Читать книгу In a Cottage In a Wood: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Woman Next Door - Cass Green, Cass Green - Страница 14

January crawls along with skies the colour of cement and unseasonable temperatures. Sad little patches of bright daffodils break out in the parks and are largely ignored, like early party-goers. No one feels they have earned these signs of spring yet.

It all adds to a sense in Neve that everything is off kilter. She has been thinking about the woman, Isabelle, a lot. One night she even found herself contemplating calling the Samaritans. Not because she is depressed – she knows that a general feeling of my-life-is-shit-right-now is on a different continent to real mental illness – but because she thought maybe someone could explain to her what kind of thoughts were going through Isabelle’s head that night.

She keeps trying to step inside that moment again, when Isabelle spoke into her ear with that harsh whisper. Could she, Neve, have grabbed hold of her and stopped her doing what she did?

Could she have been kinder when she saw her there?

Every time she thinks about how irritated she had been at the hold-up to her journey home, she feels a nauseous lurch of guilt in her stomach. If only she had a bit more information. She forgot the woman’s surname as soon as the police had revealed it. Why didn’t she make a note of it somewhere? And how could she have forgotten? This feels like a terrible thing.

They have reached an uneasy truce at the flat. She has apologized, and so has Steve, but they both know their only regret is having upset Lou.

Lottie and Lou and the baby have all been felled by a vicious cold. Neve has the constitution of an ox but can feel a general sniffly misery pulling at her senses and knows it’s only a matter of time before she gets sick too.

At least she might get a day off work.

Miri is on maternity leave now and Neve is keenly aware of the space she has left behind. Two of her closest friends have moved away from London in the last year, both because they have married and started reproducing. There are invitations to go to Wales and to Sussex, or wherever it was, to visit, but she feels curiously dispirited by the prospect of admiring their wood burners and their big gardens and hearing all about how they ‘should have done this years ago’.

This particular morning has crept by with soupy slowness. There is an uneasy feeling at PCC because of a rumour that a German magazine company based in Beckenham are interested in buying the company and merging it with one that specializes in magazine part-works.

Neve has finished up all the jobs she has been asked to do this morning and now sits staring down at Facebook on her phone and giving desultory swipes at various posts.

She remembers that she had stuffed some letters into her bag this morning before leaving for work. A small pile was building up on the table and she knew Steve was going to start getting all twitchy about it soon, so she had resolved to take it to work to read and dump, depending on what it was.

Flicking through now she finds a couple of bills, an interesting-looking letter in a white envelope, which turns out to be from an estate agent of all things, and finally she opens an A3 brown envelope, knowing it is bound to be something to do with tax, or National Insurance, or some other unpleasantness.

But inside, she is surprised to see first a compliment slip with ‘Met Police’ printed at the top and a couple of sentences scrawled in blue Biro beneath.

Ms Carey, we were asked to pass on this information. Kind regards.

There is no signature.

Neve flicks the switchboard over to automatic and feels her heartbeat kick faster as she unclips the compliment slip and looks at the letter beneath.

The paper is thick and creamy; official-looking. The letterhead says ‘Beswick, Robinson, Carter, Meade, Solicitors and Commissioners of Oaths’.

The address is in Salisbury.

Neve quickly unfolds the letter, ignoring the lights that have started to flash insistently on the switchboard.

Dear Ms Carey

We have been instructed to act on behalf of trustees of the will of Miss Isabelle Shawcross, who died on 21st December 2016.

We would be very grateful if you could ring the office and arrange a time to come in at your convenience to discuss a matter that relates to these instructions.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

L. Meade (Solicitor)

At first, all she feels is relief. Seeing the police logo, and then the solicitor’s header, she’d had a terrible feeling of having been found guilty of some crime she doesn’t remember committing. She stole a traffic cone, drunkenly, a couple of years ago and for a strange moment had been sure they were finally coming for her.

The switchboard is lit up like the flight deck of a 747 now so she forces herself to pick up the phone and start routing calls where they need to go. She isn’t concentrating and one caller comes back to switchboard, annoyed at being sent to the IT office, rather than the post room as they had requested.

All the while her mind buzzes with questions.

How did the solicitor’s firm get her name? The police, presumably. That was easy enough to answer. But why on earth did this solicitor want to see her?

It couldn’t be that she has been left something in her will, because they only met just before she died. Neve doesn’t know much about it, but she knows wills have to be signed and witnessed well in advance of someone’s death.

