I gulp back my emotions, and turn back before Maddie can speak.
The cottages are a blur through the front windscreen, and I realise tears have filled my eyes. I cough, choking, as my larynx twists. I’d blocked this place out as best I could. Attempted to run from the memory.
‘You do know I’m sorry,’ Maddie says and I feel her move, and grip my seat. ‘That I didn’t mean—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I cut in.
I hear her flop back in her seat. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Fine.’
We sit in silence for some time, before the car door opens, and Dad jumps into the front seat, feathers of snow covering his hair and coat.
‘Ruth says we can pull up in front of the cottages for now.’ He starts the engine and drives towards Bluebell Cottage where Mum, Jackson and Lark had stayed last time. He stops outside the front door, and glances over his shoulder. ‘Right, let’s get you two in the warm.’
‘Thomas,’ Maddie says, shaking my brother to wake him. ‘We’re here.’
He opens his eyes. ‘Christ. Where are we – Narnia?’ He pushes his nose against the window, and takes a gulp of air. ‘When did we drive through a wardrobe?’
Maddie laughs.
‘We have seen better days,’ Thomas says, his voice suddenly low and level. He often quotes Shakespeare, since studying literature at university and getting a first-class master’s degree. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.’
Chapter 4
Present Day
Ruth
‘Finn!’ I call, heading into the kitchen. ‘We need to prepare the vegetables. I want this meal to be perfect.’ I pick up a small knife that once belonged to my mother, and begin peeling potatoes. ‘Finn!’
‘For God’s sake, Mum, give me time to get down the bloody stairs.’ He appears, lifts a stripy apron from the back of the kitchen door, and slips it over his head.
I look up at him and smile. He’s looking so much better than he did a year ago. He runs each morning before I get up, and every evening too. I reach up, stroke his hair – he suits it shorter – a tingle of satisfaction running through my body. He’s finally got over his wife’s affair. It took some doing but I’ve got my son back.
Finn picks up a peeler, begins stripping carrots with the speed and skill of a professional chef. I’ve taught him well. My daughter couldn’t carry the baton, but Finn is the next best thing. ‘So the guests are here?’ he says.
I nod. ‘They are Lark’s family. They hope to remember something.’
He catches his finger on the blade, and winces. ‘About the disappearance?’
‘Mmm. I’m not sure what they hope to achieve.’
Finn shrugs, glances through the window. ‘And the snow is getting deeper out there. They can hardly search the woods.’ He crosses the kitchen and grabs a blue plaster from a medical box. ‘This is going to be awkward. I mean do we mention what happened?’
‘We let them take the lead.’ I cut a peeled potato in half, and drop it into a saucepan of water with a splash. ‘Oh, and I had a call from Rosamund Green this morning. She should be here by dinnertime with her daughter.’
‘Really?’ He glances towards the kitchen window once more, his eyes narrowing. Snow rests on the frame, like a picture on a Christmas card. ‘Do the Taylors know she’s going to be staying here too? I mean Rosamund wasn’t exactly supportive when Lark went missing.’
I shrug. ‘I have no idea.’ I feel a smile stretch across my face. ‘But I can’t wait to see how it all unfolds.’
‘Well I for one am dreading it.’
I curl a tendril of hair behind my ear, noticing how grey I’m getting. ‘It will be fine, Finn,’ I say. ‘I’ll make sure everything is perfect.’
Chapter 5
A Year Ago
Amelia
They tried so hard to hide their sadness the day they arrived at Drummondale House a year ago, the sun warm on their backs as they headed across the cobbled car park.
Amelia clung on to her dad’s arm. To her, he’d always been strong. Her rock. The person she leaned on if her world fell apart: like the night she was dumped at the school prom by Joshua Williams, or the day she didn’t get that weekend job at Blockbuster she’d set her heart on.
Once, when she was little, her dad had appeared in the kitchen wearing green corduroy trousers that were slightly baggy at the knees, and an equally green cardigan. Amelia called him The Incredible Hulk, and her mum couldn’t stop laughing. She could never see what Amelia could see – called him a dusty historian. Maybe that’s why she left him for Jackson.
