The Second Child: A Novel

By Lila L. Flood

In the coastal resort of Scarborough in northern England, a student's body has been discovered. Months of searching in the dark are followed by a similar murder. The two victims don't seem to be related in any way. Valerie Almond, a driven police officer, holds on to the all-too-obvious: a schism in the family of the second victim. However, for a very long time, she is unable to see the poison that is affecting this family and whose origins she would have to go back very far in time.
And it takes almost too long for Valerie Almond to realize that a sick criminal has not yet quenched his thirst for revenge...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jensen Cox
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223866183

Book preview

DECEMBER 1970

SATURDAY 19 DECEMBER

She knew she had to leave as soon as possible.

That she was in danger and that she was lost when the people who lived on the lonely farm became aware of them.

The man suddenly appeared in front of her as if he had grown out of the ground, just as she arrived at the courtyard gate and was about to hurry down to her car. He was large and not as unkempt as one might expect from the dweller of such a shabby homestead. He was wearing jeans and a sweater. His gray hair was cut very short. He had bright eyes with no trace of emotion in them. Semira could only hope he hadn't seen her beyond the stables.

Maybe he had spotted her car and was coming to see who was hanging around. Her only chance was to show him harmlessness and innocence convincingly, even though her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking. Her face was damp with sweat, despite the biting cold of the already dusk December afternoon.

His voice was as cold as his eyes. What are you doing here?

She tried a smile and thought it came out shaky. Thank God. I thought there was no one here...

He looked her up and down. Semira tried to imagine what he saw. A small, thin woman, not even thirty years old, wrapped up warm in long pants, lined boots, a thick anorak. Black hair, black eyes. Dark brown skin. Hopefully he didn't mind Pakistanis. Hopefully he didn't notice that he was looking at a Pakistani who thought she might throw up at any moment. Hopefully he didn't see her fear. Semira had the oppressive impression that you could smell her.

He nodded toward the grove at the bottom of the hill. Her car?

It had been a mistake to park it down there. The trees were too far apart and bore no leaves, they hid nothing. He'd seen it from an upstairs window in his house and had his thoughts.

She was an idiot. Coming here and not telling anyone. And then to park her car within sight of the godforsaken farm.

I... got completely lost, she stuttered. I have no idea how I ended up here. Then I saw your house and thought I might ask if...

Yes?

I'm new to the area. She thought her voice sounded completely unnatural, way too high and a bit shrill, but he couldn't know how she usually spoke. I actually wanted, I wanted...

Where were you going? Her mind was blank. After... after... what was the name of the place...? She licked her dry lips. She faced a psychopath. The man didn't just belong in prison, he belonged in preventive detention, she was sure of that. She should never have come here alone. There was nobody who could help her. She was only too aware of the utter solitude, the remoteness of the place where she was. No other farm far and wide, not a soul.

She couldn't make a mistake. 'After...' a name finally came to her mind, 'Whitby. I wanted to go to Whitby.'

You've strayed a long way from the main road.

Yes. I was beginning to think so. She smiled tightly again. The man didn't return her smile. He looked at her with those fixed eyes. But despite the callousness that emanated from him, Semira could feel his distrust. His suspicion, which seemed to grow with every second he spoke to her.

She had to go!

She forced herself to stand still, even though she wanted to lunge. Perhaps you can tell me how to get back to the main road?

He didn't answer. His glacial blue eyes seemed to pierce her. In fact, she had never seen colder eyes. So cold, as if there was no life left in them. She was glad she wore a scarf around her neck. She could feel a nerve twitching violently to the right below her jaw.

The silence lasted too long. He tried something hey out - to find. He didn't trust her. He weighed the risk this little person posed to him. He appraised her as if to probe the depths of her brain. Then suddenly a look of contempt crossed his face. He spat on the floor in front of her. Black lot, he said. You ever have to populate Yorkshire too? She flinched. She wondered if he was a racist or if he was just provoking to get her off guard. He wanted her to give herself away.

Act like this is a perfectly normal situation.

She felt a sob rising in her throat, and she couldn't help a hoarse sound from her throat. This wasn't a normal situation. She had no idea how much longer she would be able to control her panic.

My . . . husband is English, she said. Usually she never did. She never hid behind John when faced with prejudice related to the color of her skin. But instinct had advised her to answer this time. Her counterpart now knew that she was married and that there was someone who would miss her if anything happened to her. Someone who was no stranger to this country who would know immediately what to do in the event of a person's disappearance. Someone the police would take seriously.

