hiding.’

He’d taken to shouting ‘Coq au vin!’ as he crossed the yard and watching to see who flinched. If there were boy chickens in there then they were keeping their heads well down. Russell remained ever vigilant, however, and at the first sound of an unlicensed cock-a-doodle-doo, was prepared to pounce.

My money – everyone’s money – was on the chickens.

Half of them had already taken refuge in their imaginatively decorated chicken coop – now granted the status of official local attraction. Russell is not the only one with artistic leanings, and one exciting afternoon, Kevin the handyman and I had rebelled. We’d ignored instructions to paint the coop a dull rural brown as tradition – and Russell – had decreed, and had added blue, green, yellow and neon orange stripes and spots. It is possible we may have got a little carried away. People came from far and wide to see it. Russell frequently threatened to charge people for photographing it.

Back to the chickens themselves – those descended from that great matriarch, Francesca, would be in their traditional place on the stable roof. The ones who hadn’t already been blown into the next county would need to be chivvied back to earth and vigorously encouraged to rejoin their more intelligent sisters inside. Those already inside and settled for the night would take strong exception to having to budge up to make room. Our chickens are very vocal. There would be complaints. From both our chickens and our neighbours, who, according to Russell, have no concept of the trials and tribulations of chicken owning. Although he was perfectly willing to take a couple of hours off to demonstrate – and with a live chicken, if they liked.

I was closing and bolting the stable doors when Russell emerged, red-faced and tousled from his chicken-wrangling duties.

‘Is that it? Are we done?’

‘We are indeed, Jenny. Let’s get inside, lock the doors and —’

‘The weather’s very bad. Do you think they’ll . . . be all right?’

‘Water, hay, chicken feed, a roof over their heads – they’ll be fine.’

‘I meant our children. Suppose a coach blows over.’

‘They’re only forty-five minutes away, Jenny. In fact, they’ll be nearly there by now.’ He put his arm round me. ‘I’ve planned a packed programme for this weekend. I shall prepare a delicious supper and we’ll have a quiet night in with as many bottles of wine as we can manage. Breakfast in bed tomorrow – around three in the afternoon, I think. I probably shan’t bother getting dressed at all and neither will you. We’ll skip naked around the house. Tomorrow night, if the weather’s still bad, we’ll enjoy another evening in and watch a movie. And perhaps a takeaway which we will actually be able to choose for ourselves and eat in peace without one of them suddenly announcing she’s gone vegan and can only eat tuna – that was funny, Jenny – and the other one demanding stegosaurus burgers. And there will be a lot of alcohol because we’re as free as birds right up until the moment we have to stumble back to the school car park to pick them back up again, contemplating the ruin of the rest of our lives as we do so. What do you think?’

‘I think you’re forgetting . . . the unending demands of two horses and a perpetually hungry donkey. To say . . . nothing of a small but determined cat who only has to clap eyes on a dangling object – any dangling object, no matter how small – before she goes for it tooth and claw, so you may want to rethink the naked skipping. And let’s not even start on the uncountable number of Patagonian Attack . . . Chickens, at least six of whom have to be rescued from the consequences of their own folly three times a day.’

‘All of that is true, but it’s good to dream. What are you going to do first?’

‘I’m going to have a bath. A proper one. With . . . bubbles and lotions and candles and soft music – and perhaps a cup of tea if you would like to bring me one up. And no one is going to demand to know the whereabouts of their pink top or why can’t they have green highlights or make me guess how many bones there are in a brachiosaurus’s neck. Or sulk . . . because I won’t let them recreate the La Brea tar pits with two cans of engine oil, some sawdust and an old scapula. In their . . . bedroom.’

I stopped to get my breath back.

‘Kids, eh?’ said Russell fondly. ‘Gotta love them. Especially when they’re forty miles away for the next two days.’

‘Don’t you think they’ll miss us at all?’

‘At a guess? No.’

‘Russell . . .’

‘Go and have your bath, Jenny.’

I did. I filled the bath with hot water and threw in everything I could find. Bubble bath. Shower gel. Bath bombs bounced along like surface like something dreamed up by Barnes Wallis. There was fizzing and bubbling and frothing.

I lit the candles, turned out the light and climbed in very carefully because by now the consistency was veering towards gloopy. I seemed to have inadvertently created the La Brea tar pits after all.

Everything was wonderful. I lay back, closed my eyes and listened to the silence.

The door opened. ‘Are you in there, Jenny?’

He might well ask. The bubbles nearly reached to the ceiling.

‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Smells like a tart’s boudoir in here.’

‘That was what I was aiming for.’

He perched himself on the loo and we chatted for a while. Not about anything in particular. I can’t even remember what we said now, but there were no interruptions. No distant sounds of Armageddon. And especially, after one particularly traumatic evening a couple of weeks ago, no pungent smell of melted plastic and the sound of the smoke alarms as Jamie attempted to recreate the Chicxulub event in his bedroom.

‘Stay there as long as you like,’ said Russell cheerfully, getting up. ‘I’m doing beef in red wine and the longer it’s in the oven, the better.’

I stayed until I reached the white and wrinkled stage and then reached for warm, dry towels that were actually on the towel rail and not the floor. Or been used to dry a donkey. Or disappeared completely because someone required them for purposes of his own – Russell.

It wasn’t until I was coming down the stairs that I realised how much the weather had worsened. Our bathroom was on the sheltered side of the building – away from the weather. On this side, the gusting wind was hurling rain against the windows. Russell would describe it as ‘real Wuthering Heights stuff out there’.

Our stairs lead directly down into the sitting room, which smelled wonderful. Whatever Russell was putting together in the kitchen was obviously going well – which is not always the case when Russell cooks.

I’d already laid the fire – it only needed a match. I watched the flames lick around the kindling, and put on a small log. Then another. No more. I could hear the wind in the chimney and we didn’t want a room full of smoke. We didn’t even really need a fire – the central heating works much better now we’ve put in the new boiler – but the rain was hammering down and we were obviously working up to a proper storm. If we lost power then we’d be glad of the fire.

I sat on the hearthrug, hugging my knees, enjoying that warm after-bath feeling and letting the heat dry my hair. I was well wrapped up in jeggings, a long flannel shirt and a fleecy sweatshirt. I was cosy and snug. Everything and everyone was safely tucked away. Wild horses wouldn’t get me outside tonight. Nor the cat, who obviously shared my views on cold, wet weather. She blinked at the flames for a moment or two and then slumped heavily across my feet and was instantly asleep.

The quiet room, the crackling fire, the baggy, saggy furniture, the books, Russell’s artwork – this was my favourite place in the entire world. As always, I could hardly believe it. My life has turned out so much better than I ever thought it would, and I try to be grateful every day.

‘All right?’ said Russell, crashing through the door, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other.

He regarded the comatose cat with extreme disfavour.

‘What’s that doing here?’

‘She lives here, Russell.’

‘I distinctly said no more cats. Not after the last one died.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, you did. Many, many times.’

He gestured at the ball of feline fur carelessly sprawled across the hearthrug. ‘And yet . . . Throw it out, Jenny. No more waifs and strays.’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ I said, as I always did. He’d have forgotten by then. As he always did. Even the cat knew he wasn’t serious. She’d been with us for well over a year now.

He flourished the wine. I suspected he’d already had a few glasses in the kitchen – and suddenly realised it didn’t matter if he had. We had nowhere else to be. No responsibilities. No good examples to set. The weekend stretched before us. We actually used to do this sort of thing quite often before parenthood engulfed us. I’d forgotten.

He threw a couple of cushions on the floor and sat beside me in front of the fire. ‘All in the oven. Ready in an hour. Or longer, of course, if we find something more interesting to do.’

I smiled. ‘I’ll wrack my brains.’

He topped up his wine. ‘Oh God, Jenny, isn’t this wonderful?’

‘Do you think they’ll ring us later? To tell us how they’re . . . getting on?’

He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘I think they’ve forgotten we even exist.’

‘They might be missing us.’

‘Allow me to refer you to my previous answer.’

‘Because we miss them.’

‘Eh? Yes, yes, of course we do. Dreadfully.’

He put his arm around me and I was happy to lean back against him and close my eyes. Outside, the storm was getting worse and I was enjoying all the smug satisfaction of one who didn’t have to be out in it.

We hadn’t done this for such a long time. And no offspring was going to erupt through the door in the throes of some dinosaur-related catastrophe or teenage meltdown. Outside the wind hurled more rain against the windows. But not in here. In here, everything was perfect. Warm and snug. Animals safely housed, fed, contented, and fast asleep. Cat fed, contented and fast asleep in front of the fire.

Russell nuzzled my neck and I leaned into him. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time we’d done this. Not outside our own bedroom, anyway. No chance of interruption. No quarrels. No shouting. No slammed doors.

‘And that’s just you,’ I said to Russell.

He smiled. ‘We’ve come a long way, Jenny.’

‘We have,’ I said.

‘Together.’

‘It’s been fun.’

‘Well, I’ve certainly enjoyed it.’

He took my drink off me – not that I’d touched any of it – and kissed me. Properly.

I kissed him back. Very improperly, and we fell off the cushions on to the floor. He grinned down at me. ‘Brace yourself, Jenny.’

I laughed and his mobile rang.

He ignored it. ‘Ignore it.’

I tried to, but it rang and rang and rang.

‘Russell, it might be one of the children.’

He groaned, and with some difficulty, fished his phone out of his back pocket.

‘Shit. It’s Francesca.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, suddenly changing my mind. ‘Ignore it.’

Francesca is my cousin. And Russell’s ex-girlfriend. That’s been over a long time now, but she can still be demanding.

He buried the phone under a cushion and after a moment it stopped. Once again, the room was silent and Russell picked up from where he had left off.

His phone began to ring again. I went to sit up.

Russell pushed me back down again. ‘Ignore her, Jenny. No power on earth can deflect me from my purpose.’

The phone stopped.

‘See – I told you.’

And then the house phone started up.

Again, I struggled to sit up. ‘Russell. She really wants to talk to you. It could be important.’

‘It’s not.’

‘You don’t know that. There might have been an accident. The weather . . .’

He stopped what he was doing and lifted his head.

The ringing ceased.

‘See,’ he said. ‘I told you. Not important.’

He had barely spoken when the voicemail cut in and Francesca’s agitated voice filled the room.

‘Russell? Russell, are you there? For God’s sake, pick up. It’s Francesca.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Russell, his mind clearly on other things. ‘Ignore her, Jenny. She’ll go away.’

She didn’t.

‘Russell – you’ve got to help me. It’s . . . Oh God – Russell – I’m really sorry and I didn’t mean to, but I think I’ve killed Christopher.’

There was a long – a very long – silence. I kept hearing the words in my head. I think I’ve killed Christopher. I think I’ve killed Christopher. As sentences go, it was a bit of a mood breaker.

Russell lifted his head. ‘What?’

He scrambled to his feet and picked up the phone.

‘I’m putting it on speaker, Franny.’

‘I keep telling you – don’t call me that.’

‘What have you done?’

‘Oh, Russell, you have to help me.’

‘If you’ve really killed Christopher then I think it’s too late.’

‘It’s much worse than that.’

‘How could it be any worse than that? What’s going on?’

‘He turned up. Right out of the blue.’

‘Christopher?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not for years. Not since he went to prison for . . . you know . . .’

‘Kidnapping Jenny.’

‘Yes. That.’

‘And he just turned up? Did he know you and Daniel have split up?’

‘We haven’t split up – we’re both still living here. It’s just . . .’

‘Neither of you is speaking to the other.’

‘That doesn’t mean we’ve split up. We’ve definitely not split up.’

‘Does Christopher know you and Daniel definitely haven’t split up?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Who?’

‘Christopher, of course. Concentrate, Franny.’

‘I . . . um . . . I don’t know.’

‘Why not?’

‘We didn’t really get that far.’

‘Did he attack you? Did you have to defend yourself?’

‘Well, not really.’

‘What do you mean, not really?’

‘No. He didn’t attack me.’

‘So how did he die?’

‘He banged his head.’

‘How?’

‘On the bottle I was holding.’

‘You hit him? With a bottle?’

‘I knew you’d say that, but I didn’t really. He hit the bottle with his head. But none of this is the point, Russell.’

‘What is the point?’

‘You have to help me.’

‘No, I really don’t think I do. Call the police.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I might have panicked.’

‘Might have?’

‘All right, I did, but so would you.’

‘I wouldn’t have let him in in the first place, Franny. What were you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking that if you call me Franny once more, I’ll—’

‘You’ll what? Brain me with a bottle as well?’

She was sounding close to tears. ‘I keep telling you. I didn’t brain him. He hit his head on the bottle. It didn’t even break. And it cost me three hundred pounds. Sterling.’

For only the third or fourth time in his life, Russell was very nearly silenced.

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No, I’m not. Why would I be kidding?’

‘Three hundred pounds? For one bottle of wine? What was it? Liquid gold?’

‘Well, actually, I don’t like it much, but it’s Daniel’s favourite.’

‘I should bloody well think so at three hundred quid a pop. What did you say it was called?’

‘Châteauneuf-du-Pape Hommage à Jacques Perrin, 2019.’

Russell was having some difficulty moving on. ‘And you paid three hundred pounds . . . ?’

‘Well, actually, no.’

‘So I should think.’

‘It’s actually about three hundred and fifty for a single bottle but it’s cheaper if you buy a whole case. Obviously.’

‘You bought a whole case?’

‘Massive saving, Russell. Work it out. And no, I didn’t.’

‘Let me guess – Daniel paid for the case.’ He paused. ‘Does Daniel know he paid for the case?’

‘Not important, Russell. Stick to the point.’

‘All right. Where did you get it from?’

‘That place in Rushford behind the bus station.’

‘Aldi? You’re kidding. Bloody hell – they’ve really ramped up their middle aisle, haven’t they?’

‘What’s an Aldi? What middle aisle?’

‘Behind the bus station, Franny. Aldi.’

‘Not Aldi, Russell. The wine merchant. Next one along. Blue door. Great prices.’

‘Not if they’re charging three hundred pounds for—’

‘Well, they have other stuff, too. Obviously. You know, the sort of stuff you and Jenny drink. Or could run a tractor on.’

I looked down at my glass of red diesel.

Russell hadn’t finished. ‘I’ll have to pop in sometime. Are they open on Saturdays?’

I put down my glass and went out through the savoury-smelling kitchen and into the mudroom, where I pulled out my waterproof jacket and over-trousers, found my wellies, checked my welly socks were still inside and hadn’t been used to mop up cat sick or stuff a model ichthyosaur, and shoved a pair of gloves in my pockets, because I could see where all this was leading even if Russell couldn’t.

On my way back through the kitchen, I slowed, stopped, lifted my head, and sniffed the air. I slowed because Russell hadn’t moved on at all and was still discussing wine with Francesca – but I stopped because of the wonderful smell of warm ginger biscuits that was nothing to do with Russell and his culinary efforts. My heart thumped with joy.