So what else can it be?

Realization dawns and she actually says, ‘Oh,’ out loud.

Of course. The family want to speak to her, as the last person to be with Isabelle. To thank her? Or to have a go at her? Why didn’t she stop her from jumping and so on. As if she hasn’t tortured herself with that thought enough.

Neve shudders and scrunches the letter up before throwing it neatly into her recycling bin.

She doesn’t tell anyone about it over the next week. Miri never seems to be around and she knows exactly what Lou would say. She’d go on about ‘the right thing to do’ and guilt trip Neve like she always does. So she leaves it, not expecting to hear anything further.

But a week later, another letter arrives in the post.

Dear Ms Carey

Further to my letter of 15th January regarding the estate of the late Miss Isabelle Shawcross, we would be extremely grateful if you could call the office. We urgently need to discuss a matter that relates to these instructions.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

L. Meade (Solicitor)

This time the person who has signed the police slip has written, We would be grateful if you could attend to this. We cannot pass on personal information under The Freedom of Information Act 2000 but this is no longer a police matter and we have limited resources in terms of fielding enquiries. Thank you for your consideration.

Neve is in the hallway, having arrived home from work as she opens this one.

Sighing, she takes her phone into the study to make the call.

Two days later, she is on a train to Salisbury.

The solicitor wouldn’t explain over the phone. But she insisted it was in Neve’s interests to come to the office to discuss this in person. ‘In your interests’. Those were the exact words. It’s all very mysterious.

Neve drains the last of the coffee she bought at Waterloo and looks out of the window as the tightly packed buildings of south London change to Surrey commuter towns and then green fields.

She has a book, something Lou has foisted upon her, which looks a bit worthy, and a copy of Grazia, which she can’t be bothered to read either. Squeezing her earbuds into her ears, she plays Tom Odell on her phone and tries to settle into the journey.

Neve would have liked to have done this the above-board way.

But there was simply no chance that she would have been allowed a day off so soon after the Christmas holidays. So at seven a.m. she had sent her direct boss, office manager Kate, a short text saying, So sorry. Food poisoning from a curry! Bleurgh! Been up all night. Better stay close to a toilet today!

Which, thinking about it, might have sounded a bit desperate. Daniel, who was a maestro at telling lies like this, always said she needed to keep it simple. But being naturally honest, she always felt the need to embellish.

The bad night’s sleep part was true anyway. She’d been lying in bed worrying about money the night before. Neve managed not to think about money too much, as a rule. It was a necessary evil, and that was all. She had no real desire to be rich, but she wasn’t someone prepared to rough it either. She and Daniel had spent a few nights in a squat when they were first together and she vividly remembered how miserable it had been, lying in a smelly room and feeling colder than she had ever been in her life.

But yesterday she’d had another automated text from the bank, reminding her she had reached her overdraft limit and now being charged £1 a day for further withdrawals. The ticket to Salisbury was paid for on her credit card, but that was coming close to being maxed out.

And the worst thing was, she couldn’t tell Lou how broke she really was.

When their father had died, eighteen months ago, the sisters had inherited a small amount of money each – £15,000. It would have been more, but for him having been persuaded into taking out a bad mortgage arrangement on his property.

Lou had put her share into a university account for the children. Neve had had every intention of saving at least some of it, but she had two big credit card bills to pay off at the time.

And then she and Daniel had really needed a holiday. They’d gone off to Spain for the Benicàssim music festival and had a brilliant time. Well, what she could remember of it, anyway. Parts of it were still a bit of a blur.

But somehow, within five months, her bank statement was showing her the impossible information that she had just £500 left in her savings account. Neve feels so ashamed at how she has ripped through her inheritance that she has been clinging onto this £500, determined not to spend it unless it is something that her dad would have thought appropriate, which most definitely ruled out credit card bills. When she and Daniel were together, they somehow muddled through. Now it looks as though she is going to have to dip into this small pot of money after all.

Neve had gone from her A levels to a job as a live-in au pair in London, working for a rich American couple with a pre-teen daughter. She had only to ferry the girl, Tabitha, to various activities and clubs and do a minimal amount of housework. Everyone told her she’d lucked out and she knew it was true. Then she met Daniel and when the Schwarzes located back to Colorado, she moved in with him.

She’s never really had to look after herself before, or live alone.

And she is on borrowed time with Lou and Steve.

