Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down. Mary-Jane Riley

Apart from Gus, I mean.’

      Alex briefly thought again of Malone, wondered where he was, what he was doing, then shook her head. ‘No. No other ties.’

      Gus. She groaned.

      ‘Now what?’

      ‘I haven’t done the shopping. Gus is due home sometime soon and I haven’t got anything in for him. Or Sasha for that matter if she does deign to come to my house.’ She smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. ‘Oh, I’m such a bad person.’

      ‘No, you’re not. You can do the supermarket run tomorrow. And you can shop for Sasha while you’re at it. Spoil her a bit.’

      Alex nodded. ‘I suppose I could.’

      ‘And you must find out where she is and get her home. To your home.’

      ‘Yes. I know.’

      They sat in silence, sipping their wine, watching the sky turn gold and then red as the sun began to set.

      ‘Have you ever been married?’ asked Lin, suddenly.

      ‘Me?’

      ‘Yes you,’ she laughed, sweeping her arm around. ‘There’s no one else in hearing distance, is there?’

      ‘No. Never married.’

      ‘I never liked to ask you before. You seem so – contained.’

      ‘Do I?’ Alex was surprised. She’d never thought of herself as ‘contained’. Perhaps that’s what happened when you lived on your own. Or when you lost someone you thought would be around forever. Someone she’d fallen in love with. Who had taken a phone call and walked out of her life again. One phone call, that’s all it had taken. ‘I’ve had boyfriends – is that what you call them? I feel a bit old saying that, though. Most of them mistakes.’

      ‘Even Gus’s father?’

      ‘Especially Gus’s father. One-night stand in Ibiza. Too much drink, a bit of E and there I was, pregnant. But it’s all worked out. Gus finally met his father and is working with him at the moment.’

      ‘Whereabouts is that?’

      ‘Ibiza. It’s good for him,’ she said firmly. ‘To get to know his dad. I denied him that for too many years.’ Alex looked at her. ‘What about you? Relationships, I mean?’

      ‘Who me?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Me and relationships are a no-no. Toxic.’

      ‘Come on, Lin.’

      ‘Truly. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about me—’

      ‘And I don’t want to talk about me any more.’ Alex jumped up. ‘I’m too boring for words.’ She yawned widely. ‘And I must get back and get some sleep.’

      Lin pouted. ‘Spoilsport. Just when I thought you were going to tell me about the men in your life.’

      ‘Nothing to tell.’ Alex brushed sand and small pebbles off the back of her jeans. ‘Come on, race you to the prom.’

      Lin struggled up, clutching the empty wine bottle. ‘Cheater.’

      Alex laughed.

       9

      The early morning air was crisp and fresh and the hedgerows were covered in frilly cow parsley as Alex drove to Lapford. She reached the home of the late Roger Fleet in little under an hour. She wanted to see where he had lived, to get a feel for the man from the depths of Suffolk who had chosen to end his life with a magazine owner from London. She hoped if she got there early enough she would beat Heath Maitland to it – he’d never made an early start in all the years she had known him – and also, with any luck, there wouldn’t be anyone around to question her as to why she was there.

      The satnav took her through the actual village of Lapford itself, past a high school, a crinkle-crackle wall, and along a high street that could have come out of the Middle Ages, all beamed houses and cottage gardens. Some had notices outside advertising free-range eggs or garden vegetables. One enterprising householder sold jam and pickles at his gate. Alex wondered how long it would take the health and safety police to get to that one. There was even a little duck pond in the centre of a green, complete with duck house in the middle and a wooden bench on the edge. And actual ducks too. The only people she saw were an old boy on a bike in his wellingtons, probably going to work at a local farm, and two dog walkers.

      She turned left opposite the primary school with three distinctive arches at its entrance and a couple of cars parked on the bit of grass next to it, past a newsagent, a butcher’s shop, a deli and an imposing church with a tall tower, and on to the road out of town.

      After a few more twists and turns Alex drew up outside a five-bar metal gate. A wooden board at the side of the gate proclaimed it to be Hillside Farm. Excellent, she thought, as she parked up on the grass verge.

      The soothing sound of a harp made her look at her phone. It was a text message from Gus, at last.

      Hi Ma, it said, planning to get a flight from Ibiza to Stansted in the next day or so. Will try and let you know tomorrow what time and when. I’ll make my own way to Sole Bay, just get the food in, I’m Hank Marvin!

      Alex smiled. She was looking forward to seeing her son again – it was many months since he’d gone to Ibiza to meet his father for the first time. Gus had slotted into his father’s family of Argentinian wife and three children as if he’d known them all his life. Which was a good thing. A really good thing. And it was good that he got on with his dad. It was the right thing to happen.

      So why did she always feel that twist of jealousy when she spoke to him over FaceTime and he waxed lyrical about what fabulous people they all were and how he was enjoying working for his father and how he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to find him? Alex nodded and made encouraging noises, all the while feeling the envy and the slight resentment (slight? really?) that he should have this much enthusiasm for a man she’d had a one-night stand with and who hadn’t wanted to know her the next morning.

      Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. Gus was happy and that was all that mattered.

      Great, she typed. So looking forward to seeing you.

      Texts, she thought, were lifesavers. She could stop worrying about Gus, and she’d had one from Sasha earlier that morning telling her not to worry, that she was with a friend. Right then, she wouldn’t worry. Much.

      She jumped out of the car and pushed open the gate, shutting it behind her. Then she took a picture of the pebble-dashed bungalow in the distance with her phone, and a close-up of the veg garden.

      Walking up the drive she marvelled at the rows of young vegetables growing either side of the gravel. If she was a proper gardener she would have known what was there; as it was, she could only identify some curly lettuces, the beginning of frondy carrot tops and wigwams made out of canes ready for runner bean plants to curl around. As she got closer to the house she sniffed the air. The sweet, earthy smell told her there were pigs in the vicinity, and she heard the triumphant crowing of at least one hen that had just laid an egg.

      Police tape had been fixed across the front door of the bungalow. They must have come yesterday, maybe looked for clues to – what? – to see why he killed himself? She frowned. So, the house was still the subject of a forensic investigation.

      She walked around the back and found a number of fenced-off areas with chickens, pigs, and sheep. There was also a goat tethered in one corner underneath an apple tree. When she got closer she saw large plastic buckets of feed and water. So the animals were being cared for.

      ‘What do you want?’

      Alex turned and saw a woman whose age could have been anything from thirty-five to sixty with a sharp, ferrety face. She