Thomas was here.

Thomas is my dearest friend. I first met him when I was very young and very afraid of almost everything and everyone. It was difficult for me to speak and my world was growing smaller and smaller and I really didn’t want to do life any longer.

Thomas changed my mind. He protected me from the world and then, later, encouraged me to go out and explore it. It’s his fault I’m married to Russell. I remind him of that occasionally and he just laughs. He laughs a lot because for him life is for living, whereas for me, life was for hiding from. It used to be that no one else could see or hear him but me, but Joy once had an adventure of her own and Thomas saved the day. We talked about it a little afterwards but she, like me, keeps him to herself. Which is probably wise because Thomas is a giant, invisible, golden horse.

He was standing in the far corner of the kitchen, next to the range, solemnly staring at the spice rack and swishing his long tail.

‘Thomas.’

He turned. ‘Jenny, my dearest girl. How are you?’

I gestured through the open door to Russell, still arguing with Christopher’s murderer.

Thomas shook his head, mane rippling, but he was laughing.

‘Russell doesn’t change, does he, but the weather’s quite bad out there, Jenny, so perhaps you should encourage him to get this sorted out. Before the river floods or trees start coming down.’

I sighed and approached. ‘Russell.’

‘Just a minute, Franny. What, Jenny?’

‘Christopher?’

He looked blank for a moment, and then, ‘Oh. Yes. Shut up about wine, Franny. Tell me about Christopher.’

‘I told you.’

‘No, you didn’t. You said you’d killed him. Then went on to say that wasn’t the crux of the matter, and then for some reason you got on to wine. Focus, please. What’s the problem with Christopher? Other than you killing him, of course.’

‘Well, that’s just it, Russell.’

‘What is? Franny, I have a warm wife, a glass of wine, my supper’s nearly ready and I’m putting the phone down now and—’

‘No, Russell, you can’t. You have to help me. Killing Christopher is not the problem.’

‘I beg to differ, but tell me what you think is the problem.’

‘I . . . um . . . I’ve lost the body.’

‘Yes!’ said Thomas, who would probably have punched the air if he’d been able. ‘Trust me, Jenny – this is going to be good.’

There was quite a long silence. Russell opened his eyes.

‘Sorry, for one moment there I thought you said you’d lost the body.’

‘I have lost the body.’

I tweaked Russell’s sleeve. ‘Get her to start from the beginning. And don’t interrupt.’

‘Well, of course I’m not going to interrupt. When have I ever—’

‘Russell!’

‘All right.’ He sighed. ‘Franny – you’re not making any sense. Start at the beginning.’

‘Well, I was in the middle of laying the table.’

‘For Christopher?’

‘No, of course not for Christopher, Russell. Why would I be laying the table for Christopher?’

‘He’s your brother?’

‘I don’t actually acknowledge the relationship. You know that. Not since . . .’

‘And we’re digressing again,’ murmured Thomas.

‘I disowned him when he came out of prison. Daniel said I was to have nothing to do with him ever again.’

‘All right, all right. So – you’re laying the table . . .’

‘For a special meal with Daniel – and someone knocked at the door.’

‘You were expecting Daniel, I take it? For this special meal?’

‘We were going to have a proper talk. Because once or twice we’ve sort of . . . you know . . . and then we thought . . . well, you know . . . it would be easier to talk face to face . . . over dinner . . . like a date . . . but not in public, obviously.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, in case things didn’t go well for some reason . . .’

‘And you threw the plates at him . . .’

‘I wouldn’t . . .’

‘Or clouted him with a bottle of wine.’

‘You’re being very unkind, Russell.’

‘They’re digressing again, Jenny, and I really want to hear how she’s managed to lose the corpse, don’t you?’

I tweaked his sleeve again. ‘Russell.’

‘Yes – sorry. So, you were expecting Daniel. Why would he knock?’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He lives there.’

‘So why did you answer the door?’

‘To see who it was, of course.’

‘And it was Christopher.’

‘Yes. Concentrate, Russell.’

‘And you just let him in?’

‘Well, he pushed past me. Although, to be fair, it was – still is – a filthy day.’

‘What did he want?’

‘It wasn’t entirely clear.’

‘It probably was, Franny – you just weren’t listening.’

‘I didn’t want to listen. I was worried Daniel would walk in. I just wanted to get rid of him.’

‘By braining him with a bottle of very expensive wine.’

‘I keep telling you. He ran into it.’

‘How?’

‘He kept talking at me. I was trying to persuade him to leave, we were both shouting, he seemed to trip, and his head kind of . . . connected. Anyway, none of this is important, Russell.’

‘Again, I beg to differ, but tell me what you think is important. You’re wearing the wrong colour nail varnish for body disposal? You don’t want to mess up your hair in the wind? What is important?’

‘The body’s gone. Disappeared. I’ve lost it.’

There was a continuation of the original startled silence.

‘She’s such a scatterbrain,’ said Thomas severely. ‘A genuine tip, Jenny, never, ever let the corpse out of your sight until you’ve disposed of it in a responsible manner. That’s Murder 101.’

Russell had pulled himself together. ‘Well, obviously you hadn’t killed him enough and he’s got up and walked off. Not surprising, really. You hit him over the head with a full bottle of wine. I think even Christopher would realise he wasn’t welcome.’

‘No, you don’t understand. I crashed the car and when I went to look, he’d gone.’

‘You ran over him as well?’

‘No, of course not. He was in the back.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t get him in the boot. I wish I had, because he’d still be there, but I couldn’t, so he isn’t.’

‘What was he doing in the car?’

‘He wasn’t doing anything. He was dead. And I’m fine, Russell, thank you for asking.’

Russell unleashed a kind of deep groan and appealed to a higher power for patience and assistance.

‘I think that might be you, Jenny,’ said Thomas, obviously thoroughly enjoying himself.

I nudged Russell out of the way. ‘Francesca, it’s Jenny.’

‘Oh, thank God. Someone sensible.’

I tried not to feel insulted. ‘Let me recap. Christopher arrived. There was an . . . incident during which he was accidentally killed.’

‘Exactly, Jenny. Well done.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Well, luckily, he fell on the rug. You know – that hideous black and orange thing his mother gave us.’

‘Christopher’s mother? Aunt Julia?’

‘No,’ she said impatiently. ‘Daniel’s mother.’

‘OK,’ said Russell, muscling his way back in again. ‘Dead Christopher on rug. Proceed. Why luckily?’

‘Because I was able to use it to drag him out to the car.’

‘Oh,’ he said, surprised. ‘Good thinking, Franny. But why?’

‘Well, he was too heavy to lift and I didn’t want him lying around on the hearthrug – obviously. Daniel was due and we had important things to talk about.’

‘You’re right – dead body on the floor – not helpful when mending personal relationships. On the other hand, he doesn’t like Christopher, so he might not have minded very much. On balance, Franny, I think you should have left Christopher in situ.’

I interrupted. The kids were due back in under forty-eight hours and, at this rate, Russell would probably still be having this conversation. ‘What were you going to do with the body?’

‘I was going to drop him off somewhere remote. Up on the moors. Someone would find him in a couple of days and it would look as if he’d been injured in the storm and died.’

Russell and I contemplated each other.

Thomas snorted.

‘Language,’ I said reprovingly.

Franny hadn’t finished. ‘But I crashed the car before I even got to your lane. The weather’s awful and the windscreen wipers were useless and I thought I saw something and swerved and went into a ditch. And now I can’t get the car out. It just slides about and makes a lot of smoke.’

Russell can’t see Thomas. No one present could see or hear Thomas but me, though it’s worth noting they had identical expressions on their faces. All right, Thomas is a giant, invisible, golden horse but believe me, horses can do exasperation really well.

‘Russell, are you still there?’

‘Yes. Franny, my advice is to ring the police. Tell them Christopher slipped on the rug and banged his head. You were taking him to hospital and drove into a ditch.’

‘He’ll grass me up. If they find him.’

‘He won’t remember a thing about it. That’s the beauty of head wounds. Just keep your nerve and you’ll be fine.’

‘Russell—’

‘No, Franny, this isn’t anything to do with Jenny and me. Ring the—’

The phone went dead.

‘Franny? Hello? Hello?’

‘Is she all right, Russell?’

‘Of course not – it’s Franny. But if you mean “why did the phone go dead?”, I suspect the phone lines are down.’

Someone thumped on the back door.

Russell made one last attempt. ‘Hello? Hello? Franny, I have to go – there’s someone at the door. If you can hear me, ring the police and get help.’

Someone thumped again.

I set off for the kitchen.

He shouted one last time, ‘Ring the police!’, shut down the phone and called after me. ‘Jenny, what are you doing? Don’t answer the door. It could be Christopher.’

I hadn’t thought of that and now it was too late. I was already opening the back door against a blast of wind and rain, and there, fashionably but very inadequately dressed, wet, bedraggled, furious and still clutching her phone, stood Francesca.

She pushed past me.

‘Rather like the way Christopher must have pushed past her,’ murmured Thomas who, I could see, was not going be particularly helpful this afternoon.

She was really not happy. ‘Where is he? Russell!’

‘Quick, Jenny – shut the door – we don’t want to miss this.’

I closed the door and sighed as the last sad remnants of our peaceful evening in front of the fire curled up and died.

‘A bit like Christopher,’ said Thomas, inexplicably failing to take any of this seriously.

By the time I arrived back in our sitting room, Russell and Francesca were having a free and frank exchange of views in which wine, Daniel, Francesca’s inability to drive properly, Aldi’s middle aisle, Russell’s selfishness, the weather, Daniel’s mother’s ugly rug, Russell’s stupidity, and several past incidents from the time they lived together in London were all jostling for pole position.

I settled myself down on the sofa and went to pick up my glass.

‘I wouldn’t,’ warned Thomas.

‘Why ever not?’

‘This is not going to end here. We both know she’ll persuade Russell to go out and look for Christopher and he’s had too much to drink. And Francesca’s already put one car in a ditch this afternoon, so it’ll be you doing the driving. And I think you should go anyway, Jenny. As the still, small voice of calm.’

‘Plus, you want to see how all this ends.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Not to the extent of cancelling the beneficial effects of the first bath I’ve had alone for years, and a blazing fire.’

‘Oh come, Jenny – this is going to be so exciting.’

‘For whom?’

‘For all of us.’

I humphed.

He glanced out at the windswept garden. ‘And Christopher is out there somewhere – hurt and alone.’

I opened my mouth to say ‘serves him right’, and then closed it again. Thomas was right. No one should be out in this weather.

Not being out in this weather was very much Russell’s point of view as well. He was citing warm and dry inside, supper nearly ready and – the clincher, as far as he was concerned – none of this was anything to do with him.

Francesca was employing her favourite and most successful tactic: just going on and on and on until everyone either gave in and acceded to her wishes or their ears started to bleed and they lost the will to live. Whichever came first.

‘. . . can’t leave my car in a ditch,’ she was saying. ‘Or Christopher, either.’

It was obvious Christopher was a little bit of an afterthought.

Russell flourished his glass and played his ace. ‘Sorry, Franny. Too drunk to drive. And you shouldn’t either after your terrible, terrible experience.’

‘Not a problem,’ she countered, trumping his ace with ease. ‘Jenny can drive us.’

I resisted the temptation to chug back a whole glass of wine there and then.

‘Franny,’ said Russell. ‘You can’t just barge into people’s houses on the first weekend they’ve had off in . . . ever . . . and calmly order them out into a tempest to look for the body you were careless enough to lose in the first place.’

She turned to me. The perennial weak link. ‘Jenny . . . you have to help me out here.’

‘Is the word “please” even in her vocabulary?’ murmured Thomas.

I sighed and looked at Russell. Who sighed back at me.

‘Thank you, Jenny,’ said Thomas.

The weather hit me as soon as I stepped outside the back door. The wind-driven rain was nearly horizontal. And it stung. If Christopher was out in this . . .

I battled my way across the yard towards Russell’s fabled Land Rover. Yes, it was still with us, even after all these years and goodness knows how many miles and how many dings. Russell says he’s looking forward to watching Joy and Jamie demolish half the county in it.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and attempted first gear. Finding a gear – any gear – in Russell’s Land Rover is a bit like stirring a pot of porridge with a stick, but I got there in the end.

Russell opened the gate and I pulled slowly and carefully out of the yard, and, unlike Russell, completely failed to clip the water trough as I went past. Kevin and I once painted some neon orange stripes on it as an aid to navigation, but Russell’s chipped them off over the years.

Once through, I stopped for Russell and Francesca to scramble in. They both crammed themselves together on the front seat. I pulled cautiously out into the lane.

‘What is that smell?’ demanded Francesca. ‘Is there something dead in here?’

‘I dropped a tuna sandwich down between the seats a couple of weeks ago,’ said Russell. ‘It might be that. Could you stop wriggling?’

‘This seat is so . . . what the hell am I sitting on?’

‘Me, mostly,’ said Russell. ‘If you don’t like it, you should just see what I’m sitting on.’

‘Well, move over.’

‘I’ll go one better and get out, if you like.’

Francesca wriggled some more. ‘Why can’t you have a proper . . . ?’

‘Jenny, turn around, please. Drive us back home.’

‘No, no – don’t do that. There’s no one around, so I suppose if I huddle down in the seat people won’t actually see me.’

‘Where am I . . . going?’ I said, peering through the streaming windscreen as we bumped our way down the lane. And Francesca was right – no other idiots were abroad this afternoon.

‘Just us,’ said Thomas happily. ‘Off on another adventure. Isn’t this exciting, Jenny?’

Francesca sat up. ‘Turn left here, Jenny.’

I turned left on to a slightly wider road that led down to the village. The Rover rocked as the wind buffeted us, and the road surface was littered with leaves and small branches.

‘Can’t we go any faster?’ said Francesca.

Russell opened his mouth, presumably to say, ‘Why – Christopher’s not going anywhere, is he?’ and then remembered that, actually, he had.

‘I think it was just along here,’ Francesca said. ‘Yes – just past that old gate. There should be a . . . yes . . . there.’

I caught a glimpse of Francesca’s expensive car, nose down in a ditch, and looked for a place to pull off the road.

‘Here,’ said Russell.

It wasn’t big enough to be a lay-by but it was big enough for our nefarious purposes. Unbelievably, the weather was worsening. Rain hammered down on the Rover’s roof and ran down the windscreen – both inside and out. I thought about saying I’d stay put and guard the car but I wasn’t granted the chance.

‘We need to get a move on,’ said Russell, opening the door and scrambling out.

‘Why?’ I said, very, very reluctant to expose myself to the elements.

‘Because someone could already have spotted Francesca’s car and phoned it in and the police might turn up at any moment.’

‘The police!’ said Francesca in horror. ‘What on earth for?’