Today there was no sign of The Incredible Hulk. Her dad was struggling like the rest of them. This was to be her mum’s final holiday, and she’d gathered those she loved most in the Scottish Highlands.
As they strolled across the grass, Amelia released her dad’s arm. Her insides were a knot of sadness and anxiety, her eyes ached from tears she tried to hold back. But she knew, like everyone else on this ridiculous venture, that she had to make it the best holiday ever, for her mum’s sake.
‘You OK?’ she asked, looking up at her dad as they followed the rest of the family – six of them, and Maddie – towards Drummondale House reception.
He fiddled with the binoculars hanging around his neck – always a keen bird watcher – and shrugged, eyes shining. It was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t OK. He was losing the only woman he had ever loved to cancer, and he couldn’t even comfort and care for her, because Jackson bloody Cromwell had moved in on her a year ago – taken her from him.
Still, Amelia told herself, her mum must care for her dad. She wanted him to be there. She touched his arm. ‘We’ll get through this,’ she said. ‘For Mum.’
‘Well, it’s a tough one, and no mistaking.’ He rubbed his head with both hands, as though the action would scrub away the pain. ‘And if I’m honest, I don’t feel right being here. I don’t belong with your mum anymore.’
‘But she still loves you, in her own way.’
He shook his head.
‘You were together for over thirty years, Dad. You had three children together.’
‘Yes, but …’ He looked towards the cloudless sky, his brown eyes watery. ‘Bloody disease,’ he muttered, his voice cracking. He’d aged. His dark hair speckled with grey, the creases on his forehead deepened. Amelia leaned into him. Rested her head on his shoulder. Finding out her mum had terminal cancer had taken its toll on them all.
‘It’s crap,’ she said, looking towards Lark sitting cross-legged on the grass brushing a tear from her pale cheek. None of them were doing a good job of hiding their desperation. They needed to sort themselves out.
Lark looked so different to the last time Amelia saw her. Gone were the pale-blue dungarees, the high ponytail, her love of Justin Bieber. Today, she wore a flowing black dress, and black lace-up ankle boots. She was growing up fast, looked older than her seventeen years, her long blonde hair flowing down her back, her freckled cheeks masked by pale foundation, her lips painted red.
‘She’s refusing to go to university next year,’ her dad said, seeming to notice where Amelia’s eyes had landed.
‘Lark?’
He nodded. ‘She’s been so moody lately. I can’t get to the bottom of it.’
‘Mum’s dying,’ Amelia whispered. ‘She isn’t coping.’
Lark looked up, and caught Amelia’s eye across the expanse of grass. Her eyeliner had smudged beneath her eyes, and Amelia felt a pang of guilt that she rarely saw her anymore. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she said, turning back to her dad.
He nodded. ‘Me too.’
The rest of the family reached reception, and Lark got to her feet and shuffled towards them, head down.
‘We should probably go over,’ Amelia said. ‘Try to look happy.’
‘Yes, of course – chin up and all that.’
They rose and linked arms. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Amelia whispered.
As they approache
d, Jackson – who was only six years older than Amelia at thirty-six – had taken charge, and was in full voice.
‘It looks a bit small in there,’ he said, peering through the bay window into reception, one hand over his eyes to block out the sun. ‘I’ll go in and get the keys, shall I?’ He pushed his sandy-blond hair from his face with an exaggerated flick. ‘Then we can unpack,’ he went on. ‘Have a rest and freshen up before dinner. How does that sound?’
‘Good to see you taking charge,’ Amelia said with a roll of her eyes. This man walked in on my family and changed everything. She bit down on her lip. What right did she have to say anything? Her fleeting visits to the apartment Mum shared with him in Tweedmouth, brandishing huge bunches of flowers that only went some way towards easing her guilt, were hardly the act of a supportive daughter. She’d been a coward hiding in London, hoping a miracle would happen and she would never have to face the loss of her mother.
