BooksBarbecue
Back The Lucky Eight
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Five Years Later
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-one
  26. Twenty-two
  27. Twenty-three
  28. Twenty-four
  29. Twenty-five
  30. Twenty-six
  31. Twenty-seven
  32. Twenty-eight
  33. Twenty-nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-one
  36. Thirty-two
  37. Thirty-three
  38. Thirty-four
  39. Thirty-five
  40. Thirty-six
  41. Thirty-seven
  42. Thirty-eight
  43. Thirty-nine
  44. Forty
  45. Forty-one
  46. Forty-two
  47. Forty-three
  48. Forty-four
  49. Forty-five
  50. Forty-six
  51. Forty-seven
  52. Forty-eight
  53. Forty-nine
  54. Fifty
  55. Fifty-one
  56. Fifty-two
  57. Fifty-three
  58. Fifty-four
  59. Fifty-five
  60. Epilogue
  61. Acknowledgements
  62. Canelo Crime
  63. About the Author
  64. Also by Sheila Bugler

She hung up, frustrated. Tara had said she needed to speak to her urgently. If it was that urgent, why hadn’t she picked up? On the way back to the house, she tried Tara three more times but continued to get her voicemail. Listening to Tara’s recorded message a third time, Clodagh made a decision. She was going to get a taxi to Lewes station and take a train to London. If she hurried, she could be at Tara’s apartment within three hours. One way or another, she was going to find out why Tara wanted to speak to her.

Twenty-one

It was late afternoon by the time Clodagh arrived in London. She walked from London Bridge station, along the South Bank towards Tara’s riverfront apartment. This was her favourite part of the city. When she’d first moved to London, she’d rented a small flat near Borough Market. She’d spent her weekends exploring the area, walking down the narrow streets and lingering at the food stalls in the market, before going to meet a friend or see some art at Tate Modern.

There was an air of gentrification about the place that had been absent when Clodagh lived here, and the market seemed to have doubled in size since then. But it felt familiar enough to trigger a wave of nostalgia as she walked amongst the tourists and street artists and buskers and the groups of people drinking outside the riverfront pubs. It was a million miles away from the sleepy village she lived in now.

She’d tried calling Tara again from the train but kept getting her voicemail. Now, she was starting to think coming up here was a stupid idea. Tara could be anywhere. She could see Tara’s apartment building up ahead. A curved glass construction, wider in the centre than at the top and bottom. She’d been here once before for Tara’s birthday, two weeks ago. A drab affair despite the canapes and the free champagne and the sweeping views of the Thames. Clodagh remembered now, how the shape of the building had reminded her of a pregnant woman. The impression was stronger today, possibly because the whole idea of pregnancy was at the forefront of her mind these days.

Properties in this part of London sold for exorbitant prices. Thanks to Adam, and the law firm he’d hired, all those affected by the plane crash had received substantial compensation money. But Clodagh doubted even that would cover the cost of an apartment here. She knew Tara didn’t work and wondered, now, how she managed to afford living somewhere this fancy.

At the entrance to the building, Clodagh rang the buzzer for Tara’s apartment, and waited. When nothing happened, she tried again. Pulling out her phone, she called Tara’s number but hung up without leaving a message when she got Tara’s voicemail.

‘Damn.’