Sally shook her head, half smiling. She stood next to the window, looking at Nial. He was wearing one of his faded seventies band T-shirts. Baggy shorts. His legs were already tanned. She could smell the freshly cleaned clothes, and the not-so-fresh sleeping bags all tumbled into the back. She could smell the sandwiches they’d packed for lunch and she could smell their skin. She felt jealous. Just for a moment.
‘You know something, Mrs Cassidy?’ he said.
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever let you get away with it.’
Sally’s smiled faded. The words had cut her dead. And there was something ugly in Nial’s face. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said,’ he spoke slowly, enunciating every word as if she was stupid, ‘I’ll never let you get away with making it so difficult. For me to take Millie to Glasto.’
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. They stood, eyes locked. Then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, he smiled. Laughed. ‘I mean, I really won’t. I never thought you’d let me.’
Sally hesitated. She looked at Millie, who had stopped waving the hat and was sitting scowling at her hands. Feeling a little stupid, a little confused, Sally forced a laugh. ‘Well, you’ll have to promise to take some photos of her.’
‘I will.’ Nial put his hand on hers. ‘I’ll send them to you on the phone. They’ll be the best you’ve ever seen.’ He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
This time Sally smiled for real. She held his face as he pulled away. ‘Thank you,’ she said warmly. ‘Look after her.’
‘I will.’
Sally walked around the front of the camper-van as Nial started it up. She leaned in the window and kissed Millie on the cheek.
‘Yeah, OK, Mum,’ Millie said, rolling her eyes. ‘Respect the makeup.’ She pulled down the sun visor. Checked the mirror and rubbed the place she’d been kissed. Then, in a sudden rush, she leaned out of the window and threw her arms round Sally’s neck. ‘I love you, Mum. I love you.’
‘I love you too. You’re going to have the best time. The time of your life. Never forget it.’
Nial revved the van. Sally stepped back. A plume of smoke came out of the exhaust pipe. Steve came out of the garage and stood, his arm around Sally, to wave the teenagers goodbye. The van jolted once, then the tyres bit and off it went, out of the driveway, past the hedgerow where the first tea roses were coming out. Millie stuck her arm out of the window. It was long and slender. By the time she got back from Glastonbury it would be burned to a crisp, Sally thought, folding her arms. That suntan lotion would stay in the rucksack.
Steve put his arm round her. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Didn’t I say it would all work itself out in the end?’ He kissed the top of her head, and murmured into her hair, ‘I told you there’d be no punishment.’
The van turned left. Not right, the way she would have gone. ‘You’ll never get to Glastonbury that way,’ she wanted to shout. And then she caught herself: trying to interfere. She had to smile. Leave them alone, she thought, dropping her head against Steve’s chest as the van disappeared over the hill, going in completely the wrong direction, the strains of Florence and the Machine fading until there was nothing but birdsong left in the garden. You just can’t go on worrying about your children for ever.
Acknowledgements
Years ago Transworld Publishers went to great lengths to assure me they were a happy, committed company, faithful to their authors and readers – with the love of reading firmly rooted in their ethos. At the time, if I am honest, I suspected it was a lot of puff to impress me, and I didn’t believe a word of it. Over the years they have proved me wrong – one hundred per cent wrong – and for that I’d like to thank everyone there: Selina, Larry, Alison, Claire, Katrina, Diana, Janine, Nick, Elspeth, Sarah, Martin (the list goes on).
Jane Gregory is my agent and my rock and how can you express your gratitude to someone who is always there when the world threatens to crumble (which it does frequently, believe me)? The same goes for everyone in her team – Claire, Stephanie, Terry and Virginia.
The following allowed me glimpses into their worlds and without those glimpses I couldn’t have done justice to some of the scenes: Alex ‘Billy’ Hamilton talked me through a lot of the super-sleuthy telephony stuff and Colonel Len Wassell, Deputy Provost Marshal, RMP, gave me huge insight into the workings of the Special Investigations Branch. Others who helped were Corporal Kirsten Gunn (Signals Regiment), Dr Hugh White (HM pathologist) and Jeremy White. A little thank you to the Green and Black’s gang, especially Sarah and Michael for letting me borrow Peppercorn Cottage as a name, and Marc Birch for gleefully painting all those lurid gamekeeper stories. Also Hazel Orme and Steve Bennett – two people who never ask for or expect thanks and praise, but absolutely deserve it.
A big apology goes to the City of Bath for playing merry havoc with your geography – intertwining Hanging Hill and Freezing Hill. Bath, you are old and wise, and I believe you will forgive me.
Above all, a little whisper of gratitude and affection to my family, my amazing, patient friends and, last but certainly not least, Bob Randall for his continuing help, support and miraculous, inexplicable faith in me.
About the Author
Mo Hayder has written some of the most terrifying crime thrillers you will ever read. Her first novel,