Her mum, who was holding on to Jackson’s arm, threw her a pleading look. She loved Jackson – Amelia knew that, even if she didn’t understand why. Yes she was still heartbroken that she’d left her dad, but this break wasn’t about Amelia. This was about her mum’s happiness – a happiness that would be cut short long before it should have been.
‘Sounds fine by me,’ Amelia said, and a lump rose in her throat as her mum smiled and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’
She let out a sigh, and looked away. How the hell was she – or any of them – going to get through the next few days?
Chapter 6
A Year Ago
Ruth
Ruth stood behind an antique reception desk, inquisitive grey eyes, like marbles, fixed on the couple entering. The woman looked familiar, though she couldn’t fathom why, but then Ruth had met so many people over the years – visitors to Drummondale House.
‘Good morning.’ She moulded her face into a welcoming smile, without showing her teeth. She didn’t like her teeth – far too small, her mother always said. ‘Welcome to Drummondale House.’
‘Hey there.’ The man was American, and exceptionally handsome. His face lit up in a smile. ‘I’m Jackson Cromwell, and this is my partner Caroline Taylor.’
Ruth’s guests fascinated her. The anticipation of discovering more about their lives was her only pleasure outside of cooking. They always arrived smiling because they were on holiday, hiding their faults and flaws, their quirks, and deepest troubles. But what was beneath their façades intrigued her. It was like finding hidden treasure when it revealed itself – always a delight to see that they were never quite as happy below their holiday sheen. No happier than she was.
Ruth had been here all her life. Her mother had owned this small part of the Drummondale estate, and her father before her.
‘Your great-grandfather won the land in a poker game from George Collis,’ her mother told her once. And now it was hers – a sizeable piece of land right smack bang in the middle of the Drummondale House estate. Her mother had used the land as a camping retreat until her death thirty-five years ago. She’d been an untrusting woman. ‘Ruth,’ she would say, ‘keep your eye on everyone you meet, and trust no one. Nobody’s really your friend.’ And Ruth followed her mother’s advice always. Apart from that one summer when she was seventeen, when he said he loved her – and she’d believed him.
‘It’s stunning here,’ Jackson continued, looking through the window, forcing Ruth from her memory. She couldn’t help staring at him. There was something about him that drew her in.
‘Aye, it is. A beautiful part of the country,’ she said.
‘He’s been on TV and on the Broadway stage.’ It was Caroline. ‘He did really well in the US.’
‘Sorry?’ Ruth moved her eyes from Jackson to Caroline. The woman was much older than he was, twenty years, probably, and wearing faded blue jeans, a thick jumper, and a powder-blue scarf around her head. Ruth didn’t need to be told this woman had cancer. Her cheeks were slightly bloated from steroids, and chemo had stolen her eyelashes, her eyebrows, the colour from her cheeks.
‘I thought you must have recognised him. You were staring.’
‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Ruth felt wrong-footed – her cheeks burned.
‘Don’t worry,’ Caroline continued with a small laugh. ‘He’s a bit of a head-turner. I’m used to it.’
Ruth held her smile, but desperately wanted to hide her face. She certainly couldn’t recall seeing Jackson on TV, but there was no doubting he had the kind of look people noticed, the kind of eyes – green with flecks of hazel – that could ignite a fire inside you – something that hadn’t happened to Ruth in a very long while.
Caroline picked up a pen. ‘So where do I sign?’ she said, her eyes fixed on Ruth, as though taking her in.
‘If you could write your name in the register please, and the names of your party, and their relationship to you.’ Ruth didn’t need all that information, but it helped her get to know her guests better. She unbuttoned and rebuttoned her cardigan as she watched Caroline write, her handwriting distinctive, flamboyant swirling and curling on the page:
Caroline Taylor
Jackson Cromwell (partner)
Robert Taylor (ex-husband)
Amelia Taylor (daughter)
Lark Taylor (daughter)
Thomas Taylor (son)
Maddie Jenkins (son’s carer)
Ruth couldn’t help but notice what a complicated setup it was, with Caroline’s ex-husband being with them, and a fizz of excitement ran through her. This could get interesting.
