Cuckoo: A haunting psychological thriller you need to read this Christmas. Sophie Draper

trust – Steph had already explained about the trust.

      ‘Hang on, did you say investments?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I didn’t know anything about any investments.’

      ‘Ah, well, it’s mainly stocks and shares that are bound into the trust, and the estate includes a small cottage.’

      ‘A cottage?’

      I heard a murmur of voices in the background. Was that the rattle of a tray being placed on a desk?

      ‘Yes, Lavender Cottage. I believe it was rented out. The tenant is still there, a Mr Atherton.’

      ‘Oh.’

      I felt my heart sink. Craig, the man in Ashbourne, had been Elizabeth’s tenant. And was presumably now my and Steph’s tenant.

      ‘So it might take us a while to settle things and resolve probate, but I promise you that everything’s in hand.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Briscoe. I appreciate the call.’

      After he rang off, I sat there looking through the kitchen doorway, into the hall with its pool of light from the window on the stairwell. I felt the blood rushing to my head. The rug might be gone, but there was still that stain, a disturbing reminder of what happened. I’d never been one to get superstitious, but now all those films and stories about restless spirits and ghouls lurking in abandoned houses came rushing into my head.

      The last thing I wanted to do was to get down on my hands and knees and scrub Elizabeth’s blood from the stone floor.

      I decided to distract myself. I turned out the drawers of the hall table, emptying leaflets, maps and business cards onto the floor, kneeling to rifle through them. The business cards were illuminating: Dave’s TV aerials, Ashbourne Window Cleaners, Larkstone Butcher’s. So, Elizabeth had been a regular at the butcher’s? Not really a surprise, but did that have something to do with their apparent snub to me? I shook my head. I pushed the papers and cards into a pile to throw away.

      There was a knock on the door. I started, not expecting visitors in this weather, well, in any weather for that matter. I clambered to my feet, scooping the papers into my arms. I unbolted the front door and opened it cautiously.

      My eyes widened. It was Craig. I kept the door half shut in front of me.

      ‘Hello?’

      His jeep was parked on the drive behind him, with a trailer full of logs, huge tyre marks in the fresh snow.

      ‘Log delivery,’ he said cheerfully.

      ‘I didn’t order any logs.’

      ‘No, but your mum did. Before she died.’

      ‘She wasn’t my mum.’ It was all I could think of to say.

      ‘Oh, yes, right, sorry.’

      I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His weather-worn face was framed by a thick grey scarf and the upturned collar of his jacket.

      ‘Well, she ordered and paid for them in October and I never got the chance to deliver them, given what happened. So, I thought I might as well deliver them now that you’re here. You’ll be in need of them in this weather. We’re about to get snowed in. Have you had a power cut?’

      ‘Yes.’

      I supposed it must have happened to him too if both houses were on the same line.

      ‘Hmm, thought so. It’s back on now, but it’ll go again, always does. I’m guessing these logs will come in handy.’

      I stood there, papers from the clutch in my arms drifting to the floor.

      ‘Well, come on, I can’t stay here too long or my car will get stuck on your drive.’ He lifted his hands, catching snowflakes floating in the sky. ‘And then you’ll have to invite me in! Do you want them or not?’

      ‘Paid for, did you say?’

      ‘Yup.’

      ‘Okay.’ I gestured to the wall to the far side of the driveway. ‘Can you pile them up under there, please.’

      ‘Sure thing, ma’am!’

      I grimaced as he turned back to the trailer.

      I disposed of my papers and watched him from the safety of the sitting room window. It felt mean not helping him, but for the life of me I couldn’t bring myself to join him, to talk to him. It had only been a couple of months since … I hadn’t spoken to Paul and the thought of interacting with any man after … Craig wore a path across the snow, to-ing and fro-ing, neatly stacking logs. He moved with a sure-footed smoothness, bending, lifting, reaching. My eyes couldn’t resist following the lean line of his body. He was a strong man, practical, you could see it in the way he moved.

      But I’d always felt uneasy with the physical, outdoors type of man. Those like Angus, the man I’d crashed into. I winced at the memory. He’d been the epitome of everything I disliked, brawny, aggressive. I was more attracted to the intellectual, creative type, wasn’t I? Like Paul. But look where that had got me.

      I had moved in with him after about a year. He’d seemed impatient by then, anticipating the closeness our relationship had brought. I was intoxicated, eager for the next stage in my life. Here was someone who wanted me, loved me. He hadn’t said those words, not quite yet, but I wasn’t mistaken by the way his eyes followed me, the pressure of his hands upon my arm in the street, the way he rang me every day. It was like it was a relief to him when I moved in. He’d driven to fetch me from my old digs. He looked surprised at the amount of stuff I had – there were a few suitcases with clothes and shoes and the like, but mainly it was boxes filled with painting gear, paints and brushes and folders overflowing with my work. He’d scowled when he saw all that piled up in his flat; his place was always neat and strictly ordered. But he knew I worked from home, he’d been to visit me many times, so he must have known what to expect, surely? I had my eye on a corner of his dining room, by the window that faced north. The light was bright but unheated, perfect for what I needed. I’d mentioned it and he’d nodded absent-mindedly. I’d got it so wrong. As I was to discover.

      So why did I now find myself watching Craig?

      No, this man was different, I realised, from both Angus and Paul. I didn’t know what to make of his kindness, not just the logs but the stacking of them too. I resisted the urge to offer him a mug of tea, to be grateful, friendly. What was he after? Was he checking me out? Or had he decided to keep his new landlady sweet? The thought hovered in my mind.

      A little while later, he knocked on the door.

      ‘All done. There’s enough there to see you through a good few weeks. It’s well-seasoned wood, so you can use it straight away.’

      He’d put some plastic sheeting over the top. He followed my eyes and nodded.

      ‘That’ll keep it dry. By the looks of things, we’ll be snowed in for several days. They never clear this road, it only comes to you and me, then loops round the hill to the other side of the village. It’s not worth their time. Have you got plenty of food?’

      I dipped my head. We’d been snowed in so many times – Elizabeth and Steph and I, and later just Elizabeth and I. It came with living in this house. To most kids it would have been exciting, the thought of all that snow and no school. But it had filled me with dread, the long days with nowhere to go, hiding in my bedroom, trying not to be noticed, to not get into trouble. To avoid Elizabeth.

      The winter when I turned eleven had been particularly bad. The snow blew in great drifts through the hedges and filled up the lane. Out the back of the house the entire garden had been buried under four feet of snow – reaching half way up the back door to the kitchen. At the front it was even worse – the car had been buried completely and the wind blasted a layer of snow against the windows so that you could scarcely see through the glass. There was no way I was getting into school, even