Page 161 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘No.’

A look passed between the officers. ‘We’ll need to take some details. Both of you. Who had the gun?’

‘Me,’ said Sammy.

The officer held her gaze. She took out her notebook. ‘Name?’

‘Sammy Jenkins.’

The pen moved.

Behind her, Chloe didn’t speak.

‘They told me they’re both in care,’ said the man.

The officer put away her notebook. ‘We’ll need to speak to your carers.’

Sammy drew in a breath, the present rushing back in, Jean’s hand on her arm. ‘You said it was you,’ said Jean.

Thirty-eight

The task list was shorter on Sunday, as if Magnus had given up testing her; which sent a shiver of unease through Sammy. He passed it over without comment, then left her in the kitchen.

The start of her morning came back to her – the rich smell of bacon pulling her awake, she’d only managed toast while Chloe had been staying. Jean at the stove, already showered and dressed, with one of Sammy’s aprons tied round her middle, moving in the small kitchen as if she’d lived there all her life.

‘Go to work on an egg,’ she’d said, setting the plate of eggs and bacon down.

The pair had eaten at the kitchen table, talking about supper – Jean’s cottage pie reminding Sammy of the comfort of that small table in Jean’s Swansea kitchen.

The back doorbell rang. Sammy folded the list down the middle and went to answer.

It was Nate with a box of autumn vegetables – leeks and broccoli. ‘Thought you could use these. And at the bottom, there’s the last of the courgettes from the polytunnel.’

Sammy stepped aside. Damp soil trickled through the cracks as he carried the box into the kitchen.

‘I was hoping we might have a drink together some time,’ she said. ‘I miss you.’

He fiddled with a leek. ‘All right,’ he said, setting the box down.

A memory of the ducklings came back to her – warm in her hands, then gone, because she’d let them go.

In the evening, Jean made a pot of tea while Sammy stared grimly at her CV.

‘You like this sort of work. It suits you,’ Jean said, pouring strong tea into Sammy’s mug.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve been fired.’

‘Have you?’ Jean added a splash of milk and handed her the mug. ‘Or has your probation simply not been confirmed? There’s a difference.’

Sammy considered that. Would Magnus help? Possibly. He knew she was good at the job.

She carried her tea to the window.

A door slammed.

Outside, Nate strode from his cottage, shrugging into a coat. ‘Stop It!’ he shouted. He reached the top of the track and spun round, searching in both directions. ‘Stop It!’

Sammy set her mug down so quickly tea slopped over the rim.