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Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for The House of Whispers
  3. Title Page
  4. Note to Readers
  5. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  19. Twelve
  20. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  25. Sixteen
  26. Seventeen
  27. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  32. Twenty-One
  33. Twenty-Two
  34. Twenty-Three
  35. Twenty-Four
  36. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  37. Twenty-Five
  38. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  39. Twenty-Six
  40. Twenty-Seven
  41. Twenty-Eight
  42. Twenty-Nine
  43. Thirty
  44. Thirty-One
  45. Thirty-Two
  46. Thirty-Three
  47. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  48. Thirty-Four
  49. Thirty-Five
  50. Thirty-Six
  51. Thirty-Seven
  52. Thirty-Eight
  53. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  54. Thirty-Nine
  55. Forty
  56. Forty-One
  57. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  58. Forty-Two
  59. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  60. Forty-Three
  61. Forty-Four
  62. Forty-Five
  63. Forty-Six
  64. Forty-Seven
  65. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  66. Forty-Eight
  67. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  68. Forty-Nine
  69. Fifty
  70. Fifty-One
  71. Fifty-Two
  72. Fifty-Three
  73. Fifty-Four
  74. Fifty-Five
  75. Fifty-Six
  76. Fifty-Seven
  77. Fifty-Eight
  78. Fifty-Nine
  79. Sixty
  80. Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019
  81. Acknowledgements
  82. About the Publisher

But her feed didn’t give much away. The images were almost entirely of scenery, telling me only that she’d spent some time in remote coastal areas as well as in cities. There was a horse, a helicopter, a Jeep, several small boats. I pulled up a map and tracked the posts she’d labelled, tracing her route north up the coast from Sydney into Queensland, then further up, past Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast to Port Douglas. There were pictures there of rainforest: of lush green foliage, of the curling roots of ancient trees and crystal-clear pools of water dappled by sun and then, suddenly, there was a figure – a woman – on a vast expanse of beach.

Behind the person, the sea was indigo blue, with rolls of white surf frothing and hissing as they hit the sand. There was no one else on the beach. Not a soul. The woman was smiling, laughing maybe, but it was hard to tell much more since she was so far away – a tiny figure in the centre of the huge beach. She was wearing white shorts and a red vest – that I could see – and her feet were bare. One arm was raised, her elbow jabbing out like a pennant as she held onto a large straw hat that shaded her face. Dark hair coursed out from under the hat, a few bits dancing to one side, whipped by a wind that blew off the sea. In her other hand, the woman dangled a pair of sandals, as if she’d taken them off to run on the sand.

I expanded the image on my phone as far as I could, trying to get a better look at her face – looking for the familiar features: was it Grace? Or a friend of hers? – but the image pixelated as it expanded, causing me to shrink her back down for clarity. I half closed my eyes and gazed at the image. It was the right body-shape for Grace, and the hair also looked right. I was pretty sure it was her. I wondered who’d taken the picture; whether they’d then run to catch up with her on the beach. Whether they were laughing with her.

As six o’clock drew close, I climbed up the stairs and locked the door of the attic, then I went back downstairs, where I dithered, waiting for the sound of the taxi. In the hall, I settled on the bottom stair, my muscles stiffening every time I heard a car slow for the curve in the road outside.