She couldn't tell if her statement impressed him in any way.

Go away, he said.

It wasn't the moment to get upset about his rudeness. Or with him üb he raised the issue of equality arguing about the rights of white and dark-skinned people. The only thing to do was to escape and go to the police.

She turned to go. Forcing herself to walk at a steady pace and not run like she wanted to. He should think that she was offended, but he didn't want him to know that she was almost freaking out with fear.

She had gone four or five paces when his voice stopped her. Hey! Wait a moment!

She stopped. Yes?

He approached her. She could smell his breath. cigarette and sour milk. You went back to the sheds, right? She had to swallow. Sweat broke out all over her body. What... what scales?

He stared at her. In his uncaring eyes she could read what he saw in her eyes: that she knew. That she knew his secret.

He no longer had any doubts. She ran.

JULY 2008

WEDNESDAY 16 JULY

He first saw the woman as he was about to leave Friarage School and walk across the street back to his lodgings. She stood in the open door, obviously reluctant to step foot out into the pouring rain. It was just before six o'clock and already unusually dark outside for an early summer evening. The day had been oppressively hot, then a pounding thunderstorm had erupted over Scarborough, and now the world seemed to be ending in a downpour. The schoolyard was deserted. Huge puddles immediately formed in the unevenness of the asphalt. The sky was composed of angry, blue-black clouds.

The woman was wearing a calf-length summer dress with flowers, a bit dated but appropriate to the day before the storm hit. She had long dark blonde hair that she wore in a braid and was holding a sort of shopping bag. In his opinion, she was not part of the school's teaching staff. Maybe she was new. Or a student.

Something made him want to step closer and consider speaking to her. It was probably the unusually old-fashioned aspect of her appearance. He guessed she was in her early twenties, and she looked very different from other women of that age. It wasn't like a man felt electrified looking at her, but it kind of stuck with you. One wanted to know what her face looked like. How she spoke. Whether she really represented an alternative to her time and her generation. At least that's what he wanted to know. He was very fascinated by women, and since he had known almost every type, he was particularly fascinated by the unusual ones.

He went up to her and said, You don't have an umbrella?

Not that he felt very original at that moment. But with the torrential rain outside, the question arose.

The woman hadn't noticed his approach and jumped in shock. She turned to him and he saw his mistake: she wasn't in her early twenties, but at least in her mid-thirties, maybe even older. She looked likeable, but completely unassuming. A pale, unpainted face, not pretty, not ugly, but the kind you could hardly remember for more than two minutes. The hair carelessly stroked from the high forehead. Apparently she wasn't consciously embodying a certain type that she wanted to stand out from the crowd, but simply had no idea what she could have done to look more attractive and attractive.

A nice, shy thing, he judged, and completely uninteresting. I should have known there was a thunderstorm, she said. 'But when I left this afternoon it was so hot that an umbrella seemed ridiculous.' 'Where do you have to go?' he asked.

Actually only to the Queen Street bus stop. But by the time I get there, I'll be soaked.

What time is your bus?

In five minutes, she said miserably, and it's the last for today.

Apparently she lived in one of the farmhouses around Scarborough. It was amazing how quickly you could get to the country once you left the city limits. One was then, without much transition, in the middle of nowhere, in villages that consisted of only a few farms scattered far and wide and had poor transport connections. The last bus at just before 6 p.m.! Young people had to feel like they were in the Stone Age.

Had she been young and beautiful, he would not have hesitated for a second to offer her his help. take you home by car. Before that he would have asked her if she would like to have a drink with him somewhere down by the harbor in one of the many pubs. He had an appointment later that evening, which he didn't care too much about anyway, and he didn't feel like getting bored until then in the room he rented in a house down the street.

The idea of sitting across from this elderly girl - because that was her charisma: an elderly girl - in a bar with a glass of wine and gazing at her colorless face for an evening had absolutely nothing alluring about it.

Even the TV program was probably more entertaining. Still, he was reluctant to just leave her and sprint past her across the schoolyard and up the street. She seemed so... deserted. Where do you live?

In Staintondale, she said.

He rolled his eyes. He knew Staintondale, good God! A country road, a church, a post office where you could also buy the basic necessities and a few magazines. Some houses. A red phone box that doubled as a bus stop. And farms that seemed thrown into the landscape here and there.

'You'll have to walk a good distance from the station in Staintondale,' he guessed.

She nodded unhappily. Almost half an hour, yes.

