The Girl in the Picture. Kerry Barrett

shopkeeper tutted. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘Hal’s always been one for a spooky tale.’

      ‘Spooky?’ I said in glee. ‘Is it haunted? By someone who died tragically?’

      Hal looked grave. ‘It’s not the dead you need to worry about. It’s the living.’

      I chuckled. ‘Got that right.’

      ‘I heard there was a murder,’ Hal said. ‘You’ve heard those tales, right, Ken?’

      The shopkeeper – Ken – nodded. ‘It’s not true, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived here since the Seventies and no one’s ever been killed since I was here.’

      Hal looked thoughtful. ‘Could have been before then,’ he said. ‘Sixties, perhaps? Or in the war?’

      ‘Or it could all be codswallop,’ Ken said.

      The word made me smile, but I was interested and I wasn’t going to let him change the subject.

      ‘Maybe it wasn’t a murder,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was another crime.’

      ‘Robbery,’ said Hal with relish. ‘Or kidnapping.’

      ‘Pirates,’ added Oscar, who was listening intently.

      Hal ruffled his hair. ‘Definitely pirates,’ he said. ‘And smuggling.’

      ‘Ooh yes,’ I said, thinking of the Daphne du Maurier novels I’d read over and over when I was a teenager. ‘Wreckers.’

      Ken chuckled, eyeing me with interest. ‘I remember now,’ he said, nodding. ‘My wife says you’re a writer.’ He looked at Hal. ‘She writes books,’ he said. ‘Crime.’

      Astonished at this first-hand experience of village life after years in anonymous London, I could only mutter, ‘Well, more like thrillers, really.’

      ‘Good ones?’ Hal asked. ‘Have I read them?’

      ‘I hope they’re good,’ I said, embarrassed like I always was when people asked about my writing. ‘They sell a bit. Not sure if you’ll have read them. I’ll bring you a copy and leave it here for you if you like?’

      Hal grinned. ‘I’ll read it, and then I’ll tell you if it’s good,’ he said.

      I grinned back. ‘Or,’ I said, ‘you could just say it’s good even if you hate it.’

      Gathering up the boys and the padlock, I said our goodbyes and headed out of the shop.

      ‘How about we see if that bakery sells cakes?’ I said. Oscar clapped his hands.

      ‘Excuse me?’ I turned at the voice. A woman – who I’d seen in the hardware shop when we went in – was behind us, waving. She was tall and athletic-looking with inky dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and she was – I guessed – about seven months pregnant.

      ‘Oh thank goodness you stopped,’ she said waddling over. ‘I’m not sure I’d have caught you if you hadn’t.’

      She had a Manchester accent and a broad smile.

      ‘I’m Priya,’ she said, sticking her hand out.

      ‘Ella,’ I said, cautiously. I may have moved to Sussex but I was still a Londoner at heart.

      ‘I heard what you said in the shop,’ she said, slightly breathless. ‘About you writing crime novels?’

      ‘Thrillers,’ I said. Polite in case she was a reader, but still cautious. I took Stan’s hand.

      ‘Oh God, you probably think I’m a weirdo. I’m not,’ she said, laughing. ‘I promise.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m a police officer who’s stuck on light duties because of this …’ She pointed to her bump. ‘And I’m bored out of my mind. I thought maybe I could help you with research or something.’

      I stared at her, not sure what to think.

      ‘And we’ve not lived here very long either,’ she said. ‘And I thought you seemed like someone I should be friends with, so I knew I had to catch you before I lost my nerve and didn’t say hello.’

      She laughed again, more nervously this time.

      ‘I’m going to start again,’ she said. ‘Hello, I’m DI Priya Sansom from Sussex Police.’

      She stuck her hand out again and I shook it again, smiling properly now.

      ‘Ella Daniels,’ I said. ‘Writer, mother, former tax accountant. And new to rural friendliness.’

      We smiled at each other. I thought Priya was right – she did seem like someone I could be friends with. I was glad she’d approached me.

      ‘Cake, Mummy.’ Stan tugged my arm.

      ‘We were going to check out the café,’ I said to Priya. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

Chapter 8

      Priya was not as far along in her pregnancy as I’d thought.

      ‘Five months,’ she said, through a mouthful of coffee cake. ‘Twins. Bit of a shock.’

      ‘Got any more?’

      She nodded glumly. ‘Two,’ she said. ‘And two stepkids. All girls.’

      ‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘But congratulations.’

      She smiled. ‘I’m excited really, but my husband’s terrified these ones will be girls too. He’s headmaster at Sussex Lodge School – which is all boys. So we can’t even use the discount he gets on school fees.’

      I giggled. I liked Priya already.

      ‘Tell me about your books,’ she said. ‘What are you working on now?’

      I made a face. ‘I’m supposed to be writing my third novel featuring Tessa Gilroy, a maverick private investigator who inadvertently gets caught up in domestic mysteries.’

      ‘Not going well?’

      ‘Not going at all,’ I admitted. ‘I’m hoping moving down here will help unblock me.’

      ‘Let me help you,’ Priya begged. ‘I’m so bored.’

      ‘Bored?’ I said. ‘With four kids and two more on the way?’

      She waved her hand as though six children was nothing more than an inconvenience.

      ‘Jas is at university,’ she said. ‘Millie’s in sixth form, but she’s at her mum’s most of the time anyway, so they’re no trouble. Layla is eight and desperate to be like her big sisters, and Amber is five. She’s quite the little princess and I think not being the baby any more will do her good.’

      ‘I’m five,’ said Oscar.

      Priya looked at him. ‘Then you will be in Amber’s class at school. I’ll bring her along next time we meet up and you can play together.’

      I was pleased she thought there would be a next time.

      ‘I love my job,’ Priya went on. ‘And I’ve got nothing to do. I’m shuffling bits of paper around, because my pregnancy is considered high risk and they won’t let me do anything. Please let me help.’

      I picked up my cup of tea.

      ‘Back in London,’ I said, ‘I had a tame retired police officer – his name is Reg and he’s an old friend of my dad’s. We used to just drink coffee and he’d tell me stories about cases he’d worked on.’

      ‘And it gave you ideas for stories?’ Priya said, her face lighting up. ‘I can do that. And if you need me to check procedural stuff I can help with that too.’

      ‘That would be brilliant,’ I