Russell stared at her. ‘You really have no idea how the world works, do you?’

She glowered back again. ‘I don’t have your extensive experience with the local police, no.’

But Russell was already heading towards her nose-down-in-the-ditch car. One of the back doors was open.

We joined him and peered in. No Christopher. And no rug, either, so, as Francesca said, the situation wasn’t all bad.

‘Just as a matter of interest, Franny, why didn’t you put him in the boot?’

‘I couldn’t lift him in. I’d got him sort of sprawled half on me and half on the car – he’s very heavy, you know – and couldn’t get him in any further, so I opened the back door, meaning to throw the rug in and have a rethink, and he just slithered sideways and fell backwards across the seat. I decided that was close enough. I mean, most of him was actually in the car, so I just kind of . . . scrunched his legs up . . . and slammed the door.’

Russell was flashing his torch around the interior of the car.

‘I think we can all see he’s not there, Russell,’ said Francesca, who obviously hadn’t forgiven him for his ‘not knowing how the world works’ comment. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Blood.’

There was silence.

‘Well,’ said Thomas eventually. ‘Good to see he can still derail a conversation with a single word.’

‘Open the boot.’

‘Why?’

‘Just checking.’

She opened the boot. Empty apart from the spare wheel and about a hundred and fifty bags for life. Russell sighed and closed it again.

The afternoon was darkening fast. Russell turned his torch on our surroundings and, after a moment, Franny and I did the same. We were in a small wood. The world was full of wet trees with wildly waving branches. Flying leaves. Soggy undergrowth. Lashing rain.

Francesca stared around as if she expected to see Christopher dangling from a tree somewhere. ‘What happened to him? Where could he have gone?’

‘Well, unless he encountered a very localised team of opportunistic body snatchers, it’s obvious that he came round. Maybe the crash woke him up or something – he was probably still very groggy – but he was able to get the car door open while you were pulling yourself together in the front seat.’ He regarded her for a moment and then said quietly, ‘You were very lucky there, Franny.’

He was right. We all stood silently, thinking about what could have happened to her while she was too shocked and disoriented to defend herself.

I shone my torch around. ‘Where’s the rug?’

‘He’s probably pulled it over his head to keep the rain off,’ said Russell. ‘Which is a problem.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Russell, that’s hardly the worst thing . . .’

‘It’s proof he was at your house, Franny.’

That stopped her dead. ‘Oh.’

Thomas stirred. ‘Jenny, I think you need to move things on a little. Russell was right about the possibility of the police turning up.’

‘Isn’t us assisting Francesca in looking for Christopher quite a normal thing to do?’

‘It is, but they might be quite interested in why she didn’t call the police at once. Or how Christopher sustained his injury. Or why she didn’t ring for an ambulance straight away.’

‘We’re just making this situation worse, aren’t we?’

‘No. I think finding Christopher is quite important, don’t you?’

I sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘Right,’ said Russell. ‘Jenny, you take the left-hand path. Walk parallel to the road in that direction.’ He pointed. ‘Do not leave the path. He’s probably a bit unsteady on his feet and won’t have gone far. Franny, you go right. Shout if you see him. I’ll go this way.’ He gestured further into the wood.

‘Why?’ said Francesca, instantly suspicious.

‘Because there’s virtually no path and I’ll be hacking my way through wet undergrowth with branches dropping from a great height and there’s every chance I’ll get lost. But you can go this way if you want.’

She shook her head.

‘We search for twenty minutes, then meet back here. Let’s go.’

I set off. The wind was whipping the higher branches into a frenzy, but down here at ground level, things were a little calmer because I was, to some extent, protected by smaller trees and bushes. Not from the rain, however. Which continued to come down in stair rods.

Thomas and I followed the muddy path. As Christopher would probably have done if he came this way. As Thomas said, sticking to a path was the quickest and easiest thing to do and why would he blunder off into the undergrowth? On the other hand, why not just rejoin the road only a few yards away and flag down a passing vehicle?

Neither of us said, ‘Because he was concussed and didn’t know what he was doing.’

Faintly, I could hear Russell shouting his name. I should do the same.

‘Christopher! Christopher!’

I tried to be conscientious. I looked in places where he might have sought shelter. Under a tree, or a thick bush. Under low-hanging branches. I forced my way through brambles and various bushes determined to impede my progress. There was no sign of him anywhere.

‘No one’s passed this way for ages,’ said Thomas as I tried to scramble over and through a big tree that had fallen across the path some time ago and now lay strangled in ivy. ‘I think we should turn back, Jenny.’

I tried not to feel too relieved. I had a nasty feeling my waterproofs weren’t quite as waterproof as the manufacturer had claimed. On the other hand, these were extraordinary conditions.

Walking back was easier. The wind was behind us.

‘So,’ said Thomas chattily. ‘How are things chez Checkland, Jenny?’

‘They’re not too bad,’ I said, trying to peer under a bramble bush without scratching myself too badly. ‘Well, not at this precise moment, obviously, but other than the little matter of Franny’s careless corpse disposal, quite good. Russell’s paintings are selling.’

‘How was Joy after her adventure?’

‘Good, I think. She was a little clingy for a few weeks afterwards. Russell was very good with her and I had hoped . . . but now they’re back to shouting at each other.’

‘Well, that’s good news. That means they’ve both fully recovered.’

‘If you say so,’ I said doubtfully.

‘And Jamie?’

‘Still Jamie.’

‘There’s no need to worry about either of them, Jenny, I think . . .’

He broke off as, not that far away, there was the sound of tearing wood and a crash.

‘That’s a branch come down,’ said Thomas, quickening his pace. ‘Trot on, Jenny. We need to get back.’

Russell and Francesca were already waiting at the Rover.

‘No sign, I take it,’ said Russell.

I shook my head, edging behind Francesca’s car to find some shelter from the wind.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ve done what we can. Trees are coming down and it’s not safe.’

Francesca opened her mouth to argue. I opened my mouth to agree. I’m not sure what Thomas would have contributed to the debate, but at that moment, another, much younger, much more expensive and in much better condition Land Rover drew up behind ours.

Thomas was thrilled. ‘Oh look, Jenny. It’s Andrew. Doesn’t he look well?’

It was Russell’s cousin, Andrew. Lovely, tolerant, patient, good-natured Andrew. Takes everything in his stride.

‘I thought I recognised Russell’s Rover. What the bloody hell do you lunatics think you’re doing? Don’t you know there’s a wild weather warning out? People are being told to stay at home with a good book and you three take it into your heads to go for a ramble. Russell and Francesca are beyond hope, but I’m surprised at you, Jenny.’

I nodded. I was surprised at me, too.

‘They’re warning about the river coming up and the bridge coming down. All the phone lines are out. I’m trying to get home while I still can.’

Andrew is a vet. He must have been out on a call.

‘We’re looking for a body,’ said Russell.

Andrew closed his eyes. ‘Of course you are.’

‘You can help.’

‘No, I bloody can’t.’

‘It’s Christopher.’

‘Christopher’s dead? What happened?’

‘Francesca killed him.’

He blinked. ‘For God’s sake, Franny – what were you thinking?’

‘I didn’t kill him. He . . .’

‘Please don’t tell me you’re all out burying the body.’

‘We can’t find the bloody body. Franny lost it.’

‘Don’t call me Franny. And it’s not my fault.’

‘You hit him on the head. You tried to dispose of his corpse. You lost his corpse. Frankly, Franny – it’s all your fault.’

Andrew squinted at Francesca. ‘You hit him on the head? Why?’

‘He hit his own head. It wasn’t anything to do with me.’ She appeared to think about this. ‘All right – perhaps a little bit to do with me, but mostly it was an accident.’

Andrew considered this. ‘What was the murder weapon?’

Francesca opened her mouth but Russell got there first. As he frequently does. ‘You’ll never guess.’

‘Well,’ said Andrew, switching off his engine and apparently abandoning all hope of returning to the safety of his very nice flat in Rushford. ‘Um . . . poison. She poisoned him.’

‘I did not,’ shouted Francesca, very red in the face. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’

‘OK – not poison. Oh, I know. She shot him.’

‘I don’t have a gun, stupid.’

‘Kitchen knife. She stabbed him. Over and over.’ He mimed. ‘Like Psycho.’

‘I wish to God I had a knife right at this moment.’

‘Blunt instrument?’

‘Well done,’ said Russell. ‘You got there eventually.’

‘What sort of blunt instrument?’

‘You’ll never guess.’

‘Don’t start that again.’

‘OK – bottle of wine.’

‘Empty?’

‘Nope.’

Andrew twisted in his seat to look at her. ‘Franny, you idiot. You could have killed him.’

‘She did kill him, but that’s not the best bit,’ said Russell.

‘What’s the best bit?’

Russell grinned. ‘Three hundred pounds. Sterling.’

‘Sorry – not following you.’

‘The bottle of wine cost three hundred pounds.’

‘Sterling,’ said Thomas. Whom I began to suspect wasn’t taking any of this very seriously.

It takes a lot to rock Andrew but he was rocked now. ‘What the f . . . ?’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ shouted Francesca. She looked dreadful – her hair was plastered to her head, she was soaked to the skin and her shoes were caked in mud. She looked cold, miserable and, by now, thoroughly enraged. ‘Just shut up, the pair of you. And I didn’t kill him – he banged his head on the bottle. And now he’s gone off with our rug and he’ll tell everyone and the police will arrest me.’

‘Three hundred pounds?!’ said Andrew, also apparently unable to move past this point.

‘Sterling,’ said Thomas, Russell and I simultaneously.

Andrew isn’t anywhere near as bad as Russell, but they’re both Checklands, and this discussion could have gone on for hours but, probably fortunately, the wind hit us with an unexpected buffet. I staggered sideways. Russell grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

‘Now you’re here, Andrew, you can give us a hand.’

‘To do what?’

‘Find Christopher.’

‘Why? I thought he was dead.’

‘Sadly, he wasn’t as dead as Franny thought, and now he’s either been body snatched or he’s wandered off.’

‘How can you lose a body?’

‘She drove into the ditch. Christopher obviously decided he was better off out of it, rose from the dead and wandered off.’

‘I keep telling you – there was something in the road,’ shouted Francesca.

Andrew looked vaguely up and down the road.

‘As if it might still be here,’ murmured Thomas, shaking his head.

‘Christopher probably doesn’t know what he’s doing,’ continued Russell. ‘And he has a nasty head wound. And the weather’s a bit brisk. We’re looking for him. You can help.’

Andrew clutched the steering wheel as if he feared Russell was about to drag him from his vehicle.

‘There’s no way I’m getting out of this car. The weather’s awful, you’re all criminals, and there’s a deranged Christopher out there somewhere. Give me one good reason why I should get out of this car.’

‘It means Jenny can go home.’

I turned to him. ‘Russell . . . no . . . I have to stay.’

‘No, go home, Jenny. You can be our nerve centre. Stay by your phone in case we need help.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Franny.

‘You will not,’ said Russell. ‘This is your murder – your brother – your body – your car – your fault. Maybe you’ll be a bit more careful with the Châteauneuf-du-Pape in future.’

Andrew groaned. ‘Bloody hell, Franny. Hit him with the home brew next time, there’s a good girl.’

Francesca turned to face Russell. ‘I don’t see why we can’t leave him. He’s obviously not dead, so I don’t need to worry.’

‘He has a head injury and he’s out in all this weather.’

‘Someone will pick him up.’

‘Yes – that will be such a good thing for you. He can tell them his sister killed him with a bottle of wine then tried to dispose of the body by wrapping him in the world’s ugliest rug . . .’

‘It is, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have had it in the house but it’s a gift from Daniel’s wretched mother.’

‘Who probably was given it herself and saw you as an excellent opportunity for palming it off. To continue – Christopher can then describe how you dragged him outside in a hurricane, bundled him into your car, tried to kill him all over again by driving into a ditch—’

‘There was something in the road!’ shouted Francesca.

‘And then left him to die of exposure. At no point in this sorry tale do you come out looking good, Franny. This is not just a rescue. This is damage limitation.’

‘Well, surely then it would be best if he just died in the woods.’

We all looked at her.

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.’

Russell said quietly, ‘Go home, Jenny. Take the Rover. Andrew’s here now and we can use his. It’s used to having dead things in it.’

Andrew looked as though he would have liked to protest, but honesty prevented him.

‘Yes, Jenny,’ said Thomas. ‘Perhaps you should go home.’

I turned to Andrew. ‘Only if you’re willing to stay.’

‘There is no universe in which I’m willing to be involved in this lunacy, but I agree with Russell. You’ll be much better off back at Frogmorton, Jenny. And I suspect Christopher very probably flagged down a vehicle ages ago and is now safely in A&E having his wounds treated.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Francesca, ‘I suppose I can always deny everything. There’s nothing to connect me to his assault.’

‘There is if he’s still wrapped in Daniel’s mother’s butt-ugly rug,’ said Russell, and there was a silence – other than the wind and rain – while everyone thought about the implications.

Andrew sighed. ‘Shall we get started?’

Russell turned to me. ‘Jenny, take the Rover. And ring me when you get home.’

‘It’s . . . probably quicker for me just to cut across the fields on foot.’

‘Until a branch falls on you,’ said Russell.

‘Or the power lines come down and electrocute you,’ said Andrew.

‘Or the river washes you away,’ said Thomas.

I held up my hands. ‘All right – I’ll take the Rover.’

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. The wind was whipping the rain into my face and my extremities were frozen.

I handed Francesca my torch. Her need was greater than mine.

‘Does the heater work?’ said Thomas, as I scrambled into the Rover.

‘You’re a horse,’ I said, slamming the door. ‘You’re supposed to be weatherproof.’

‘My mane goes frizzy in the wet. Not a good look for a horse.’

I said, ‘Heaven forbid you should be subject to frizz,’ but the sudden thought of Frogmorton and a warm fire was very attractive.

I found a gear – any gear because I was past caring – and we drove off.

Thomas was inclined to be chatty. ‘I must say, Jenny, your driving is much improved.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you remember when we were escaping after Christopher kidnapped you?’

‘Vividly,’ I said. ‘I also remember that some of your helpful advice was not as helpful as you imagined it to be.’

‘And then we hit that police car.’

‘I remember.’

‘Right in front of the police station.’

‘Yes. I was there.’

‘And then you shunted the whole lot through that shop window. Their alarm bells were very loud, weren’t they?’

‘Yes. They were.’

‘How is Sgt Bates these days?’

‘Oddly enough, I don’t see so much of her when you’re not around.’

There was a pause while I negotiated a broken branch lying in the middle of the road. It was very possible that Francesca had seen something that caused her to drive into a ditch, after all.

‘Anyway, it’s lovely to see you again, Thomas. How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Do I gather you’re here to provide assistance and moral support?’

He hesitated slightly. ‘In a way, yes.’

‘Bet you never thought you’d end up searching for a corpse.’