He had made the mistake of speaking to her. He had the impression that she sensed his disappointment, and something told him that this must be an achingly familiar situation for her. It may have happened to her more often that she attracted male attention, but that this went away immediately as soon as a man actually approached her. She might have guessed that if she had been just a little more interesting, he would have offered her support, and she already assumed with some certainty that nothing would come of it.

'You know,' he said quickly, before selfishness and complacency could win out over a fit of kindness, 'my car's parked just a little way up the street. If you like, I'll drive you home quickly."

She stared at him in disbelief. But... that's not very close... Staintondale is...

I know the place, he interrupted, but I don't have anything else to do for the next few hours, and a trip to the country isn't the worst.

In this weather... she said doubtfully.

He smiled. I would advise you to accept my offer. First, you probably won't be able to catch your bus anyway. And secondly, even if you succeed, you will have a bad cold tomorrow or the day after tomorrow at the latest. So?

She hesitated and he sensed her distrust. She wondered what his motives might be. He knew he was good looking and successful with women, and she was probably realistic enough to realize that a man like him couldn't really be attracted to a woman like her. She probably classified him as either a sex offender who was trying to lure her into his car because he always took what he could get, or as a man who had just been overcome with compassion. Both alternatives could hardly appeal to her.

Dave Tanner, he said, holding out his hand. She took it hesitantly. Her hand felt warm and soft.

Gwendolyn Beckett, she said.

He smiled. So, Mrs. Beckett, I...

Miss, she corrected him quickly. "Miss Beckett."

Okay, Miss Beckett. He checked his watch. 'Your bus leaves in a minute. I think that settles the matter. Feeling ready for a sprint across the schoolyard and a few meters up the street?"

She nodded, caught off guard now by the realization that she had little choice but to take the straw he held out to her. Hold your bag over your head, he advised, it'll protect you a little.

One after the other they ran across the schoolyard, which was swimming in puddles. The tall trees along the wrought-iron fence that encircled the compound bowed under the pounding rain. On the left was the huge building of the market halls with its underground, catacomb-like stone corridors, in whose shop galleries you could buy a lot of kitsch and occasionally a little art. A small residential street continued to the right, lined with narrow red-brick terraced houses with white-painted front doors.

This way, he said, and they walked past the houses until they reached the small, blue, and rather rusty Fiat parked on the left-hand side of the street. He unlocked the car and they both slumped into the front seats with a sigh of relief.

Water ran from Gwendolyn's hair and her dress clung to her body like a wet rag. The few meters had been enough to soak her completely. Dave tried to ignore his wet feet.

Stupid of me, he said. 'I should have gotten the car and let you get in at the school. At least you'd be reasonably dry now.'

Oh, what! Finally she smiled. She had nice teeth, he noticed. I'm not made of sugar. And it's definitely better to be driven to the front door than to swing through the countryside in the bus and then have a walk ahead of me. Thanks very much.

Sure, he said. he below just received the third ver tried to start his car and finally succeeded. The engine started rattling, the car gave a jerk. With two jumps it was on the road and stuttered off. It'll get better soon, he said, "the car needs its warm-up time. I'll be lucky if I can get through next winter with the scrap shed.' The engine began to hum more evenly. For this time it was done: the car would come to Staintondale and back.

What would you have done if you hadn't caught the bus and met me? he asked. Not that he was particularly interested in Miss Beckett, but they would be sitting next to each other in the car for half an hour now, and he didn't want the situation to freeze in awkward silence. I would have called my father, Gwendolyn said. He gave her a quick side glance. The tone of her voice had changed when she spoke of her father. He had become warmer, less distant.

You live with your father?

Yes.

And your mother...?

My mother died young, Gwendolyn said in a way that suggested she didn't want to say more.

A father's daughter, he thought, who can't break free. At least mid-thirties, and Daddy's still the only one for her. The biggest. The best. No man can hold a candle to him.

He suspected that, consciously or unconsciously, she was doing everything to make Daddy's dream to come true to be right. with the fat blond pigtails and the old-fashioned floral dress, she embodied the type of woman from Daddy's youth, which might have taken place in the fifties or early sixties of the last century. She wanted to please him, and he probably wasn't into miniskirts, flashy makeup, or cropped hair. At the same time, she remained completely asexual in her charisma.

She probably doesn't really want the old man in bed, he thought. He had keen sensors and could sense her racking her brains about changing the subject, and he came towards her.

'I teach at the Friarage School, by the way,' he said, 'but not the children. The school makes its rooms available for adult education in the evenings and some afternoons. I teach courses in French and Spanish, and that's a pretty good way of keeping my head above water.'

