She’d lost Eoin and she’d lost her job, no wonder she’d lost confidence all over again.
People said you should never go back, that it was a mistake to try to recapture the happiness of youth, but Joanna thought they were wrong. If the present was bloody awful, why not chance it? What was the worst that could happen?
The Lake District was where she belonged. Her mother came from St Bees, and her father from Barrow, and they’d settled down halfway between, on the edge of Holmrook. They’d died within a year of each other, and her inheritance had paid off her mortgage. With hindsight, she understood that her bank account had appealed to Eoin more than she did. Thousands of pounds she’d loaned him, and she’d never see a penny back. Thank goodness she’d caught him out in a string of careless lies about what he was spending the money on before he bled her dry. No wonder she’d succumbed to depression.
Before getting ready for bed, she watched the national news, in the hope of an update about Nigel’s daughter. Nothing doing, but the regional bulletin covered the story. To Joanna’s disappointment, the snippet merely recappedthe item she’d seen in the morning. At least it gave her one more opportunity to admire Nigel as he addressed the camera.
He was being interviewed outside his front door. How well she remembered the Dungeon House, and how shocked she’d been, when she learnt he’d made it his home. You’d think that after what had happened … well, nobody could say it was a lucky house. Still, Nigel and his daughter seemed to have been happy enough there, despite the death of that woman he’d married. Happy, at least, until Shona had disappeared.
What must it feel like, to lose a child? Or to give birth to one, come to that? Joanna had never been the maternal type. If ever anyone hinted she must be disappointed not to have had kids, she insisted in all honesty that a family had never been high on her agenda. If the right man had come along, things might have been very different, but the men she’d slept with over the past twenty years had proved unreliable lovers, and would have made hopelessly unreliable fathers. Poor Nigel had been the best of them, by far. If only …
Who was that? Heart pumping, she froze the picture, and rewound for half a minute. Yes, she wasn’t mistaken. There he was, walking away in the corner of the picture, a brawny man in a black sweatshirt and denim jeans, opening the door of a van, and oblivious to the fact that he was in shot as the camera panned along the imposing façade of the Dungeon House. The van bore his name, but in any case, that walk of his, a sort of limp with a swagger, was unmistakable.
A ghost from the past.
Robbie Dean, oh my God.
Nigel’s oldest friend. The man who had killed Carrie North, and nearly all four of them. The man who had once put his bare hands around her throat when she’d discovered his shameful secret.
‘I need to talk to Cheryl,’ Hannah said.
‘Good luck with that.’ Daniel eased his hand under her top.
‘Hey, shouldn’t you be getting on with writing up your talk?’ They were on the sofa in the living room, with Ellie Goulding crooning in the background.
‘A job for tomorrow,’ he said, as his fingers began to explore. ‘Let’s take it easy this evening. If my brief encounters with Cheryl are anything to go by, you’ll find tomorrow hard work.’
‘You’re not kidding. She never liked me.’
‘Did she see you as a threat?’
‘Because I liked your Dad?’ she asked lazily. A delicate subject, this. Until now, they’d only ever skirted around it. ‘She had nothing to worry about. We were never more than friends. I didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and neither did he.’
‘He did meet Cheryl through work.’
‘Even so.’ She smiled as his hand slid up to her breast. ‘He certainly never did what you’re doing now. Cheryl struck me as insecure. Not her fault, necessarily.
People said you should never go back, that it was a mistake to try to recapture the happiness of youth, but Joanna thought they were wrong. If the present was bloody awful, why not chance it? What was the worst that could happen?
The Lake District was where she belonged. Her mother came from St Bees, and her father from Barrow, and they’d settled down halfway between, on the edge of Holmrook. They’d died within a year of each other, and her inheritance had paid off her mortgage. With hindsight, she understood that her bank account had appealed to Eoin more than she did. Thousands of pounds she’d loaned him, and she’d never see a penny back. Thank goodness she’d caught him out in a string of careless lies about what he was spending the money on before he bled her dry. No wonder she’d succumbed to depression.
Before getting ready for bed, she watched the national news, in the hope of an update about Nigel’s daughter. Nothing doing, but the regional bulletin covered the story. To Joanna’s disappointment, the snippet merely recappedthe item she’d seen in the morning. At least it gave her one more opportunity to admire Nigel as he addressed the camera.
He was being interviewed outside his front door. How well she remembered the Dungeon House, and how shocked she’d been, when she learnt he’d made it his home. You’d think that after what had happened … well, nobody could say it was a lucky house. Still, Nigel and his daughter seemed to have been happy enough there, despite the death of that woman he’d married. Happy, at least, until Shona had disappeared.
What must it feel like, to lose a child? Or to give birth to one, come to that? Joanna had never been the maternal type. If ever anyone hinted she must be disappointed not to have had kids, she insisted in all honesty that a family had never been high on her agenda. If the right man had come along, things might have been very different, but the men she’d slept with over the past twenty years had proved unreliable lovers, and would have made hopelessly unreliable fathers. Poor Nigel had been the best of them, by far. If only …
Who was that? Heart pumping, she froze the picture, and rewound for half a minute. Yes, she wasn’t mistaken. There he was, walking away in the corner of the picture, a brawny man in a black sweatshirt and denim jeans, opening the door of a van, and oblivious to the fact that he was in shot as the camera panned along the imposing façade of the Dungeon House. The van bore his name, but in any case, that walk of his, a sort of limp with a swagger, was unmistakable.
A ghost from the past.
Robbie Dean, oh my God.
Nigel’s oldest friend. The man who had killed Carrie North, and nearly all four of them. The man who had once put his bare hands around her throat when she’d discovered his shameful secret.
‘I need to talk to Cheryl,’ Hannah said.
‘Good luck with that.’ Daniel eased his hand under her top.
‘Hey, shouldn’t you be getting on with writing up your talk?’ They were on the sofa in the living room, with Ellie Goulding crooning in the background.
‘A job for tomorrow,’ he said, as his fingers began to explore. ‘Let’s take it easy this evening. If my brief encounters with Cheryl are anything to go by, you’ll find tomorrow hard work.’
‘You’re not kidding. She never liked me.’
‘Did she see you as a threat?’
‘Because I liked your Dad?’ she asked lazily. A delicate subject, this. Until now, they’d only ever skirted around it. ‘She had nothing to worry about. We were never more than friends. I didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and neither did he.’
‘He did meet Cheryl through work.’
‘Even so.’ She smiled as his hand slid up to her breast. ‘He certainly never did what you’re doing now. Cheryl struck me as insecure. Not her fault, necessarily.
Similar Books
