*
As we get closer, the splendour of the farmhouse hits me. I count seven windows across the second floor, and three bay windows at ground level. In the middle of the building is a stunning double-fronted door, with a pitched porch.
I pick up speed, aware my toes and fingertips are growing numb despite my extra layers. Once there, I peer through one of the windows, my hand making a bridge over my eyes to block out the brightness of the day.
I take in the lounge with its three sofas, expensive units lining the walls, and open fireplace. I never came to the farmhouse last time I was here, only ever saw the place from a distance, was comforted in the knowledge that the police had searched the house at the time.
‘I’ll ring the bell,’ Rosamund says. She’s on the doorstep, glancing my way.
‘I don’t think anyone’s here, but it’s worth a try.’ I step away from the window and join her on the doorstep. Dad and Finn are a few yards back, as though worried the house might blow up.
Rosamund rings the bell several times, before trying the handle. ‘It’s locked,’ she says.
‘Let’s look round the back.’ I take the initiative, and head across the snow and through a gate leading to the back of the house. I stand for a long moment. A five-foot wall surrounds the garden, behind which snow-covered public land seems to go on forever. I glance over my shoulder. Only Rosamund is with me. ‘Where are Dad and Finn?’
‘They said they’ll go the other way, try to cover more area.’ She heads towards a Victorian-style conservatory that stretches along half of the house, but I’ve spotted a stunning summerhouse halfway down the garden. It’s green, and hexagonal in shape. Not the kind you find in a DIY store. In fact, it’s big enough to live in.
‘It’s open,’ Rosamund calls, and I glance over my shoulder once more to see her stepping into the conservatory.
I look back at the summerhouse and make my way towards it. The door is locked, so I step towards one of the windows and peer through the grubby glass. It’s difficult to see inside, but I make out the shape of wicker furniture stacked up ready for sunnier days. I circle the building, but blinds are pulled down at most of the windows.
I head back to the house. I’m not keen on being alone out here, and I’m so cold. I step into the conservatory, knowing I shouldn’t be here, invading someone’s home, but I have no choice – we need to find Elise.
Embroidered pictures of flowers line the main wall of the conservatory. At the far end, a circular table with a lace tablecloth, and four chairs around it, looks as though it’s never used. A shelf laden with books, jigsaw puzzles, and board games is closer to me, next to a sofa that would seat six, with expensive throws covering worn upholstery. My eyes fall on a grey cat curled up on an armchair, silently sleeping. Someone must be here. Michael? His daughter Julia, perhaps?
Flashes of memory of Julia arriving in her yellow sports car at the same time as the police the day after Lark and Jackson disappeared invade my mind as I continue through the door into the main house.
‘Rosamund,’ I call. ‘Rosamund?’
The hallway has several doors leading from it, and there’s a staircase to the first floor. I pull off my woolly hat and scarf. It’s warm in here – the central heating pumping out dry heat. ‘Hello!’
I make my way into a dual-aspect room. It’s the room I saw through the window at the front of the house.
I’m drawn to a heavy oak unit where framed photographs are on display.
There are pictures of Julia in her graduation gown, and several of Michael Collis. I know it’s him. I looked him up online after Lark disappeared – though I never met him. He’d inherited the Drummondale House estate from his parents when he was in his thirties, almost thirty years ago. He’s an attractive man with grey hair and ice-blue eyes, and there’s a confidence about the way he stands, shoulders back, a crystal glass in his hand in almost every photo.
My eyes skitter over the faces in the pictures, landing on a large photo of a young girl of around fifteen. I pick it up. I’ve seen this girl before.
I go to place the photo back on the dresser, but something distracts me. There’s movement outside, and I step towards the back window.
I gasp, and the photo slips through my fingers and lands with a thud on the patterned carpet. Someone, wearing the mask we saw earlier, is peering over the high garden wall. A chill runs down my spine as I step backwards, my heart racing. My stomach tight with fear, I spin round and race towards the door and fling it open. But before I leave I take a deep breath and turn back towards the window. Whoever it was out there in the snow has gone.
‘Rosamund,’ I cry, once I’m back in the hallway. ‘Rosamund, where are you?’
Seconds later, the door to another downstairs room opens and Julia Collis appears, removing ear buds from her ears. She’s dressed in a beige leotard and thick black tights. Looks slimmer than the last time I saw her.
‘What the hell are you doing in my father’s house? You totally messed up my meditation.’
‘Julia, let me explain,’ I say, taking in that her plaited hair is a shade lighter than the last time I saw her. Not that I’d got to know her when she appeared that day, telling Detective Inspector Beynon that she’d been staying at the farmhouse looking after the cat and working on her graphic novel, while her father was away. I hadn’t had the headspace to properly take her in at the time.
She narrows her eyes. ‘I remember you,’ she says. ‘Amelia Taylor, isn’t it?’ Her words are clipped. Sharp.
‘We’re looking for
