shop’s entrance to close up for the day, even though she’d been open for less than an hour. Her heart just wasn’t in it, and now it looked like she was going to be feeling physically below par as well.
On the mat inside the front door she noticed a folded sheet of paper and bent to pick it up. Probably a flyer of some sort. Before she could unfold it, she caught sight of Nancy’s Hill’s strained face at the window. Fearing a confrontation, she braced herself.
On the day of Amy’s funeral, Anna had been welcomed as one of the family. Nancy had wept on her shoulder and asked if Anna knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Having lost a husband, Anna considered she was in a good position to empathise, but in the pecking order of grief, Nancy clearly considered the loss of a child paramount, and who was Anna to argue?
Thinking about Nancy’s behaviour over the course of the day, Anna had been puzzled; in particular, some of her utterances had sounded odd. Though she had her own worries about Simon’s disappearance, Anna had lain awake on the night of the funeral wondering about Nancy’s words and what they might mean. Over and over Nancy had wailed that her sacrifice had been in vain, that it had all been for nothing, that she should have left Amy to her fate; that she was responsible for Amy’s death as surely as if she had killed her herself. Odd words, but a mother so recently bereaved of her only child was entitled to be irrational.
Richard Turner’s grief had also worried Anna. He had wept uncontrollably at Amy’s graveside, but afterwards he had been a pillar of strength for Nancy, perhaps understanding that his grief must necessarily take second place to hers. But anyone could see the man was distraught. And the boy, his son Bradley, had been upset, and Anna had been aware of a tension in the air whenever Bradley and Nancy came too close. She had wondered what was at the bottom of that.
Of them all, Richard Turner’s daughter Julia had been the calmest. It was plain that there was no special closeness between her and Nancy, no bond. There was no real reason why they should be close; they were not mother and daughter, after all. But it seemed to Anna that an opportunity had been lost somewhere in this ‘family’s’ history. For Julia was a lovely girl, attentive to the father she had probably not seen enough of in her teenage years, and respectful, if not overtly affectionate, towards Nancy.
Anna had found herself comparing Julia to Amy; Richard Turner’s daughter appeared to have none of Amy’s pretentiousness or self-centredness. They were physically very different. Julia was curvy and healthy, with a tangled mane of titian hair. Anna regretted that she had had so little time to talk to her. It would have been interesting to hear this girl’s impressions of Amy, of Nancy; to have learned something more about the family dynamics.
And now, here was Nancy, banging against the window, purple with rage and looking dangerous. The sight of her set Anna’s nerves on edge and she wished she’d locked up earlier.
“It’s open,” she mouthed, surprised that Nancy had not thought to check.
Perhaps the doorknob was refusing to budge. It was always a little awkward, and a sign on the door indicated which way to turn, but even so, sometimes people assumed that the shop was closed and walked away before they could be admitted.
There was no way Nancy was going away. She rattled the knob noisily and as Anna opened the door inwards, a startled Nancy was propelled over the threshold in a manner that lent her little dignity. On another occasion it might have been funny. Today it simply fuelled her anger.
“I thought you were my friend,” she seethed.
“Nancy, calm down.”
“You know where he is, don’t you?” She pushed past, giving Anna no time to answer.
“He’s here, isn’t he? These old buildings are riddled with secret hiding places. I bet you had him hidden away when the police
On the mat inside the front door she noticed a folded sheet of paper and bent to pick it up. Probably a flyer of some sort. Before she could unfold it, she caught sight of Nancy’s Hill’s strained face at the window. Fearing a confrontation, she braced herself.
On the day of Amy’s funeral, Anna had been welcomed as one of the family. Nancy had wept on her shoulder and asked if Anna knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Having lost a husband, Anna considered she was in a good position to empathise, but in the pecking order of grief, Nancy clearly considered the loss of a child paramount, and who was Anna to argue?
Thinking about Nancy’s behaviour over the course of the day, Anna had been puzzled; in particular, some of her utterances had sounded odd. Though she had her own worries about Simon’s disappearance, Anna had lain awake on the night of the funeral wondering about Nancy’s words and what they might mean. Over and over Nancy had wailed that her sacrifice had been in vain, that it had all been for nothing, that she should have left Amy to her fate; that she was responsible for Amy’s death as surely as if she had killed her herself. Odd words, but a mother so recently bereaved of her only child was entitled to be irrational.
Richard Turner’s grief had also worried Anna. He had wept uncontrollably at Amy’s graveside, but afterwards he had been a pillar of strength for Nancy, perhaps understanding that his grief must necessarily take second place to hers. But anyone could see the man was distraught. And the boy, his son Bradley, had been upset, and Anna had been aware of a tension in the air whenever Bradley and Nancy came too close. She had wondered what was at the bottom of that.
Of them all, Richard Turner’s daughter Julia had been the calmest. It was plain that there was no special closeness between her and Nancy, no bond. There was no real reason why they should be close; they were not mother and daughter, after all. But it seemed to Anna that an opportunity had been lost somewhere in this ‘family’s’ history. For Julia was a lovely girl, attentive to the father she had probably not seen enough of in her teenage years, and respectful, if not overtly affectionate, towards Nancy.
Anna had found herself comparing Julia to Amy; Richard Turner’s daughter appeared to have none of Amy’s pretentiousness or self-centredness. They were physically very different. Julia was curvy and healthy, with a tangled mane of titian hair. Anna regretted that she had had so little time to talk to her. It would have been interesting to hear this girl’s impressions of Amy, of Nancy; to have learned something more about the family dynamics.
And now, here was Nancy, banging against the window, purple with rage and looking dangerous. The sight of her set Anna’s nerves on edge and she wished she’d locked up earlier.
“It’s open,” she mouthed, surprised that Nancy had not thought to check.
Perhaps the doorknob was refusing to budge. It was always a little awkward, and a sign on the door indicated which way to turn, but even so, sometimes people assumed that the shop was closed and walked away before they could be admitted.
There was no way Nancy was going away. She rattled the knob noisily and as Anna opened the door inwards, a startled Nancy was propelled over the threshold in a manner that lent her little dignity. On another occasion it might have been funny. Today it simply fuelled her anger.
“I thought you were my friend,” she seethed.
“Nancy, calm down.”
“You know where he is, don’t you?” She pushed past, giving Anna no time to answer.
“He’s here, isn’t he? These old buildings are riddled with secret hiding places. I bet you had him hidden away when the police
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