What if everything you knew was a lie…

This house has a past that won’t stay hidden, and it is time for the dead to speak.

Returning to Number 17, Coronation Square, Edie is shocked to find the place she remembers from childhood reeks of mould and decay. After her aunt Dolly’s death Edie must clear out the home on a street known for five vicious murders many years ago, but under the dirt and grime of years of neglect lurk dangerous truths.

For in this dark house there is misery, sin and dark secrets that can no longer stay hidden. The truth must come out.

Finding herself dragged back into the horrific murders of the past, Edie must find out what really happened all those years ago. But as Edie uncovers the history of the family she had all but forgotten, she begins to wonder if sometimes it isn’t best to leave them buried.

An unforgettable and addictive story, perfect for fans of Lesley Thomson, Diane Chamberlain and Tracy Buchanan.

Praise for ANN TROUP

‘Atmospheric, haunting and quite dark’ – Book Boodle

‘An unusual, beautifully written mystery.’ – The Disorganised Author

‘A fabulous book that gripped me and left me wanting more!’ –- Compelling Reads

‘You won't spot the twists and turns coming and they will keep you on the edge of your seat!! You just won't want to put this book down until you find out what happens at the end!’ – Becky Lock

‘Very fascinating, mysterious novel with secrets and twists hiding behind every page’ – Reviewed the Book

‘Captivating debut novel’ – Crime Fiction Lover

‘I thoroughly recommend this book to anyone who loves a mystery and a bit of intrigue, I would say it is on a par with the brilliant Lynda La Plante’ – Sincerely Book Angels

Also by Ann Troup

The Lost Child

The Silent Girls

Ann Troup

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Ann Troup 2016

Ann Troup asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474046794

Version date: 2018-09-20

ANN TROUP

tells tales and can always make something out of nothing (which means she writes books and can create unique things from stuff other people might not glance twice at). She was once awarded 11 out of 10 for a piece of poetry at school – and now holds that teacher entirely responsible for her inclination to write.

Her writing process is governed first by the fine art of procrastination, a field in which she is outstanding. Once that phase is complete, she knuckles down and writes, completely abandoning the careful plans made during the procrastination phase. At some point a story emerges and after a bit of tweaking and a re-acquaintance with the concepts of grammar, punctuation and the myriad glories of the English language, she is surprised to find that she has written a book!

Her writing space is known as ‘the empty nest’, having formerly been her daughter’s bedroom. She shares this space with ten tons of junk and an elderly West Highland Terrier who is her constant companion whether she likes it or not. He likes to contribute to the creative process by falling asleep on top of her paperwork and running away with crucial Post-it notes, which have inadvertently become stuck to his fur. She is thinking of renaming him Gremlin.

She lives by the sea in Devon with her husband and said dog. Two children have been known to remember the house which they call home, but mainly when they are in need of a decent roast dinner, it’s Christmas or when only Mum will do.

In a former incarnation she was psychiatric nurse, an experience that frequently informs her writing and which supplies a never-ending source of inspiration.

You can contact Ann on Facebook, at anntroup.wordpress.com or follow her on Twitter @TroupAnn

My thanks to the ever lovely, supportive and brilliant team at HQ Digital – may your days be filled with more chocolate and less emails. Gratitude to book blogger extraordinaire Sophie Hedley for her generosity to good causes and for allowing me the privilege of borrowing her name (I’m afraid my Sophie is just a mite less ladylike and lovely…)

My immense appreciation to every single blogger, reviewer, fellow author and reader who has supported me, shared their enthusiasm for my writing and indulged me in this most lovely of occupations, I will never stop being bowled over by you.

Finally a pre-emptive apology, I took a few liberties with jurisprudence in this one, but hey, it’s a novel not a text book and I hope I’ll be forgiven for that (and the bad language - sorry mum).

For Tom and Ellie.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

Tuesday 8th September 1964

On Tuesday 8th September 1964, the State hanged John Bastin for the brutal murder of five women.

While his wife and child stood outside the prison gates waiting for the execution bell to toll, a distraught young woman took a coal shovel and beat a man to death. She brought it down again and again, slicing through cloth and flesh and hitting bone as her victim squirmed and cowered under the torrent of blows. Finally his movements ceased and all that remained was the battered pulp of his body and a glistening ooze of blood. The woman felt no sense of regret, even though she paused to feel for it. All she could locate was the heightened pulse of her adrenaline-fuelled heart and the sound of quiet sobbing from the woman beside her.

‘Oh Jesus! What have you done?’ the other woman cried. Her words were loaded with fear and whistled out through her misery like the thin strain of a battered bugle.

The woman looked at the blood-gored shovel and noticed that her heart rate had started to slow into a dull, regular thump. She glanced at the body and prodded it with the toe of her shoe, bristling at the realisation that some of his filthy blood had stained the leather. ‘The right thing, that’s what.’ She could feel nothing but relief now that the nightmare was over.

She turned to the woman she had believed was her friend and said the words exactly as she meant them. ‘You owe me for this.’

There was no such thing as a favour that didn’t have to be repaid and she had a clear price. The other woman glanced down at the dead man, and then at her own ruined body. She paid her debt four months later.

Chapter One

August 2010

At first glance Coronation Square didn’t seem to have changed much in over thirty years; it still had its postage stamp patch of green in the middle and still boasted its tall Victorian houses on all four sides. It still looked blowsy and overdone, and it still had a baleful air that marked it out as somewhere to be wary of. On closer inspection, Edie could see that things had altered – the square had faded like an old rose and its previously respectable veneer had degenerated into a flimsy, fragile facade.

As she walked past the buildings she noticed the addition of new doorbells, up to six per house, each one bearing a flimsy weather faded label that left people none the wiser as to who might live there. Old family homes had been carved up, mutating into flats and bedsits to house a cheapskate, shifting population. The street drinkers and off duty prostitutes made a desultory change from the sherry sipping matriarchs who had twitched their net curtains and traded in gossip. Edie remembered them well and shuddered at the thought.

Number 17 was just as it always had been, and as familiar to Edie as looking back at her own childhood face in photographs. The house stood out like a rotten tooth, seedy and discoloured from neglect, ancient blue paint flaked from the window frames and peeled in curling sheets from the front door. The brass knocker hung precariously from a single remaining screw, the metal pockmarked and dulled by years of inattention. Edie regarded the whole place with a reluctance that sat like a brooding gargoyle at the centre of her being. This was not a visit she would have chosen to make had she not been forced to by circumstances, and the state of the house represented everything that she felt about her extended family – neglected, old-fashioned, out of kilter and more than a little embarrassing. The Morris family would never have been singled out for the voracity of their housekeeping or their ability to embrace change. Edie doubted that the Morris family would have been singled out for much, though she might have won the prize for most inept midlife crisis, most acrimonious divorce and person never likely to amount to much (if anyone had held a competition).

Not that any of it mattered, she had arrived and there was work to do. To her surprise the old key worked perfectly and gave her easy entry into a cluttered, dingy, pungent past.

The first thing she did was open the kitchen window to dissipate the foetid air; the second was to ring her sister. ‘Hey, it’s me, I’m here.’

‘Oh God, how bad is it?’ Rose asked, her voice laden with false concern. They both knew that she couldn’t have cared less, so long as she didn’t have to deal with it.

Edie surveyed her surroundings, she had perched herself on the edge of a rickety chair and from there she could see only a fraction of the desuetude that had beset the house. Grease had trickled and congealed on the walls and mould had started to mount an onslaught in neglected corners. It looked like Aunt Dolly hadn’t deigned to lift a cloth in some time. ‘A combination of Steptoe’s front yard and 10 Rillington Place springs to mind, and that’s just based on the smell. It’s bad Rose, really bad.’

‘Oh Lord, I wasn’t sure what it would be like. Are you sure you can do this on your own?’

Edie sighed, Rose’s feigned empathy was a constant source of irritation. ‘There isn’t much choice, you can’t help and there isn’t anyone else.’ Rose was about to embark on a month long cruise with her husband – a long awaited trip that couldn’t be put aside, even for the death of a relative. ‘I can’t see this place fetching much; it will need gutting and half rebuilding looking at the state of it. Is anyone going to want to take it on?’

‘Someone will, the property prices in that area of Winfield are going through the roof. It’s up and coming, Edie, someone’s going to get an absolute bargain.’

Edie thought about the one stop shop, the street drinkers and the bedsits. ‘That someone will need to have a lot of vision then. Rose, should we feel bad that we let it go on so long, should we have done more?’ Edie hadn’t set foot in the house since 1980 when it had been untidy and in need of a clean, but not on the point of ruin. She had been a child then, and how people lived hadn’t been her primary concern. At that age she had been preoccupied by ponies that she would never own and contemplating a career as an air hostess, not worrying about how her strange relatives chose to live their lives. It had been a nice age, a time to have fantasies, a time to be unaffected by the knowledge that ponies were expensive manure producing machines and that air hostesses were just glorified waitresses. Reality always bit eventually.

‘How could we have known? She never told us how bad things were, I used to phone her once a month and she never said a word. I suppose we could have done more, but how were we to know?’ Rose was being unusually generous in her use of the word ‘we’ – Edie had never phoned or ever checked in on her elderly aunt to pass the time of day, she had been too busy having a life. Now she wasn’t, and this hasty, unwanted task felt like too little done too late. ‘Do you think there is much of any value in there?’ Rose asked.

Edie looked around again. ‘I have no idea, most of it looks like junk at the moment, and filthy junk at that. But I’ll sort through it and let you know.’ Rose wasn’t being greedy, Dolly Morris had died with debts and the money had to come from somewhere. Being executor of this particular will came with responsibilities, not benefits.

‘Will you go to the funeral?’

‘I suppose I should, I’m taking apart her life and selling it for scrap, it would seem mercenary not to.’ Edie said, wondering if Simon felt the same obligation to her now that their house was in the process of being sold and their property was being divided. She doubted it, his only obligation seemed to be to himself these days. ‘I know one thing though, we’ll have shares in Lever by the time I’m finished, I may well make a dent in the European bleach mountain tackling this mess.’

Rose laughed. Edie asked her how she was feeling. There had been some complaining about a twisted ankle that Rose worried might ruin the cruise.

‘Sore and bored. Evan is being good though, helping out, and the girls are calling in every day. I might die of the boredom though. I can’t wait until we leave.’ Of course Evan was being good, he was the kind of husband who would be. Rose’s daughters were pretty perfect too; they had stayed close to home and close to their mother. Sometimes Edie envied her sister that perfect family. She thought of her own child, made in his father’s image and doing his own thing ten thousand miles away, and of her home being sold, all her things and furniture packed up in crates and boxes which were sitting in a storage unit. Gah! She needed to get over herself, at this rate she would end up just like Dolly had, sick and lonely in a house that held the bones of the past like an ossuary for the forgotten.

‘I doubt that Rose, give it a few weeks on that cruise and you’ll be back better than before.’

‘Well I’ll try and enjoy myself, though it will be hard thinking of you tackling this great big mess. Good luck with the clear out.’ Her tone was full of sympathy, which grated on Edie like sandpaper being dragged over her skin. It was pointless saying anything. Rose was going on her trip regardless. Edie had pulled the short straw and had to live with it.

‘Thanks, I might need it.’ Edie ended the call with the usual niceties and turned to contemplate her task. Good sense dictated that she try and make the kitchen semi hygienic first, she would be staying a while and she would need to eat. The prospect of food poisoning wasn’t pleasant and by the look of it several new life forms were breeding in the kitchen. She daren’t dwell on the thought too long for fear of throwing up at the horrors that her imagination might conjure, let alone the ones that faced her in in the filthy kitchen.

A quick survey of the cupboards told her that Dolly hadn’t been a fan of cleaning products; a tin of petrified Vim and a dribble of disinfectant weren’t going to cut it. Neither was the rock hard, blackened cloth that was welded to the waste pipe. It was time to go to the one stop shop and stock up.

If old Mrs Vale (the terrifying matriarch that still loomed large in her memory) had still owned the shop Edie’s basket would have raised questions. The copious quantities of cleaning products and three rolls of black bags would have garnered curiosity, and in an hour the whole square would have known that Edie Byrne was clearing out the Morris house. On this occasion the gum-chewing girl behind the till didn’t show a flicker of interest, and barely looked up when Edie paid. Edie guessed that Dolly’s fate was no one’s business and nobody’s concern these days. There was something to be said for net curtain twitchers, they missed little and would never have allowed an old lady to lie for days at the bottom of the stairs with a broken hip – she had lain there so long that she had died helpless and alone. Dolly’s plight had been noticed not by her neighbours, but by a persistent meter reader determined to do his job, even if it did mean peering in through dirty windows and discovering dead old women. Every time she thought of it, Edie felt a flush of guilt – Dolly’s lonely death had been inevitable simply because no one had cared, and she was one of the few who had been obliged to.

She lugged her shopping bags back across the square, using the central garden as a short cut. There had been a time when the garden had been a pleasant place where kids could play. It seemed to be the haunt of the druggies and drunks now, if the litter of cans and needles were evidence of anything. As she approached the gate opposite number seventeen, she spied a group of people congregated outside the house and listening rapt as a man lectured them. He was pointing at the main drain in the road at the front of the house.

‘Sally Pollett had been missing for four days when the residents of number fifteen called in the water board to complain that the drain was blocked and that an awful smell was pervading the street. When the workmen arrived and pulled up the manhole cover, they discovered her remains wedged into the shaft and starting to decay. She had been strangled, her underwear forced into her throat and her hair sheared off. Her female organs had been mutilated while she was still alive. It was the last in a string of murders which rocked the borough of Winfield.’ The man announced his tale with dramatic flair, his voice wringing every drop of shock and horror that it could from the story.