I suppose you speak these languages very well?

»I lived in both Spain and France for a long time as a child. My father was a diplomat." He knew that in his Voice showed no warmth at the mention of his father. Rather, he had to make an effort not to show too much hatred. But I tell you, it's no fun having to teach a group of totally untalented housewives languages whose sound and expressiveness you love and whose utter defacement you have to endure three or four nights a week. He laughed, embarrassed, when he realized that he might have made a mistake.

"My apologies. Perhaps you are taking part in a language course yourself and now feel attacked? There are three other colleagues who organize courses.«

She shook her head. Although it wasn't very light in the car because of the wall of rain outside, he could tell her cheeks had flushed.

'No,' she said, 'I don't suppose so take part in a language course. I ... «

She didn't look at him, just stared out the window. They had reached the road that led north out of Scarborough. Terraced houses and supermarkets slid by outside, garages and drab-looking pubs, a trailer park that seemed to be drowning in the floodwaters.

'I read about it in the paper,' she said softly, 'that the Friarage School ... Well, there's a class on Wednesday afternoons that ... for the next three months ...' She hesitated.

Suddenly he understood what she was talking about. He didn't understand why he hadn't realized that immediately. After all, he was part of the faculty there. He knew the new offer. Wednesdays. From half past three to half past five. Today for the first time. And this Gwendolyn Beckett fitted the profile of potential students like a glove.

Oh, I know, he said, trying to sound completely indifferent. Like it's the most normal thing in the world to be on a course for... well, what? Failure? rivets? Loser? ... to participate. Isn't this about... some kind of assertiveness training?

He couldn't see her averted face at all now, but he suspected that she had turned red.

Yes, she answered quietly. It's all about this. You should learn to conquer your shyness. to approach other people. Controlling his... fears. Now she turned to him. I'm sure that sounds completely idiotic to you.

Not at all, he assured her. »If you think you have a deficit somewhere, you should address it. It certainly makes more sense than sitting around idly and whining. Do not worry. Just try to get the most out of this course.«

Yes, she said, sounding rather despondent. I will. You know... it's not like I'm particularly happy with my life.

She turned back to the window and he didn't dare ask more questions.

they were silent.

The rain eased off a little.

As they turned off of Cloughton towards Staintondale, the sky opened almost instantly. Evening sun broke through the clouds.

He suddenly felt tense. Upset. vigilant. There was an inkling that something new was about to happen in his life. It might have something to do with that woman sitting next to him.

But it could also be very different.

He reminded himself to stay calm. And careful.

He couldn't afford too many mistakes in his life anymore.

Amy Mills needed the money that babysitting gave her, otherwise she never would have made it, but she had to fund her studies largely on her own and couldn't be choosy. Not that spending the evening in someone else's living room, reading a book or watching TV, and just keeping vigil over a sleeping child whose parents were away would have been uncomfortable. But it got her into her own bed late, and she hated walking home in the dark. At least in autumn and winter. In the summer the evenings stayed light for long and the streets of Scarborough were often still lively with the many students who populated the town on the east coast of Yorkshire.

Tonight, however, things looked different. The afternoon's thunderstorm and heavy rain had driven everyone into their homes and swept the streets empty. In addition, it had become significantly cooler after a very hot day. Uncomfortable and windy. No one will be out, Amy thought uneasily. On Wednesdays she was always with Mrs. Gardner, actually with her four-year-old daughter Liliana. Mrs. Gardner was a single mother struggling to support herself and her child with a variety of jobs, and on Wednesday evenings she taught French at the Friarage School. It ended at nine o'clock, but after that she always went out for drinks with her students.

I never get out otherwise, she had said to Amy,

'and at least once a week I want to have a little fun too. Do you mind if I get home by ten?"

The trouble was, it was never ten o'clock when she finally got there. 10:30 if Amy was lucky, 11:15 was more the norm. Mrs. Gardner apologized profusely each time.

I don't even know where the time went! My goodness, once you start talking...

Actually, Amy would have liked to quit this job, but it was her only one, so to speak fixed Position. She also looked after children from other families, but only irregularly. She could count on Wednesday's money, and in her situation it was worth its weight in gold. If only it hadn't been for the way home...

I'm really a coward, she often told herself, but that didn't ease her fear.

Mrs. Gardner didn't have a car to drive her helper home quickly, and she was always way too drunk. This Wednesday, too, she had had a deep drink, and it was later than ever before: twenty minutes past eleven!

