Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

“Hello, Jules. How are you?”

Jules Bright didn’t answer. These days she wasn’t used to unexpected visitors ringing the doorbell; if they did, it was usually someone to read one of the meters, or young hopefuls collecting for a worthy cause. She was always polite to the former and gave generously to the latter, but friendly though she was, she never invited anyone in if she could help it. In truth, she didn’t think anyone wanted to come in. Not because they were scared of her, or any nonsense like that; she was sure they just didn’t want to get caught in conversation with her. No one ever knew what to say. She had to admit that she didn’t either.

There had been a time when every day was filled with people seeking her out for one reason or another. Sometimes simply for a good laugh, or maybe sympathy for some troubles, the sharing of secrets, breaking of confidences, gleeful horror over the latest scandal . . . Her door had always been open. Not this one; she’d lived somewhere else back then, when her world had been full of people, music, rowdy applause, the clinking of glasses, and cheers for whichever team they were supporting that day.

So who was this woman at the door of the home she had now, tall, dark-­haired, with aqua-­green eyes that tilted at the corners toward a subtle but quite arresting beauty? Her smile was making Jules want to smile, although there was something hesitant about it, as though she was worried about intruding, or perhaps she didn’t really have anything to smile about.

Jules knew she should recognize her. The certainty of it was climbing all over her memory trying to find the right images to rouse from the shadows, but so far unsuccessfully.

Then out of nowhere it came to her that this woman used to wear black-­rimmed glasses and her hair was usually severely scraped back, as though she’d been trying to hide her beauty, or at least downplay it. No glasses today, and a glossy abundance of curls tumbled around her collar and slender face.

Suddenly the mental Googling hit the right link and Jules’s heartbeat slowed as her smile both formed and drained.

She liked this woman a lot; there was a time when she’d felt she was the only person she could trust. She just hadn’t imagined, once it was all over, that she’d ever see her again. Or not here, knocking on this door.

“It’s Andee,” the woman told her. “Andee Lawrence.”

Jules nodded. The name had come back in the instant it was being said. Detective Constable Andrea Lawrence—­but please call me Andee. Hadn’t she been promoted since Jules had known her? Jules was sure she had, and was now stationed locally, in Kesterly.

Why was she here?

“How are you?” Jules asked quietly.

“I’m fine. And you?”

Jules shrugged. No one expected her to be fine, so she often didn’t bother to pretend.

“May I come in?” Andee asked gently.

Jules stood aside to let her pass, not quite able to summon a stronger voice yet, if she was even looking for one. She was too stunned—­and anxious, and curious; she might even be slightly afraid.

There was nothing to be afraid of, she reminded herself as she led the way into a spacious open-­plan kitchen area at the back of the house she now called home. It was a modern three-­bed detached, on a street named the Risings, which was shaped like a banjo with two rows of semis lining the neck and fingerboard of the road in, and five individual properties forming the head around a central green. Her house was at twelve o’clock on the green. To continue with the banjo simile, overhead British Telecom and power cables formed some random strings, though there was nothing musical about them. Where the instrument’s tailpiece would have been, however, was a quaint iron footbridge nestling among trees and crossing the stream that ran its tuneful way through Jules’s back garden.

She caught Andee Lawrence casting a subtle look around the room and wondered what she might be making of this modest new abode with its shiny black and white kitchen, natural pine dining table for six, and faux-­marble fireplace with gas fire and lava logs. It was a fraction of the size of Jules’s previous home, had none of the period features, and could boast nothing more than a postage stamp of a garden. However, Jules was comfortable here; it was an easy home to take care of, since bits didn’t randomly fall off the ceiling the way they had in the previous place, pipes didn’t burst, jackdaw nests didn’t clog up the chimneys, and there was no whimsical ghost floating about in the wee small hours.

How she missed that ghost, and sometimes wondered if the ghost missed her too, mischievous little minx that she’d been. She had other people to tease now, although Jules didn’t think she bothered.

Had she ever told Andee about the ghost?

She doubted it; they’d had other things to talk about at the time.

“Can I get you some tea?” she offered, going to the kettle. “I have all sorts.”

“How about peppermint?” Andee suggested, unfastening the smart cream leather jacket that had clearly cost her quite a bit, and draping it over the back of a dining chair.

Jules owned classy, expensive clothes too, but she hardly ever wore them now. She had no place to go that called for them. Not that she’d let herself go; she really didn’t want to do that, though there were times when she felt so drained, so lacking in purpose, even life, that it surely could only have been habit that drove her to make herself up in the morning and do the necessary to keep the gray from her hair. Despite what she felt, others would describe her as an attractive woman, tall, a little too slim, with the kind of boyish frame that meant clothes usually looked good on her. Her fine, straight hair was raven dark, and sometimes fell loosely around her shoulders, or was scrunched up in a knot at the back of her head. Not so long ago she’d had the liveliest brown eyes, with spiky dark lashes and such a readiness for compassion or humor that she almost always seemed to be empathizing or laughing or simply taking an interest in whatever was happening in that moment. Her eyes were different now—­the same color, just a sadder, more cautious version of what they used to be. As for her age, since she’d been blessed with the kind of complexion that made her seem much younger than her years, she still looked under forty in spite of all she’d been through.

Once, her spirit, her joie de vivre, had seemed as inextinguishable as a joke candle, an inner flame that just wouldn’t stop burning . . .

Until one day it did.

“You’re looking well,” Andee commented, leaning back in her chair.

“Thank you,” Jules replied, in her faint but unmistakable West Country burr. “Out of interest, how did you find me?”

“I went to the pub.”

Of course; it would have been the easiest way. “Are you still with the police? You didn’t use your rank just now.”

“I quit, about a year ago.”

The answer surprised Jules, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

“I never really felt cut out for it,” Andee admitted. “I mean, I always took it seriously and gave it my best, but I . . . Let’s just say I reached a point where I felt I needed a change.”

“You mean you needed to get away from the ugly side of life?”

Andee didn’t deny it. Why would she when, in Jules’s opinion, no one in their right mind would want to spend their days confronting the hatred, violence, and evil that seemed so large a part of today’s world? Not that this town had an especially high crime rate; in fact, it was one of the reasons people moved here, to get away from unwholesome inner cities. Although it had to be said that Kesterly-­on-­Sea could boast some terrible stories of its own. Now Jules came to think of it, the last time she’d heard news of Andee was about a year ago when a teenage girl had gone missing from a caravan park over at Paradise Cove. Detective Sergeant Andee Lawrence had led the search. So she had been promoted since the time Jules had known her, and apparently she had moved to Kesterly.

Though the missing girl had been found, the circumstances would have been hard for Andee, Jules realized, for Andee’s sister had vanished when she was in her teens and had never been traced.

Imagine that, never knowing what had happened to someone you loved.

Could it be worse than knowing? That clearly depended on what there was to know.