The group blocked Edie’s path, she edged up to them and lingered on the fringes, catching the attention of a man with a camera. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘Murder tour, we’re visiting the sites where all of John Bastin’s victims were found.’ he said in a thick West Country accent. ‘Done ‘em all now. Ripper tour in London, ghost tour in Edinburgh and now Winfield. It’s dead interesting.’

Edie’s presence had caught the attention of the tour guide. ‘Excuse me madam, would you mind stepping back, the tour is for paying customers only.’

Edie bristled, ‘Happy to, if you could move your paying customers away from the front of my house. Or do I get a cut of the profits from your tawdry tour?’

The man looked indignant and chivvied his entourage towards the gardens, where he explained that the naked body of Elizabeth Rees had been found, laid out on a park bench for all to see.

Edie felt inordinately irked by the presence of the group and their macabre interest in Winfield’s darker history. She had little issue with ghost tours and Ripper tours, they were based in a period that no one living could remember, but the Winfield murders had happened only fifty years before. Relatives of the victims were still living in the area, or at least had been when she was a child. Mrs Campion who lived at Number 15 had been Dolly’s neighbour, and both had been friends of Sally Pollett. It couldn’t be right that people should profit from such recent tragedies.

By the time Edie had rested her heavy bags in the porch and had found the key, the group were milling around the garden taking photographs. The man in charge was staring at her, not with hostility, but curiosity. Edie shrugged and turned her back to him, but not without noticing that she was also being watched from next door. It seemed that at least one of the net curtain twitchers was alive and kicking, and still surveying her demesne from behind an anonymous veil of greying lace.

It took three hours to clear the kitchen of its clutter, and a further two just to clean it. By the time she had finished Edie had two black sacks full of out of date food, including tins of things that might be museum pieces if they hadn’t been so rusty and rimed with age. Some of the items she had consigned to the rubbish were artefacts of social history, but too far gone to be of any value or interest. A silver tea service, black with tarnish but complete with the original tray might be worth something and had been consigned to a box for further consideration and cleaning. Alongside it lay a variety of storage tins, possibly of interest to collectors of vintage kitsch and tawdry paraphernalia. There had been a ton of them, but some still contained detritus of dubious origin, which had turned Edie’s stomach and it had been too much trouble to attempt to salvage the tins.

The huge metal teapot – beloved of Dolly, and her mother before her – had been consigned to the bin. Edie couldn’t face a cup of anything brewed inside its tannin lacquered innards and settled instead for a tea bag in a chipped coronation mug, filled with water from the ancient enamel kettle which still functioned, though it had lost its whistle long ago. Edie was weary from her labours, but satisfied that she had made a dent and brought a measure of civilisation back to the proceedings. At least she knew she was less likely to contract something systemically untenable from the kitchen. The toilet had to be her next port of call and by the look of it anything might be mutating in there. It had received a whole bottle of bleach a few hours before and she hoped the substance would live up to its claims and kill ninety-nine percent of all known germs, though she could hazard a guess that Dolly had nurtured a few million as yet uncharted by biology. At this stage it was tempting to just cordon everything off with biohazard tape and throw petrol on it. Unfortunately it wasn’t an option; arson wouldn’t pay the debts. The debts were a puzzle, there had been no evidence that Dolly had been short of money, yet she had released equity from the house and left it mortgaged to the hilt. There was even less evidence of where the money had gone. It certainly hadn’t been spent on the high life or home improvements.

At five o clock Edie started to feel hungry and contemplated revisiting the shop in search of food. A quick glance in Dolly’s dusty hall mirror told her that she would probably need a bath and a change before venturing out. The grime of the kitchen had transferred itself to her and she ran the risk of being picked up for vagrancy if seen in public in that state. She had yet to assess the condition of the upstairs bathroom and dreaded what she might find. Halfway up the stairs her progress was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

A young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, stood on the doorstep. She surveyed Edie’s dishevelled state with utter disdain but delivered her message anyway. ‘Nan says to ask if you are Rose or Edie.’

‘I’m Edie, why?’

‘Nan says if you’re one of them you’re to come round for a cup of tea.’

Edie was taken aback, ‘That’s very kind of your nan, but it’s really not necessary.’

‘Nan said you would say that, and told me to tell you to wind your neck in and do as you were told and that Beattie would have tanned your hide for being so rude.’ The girl said it as if she had rehearsed her speech thoroughly. ‘Who’s Beattie?’ she added as an afterthought.

Edie smiled, ‘Beattie was my nan, and she was twice as terrifying as yours. Tell Lena I’ll be round in twenty minutes. And tell her I said thank you.’

The girl nodded and made to turn away, ‘So, what’s your name?’ Edie asked.

‘Georgia.’ the girl said as she flitted back down the front steps.

So, Lena Campion was still alive and more than likely the quiet observer behind the lace. Edie remembered her well, but had forgotten the neighbourliness that would make a person invite a virtual stranger to tea. Perhaps it was an artefact of the days when Coronation Square had been the kind of place where no one locked their door and there had been a lively trade in bartered cups of sugar and shillings for the meter. Edie shrugged off the reverie and returned to the task of cleaning herself up, dwelling on the past could serve no useful purpose.

The bathroom was just as bad as everywhere else and even ten minutes of scouring couldn’t bring the bath up to any acceptable shade of white, but Edie figured it was clean, if not attractive. A tepid, shallow bath was run from the worryingly ancient hot water heater that needed a match to light it and a prayer to stop it from exploding. Edie wondered that Dolly had survived at all, alone in such a house; it seemed booby trapped by antiquity and liable to be the death of someone sooner or later.

At six twenty-five she had managed some semblance of humanity again and set off to Lena’s for the promised tea.

In juxtaposition to Number 17, Lena’s house had always been a riot of family life. People drifted in and out at will and there were always children haring about. A pot of fresh tea was always on the go. It seemed quieter now and there was no sign of the girl Georgia, but Lena hadn’t changed in the thirty-five years since Edie had last been in her company. She was a little more bent, softer around the middle and her face was lined, but her personality hadn’t altered a bit. Her tilted smile of welcome was wry and gave some indication that the loud mouthed matriarch of old was still fully present.

‘Sit yourself down.’ Lena said, indicating a chair to the side of a cloth covered table. The seating was marked out by the addition of place mats showing ‘scenes of old Winfield’, scenes that Edie couldn’t remember. Winfield as a verdant residential paradise was long before her time. She did as she was told and sat, smiling her thanks at the old woman. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me round, I wasn’t sure if anyone who knew Dolly would still be living around here.’

Lena hauled the huge teapot over the bone china mugs and poured expertly, a thin stream of golden liquid releasing its enticing perfume as it hit the china. Lena was so adept at this ritual that she could complete it without a drop being dribbled or splashed onto the white linen cloth beneath. As Edie watched she knew that she would never be able to achieve the same, everything would have been sullied if left in her hands.

‘Well, I think I might be the last, they’ve almost all gone one way or the other.’ Lena said, setting the pot down as if it weighed no more than a piece of fine blown glass. ‘So, you just back for the funeral then?’

Edie tried to smile but couldn’t. ‘That, and I’m here to clear out the house and put it up for sale,’ she said.

Lena froze for a moment and stiffened, the milk jug held in mid-air. ‘Sell?’

‘I’m afraid so. She had a little bit in the bank, but not enough to pay all the debts she had.’

‘Couldn’t one of you girls have lived with her and helped her? It’s what we did in my day, I looked after my mother until the day she died and Dolly looked after your grandmother until she died.’ Lena said. A little judgmentally if Edie were honest.

A brief respite, brought about by the questions of milk and sugar, allowed Edie to think about her response. ‘Perhaps we should have, but I haven’t seen her since I was a kid. Rose and I thought things were fine, Dolly never said otherwise. We didn’t know how bad things had got.’ Even to Edie’s ears it sounded like a litany of excuses, the timbre of her guilt making her want to run from Lena’s censure.

Lena stirred her tea and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Just thought I’d be gone before the square was. I thought Dolly would be the last one standing, not me. I’d like to say that you could move in next door and keep the old place ticking, but it’s beyond that, I know. I’ve been nagging her for years to sort the place out but after Dickie died she just lost heart for it. I tried to help her as much as I could, but in recent months she wouldn’t even answer the door to me, just cut me out completely, it’s like she lived her life in the past. She hardly left the house by the end and I feel so bad that I didn’t know that she was hurt.’

There was such a look of sorrow and worry on Lena’s face that Edie felt compelled to reach out and squeeze the old lady’s hand. ‘You were friends for such a long time.’ she said.

Lena looked away from her and surreptitiously wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron. ‘We were. Me and Dolly, the scourge of Winfield, your uncle Dickie trailing in our wake.’ She laughed and shook her head as if to shake off her memories. ‘All gone now though.’

Edie thought about Dolly’s twin for a moment. Dickie had been the Boo Radley of Coronation Square, a ubiquitous yet quiet presence, unobtrusive but powerful nonetheless. He had died five years before; Edie hadn’t gone to his funeral and felt sad about that now. Sad that Dolly hadn’t told Rose until it was too late. Edie didn’t even know where he’d been cremated, or whether there was a memorial, no one had ever mentioned one. Dickie had been a sweet man and had deserved better, from everyone. ‘Things change,’ she said.

Lena looked at her. ‘Aye, they do, and not always for the better.’

They were quiet for a moment as both sipped their tea, though Edie was acutely aware that Lena was studying her intently. Eventually Lena broke the silence. ‘What was you shouting about, out in the street earlier? I was watching you through the curtains.’

‘I thought it might be you. I was having a go at that bloody man about running his murder tours on the doorstep.’

‘Hmmmm. Won’t do you any good, he’s been running them for a few years now and they’re very popular. We can’t stop him.’

‘It seems somewhat insensitive, given that you still live here, and well, you know…’

Lena pushed her cup away and sat back in her chair. ‘It makes no difference. We’ve lived with the legacy of those murders for all these years, him rubbing our faces in it won’t make much difference.’

‘I find it pretty shocking that anybody would.’ Edie said.

‘Ah well, I expect he has his reasons.’

Edie was about to argue about what those reasons might be when the front door slammed making her jump.

‘That’ll be Sam.’ Lena said, hauling herself to her feet. ‘I’d best get another cup.’

Edie watched her waddle into the kitchen and braced herself for the re-acquaintance with Sam. She had forgotten about him until Lena had said his name. Somewhere in her mind were vivid memories of a boy prone to pulling hair and bullying little girls, a boy she’d had a huge crush on if she remembered correctly. The Sam she could recall had managed to turn a simple game of hide and seek into a terrifying blood sport, calling it Murder in the Dark and scaring her witless. She was still smiling at the memory when he walked in.

‘Bloody hell, Edie Morris!’

‘Hello Sam, and it’s Edie Byrne now. How are you, still terrorising the neighbourhood?’

‘Not so much these days, not so many annoying little girls following me around.’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘You’ve changed.’

‘I’d be a bit of a medical oddity if I hadn’t, it’s been thirty odd years.’ she said, returning his scrutiny and appraising him. She wished the years had been as kind to her and wondered why it was that men aged so much more appealingly than women. Where Sam had laughter lines, she had crow’s feet.

‘Back for the funeral are you? Bit of a mess to face next door. I don’t envy you, last time I was in there it was like the black hole of Calcutta.’

‘Something like that.’ Edie said, thinking about all the rooms she had yet to tackle. ‘When did you last visit?’

‘Years ago, when Dickie was alive. He was a bit prone to falling over and Dolly couldn’t lift him, I’d help out when I could.’

Edie felt another flush of guilt at the realisation that this other family had borne the burdens of her own while she and Rose had blithely got on with their lives. ‘We didn’t know how bad things had got, Dolly never let on.’ she said.

‘That’s what happens when you live away I suppose. So Edie Byrne, what’s with you these days, married? Kids?’

‘Recently unmarried and one kid, though he’s not much of a kid now. He’s twenty-six and doing his own thing. I take it Georgia is yours?’ Edie said, still wondering where the young girl had disappeared to, she had been expecting to meet her again.

‘Georgie? Not mine, I love her dearly but won’t lay claim to her. No, she’s Shelley’s kid, you remember Shelley?’

Edie didn’t, or if she did it was a vague flash. Even back then she had been hard pressed to keep track of the Campion brood. Lena had come from a big family and was always knee deep in relatives. ‘Vaguely, is she Davy’s daughter?’ Davy was Lena’s brother and a man who had given the younger Edie a severe dose of the creeps.

‘That’s her. She’s on her own now, so Mum helps out and so do I.’

Edie had forgotten how confusing Lena’s family could be, she supposed the children called Lena ‘Nan’ because it was simpler. ‘I never could keep track of you lot. There were so many,’ she said.

Sam laughed; it suited him, he had a face designed for laughter. ‘That’s true. How’s Rose, I always had a bit of a thing for her when I was a kid.’

Edie was surprised at this, Rose must be at least eight years older than Sam. ‘She’s OK, she’s laid up with a broken leg, but getting better. She’s married with twin girls.’

‘Blimey, she never did do anything by halves.’ Sam said.

Edie felt a little wistful that Sam remembered her as annoying and Rose as a paragon. Some things never changed.

‘So, how long are you staying?’

‘As long as it takes to get the house sorted out. By the look of it, that could be some time.’

‘If you’re planning on selling stuff I’ve got a friend who’s an auctioneer, I could get him to call round and take a look if you like?’

