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Back Day of the Accident
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. What readers are saying about
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. Part Two
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. Part Three
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. 55
  65. 56
  66. 57
  67. 58
  68. Epilogue
  69. Acknowledgements
  70. THE NEXT THRILLER BY NUALA ELLWOOD
  71. THE BEGINNING

I carry on walking and then, after a few moments, I see it, peeking out from between the trees. A Gothic lodge house with a sloping roof and long diamond-shaped windows that only ever let in a fraction of light. As I follow the curve of the lane the house is momentarily hidden from view. The hawthorn bushes that line the path seem to get higher and higher so that it feels like I’m stepping into the centre of a maze. My breath grows shallow. I stop, take the inhaler out of my bag and take two long drags. As my lungs ease I carry on walking. This path is so familiar I could walk it blindfold and yet it feels strangely altered, like it’s become another, more complex, version of itself. A hundred yards further the lane opens up and I find myself standing at the edge of the sweeping sycamore-lined driveway looking at a rickety wooden sign nailed to the gate. In spidery metal letters it spells out a name:

LARKFIELDS.

19

I push the gate open and make my way down the drive. When I reach the front door my hands instinctively go to my pockets to retrieve my keys. It’s a natural reflex. I must have stood at this door a thousand times. If I close my eyes I can imagine that I’ve just dropped Elspeth off at school and this is an ordinary day. I’d go inside and load the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, then make myself a pot of coffee and head upstairs to my study. I’d sit at my desk, secure in the knowledge that Elspeth is safe at school, working in her classroom and playing with her friends. She isn’t lying in the ground in St Peter’s churchyard. She is alive and well and waiting for her mummy to come and collect her at 3.30.

I put my hand on the wooden door frame to steady myself. My lungs feel like they are on fire. I peer through the window. The house looks empty. I turn the handle, praying for it to give, but it is locked. When I was a teenager my mum would leave a spare key underneath the bay tree pot that stood outside the door. I take a look around but there are no pots, no keys. Obviously, the real owners – B-something-or-other from what I remember – are more security conscious than that.