‘Um . . . no. Although I’ve learned never to rule anything out if there are Checklands involved.’

‘So why are you . . . ?’

‘I couldn’t resist popping in. You’re looking very well.’

He wasn’t going to talk about the reason he was here. ‘What is this? Patient confidentiality?’

He snorted a laugh. ‘Mind that puddle.’

The rest of the journey home was quite difficult. There were deep puddles spreading across the road which had to be negotiated with great care because I wasn’t sure what they were concealing or how deep they were. And more torn-off branches and debris everywhere. And all the time the rain came streaming down the windscreen. The clunky wipers were doing their best but I could barely see a thing.

‘This is quite a storm,’ said Thomas.

‘I just want to be home. I can’t remember if I put the fire guard up.’

‘I’m sure you will have, Jenny. Careful – big puddle coming up.’

‘Oh God, it’s more like a small lake.’

I’ll say this for Russell’s Rover – it might be barely holding together these days but there isn’t much it can’t cope with. We splashed our way through and then I was able to turn off into our lane and things were a little easier. I pulled in through our gate, parking well away from the buildings just in case a chimney stack came down. Although it seemed unlikely that even a falling chimney would cause the Rover any problems, given everything Russell has thrown at it over the years.

We’d deliberately left all the lights on to guide us home and I can’t tell you how inviting Frogmorton looked with light streaming from every window and making golden patches around the yard.

I scrambled out. ‘Come on, Thomas. Let’s get inside.’

‘Yes indeed. I want to hear all your gossip. How is Mrs Balasana? And Jack the Sad Donkey?’

‘Not so sad these days, and—’ I stopped dead, catching my breath. ‘Thomas – look.’

Thomas looked. The back door was open. I don’t mean unlocked – although obviously it was – but actually ajar and moving slightly in the wind.

‘Could the wind have blown it open?’ he enquired, peering over my shoulder.

‘It could have done, I suppose.’

As I spoke, an extra strong gust moved the door again.

‘Who was the last out?’

‘Russell.’

‘Oh well – there you are then. It blew open because he forgot to lock it. Perfectly understandable with Francesca yammering away in his ear. She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?’

We stood on the threshold and peered inside. Our mudroom is never tidy but today it was living up to its name. The floor was wet and leaves had blown in. I stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind me. I could clean it all out tomorrow. And Russell would be back soon, no doubt bringing half of Rushfordshire in on his boots.

I looked down. That was a lot of water on the floor. Had someone got in while the door was unlocked? And then I watched the drops of water running down my waterproofs and pooling around me. Of course, there was no one here. The floor was wet because I was wet.

‘A cup of tea and some cake, I think,’ said Thomas, for whom this was a magical remedy for everything.

I kicked off my wellies, unzipped my jacket and spread it out to dry, along with my over-trousers. My sweatshirt was a bit wet around the wrists but nothing to worry about. I’d soon dry off in front of the fire.

The kitchen was just as we’d left it. I opened the oven door to investigate Russell’s beef and red wine creation.

‘Smells good,’ said Thomas.

I turned the oven right down because heaven only knew when they’d be back.

‘If they haven’t been washed away, of course,’ said Thomas cheerfully, checking the view out into the garden. It was very nearly dark now.

‘They’ll be back soon. Not least because they won’t be able to see a thing. Oh – I need to check on the fire.’

‘Don’t forget to ring Russell.’

Russell’s phone was still on voicemail and the fire was fine. The fireguard was in place and, as far as I could see, the cat hadn’t so much as moved either a paw or a whisker. We hadn’t actually been gone that long.

Thomas was investigating the bookcase. ‘Bet this isn’t how Russell saw his weekend going. Oh – you’ve got the new David Sands thriller. Is it any good?’

‘I don’t think anyone could have foretold this,’ I said, warming my hands over the glowing embers. ‘I just can’t believe they’re out there looking for a possible body . . .’

‘Really, Jenny, I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. I think Christopher was lightly stunned in an unfortunate accident and Francesca panicked. Yes, she should have called an ambulance, but they’ll be rushed off their feet with all this weather going on, and they might not have got to her for ages and then she’d have been alone with an enraged Christopher, and that might not have ended well. She did the right thing for the wrong reasons. Bundling him into the car, I mean.’

‘She was going to bury his body.’

‘Did you see a spade anywhere in her car?’

‘Oh. No, I didn’t. Not even in the boot. Is that why Russell got her to open it up? She really is a bit of a nitwit, isn’t she?’

‘And I doubt she was going to scrape a hole for him with her bare hands. Not with those nails.’

I sighed. ‘Again – nitwit.’

‘Yes, fortunately, for both of them. So – how are the children?’

‘My life is full of dinosaurs – do you know how many bones there are in a brachiosaurus’s neck?’

‘Twelve,’ he said absently. ‘Everyone knows that.’

I ignored this. ‘But Russell has two commissions lined up and the possibility of another exhibition at the end of next year.’

‘Interesting that you include him with the children.’

I threw a cushion at him, and he laughed.

Another gust of rain hitting the window reminded me it was time to shut out the night. I put my phone down on the table, placed another log on the fire and walked around the room, drawing the curtains. About to reach for the curtains across the French windows, I paused.

And stared.

‘What?’ said Thomas.

‘I . . . I think . . .’

Something wet and white and distorted pressed against the window and then was gone.

I stepped back in shock. ‘Did you see that?’

‘I did. Jenny, come over here and stand by me.’

I was very happy to go and stand by Thomas. We stood in the middle of the room, staring out through the French windows. The face did not reappear. Perhaps I’d imagined it. Perhaps it hadn’t been a face after all. The weather was pretty wild out there. Could it have been a carrier bag or something, whipped around by the wind and plastered, just for a second, to the window?

‘Do you have somewhere secure you can go? A room that locks?’

I shook my head. ‘No. After Jamie locked himself in the bathroom for the umpteenth time, Russell took the locks off. Now we all sing loudly as we splash.’

Thomas regarded me with some interest. ‘Do you all have individual bathing songs? For the purposes of identification?’

‘What?’

‘So that you know who’s in there.’

‘No. That’s usually pretty clear from the trail of clothes left along the landing.’ I suddenly remembered. ‘Thomas, I didn’t lock the back door. In case Russell came back.’

‘Quickly. Now. Lock it.’

I flew out through the kitchen and into the mudroom, arriving just as someone – or something – thumped hard on the back door. I stopped dead and stared at it, my heart pounding.

‘Thomas – it’s Christopher. I just know it.’

‘Steady, Jenny. You don’t know that.’

‘It must be. The accident was only just over the fields. It makes sense he would come here. He’d see the lights.’

I tried not to think of a vengeful Christopher standing outside in the dark. An injured and bloody, vengeful Christopher standing outside in the dark. Although possibly not standing out there for very much longer.

‘Lock that door. Quickly.’

Our back door is solid. The inner one to the kitchen is glazed but this one was solid wood. With bolts top and bottom. The key was in the lock because it always was. All I had to do was turn it. And possibly shoot the bolts as well – just to be on the safe side. There was no other way in. It takes three strong men to get our front door open.

All I had to do was . . .

But someone was out there, and if it was Christopher, then he was hurt. How could I . . . ?

Someone thumped again on the back door. Hard.

I didn’t scream but I leaped back. I couldn’t help it.

He was here. Just on the other side of the door. Probably less than twelve inches away. Lock it, you idiot.

But he was hurt . . . he could die . . .

But this was Christopher, who always meant me harm.

I reached out for the key. At the same moment, somewhere in the house, my phone began to ring. No time to think about that now.

The handle moved and the door began to open. I was too late.

‘Quick,’ said Thomas. ‘Come over here with me, Jenny.’

Our mudroom is full of stuff. Or ‘junk’, as Russell calls it. Umbrellas, walking sticks, footballs, coats, shoes, a couple of head collars, buckets – yes, the roof still leaks – a clothes horse, two stepladders – and Joy’s hockey stick.

I seized it. I hadn’t been very good at hockey at school – apparently, I lack the killer instinct so important for survival – but the moment my fingers curled around the stick, the old memories came flooding back. With this in my hand and Thomas at my side, I could withstand an army.

‘That’s the spirit, Jenny,’ said Thomas. ‘But let’s just back up a little, shall we? Give ourselves some room.’

My heart was thumping so hard my chest hurt. I tightened my grip and watched the door open. Slowly. Very slowly.

‘Well, that’s not creepy at all, is it?’ said Thomas, moving subtly into battle mode.

The outside lights had come on. Silhouetted against the darkness was the black figure of a man.

‘All that’s missing is the traditional flash of lightning and crash of thunder,’ said Thomas cheerfully.

I raised my hockey stick. Catch him unawares. One good blow. I felt a sudden kindred spirit with Francesca.

‘Hello? Is anyone home? Russell? Jenny?’

‘Daniel,’ I said in huge relief.

‘Jenny! Thank heavens you’re in.’ He paused. ‘Why are you hiding among the coats?’

‘Sorry – I didn’t know who you were.’

‘I’m so sorry. I never meant to frighten you.’

Daniel is such a sweetie. He’s Francesca’s long-suffering partner. I know they’ve been having a bit of a rough time recently, but I haven’t enquired as to the problem. Actually, we all knew exactly what – or should I say who – the problem was. Francesca can be . . . a little difficult sometimes.

Normally I’d be delighted to see him.

‘Especially as he’s not Christopher,’ said Thomas.

I smiled at him. ‘No, no, you . . . startled me, that’s all. It’s . . . fine. Everything is fine.’

‘That’s good. Um . . . could you put the hockey stick down?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to stuff the hockey stick behind Russell’s old duffle coat.

A sudden gust of wind threatened to wrench the door from his grasp.

Back inside the house, my phone began to ring again, faintly.

‘Daniel, I’m sorry, please come in. What are you . . . doing out in all this . . . weather? Why are you here?’

He was pulling off his wet coat. ‘I was on my way home when I saw Francesca’s car in a ditch. Do you know anything about that? Is she all right? Is she here?’

He hadn’t been home. He wouldn’t have seen that the rug was missing.

‘Or the bloodstains,’ said Thomas helpfully.

‘Could we not talk about the bloodstains right now, please.’

Daniel said again, ‘Jenny?’

‘Oh – yes, she’s . . . not hurt at all. She came here. Russell and Andrew are . . . with her now. Helping.’

‘Don’t mention they’re helping her conceal the body of her brother whom she murdered on Daniel’s mother’s butt-ugly rug,’ muttered Thomas, very unhelpfully.

‘I don’t think there’s . . . much they can do in this weather, so they’ll just . . . drive her home. She’s probably there now.’

There was a somehow quite difficult pause. ‘She rang Russell for help?’

‘Careful,’ warned Thomas. I nodded. Daniel and Russell don’t like each other very much.

‘Well, she wasn’t far away from us so . . . you know. Perhaps she tried you and couldn’t get through.’

He pulled out his phone and checked. ‘No, nothing.’

‘Well . . .’ I honestly couldn’t think of a good reason why she wouldn’t have called him.

‘About the only sensible thing she did do,’ said Thomas severely. ‘Let’s face it, Jenny, if you were up to something dodgy, would you choose Russell or Daniel?’

Daniel was still focused on Francesca’s odd behaviour. ‘I don’t understand why she would be out in all this, anyway. It was . . . We were going to have a special dinner.’

‘Oops,’ said Thomas. ‘And instead of that, she’s careering around the countryside with an ex-boyfriend and a corpse. And a vet. Are we going to stand in this cold mudroom all night? You have social responsibilities, Jenny.’

Thus reminded, I stepped back. ‘Daniel, come in. I’ll phone . . . Russell while you warm yourself by the fire. Find out . . . what’s happening.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you, Jenny. Thank you. I’m sorry to intrude on such a wild night.’

‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ I said, taking him through the kitchen to our sitting room. ‘Such a storm.’

‘Christopher,’ he said suddenly.

I walked straight into the table. ‘What? Where?’

‘What?’

‘Pull yourself together,’ said Thomas.

‘Sorry, Daniel. You said Christopher and it . . . well, you know . . . He . . . I . . .’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Jenny. I forgot. No, I meant the storm. They’re calling it Storm Christopher.’

I managed a weak laugh. ‘Well, that’s very appropriate, isn’t it?’

He said casually, ‘Have you heard from him at all?’

‘Absolutely . . . not,’ I said, pleased to be able to tell the truth about this at least. And then decided to go on the attack. ‘Should I have?’

‘Well, Francesca had a message from him the other day.’

‘What did he want?’

‘We never found out. I advised her to make it very clear she wanted nothing to do with him and she did.’

‘Well, that worked, didn’t it?’ muttered Thomas.

‘Would you like some tea, Daniel?’

‘That would be very nice, thank you. But could you ring Russell first? I’m rather concerned about . . .’

‘Yes, of course. Stupid of me.’

‘Jenny . . .’ said Thomas quietly.

‘I’ll just go and pop the kettle on and then . . .’

I think I was hoping Russell had abandoned the search and would miraculously appear – with or without Francesca – and everyone would just go away and Russell and I could get back to . . .

‘Jenny,’ said Thomas quietly.

‘Come to the fire, Daniel, and I’ll ring Russell.’

‘Jenny,’ said Thomas quietly. ‘Your phone’s gone.’

I turned slowly. He was right. My phone had gone. I stared at the phoneless table, all sorts of thoughts running through my head. Had I actually put it here? On this table? Perhaps I’d put it on the kitchen table as I walked through. No, Thomas was right. I distinctly remembered putting it down on this table. Next to my laptop and the pile of this month’s unpaid bills. Right . . . there.

As if in confirmation, a tiny drop of water occupied the space my phone had once occupied.

Somehow, while I’d been in the mudroom talking to Daniel, my phone had disappeared.

I felt myself chill.

‘Did you knock it off?’ said Thomas quietly. ‘When you walked into the table? Did you perhaps knock it on to the floor?’

I bent and looked.

‘No.’

‘Jenny?’ said Daniel. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just trying to remember where I put my phone.’

And then a board creaked loudly overhead.

We both looked up.

‘It’s nothing,’ I said quickly. If I could just persuade Daniel that Russell had driven Francesca home, then he’d leave immediately. It would be perfectly normal for me to walk with him to his car and then I could jump into the Land Rover and either hide or flee for my life, depending on the circumstances prevailing at the time. I swallowed. ‘It’s an old house and there’s a lot of weather out there.’

Thomas said nothing – in itself an unusual event.

And then, with shocking suddenness, the lights went out and everything went dark.

The power lines had gone down.

It wasn’t pitch-black, of course. The fire gave out a reasonable light. I could see the end of the sofa, the shape of an armchair, the rain-speckled black space that was the French windows because I still hadn’t pulled the curtains. I could find my way around.

And then, overhead – another noise. Exactly the sort of noise made by someone walking into a chair in the dark and it scraping across the floorboards.