Caroline placed the pen on the register, and straightened her back, letting out a little gasp, as though the job had exhausted her.
‘Thank you.’ Ruth picked up the pen, put it in a wooden pot, and closed the register. ‘You have the weather on your side. Eighteen degrees in late November is almost unheard of around these parts. We normally have snow by now.’
‘Yes, it’s beautiful out there,’ Jackson agreed, as Ruth reached behind her and unhooked two sets of keys from a small rack. ‘It’s so peaceful too. I’m sure we’ll have a relaxing stay.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Ruth glanced at Caroline, who had moved towards the window, and now had her back to her.
‘Bluebell Cottage, the largest dwelling, is next to the ruins,’ Ruth continued. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage is on the far side, backing onto the forest. There are some lovely walks down to the sea, with stunning views you’ll love.’ She placed the keys in Jackson’s outstretched hand and smiled. ‘But do be careful if you go into the woods after dark. It’s easy to get lost and end up on the cliff edge.’
‘Thanks,’ Jackson said, once Ruth had told him dinner would be served in the conservatory at seven, and breakfast at eight the following morning.
‘The electric gates are the only way in or out of the site. They open automatically if you want to leave, and there’s a wee code on the key ring to get you back in again after dark.’
‘Great. We saw a quaint little pub about ten miles down the road, didn’t we, Caroline? We might head there one evening.’
‘It all sounds lovely, Ruth,’ Caroline said, turning from the window. ‘I can’t think of a better place to be.’
‘Have a good day,’ Jackson said, and Caroline gripped hold of his arm as they made their way through the door and out into the bright afternoon.
‘Shall I get your wheelchair from the car, darling?’ he asked her.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, as the door closed behind them.
Through the window, Ruth watched as the family met up again. And as they chattered, she studied their faces, wondering who they all were. She suspected the tall man in his fifties was probably the ex-husband as he looked moody and out of place. The young man in the wheelchair was perhaps the son, Thomas Taylor, and the pretty woman with shiny black hair pushing him, was perhaps his carer, Maddie. She studied the pretty teenage girl dressed in black – unsmiling – her arms wrapped around herself, as though if she let go she would fall apart. S
he reminded Ruth of Kyla, and she wanted to take the girl in her arms and squeeze.
The door leading to the back of the cottage opened, and Ruth startled. She spun round. ‘Finn.’
His light brown hair, parted in the middle, hung limply to his shoulders. His grey tracksuit bottoms were misshapen at the knees, and his black AC/DC sweatshirt stretched too tightly across his chest. She had to admit he’d lost his looks since he returned home. But he was better off without her. Better at home with his mother. Better away from his wicked wife. And now Ruth was dependent on his company again – she could turn to him when black moods invaded – when memories flooded in. It was good to have him home where he belonged.
She glanced back at the window. Jackson and his group were walking across the grass towards the cottages – she wished they would use the path.
‘The big group has just checked in,’ she told Finn. ‘Three more guests are arriving tomorrow from the same party.’ She placed her hands flat on the counter – hands she felt gave her age away. Despite her ritual of applying hand cream night and morning, these hands – her hands – told the world she was in her late fifties. That she’d had a difficult life. Maybe if she kept them tucked in her cardigan pockets she could pass for fifty. She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter how old she was, not really. She could never get back what she’d lost. ‘We’ll meet them all at dinner,’ she said.
Finn opened the door to the back of the house once more, and the aroma of the pork joint sizzling in the oven hit Ruth’s senses. There was only one vegetarian this time, and Ruth had prepared a small broccoli and tomato quiche for her that morning. ‘Talking of dinner,’ she went on, following Finn through the door, ‘let’s peel the veg together, shall we?’
I Lie in Wait: A gripping new psychological crime thriller perfect for fans of Ruth Ware! Page 3