We agreed on ten o'clock, Amy said in exasperation, packing up her books. She had spent the evening studying.

Mrs. Gardner at least acted contrite. 'I know, and it's really awful about me, too. But we have a new girl on our course and she's spent a few rounds. She had an awful lot to talk about, and before I knew it... it was so late!'

She handed the money to Amy and was decent enough to give her five pounds more in. Here. Because you really are Had to work overtime... Liliana was okay?

She sleeps. She didn't even wake up. Amy said a cold goodbye to the wine-loving Mrs. Gardner and left her apartment. As she stepped onto the street, she shrugged, shivering.

Almost autumnal, she thought, although it's only the middle of July.

At least it hasn't rained in hours. Their route first took them down the road at St. Nicholas Cliff, past the rather dilapidated Grand Hotel, and then across the long wrought-iron bridge that linked the downtown area to the South Cliff, crossing an intersection where the daytime there was heavy traffic. Now, at this late hour, however, everything down there was also deserted, albeit brilliantly lit by the street lamps. Amy felt the stillness of the sleeping city to be uncanny, but her fear was still contained. The piece through the park would be worse. Below her on the left the sea and the beach, far above the first houses of the South Cliff and in between the Esplanade Gardens, which spiraled upwards in terraces, densely overgrown with bushes and trees, criss-crossed by a multitude of narrow paths. The shortest climb led up a steep flight of stairs directly to the Esplanade, the wide street along the western side of which one hotel was lined up after the other. This was Amy's route, the dark stairs the tricky part. As soon as she was on the Esplanade she would feel better. She then had to go a good way up the road and just past that Highlander Hotel in the Albion Turn right onto the narrow terraced house that belonged to an aunt of hers who had taken her in while she was studying. The aunt was old and lonely and enjoyed company, and Amy was the child of poor parents who appreciated the free housing opportunity. In addition, she could easily walk to the campus from there. She was grateful that some things in her life had turned out better than expected. Where she came from, working class housing in Leeds, nobody would have believed that Amy would make it to university. But she was intelligent and hardworking, and for all her exaggerated shyness and timidity, quite single-minded. She had passed all her exams with good grades.

She was in the middle of the bridge when she stopped and looked back. It wasn't as if she heard anything, but she had an almost reflexive inclination, at about this point, to check that everything was okay before she plunged into the eerie solitude of the Esplanade Gardens - without realizing it would have been clear what she was under in order actually understood exactly.

A man came down the St. Nicholas Cliff. Tall, slim, very quick steps. She couldn't make out his clothes clearly. Only a few more meters and he would have reached the bridge towards which he was undoubtedly heading.

Otherwise there was no one to be seen far and wide.

Amy was clutching her book bag with one hand and her front door key, which she had dug out of Mrs. Gardner's, with the other. She had got into the habit of always having it ready when she got home. Of course also depended h that again with her fears together. Her aunt always forgot to turn on the lamp above the entrance, and Amy hated standing there blindly digging in her pocket like a mole for the key, with the two ten-foot-tall lilac bushes on either side of her supporting the short one The flagstone path was almost completely overgrown and the old woman persistently refused to cut it with unreasonable stubbornness typical of her age. Amy wanted to be able to get into the house quickly. Be safe quickly.

Safe from what?

She was too scared, she knew that. It just wasn't normal to see ghosts everywhere, to smell burglars, robbers, murderers, sex offenders around every street corner. She suspected it was because of the way she'd been raised—the overprotected, protected, precious only child of her simply structured parents. Don't do this, don't do that, this could happen, this could happen. .. She had heard these sentences over and over again. She wasn't allowed to go to most of her classmates' activities because her mother was always afraid that things might turn out badly for her in some way. Amy hadn't rebelled against the bans; she had shared her mother's fears early on and was quite happy to have an argument with her school friends:

I'm not allowed to go with you. .. Which in the long run meant that there were hardly any friends left for her.

She turned around again. The stranger had reached the bridge. Amy walked on. She ran a little faster than before. It wasn't just fear of the man that drove her. It was also the fear of her own thoughts.

Lonliness. The other students at the Scarborough campus, an offshoot of the University of Hull, lived in the dormitory during their freshman year, later grouping together in smaller shared flats and moving into apartments owned by the university which were made available for a modest rent. Amy had tried to convince herself over and over that crawling under her aunt's house was natural and beneficial, because no rent was still less than a small rent, and she would have been foolish to choose otherwise. The bitter truth, however, was that she had absolutely no clique to associate with. Nobody had ever asked her if she would have liked to share this or that apartment with this or that group. If it weren't for the old aunt with the vacant guest room, things would have looked grim and the housing issue would have become a real problem, beyond even a possible cost problem. But Amy didn't want to think about that at all.