‘I’m not sure any of it will be worth much, but that would be helpful. Thanks. I might need a few days to sort through the junk though.’

‘I’ll give you my number, you can call me when you’re ready.’ Sam said, pulling out his mobile phone. He reeled off the number and Edie duly inserted it into her own phone’s memory. ‘Where’s that tea Mother, a man could die of thirst at this rate.’ he bawled. The sound of his voice was so deep and sudden that it ricocheted through Edie and made her want to wince. She held her breath for a moment and waited for her heart to steady, wondering how long it would take her to get over her fear of men who shouted. The interjection had unnerved her, and she felt the need to leave, she had stayed long enough for politeness’ sake. ‘Well, I should go, lots to do next door.’

Lena had returned and stood in the doorway, holding a cup and looking pensive. ‘Don’t do too much on your own, you’ll need some help. It’s quite the mess in there. Stay and have another cup of tea, leave it until after the funeral eh? We’ll help, won’t we Sam?’

Sam smiled. ‘Course we will, what are friends for eh?’

Edie gave them a weak smile, friends were people you saw frequently, not old neighbours who you hadn’t seen since you were a kid – but they were kind people, and kindness was not to be sniffed at. ‘That’s a lovely offer, thank you – I might well take you up on it if it’s all more than I bargained for.’ She turned to Lena, ‘I won’t stay for more tea, but thank you. I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow?’

Lena nodded. ‘Course, we’ll both be there. Have you organised a wake?’

‘Nothing much, just a few sandwiches in the hall at the crem, I’ve no idea who’s coming.’

Lena nodded again. ‘You never know with a funeral, all sorts crawl out of the woodwork. I could have done it here, you know.’

Edie didn’t know what to say, Rose had organised everything over the phone, she had just been nominated as the person who would show up and save what little face Dolly’s family had retained. ‘What a kind offer, but Rose arranged everything, I don’t suppose she would have wanted to put you out.’

Before she left Sam turned to her. ‘It’s been nice to see you again Edie, take care of yourself.’

‘You too, Sam.’ she said, surprised to realise that she meant it. ‘Well, I’ll be off then, I need to sort out somewhere to sleep.’ She turned to Lena. ‘Thank you so much for the tea and company.’

‘You’re welcome, and don’t be a stranger. If you have any questions, you know where I am.’ Lena said.

The old woman still looked a little pensive and her words puzzled Edie – questions about what?

Number 17 felt cold and lonely after the warmth and homeliness of Lena’s house. Despite the fact that it was June, Edie felt inclined to put the fire on in the lounge. There had never been central heating in the house and she remembered it being Baltic in winter with only two gas fires and a scattering of dangerous looking electric heaters to warm the whole house. As she lit the gas she worried about carbon monoxide poisoning and checked the flames for colour; they looked all right, but she was probably no great judge.

She hugged herself and huddled for a moment by the hearth, soaking in some warmth and wondering if the cold might actually be coming from the inside. It would take more than a few half-hearted flames to thaw her ice-defended core.

Ignoring the oppressive clutter of the lounge she made her way upstairs by dint of the feeble landing light, which swung in its shade and cast looming shadows across the stained and aged wallpaper. When she removed her hand from the bannister at the top she noticed that she had gathered a number of long, fine blond hairs on her palm. She shook them off.

Dolly’s bedroom turned out to be a no go zone; not only was it filthy and squalid, but it was full. Every surface was laden with clutter, and clothes had been piled onto the bed. More of the hair littered the room, both in fine filaments and huge hanks. Several disembodied wooden heads had been scattered around the room, each at a varying stages of baldness. It was a macabre sight, especially when lit by a bulb not much brighter than a candle. The fine details of the scene were hidden by inky cloaks of shadow which intensified the grotesquery and heightened Edie’s instinctive reaction, which was to recoil and run. At one time she had been fascinated by her aunt’s occupation and had been mesmerised by the precise creativity that formed the wigs that Dolly made. Now the half-made hair-pieces looked repulsive, like things that had been attacked, savaged and brutalised. The faceless wooden wig blocks made the whole scene even more disturbing, with the shadows painting gruesome features on their flat faces. Edie shut the door and suppressed a shudder. Dolly’s room was best faced in the cold and reasonable light of day.

The spare room, where she and Rose had slept as children, was chock full of junk, Edie was barely able to open the door and step in. The smell of damp and mould assailed her nose and she shut the door on that too.

Dickie’s room had a Mary Celeste feel, as if he had just stepped out for a moment. If the whole room hadn’t been covered in a thick film of dust, Edie might have believed that he had – and was due back at any moment to resume making the half-finished model that sat on his workbench. As a pastime Dickie had made automata, miniature models of fantastic things that sprang to life and moved at the turn of a tiny handle. When Edie had last stayed at the house, he had given her one as a gift – a Pegasus who soared and moved his wings if you wound him up. It had been a simple yet beautiful thing and Edie had treasured it, until Simon had smashed it to bits in a fit of temper. She had kept the parts in a shoe box, intending to ask Dickie to mend it one day, but he had died and so had the marriage, and Pegasus had been lost in the aftermath.

She looked around the room at the shelves, all full of Dickie’s creations – animals, people, birds and beasts, all limited to perfect and precise arcs of movement that could only be brought about by a human hand. They were trapped on their wooden plinths, waiting for freedom and Edie thought she knew something of how it felt. She shut the door softly on Dickie’s domain and left the room in peace.

Her final option upstairs was Beattie’s room, which was as clear and tidy as the others were cluttered. It was the smallest bedroom, a box room really, and was reminiscent of a monk’s cell. Sparse, white and ordered. A plain counterpane lay over the bed, which had been made years before with sheets stretched as tight as the skin of a drum. They were yellow with age and spotted with mould. Edie pressed a hand onto the bed and felt a sensation of damp. She would not be sleeping there.

The last resort was the sofa in the sitting room downstairs. Somehow that felt better and less of an invasion of privacy than using one of the bedrooms. The trick would be finding useable bedding. Everything in the linen cupboard was damp and stank of old dust and decay. Edie had brought her own towels, but hadn’t thought to bring bedding. She thought briefly about shipping out to a hotel, then wondered if Lena might lend her a few sheets and a quilt. If she went to a hotel now, she might never come back and she couldn’t do that. The thought of spending any more time in the house was becoming more and more depressing. Not only was her task daunting but the place seemed to be sighing and breathing around her as if it had a life of its own, one that it had sucked from its previous residents. Grandma Beattie, Dolly and Dickie were gone, but to Edie it felt like they were still there and watching her every move.

For reasons that she couldn’t explain, but that were based on raw instinct, she was uneasy about asking Lena for help. The old lady’s censorious demeanour was liable to hook out more and more of Edie’s guilt regarding the neglect of her extended family. The state of the house alone was accusation enough and evidence that Dolly had lived and died alone and uncared for. Edie resigned herself to sleeping on the sofa in the clothes that she was wearing. An uncomfortable night seemed like small penance to pay for the years that Dolly had cared for her and Rose in the absence of their mother. Years and solicitude that had been met unequally with rejection and indifference.

As she lay on the lumpy sofa, watching the last of the evening light dwindle through the dirty window, she hoped that the funeral might offer some redemption – that laying Dolly to rest with some dignity and respect might undo the cloying sense of obligation and guilt. She would wear black as a mark of respect and hope that it wouldn’t reflect the flush of hypocrisy that was sure to creep into her skin and show her for the fraud she was.

Rose had arranged for a car, it would arrive at eleven the next day to collect her. Then she would follow the hearse carrying Dolly’s body, encased in its pine-veneered coffin and covered up in flowers. Then it would be over, and she could do what she had to do and put it all behind her – as she had with so many other things

Sleep followed on the wings of this anticipated relief and Edie relaxed into it, her inert form brushed by shadows, cast by the light of passing cars and given form and life by the ghosts of the past that resided amidst the clutter and dirt of Number 17 Coronation Square.

Chapter Two

Edie sat in the first pew of the chapel, stiff and uncomfortable in her black suit and aware that she was the centre of attention for the small congregation. Other than Sam and Lena she knew nobody, and whilst they waited for the vicar she battled with the hypocrisy of her thoughts. If all these people had known Dolly well enough to come and pay their respects, why had she died alone in squalor? The vicar arrived, and they all stood while he led the first prayer. They sat for the eulogy, and Edie wondered whom it was that he was talking about when he referred to Dorothy, a pillar of the community and tireless charity supporter who had relentlessly collected for the local charity shops, and who would be much missed by her many friends. For a split second Edie wondered if she’d come to the wrong funeral, for surely the lily clad coffin could not contain Dolly – who had been more a pillar of salt than a pillar of the community. She shook the thought away and stood to sing the hymn that Rose had chosen – Jerusalem. As she mouthed the words, Edie considered the incongruity of the whole thing as applied to Dolly, all she could think about was Rugby and the W.I. Finally, and to her relief, the curtains slid shut and Dolly disappeared. Now all Edie had to face was the lonely walk of shame back down the aisle as she led the mourners from the chapel.

As mourners went, they seemed to be a hungry lot, most of them cheerfully seized upon the opportunity to drink tepid tea and consume limp sandwiches and dry cake in the little hall that lay to the back of the crematorium. Most of the strangers avoided her and chatted amongst themselves, occasionally shooting speculative glances in her direction. She felt both ridiculous and fraudulent in her black suit, and she was tired and achy. The night on the sofa had been dream filled, stiff and uncomfortable, the cushions had felt as if she was lying on a bag of pebbles. Edie was half convinced that Dolly had stuffed the cushions with bricks. She surreptitiously rubbed at the small of her back and returned a weak smile to Sam and Lena who were making their way towards her. They had made a beeline, but had been hampered at every step by elderly women who caught at Lena’s arm and engaged her for what seemed to Edie interminably long moments. To her relief Sam left his mother and strode over. ‘You look like you need rescuing’ he said, offering her a thimble full of weak tea.

‘Thank you, and I do, who are all these people?’ She took the tea and sipped. It was vile, lukewarm and made her wince.

Sam looked around the room. ‘Bingo and jumble sale cronies I think. A good funeral is the highlight of their week.’

‘I didn’t know Dolly was a bingo fan.’ It was true, she didn’t, but then she hadn’t known Dolly well enough to know much about her habits and hobbies.

‘I think Mum used to drag her there from time to time, not sure she was ever a fan, not like Mum, the woman is a bingo fiend.’

Edie wanted to laugh and indulge this charming man who was being so kind, but laughter at a wake seemed incongruous and rude, especially when your every move was being scrutinised. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she said, nodding towards a tall, smartly dressed middle-aged man who stood alone, looking almost as out of place as Edie felt she was. Sam followed her gaze. ‘No idea. Doesn’t look much like a bingo aficionado though.’

It was true, he didn’t. If Edie had been forced to categorise him she would have said that he looked like a policeman, or a soldier. Something about his stance – the impression that he was standing at ease, yet missing nothing – stuck her as representing something official. Her attention was pulled away from him by the arrival of Lena.

‘Bloody ghouls, not as if a one of them cared about Dolly. Makes me sick – they only come for the free food and a cup of tea. Some of ‘em want to get a life!’ Lena said it as if the cheery exchanges she had voluntarily participated in had been some kind of personal affront. It made Edie smile.

‘Well, I’m glad at least a few people came – it would have been a poor show for her if it had just been the three of us. Besides, someone has to eat all these awful sandwiches.’

Lena regarded the limp, curling egg and cress sandwich that sat sad and unappetising on the plate that she held. ‘Sausage rolls weren’t up to much either, I swear the tight buggers here use the leftovers from the last do.’

Edie nodded, ‘You’re probably right.’ She turned to find a spot where she could abandon the rancid tea and winced as the movement jarred her aching back.

‘What’s up, did you hurt yourself?’ Sam asked, a look of concern flickering across his handsome features.

Edie gave him a wan smile. ‘Oh it’s nothing, I ended up sleeping on the sofa last night. The house is pretty damp and I couldn’t find any clean bedding, I’m just a bit stiff that’s all.’ Lena had turned away, distracted by yet another mourner who ignored Edie but expressed their sorrow to the woman who had known Dolly best… yet hadn’t known when her friend lay dying, hadn’t checked on her, hadn’t spoken to her in months. It was natural that people would gravitate towards the more familiar face, Edie supposed. It was probably justified – she’d have been hard pressed to know how to react if anyone had approached her and expressed sorrow for her loss. It had been uncomfortable enough when the vicar had shaken her hand and expressed his sympathy. She cast about the room, looking for the tall stranger, but he’d gone. ‘I might ask your mum if I can borrow some bedding for tonight.’ she said absently to Sam. ‘Not sure I can face another night on that sofa, I’ll be fit for nothing.’

Sam smiled. ‘I’m sure she’ll be glad to help, and you look pretty fit to me Edie Byrne.’

Blushing at a funeral felt as awkward and insensitive as laughing, but there were some things Edie couldn’t control. She could feel the flush creep up her neck and flood her face in a total betrayal of the cool and collected demeanour she had been trying to cultivate. In any other circumstances she would have made a self-deprecating quip in order to level the field again, but Sam had turned away from her and was whispering to his mother. To her further chagrin an elderly man had braved the great divide and was heading for Edie with condolences tripping off his tongue. As he approached she couldn’t help but notice the scowl of disapproval that flickered across Lena’s face. It seemed the man had seen it too because he inserted himself between Edie and Lena and promptly turned his back on the old lady and her son.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss my dear, such a tragic end, so sad.’

Edie didn’t know what to say, so she gave him a weak smile and thanked him.

‘I tried to call on poor Dolly a number of times, but she’d turned her back on us all at the end.’ he said.

