‘Grab your laptop and chargers.’ Naomi nodded towards the house. ‘Quick as you can.’

‘Not until you tell me!’ Morgan’s words were high-pitched and anxious in the confines of the car. ‘Are there dead bodies in there?’

‘No.’ Naomi shook her head, relenting. ‘The day after they died, it was Guy Fawkes Night. There was a big bonfire on the outskirts of the village.’ She imagined Lloyd hiding Martin, Susan and Grace’s dismembered remains beneath pallets and timbers to keep them out of sight. Lloyd pouring diesel over the fire to ensure the body parts went up in a flash. The flames rising as a select number of villagers watched. Had their nostrils filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh? Had it carried on the wind, permeating the village bound by the darkest of secrets? Which of them had stayed to gather the family’s charred remains? The last evidence of a despicable act.

As for the vicar . . . had he gathered them around the fire and said a quiet prayer? Or were they only concerned with saving themselves? Such thoughts filled Naomi with repulsion as the scene played out in her mind.

‘What’s left of them is buried in a small lead-lined box under a memorial stone in the church graveyard,’ Naomi continued.

That was why Petunia visited the church every year. She had kept her vow of silence, because she knew the Harpers were long dead, buried in a place where she could at least pay her respects. It was the same graveyard where her husband was laid to rest. Now she was ready to join them, now that time had run out.

‘So that’s why Dawn took me there.’ Morgan stared out of the car window. ‘We did a Ouija board; we spoke to Grace. She said that she was right there.’

Naomi’s stomach churned at the thought of Morgan dabbling in the occult in Nighbrook’s graveyard. Ed may never forgive her for this.

She switched off the car engine. ‘Five minutes. In and out.’

She wouldn’t have returned to Ivy Cottage at all had she not left her mobile phone in the house. It was her lifeline to Ed. As soon as they were clear of the place, she would tell him what was going on.

‘Shoo!’ Naomi cried, flapping away the crow perched in the gutter.

Her hands shaking, she turned the key in the lock. It felt like the house was watching . . . Echoes of past violence hummed in the air. Her hairs prickled on the back of her neck as the door creaked open. Checking over her shoulder, she ushered Morgan into the dark hall.

‘Grab your backpack. Hurry.’

But as the door slammed behind them, she caught the sour tang of whisky in the air. All too late, she realised that they should never have returned.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE