Finders, Keepers: The mesmerising new thriller from the author of LIE WITH ME

by Sabine Durrant

  It was settled.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Canvas ‘grip’ overnight bag

  Mini-break, noun. A short holiday, esp. one lasting two or three days and spanning a weekend.

  Maudie and I got the train down: a very ordinary train, rather rackety and grubby and uncomfortable for a journey of that length. I had made some sandwiches, but the carriage was full and, in the end, I found myself too inhibited to open my Tupperware (people can be funny about the smell of egg). The headphones of the woman next to me emitted a tinny, high-pitched cacophony which prevented me from concentrating on my copy of the Week; as, I confess, did a persistent anxiety that Maudie might not be able to hold it in. In the event, she did, proving that not everyone or everything in life lets one down.

  I was relieved to see Ailsa there to meet me when I came through the barrier of the small, isolated station. She was in the big silver car and she beeped and waved, then threw open the passenger door. Maudie leapt straight in and I followed, hauling myself in by gripping onto the back seat. Ailsa made a joke about the size of my luggage, and then put her foot down, swinging out of the car park and up to a roundabout, and then along a dual carriageway. I clutched Maudie to me as she spun the wheel tightly to the right, and then roared past a school, and a pub and a garden centre. It was only when we were on a narrow lane with high green banks, the car a great hulk, that she spoke again. ‘Journey OK? Not too stressful?’

  ‘Yes. Everything was . . . easy, thank you.’

  ‘You all right?’ she said. ‘You look even thinner. Have you lost more weight?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ I got under Maudie to unzip my waterproof jacket. ‘I’ve been feeling a little tired, so it’s lovely to get away.’

  ‘I’m so glad we’re able to give you a break,’ she said. ‘I should tell you, though, we’re quite a full house. I got the dates muddled. It’s much pokier than the website led us to believe, which is a bit rich seeing as it costs a fucking fortune.’ She glanced at me and then back to the road. ‘Technically, dogs aren’t allowed. But I’m sure we can keep Maudie on the down-low.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. No. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t check, Ailsa. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry! It’s fine.’

  ‘I can always go back.’

  I found myself trying to zip the jacket up again. I had slotted the pin into the metal bit at the bottom, but on the first try the pull-tab wouldn’t budge. I yanked it several times before getting it to work. Then zipped it up again to my chin. I was feeling close to tears.

  ‘It’s lovely that you’ve come, with or without the dog. Max will be thrilled.’

  The hedgerows had begun to press in. Foliage scrunched and scraped against my window. Leaves, torn off, straggled from the wing mirror.

  ‘Now.’ She reached a junction, indicated, and turned. ‘I have to warn you we’re quite a crowd. Delilah’s here on her own. She and her husband Johnny are having difficulties. He’s taken the kids away this weekend and she was at a loose end. Also Rose – you met her at the picnic – invited herself en route to her house in Cornwall, so she’s here with her husband and two kids.’

  ‘The house by the sea.’

  She glanced at me. ‘Good memory, yes. So she’s got Fergus who’s in Max’s class, and we were wondering if it would be OK to include him in your literacy camp? Rose was so impressed by how Max’s academics have improved.’

  Literacy camp? Academics. I hadn’t realised it would be quite so formalised. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Super. Anyway, who else?’ She sighed theatrically. ‘Yes. Ricky and Pippa – did you meet them at the party? They rang to see if they could come to lunch this week instead of next. She’s adorable, and they have a tiny little baby who is just to die for. I know Ricky better – you remember, I’ve been helping him with the London garden. It would have been much more convenient if they’d come when asked but Tom wants their business and we didn’t really have a choice.’

  There was a break in the hedgerow, a gate, a flash of field. She was slowing down.

  ‘We’re here.’

  The house, an elegant pale stone building, nestled in a dip of the landscape. The back wall edged directly onto the lane, but at the front it was open and wide, a proper Georgian façade, with those lovely Somerset floor-to-ceiling sash windows. Wrapped around it was a wide flagstone terrace, edged by fecund flower beds and a long lawn rolling down to a row of trees – I could hear a rushing; was it the wind, or was there a river behind? – with a sheep-pocked field on the other side, a single tree on the summit standing out against a mackerel sky, like Jesus on the cross.