So Edie had gathered. ‘Yes, it seems she shut everyone out. I wonder why?’

The old man shrugged his shoulders and spread his arms, he held a silver topped cane in one hand, and with his neat cravat and perfectly pressed black suit, looked to Edie as if he might be about to perform a magic trick. ‘Who knows what was going through her mind? She was never quite the same after Dickie, I always suspected that in losing him she lost her purpose. Fell out with almost everyone so I believe, became very suspicious of us all. It’s a terrible thing when people push their friends away.’

Edie nodded, only half listening to him. Everything people said to her with regard to Dolly felt like an indictment. He placed a cool, thin hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze – she was surprised at the strength of it, he looked so frail. ‘Still, life must go on mustn’t it? And I must say, you really are the image of your father.’

The mention of Frank, any mention of Frank, stunned Edie. No one ever spoke of him, if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew someone had to have sired her Edie might have thought that her father was a figment of everyone’s imagination. Frank Morris, eldest and most un-prodigal of Beattie’s sons, had been a taboo subject for so long that this sudden mention had jarred her completely. Before she could muster a response the man had turned on his heel and walked away.

Lena nudged her with an elbow much sharper than the woman’s fleshy figure belied. ‘What did he want?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, who is he?’ Edie said, still reeling from the overt mention of her father.

‘You don’t want to know. He’s a vicious old gossip with a chip on his shoulder, best to ignore him, everyone else does.’

Edie was good at doing what she was told and damped down her curiosity as instructed. People were beginning to leave, much to her relief, and the hollow thanks and farewells that she was forced to deliver whilst flanked by the indomitable Lena were distraction enough from the strange encounter.

***

Lena had gone further than just loaning some bedding and had offered Edie a bed for the night, which she had accepted gratefully and had appreciated fully when the bathroom had also offered a shower. The squalor and oppression of Number 17 had been washed away in an instant under the pelting hot water, and a night between clean white sheets that oozed the aroma of fresh air and sunshine (even if it had come from a packet of soap powder) had eased any reservations that remained. With the help of Lena’s kindness Edie had the best night’s sleep she had experienced in an age.

She descended the stairs refreshed and reinvigorated, to be met by the smell of bacon, a fresh cup of tea and Sam, sitting at the table and smirking at her over his breakfast. ‘You moving in then?’

‘Not quite, just taking advantage of your mother’s hospitality and cadging a bed for the night. I’ll buy some bedding today and make do next door.’

‘You will not.’ Lena said as she placed a huge plateful of fried food in front of her. ‘You can stay here as long as you like, it’s the least I can do. Ignore him, he’s always been a sarky bugger. I would have offered you a room straight off, but I didn’t know quite how bad it was next door.’

‘I do really appreciate it Lena, it’s pretty depressing in there. I honestly don’t know where to start. I made a dent in the kitchen the day I arrived, but it’s hard to believe how much stuff they hoarded.’ Edie said, eyeing the breakfast and surprised to find that she actually had an appetite for it. She hadn’t bothered with breakfast for years.

‘I’ll give you a hand if you like, I’ve got nothing on today.’ Sam said.

‘Would you? It’s pretty bad mind, you might want to bring some rubber gloves.’ Edie said, mildly embarrassed by the comparison between Dolly’s home and Lena’s immaculate haven. Or was she embarrassed by the prospect of finding his company desirable? Not that it mattered. She wasn’t Rose. She was the annoying one.

‘No problem, I’ve seen worse. Finish your breakfast and we’ll crack on with it.’ he said, leaning over and stealing a piece of toast from Edie’s plate.

Lena frowned at him and poured them all more tea.

Edie led Sam into the dingy front room with its dusty tat and old-fashioned furniture. Ugly old cabinets bulged with kitsch china objects d’art, and bookshelves bowed under the weight of mouldering magazines and foxed hardbacks. ‘I thought we’d start in here, it seems the least sullied.’

Sam scanned the room. ‘Don’t you want to get the worst over with first?’

Edie shook her head. ‘I did that yesterday; the kitchen was an absolute biohazard. I probably should have donated it to science as a research project. Besides, I have to build myself up to face the rest of it.’

Sam smiled at her. ‘Where do you want to start?’

Edie patted a cushion, releasing a cloud of dust and fluff into the musty room. ‘With a dust mask?’ she suggested.

Sam laughed and pulled a huge handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Your wish is my command, I came prepared.’ He moved towards her and folded the fabric into a triangle, ‘Here, I’ll tie it on for you.’

Edie almost stepped back, but didn’t and submitted, grateful that the handkerchief was covering her glowing cheeks. She hadn’t been in such close proximity to a man in some time, and was ashamed of how she was reacting. At forty-six she thought she might be over such silliness but Sam had grown up rather nicely, better than she had. There was little of the gawky boy left in the man and his unexpected proximity was having a strange and unguarded effect on her.

‘There, sorted. You look like a bandit.’ he said, resting his hands on her shoulders and looking at her. He was at least six inches taller than she was and she was forced to look up.

‘What about you?’ Edie asked, aware that she was blushing like a loon under her mask.

‘Thought of that, I pinched this from Mum.’ He pulled a tea towel out from his back pocket and tied it around his own face. ‘There, ready for action. Shall I start with the books?’

Edie nodded and turned to one of the cabinets, glad of the distraction. ‘I’ll fetch some black bags. Most of this looks like rubbish.’

After an hour it looked like they had made more mess than they had started with. Sam was insistent that some of the books were worth money and he had pointed out that several of the ornaments that Edie had been throwing away with conscious malcontent might be worth something. ‘How am I supposed to tell the difference? It all looks hideous to me.’ she said. It did, but not just because it was old and tacky. Each piece felt like a few ounces of recrimination. For every ornament she held in her hands an equal weight of guilt settled in her heart. She had not cared about the people who had lived in the house; she had let them die. One by one, alone and neglected.

Sam climbed down from the chair he had been using to reach the top shelves and knelt down beside her. He took the ugly china spaniel from her hands and turned it over. ‘Look, this is Staffordshire, you can see by the mark.’ He pointed to the base of the object. ‘People collect this stuff, they pay good money for it.’

‘Lord knows why, it’s horrible.’ Edie said, grimacing at the creature’s painted gaze.

‘I agree, but horses for courses. Who are we to argue if people want to part with their cash? The object of the exercise is to raise as much money as possible, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose.’ Edie said. ‘You’re right, but I just want to get it over with as quickly as I can.’

Sam pulled off his impromptu mask and sat back on his heels. ‘I can see that, it’s not the most stimulating task, raking through other people’s belongings, is it? Why don’t you make us a drink and I’ll sort through the rest and pick out anything that might be worth keeping.’

Edie was glad of the reprieve, every time Sam came within a foot of her she started to feel like an overheated teenager and it was making her feel both stupid and uncomfortable. Even the smell of his damned handkerchief was making her feel queer, she pulled it down and let it settle around her neck while she tried to get a grip on herself and make the drinks.

When she returned to the front room Sam was pulling something out of the bottom of the china dog’s twin. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘I don’t know, it looks like a scarf. Someone must have poked it inside.’ He pulled the fabric out as if he were performing a low budget magic trick.

‘Who on earth would do something like that?’ she asked.

‘No idea, someone who wanted to hide something?’

‘Why hide a scarf?’ The strip of fabric lay creased and colourful on the dirty carpet.

Sam shrugged and picked it up. ‘Who knows? I hate to say it but your relatives were a strange bunch at the best of times.’

Edie took the scarf from him and threw it into the box where she had been collecting the smaller ornaments that she figured were probably worthless. She thought about the wooden heads upstairs wearing their scalped hair and of Dickie’s strange inventions. ‘Yep, they were an odd lot.’ She passed Sam his tea and wandered towards the window, moving the grimy net curtain aside to get a view of the street. The murder tourists were back, congregating around the drain, eager to hear its grisly history.

Sam came up behind her and draped an arm casually about her shoulder, leaning forward to follow her gaze. ‘I see the ghouls are out in force.’

Edie was acutely aware of the weight of his arm. ‘Doesn’t it bother you, that they do this right outside the house?’

‘Not a lot we can do about it, they are all legal, it’s a perfectly legitimate business. No one cares about the morality of it.’ he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze before dropping his arm.

The pressure of his fingers burned and tingled like an old scar on her skin. She shivered and turned back to the room. ‘I’m going to dump this box outside and make some space, hopefully someone will take it off my hands.’ she said, hauling the box of tat into her arms and carrying it out of the room. She manoeuvred it out of the front door and dumped it by the gate, hearing the satisfying chink of broken china as it hit the concrete. Removing the weight from her arms hadn’t lessened the heaviness in her heart, she was acutely aware that she had just unceremoniously dumped a handful of the totems that had marked her family’s existence. It felt wrong and it felt brutal. She noticed that the tour guide was staring over again, looking as though he hadn’t yet forgiven her for her previous sarcasm. She turned away from his gaze and went back into the house.

Sam had sorted through the books and offered to take them to the nearest charity shop. Edie was both grateful for the offer of help and the opportunity for a break from his company. Sam Campion was having a strange effect on her and it was becoming a most disconcerting experience.

When he had loaded the books and left, she took the opportunity to pause her activity and review the situation. When she had agreed to the task of clearing the house, she’d had no idea that she would be letting herself in for this level of challenge. Not only was the house a daunting nightmare of effort, she hadn’t bargained for the discovery that she still had feelings and female reactions that she had believed were withered and gone. For some reason she’d thought her dysfunctional relationship with Simon had killed the possibility, and was mildly surprised that he hadn’t stifled her regard for men in general. Not that being attracted to Sam was a scenario worth thinking about – she was here to dispose of the past, not cultivate thoughts of a future.

The room looked almost naked now, stripped bare of its fripperies and exposed. Its representation as a slice of life had been obliterated by the hatchet job she and Sam had performed. Now that she was alone her determination to get on with her task felt brutal, two generations of her family had lived and loved in the house and this dismantling felt like desecration. With abject disregard she had simply thrown away Dolly’s treasures. In a fit of regret she ran outside to retrieve the box of trinkets, only to find that it had already gone. Someone had been as eager to take it as she had been to get rid of it; she hoped that they wouldn’t regret their actions as much as she regretted hers.

Back inside there was little option but to carry on, but this time with a little more reverence. While she waited for Sam to return she concentrated on sorting the wheat from the chaff. By the time he came back she had rolled up the rug, piled it on top of the chaise longue and set the pieces of furniture worth money against one wall. Across the divide of dusty floorboards, under the window, lay the rest of the junk. In the middle of the room was a single box containing letters and photographs that Rose might want, on its side Edie had written KEEP ME.

Sam smiled and nodded his approval at the progress she had made. ‘Nice work Edie, I didn’t think we’d get this far.’ He wandered over to the box and peered in.

‘Not bad progress I suppose, but I’ve had enough for today. It kind of gets to you after a while – throwing away the bits of people’s lives that we find irrelevant and valueless.’ she said, feeling bizarrely emotional for a moment and hugging herself to contain it.

Sam didn’t notice, he was busy rifling through the photographs. ‘Hey look, here’s one of Mum when she was a kid.’ He moved over to where Edie stood and showed her the picture.

Five children, forever frozen in monochrome, leaned against the railings that enclosed the garden at the centre of the Square, each squinted at the camera, telling them the photograph had been taken in summer. ‘Which one is Lena?’ she asked.

Sam pointed to a skinny girl in a smocked dress and ankle socks. She was scowling at the camera. ‘That’s her, you can tell by the expression on her face. She still pulls that face when she’s pissed off with something. That one there is Sally.’ He pointed to another of the three girls in the picture. Sally had looked a little like Lena, but had more meat on her bones and a rounder, prettier face. Edie thought about the drain outside and suppressed a shudder.

‘I’m assuming that’s Dolly then, and that one is Dickie.’ She pointed to the last girl, thin and dark haired – she looked timid. Dickie just looked like a younger version of the man she remembered. ‘So who’s the other boy?’ The second boy was dark too, swarthy looking and with an intense, confident stare. He was a good looking child, whoever he was. As she peered at the picture she could see that the sun had created a halo-like aura around the boy’s head. It was quite a strange trick of the light.

‘No idea, never seen him before. I’ll ask Mum later.’ He put the photograph back in the box. ‘Right, if you’ve had enough for the day why don’t we get cleaned up and head off to the pub, you can buy me a pint for all my hard work.’

As appealing as the idea was, Edie hesitated. ‘What about Lena, won’t she mind?’

Sam chuckled and shook his head. ‘Edie Byrne, how old are you, twelve? I’ve been able to come and go as I please for a long time now, and I don’t even live there.’

Edie flushed with embarrassment, it wasn’t what she’d meant. ‘I know, but I am staying there and I don’t want her to think I’m treating it like a hotel.’

‘Don’t worry about it – besides, it’s Wednesday, she’ll be at the community centre playing bingo until six.’

Across the square, in a third floor window, a curtain twitched and someone watched as Edie and Sam left the house and made their way along the street to the pub on the corner. When they were out of sight he let the curtain go and turned to face the room. He called the place his office, but in reality it was a museum stuffed to the gills with a chaotically un-collated mess of detritus. What other people called rubbish, he deemed important artefacts of social history. Where other people saw junk, he saw evidence. One such item was now sitting on his cluttered desk forming a puddle of colour amidst the piles of buff folders and grey document boxes. He would like to think that the scarf was final proof, the one piece of evidence that he needed, but long and bitter experience told him that it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever seemed to be enough.