Daniel caught hold of my arm. ‘Jenny . . .’

‘Torch,’ said Thomas.

‘Russell took them all. But there’s a torch on my phone.’

But my phone wasn’t here.

My hand wasn’t quite steady as I reached out for the house phone.

‘The lines are down,’ whispered Thomas. ‘Remember?’

I whispered, ‘Why are you whispering?’

He whispered back, ‘I don’t know.’

Daniel had pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll try Francesca again.’

He listened. ‘Voicemail.’

‘Well, she does have a few things on her mind at the moment,’ said Thomas mildly. ‘I think we should cut her some slack.’

Another board creaked overhead. Further away. If there was someone upstairs – and I was very afraid there was, and I knew who it would be – they were moving away from the stairs. Which was good because our stairs were only at the other end of the sitting room.

Daniel held out the phone, his face lit by the glow. ‘Jenny, use my phone. See if you can get Russell.’

My call also went straight to voicemail.

‘Because he still hasn’t switched it off since Francesca rang,’ said Thomas, sighing.

Daniel took his phone back. ‘I’m going to call the police again.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. I think there’s someone upstairs.’

‘No, I don’t think so. It’s an old house and . . .’

My phone began to ring again. From upstairs. We froze. All of us. Even Thomas. No one moved. I whispered to Daniel, ‘Is that you ringing me?’

He whispered back, ‘No.’

My phone rang and rang and rang. Like idiots, we stood and listened until it stopped.

I hadn’t been upstairs since Thomas and I got back to the house. There was only one way my phone could have got upstairs. Someone had taken it. And now they were upstairs. And we were in the dark.

Daniel caught hold of my arm again and began to pull me back towards the kitchen. ‘There is someone upstairs, Jenny. It’s Christopher. It has to be. He couldn’t get to Francesca so now he’s come here.’

That, sadly, seemed all too likely.

I edged towards the stairs. ‘I’m . . . going to look.’

He pulled me back. ‘No, you’re not. And before you ask – neither am I. We’ll go outside, lock the back door and shut ourselves in my car. Now, Jenny.’

All very sensible suggestions. Such a shame we never got to implement any of them.

We were easing our way through the dark kitchen when the mudroom was suddenly filled with headlights.

I looked at Daniel. ‘Did you say you’d called the police?’

‘I did, but they couldn’t possibly have got here that fast.’

‘Perhaps Russell called the police,’ said Thomas. ‘He might have panicked when you didn’t answer your phone.’

‘I don’t think so, Thomas – again, they couldn’t possibly have got here that fast.’

‘Well, somebody must have.’

I could hear car doors slamming. And then, thank God, Russell’s voice. And Francesca’s. They were arguing about something. Andrew joined in.

Thank God. The cavalry – such as it was – had arrived.

Sadly, Daniel was still preoccupied with our possible intruder.

‘Jenny, I’m going to—’

‘No, Daniel, I’m sure there’s no need for that. Russell’s back now.’

‘I’m convinced you have an intruder upstairs.’

No, I had an injured Christopher upstairs, who would happily grass us all up without a second thought. And enjoy doing it.

‘Daniel . . .’

Too late. Daniel was pulling out his phone. ‘Twice in one night,’ he said, and then, thank God, the back door crashed open, blowing in three very wet and bedraggled people.

‘Oh look,’ said Thomas, in delight. ‘Storm Christopher has been replaced with Hurricane Russell.’

Torch beams criss-crossed the mudroom. As did the simultaneous questions.

‘Jenny, you’re here?’

‘Of course, Russell – where else would I be?’

‘Daniel – is that you?’

‘Francesca – why are you here?’

‘Daniel – what are you . . . ?’

‘Russell – I think there’s someone . . .’

‘Jenny – are you all right?’

There was a pause while everyone replayed questions and answers in their own heads to see if any were still outstanding.

Russell was struggling one-handed with the zip on his waterproof. ‘Jenny, why didn’t you answer your phone?’

‘It’s upstairs,’ I said, trying silently to convey the message that so was Christopher. And now we had Christopher’s attempted murderer here as well, together with Christopher’s attempted murderer’s partner.

Daniel went straight to the point. ‘Russell, we think there might be—’

‘I’ve called the police,’ said Russell, to the amazement of all.

‘And so have I,’ said Daniel, obviously determined not to be outdone.

Russell paused in his flailings. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Because I saw Francesca’s car in a ditch, and now, I think there’s—’

‘Oh Daniel, you didn’t need to do that,’ said Francesca, with a much too bright smile. ‘Can you ring them and cancel?’

‘They’re not room service,’ said Russell, still struggling with his waterproofs. ‘So probably not.’

She turned to Daniel. ‘As you can see, I’m absolutely fine.’

‘Good,’ said Daniel, displaying a lack of attention to Franny’s well-being that was going to get him into some very serious trouble in the near future. ‘Russell, I think there’s someone up—’

I’ve never been able to decide whether it was fortunate or not that, at that moment, the lights flickered and came back on. Which you’d think would be a good thing but wasn’t. Russell’s appearance had not solved all my problems. Because something quite unnerving was happening . . .

Unable to take my eyes off him, I said, ‘Russell, your jacket’s . . . moving. By itself.’

He looked down. ‘Oh yes, I have something to tell you, Jenny.’

I closed my eyes because sometimes you just do. ‘What do you . . . mean – something to tell me?’

‘Well, you know how we’ve been saying for ages that we should have a dog?’

‘No, I’m certain we’ve . . . never said anything about having a dog. Ever. I would have . . . remembered and so would you because of the . . . force and rapidity with which I . . . would have said no.’

‘Yes, but the thing is, Jenny . . .’

He wrestled again with the zip on his waterproof. ‘The thing is . . .’

‘Yes?’ I said, slightly tetchy because until a minute ago I’d been scared out of my wits. And still was. And he’d done something he knew I wasn’t going to like. ‘What is the thing, Russell?’

‘This.’

He pulled down his zip at last. A purple rat peered out. Anxious eyes surveyed a hostile world.

Even Thomas took a step backwards.

‘This is all your fault,’ I said to him.

‘My fault?’

‘You made me marry this lunatic. I was perfectly happy living in my attic, never going anywhere, never seeing a soul, never being frightened out of my wits, and certainly never being menaced by a purple rat.’

‘Well no, but . . .’

Abandoning all our other crises, I focused on Russell and this particular . . . event.

‘What is it? It’s . . . not a ferret, is it?’

The ferret yawned. There was a great gust of dreadful breath.

‘We found her tied to a tree,’ said Russell. ‘In all this weather, and . . .’

‘And Russell insisted on bringing it back with us,’ finished Francesca. She fanned the air in front of her. ‘And it stinks.’

‘Worms,’ said Andrew laconically, pulling off his own coat. ‘On top of everything else.’

I had to ask. ‘What everything else?’

Russell pulled his jacket aside to reveal a little dachshund-ish type of dog. Not in fact a ferret. And it was purple all over.

‘It’s a purple dog,’ said Daniel, peering at it but not getting too close.

‘Well, at least he’s stopped banging on about intruders,’ said Thomas. ‘This is a good thing, Jenny.’

I have frequently discovered that Thomas’s idea of a good thing is not always my idea of a good thing.

‘No,’ said Russell. ‘Sadly, she’s been painted that way.’

I was horrified. ‘Who paints a little dog purple?’

Russell grinned. ‘Says the woman who painted our chicken coop blue, green, orange . . .’

‘It’s not mange medicine, is it?’ I said, resisting a sudden urge to scratch.

‘No – it’s emulsion paint,’ said Andrew. ‘Not to worry.’

I stared at him. ‘I . . . don’t understand your meaning of the . . . word . . . “worry” when used in this context.’

‘Why?’ said Daniel, still staring at the dog.

Andrew shrugged. ‘Some idiot wanted a purple dog. To match a colour scheme, perhaps. Or a particular outfit.’ He shook his head. ‘Sadly, not the worst thing I’ve seen done to a helpless animal, I’m afraid.’

The little . . . animal . . . was small, shivering and very smelly.

‘Don’t forget purple,’ said Thomas. ‘I must say I love it here. You just never know what will happen next.’

‘We’ll sort it all out tomorrow,’ said Russell, patting me in a way he obviously thought I would find reassuring. ‘Not to worry, Jenny. We’ll get her cleaned up, feed and water her, and then she can sleep in the stables. It’s quite warm in there.’

I looked at the tiny, terrified dog and knew exactly where she’d be sleeping this evening. And in the future. I remembered someone once saying, ‘That’s the thing with Russell Checkland – once he rescues you, you stay rescued for ever.’

I love my husband very much.

On the other hand – my brain suddenly caught up with my ears. ‘Russell, did you say you’d rung the police?’

The dog thrust her head into his armpit, apparently believing if she couldn’t see us then we couldn’t see her.

‘You weren’t answering your phone, Jenny. I was worried you’d had an accident or been hurt in the storm and were lying somewhere in the wind and rain, bleeding to death.’

‘No, I’m fine. I’ve just been a bit . . . busy.’ I turned to Daniel. ‘Well, it’s been lovely to see you both again, but you and Francesca will be wanting to be safe at home.’

‘Yes. Franny looks as if she’s been blown through a hedge backwards. Several times,’ said Mr Tactful.

‘Very funny,’ said Francesca.

‘Are you hurt at all?’ enquired Daniel. ‘I was so worried when I saw your car and . . .’

‘Oh, yes. I couldn’t see properly and there was something in the road . . .’

‘Whatever were you doing out in this weather?’

‘I . . . um . . . I . . .’

Russell folded his arms as best he could, given the small dog living in his armpit, and regarded her. ‘Yes, Franny – we were so busy coming to your rescue, I forgot to ask. What were you doing out in all this weather?’

‘Well . . . obviously . . . I . . . um . . .’ Inspiration hit. ‘I was coming here, wasn’t I?’

Thomas snorted. ‘That’s the thing about Francesca. She never hesitates to redirect the shit before it hits her particular fan, does she?’

‘Were you?’ said Daniel, obviously mystified.

‘He’s not the only one,’ said Thomas.

‘Why were you coming here?’ said Daniel.

‘Yes, Franny,’ said Russell, grinning in a particularly irritating manner. Good job there weren’t any bottles of wine handy. ‘Why were you coming here?’

She stared for a second and then suddenly said, ‘Corkscrew.’

‘What?’

‘I needed one. Couldn’t find ours.’

‘I’ll get one for you,’ I said, thrusting purple dogs to the back of my mind and trying to hurry things along a little.

I shot into the kitchen, wrenched open a drawer and rummaged. I knew we had one somewhere. Actually, we had five or six somewhere. As usual, I couldn’t find any of them and time was ticking on.

Thomas, for some reason, was peering down at the floor.

‘Jenny, I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s blood on the floor. It’s sticky. Been here a while.’

Russell and Andrew appeared in the doorway. ‘Jenny, what’s wrong?’

I whispered, ‘Russell, I couldn’t say anything in front of Daniel, but I think Christopher is upstairs.’

Russell lowered his own voice. ‘How would he have got in?’

‘The back door was open when I got back. I suspect he found his way here after Francesca’s accident and let himself in. I think he was upstairs when I arrived.’

‘Why wouldn’t he come down?’

‘He heard Daniel’s voice, perhaps. If he had attacked Francesca, he might have thought Daniel had come looking for him.’

‘Good point, Jenny. Stay here in the kitchen. I’ll go upstairs and have a look. Andrew?’

‘Right behind you, mate.’

‘Too late,’ I said, looking over their shoulders.

Because suddenly our yard was full of flashing blue lights.

‘Wow! Things are really hotting up now,’ said Thomas, obviously thrilled at this new development. ‘Do you think it will be Sgt Bates again? I’m certain she really likes coming here. I think she regards us as a challenge.’

‘I think she regards us as a cross between a public nuisance and a bunch of certifiable nutters.’

I watched through the window. Yes, the outdoor lights clearly revealed Sgt Bates. Even bulkier than usual in her heavy weather gear. She climbed out of the car and took a minute to look around the yard.

‘She’ll be checking the livestock is all safely restrained,’ said Thomas. ‘Do you remember when Marilyn tried to eat her body camera?’

I opened the back door and we watched her cross the yard through the pelting rain.

‘Good evening, Sergeant,’ said Russell. ‘Come in.’

‘Well, we’ll be off, then,’ said Francesca, still just a shade too brightly, tugging at Daniel’s arm.

He looked down at her, puzzled. Then across to Russell, still nursing a purple dog. Then at me. I put my finger to my lips.

Sgt Bates closed the door behind her and actually came close to reeling backwards. ‘Good God, what is that?’

‘Well, that’s not very polite,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s not as if she hasn’t seen Russell before.’

‘It’s a dog,’ said Russell helpfully.

She peered at it. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Shall we all . . . go through into the warm?’ I said in a vain effort to . . . I don’t know . . . postpone the inevitable, I suppose. ‘And I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘In a moment for the tea, Mrs Checkland, if you don’t mind. But yes to moving into the warm.’

I took her dripping waterproof, hung it with all the others, and we shuffled through into the sitting room.

I sat at the table. Daniel and Francesca sat together on the sofa, which I thought was a hopeful sign. Andrew sat in the armchair and Russell perched on the arm. The little dog was now so far into Russell’s armpit that only her purple backside was visible. Sgt Bates had the second armchair to herself and the cat continued in prime position in front of the fire.

Sgt Bates pulled out her notebook.

‘It’s not often we receive three separate calls from three separate sources to the same location. Then we discover it’s the Checkland residence and suddenly the mystery is no longer a mystery.’ She looked slowly around the room. ‘So, starting from the beginning, keeping to the point, not digressing in any way and in short, coherent sentences, with only one person speaking at a time – what’s going on here?’

Everyone looked at Russell.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘Jenny and I were just settling down to a . . . a quiet evening together.’

‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’ grinned Andrew. ‘Settling down?’

‘Exactly,’ said Russell with a look that promised vengeance later on. ‘And then Ms Kingdom telephoned for help. Because her car was in a ditch.’

He shifted his position to accommodate more purple dog bottom.

Sgt Bates frowned. ‘Why?’

Russell leaned towards her, whispering confidentially, ‘Because she’s a terrible driver.’

‘I am not,’ shouted Francesca indignantly. ‘I couldn’t see properly. The weather was awful. There was something in the road. I swerved around it. Then there was a big bump and the front sort of disappeared down into a ditch. I couldn’t get it out, so I rang Russell and he came to help.’

Daniel looked over at her. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

‘Russell was closer.’

‘I don’t think . . .’

‘And I didn’t know where you were, Daniel. You could have been miles away.’

‘But . . .’

Presumably hoping to head off a probable argument as to the suitability of Russell as anyone’s go-to person in a crisis, Sgt Bates intervened. ‘You drove into a ditch?’

Francesca tossed her head. ‘Well, not deliberately.’

‘And what happened next?’

