Chapter one
Rachel
“My corns are bothering me terribly today.”
“Are they?” Rachel Campbell managed to combine a bright smile with a look of sympathy for ninety-three-year-old Iris Fairley. “Cup of tea, then?” she suggested, and maneuvered around the tiny kitchen with its cracked linoleum tile to fill the brass kettle Iris’s father had bought in a Turkish bazaar before the First World War. She had no intention of examining Iris’s corns, which was undoubtedly what the elderly lady wanted her to do.
“Biscuit?” Iris suggested hopefully, and Rachel reached for the packet of custard creams she’d brought.
“Can’t have a cuppa without a biscuit.”
“You shouldn’t have sugar. You know that, Iris,” Edith, her twin sister, called from the sitting room.
Rachel winked and slipped Iris a custard cream. She’d been cleaning house for the Fairley twins for eight years, and she’d long ago learned that tea and biscuits were just as important, if not more, than wiping counters or mopping floors. The twinsdidn’t get out much, and they loved a bit of a chat over a cuppa, especially Edith. Iris just liked the biscuits.
Rachel glanced out the window at the pale blue sky, fleecy clouds scudding across it. Muddy pasture stretched onto the sea, winking gray-blue in the distance. Although it was late March, it still felt wintry in this cold corner of Cumbria, and there had been frost on the tiny patch of grass outside Rachel’s house that morning.
The kettle began to whistle shrilly, and Rachel whisked it off the ancient cooker as Edith stumped into the kitchen.
“Have you had a biscuit?” she asked Iris accusingly, and Rachel busied herself making the tea.
“I haven’t,” Iris said, and Edith pointed a finger at her face.
“You have crumbs on your chin.”
“Oh, give way now, Edith,” Rachel said cheerfully as Iris brushed at her chin. “A biscuit or two won’t hurt anybody.” She slid Iris another one with a small smile. “Anyway, they’re low calorie. I bought them specially.” Rachel slid the opened packet back into the cupboard before Edith could get too close a look at it. “Now, let’s all have a cup of tea before I get on with the hoovering.” Low calorie or not, Rachel figured at ninety-three you were entitled to a few cookies.
Two hours later she let herself out of the tiny terraced cottage at the top of the village and breathed in the chilly, damp air. The blue sky of a few hours ago had predictably given way to gray, with dark clouds hovering low over the horizon. Rachel turned up the collar of her coat and checked her phone: nothing from Meghan about their mother and nothing from her little sister, Lily, who had headed off to sixth-form college after Rachel had gone on her first cleaning job of the day. No messages was a good thing; her sisters only called her in a crisis. And they’d had more than their share of crises over the years.
She climbed into her car and headed down through Hartley-by-the-Sea, past the primary school, the post office, and the pub, to where the steep, narrow street opened onto a muddy sheep pasture, the square church tower visible in the distance. She’d lived in Hartley-by-the-Sea her whole life save two precious, fleeting weeks in Durham, and its cozy charm charmed and depressed her in turns.
Rachel turned down the beach road and up the steep lane that led to Four Gables, her next cleaning job. The house would thankfully be empty, as the Wests lived in London for most of the year, and Rachel was looking forward to a few hours of peace and quiet. The Fairley twins were lovely, but they could be hard work.
She unlocked the door, breathing in the slightly stale scent of lavender potpourri and lemon furniture polish. The kitchen was as pristine as ever, untouched from week to week, and so Rachel decided to do the bathrooms. The house had five.
She’d just opened the door to the first en-suite bathroom when she stopped, nonplussed. There was a wet towel on the floor.
After a few surprised seconds she took in the other details of the room: the condensation on the mirror, the streaks of water on the glassed-in shower, the warm humidity of the air. Someone had just taken a shower.
Rachel put down her mop and pail filled with cleaning supplies, the back of her neck prickling with alarm. There had been no car in the driveway, and she knew the Wests were in London; they always let her know in advance when they were coming back, as Marie West tended to be very particular about the cleanliness of her house.
Their son, Andrew, was doing something related to engineering in America; their daughter, Claire, was partying her way through Portugal.
So who had just taken what must have been a very long, hot shower?
“Hi, Rachel.”
Rachel spun around, stiffening at the sight of Claire West coming around the corner of the bedroom. Her hair was wrapped in one towel, her body in another.
“Claire!” Rachel’s voice sounded loud, even jolly, and it made her inwardly cringe. “The prodigal daughter returns.” Claire flinched a little, and Rachel quickly clarified. “I thought you were in Portugal. It’s been what... four, five years?”
“I’m not sure when I was last here,” Claire answered, a note of uncertainty entering her voice. Rachel remembered that hesitant lilt and then the shy smile from primary school and how it had made her seven-year-old self want to protect Claire West. “It’s been a while,” Claire said, and there was the smile.
Rachel nodded, trying to remember the last time she’d seen Claire. From a distance, maybe, six years ago when her parents had thrown her a party for graduating from university, complete with a live band and a fountain spurting Bollinger. Rachel had helped out with the catering, serving champagne and canapés and shooting glances at Claire, who had, as usual, been surrounded by admirers.
But when had Rachel last actually talked to Claire? She’d have to go back decades, maybe even to those days in primary school, when they’d been best friends standing shoulder to shoulder—or rather, shoulder to waist since Rachel had always been about a foot taller than Claire—against the bullies of Year Two.
Rob Telford, who now ran the Hangman’s Noose in the village, had once pushed Claire in the schoolyard and Rachel had given him a bloody nose in retaliation. She’d been called into the office of the head teacher, who had telephoned her mother, who had clipped her on the ear, but she hadn’t cared about the consequences because she’d protected Claire.