He looked at the fabric, at the swirling colours and the distinctive pattern and compared it to the photograph above the desk. The photograph was old, the paper yellowed and the ancient ink formed an indistinct, grainy image. Jean Lockwood had owned a scarf like this; she was wearing it in the photograph. There could be no colour match, the picture was in black and white, but the pattern was familiar, it had the same hypnotic print as the scarf on his desk. As evidence it might not be enough on its own, but it was an addition to the body of proof. Every little helped the cause.

He moved back to the window and looked across the square to Number 17. If his hunch were correct, there would be a lot more coming out of that house soon.

‘Not long now,’ he said aloud to the pictures of the dead women who lined his wall. As he turned away from them, a quietly confident smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

Chapter Three

When Edie had been younger, The Crown had been a typical spit and sawdust dive which she had glimpsed occasionally through the hatch in the ‘off sales’ cubicle. The thought made her feel old, she couldn’t think of the last time she’d been in a pub that had a separate space where people could buy their booze to drink off the premises, another tradition that seemed to have died out. That had been in the days when she and Rose could gain a few pennies for sweets by taking empty bottles back to the pub’s offie and pocketing the deposits. They called that kind of thing recycling now, back then it had just been a way of life.

Now the place had been taken over by a chain and had the generic ambience of all such places. Wednesday was pensioners’ credit crunch lunch, and curry and a pint night. Thursday was win a cirrhotic liver in the weekly quiz, and Friday was two for ten, as long as it was deep fried, microwaved and could clog your arteries at thirty paces. Edie found it frankly depressing and took no comfort from the fact that she could have free refills of her watery diet coke.

Sam seemed to catch her appraising the place. ‘Dire, isn’t it? Do you remember when old Charlie was the landlord and we used to scam him for deposits by nicking the empties from the yard and selling them back to him?’ he said it with the same impish grin he’d had as a boy.

Edie gave him a wry smile. ‘Thanks for bringing up our criminal past.’

‘We would never have got caught if it hadn’t been for you dropping all those bottles, cutting yourself and squealing like a stuck pig.’

Edie gave him a mock scowl. ‘I was five, the bottles were bigger than me and that incident scarred me for life!’ She rolled up her trouser leg and showed him the tiny white scar on her knee. ‘It didn’t hurt half as much as the pasting I got from Beattie afterwards.’ She could never think of Beattie as Nanna or Granny, those were soft terms designed for use with affection. There had been little that had been soft or affectionate about Beattie.

‘I’ll bet. She was the most terrifying woman I’ve ever encountered, and given that Lena is my mum that’s saying something.’ They both laughed, Beattie had indeed been a scourge.

Edie recalled her black crepe clad grandmother, who still loomed large in her imagination as the bringer of doom. ‘Yeah, as nannas go she was hardly the cuddly cookie baking type.’

Sam shuddered. ‘She was like terror in a black dress. No child was safe from her wrath. I always felt quite sorry for you and Rose.’

‘We didn’t have to see too much of her, only on visits, and I was only ten when she died. Rose had it worse. I always thought that Beattie disliked me because my dad ran off, like it was something I had caused.’ Frank had disappeared a few months before she had been born.

‘Of course. You never knew him, did you?’ Sam said.

Edie looked at her glass, cold beads of condensation trickled down its sides and dampened her fingers. Since her encounter with the old man at the funeral her father had been occupying space in her mind. ‘Not really, only what I’ve been told by Rose and she doesn’t talk about it much. I suppose you don’t miss what you can’t remember. Your mum must have known him, what was he like?’ She wasn’t even sure why she had asked. It was quite clear what kind of person Frank Morris had been. He was the kind of man who walked out on his pregnant wife and child. Having tolerated Simon for so many years just to prove that she hadn’t inherited Frank’s flakiness, Edie had more sympathy for her father than she wanted to admit to. Though she would never have abandoned her child, she sometimes wished she had taken Will and run for the hills.

Sam screwed up his face, as if trying to recall a distant memory. ‘Vaguely, I’ve only heard her mention him once or twice. I know him and Mum clashed, I do remember a row once with Dolly when his name was mentioned… I couldn’t tell you what it was about but I know Dolly was one of the few people that ever got the better of Mum. I think that’s why it stands out, it was the first time I ever saw Mum cry. Anyway, from what I can recall he was quite…ummm….a character.’

Edie laughed at his hesitation. ‘Do you mean arrogant? That’s what Rose always says.’

Sam pulled a face. ‘I was trying to be polite.’

‘No need, no one else is, well not about him anyway.’

‘You can’t choose your parents.’ Sam said.

‘Anyway, enough of that. What are you up to these days? We seem to have done nothing but talk about the past.’ It already felt as though she was being pulled backwards, without every conversation hauling her down memory lane.

‘This and that. Nothing special, I have fingers in a few lucrative pies.’

He’d avoided looking at her and it was clear he didn’t want to expand on his occupation. ‘So, you must live quite near. You seem to spend quite a bit of time with Lena.’

‘I’m not far, I’ve got a flat at Riverside. I see Mum most days, let her cook for me and that – she’s getting on and it gives her a reason to get up and get going. She’s had a houseful all her life, I doubt she’d cope if we left her to her own devices.’

Edie had to agree; a woman like Lena would wither and die without a familiar purpose. Maybe that’s what had happened to Dolly, without her mother and brother to look after she had quietly faded without fuss. ‘I’m glad she has a reason to crack on with it. I think you’re right. And Riverside, wow, that’s a bit posh isn’t it?’ Edie had passed the new development when she had arrived in town, it was most impressive and out of the price range of ordinary folk like her.

‘Can’t be that posh, I have shares in the company that developed the land.’ It came out casually, as if he felt it was neither here nor there that he owned part of a huge company. Fingers in pies indeed…

‘Blimey, you dark horse! I’d have made you take me somewhere much better than this if I’d known.’ Edie quipped.

Sam laughed. ‘Well you were buying so I thought I’d keep it low key. Which reminds me, you might be on free refills but I need another pint. I’ll take you somewhere posh next time.’

He walked towards the bar and left her pondering “next time”. Jesus, she was behaving like a giddy schoolgirl, and a desperate, frustrated one at that. The fact that he was clearly loaded was quite sobering, and if she thought about it, fairly intimidating. Nice as he was, he was out of her league in so many ways. Besides, he was only being kind because of past connections; there was nothing in it for her above the generosity of old friends.

Lena too was mulling over thoughts of old friends, so much so that she hadn’t been able to concentrate on the bingo and had missed the opportunity of winning twice. Not that she wanted the prizes, last year’s recycled Christmas presents and the same bottle of wine that had been re-donated as a prize three times weren’t exactly high on her list of desirables. But peace of mind was. She was going to be hard pressed to find any of that now that Number 17 was under scrutiny. There were too many ghosts hidden in that house and she for one wasn’t looking forward to any of them making their presence known. Edie was going to find things, things she probably wouldn’t understand, and the mere thought of it was breaking Lena’s heart. She sighed and hauled herself to her feet, bingo was over and everyone was leaving. If there were going to be things that Edie didn’t understand, Lena would have to make herself available to explain them.

Edie was sorry to discover that Sam wouldn’t be joining her at Lena’s; though she had to accept that he did have a life away from his mother, she had enjoyed his company. It had been good to laugh and spend time with a man she didn’t want to brain with the nearest blunt object. Thoughts of Sam were soon chased away by Lena’s demeanour, the old lady looked tired, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Edie guessed that the afternoon’s bingo session hadn’t yielded its usual pleasures. ‘Everything all right, Lena?’ she asked as the woman trudged into the house and slumped into her favourite chair.

Lena shrugged. ‘Tired, that’s all. I usually get fish and chips on a Wednesday, be a love and go and fetch them would you? I don’t think these old bones will stand another trip out today.’

Edie didn’t hesitate; it was the least she could do to repay Lena’s hospitality. Though there was some grappling over who would pay. Edie won and set off to fetch their supper.

The queue inside the shop was long; she loitered outside for a few minutes, loath to expose herself to the steamy aroma, which would linger on her clothes – l’eau d’chip shop wasn’t the most appealing perfume in the world. A man, the smart man with the military bearing from yesterday’s funeral, sat on the bench opposite unashamedly staring at her while he ate chips from a paper cone. Edie found his scrutiny wholly unnerving and tried to ignore him by peering up and looking around the square, but his attention was like a magnet and compelled her to keep glancing at him. She almost sprang back when he suddenly stood up and launched his unfinished meal into a nearby bin. From the corner of her eye she saw him step forward, hesitate, seemingly think better of it and walk away. A bizarre sense of relief washed through her and she had no idea why, it was hardly as if he had been about to attack her in such a public place. Even so, she kept her wits about her as she made her way back with two steam-sodden parcels of the nation’s favourite. The man was nowhere to be seen, though she was sure that he had walked across the green towards the opposite side of the square. Fortunately she didn’t have to cross it herself, and could cling to the more brightly lit pavement to reach Lena’s house, nonetheless she closed the front door behind her with a sigh of quiet relief.

Lena had laid the table and warmed plates in the oven, Edie found it odd that such ceremony should accompany a paper wrapped meal; surely the whole point was to have time off from preparation and clearing up. She would happily have eaten her own supper from the greasy bundle, but concluded that when in Rome it was wise to feign Italian. They sat at the table to eat, Edie picking at the congealed mess of carbohydrate while Lena ate with mechanical regularity, her fork moving from plate to mouth with instinctive precision as she focused on the television. One of the soaps was on, churning out typical storylines where someone had stupidly lied, someone else had slept with someone’s partner and yet another was developing a dangerous addiction that would result in doom and disaster. Edie found the show mindlessly oppressive and mentally tuned it out, her thoughts returning to the strange man in the square. There had been something vaguely familiar about him, more than the recalling of him at the funeral. It was something from way back that nudged at her memory. She reached for a slice of the thin white bread that Lena had provided and took a bite. A slick of margarine coated her mouth and she felt her stomach begin to lurch, she had never been able to stand the taste and texture of margarine. She discarded the bread and took a gulp of tea to wash the taste away while her memory wheeled and clicked like an enigma machine and decoded the messages of the past. Slowly images flickered across her mind, another death, another funeral – limp white bread sandwiches made with margarine and a smear of meat paste. The flush of tepid tea to take the taste away; a grimace and the glimpse of a man sitting in a corner and staring. The same man. He had been at her mother’s wake. Much of the event was a complete blur, she couldn’t look back at it without an overwhelming, confusing sense of loss and longing for the woman she had never felt able to love. She couldn’t remember who had been there other than Simon (who had insisted on repeatedly looking at his watch and sighing) and Rose, who had done all the talking and thanking people for coming. But she recalled that man and it didn’t make sense. ‘Lena, did you come to my mum’s funeral?’

Lena pulled her attention away from the TV ‘Eh? No love I didn’t. Bill was in hospital at the time, and I couldn’t make it. Why?’

Edie shrugged. ‘It’s just that I saw someone in the square who I’m sure was there. I was just trying to place him.’ She had forgotten that Lena’s husband Bill had died soon after.

Lena frowned. ‘Other than me, Dickie and Dolly I can’t think that there’d have been anyone left who’d have known your mum. Unless the Bastins went, though I can’t see that would be likely.’

That name too was familiar. ‘Who are the Bastins?’

‘You must remember Sheila Bastin – you know, always went about the place looking sorry for herself and sheepish, lived across the way with that boy of hers, Matthew. It was her bastard husband what killed Sally Pollett and them others. But like I said, there was no love lost between us lot and them, so I doubt she’d have gone to your mum’s funeral. But Matthew might have done, odd bugger that one. Spent all his life trying to prove his father’s innocence and getting nowhere – used to stalk this place like a nosy little goblin, so it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’d pitched up there just to have a look see. He came to Bill’s and all, cheeky swine. Didn’t get past the door for the wake though, I saw to that. We didn’t see much of him after that, I heard he joined the army or something. Not sure I’d even know him now.’

Of course! The different sections of Edie’s memory clicked into place like a combination lock set to the right sequence and released. She did remember him, Matthew Bastin, son of a killer and bully bait for the whole square. Skinny, scruffy and always hanging around as if he was waiting to be picked on. It was a fleeting thing, but Edie recalled a sense of pity for the boy which had been knocked out of her eleven-year-old self by Rose’s remonstration and a Chinese burn painfully administered by a young and spiteful Sam. All because she had offered Matt a sweet once. Was it Sam who had told her to stay away from Matt because he would chop her to little pieces and stuff her down the drain? She couldn’t recall, but someone had. It seemed that Matt Bastin was still a glutton for punishment if he had chosen to come back to the square.

Lena’s attention had drifted back to the TV where another soap with its familiar themes had begun to insinuate its immorality onto the supper eating viewers. Edie couldn’t stand it. She pushed her unfinished food away and reached for Lena’s empty plate. ‘I’ll wash these up and make some more tea.’ she said, waiting for Lena’s absentminded nod of approval. All those characters could remain faceless and unnamed to Edie; life already had more than enough drama for her.

Chapter Four

Lena’s kitchen was cluttered but clean, full of the paraphernalia that marked out a busy and productive existence. Edie was surprised at the quality of some of the equipment and assumed that Sam was the culprit, treating his mother to labour-saving devices and goods that would make her life a little easier. It must be nice to have a son who dropped in frequently and who cared about your day. Edie thought of Will and felt a pang of longing as she considered the distance between herself and her son. It wasn’t only the gulf of the Pacific that separated them, but his dogged loyalty to his father. She had always felt that Will though of her as a loving fool, just a doting, laundry-doing, food-cooking mum who needed no nurture and who could survive on that role alone. Edie sighed, whichever vantage point she chose to stand at and look at her life, the view always appeared to be half-baked and wanting. She plunged her hands into the scalding water and let the heat seep into her skin and creep into her bones in the vain hope that it would travel to her heart and start a thaw.