‘I don’t know. The world was a bit funny for a moment and I wasn’t quite sure what was happening.’

‘Nothing new there,’ murmured Thomas.

‘Did you lose consciousness?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think I was just a little bit shaken.’

‘How long did that last?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And then?’

‘I tried to get the car out of the ditch.’

Sgt Bates blinked. ‘How?’

‘Well, I just sort of revved the engine a bit.’

‘And?’

‘There was quite a lot of smoke, but nothing happened, so I climbed out and telephoned for help.’

‘You telephoned Mr Checkland?’

‘Yes,’ she said helpfully. ‘Russell, not Andrew.’

‘So, you confirm that’s your car I saw in the ditch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you report it to the police?’

‘Um. No.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I thought you might be busy. You know – big storm. Floods. That sort of thing. And I thought Russell would get it out.’ She cast Russell a look of searing reproach. ‘Only he didn’t. And then he went off and got a dog.’

Russell was indignant. ‘Fair’s fair, Franny, that wasn’t so much a ditch as Cheddar Gorge’s younger brother.’ He turned to Sgt Bates, saying brightly, ‘Personally I think you’re going to need a military chopper to airlift it out. And I could hear a dog howling, so I went to investigate. She was tied to a tree. The dog – not Franny. Only she’d panicked and wound the cord around the trunk and was nearly strangling herself. So, I cut her free and brought her home. And Franny as well, of course.’

Sgt Bates stared at him for a moment and then turned to Daniel. ‘And you, Mr Palmer?’

‘Is it normal that she knows all of you by name?’ enquired Thomas.

‘On my way home,’ said Daniel shortly. ‘Saw my wife’s car in a ditch. No sign of anyone with the vehicle so I rang 101 to report it. This is the nearest house. Came to see if she was here.’

‘And I am,’ said Francesca happily, obviously considering the matter closed now she was safely past the tricky bit.

Daniel cast another look at the ceiling. ‘Sergeant, I think I should tell you—’

‘Can we go home now?’ interrupted Francesca. ‘I’m very cold and wet.’

I caught Russell’s eye. So, Daniel hadn’t been home yet. Hadn’t noticed the missing rug or – and that was a point – what had Francesca done with the wine bottle? Given that this was Francesca, there was every chance she’d left it standing proudly on the mantelpiece, large as life, and smothered in Christopher’s blood and her fingerprints.

Sgt Bates was pressing on. ‘Mr Checkland?’

Russell opened his mouth.

Without even looking up from her notebook, she said, ‘The other Mr Checkland.’

‘Do you know, I think she’s quite fond of us,’ murmured Thomas. ‘I think we bring colour and variety and excitement to her working day. Police officers love colour and variety and excitement, you know.’

Andrew was being very nice and normal. ‘I was on my way home after delivering triplets to Mrs Anstey’s Jack Russell and I recognised Ms Kingdom’s car and Russell’s Rover. There had obviously been some sort of accident and I stopped to help.’

Russell was frowning in recollection. ‘Three calls?’

Sgt Bates flipped through her notebook. ‘That is correct. One from Mr Palmer approximately fifteen minutes ago. One from you approximately twenty minutes ago.’ She paused for her big moment. ‘And one from a Christopher Kingdom approximately forty-five minutes ago. He gave this address.’

Everyone stared at everyone else in not very well simulated astonishment. Except for Daniel, who opened his mouth again but wasn’t given the opportunity to speak. You have to be a lot faster than that in this house.

‘Given our history, that doesn’t seem very likely,’ said Russell quickly. ‘Could there possibly be some mistake?’

‘No,’ she said shortly.

‘Well,’ said Francesca unwisely. ‘There must be. None of us have seen Christopher for years and years. And he wouldn’t ever come here. Why would he? Your system is wrong. Christopher definitely isn’t here.’

It was just at that precise moment – because the universe has a very sick sense of humour – that the wind rose to an almighty shriek, hurling itself against the windows, and at the same time, we heard a kind of explosion from upstairs, followed by the sound of shattering glass, followed by an enormous crash which shook the whole house, followed by a horrible scream of pain and fear. There was a sudden, huge, cold draught of wind. The fire roared and yellow flames flared up the chimney. The curtains flapped. A door slammed somewhere. Francesca screamed, ‘Oh my God, the roof’s blown off,’ and clutched at Daniel. The cat woke up.

Russell thrust the dog at Andrew and leaped to his feet. ‘My studio.’

Andrew dropped the dog on to the floor where she immediately tried to burrow under a rug.

‘Do you think she’s agoraphobic?’ enquired Thomas.

Daniel too was on his feet. ‘There’s someone upstairs,’ he gabbled. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m certain there’s someone upstairs.’

Sgt Bates was already heading for the stairs. ‘Everyone wait here.’

She might as well have spared her breath. There was a general stampede in the same direction. Even Francesca was on her feet.

‘To silence Christopher before he can give evidence against her, perhaps,’ suggested Thomas. ‘You might want to make sure there are no blunt instruments handy, Jenny.’

It wasn’t Russell’s studio. The crash had come from the spare bedroom next to it. Russell switched on the light and everyone clustered in the doorway to stare at the devastation.

Such was the strength of the wind that the windows had been blown in. The outer frame was intact, but the actual windows themselves had gone. There was splintered wood and shattered glass everywhere. All over the floor, the bed, the dressing table, the armchair in the corner, everywhere. So much glass. And so many apples. Scores of apples had rolled across the floor. The wind howled through the surprisingly large hole in the wall, bringing great sheets of rain with it. Already the floor was soaked. The outside was pitch-black. The curtains were still hanging from their pole but streaming and flapping in the gale. Worse, the rickety old wardrobe which had been standing across the corner had come down as well – that must have been the crash we heard. One of its legs had broken long ago and it had always been unstable. Neither Joy nor Jamie were really allowed in here in case they brought it down on top of themselves. We hadn’t got rid of it because it was useful for storing apples in and, frankly, we couldn’t work out how to get it downstairs. Not without half a dozen hernias anyway.

Worst of all, there was someone underneath it. We could see a hand. Christopher’s. It had to be. The only good news was that the hand was moving.

Sgt Bates gestured at Russell, Andrew and Daniel. She had to raise her voice above the noise of the storm that had been outside and was now happening inside our second spare bedroom as well.

‘You three lift the wardrobe – I’ll drag him out. Careful. Glass.’

Kicking apples out of the way, they gingerly crunched their way across the floor. The sound of the storm was everywhere. Rain was gusting in through the window and Daniel became momentarily entangled in the billowing curtains.

‘It’s heavy,’ warned Russell. ‘Solid oak.’

‘It’s bloody huge,’ shouted Andrew. ‘How the hell did they ever get it up the stairs?’

‘No idea. They probably built the house around it. Don’t try and lift it. We’ll tilt it. Everyone ready? Sergeant?’

‘When you are.’ She crouched by the hand.

‘On three,’ said Russell. ‘One, two, three.’

Andrew and Russell heaved and, with a lot of grunting, slowly raised one end. Daniel got his shoulder underneath it. They changed their grip and managed to raise it even higher.

Her body was blocking my view, but I saw Sgt Bates crouch, grab hold of something and tug. Something moved slightly. But only very slightly.

I pushed past Francesca and went to see. I caught a quick glimpse of a dark sodden mass. I couldn’t see another arm.

‘Grab his collar,’ shouted Sgt Bates.

I did as I was told.

‘Jerk and pull.’

‘Hurry up,’ shouted Russell. ‘This thing weighs a ton.’

I grabbed the collar as instructed.

‘Now!’ she shouted. I jerked and then pulled. With a sound of crunching glass and wood, we pulled him out.

Someone joined me. Francesca. Christopher’s other arm was visible now and she caught hold of his wrist. She had a better purchase than me, so I let go and stepped back out of the way.

‘Out on to the landing,’ shouted Sgt Bates.

I grabbed his legs and somehow the three of us manhandled him through the door.

Another crash told me they’d let the wardrobe go. Russell slammed the door on the storm, and then we were all on the landing, wet, windblown, and getting our breath back.

Sgt Bates turned him over. It was Christopher. Of course it was. I assumed he was conscious because his eyes were open.

‘I wonder whether he’s aware of what’s happening,’ said Thomas, peering over my shoulder. ‘First Francesca tries to kill him – twice, if you count the car in the ditch – and then your wardrobe has a go at him. He’s really not having a good day, is he?’

‘Mr Kingdom, can you hear me?’

Christopher stared up at her.

‘Like a wet rabbit in car headlights,’ said Thomas.

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, slowly and thickly. ‘I can hear you.’

‘Can you get up?’

‘Yes.’

‘No broken bones?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Let’s try and get you downstairs into the warm, then.’

Russell and Andrew helped him down the stairs. Daniel helped Francesca. I resisted the urge to shut myself in a darkened room somewhere.

Christopher looked terrible. Sodden, white, and with an enormous lump over his left eye with a small but deep cut in the centre. The bruise had come up beautifully.

Andrew guided him to an armchair. ‘You look like shit, mate. You’d better sit down.’

Christopher sat with a bump. Andrew peered professionally at his wound. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Did you lose consciousness at all?’

There was a long pause before he said vaguely, ‘Not sure. But I was sick in the bathroom.’

‘Did you bang your head when the wardrobe came down?’

‘Um . . . don’t remember.’ His eyes flickered to Francesca. ‘Must have.’

‘Not likely,’ said Sgt Bates, squashing Andrew’s valiant attempt to muddy the waters. ‘That bruise is several hours old.’

Andrew was still doing medical things with Christopher’s pulse. ‘Going to throw up again?’

‘No – feel fine now. Aghh!’ He gave a small yelp as the cat, rudely awakened by all the noise, opened her eyes, blinked once or twice and then suddenly jumped on to his lap, kneading him into a more comfortable shape. Christopher stared at her as if he’d never seen a cat before.

‘You should sit quietly for a moment.’ Andrew looked at Sgt Bates. ‘Just give him a minute.’

She nodded. She could wait. It was her favourite tactic. Let the suspects talk among themselves, wait for someone to say the wrong thing, the inevitable argument to commence, and then pounce. Turning to Russell, she said, ‘So where, if anywhere, does Mr Kingdom fit into all this?’

Russell, meanwhile, had retrieved the purple dog, who immediately took up position in his armpit again. He shrugged in what looked like genuine bewilderment. ‘No idea. Haven’t seen him for years. None of us have. And then, hey presto – wardrobe – Christopher. Like Narnia.’

‘And yet, Mr Checkland, here he is.’

‘Yes,’ said Russell, staring across the room at Christopher. ‘A complete mystery.’

Everyone nodded. Except for Christopher who, somewhat gingerly, was stroking the cat. She began to purr. He snatched his hand away.

‘So,’ said Sgt Bates, turning to yet another page in her notebook. ‘These three telephone calls. One of them, Mr Checkland, from you.’

Russell nodded. ‘Jenny went home. She was being blown about all over the place.’

Sgt Bates looked at me for verification. I nodded. If everyone wanted to assume I was too upset to speak that was fine by me.

‘She was to ring me when she got home,’ said Russell. He looked at me severely. ‘But she didn’t.’

‘Yes, I did,’ I said indignantly. ‘It went to voicemail.’

‘Oh,’ said Russell. ‘OK then, you did. Anyway, when Jenny didn’t answer, I was worried. I called 101 to see if she’d had an accident that someone might have reported, and then came straight back here to look for her.’

‘And you, Mr Palmer. You also placed a call.’

‘As I said, I saw Ms Kingdom’s car in a ditch and no sign of her anywhere. Of course I was alarmed. I rang to report it.’

‘Ms Kingdom wasn’t with the car?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you, Ms Kingdom?’

‘Crashing around the landscape looking for the body of the man she’d walloped with an expensive bottle of wine is the answer to that one,’ said Thomas. ‘I wonder what she’ll say.’

Francesca contrived to look modest. ‘Well, I . . . um . . . at one point I had to nip into the bushes. You know.’

‘She’d had a bit of a shock,’ said Russell quickly, still trying to persuade the purple dog to return to the real world.

‘I see.’ She turned suddenly. ‘Mrs Checkland?’

‘Yes?’ I said, startled.

‘You went out with your husband and Ms Kingdom?’

‘Yes.’

‘To Ms Kingdom’s car.’

‘Yes.’

‘For what purpose? You surely weren’t to assist with this supposed car retrieval operation?’

I had a moment’s panic over the ‘supposed’, but I had my very good reason all ready.

‘I was the . . . designated driver,’ I said. ‘Russell had been drinking.’

Russell, who had managed to extricate the dog from his armpit again, beamed at Sgt Bates in exactly the manner of one who had indeed happily spent the afternoon drinking. And acquiring a purple dog. ‘Celebrating the departure of our children,’ he said.

‘Indeed?’

‘School trip,’ I said quickly, before she thought we’d sold them on the black market.

‘Can’t you tell?’ said Andrew. ‘No dinosaur debates or teenage tantrums. Just peace and tranquillity chez Checkland.’

The wind rose to a howl and rattled the windows. The purple dog whimpered. Christopher continued gently to bleed.

Sgt Bates turned back to me. ‘You came straight back here – to Frogmorton?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

I hesitated.

‘Tell the truth, Jenny. Just trust me.’

‘When I arrived . . . back at the house, I checked the fire and . . . turned down the oven. And then . . . Daniel arrived – very anxious because he was . . . looking for Francesca. Then Russell . . . turned up with Francesca and Andrew. And a purple dog. Then you arrived.’ I paused and then, in the tones of one utterly bewildered, said, ‘And then Christopher.’

‘Yes, Mr Kingdom. What was your purpose in coming here?’

Her tone had changed. Not quite so friendly. Was Christopher on probation still? If I said he’d entered the house without permission and gone upstairs, he could be in a lot of trouble. And I’d been here on my own, and Christopher and I had history.

I said suddenly, ‘Christopher, I’m . . . so sorry. I had no idea you were in the house. And certainly . . . not that you’d been hurt . . . somehow in this dreadful storm. If I’d known, then I’d have . . . called for an ambulance straight away or driven you to hospital . . . myself. Did you . . . Were you looking for me upstairs?’ I turned to Sgt Bates. ‘We left the door unlocked and all the lights on and he must have thought someone was home. I feel very bad about . . . not realising he was here.’

Christopher opened his mouth, but Sgt Bates got there first.

‘Yes, what were you doing before you came here, Mr Kingdom? How exactly did you incur the wound to your head?’

Other than the crackling fire, the room was silent. Everyone looked at Christopher. Francesca looked as though she was about to faint. Daniel put his hand on hers.

Sgt Bates wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Mr Kingdom?’

I tensed. What would Christopher say?

As it happened, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t get the chance.

Someone knocked at our front door. Nobody ever knocks at our front door.

Once again, everyone looked at everyone else.

