I noticed a piece of paper by the front door that I must have stepped on when I came in. I went over and picked it up, examining the handwriting before I unfolded it. My name had been written in a spidery, elaborate script.
Dear Isabelle
I trust you are well. I intend to call in to see you, and I am writing this note in the event that you are not at home when I do.
I’ll endeavour to keep this short. I love Puffin Cottage – it was my home, and a piece of my heart will always remain there. I want to see it go to an owner who appreciates it for what it is, rather than someone who wants to conduct ‘renovations’ and install a ‘breakfast bar’. I want someone who will treasure my possessions.
I suspect that despite your initial intentions, you might be staying in Seahouses for longer than you imagined, perhaps even permanently. If you would like to make Puffin Cottage your home, I would be willing to sell it to you for the price of £50,000, on the condition that you would be living in it and will promise to keep the property true to its original character. I’m confident that it is worth considerably more on today’s market, and that this would represent quite a bargain.
I hope this proposal is agreeable to you, and I look forward to being invited to continue our discussion over tea and cake.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs D Wheeler
I put the letter down, steadying myself on the back of the chair. Fifty thousand pounds? The cottage had to be worth five times that amount, surely. Her daughter would go nuts. I giggled at the prospect of seeing Sandra Wheeler, face even redder than usual, lose her wits when she found out what her mother had done.
And what timing – it was almost too good to be true. Did Mrs Wheeler know I had decided to stay, or was she trying to tempt me back with an offer I couldn’t refuse?
Could I accept this proposal? Was this an old lady who possibly didn’t understand the ramifications of what she was doing, or a true friend being very generous? Mrs Wheeler had always been so kind to me, and to Amy. Would it be wrong to take advantage of her kindness once more?
If I could buy a place to live for that amount, I’d still have enough savings left to start again. Probably enough to start my own business, doing something for myself for a change. But what would I do?
I looked around Puffin Cottage, admiring Mrs Wheeler’s quirky taste and eclectic collections as if I was seeing them for the first time. Maybe – just maybe – I could be happy here.
I pulled on my running stuff, along with Amy’s fleece top. I needed to clear my head, and a bracing run along the beach would give me the headspace to think. Inhaling deeply, I stretched out my back, looking above to the clear blue sky. I pulled my phone out my pocket and sent a message to Amy.
I’ll make you proud, Ames. Promise xo
I sniffed back the instinct to cry and set off at a steady jog. The seafront was getting busier and the carpark was slowly filling up with day-trippers who were keen to take advantage of good weather on a Sunday.
As I approached Richard Pringle’s house, I tucked my chin into the top of my collar. I tried to keep my head down, but couldn’t resist glancing up at the house with its big windows like eyes staring out at the sea. Upstairs, a lone shadow moved behind a curtain.
The beach spread out in front of me like a freshly made bed, smoothed over by the tide. A blank canvas. My feet hit the sand with a series of satisfying thuds. Only once I turned around and saw the line that I’d made in the sand did I realise how far I had come.
My phone pinged with a message from Jake as I got out of the shower.
Phil is denying everything. DCI Bell still working on him. Rachel has an appointment to come in this afternoon. J
Why was he denying it? The evidence against him was overwhelming – their affair, not to mention the sabotage of the car. My gut lurched, thinking of Rachel having to go in to the police station, of what she would find out. How would she ever get over the betrayal, once it was laid bare in front of her? I just hoped she had something to tell the police, that there was some information she could give – some piece of the puzzle – that might help them charge Phil. I dried myself slowly, my mind occupied by thoughts of court rooms and juries and judges in white wigs.
I needed a distraction. I had agreed with Mike that the kids and I would go through some of Amy’s things from the loft. She hadn’t liked to throw things away, and I knew that there were all sorts of things gathering dust in boxes. Although Mike was convinced it was all crap, I’d begged him to let us look through and see if there was anything that the kids wanted to keep. We would make a start that afternoon while he was out.
Hannah helped me to haul down the first box and slide it into the spare room, leaving a grey streak of dust across the landing. Lucas reached in first, and pulled out a CD in a clear plastic box.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, holding it up, genuinely baffled. I took it from him.
‘“Summer ‘01”,’ I read on the label. ‘Your mum made this. It had all her favourite songs on. She made a new one every year. This was while we were at Edinburgh.’
I held the disk carefully by the edges and ran a finger over the handwriting, as familiar as my own. I could remember Amy as she had