When she returned to the sitting room Lena was dozing in her chair, slack jawed and snoring. Edie considered fetching a blanket to cover the old lady, but something told her not to, that the intervention would not be welcome. The way that Lena was clutching at the arms of the chair in her sleep was jarring and it made Edie want to look away. She walked softly into the front room and, like many before her, peered out through the net curtains. This side of the square seemed quiet at night, all the activity took place in the communal garden and outside the pub where the smokers were gathered. Edie watched as they downed their drinks and laughed, then she turned her attention to the garden, where a group of kids, or what looked like kids to Edie, were busy clambering on a bench with the apparent intent of dismantling it. Was this what had caused Dolly to shut the world out?

The unexpected clatter of a skateboard on the paving slabs and the sudden appearance of a boy whizzing by sent her scurrying back into the dimly lit room, her heart pounding. The noise had shocked her and had seemed to come from nowhere. The grating rattle of loose wheels faded and her heart slowed as her senses came off red alert. All that she could hear now was the ticking of the clock and Lena’s gentle snores. The clock told her that it was five past nine, too early to go to bed and too late to do any more work in Number 17. She thought of ringing Rose and asking her about Matthew Bastin, but decided against it – if she rang after nine Rose would think something was wrong and what could Edie say, everything is wrong and I don’t know how to put it right?

With another sigh she headed for the stairs, a long bath and an early night seemed like her only option. While the hot tap thundered water into the tub she opened the window to release the steam and peered down into Lena’s yard. None of the houses had gardens as such, just a yard that used to house an outside toilet and a coal shed. Each yard backed on to an access lane where modern residents squeezed their cars to load and unload. Someone, Sam she supposed, had knocked down the old structures in Lena’s yard and had created a little seating area with a few pots and a small barbecue. Edie smiled at the thought of Lena’s huge family crammed into the tiny space, eating chargrilled burgers amidst the busy lizzies. The smile was wiped from her face when she spied a movement in the shadows of Number 17’s yard. Something was moving about down there. Her first instinct was to assume that an urban fox was rummaging about amongst the mountain of Dolly’s uncollected bin bags, but whatever it might be seemed too large to be a fox, and too noisy to be a burglar. Not that any burglar would find much, except maybe a bad dose of e coli poisoning and a fit of asthma. Nevertheless, Edie felt obliged to investigate, especially as she had a sneaking feeling that she hadn’t locked the back door. She thought of the kids in the square and their bid to vandalise the bench. Number 17 was in enough of a state, without the addition of graffiti and saboteurs.

Abandoning her half run bath, she made her way quietly down the stairs and was relieved to find Lena still sleeping. Logic suggested that Edie should ring the police, but knowledge equally suggested that by the time they arrived the house might be wrecked – though it would be hard to tell the difference. In Lena’s kitchen she cast about for a weapon in case she needed to indulge in a little self-defence, knives were definitely out, although brandishing a meat cleaver might look dramatic and terrifying Edie felt she’d be more likely to damage herself with such a thing than menace anyone else. In the end she settled for a hefty rolling pin and a weighty Maglite that had been conveniently left on the windowsill. Armed and ready she made her way through the back door and out into the alley at the back of the house. Her first shock was the discovery that Lena’s house had been fitted with outside lights, which were triggered by motion. Having her progress suddenly illuminated for all to see was almost more unnerving than the fear of facing a roomful of teenagers hell bent on wanton destruction. For a moment she froze, unsure of the wisdom of her mission and feeling faintly ridiculous, armed as she was with baking equipment and a torch. The prospect of facing a vandalised house drove her on while the security light projected her shadow on the yard wall, where it loomed like some monstrous parody of a Victorian villain.

The yard of number seventeen was littered with junk and did not benefit from security lighting. Even in the weak beam of Lena’s torch Edie had to pick her way through the detritus and fight the smell of rotting rubbish. As she had suspected, the back door had been left open and her heart sank and floundered like a landed fish.

Whoever was inside hadn’t turned on the lights so she paused and strained her ears in a bid to pick up auditory evidence of a wrecking party. There was nothing, only the distant wail of a siren and the muffled hum of the square. Feeling increasingly apprehensive she stole through the door and found the kitchen empty of vandals and the same as she had left it, except for the presence of a back pack that had been placed on the kitchen table. Edie shone the torch beam on it. The bag was old and worn and emitted a pungent smell of old dirt and rotting daffodils – why the prospect of facing one of the great unwashed was less fear provoking than a houseful of rampant teenagers was beyond Edie, but for some reason she felt less tense about the anticipated encounter. Until a loud, house-shaking thud from upstairs caused her to drop the torch and cling onto the rolling pin with both hands in a primal stance of abject terror. The torch rolled on the floor, its thin beam making a kaleidoscope of shadows dance across the walls, to the extent that she felt surrounded and assailed by the ghosts of her own fears. Taking a deep breath she moved into the hallway and crept towards the stairs. Her heart was beating so loudly that she became convinced that the intruder would hear it, consider it a war drum and consequently see it as a call to arms.

From the bottom of the stairs she could hear no further noise, the house was menacingly quiet – as if waiting with bated breath along with her for someone to leap out and break the silence. For Edie the absence of any sound was more terror provoking than anything else, a cacophony of joyous destruction would have been less menacing, at least then she could have sallied in and used the impetus of an unexpected interruption to halt proceedings. She faltered at the foot of the stairs, remembering a history lesson in which the teacher had explained that in defending a castle, the soldier descending the stairs always had the advantage. Whilst she pondered her own disadvantage, the realisation that the bathroom light was on penetrated her consciousness, as did the recognition that whoever was up there was groaning in what sounded like pain. Tentatively Edie peered around the newel post and looked up. A thin hand protruded over the highest tread, it twitched, the fingers jerking and clutching at the air. It didn’t look like the hand of a man.

Aware that unless the intruder had set a trap she was safe enough, Edie took the stairs, still keeping a tight grip on the rolling pin while the other hand slid up the bannister, twitching against it almost as nervously as the one she could see at the top of the stairs. The groans had become weaker and fear changed into concern as Edie’s ascent revealed the presence of a girl. Her thin body was curled onto the landing floor in a state of collapse and she was half conscious and bleeding.

Edie’s immediate response was to drop the rolling pin and lurch towards the girl, all fear and reservation having fled in the face of this unexpected situation. As she knelt beside her, the girl’s eyelids fluttered and she seemed to register Edie’s presence, though she tried to roll away and use her free arm to bat Edie away.

‘No, leave me ‘lone,’ she groaned.

Blood had trickled from her nose and had congealed on her face below a pulped and bruised eye. ‘What happened? Can you sit up?’ Edie said as the girl flailed. ‘It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you, what happened?’

The girl groaned again and rolled onto her front. ‘Fainted, don’t like blood, feel sick.’

Edie noticed a blood stained towel on the floor – one of her own, and a thing that might have irked her under other circumstances. She grabbed it and rolled it into a rough pillow and pulled the girl onto her side in a rough approximation of the recovery position, or as much of it as she could recall from her Girl Guide first aid course. She put the towel under the girl’s head. ‘Lie still, wait for it to pass. I’m going to get something to clean you up.’

The bathroom was smeared with blood and the smell of vomit rose from the toilet, forcing Edie to wrinkle her nose and recoil as she rummaged through Dolly’s bathroom cabinet looking for something suitable that she could use to clean the girl up. The search yielded nothing except an ancient flannel and a dribble of antiseptic in a bottle probably older than Edie. She used the antiseptic more to ensure that the flannel was clean than any hope that it would have any healing properties for the girl’s face. An old crystal fruit dish purloined from a side table on the landing served as a suitable bowl for the concoction once it had been rinsed free of dust.

She returned to the girl, who now lay less rigidly and who peered at her from her un-swollen eye with increasing consciousness. Wringing out the flannel, first Edie began to dab at the girl’s face, unsure of which was the most unsightly – the blood, the bruising or the grime that adhered to her skin. Once she had cleaned most of the mess away the damage didn’t seem too bad. A bloody nose and a small cut above the swollen eye. ‘Who did this?’ she demanded, knowing that what had happened to the girl’s face had been no accident.

The girl winced as the flannel passed over a particularly tender spot. ‘I fell, doesn’t matter.’

Edie had heard it all before, she had walked into a fair few doorframes herself whilst married to Simon. ‘What, you fell into someone’s fist?’

The girl pulled her head away. ‘Doesn’t matter, anyway who the fuck are you and where’s Dolly?’

Edie sat back on her haunches as the girl hauled herself into a sitting position and leaned against the wall.

‘Shouldn’t it be me asking you that question? Who are you and what are you doing here?’ Edie said, less evenly than she would have liked to. The girl was clearly on her uppers, scruffy, dirty and smelling of unwashed flesh, neglect and sadness. Sadness had a smell all of its own and was too familiar to Edie for her to mistake it for anything else. It had the scent of misery and the tang of salt.

The girl attempted a scowl, but it clearly pained her. ‘Where’s Dolly?’

‘She died, three weeks ago. She was my aunt.’

The girl shook her head slowly and winced as the movement hit home. ‘Shit, poor Doll. I didn’t know she had family.’

It felt like an accusation and Edie herself wanted to wince away from it. ‘We weren’t close,’ she muttered. ‘How did you know her?’

The girl shrugged, her face crumpling in pain as a reaction to the movement. ‘Just did, she used to help me out a bit, you know.’

Edie didn’t, but could guess. The state of the girl told her everything she needed to know, at first she had suspected drugs but the thin arms showed no signs of needle marks, just the evidence of homelessness and malnutrition. ‘Is that why you broke in, because Dolly used to help you?’

‘I didn’t break in, the door was open.’ the girl said, cringing again.

‘Look, I’m going to go next door and get you some painkillers – don’t move, I won’t be long.’ It seemed pointless to do anything else, the girl was clearly suffering and Edie wasn’t going to get much further with her at this rate.

The ever organised Lena had painkillers in her kitchen cupboard, in the same plastic tub where Edie also found sticking plaster, dressings and antiseptic cream. She assumed that Lena wouldn’t mind and took what she needed, fully intending to replace it all when she could. While she rummaged she considered the good chance that the girl would have gone by the time she got back. If she had, she had, but on the off chance she also took a tin of soup and a few slices of bread.

To her surprise the girl had remained exactly where Edie had left her, looking pale and weak. ‘I thought you might have done a runner,’ she said.

‘Nowhere to run to.’ the girl answered blandly.

Edie dressed and taped the cut above her eye, fed her two analgesics and dampened the flannel with cold water so that the girl could hold it against her eye. ‘Reckon you can make it downstairs? I brought you some food.’

A faint flicker of enthusiasm wafted across the girl’s battered face. ‘Food would be good, I haven’t eaten since yesterday.’

When the girl was at the table, drinking down her soup with a vigour that belied her fragile state, Edie decided that it was time for answers. The girl’s plight had brought out her sympathies, but she wanted to know who this young woman was and why she had walked into Dolly’s house broken and bleeding. ‘So, now you are patched up, fed and watered – are you going to tell me what happened and why you came here?’

The girl mopped up the last trickle of soup with a crust of bread and swallowed it whole. ‘Got kicked out of my gaff, had nowhere else to go – I figured Dolly would bail me out for the night. She sometimes would, depended on what mood she was in.’

Edie nodded. ‘What happened to your face?’

The girl shrugged. ‘Got smacked by that bastard Johnno, reckoned I was losing him business.’

Edie didn’t say a word, just looked at the girl in confusion.

The girl sighed. ‘Not very streetwise, are you? One of the girls said I could kip on her sofa for a few nights, Johnno didn’t like it – I gobbed off at him and he gave me a smack. Best to get out of the way when he’s on the warpath.’

Edie’s mind did somersaults and the girl must have noticed the mixed bag of reactions flit across her face.

‘I’m not a tom if that’s what you’re thinking, I’ve had me moments but I don’t charge for it, and I’m not doing drugs either. Some of the girls are mates, they help out.’

‘So this Johnno is a pimp?’

The girl laughed ‘He’s a bastard, that’s what he is.’

Edie thought about the girls across the square and what their lives must be driven by, just a constant reel of unnamed men, drugs and money. ‘Where are your family, your parents?’

The girl snorted. ‘The woman who gave birth to me is currently shacked up with bloke number forty-two, and the bloke who donated the sperm is somewhere round here… so I’m told. I wish I knew who he was, I’d give the bastard a right piece of my mind!’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Sophie – do you?’

‘Edie.’

The girl laughed, ‘Jesus, your mum must have hated you more than mine did me! Edie, short for Edith – right?’

Edie felt herself begin to blush, then she saw the humour. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘So, Edie, what’s the deal with this place?’ Sophie looked around the kitchen. ‘I can see you’ve cleaned it up, you moving in?’

‘No, clearing it out before it’s sold.’

Sophie nodded and hiccupped. ‘Fair enough, I wouldn’t want to live here either if I had the choice. Reckon it’s worth much?’

Edie felt herself bristle. Being quizzed by this stranger with attitude didn’t sit well. ‘I’ve no idea, I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.’

Sophie held her hands up. ‘Sorry, none of my business eh?’

Edie folded her arms. ‘Not really, no.’

Sophie looked down at her empty bowl then gently touched the dressing on her forehead. ‘Guess that’s my cue to fuck off then. Cheers for the soup and stuff.’ She reached across the table to retrieve her pungent backpack.