‘Who would knock at our front door?’ wondered Russell. ‘Everyone knows it doesn’t work properly.’

‘Or even at all,’ murmured Thomas.

They knocked again.

‘Well, someone answer it,’ said Sgt Bates, possibly quite irritated at our inaction.

Russell sighed, got up and went out. We could hear him shouting, ‘It doesn’t work. Go round the back.’

‘Jenny . . .’ said Thomas quietly.

I looked up at him. He was looking unusually grave. Something had changed. ‘Thomas, what is happening? What are you up to?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. No one seems to have picked up on it, but Francesca keeps saying she saw something in the road and I think she’s telling the truth. It was you, wasn’t it? Standing in the road. She swerved to miss you and ended up in the ditch.’

He closed his eyes and shuddered. ‘She missed me by inches, Jenny. I honestly thought my time had come.’

‘Why?’

‘I told you. I thought she was going to hit me.’

‘No, I mean why were you standing in the middle of the road?’

He said nothing.

I looked at him. ‘You’re not here for me, are you?’

I could feel his warm breath in my hair. ‘Not this time, Jenny.’

‘Are you here for . . . for Christopher?’

Now someone banged on the back door.

‘Mrs Checkland, if you would be so good as to answer that, please.’

‘You’re the only one she trusts not to make a break for it,’ whispered Thomas.

I tried to see this as a compliment and went to open the back door.

It was the very last person I ever expected to see again. Aunt Julia. Looking like a wet, windblown scarecrow.

I stared.

‘I think you should ask her in, you know,’ said Thomas. ‘Given the weather, it’s the humane thing to do.’

‘Aunt Julia? Um . . . won’t you . . . come in?’

Russell appeared. ‘Who is it, Jenny? Oh.’

Even though she was wet and dishevelled and shorter, she still managed to look down her nose at him, saying haughtily, ‘Russell.’

Russell responded with equal hauteur. Or as much as he could manage while clutching a purple dog’s bottom. ‘Julia.’

‘Won’t you come into the warm?’ I said.

She cast the mudroom a disdainful glance and followed Russell through the kitchen into the sitting room.

Andrew was just putting another log on the fire. He looked up. ‘Good God.’

She ignored him completely.

Christopher was still amateurishly stroking the cat. Who was purring like a rusty chainsaw. He looked up. ‘Mummy? Were we . . . ?’

‘Be quiet, please, Christopher.’

We were running out of seats. Sgt Bates stood up. ‘Please sit down, Mrs Kingdom.’

Being Aunt Julia, of course, she did no such thing, going to stand protectively next to Christopher.

‘What is happening here?’ She focused on Christopher and somehow grew another three inches. ‘What have you done to my son?’

‘Hello, Mummy,’ said Francesca and received barely a nod.

Daniel squeezed her hand.

Sgt Bates remained silent, so Russell shouldered the conversational burden. ‘What can we do for you, Julia?’

It must have been a measure of her agitation that she didn’t appear to notice the purple dog.

‘Nothing. I have come for Christopher. And not a moment too soon, it would appear. What has happened to him?’

‘A wardrobe fell on him,’ said Russell. ‘He hit his head.’

‘No,’ said Sgt Bates. ‘As I said, that wound isn’t fresh. And I noticed there was blood on your kitchen floor.’ She pulled out her notebook. ‘Your wound was incurred before your arrival at Frogmorton, wasn’t it, Mr Kingdom?’

There was a long silence. Christopher stopped stroking the cat and frowned. The cat immediately headbutted his hand.

‘Don’t stop,’ said Russell. ‘She’ll have your arm off. The cat, I mean, not . . .’ He indicated Sgt Bates.

Who refused to be distracted. ‘Mr Kingdom?’

Christopher raised his head and looked directly at Francesca. Who clutched at Daniel.

‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t remember much.’

Sgt Bates opened her notebook. ‘What do you remember?’

‘Getting off the bus. Walking. It was very windy. And raining. Things were being blown about. Did something hit me? I couldn’t see very well. Then there was a house.’ He looked directly at Francesca and for a moment his eyes were quite clear and sharp. ‘Which must have been this one, mustn’t it? The door was open. I thought someone was here. The lights were on, but I couldn’t find anyone . . . I didn’t feel very well. I went upstairs and found a bathroom. Sick. Then I washed my face. There was blood. I think I telephoned for some help. Battery died. Heard someone. Came down. There was a phone on the table. Heard Daniel’s voice talking. He doesn’t like me. Went back upstairs. Felt very tired. There was an armchair. I closed my eyes for a minute. Phone kept ringing. I meant to switch it off. The wind woke me. I went to look out of the window. There was a big bang. Something fell on me.’

He stopped and closed his eyes.

‘Is that all you remember?’

He opened his eyes and looked at Francesca. ‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ said Aunt Julia, sounding, had she known it, very like Daniel asking the same question of Francesca.

‘I couldn’t remember your number.’

She said gently, ‘It’s programmed into your phone, dear.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I think I forgot. So I rang 101. I couldn’t think very well.’

‘Your call was somewhat garbled,’ said Sgt Bates.

‘Yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘And then my phone died.’

‘But why were you in this area in the first place?’

He frowned.

‘He was meeting me,’ said Aunt Julia quickly. ‘In Rushford. Obviously, after his injury, he became confused. And now we must be going.’

‘Interesting,’ said Thomas.

‘He’s lying, isn’t he?’

‘They both are.’

‘What’s going on, Thomas?’

Aunt Julia stood up. ‘Christopher is obviously concussed. I shall drive him to the hospital. If no one else requires anything from him. And actually, even if they do. Come along, Christopher.’

She turned towards the door.

‘She’s in a hurry,’ said Thomas.

He wasn’t the only one who thought so.

‘One moment, please, Mrs Kingdom.’

‘You can’t keep us here.’

‘Mr Kingdom is subject to . . .’

Aunt Julia drew herself up. She was only a shadow of her former imposing self, but she was giving it her all in defence of Christopher. ‘Is it a crime for an injured person to seek shelter from a storm? I think not. My son has served his sentence. He is a free man. And he requires medical treatment.’

Sgt Bates looked past her. ‘Did you come here intending to commit another crime, Mr Kingdom?’

‘Thomas, why is he here?’

‘He’s come for help,’ said Thomas very quietly.

‘Why doesn’t he say so?’

‘He doesn’t know he’s come for help and it’s always difficult.’

‘What is?’

‘Taking that first step.’

I must have looked confused.

‘This is a battle,’ said Thomas quietly. ‘A battle for Christopher. This is the most important moment of his life. Do you remember yours, Jenny?’

I did. I had been going to take my own life. Now I looked back on it, I suppose that had been my cry for help. And then Thomas had turned up and talked me out of it. Was this why he was here today?

‘Is Christopher in danger?’

‘Yes. Because we’ve forgotten someone.’

‘Who? Everyone’s here. Oh, no – not Uncle Richard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aunt Julia’s trying to rescue Christopher from Uncle Richard?’

‘And she’s all alone.’

‘But why? Christopher, of all people.’

‘What would you do for Joy and Jamie, Jenny?’

‘Anything. Everything. But this is Christopher.’

‘Everyone is worth saving, Jenny. Even Christopher.’

I thought of everything he’d done to us. ‘Thomas, he kidnapped me. He set fire to our stables. Russell and Andrew risked their lives. We nearly lost everything.’

‘And now you have everything, and he has nothing. Let it go, Jenny.’

‘You mean forget what he did to us? What he and Uncle Richard did to me?’

‘No, I mean let it go.’

‘That’s not so easy to do.’

‘I know.’

I said doubtfully, ‘I’ll try.’

I could feel his breath in my hair. ‘I know you will.’

‘So now you’ll be with Christopher? Helping him?’

‘Not me, no.’

For a moment, I couldn’t think what he meant and then, suddenly, cutting through the comforting smells of Russell’s beef stew and burning logs, even Thomas’s warm ginger biscuits – the glorious smell of freshly cut grass.

‘Jenny, this is Rin.’

Down at the far end of the room, the shadows moved, and something emerged.

There was another horse here.

I knew there were others like Thomas; I’d seen them once before – hundreds of them gathered together up on the moors, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen – but this one was right here. Right now. Appearing from the shadows to stand beside Christopher.

Rin was not as tall as Thomas and far more delicately built. Her coal-black coat gleamed softly in the firelight and she had a pretty white star on her forehead. Huge, gentle brown eyes regarded me through her thick forelock.

I managed to say, ‘Hello.’

‘Jenny. I have heard so much about you.’ Her voice was lovely. Soft and low and gentle. She looked around. ‘So, this is Frogmorton.’

I looked at Thomas. ‘What is going on here?’

It was Rin who answered. ‘This is Christopher’s cry for help.’

‘So, after everything he’s done, Christopher is to have a second chance?’

‘Everyone should have a second chance, Jenny. And a third. And a fourth. We never give up. We keep trying. Even for those who refuse to see us, we’re always by their side. Doing what we can.’

‘You,’ I said, as the light slowly dawned. ‘You’ve done all this. He went to see Francesca . . .’

‘He was told to do so. To wait until she was alone. Told to frighten her into giving him money.’

‘But she hit him with a bottle.’

‘No.’

‘You mean she was telling the truth and he really did trip and hit his head on the bottle?’

‘Well, he tripped, certainly.’

I stared. Innocence simply radiated off him. ‘You tripped him?’

‘Everything was taking too long, Jenny. I had to do something quickly. And my footwork was superb. You would have been impressed. I wonder if perhaps I should take up football. I think I’d be very good. He shoots – he scores – the crowd goes wild – yaaaaaaay . . .’

He paused, possibly lost in some kind of football fantasy.

‘And you knew Francesca would panic. And that she’d try to hide what she’d done. You forced her off the road.’

‘Not really, Jenny. You’re being a little overdramatic there. I simply paused in the middle of the road to admire the scenery and inadvertently allowed her to see me.’

‘And you knew Christopher would come here to Frogmorton.’

‘After he saw the lights – yes.’

‘You did that as well?’

‘No, Rin did that.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, we wouldn’t want him wandering aimlessly around in this weather, would we? It was the logical thing to do, Jenny. And we knew he’d be safe here until Julia turned up for him. It’s just a shame she was delayed by the weather, otherwise she could have intercepted him before he even got to Francesca.’

‘I could have been alone with him.’

‘I was here with you. And Daniel turned up as well.’

‘Christopher was upstairs the whole time.’

‘Like Goldilocks. But it gave Julia time to find him before Richard. Hold on – something’s happening.’

Sgt Bates was persisting in her interrogation. Aunt Julia was still trying to get Christopher on his feet. Christopher was blinking as if at a sudden memory. He looked up at her. ‘You didn’t come.’

‘No, dear. I was delayed by the weather.’

‘I was supposed to . . .’

Julia caught his hand. ‘Say nothing.’

‘I wanted to ask . . .’

‘No, Christopher. Go on,’ said Rin, moving to stand at his shoulder. Where Thomas always stood with me in those dark days when we faced the world together. ‘Say it. Say it, Christopher. You must say it.’

Christopher opened his mouth to speak again, and out in the mudroom, the back door opened and a voice shouted, ‘Hello?’

Rin stamped a hoof in frustration.

Russell turned to me. ‘We have got to start locking our doors, Jenny.’

I could only agree. Because Uncle Richard was here.

‘Stay here,’ said Russell. He handed Andrew the dog again, pushed past me and headed for the kitchen.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Sgt Bates and set off after him.

I could hear Russell shouting. He wasn’t going to let Uncle Richard in.

‘Jenny,’ said Thomas urgently. ‘You need to do something. This has to happen. Christopher must break free. Please.’

I followed them into the mudroom. Uncle Richard was standing under the porch light. Rain was streaming down his face.

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said Russell.

Uncle Richard gestured at the weather. ‘I wonder if I might come in.’

‘No. Clear off.’

‘The weather is somewhat . . .’

I touched Russell’s arm. ‘Russell, let him come in.’

‘No. I’m sorry, Jenny, but no.’

‘Please, Russell.’

He looked down at me, saying quietly, ‘Jenny, this is our home. Yours and mine. We don’t have to let any of these people in.’

I said nothing.

An extra strong gust of wind buffeted Uncle Richard. He staggered, and for one wild moment I thought he’d be blown away.

I continued to say nothing and then, grudgingly, Russell stepped back and let him in.

Uncle Richard was a sorry sight. His light mackintosh was drenched, as was his rain hat, and he was clutching the sad remains of an umbrella. Then he caught sight of Sgt Bates.

‘I’ll wait here,’ he said, oozing his usual self-deprecating charm, which, now that I could recognise it for what it was, just about turned my stomach. ‘I don’t want to intrude. Just send Christopher out and we’ll be on our way.’

‘Wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Russell, smiling every bit as falsely as Uncle Richard. ‘Come in. Your entire family’s here, so you may as well join them.’

I led the way back to the sitting room. Andrew put the dog down. She immediately burrowed under a cushion.

‘I don’t think she’s a dog at all,’ said Thomas. ‘I think she’s some sort of short-eared rabbit.’

Andrew and Russell flanked Uncle Richard. I noticed Sgt Bates didn’t resume her seat, taking up a position with her back to the fire and close to Christopher.

Christopher looked up – his eyes dark with fear. I wondered if I’d once looked like that. I’d been as much under Uncle Richard’s influence as the rest of his family. Uncle Richard, the kindly family man. Except he wasn’t and I hadn’t realised until it was nearly too late. And Francesca seemed to have shrunk in on herself. Daniel put his arm around her.

Uncle Richard was speaking. ‘Christopher, my boy. So glad you’re safe. I was very worried about you, out alone in this dreadful weather.’ He looked at Julia with naked dislike. ‘I don’t know why you’re here. You abandoned your family, Julia. Christopher wants nothing more to do with you.’

Julia drew herself up again. The old Aunt Julia confronted her husband. ‘Leave him alone, Richard. You’re the one who ruined him. You allowed him to take whatever he wanted, whatever the cost. Made him do your dirty work. You encouraged him to drink. Made him entirely dependent on you. Well, he doesn’t need you anymore.’

She turned to Christopher. ‘Oh my dear, please come home with me. I have a room ready for you. It will be just the two of us. I promise you.’

Francesca stood up, her eyes bright with unshed, angry tears. ‘No room for me, then?’

Julia’s face softened and her voice wasn’t unkind. ‘Francesca, you have great beauty, a loving partner, a wonderful job, and friends who will turn out to help you in a crisis. Whichever fairies attended your christening gave all their gifts to you. There was nothing left for Christopher. I’m trying – and failing, sometimes – but I must keep trying, because if I don’t . . .’ She produced a wobbly smile. ‘I’m all he has.’

The room was very quiet. Even the cat had stopped purring to listen.

Christopher stared down at the floor. Rin continued to breathe gently into his hair. Sending him strength and reassurance. He would have no idea she was there. I wondered if he too could smell the summer smell of cut hay. Or even Thomas’s warm ginger biscuits. Perhaps I could say something.

