Dropping my suitcase by my feet, I cleared my throat. If the boy on the train had recognised my name, perhaps other locals would as well. For all I knew, my parents’ murder was still big news in Barchapel a quarter of a century after it had occurred.
‘Hi,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Emma Bellamy. I have a room booked.’
The barman yawned again. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. He put down the glass and offered me a smile. ‘Late night.’ He took out an old-fashioned appointments book and flipped it open. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Emma,’ I replied. ‘Emma Bellamy.’ I kept a close eye on his expression but he didn’t react to my words other than to frown as he searched for my booking.
‘Oh yeah, here you are.’ He glanced up. ‘I have a couple of messages for you.’
I raised an eyebrow. A couple? Good grief – I’d only just left London.
The barman slid an unmarked envelope across the counter. I opened the flap and drew out two small scraps of paper which had clearly been torn from a lined notepad. The first message was simple and to the point: I hope you had a good journey. I will be at the local police station on Bowman Street until this evening if you would like to call in. Regards, DCI Harris Boateng.
Boateng was probably the Senior Investigating Officer looking into Patrick Lacey’s murder. The message didn’t give much away as to whether he was pleased or dismayed by my appearance in Barchapel but, either way, I appreciated the time he’d taken to get in touch.
The second message was slightly more cryptic: All for one, D’Artagnan x There was no name attached but I didn’t need to ask the barman to know that it was from Lukas. I gazed at the little x, wondering if he’d told whoever had written the message to include it. Probably. I smiled and pocketed both bits of paper. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ The barman gave me a key. ‘Your room is on the second floor. There’s no lift, but say the word if you want a hand with your bags.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I told him. I was stronger than I looked. Much stronger.
‘Cool.’ He nodded. ‘Breakfast is from seven till ten in the room across the way. If you need anything else, just give me a shout.’ He offered a lazy grin. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
Mmm. I wasn’t sure enjoy was the right word. I thanked him anyway, and went up to drop off my suitcase and freshen up. I put all thoughts of contrary teenagers out of my head. I had more important things to worry about, and I was determined to hit the ground running.
Precisely nine minutes later, I was back in front of the Bird and Bush Inn. Although I knew I should offer DCI Boateng the same courtesy he’d shown me and make the local cop shop my first port of call, there was somewhere else I had to go first. I couldn’t rest until I did.
I tilted my head back and raised my face to let the afternoon sunlight warm my skin, then I sucked in a deep breath of fresh country air and checked the map on my phone. It was less than a ten-minute walk.
I strolled along the street, paying close attention to both my surroundings and the faces of the few people around me. I received some curious glances but there were no shocked gasps of recognition. Neither did anyone appear nervous or frightened as they wandered around the village. Either the inhabitants of Barchapel didn’t care about another brutal murder on their doorstep, or they were of the same opinion as the keyboard warriors who believed that Patrick Lacey had got what was coming to him.
By the time I turned right into a narrow lane, there was no other living being to be seen apart from a few contented-looking cows in a nearby field and a large crow that was hopping along the hedgerow next to me searching for tasty bugs.
I re-checked the map to make sure I was heading in the right direction then squared my shoulders. There was no longer a pavement so I was forced to walk along the road. It curved to the left, leading towards the next village six or seven miles away.
Instead of following it, I pivoted right. And that was when I saw it.
I might not have had any memories of the Barchapel streets but gazing at the tumbledown cottage, barely visible through the thick hedges, was akin to being drenched in ice-cold water. This. This I remembered.
With my heart in my mouth, I picked my way through the thick undergrowth until I was standing on the wide, weed-covered path that led to the front door. There was what had once been a garden to either side of me, although it had seen better days. I noted an old fire pit and the messy detritus of crisp packets, bin bags, beer bottles and even a rusty shopping trolley.
Despite the rubbish, the overwhelming scent was of the honeysuckle that curled along the whitewashed cottage wall before snaking round the corner toward the boundary fence. I closed my eyes, inhaling the heady aroma of summer and remembering. We had picnics out here. My mum would make the sandwiches, cutting them into the tiny triangles that I insisted on. My dad would lay out the old tartan rug and pour the drinks – not just for us, but for Toby the teddy bear and Polly Dolly. I would run and play and skip and scream…
A sob escaped my lips. No. I opened my eyes. No. They were dead and nothing would change that. I’d allow myself to feel sorrow and grief, but I wouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. Not now.
I shoved my hands into my pockets as if to ward off stronger feelings of pain, then I walked up to the cottage door. It was covered in a