When they were children, Lou used to harbour small resentments about the division of the parental affection. Neve was always the one having accidents or requiring medical attention when they were little: contracting a serious stomach virus that required hospitalization at two, falling out of a tree and breaking an arm at five, smashing a tooth after tripping over a paving slab at eight. Their parents used to joke that they would settle down for a family picnic somewhere and within moments Neve would have been stung by a bee, or fallen in the stream. Somehow this used to be seen as endearing when she was younger.

She wasn’t confident this was how Lou saw it even then.

These thoughts are still swirling corrosively in her mind as the famous spire of Salisbury cathedral finally comes into view. It is a crisp blue day and as she steps out of the station and begins to follow the directions from Google maps on her phone, she starts to feel more positive.

Soon she finds herself in the big market square, packed with stalls selling fruit and vegetables, children’s clothes or mobile phone accessories. A jumble of pointed roofed buildings line the top of the square. Neve checks the address once again on the letter. Heading across the square, she finds herself outside a modern-looking shopfront with tinted glass and a sign bearing the name ‘Beswick, Robinson, Carter, Meade’. A man in overalls is currently washing the large windows and he moves to one side with a grin as she heads towards the door.

Pushing it open, she looks around a small reception area. A middle-aged receptionist with blonde coiffed hair and bright pink lipstick sits at a curved reception desk.

Neve says, ‘Hi, I have an appointment with …’ but the receptionist holds up a finger imperiously and lifts the receiver to her ear. She smiles brightly at Neve as she speaks to the caller.

‘Beswick-Robinson-Carter-Meade-solicitors-how-may-I-direct-your-call-today?’ she says all in one breath, still beaming at Neve, who shifts on the spot.

Finally, she has the woman’s attention and a few moments later is directed to wait in one of the chairs for visitors.

The square leather chairs are very low to the ground and Neve settles her five-feet-nine-and-a-half frame into it awkwardly, knees to the side. The glass coffee table is covered with copies of The Lady and Country Life. She pretends to study her phone while she waits.

After a few moments she hears her name and looks up to see a woman about her own age smiling coolly down at her.

Her glossy red hair is twisted in a neat knot on top of her head and she wears a white silk top and a tight black skirt with high heels. Neve feels a stab of something uncomfortable. She always feels wrong-footed by uber-professional people like this. Really, she’d been hoping the solicitor was some middle-aged twinset and pearls type. She wouldn’t feel any need for comparison then, she thinks, placing her hand over a mark on the knee of her trousers she’s just spotted.

‘Miss Carey?’

‘Yes.’ Neve gets up with difficulty from the low chair and shakes her proffered hand. She always finds this ritual odd when between women. The other hand is small and cold and perfectly dry. Her own feels sweaty and ham-like in comparison.

‘I’m Laura Meade, would you like to—’

Before she can finish her sentence they are all distracted by the door to the street opening with almost violent force.

A tall bear of a man with curly dark hair bursts in and looks as if he has forgotten why he’s here. Bright blue eyes peer out of a chubby, unshaven face. He’s wearing some sort of brown corduroy jacket, baggy trousers of an indeterminate colour and wellies that are thickly rimed with claggy brown mud.

A black Labrador bounds in after him, heading for Neve and burying its face in her crotch.

‘Oh!’ she laughs and fusses with its ears in an attempt to distract it.

‘Jarvis!’ the man barks. The dog, ignoring him, leans its considerable weight against Neve’s legs, almost pushing her over. She grins but when she glances up, sees that Laura Meade is bright red. She keeps looking between Neve and the man, and the receptionist, one after the other. Then she seems to gather herself.

‘Richard,’ she says coolly to the man. ‘Didn’t we cover everything earlier?’

‘Don’t suppose I left my bloody phone in here?’ Richard’s voice is rich and fruity, like an old Shakespearean actor’s.

Laura looks at the receptionist, who is taking all this in with bright-eyed avidity. She shakes her head.

‘I’m afraid not,’ says Laura.

‘Bugger. Better try the bank then,’ he says with feeling. And then he’s gone.

Neve sees a look pass between Laura and the woman on reception, whose eyebrows are almost at her hairline, and wonders what she isn’t getting about this whole scenario.

‘Apologies for that,’ says Laura now, gesturing towards some double doors behind the reception desk. ‘Do come through.’

Neve follows the solicitor into her office, and the door is shut.