‘No, Jenny. Christopher has to do this himself. It’s the only way.’

‘Come along, my boy. Let’s get you somewhere less . . .’ Uncle Richard threw a disdainful glance around our lovely room. ‘Less crowded. A good jolt of something to do you good and you’ll be feeling your old self again in no time.’

‘I hope not,’ said Thomas.

‘No,’ said Julia, standing between him and Christopher. ‘We’ve all escaped you, Richard. Jenny, Francesca and now Christopher. He’s not going with you.’

I had to do something.

‘Aunt Julia, you and Christopher are very welcome to wait out the storm here. There are several quiet bedrooms upstairs. Would you like that, Christopher?’

His eyes focused on me. The cat purred away, her little feet kneading away on his lap. He looked across to Uncle Richard. ‘I don’t want to go with you. I’m not doing that stuff anymore.’

I was feeling reasonably brave. Thomas was here. And Russell. And Andrew. And Sgt Bates. And I’ve even seen Franny in action with a stiletto heel. I didn’t think Uncle Richard could do anything to hurt me, so I stepped in front of Christopher, alongside Aunt Julia. ‘You . . . heard him, Uncle Richard. He’s . . . not going with you. Please leave . . . now.’

‘Oh, well done, Jenny,’ cried Thomas.

Uncle Richard thrust his face forward into mine. I could feel his breath on my face. ‘You got it all, didn’t you? Money. Family. Respectability. I took you in. I looked after you for years. I gave you everything, and now you even want my son. You’re the cause of all this, aren’t you, you little white maggot.’

Russell was suddenly there. And the next moment, Uncle Richard was on the floor, his nose bleeding.

‘Oh, nice one,’ said Thomas. ‘Did you see that, Jenny? A nice flush hit. Excellent footwork too.’ He looked at me. ‘Not as good as mine, of course.’

Uncle Richard rolled over. ‘Assault,’ he shouted nasally. ‘You all saw that. He hit me.’ He twisted around to Sgt Bates.

She looked up. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I miss something?’

‘He hit me. You saw him.’

‘No, I believe I was looking out of the window, checking the weather.’

The curtains were drawn.

‘You were,’ said Russell. ‘I distinctly remember it.’

She cast him a glance which clearly implied figuring in Russell’s memories was not her life’s crowning achievement.

‘You see,’ said Thomas to Rin. ‘I told you it was good here.’

‘Is it always like this?’

‘Pretty much, yes.’

‘That dog is purple.’

‘Yes.’

Christopher had struggled to his feet, clutching the cat to his chest. ‘I don’t want to go with you. Ever.’

‘This is nonsense. Your mother has no money. She can’t do anything for you. You need to stay with me.’

I drew breath to speak.

‘Hush, Jenny. He needs to do this himself.’

I couldn’t help myself. ‘Christopher? What . . . do you want? Tell us.’

He looked at Francesca. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was frightened myself. And a little bit desperate.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry too.’

Christopher looked at me. He was my cousin and all throughout our lives we’d barely spoken to each other. I think the most words we’d ever exchanged was when he’d kidnapped me.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve bled all over your bathroom. And I was sick, too.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘We can soon clear it up.’

‘And I kicked over one of your buckets. The one catching the drips outside the bathroom.’

Thomas snorted.

‘It’s still OK,’ I said. ‘It’s only water.’

Richard made one last effort. ‘Christopher, as your father and a solicitor, I must advise you to . . .’

Christopher shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want your advice. Or your criticism. Or anything.’ He stared at his feet. ‘Except . . .’ Surely it was only a coincidence that he was looking at the place where Rin was standing. ‘I don’t think I can do this all by myself.’

And there it was. Something happened in that moment. I’ve never been able to describe it. The invisible sound of hope, perhaps.

‘That’s close enough,’ said Thomas happily. ‘He’s all yours, Rin.’

‘I think I’ll wait until we’re alone and he and I can talk to each other properly.’

‘Yes,’ said Thomas. ‘It’s always a special moment.’ He looked at me. ‘Isn’t it, Jenny?’

I had to blink away the tears. He was right. One of life’s few golden moments.

Julia took Christopher’s arm. ‘Come along, Christopher.’

Sgt Bates shook her head. ‘I don’t think you should be driving very far in this weather.’

‘I’m not. I have rooms booked in Rushford. After I have taken Christopher to A&E to have him checked over. Which no one here seems to consider a priority.’

I turned to her. ‘Of course, Aunt Julia. I understand you are in a hurry to get Christopher away, but do you need anything before you go? A cup of tea? The bathroom?’

She softened slightly. ‘No, but thank you, Jenny.’

Sgt Bates moved towards the door. ‘I’ll escort you to the hospital. For safety’s sake.’ She cast Uncle Richard a glance. ‘Because of the weather, obviously.’

Aunt Julia nodded. ‘I would appreciate that.’

‘I’ll help you get Christopher into the car,’ offered Russell.

‘Thank you.’ She paused and looked at me. ‘Thank you both.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

Francesca also stood up. ‘Let me know when you arrive safely,’ she said. ‘Um . . . are you all right for . . . I mean . . . um . . .’

Aunt Julia drew herself up. ‘I am. It is my proud boast that I stand on my own feet these days. I owe no one anything.’

Daniel smiled slightly. ‘If ever a need should arise . . .’

‘Your offer is greatly appreciated. Come along, Christopher.’

Christopher was looking down at the cat, who climbed up the front of him and put her paws around his neck, purring like a generator. He stroked her and said sadly, ‘Goodbye, cat.’

It was the first sign of affection I’d ever seen him show anyone. Even Aunt Julia.

Russell looked at me. I knew that look. ‘Jenny . . .’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but what will Joy and Jamie say when they find her gone?’

‘They’ll have a purple dog – I think they’ll regard that as a fair exchange.’

‘She won’t be purple for long,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll take her with me. She’ll need sedating so I can get that purple stuff off. And treat those worms. Give her a day or so to calm down and you can have her back. If she actually wants to live here, of course. Many don’t.’ He grinned. ‘I can’t wait to tell Tanya about all this. She’ll be furious she missed it. Try to spend what’s left of the weekend in reasonable peace and quiet.’

Dog tucked under one arm, Andrew left.

I looked at Russell. ‘I’ll get the cat’s bed and bowls. You can tell Christopher he’s her new owner. And break it to Aunt Julia, of course. Gently.’

‘Well, of course I will, Jenny. Why would you think I’d do otherwise?’ He turned to Julia. ‘Julia – you’ve got a cat. Good luck.’

Christopher blinked and looked around. ‘Why can I see giant horses? And there was a purple rat.’

‘The rat’s a dog,’ said Russell. ‘Can’t help you with the horses, I’m afraid.’

Christopher carried the cat. I doubt you could have separated them at that moment. Aunt Julia carried the bed and bowls. At arm’s length. There were no words to describe the expression on her face.

‘I think cat owning will bring great benefits to both of them,’ said Thomas gravely.

They disappeared out of the door. Rin turned, dipped her head briefly to me and followed them out.

Using the armchair, Uncle Richard pulled himself to his feet. ‘What about me?’

‘Oh,’ said Russell, in that silky voice which is never a good sign with him. ‘I think you should stay right here. Especially now that Sgt Bates is leaving.’

Uncle Richard turned to Sgt Bates. ‘Are you going to permit this harassment?’

‘I’m sorry. I was reading something in my notebook and missed it.’

‘You are a disgrace to your uniform. I shall file an official complaint.’

She passed him one of her cards. ‘Please do. My name, rank and shoulder number are all on there. And if you attempt to follow Mrs Kingdom, you will be making your complaint from one of our cells.’

She nodded to Russell and me. ‘I’ll escort Mrs Kingdom to the hospital. Any further disturbances . . .’ She looked at Uncle Richard and then back to Russell. ‘Call me.’

Pressing a sodden handkerchief to his nose and limping unnecessarily, Uncle Richard followed her out of the room.

‘We should be going too,’ said Daniel. He looked down at Francesca. ‘It’s not too late for our special dinner.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Russell, taking the stairs two at a time to reappear half a minute later with the world’s ugliest rug.

‘How odd,’ said Daniel. ‘We have one just like—’ He stopped.

‘And now you have another one,’ said Russell, dropping it into his arms.

Daniel drew a long breath. ‘Francesca? Why . . . ?’

‘Yes, Daniel. Over dinner and a nice glass of your favourite wine, I think.’

Russell opened his mouth, I elbowed him hard in the ribs, and by the time he’d recovered from that, Daniel and Francesca had disappeared. A few seconds later the back door banged and we were – finally – alone.

‘Well,’ said Russell, looking around at our suddenly empty living room. ‘That could have gone worse.’

‘Well done with the rug,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it genuinely slipped Francesca’s mind.’

He shuddered. ‘There was no way I was having that in the house. Right, Jenny, I’m starving. I’ll mop up the bathroom and you go and dish up.’ He bounded up the stairs, shouting, ‘Oh – and open another bottle of wine. We’ve earned it.’

I went to build up the fire. ‘Just you and me again, Thomas. As it frequently is.’

‘Yes, but not for long.’

‘You’re leaving so soon?’

‘I shall leave you to your peaceful weekend. You deserve it, but you’ll see me again before I go.’

I looked around the room. The room that always reminded me of what I had. ‘I’ve been so lucky, haven’t I? There was no Thomas for Christopher.’

‘Well, there was Rin, but he couldn’t see her.’

‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t?’

‘A very good question, Jenny.’

‘But now he can?’

‘She’s waited a long time for this moment.’

‘And you were here to help.’

‘With my fancy footwork, yes. Enjoy your evening, Jenny.’

He disappeared and I went out into the kitchen, suddenly realising that I was starving, too.

Our children were returned to us exactly on time on Sunday afternoon, full of stories of their ordeal, and, in Jamie’s case, wearing exactly the same clothes as when he left, only stickier.

‘All the lights went out,’ said Joy dramatically. ‘We were plunged into unfathomable blackness. It was brilliant. We couldn’t see a thing. People were screaming. Everyone else was terrified, but not me.’

‘We thought we were going to starve,’ said Jamie, who has his own priorities.

‘Yes, we had to eat all our chocolate before we died,’ said Joy. ‘And Rowena Carter was sick all over her bunk. And then we told ghost stories. And then she was sick again.’

‘And we thought we’d have to eat each other,’ cried Jamie. ‘But then the power came back on again, so we had to have sausages instead.’ It was obvious this massive disappointment would overshadow his entire life. ‘But other than that, it was great.’

Trying to work out why the lack of cannibalism had so disappointed him added a whole new dimension to my list of things to worry about.

I held the car door open for him to climb in and he fixed me with a look of great sympathy. ‘I suppose it was pretty dull here.’

‘Well, no one ate anyone,’ I said.

‘Never mind, Mum. Next time, maybe.’

That evening I walked on the moors with Thomas. The storm had long since blown itself out and the air was clear and cool and silent. I could hear his hooves on the soft turf.

From up here, I could see the whole valley. Mrs Balasana’s house. Martin Braithwaite’s farm. His fluffy white sheep were back out and grazing the fields. There were broken branches everywhere and a couple of gates had been blown down. I could see our roof through the trees. We had a few tiles missing, and Russell and Martin had stretched a tarpaulin over the shattered window, but everything else seemed intact.

‘Will Christopher be all right?’ I said.

‘That rather depends on Christopher, but Rin is gentle and loving and more stubborn than you could possibly believe.’

I nodded. ‘Thomas, have I ever thanked you for what you’ve done for me?’

He lowered his head to mine. ‘Every day, Jenny. Every day.’

I reached up to tidy his forelock. I don’t often do that. He’s not a pet.

‘Give my regards to Rin.’

‘She’s here. Tell her yourself.’

She stood a short distance away. Waiting for Thomas, but giving us the time and space to say goodbye.

I smiled at her. ‘Good luck with Christopher.’

‘Thank you. It will be painful for him but I will always be there. Goodbye, Jenny.’

She turned away.

I smiled at Thomas. ‘She’s not so dramatic in her departures as you are.’

He nudged me with his nose. ‘Don’t you still feel it, Jenny? The sheer joy of living?’

I looked around at the sparkling, rain-washed world. The sun streaking the sky orange and purple as it went down. The gold-fringed clouds. The bracken-covered moors stretching away in every direction. Frogmorton just visible down below, behind the trees.

‘I do.’

He dipped his head and I rested my forehead against his. ‘Will I see you again?’

‘Bound to, I should imagine. Now that you have acquired an agoraphobic dog and Jamie has awoken to the dubious delights of cannibalism, I expect to be here on a weekly basis.’

I laughed. ‘Take care, Thomas.’

‘Until the next time, Jenny.’

I stepped back because I knew what would come next.

He lifted his head, his nostrils flaring wide.

I stepped back out the way.

His muscles bunched and then, suddenly, he was galloping away. From a standing start to a flat-out gallop. Strength and beauty came together. Mane and tail flying, he raced away from me, picking up Rin as he went. Side by side, golden and black, they leaped across the stream. Sound faded away. The world slowed. They hung for a moment, bright and sharp against the dramatic sky. Then they were on the ground again, racing each other across the moor to the top of the hill.

Rin carried on, disappearing over the summit, but Thomas stopped for a moment, looked back at me, and then posed dramatically, big and dark against the slowly setting sun. And then he did a silly little jig. More fancy footwork.

I laughed and clapped.

And then, just as he always did, he kicked up his heels for the sheer joy of living. Something golden dazzled my eyes, and when I blinked them open again, he was gone.

Acknowledgements

Massive thanks to everyone who lived with me through this one. Especially:

Hazel Cushion – my agent

Phillip Dawson – source of everything slightly dodgy

Julia Turney – Beta reader

Everyone at Headline:

Frankie Edwards – my editor

Jessie Goetzinger-Hall – Assistant editor

Hannah Sawyer – Marketing

Federica Trogu – Publicity

Ellie Wheedon – Audio Production

Everyone in the Sales, Rights, Art and Production Teams

Together with

Sharona Selby – Copy Editor

Jill Cole – Proofreader

And Lucy Price-Lewis – who reads this series so beautifully.

Fasten your seatbelts. Jodi’s written the origin story of everyone’s favourite bounty hunters . . .

THE BALLAD OF

SMALLHOPE AND

PENNYROYAL

Meet Lady Amelia Smallhope, for whom there is no problem that can’t be solved by a drink and a think. And Pennyroyal, for whom there is no problem. Ever.

No bad guy they can’t handle. No expense account too flexible. No adventure too outrageous.

Join them as they settle scores, break every rule in the book and take the world by storm.

The timeline doesn’t know what’s hit it.

Available to order now

visit

www.joditaylor.online

You can also find her on

/JodiTaylorBooks

@joditaylorbooks

@joditaylorbooks