‘Where will you go?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Dunno, best get off the square though, Johnno sees me again he’s going to give me worse than a black eye.’

Edie looked at her, she was thin, grubby, pale and devoid of anything that marked her out as a functional human being. On a whim she said, ‘You can stay here if you want, just for tonight anyway – just don’t steal anything and don’t let anyone else in.’

Sophie’s hand paused on the strap of her backpack. ‘I don’t nick – and besides, if you can find anything in this gaff worth my while you’re better than me. I’ll stay for tonight.’ she said it as though it was she doing Edie the favour. ‘Got any more of those tablets, me face is killing me.’

Edie found herself smiling as she tossed the rest of the paracetamol across the table. There was something about this tattered human that appealed to her on a fundamental level. ‘Here, don’t take too many and for Christ’s sake have a bath, you stink. I’ll be back in the morning.’ She stood to leave.

The girl picked up the pills and turned the pack in her hands. ‘You’re a gobby cow Edie, but you’re all right I reckon. I’ll kip on the sofa, them rooms upstairs give me the right creeps – funny fucker your aunt Dolly.’

Edie had to agree on both counts.

It was only as she slipped in to Lena’s kitchen, in a vain attempt to be quiet, that she began to question the wisdom of leaving a complete stranger of dubious origin and even more dubious morals alone in a house that she was responsible for. What harm could it do? There was nothing worth stealing and in her heart of hearts she felt sorry for the girl. Sophie couldn’t be much more than twenty by the looks of her, and even if she did steal something, good luck to her – it would be one less piece of junk that Edie had to deal with.

She put her hand against the teapot – it was hot and stung her fingers, which meant that Lena had woken up. With a feeling of trepidation that she couldn’t really fathom, Edie stuck her head around the sitting room door and spied Lena wearing her nightdress and dressing gown and perched on the edge of her chair. ‘Hi Lena, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Just made it, let it brew. Where’ve you been?’

Edie felt like a school kid caught out in the midst of some nefarious act. ‘Next door…’ she hesitated, ‘umm, a friend of Dolly’s turned up, I said she could stay the night.’

Lena turned and gave her the full benefit of her scrutiny. ‘Oh aye, who would this friend be then?’

‘A young girl called Sophie, she looked to be homeless and had been in some sort of accident.’ Edie didn’t feel like elaborating on the nature of Sophie’s ‘accident’.

Lena narrowed her eyes. ‘That skanky kid, always hanging around the square and cosying up with the prozzies? What do you think you’re doing, letting scum like that stay next door?’

Grateful as Edie was for Lena’s hospitality and kindness, this critique of her decision rankled. ‘She was in a mess and had nowhere else to go, I couldn’t just throw her out on the street.’

Lena pulled her dressing gown across her chest and pulled a face. ‘Huh! Street’s the best place for the likes of her! You’ll regret it, she’ll have that place stripped clean before you know it, mark my words.’

Edie thought that Sophie stripping the place clean might be rather helpful, but didn’t say so. ‘Well it’s done now and if she can find anything worth having she’s welcome to it. Shall I pour that tea?’

Lena looked horrified for a moment, then seemed to collect herself, huffed and waved an acquiescent hand. ‘I’ll have a drop of brandy in mine, always do before bedtime. It calms my nerves.’

For Edie, bedtime couldn’t come soon enough. Lena’s attitude towards her actions had been unsettling yet understandable. Meeting with anyone’s disapproval had always been difficult for Edie and she was distinctly uncomfortable at the thought that she’d met with Lena’s. Yet the woman had been kind and Edie wasn’t in a position to argue, she felt beholden enough because of Lena’s hospitality. Perhaps tomorrow she would buy some bedding and move back next door. Lena was right, letting the street girl stay had been an entirely irrational decision. She sloshed a large measure of brandy into Lena’s tea by way of reparation and took it to the woman who had been so kind. Lena took it and sipped in silence. Looking at Lena with rollers in her hair contained by a chiffon scarf and hunched in her dressing gown with a look of pinched concern clouding her face, Edie was reminded of Mrs Tiggywinkle. With Lena’s veiny feet protruding out from under her nightie, and the firmly wrinkled brow, Edie saw the version that Stephen King might have written, had he been struck to anthropomorphise a hedgehog. The thought of it made her want to snort with laughter and she had to bite her tongue to avoid the disrespect.

She took her own tea to bed, but didn’t drink it and instead lay awake thinking of the task ahead of her and trying not to dwell on the brooding presence of Matt Bastin, or the equally brooding disapproval of the woman downstairs. All she needed to do was clear the house, hand the keys to an agent and leave. Rose could take care of the rest. How hard could it be?

Chapter Five

Sophie lay stiff and aching on the lumpy sofa listening to the ticking of the mantle clock and contemplating the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The tablets that Edie had given to her had taken the edge off, but her ribs still grated where Johnno’s fist had bruised them and every now and then her face pulsed with pain.

She hadn’t taken Edie’s advice and had a bath, everything hurt too much for that, but she had salvaged the flannel and had a quick lick round with that. It would have to do for now, she hated being dirty but a quick wash was all she’d been able manage. Waves of nausea lapped like the tide and she could feel the soup and bread rolling and washing in her stomach. Throwing up wasn’t an option. In her situation food could be hard to come by; you had to hang on to it no matter what.

An attempt to shift position winded her and made her grit her teeth, for the first time in an age she felt as if she wanted to cry. Not because of the pain, though it wasn’t helping, but because of Dolly. The woman was gone and Sophie hadn’t known. That was the trouble when you shifted about the place sofa surfing (and sometimes settling for doorways) – you couldn’t keep in touch and you couldn’t keep an eye on people who mattered. She wasn’t quite sure why Dolly had mattered, she’d been a funny old duck, but she’d been kind in her way and good for a few quid from time to time. Sophie pondered whether what she was feeling might be grief – she had spent so many years being angry it was hard to recognise other emotions, but this hollow, empty feeling seemed to fit what she understood of the concept. Unless it was more hunger. Sophie was equally familiar with that sensation.

The house felt weird without Dolly, and the inroads into the mess that the woman Edie had made seemed to Sophie like something important ran the risk of being eradicated. Sophie was kind of glad she was nomadic, it would take thirty seconds for someone to dump her rucksack in a bin – thirty seconds, job done, all Sophie Hedley’s worldly goods, all she stood for, eliminated in an instant. No one would experience grief, or even hunger, at her demise. In fact she would be surprised if anyone would even notice. Probably better that way, no legacy, no ripples, no homeless people spending the night on your uncomfortable sofa. What was with this sofa? It felt like she was lying on a sack of rocks, and it wasn’t just the bruised ribs that were making her feel it. She shoved a hand beneath her and felt around. Sure enough there was a lump in the foam. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep with that digging into her back, and she was a girl who could sleep anywhere – doorways, park benches, you name it.

With some effort she slid off, grunting as her ribs grated and sang with pain. A zip in the back of the cushion allowed access to the foam inside. The zip was stiff, had probably rarely been opened, and it took a moment of careful and gentle persuasion before the teeth parted and allowed her to slip in a hand and feel about for the object that had been causing so much discomfort. The foam was old, had started to disintegrate and left a grainy and unpleasant residue on her hands. The texture of it made her grimace as she groped about, her fingers finally finding the item that she sought. It felt like a book, a book that someone had wedged between the layers of ancient foam. Weird. She tugged at it, but it had been there a long time and resisted her efforts. The foam had become tacky and had adhered to the cover, Sophie tugged and worked her fingers under and around the book until finally it came free and she could pull it out. The light in the room was dim, the bulbs as old and weak as Dolly had been, and Sophie couldn’t really make out much from the pages of the notebook that had faded, foxed and stuck together in the passage of time. It seemed to be some kind of copybook, lists, money, boring stuff. She wasn’t much bothered about what the pages held, only that the bloody thing would no longer be preventing her from sleep. With irritation she wiped the cover on the carpet and threw the book into her backpack, then she wiped her hands down her jeans and reassembled the cushion. With mounting exhaustion she put it back, climbed onto the sofa and attempted to sleep.

Edie found her there the next day, curled up, hair tousled, mouth slack and with her T-shirt ridden up and revealing the ugly, mottled bruise that had bloomed on her torso overnight. As she observed the sleeping, broken girl, sorrow clutched at her heart. Lena’s disapproval had inclined her to think that she should ask the girl to leave, but this sight changed everything. Edie knew what it was to feel lonely, vulnerable and without hope. She had never been homeless but had sold her soul to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. If being married to Simon hadn’t been a deal with the Devil, she didn’t know what was.

For a moment she contemplated taking the girl’s bag and washing the clothes that were inside, the whole thing stank and so did the girl, but who was she to intrude on the girl’s possessions? Instead she wandered through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and began to cook the bacon and eggs she had brought with her. As she fiddled with the food a plan began to form in her mind.

The smell of cooking must have woken the girl as she came sidling into the kitchen, yawning and shuffling and rubbing the back of her neck. ‘I smell bacon, is there coffee? I could murder coffee,’ she said blearily as she slumped into a chair next to the faded Formica table.

‘There is coffee.’ Edie said, pouring boiling water into a mug of instant. ‘It’s not great but it’s wet and it’s warm. Oh, and I’ve sorted you some clean clothes out – some of mine, I’ll wash yours if you like.’

Sophie took the drink and frowned. ‘Why are you being so nice to me? Food, shelter, clothes, offers of washing, what’s the catch?’

Edie paused, the grill pan in one oven-gloved hand, a piece of bacon dangling from a fork in the other, and examined the girl’s look of suspicion. She wasn’t sure she liked a world where kindness and compassion had to be explained and justified.

‘No catch, but an offer. You need a place to stay, I need some help. This place won’t clear itself and I can’t face it on my own. I don’t know how long it will take, but you can stay here and help me until I hand over the keys. I’ll feed you and sort out a bed for you to sleep in, I’ll even buy you a bar of soap and some shampoo…’ she added as she passed a plate of food across the table.

Sophie scowled at the perceived insult and took the food, inhaling the aroma and letting the nectar of it relax her features. ‘No skin off my nose.’ she said, shrugging and dipping a folded slice of bread into her egg. ‘As long as you’ve got rubber gloves, I’m not touching anything without gloves. This place is minging!’

Edie looked at the grim state of the girl and smiled as pots and kettles came to mind. She sat down in front of her own breakfast. ‘OK, and yes, I have gloves. I figured you could start by clearing one of the bedrooms. I’m going out in a bit to buy some bedding so at least we’ll have something clean and dry to sleep on.’

Sophie paused, a chunk of sausage poised precariously on her fork stopped in mid-air, interrupted on its journey to her already full mouth. ‘You said “we”, I thought you was staying next door?’

‘I was, but I don’t want to outstay my welcome. You can clear and clean the little room and sleep in there, I’ll take the sofa.’

Sophie shrugged and shoved the sausage into her mouth. She chewed twice and swallowed. To Edie, watching Sophie eat was much like watching a snake consume its prey whole; inconceivable and uncomfortable.

‘S’your funeral, that bastard thing is like an instrument of torture – I’ve slept on more comfortable benches than that sofa. Why don’t you have one of the other bedrooms?’

It was a good question. ‘I’ll show you in a minute and you’ll see why.’

Sophie looked around Dolly’s bedroom in horror, the hanks of hair seemed to have become even more disturbed than Edie could remember. They hung around the room like cobwebs and single strands hovered, wafting like fine tentacles as they floated in the draught from the hallway.

‘Christ! If Miss Havisham had made it to her wedding night, I reckon this is what the room would’ve looked like.’ Sophie said, making to step into the room more fully, then thinking better of it.

‘I didn’t have you down as a literature lover.’

Sophie scowled at her. ‘I might be temporarily indisposed, but I’m not thick. I read.’ She prodded at a pile of abandoned clothing with her foot. ‘Bloody hell, where d’you start?’

‘Here.’ Edie said, leading her across the landing and into Beattie’s small, cell like room. ‘It’s not so messy, but it is damp and the wardrobe needs clearing and there is a bit of junk that could do with sorting. It might be worth stripping that bed and giving the mattress a good airing, I’ll buy a cover for it later, I’m not sure what state it’s in. Once it’s cleared you can sleep in here.’

Sophie looked around the small room, a look of considered approval on her face. ‘Ta,’ was all she said, though she accompanied it with a nod of satisfaction. ‘So what do you want me to do with the stuff?’

‘Anything that is obviously rubbish, just throw. Her clothes can go in bags for the textile recycling, I can’t imagine any charity shop wanting them and I can’t for a minute think that there would be much call for fancy dress where crimplene and nylon are concerned. My grandmother wasn’t exactly a natty dresser. Anything you think might be important – photos, document and the like – put in a box and I’ll go through them later.’

Sophie nodded. ‘Righto boss. Ummm, I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of those painkillers have you? I hurt my ribs and they’re playing me up like a bastard.’

Edie fished in her pocket for the ibuprofen she had bought that morning with the breakfast goods. ‘Here, I got these. You’re really not going to be up to much, are you? Not in this state anyway.’

Sophie flapped a hand at her. ‘No worries, I’ll be right in a mo. I’ve had worse. Not saying I’m up for moving furniture like, but I can manage to chuck shite in bin bags.’

Edie passed her the medication, wondering at the wisdom of leaving someone who she hardly knew, who regarded other people’s belongings as ‘shite’ (and who, if profanity were removed from the language would have very little to say) in charge of clearing out Beattie’s room. She shook the thought off. It wasn’t as if she could really afford to care what happened to the contents of the house, as long as they were cleared and she could leave – it didn’t really matter what anyone did with her grandmother’s belongings. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure?’ she said.

