Chapter One

Hanna, in the Car, with the Map

Friday, late evening

They were lost.

“We’re lost.”

“We’re not lost.“

Liza sighed instead of screaming and stared helplessly at what her phone was telling her was a map of their current location, but which looked to her like a tiny blue dot in the middle of a large green nothing. “We’re lost. According to Google we are currently somewhere in Scotland. That’s lost.”

With a growl that on a different night and in a different mood Liza would have found sexy, her wife Hanna pulled over to the side of the road, reached over to the glove compartment, and retrieved a paper map. “Use that.”

Liza wasn’t sure she could. She wasn’t sure she could even work out how to unfold it without putting a tear right through the middle of the M6. “Right, just let me get my compass and my sextant.”

“You’re a grown woman, Liza. You went to university. Surely you can read a map.”

Trying very, very hard to stay calm at the end of a very, very long drive at the start of what in theory was supposed to be a lovely weekend break, Liza let her head flop back against the headrest and stared pointedly upwards. “I can read a map. When it’s a normal map on a screen with a little trail telling me where I’m meant to be going. Not when it’s a sheet of dead tree the size of a tablecloth.”

“I told you there wouldn’t be any reception out here.” Hanna drummed her hands on the steering wheel, and her voice got that I-am-trying-to-be-reasonable tone that Liza particularly resented. “The whole point is that there isn’t any reception out here. We’re going to have a long weekend with just the two of us, and no work, and no social media, and nothing to get in the way. That’s what we agreed to.”

The whole not-screaming thing was getting increasingly difficult. “No, Hanna, it’s what you agreed to. By the time I’d even found out about this plan, you’d already booked the tickets.”

“Well, I’m sorry for trying to surprise you.” Adjusting her severe, half-rimmed glasses, Hanna did her best to look composed and mostly succeeded. “If you hated the idea this much, we could easily have got a refund. Or just stayed at home. Because we don’t actually need to worry about money, because in case you’ve forgotten, the job you so resent my spending a lot of time on pays really fucking well.”

Liza had already opened the car door and stepped out into the night.

“Where are you going?” Hanna called after her.

“Getting some fresh air.”

“On a mountain in the Scottish Highlands after dark? Do you have a literal death wish?”

There were probably safer ways to take a breather. But Liza had always been the kind of girl who ran with scissors. “It’s a road, Hanna. A quite well-maintained road that cars can get along just fine. I’m not going to fall off a cliff and die if I walk ten paces.”

To illustrate her point Liza walked ten paces, then ten more. If she was being totally, one thousand percent honest with herself, it was slightly scarier than she’d anticipated. The light from the car’s headlights was swallowed up very quickly, and then there was nothing but the night. And not a normal, sensible night like you got in London, everything bathed in the cool glow of streetlamps and a thousand tiny window-dots spread out below you like the opposite of stars. A bleak, primordial, rural night made of shadows and wind, where a black sky, thick with black clouds, flowed into a black hillside thick with black trees, and when you stopped and listened you could hear things moving that could be far too close or so far away that the whole world seemed like an endless void.

She stopped. She’d gone far enough that she couldn’t see where she was putting her feet, and if she went much further she might genuinely lose sight of the car. And it was cold. She’d have said unseasonably cold, but they were high up, and a depressing fact of British weather was that you were as likely to get snow at Easter as at Christmas.

The sensible thing to do would be to go back. To tell Hanna that she was sorry—well, not sorry exactly, but that she didn’t want to be fighting right at this moment, and that while she still felt that this holiday was borderline non-consensual, she did on some level appreciate the gesture.

Because God knew that one of them had to.

Fuck.

How had they got here? Trying their damnedest not to have a screaming match at eight o’clock on Good Friday while navigating their way down narrow, blustery roads to a luxury hotel in a mobile phone blackspot. Hadn’t they done everything right? It wasn’t like they’d rushed into marriage—they’d been dating for years, and even when it was suddenly legalised and half their friends were getting high on equality, they’d waited. They’d taken it slow, and lived together first, and had all the big, serious conversations about life goals, and values, and whether they wanted children, and whose parents they’d spend Christmas with.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe they’d lulled themselves into a false sense of security. A mutual commitment to support each other’s careers had been fine when they were twenty-two and both sending their CVs around fruitlessly in an economy that really wasn’t interested in twenty-two-year-olds. It had even been bearable when they were twenty-eight and Hanna had been working twelve-hour days for one of those financial services firms that are responsible for all the world’s problems, and Liza had been … well, she’d still kind of been sending her CV around, to be honest. Because it turned out that a maths degree and a desire—or at least a willingness—to use it to make yourself rich and other people richer was way more marketable than a degree in Art History and a vague notion that you’d like to do “something creative”.