  It was deserted at first glance. On the terrace was a fire pit, full of burnt charcoal and sweet wrappers, and on a bench an empty coffee cup and a plate, smeared with what might have been the remains of some cake. Ailsa pointed over to the left, beyond a long lawn, poppies and roses and statues, to a tennis court, nestling in a hollow of land. Two figures were waving racquets in the air. ‘I’m back!’ Ailsa yelled, and the taller of the figures raised both arms to serve, and smashed the ball to the other end so hard his opponent, Delilah, dodged it with a little skip: ‘Bastard!’

  Ailsa shook her head. ‘The kids are at the pool,’ she said, ‘which is through there.’ She pointed to a gate in a row of thick trees, on the same side of the house as the tennis court, but further over and higher up the gradient.

  There was birdsong, low wood pigeons and tweeting tits, and a pleasant buzzing of insects. The sky was magnificent, blue, streaked with clouds. I laid my bag down. ‘How wonderful it all is,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like a swim?’

  ‘I haven’t brought a bathing suit.’

  ‘Oh, we can always lend you one. But in the meantime, I’ll show you where we’ve put you, shall I?’

  I picked my bag back up and hauled it over my shoulder. ‘Lay on, Macduff.’

  She took me along the terrace; not through the open French doors of the house, but down a flight of wide steps made of railway sleepers and gravel that carved their way through long grass, and round to the far side of a small low-slung structure; a barn, I supposed.

  ‘You’re in the piggery,’ she said. ‘Don’t laugh. It’s a lovely little annexe. We thought you’d be more comfortable out here. A bit more independence.’

  She opened a door and, lugging my bag, I followed her directly into a long narrow guest room: double bed and a chest of drawers at one end and, at the other, a table, on which lay a pad of paper, a row of pens. Around it, I noticed, were three chairs.

  ‘We thought you could do your sessions out here – nicer for the kids to have a designated work area; keeps the rest of the house clear and . . .’

  ‘. . . untainted by the horrors of literacy.’

  ‘You got it. OK – so shall I leave you to freshen up for a bit? And then, I don’t know – if not a swim, do you fancy a walk? I’m longing to stretch my legs.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said.

  After she left, I moved a pile of towels, and lay on the bed. Maudie jumped up too, almost certainly verboten, and curled up next to me on the pillow. It was a pleasant enough room – carpeted and clean – and it was good to have a bit of space to myself, if that’s what she meant by ‘independence’. I would have been overwhelmed to meet everyone all at once, to have been thrown into conversation. And yet here, on my own, I felt oddly empty. It was all so oatmeal. How bare the walls were. Not even a picture. The clock next to the bed was an alien modern cube. I slid my legs off the bed and pulled open the top drawer – nothing. I decided to unpack, to fill up some of the spaces, and had a glass of water from the tap in the shower room. I found my egg sandwich and ate it at the table, feeling hungrier when I’d finished than when I’d started. What could I do if I got really hungry? Nothing. I hadn’t been shown the kitchen. We hadn’t passed a shop. ‘A couple of days’, she had said. A couple was two. But people ca
n be so vague with language; a couple/a few – they have become interchangeable. It had seemed a disappointingly short trip in the planning, but now I was actually here the time loomed ahead dark and unknown. I mean, how long should I sit here? She’d left me to freshen up ‘for a bit’. Ten minutes? Half an hour? More?

  When I finally left the piggery, and walked back up the path, I found her waiting for me on the terrace. Cries and splashes carried in the air from the pool. She was alone, sitting upright on a bench with her hands clasped between her knees; she was staring across the valley at that single tree on the horizon, her features slumped, her eyes hooded. Her expression was dull, vacant. When she saw me, she jumped up and seemed to put on a smile, sort of shake it onto her face. She had changed her flip-flops for trainers and a small rucksack was strapped to her back. ‘There you are! Have you been having a nap? Tom and Delilah have gone for a swim, but I said I was waiting for you. Let’s have this walk, shall we?’