From the end of the bridge it was only a few steps to the park. As usual, Amy turned right where the upstairs began. At the bend in the road there was a new house, on which the final building work was being carried out over the past few weeks; it was not quite apparent whether the building was intended to serve as a home for people or for the Scarborough community for any other purpose.

Amy strode past it, then bounced back: two of the large wire-mesh site fences that surrounded the house were now blocking the stairway, as well as the switchback path a little further behind that would have presented an alternative. The usual passage was blocked. One could have sidestepped, but Amy hesitated. That afternoon, when she'd set out in the sweltering heat for the pedestrian zone, where she'd had to do some errands before going on duty with Mrs. Gardner and her daughter, the way had been clear. In the meantime there had been a violent thunderstorm and an almost torrential downpour. Possibly the stairs as well as the serpentine had been damaged. Steps hollowed out and caved in. soil washed away. Fortifications demolished and rubble washed away. It might be dangerous to use those paths.

Besides, it was obviously forbidden.

Amy wasn't the type to just flout a ban. She had always learned to obey the authorities, whether she understood their orders or not. There were reasons, and that was enough. In her current situation, she could even imagine the reasons.

She turned around, undecided.

There were other paths that led into the Esplanade Gardens, that labyrinth for strollers, but none of them could take her quickly and directly up onto the street and back near human habitation. The lowest path led in the directly opposite direction, down to the beach and then to the Spa Complex, a collection of Victorian-style buildings that sat directly on the water and served the city for cultural events of all kinds, but hermetically sealed at night and not even by one night watchmen were manned. From the Spa Complex, there were cable cars running up the hillside, mainly for elderly folks who didn't want to trudge through the rock-cut, steeply sloping gardens. About half an hour before midnight, however, the gondolas stopped and nobody was on duty in the ticket booths at that hour. Of course you could also walk to the top, but the ascent from the bottom was long and arduous. The advantage of this lower path was that it was illuminated: large arched lanterns, also in the Victorian style, gave off a warm orange glow. There was also a middle way, the narrowest of all. Halfway up the steep slope, it ran practically level along it for a while before it began to climb gently and meander upwards so imperceptibly that it also made it possible for pedestrians with little physical condition to move reasonably comfortably. Amy knew it ran onto the Esplanade right in front of the Crown Spa Hotel. She'd get there quicker going the middle way than taking the detour along the beach, but the downside was there weren't any lanterns here. The path got lost between bushes and trees in the blackest darkness.

She took a few steps back, peering toward the bridge. The man had almost reached the end of it. Was she imagining it, or was he actually moving more slowly than before? A little hesitant? What was he doing in this place at this time anyway?

Calm down, Mills, you are too at this time in this place she said to herself without her heart beating half a beat slower. He may be on his way home just like you!

But who was now, if you please, still on the way home? It was twenty minutes to midnight. Not the time when people usually came home from work, unless they were babysitting for a ruthless mother who always let it be too late.

i will quit I'm not doing this anymore. For all the money in the world, she decided.

She was now considering her options, none of which seemed particularly promising. She could walk across the bridge back to St. Nicholas Cliff and then take the walk through downtown, up the long Filey Road - but that would take ages. Of course there was bus service, but she had no idea if her line was still running so late. In addition, she had used the bus a few weeks earlier because of bad weather and had been accosted at the bus stop by drunk youths with shaved heads and all kinds of piercings. She had endured mortal fear and vowed to herself that in the future she would rather be soaked in the rain. and risking a cold than putting yourself in that situation again. Fear - again. Afraid to walk through the dark park. Afraid to wait at the bus stop. Fear, fear, fear

She ruled her life and it couldn't go on like this. She could no longer stumble from one crisis to the next, dodging one fear and inevitably leading to the next. To finally stand paralyzed at a crossroads on a cool, rainy July night, hearing her own gasping breath , her heart like a heavy one, to feel the pounding of a fast hammer and to wonder which of her fears was more or less severe. Which ended up being the famous weighing between plague and cholera, and that just felt awful.

The man was now level with her, stopped and looked over at her.

He seemed to be waiting for something, possibly something the other person should say or do, and since Amy was a girl who had learned to live up to expectations, she opened her mouth.