Much as Liza hated to think about it, her podcast taking off had been what really kicked their problems into high gear. Murder Most Actual had started almost by accident, when she’d bonded with a then-co-worker over a mutual love of crime, true and otherwise. It had been a fun side project; something to do when Hanna was working weekends, which she did with increasing regularity. But people had liked it. Really liked it. Something about the just-two-girls-talking-murder vibe of the show had let them reach an audience that enjoyed true crime but found the more salacious or sententious series ethically questionable.

And just like that, Liza had commitments. Commitments which had started eating into the few evenings and weekends she and Hanna could actually be together. Commitments which meant she was spending more time with her co-host, Rachael, than with her actual wife. And while Rachael was extraordinarily heterosexual, that didn’t quite stop the jealousy. Especially when fans of the cast started shipping them.

It was around then that the fighting had started. Which, by itself, Liza could cope with—her parents had been great fighters because they’d both been stubborn as hell and convinced they were right about everything—but with the fighting had come the drifting, and the drifting she had way less of a handle on.

From back up the road, there was the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by footsteps, then Hanna’s voice. “Come back to the car.”

With the wind and the cold and the still being kind of pissed off, Liza couldn’t tell if her wife’s tone was conciliatory or not. “Just—can you not—why can’t you just—why do you have to try to fix everything?”

“I’m not trying to fix everything.” Hanna took a couple of steps forward, more cautious in the dark than Liza had been. “I only want you to come back to the car. It’s dark, and there’s a storm coming.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m not.” Hanna was still doing her trying-to-deal-with-your-irrationality voice. “There is an actual storm coming, and we will actually get stuck in it if you don’t come back to the car. Come on, I’ve found the turning we missed. If we get going, we’ll be at the hotel in half an hour.”

Liza stared at her wife silhouetted in the car headlights and tried desperately to sift through a decade of love and bitterness. Standing there backlit, her close-cropped hair—it had been greying since her mid-twenties and was now a steely shade that matched her eyes—and business-casual suit made her look like an elf who’d quit working for Santa and hooked up with MI5. For the best part of ten years, Hanna had been the most fascinating human being Liza had ever laid eyes on. Right now, she was a pain in the arse.

“All right.” Shivering slightly, and at least a little glad to be escaping the night air, Liza began to trudge back to the car. “But so we’re clear: I’m still not okay.”

“Noted.”

They drove in silence for a while, and when fat, heavy raindrops started to pelt the windscreen, Liza allowed herself a quiet moment to resent the fact that Hanna hadn’t just been overbearing; she’d been overbearing and right.

When the predicted half hour had passed, light wavered like will-o’-wisps out of the darkness. The Westmacott Hotel was a castle, an actual castle, because of course Hanna had booked them an actual castle. Her inability to do anything even remotely by halves was one of the things Liza loved about her. Had loved. Still loved. Even if it was hard to remember sometimes.

With the rain, it was difficult to make out details of the hotel-slash-castle until it was practically on top of them. It loomed out of the storm in a tableau of gothic excess, a flag flying from a tower overlooking the courtyard, windows gleaming defiant against the night. Leaving the car in the sparsely occupied car park, Liza and Hanna fought their way through downpour to the main doors.

Inside, the near-medieval opulence of the hotel’s façade gave way to a more modern refinement. The fittings still had an original vibe, in the old rather than new sense of the word. Neoclassical pillars stretched from floor (marble) to ceiling (rose-decorated), and deep leather armchairs were scattered in corners for the convenience of guests. To Liza’s right, a spiral staircase led up into the tower, while ahead a set of majestic steps swept up to the first floor and down to who knew where. Even the gleaming hardwood check-in desk had an air of antiquity about it that the man behind it—despite his relative youth—matched effortlessly.

He introduced himself as Mr Burgh and explained that he was the manager of the hotel. This raised a bit of an eyebrow from Hanna, who had made the reservation with somebody different, but it was late, and both of them were tired, and the mystery of the recently replaced hotel manager would need to wait for another time.

Mr Burgh checked them in with benign efficiency, and they were helped upstairs by a skinny young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty. The room itself was sumptuous, with a four-poster bed and fresh flowers, and a portrait of some woman in a white dress like the mysterious, tragic victim in a Victorian ghost story.