  I gabbled apologies, and we set off, past the cars, up to the lane. She said it didn’t matter at all; we were on holiday, it’s not like she had anything else to do – well, apart from cleaning up and cooking, and she’d had enough of both. At the top of the drive we turned right onto a bosky lane, and almost immediately crossed a stile to the left, onto a footpath along a field. Maudie was tugging to get free, making a frustrated rasping noise from her throat, and I bent down to unhitch her from the lead.

  Ailsa said: ‘I’d keep her on, if I were you. There are a lot of sheep around and the farmers aren’t mad about dogs on the loose. We don’t want her getting shot.’

  ‘Maudie shall not be shot,’ I said, borrowing from Dr Johnson.

  I’m not sure she got the reference. ‘Let’s hope not,’ she said.

  The path was narrow and overgrown and we struggled along it in single file, Ailsa in the lead, the dog next, me dragged behind, between a field and a scratchy hedgerow and then under a line of lime trees, through shadow and sunlight, until we reached a four-barred gate to our right. Beyond was an open pasture and here the path widened and we could walk abreast. To our left, overhung with trees, the occasional willow, a small river meandered. To the right, a meadow of long grass, rampant with daisies and buttercups and poppies, followed a gentle incline towards the dark clustered shadows of a small copse. There was the liquid sound of water, the general hum of insects, the occasional loud and purposeful low-flyer zooming by close to one’s ears. High above us swifts screamed.

  ‘How’s the week been?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  It was warm, if not as hot as it had been. A tepid breeze rustled in the willows. The sky had clouded over – the mackerel scales multiplying as they tend to, in thick waves across the sun.

  ‘Is Tom a bit less stressed about work?’

  ‘Well he’s happy to be away if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Is he really pleased with Max about his report?’

  ‘Yes, what a relief.’

  As the path turned away from the river, the gradient steepened. We walked in silence – just the sound of our breathing. When we reached the brow of the hill and were almost into the dappled shadows of the trees, I paused, and she stopped too. We both turned round to look back down the meadow, the swaying grass, the long-stemmed buttercups and daisies, to the house beyond, glimpses of roof, and trees and wider glinting water. She took a few deep breaths. ‘Fucking relief to get away from them all.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I pushed my glasses up my nose. ‘You do seem a bit out of sorts.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ and then again, drawing the word out, ‘I’m f-i-ne.’ She let out a puff from her cheeks, a sort of harrumph. ‘It’s harder work than in London, that’s all. And I wasn’t expecting Delilah to turn up as well. Did anyone ask me? No, just fait accompli. Yes, everyone’s having a lovely time, but does anyone think about all the fucking catering?’ She rubbed the palm of her hand with her thumb; then scratched it in little controlled circles. ‘Sorry, itchy. Chopping onions yesterday. So many mouths. As far as they’re all aware, the meals just arrive – as if by magic. You know?’

  Aware I was another mouth, I kept it shut.

  A fly was buzzing around her face and she waved it away. ‘I’m a grouch. Sorry. Not sleeping. It can happen if I’m off my meds, which I think you already know I am. Don’t for Christ’s sake tell Tom, by the way. He’ll kill me.’

  ‘Oh dear, it all sounds a bit stressful for you,’ I said. There were things I could have said, asked, but Maudie was still making that strangulated panting sound; it was taking all of my strength to keep hold of the lead.

  ‘Oh, let the dog off,’ Ailsa said, as if she was the one whose patience was being tried.

  I bent down to release her; but the strain in Maudie’s neck tightened the collar and I found it hard, with my arthritis, to get my fingers close enough to unclip the clasp. It was a struggle, but finally, like a greyhound released from the traps, she propelled herself forwards, and was gone, head down, whipping through the long grass, back towards the river.

  ‘Fuck,’ Ailsa said. ‘Where’s she going? Is she going back to the first field? Did you notice if there were sheep in it?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘Would she chase them? We should have checked if they were there. They might have been clustered by the far fence.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think there might not have been,’ Ailsa said. She rubbed her chin. ‘The farmer was around yesterday, but . . .’

