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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
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  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Although Olivia was out of the hospital, he couldn’t help worrying about her. But with the countryside speeding past, the exuberant sounds of his family and the knowledge that his aunt was on her way to look after his mother, the boy felt himself begin to relax.

He gave the Magic 8 Ball an enthusiastic shake.

Is everything going to be okay now?

He crossed his fingers, but when he saw its answer, his heart crashed against his ribs.

My reply is no.

108

108

Sutton Road Crematorium and Cemetery, 2:37 P.M.

Clots of friends and family dressed in black moved across the cemetery like scattered fragments of darkness.

For appearance’s sake, Wildeve Stanton stared at the messages tucked into the carpet of flowers until most of the mourners had left, but she did not read them. That was for another time. Instead, she was counting her breaths.

A breath in. One. A breath out. Two. A breath in. Three. A breath out. Four.

A rock to cling to in a sea of desperation.

Grief was a complex emotion. It was possible to laugh, she had discovered, to go to work, to eat at the same time as waves crashed against you, threatening to dash you against the cliffs and overwhelm you.

When Wildeve was certain that everyone had left for the pub down the road, she glanced at the order of service. A black-and-white image of her husband. The dates of his birth and death, stark and irrefutable.

“I’m sorry this had to happen to you.” She traced her finger across his photograph. “To us.”

Now that Adam’s killer had been caught, she had agreed with Roger Sampson to take some leave from work. An old friend owned a lighthouse near Skye and she would spend a couple of weeks there, walking amongst the salt marshes and the sedge.

Her mobile phone vibrated in her pocket.

Ahead of her, she could see Simon and Emily, Mac and his wife, Peggy, Adam’s university friends, Sampson, even DC French. She raised a hand to show them she was coming. Her phone vibrated again.

She might have ignored it. Most widows saying good-bye to their husbands would have done so. But it occurred to Wildeve that everyone she knew was at the funeral so it was either extremely important or not important at all. Either way, she would decide.

The number was familiar; a vague memory tugged at her.

“Hello?”

“Is that Sergeant Stanton? It’s Mrs. Hardcastle. I’m so sorry it’s taken me a while to call you back, but it’s the summer holidays and I’ve been in France. Today’s the first time I’ve been back in school to pick up messages.”

It took a moment to register. Mrs. Hardcastle. Head teacher of Croft Lane County Primary School. She considered explaining about her husband’s funeral and the death of Cooper Clifton, but instead she said, “Thank you for calling me back.”