It was perfect. It was fucking perfect. Perfect enough that for a moment it was really hard for Liza to stay angry at Hanna for booking it without consulting her.

“They had more modern rooms,” Hanna explained, still a little defensive, “but I thought you’d want something classic.”

She did. Because even though part of her—quite a large part of her—thought that being into gothic splendour and old-world opulence was problematic and imperialist, and probably internalised colonialism or internalised classism or something, Liza fucking loved this shit. The rain was turning to hail now, rapping a tattoo against the windowpanes, but she could already imagine the view over the highlands and how majestic it would look. How it would feel to stand there and gaze out over the lochs and mountains like she was the heroine of some gothic novel. Or the villain.

And perhaps it was subversive. Here she was, a girl from Tooting Bec whose grandparents had come over from Jamaica on the Windrush, and she’d married a swanky city stockbroker and was staying in a room Queen Victoria might have stayed in. Or perhaps it was just capitalism masquerading as subversion.

“It’s …” Liza tried. But gratitude was still at war with anger. “It’s really thoughtful,” she said flatly. “Of course, actually asking me first would have been more thoughtful.”

Hanna sat down on the bed. Not that long ago—and when had they reached the point where three or four years counted as not that long—the sight of Hanna perched on the edge of a four-poster bed in an elegant hotel room would have been it for the evening. They’d have been lost in each other until gone midnight, a private fantasy of wanting and longing that made all the difficult parts of their relationship seem trivial.

Without even looking up, Hanna said, “We’ll miss dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I, especially, but Emmeline White is the head chef here.”

Liza looked blank.

“The one with the big glasses and kooky earrings who sometimes judges a round on Great British Menu.”

“Oh, right.” There was still a tension in the air, but the drive and the relatively pleasant surroundings were bleaching hostility into apathy. “I like her.”

“I know you do. Of course, she was also an internationally renowned chef before she did a spot on a TV show.”

Hanna didn’t mean it as snide. Liza knew she didn’t mean it as snide. And it was important to remember that you could be a successful career woman without also getting your face on iPlayer. But now wasn’t the time to make that point. “Sorry, not all of us grew up eating in Michelin-starred restaurants.”

“I did not grow—” Hanna checked herself. “There’s drinks in the drawing room if you want to go down. It’s pretty, I think.”

In all honesty, Liza was not especially interested in drinks, and while she was interested in pretty drawing rooms, she wasn’t quite willing to give Hanna the satisfaction of admitting that. But she also wasn’t interested in sitting around an expensive room in an expensive hotel for two days and three nights, glaring at her wife with nothing to say. So they went downstairs to see if they could find something to say there.

Chapter Two

Sir Richard, in the Drawing Room, with Drinks

Friday, late evening

In different circumstances, it would have been a dream holiday. A silly dream, admittedly. A dream about sitting in wingback chairs under subtle lighting while hail rattled on the highlands outside. Instead, it was almost stifling. Too much proximity as an overreaction to too much distance.

The drawing room was warm and cosy and smelled of fresh-brewed coffee. A real log fire crackled in a grate, and next to the real log fire sat an equally real, although substantially less loggish, gentleman dressed in a manner that might have been called natty at around the time people used the word natty, but which now read more as hipsterish; all three-piece suits and watch chains. He was in that unguessable age range that could have been anywhere from twenty-something to forty-something, and he somehow gave the impression of wearing a monocle despite not, in fact, wearing a monocle.

“I say,” he said, glancing up from his newspaper, “are you new? Where are you in from?”

“They have come from London.” This observation came from a second man, short and with a distinct, if non-specific, western European accent. Unlike his companion, he did not bother to look up from the journal in which he was furiously, but meticulously, writing.

“I didn’t ask you, Perseus.” His natty companion threw a sullen look across the room, then extended a hand to Liza and Hanna. “I’m Quirke, by the way. Sir Richard Quirke. But you can call me Dicky—all my chums do.”

“What makes you think they will be your”—Perseus cleared his throat—”chums?”

It was, Liza had to admit, a reasonable comment. Although honestly, she wasn’t sure whether Sir Richard’s aggressive friendliness was better or worse than the other man’s stand-offishness.

“Just a figure of speech, old boy. My friend here, if you can use the word, is Perseus Belloc. He’s a dashed rum sort, and between you and me, I think he’s a spy.”