  I couldn’t wait to hear any more. I began to stumble back down the path, the earth beneath my feet uneven and pitted. Grass whipped at my calves; my glasses knocked against my nose. Why had I let her off? Why had Ailsa suggested it? It had been insane under the circumstances. She might be shot. I shouted, ‘Maudie, Maudie!’, my breath ragged, a hot pain in my chest. I could hear Ailsa, but her voice sounded a long way away. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t panicked. She didn’t care if Maudie was shot or not. It would be a minor inconvenience to her, that was all.

  When I reached the river, the pain had widened under my ribcage. ‘Maudie,’ I panted, my heart pressing against my sides. I raised my voice: ‘Maudie!’ Had she gone through to the other field. Any second would I hear the sound of a gun? What would I do? Was there a vet? Would we get there in time? I could hear the crackle of Ailsa’s steps, the hush of her breath, and I began to run again, tripping over the uneven ground, almost falling, vision blurred with tears; my heart loud in my ears.

  And yes . . . I knew I was ridiculous, foolish. The moment I caught sight, through the overhanging yellows and greens, of Maudie’s straggly white coat, her head down as she gulped water from the stream. The moment I called again, and she lifted her head and hurtled back, tearing through the entrails of the willow, and reached me, panting, her sides heaving – yes, in that moment I knew I had made an idiot of myself. Furiously, my heart still pounding, I clipped the lead to her collar. I bent over myself, leaning my elbows on my thighs to try and recover my breathing.

  ‘There she is.’ Ailsa had caught up. ‘Panic over.’

  ‘Panic over,’ I managed to repeat, fingertips pressed into the corners of my eyes.

  She patted my shoulder. ‘Poor Verity,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look very pale.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  ‘Better in a minute.’ I rubbed at tiny bubbles of blood on my ankles.

  ‘We should probably wander back now anyway.’

  I straightened. ‘Yes.’

  She began to walk ahead and I followed. ‘A nice cup of tea, when we get home,’ she said. ‘About the one thing Delilah seems able to do unaided.’

  I made a noise at the back of my throat.

  A few minutes later, she lifted her chin and looked back at the field. ‘This is what I call a proper wildflower meadow. I might have to dig a bit up to take back to my own.’

  ‘No cornflowers,’ I managed
to say.

  ‘You’re right. No centaurea cyanus.’

  I swallowed. ‘They need annual ploughing so they’re not technically meadow flowers at all.’

  Ailsa laughed, looking back at me from under her lashes. ‘What I love about you is you don’t miss a thing. She’s quite annoying, isn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe not my cup of tea.’

  ‘Thing is I have to put up with her because she and Tom have always been so close.’

  I let a beat pass. ‘Too close?’ I ventured.

  She moved her head to look away. ‘They’ve known each other a long time – they were neighbours as kids and mucked about in tree houses and stuff together, and then later, before university, they dated for a while. She’s always been a bit in love with him, and he tends to play up to it. He’s a terrible flirt.’

  We had reached the four-barred gate. I stopped and leant into it. ‘Oh, so it’s nothing serious,’ I said.

  She looked back at me. ‘I hope not.’ She laughed. ‘Otherwise, I’d have to kill him.’

  I wish I could be sure of what happened next. It is so hard to be certain, particularly when certainty is as important as it is now. Although I recall details, it’s possible I dreamt it.

  What I remember as happening, is that I stretched out my hand to cup one of the tall lacy flowers that were sprouting in a hollow between the river and the gate, lifting their heads towards us. ‘Lots of cow parsley in my garden,’ I said. ‘It’s rampant. But it dies so quickly when picked, doesn’t it?’

  Maybe it wasn’t cow parsley. Maybe it was buttercup or harebell or foxglove. Lots of wildflowers have doppelgangers. I’m sure I can come up with other examples if I try hard enough . . . I’ve just Googled: morning glory and its treacherous cousin bindweed. There you go.

  Whatever it was, Ailsa pulled me from it. ‘Don’t touch. Even brushing against it can give you blisters on your skin.’