The . . . the way is blocked, she said. Her voice cracked a little, she cleared her throat. Two bars... you can't get through. He nodded briefly, then turned and headed toward the beach. The lighted path.

Amy breathed a sigh of relief. Harmless, that had been harmless. He wanted to go home, would normally have taken the stairs. Would probably walk to the spa complex now and then start the climb. Curse to himself because he would be on the road longer than expected. His wife was waiting at home. She would scold. He was already late with his buddies at the pub anyway, now the detour as well. Not his day. Sometimes everything just came together.

She giggled, but realized how nervous that sounded.

She tended to fantasize about the circumstances of total strangers. It was probably because she was alone too much. Anyone who communicated too little with people of flesh and blood had to move in the realm of their own imagination.

Another look back at the bridge. Nobody was there.

The stranger had disappeared towards the beach. The stairs were blocked. Amy no longer hesitated. She took the middle path, the unlit one. The bit of moonlight, muted behind long veils of cloud, was enough to give her a glimpse of the path at her feet. She could get up the Esplanade without breaking her ankles.

The dense, dripping wet bushes, which were in full summer foliage, took her in after a few seconds.

Amy Mills disappeared into the darkness.

OCTOBER 2008

THURSDAY 9 OCTOBER

When the telephone rang in Fiona Barnes's living room, the old lady gave a start, left the window by which she had been standing and looked out over Scarborough Bay, and walked towards the small table on which the telephone stood, not sure if she should pick up the phone. She'd had one anonymous call this morning and one yesterday at noon, and there had been two of the same distressing incidents in the past week. In fact, she didn't know if what happened to her could even be called an anonymous call, because nothing was ever said on the other end of the line. However, she could hear someone breathing. If she didn't immediately slam down the receiver herself, as she had done in annoyance that morning, the stranger would always hang up after a minute or so of silence.

Fiona was not easily frightened, she boasted good nerves and a cool head, but this story bothered and unsettled her. She would have preferred to just let the guy run up and not answer her phone again, but of course she also missed calls that were important or that were close to her heart. Take her granddaughter Leslie Cramer, who lived in London and was going through the trauma of a divorce. Leslie had no relatives but the old grandmother in Scarborough and right now Fiona wanted to be there for her. So she picked up after the fifth ring.

Fiona Barnes," she said. She had a raspy, hoarse voice, the result of a lifetime of heavy chain smoking.

Silence on the other end of the line.

Fiona sighed. She should get a new phone. With a display that showed the number of the caller. At least then she could always recognize Leslie and filter out the rest.

Who is it? she asked.

Be silent. Breathe.

'You're starting to get on my nerves,' Fiona said. You obviously have a problem with me. Maybe we should talk about it. I'm afraid your strange tactics are getting us both nowhere.

The breathing became more intense. Had she been younger, Fiona would have guessed that someone had fallen for her and was now engaging in some instinctual activity over the phone at the sound of her voice. But having turned seventy-nine in July, she thought that was extremely unlikely. Also, it didn't seem to be that particular breathing that suggested sexual stimulation. The caller seemed excited in a different way. stressed out Aggressive. Extremely upset.

It wasn't about sex. But what then? 'I'll hang up now,' Fiona threatened, but before she could make good on her promise, the other party had already disconnected. Fiona only heard a steady tooting from the receiver.

I should go to the police! she said angrily, slamming down the phone and immediately lighting a cigarette. However, she feared that she would be turned away by the police. She wasn't even verbally abused, molested with obscenities, or threatened. Of course, anyone would understand that repeated silence on the phone could also be taken as a threat, but it offered little clue as to who the caller might be. The police would not install a tracer circuit in this completely vague case, apart from that the caller was probably clever enough to only call from public phones and to change them regularly. People were TV crime savvy these days. They knew how to do it and what mistakes were best avoided.

Aside from that ...

She went back to the window. It was a beautiful, sun-drenched October day outside, windy and clear, and Scarborough Bay was bathed in golden light. The sea was turbulent, of a deep dark blue color, the waves wore brilliant white foam crests. Anyone who was allowed to enjoy this view would have been delighted. Not so Fiona at this moment. She took no notice of what lay outside her window.

She knew why she didn't go to the police. She knew why she hadn't told anyone, not even Leslie, about the strange calls until now.

Which is why, despite all her anxiety, she kept the whole story to herself.

The logical question that anyone who found out about this would have asked immediately was, But is there anyone who has a grudge against you? Anyone you would think might be connected to this?"