“If I were a spy,” replied Perseus Belloc, “would I not be less, how you say, rum?”

Liza had never heard the words rum or, for that matter, how you say used in cold blood in her life, but this was a very exclusive hotel and probably attracted strange people. “I’m Liza,”—she took the offered handshake—”and this is …”

“Your lady wife, no doubt,” Sir Richard finished for her. Then he cast a coolly smug glance at Belloc. “You see, we can all play the remarkable deductions game.”

“Pathetic. You saw their wedding rings. A child’s trick.” Belloc made a precise, dismissive gesture. He had a neatness to him that bordered on the meticulous, his movements matching his suit in their crispness.

“And you guessed that they were from London,” retorted Sir Richard, “because you saw their car out the window and, like their clothes, it’s expensive but not ostentatious. Add in the fact that—sorry, rude of me, didn’t let you give me your name.”

“Hanna,” said Hanna. She didn’t look especially amused.

“That Ms Hanna,” Sir Richard went on, “has the formal air of a city financier about her, while dear Liza—sorry, couldn’t resist—carries herself in a more alternative fashion, implying a background in the creative industries. I fail to see what other conclusion you could possibly have come to.”

There was, at last, a pause in the barrage of verbiage, although neither Hanna nor Liza were quite sure what to say into the gap. Fearing that the opportunity, if missed, would pass them by forever, Liza tried: “So, is it nice?”

“Oh yes, capital place.” Sir Richard was still beaming. “Come here all the time with the old aunt. Mountain air, see, good for her lungs.”

“And the food is excellent,” added Belloc. “The chef, she is magnifique.”

Hanna had slipped away from Liza’s side and poured them both a cup of tea. Again, thoughtful. And in fairness, it was exactly what Liza would have wanted, but it would have been nice to be consulted. But that was Hanna all over, sweet and considerate and high-handed and arbitrary all at once. In a fruitless act of defiance, Liza sweetened her mug with two lumps of sugar she normally didn’t take.

“And what is it you both do?” Liza asked. There had been, she was sure, a time she was better at small talk, although maybe that was just the confidence of youth.

“Not a great deal, if I’m honest.” Sir Richard shot her a self-deprecating grin. “What you might call a gentleman of leisure. I say, your voice sounds oddly familiar, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Which is peculiar because I’m sure I’d remember if you’d been at any of my clubs.”

This didn’t happen often, but it happened more than it used to. “Do you … do you by any chance listen to Murder Most Actual?”

Sir Richard gave a gasp of recognition. “My God, you’re that Liza? I mean, it’s not exactly an uncommon name, so you’ll forgive a fellow for not making the connection, but I should have known at once.”

“Oh, have you met a fan?” Hanna sidled over and put an arm around Liza’s waist that was probably meant to be supportive but felt possessive, almost condescending. “I swear we can’t go anywhere these days.”

Something seemed to be confusing Sir Richard. “Hang on, though, you’re not … I was under the impression that you and Rachael were … that is, I suppose you are, but possibly, she isn’t. Or I mean, if she is, then she is, but not with you. As it were.”

Hanna’s arm was getting tense, and Liza did her best—really did her best—to give off reassuring vibes she wasn’t quite feeling and wouldn’t have known how to give anyway. “No. I mean, if what you’re saying is what I think you’re saying, then yes, I’m gay. No, Rachael isn’t gay—not that it’s either of our business—and even if she was, it wouldn’t mean we’d automatically be sleeping together. Especially because, as you can see, I’m married to somebody else.” She slipped a reciprocal arm around Hanna and gave her a half-hearted squeeze. “Happily married,” she added, then immediately wished she hadn’t because when it came to ladies doth protest too much-ing, she might as well have just said “Also, my marriage definitely isn’t falling apart.”

“Am I to take it correctly”—Belloc’s tone was thick with contempt—”that you are one of those interfering true crime podcasters who go around opening up old cases, and casting doubt on old convictions, and turning the private tragedies of strangers into clicks and content?”

Liza winced. “Sort of?”

“They’re actually very conscientious.” There was Hanna, riding to her rescue like she always did. It would have felt romantic if they weren’t in the middle of a non-consensual holiday, and if Liza hadn’t been drinking a cup of tea she hadn’t asked for. “They never speculate, they never harass survivors or dredge up old wounds. They just talk about interesting cases.”

“‘Two Girls Drinking Wine and Talking Murder,’” put in Sir Richard, who clearly felt the conversation had gone on too long without a contribution from his corner.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!