‘Oh stop fussing will ya? Bugger off and go shopping, I’ll have this place sorted in no time.’ Sophie said, gazing casually at the plain contents of the small room.

Chapter Six

Edie cut across the park, skirting the now familiar murder tourists and their unhealthy obsession with Winfield’s more murky past. She was thinking about Sophie again, about the bruises on the girl and the cut on her face and about what would happen to her when the house was finally cleared. Edie would be gone by then and Sophie would have no roof again. There had to be something out there for kids like Sophie, something more than other people’s sofas on good days and shop doorways on bad ones. Perhaps, Edie pondered, there was some kind of charity that might help, or there might be a local hostel which she could persuade Sophie to try. Her thoughts were still running the possible scenarios of a less precarious future for Sophie when she reached the high street and had to stop to get her bearings. For some reason her preoccupation with the homeless girl had made her forget that things had changed in Winfield. The high street was no longer the bustling and lively place that she remembered, it was now a half boarded up commercial wasteland of charity shops and pound emporiums. She paused, sighed and looked along the street to see if anything vaguely familiar to her younger self still stood. With some relief and not a little nostalgia she spotted the Swiss Cottage café and, two doors down from it, Bryers and Brynt – purveyors of hardware and household goods. The fact that B&B was still in business was bizarrely gratifying and Edie felt a small smile tilt at the corners of her mouth as a memory of the place took hold. Recollections of the smell of beeswax polish and the sheen on the old mahogany counters, and the two old men who’d been the sons of the original Mr Bryers and Mr Brynt reinforced the smile as she strode towards the kerb, ready to cross the road and revisit her childhood.

She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Sam, standing outside the cafe and engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with a large man who was built (as her mother had been fond of saying) like a brick shit house. He was huge, with shoulders like a lintel and a musculature that strained the seams of his black wool coat. Even more incongruous than his size was the coat itself, it was August and although not baking hot, warm enough for shirtsleeves. The coat was a uniform, a statement and a badge of office. He looked like a bouncer, or some kind of hired thug, and from what Edie could see he was looming over Sam and exuding increasing amounts of menace. Sam wasn’t a small man himself, but he was dwarfed in the face of this giant and every time he attempted to step back and maintain his personal space, the man took a step towards him and narrowed the gap. Sam’s usually relaxed and handsome face had taken on an expression that smacked of mild panic, it pinched his features and showed his age. Fear did that, Edie knew. She saw it in her own face every time she looked into a mirror.

For a moment she hesitated and thought about turning round and walking back towards the square so that she could claim ignorance and avoid any liability for the scene that was unfolding before her. Not that she had any idea what might happen, it was the sense of escalating tension that came across the road in almost tangible waves that triggered her anxiety and awakened the fight-or-flight mechanism in her brain. She could run, but would she ever forgive herself if something happened to Sam and she hadn’t intervened? Swallowing down her better instincts, she checked for traffic and strode across the road, waving at Sam as she went and catching both men’s attention with the movement. ‘Sam,’ she called out when she was only a few steps away from the kerb, ‘fancy seeing you here. I was hoping I’d bump into you.’ She stepped onto the pavement and patted her chest in mock breathlessness as she turned to the giant, giving him what she hoped was a dazzling smile. ‘Hello, sorry to interrupt, just wanted to catch Sam before he disappeared!’ she said, with a laugh that was tinny and falsetto and as fake as the smile. The giant frowned at her.

‘He’s all yours, lady.’ he said, in voice that sounded more like a grunt than anything else. ‘Don’t forget Campion, Mr Pascoe wants what he’s owed.’

‘Don’t worry, he’ll get it.’ Sam said, his voice tense and tight.

The giant gave him a grudging nod, turned and climbed awkwardly into a sleek black car that had appeared at the kerb. Edie watched as he forced his bulk into the front seat and slammed the door. She treated him to another radiant smile as the car pulled away and even risked a small wave to Sam’s horror.

‘What’re you doing?’ he demanded.

‘Being polite.’ she said, dropping her hand and turning to Sam. ‘What was that all about?’

Sam took her elbow and steered her towards the café. ‘Just business, nothing to worry about.’

Edie wasn’t so sure – though the pinched look had departed, his voice still sounded as if it had come from behind gritted teeth. A muscle, fired by tension, twitched in his jaw. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, then in an instant the tension was gone and the familiar smile broke across his features. ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ He nodded towards the café. ‘Fancy a coffee, as we’re here?’

The sudden change in demeanour rattled Edie for a moment, but she was so relieved to see the familiar relaxed and cheerful Sam that she shook off the feeling and returned his smile, ‘Why not?’

The Swiss hadn’t changed at all, in fact as Edie looked at the yellow stained walls and worn wooden tables she wondered if the owners had even decorated in the thirty odd years since she had been there last. A memory of drinking hot chocolate and eating cake with Uncle Dickie rose like a bubble and popped on the surface of her consciousness. ‘Dickie used to bring me here for hot chocolate,’ she said, as Sam found them an empty table.

‘Yeah? He was a nice guy as I recall.’ Sam said. ‘So do you want hot chocolate now so you can relive your childhood? Or are you going to settle for a nice, grown-up coffee?’

There was a slight smirk hiding in Sam’s smile and the sight of it sent a frisson of embarrassment through Edie. She certainly had no desire to relive her childhood and felt irritated at the suggestion that she might. ‘Coffee please. I don’t believe in going backwards.’ she said, with more grit than she’d intended.

‘Fair enough.’ Sam waved to the waitress and made their order. ‘So how’s it going? Have you discovered the family jewels yet?’

Edie laughed. ‘Hah, some chance of that! No, it’s going OK. The sooner I get it done the better.’

‘Have you started on Dickie’s room yet?’

‘No, I haven’t touched the bedrooms, I’m kind of building myself up to it. Dolly’s is a nightmare – every time I think about it I feel like packing my bags and running away!’ she said it with a laugh, as if injecting humour into the prospect would somehow lessen the veracity of her desire to cut and run from the whole thing.

‘Ah, it won’t be that bad once you get going. We managed the lounge easily enough, didn’t we? Why don’t I come round and give you a hand again? I could sort Dickie’s room, while you tackle Dolly’s.’

It was a kind offer, but Edie felt that she’d already taken up too much of his time and Lena’s kind help. ‘Ah, no, it’s fine. I’ll manage. You and your mum have already done enough. I’m very grateful.’

To her surprise Sam reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it warmly. ‘It’s no problem, we like to help. I want to help.’

Edie was acutely conscious of the warmth of his touch on her skin. Fortunately their coffee arrived, borne on a worn out tray, which was wielded by an equally worn out waitress by the look of her. Edie pulled her hand away from Sam’s and reached for her cup. ‘It really is kind of you, but I’m absolutely fine. I have a friend helping me now, so I won’t need to impose on you or your mum. In fact I’m off to buy some bedding in a minute so that I can move back in. Much as I love your mum’s company, I’ll get a lot more done if I’m “in situ” rather than gossiping to her every evening.’ She added a smile and sipped at her coffee. It was piping hot, too milky, cheap and burned her tongue. She winced at the pain and put the cup down as if it was the vessel’s fault she’d scalded herself.

Sam ignored his own drink and peered at her. ‘Oh? Who’s the friend?’

Edie avoided his eyes and glanced around the seedy café. ‘Just a girl I met, she’s helping me out a bit. I feel kind of sorry for her, she’s sort of on her uppers and needs a bit of help.’

Sam frowned, as Edie expected he might. ‘Are you saying you’ve picked up a stray and let her loose in the house, Edie? Are you sure that’s a wise move?’

Edie was rarely sure of anything these days, but she did know that it was her decision and that she didn’t need to justify it. ‘I’m happy with her there, I trust her.’ For instance, she wasn’t sure that statement was true, but was equally unsure she wanted to debate it with Sam. Nice as he was, appealing as he was, he wasn’t her keeper.

Sam’s frown deepened, he seemed to be thinking. ‘Hmmmm, well, I hope you don’t regret it. Why don’t I call round later, help you out a bit and make sure this “friend” is the full ticket and not intending to rip you off?’

Edie really didn’t want to be rude, wasn’t even sure she was capable of it – she sometimes felt that her default setting was ‘polite people-pleaser’ – but this overprotective streak in Sam was starting to grate on her. ‘Thanks, but it’s fine. Honestly. I’ll take my chances.’

Sam shrugged and sat back in his chair. ‘Fine, fair enough, just looking out for you that’s all. This place isn’t what it used to be Edie, you can’t go around leaving your back door open and expecting no one to walk in and help themselves these days.’

Even though she was bristling on the inside, Edie smiled. ‘I know, in fact I might just do that – if people walk in and help themselves it will save me a lot of work!’ It came out with another laugh that was a little too tinny and a little too high. Sam was making her nervous and she wasn’t sure why. ‘Anyway, let’s change the subject. Tell me what happened to all of the old shops along here that I remember. What happened to the butcher, Mr Lovell wasn’t it?’

Sam answered her question without enthusiasm, explaining that the demise of the high street had been a typical thing – out of town supermarkets had been built, the community had broken down, the socio-economic state of the area had taken its toll… Edie sipped the now drinkable coffee and listened patiently, grateful that she was no longer under the spotlight of his attention. When the conversation had petered out, and they had both finished their drinks, there seemed nothing else to do but thank him and get on with her day. He seemed distracted and preoccupied, and Edie was worried that her defensiveness had offended him. Outside the café she hesitated, wondering if she should acknowledge her concern. ‘I hope I didn’t annoy you Sam, I really am grateful for everything you’ve done, and for this – the coffee and the company.’

He seemed to snap out of his mood at her words. ‘No worries, you didn’t offend me at all. I’m just concerned for you. Anyway, I won’t interfere where I’m not wanted.’ He accompanied his words with a wan smile, which made her feel she had just put a dent in something that she might need – his friendship.

‘Oh Sam, I’m so sorry. I just didn’t want you to think I couldn’t manage things on my own. I don’t want you to think of me as some burden who’s turned up out of the blue!’

He slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, then to her surprise dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You’ll never be a burden Edie, I’m just happy to help. Anyway, I’m off. People to see, things to do.’ He squeezed her shoulders again.

As he walked away her words of farewell seemed to hang on the air like the smoke from a cigar. She felt like she had given in to something, let him win in some way – but win what? Surely she was the one who had gained by maintaining their connection. Whatever. She pushed the strange feeling away and walked into Bryers and Brynt in search of bedding.

***

Alone in the house after Edie had gone, Sophie looked around the kitchen and contemplated washing up the breakfast things. She supposed that she ought to really if she wanted to show some appreciation for the food in her belly and the roof over her head. Washing up was probably the chore that she had loathed most at home, mainly because ‘stepdad’ number seven had chosen to use his half eaten meals as an impromptu ashtray. The memory of cigarette butts protruding from uneaten piles of cold food like little gungy stalagmites turned her stomach. As did the thought of him with his sly leers and wandering hands. With a shudder she turned her back on the dirty dishes and headed upstairs, taking a roll of black bags, a pack of cleaning wipes and a pair of rubber gloves with her.

Beattie’s room might have been less cluttered than the others, but it had suffered from the same degree of neglect, and the faint, musty smell of mushrooms lingered in the air. Dust coated every surface and the desiccated carcasses of dead insects peppered the edges of the room. The windowsill alone looked like a moth and fly graveyard. Sophie grimaced at the thought and decided to start with the wardrobe and build herself up to dealing with the dead bodies.

The wardrobe doors sighed and sagged open at her tugging. They were swollen with damp and once ajar, released a foetid lull of air, which felt to Sophie like the breath of history curling into her face. Beattie’s particular history hung in the form of a few simple dresses and one good coat, which dangled limp and lonely from a rusted hanger. She gathered them up and bundled them unceremoniously into a black bag that initially refused to play ball and resisted her by folding in on itself and twisting away. She gruffly forced it into submission and rammed the clothes inside.

If she had been more patient, and looked at the clothes, she would have had to picture the shape of the woman who wore them. Having their owner manifest in her mind was too much; she didn’t want that, and quickly followed the clothes with shoes and a handbag made of stiff dry leather. She tried the clasp, but it was old and obstinate, much as she imagined Beattie had been. Everything in the wardrobe found its way into the black bag, including a faded, moth-eaten felt hat with a cluster of age-paled wax cherries on its brim. It crowned the heap of apparel in the bag and was sealed away with all the other things long past their wear-by date.

Despite her conscious refusal Sophie couldn’t help her mind constructing a picture of the woman who dressed in black crepe and who thought that a hat with cherries on the band was the height of haute couture. Sophie wasn’t entirely sure about haute couture, it seemed to be something for posh people with more money than sense. Beattie had not been posh; she had resoled her battered leather shoes, and kept mothballs in the pockets of her coat. Even now the faint tang of camphor hung in the air like a waft of bad breath.

Beattie seemed to have lived a life of frugality and austerity in a room so free of fripperies that it resembled a nun’s cell. The only nod to vanity was a tiny glass dish on the tallboy, containing a few hairpins. It was situated directly under a pock marked mirror, which distorted even Sophie’s fresh young face with its cuts and bruises. The room felt sad, lonely and almost punitive to Sophie – it was hard to imagine the demeanour of a woman who would choose to live like this. Even through the barrier of the loose rubber gloves she could feel the essence of the old woman’s despair penetrate her skin and seep into her bones, where it sat like a winter chill, brooding, ready to pounce and make her heartsick. It wouldn’t take much, she was heartsick already.

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