Cover

Title Page

Dedication

For my family, with love

Chapter One

Chapter One

The door was painted white, with a smart brass letterbox and matching knocker. Standing there, trying to summon up some courage, Frankie Carlyle could smell the sweet fragrance of the pale velvety roses that rambled up the side of the house, and felt the warmth of the midsummer sun on her bare head. Behind her, shouts and laughter from a nearby sports field were carried on the breeze, as well as the faint rumble of the ring-road in the distance. Come on, then, she said to herself. This is your moment. The one you’ve been thinking about for the last six months. Are you going to knock or what?

She’d set off that morning feeling determined, feeling ready. Had driven all the way here – up the tarmacked spine of the country, through the Midlands and into Yorkshire, gripping the steering wheel so doggedly that her hands had stiffened with cramps the second she’d pulled on the handbrake. Craig had suggested taking the train – it was so much faster, he’d said, clicking at his phone to look up the timetable for her – but Frankie preferred to travel under her own steam. Not least in case she needed to make a quick getaway again.

The miles of motorway, the service stations and traffic were all behind her now, though, the northward slog already dimming in her mind compared to the surreal situation of standing there, outside his house. But what if he no longer lived here? Or, worse, didn’t want to know?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

After a final smoothing down of her tousled dark hair, and an apprehensive lick of her lips, she swallowed back her trepidation and rapped the knocker once, twice. The sound was almost as loud as the thumping of her heart. For a hysterical moment she was seized by the urge to turn and run, to get back in the car and drive away, give up on the whole ridiculous idea. Then she imagined Craig’s astonished face if she went home and told him this – ‘What, you didn’t even wait for him to answer the door?’ – and managed to hold her nerve instead, folding her arms across her chest and doing her best to compose herself. Deep breaths. This encounter didn’t have to be combative or upsetting. She would be pleasant, friendly, calm. If he ever opened the door, that was. If he ever appeared!

A car chugged past behind her, but otherwise the street was quiet. The house was still, unresponsive, and she began to feel her adrenalin leaking away, disappointment edging into its place. She knocked again. Perhaps he was out in the garden, tending to a vegetable plot. Perhaps he was snoozing in a deckchair, the morning’s newspaper half-read on his knee. Perhaps he was deaf. Perhaps he was dead.