If she was honest, she should have answered that question in the affirmative. Which inevitably would have raised more questions. And explanations on their part. And everything would boil up again. The whole terrible story. All the things she wanted to forget. The things I especially didn't want Leslie to know about.

However, if she were to pretend to be clueless, claiming that she didn't know anyone who could have anything against her, who would bully her in this way - then there would be no point in telling anyone at all.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette. The only person she could open up to was Chad. Because he knew anyway. Maybe she should talk to him. It might also come in handy if he deleted the emails she had sent him. Especially the attached files. It had been reckless of her to send these things through the internet. She'd thought she could risk it because grass had long since grown over the whole thing. Because it was all so far behind her, behind them both.

Maybe she was wrong about that.

Perhaps she should also destroy the extensive material in her own computer. It would be difficult for her, but it was probably for the best. In the end it had been a crazy idea to write everything down anyway. What did she expect from it? relief? Clear your conscience? Rather, it seemed to her as if she wanted to clarify something for herself, for herself and Chad. Perhaps she had hoped to understand herself better. But it hadn't worked. She didn't understand herself any better than before. Nothing had changed. You didn't change your own life retrospectively by analyzing it, trying to put it into a form that was supposed to put the events into perspective. Mistakes were mistakes, sins were sins. One had to live with them, one would die with them.

She stubbed out her cigarette in a flower pot and went to her study to start up the computer.

The last prospect had been the worst. He hadn't stopped nagging for a moment. The parquet floor was worn, the door handles looked too cheap, the windows didn't seem sufficiently insulated, the rooms were poorly laid out and inconveniently located, the kitchen was outdated, and the view of the small park behind the house was completely unattractive.

Not for free, he said angrily before leaving, and Leslie had to refrain from slamming the front door loudly behind him. It would have made it easier for her, but in fact the lock was no longer in good order - like, admittedly, many other things in the apartment -, and such an act of violence might have finished him off forever. Bunker, she said from the bottom of her heart, then went into the kitchen, lit a cigarette, and turned on the coffee maker. An espresso would do her good now. She looked out the window at the rainy day. Of course, the park didn't look all that enticing in this drizzly gray weather, but it was this tree-lined patch of central London that had made her and Stephen fall in love with the flat ten years earlier. Yes, the kitchen was dated, the floors creaked, much was worn and impractical, but the place had charm and soul, and she wondered how anyone couldn't see it. Big guy.

But they all complained. The older woman who came second, least of all. Perhaps she had finally found a new tenant in her... Time was running out. Leslie's move was imminent at the end of October. If she didn't have someone to step into her existing lease by then, she'd have to pay twice, and she wouldn't be able to afford that for very long.

Keep your cool, she reminded herself.

When the phone rang she was momentarily tempted to ignore it, but then, thinking it might be someone interested in the apartment, she went out into the hallway and picked up the receiver.

Cramer, she said. It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to say her married name. I should take my old name, she mused.

A shy, small voice on the other end. "Leslie? This is Gwen. Gwen from Staintondale!'

Gwen from Staintondale! said Leslie. wed t Gwen, the A friend from childhood and adolescence, she hadn't expected it at all, but she was happy. She hadn't heard from her in ages. It might have been a year since she'd last seen them, and at Christmas they'd spoken briefly on the phone, but exchanged little more than the obligatory good wishes for the New Year.

How are you? Gwen asked. Is everything ok? I first called the hospital but they said you were on vacation.

"Yes, I have. For a whole three weeks. I have to look for a new tenant and prepare my move, and ... oh yes, I also had to get a divorce. I've been back on the open market since Monday!' She listened to her own voice. God knows she wasn't feeling as relaxed as she announced the news. It hurt amazingly. Still.

Oh my goodness, Gwen said, concerned. That... I mean, we all saw it coming, but kind of always hoped... How do you feel?

'Well, we've been separated for two years. In that respect, not much has changed. But since it is a turning point in my life despite everything, I rented a new apartment. This one's too big to last, and besides... it's too attached to Stephen somehow.'

I can understand that, Gwen said. Sounding dejected, she continued, I... I feel very tactless now, but... I really didn't know you just got divorced, otherwise... I mean, I wouldn't have... .

I'm doing well. Honest. So don't stutter around. Why are you calling?

Because of...well, I hope you don't take offense, but...I want you to be among the first to know: I'm getting married! Leslie was actually speechless for a moment. Get married? she then repeated, thinking that the surprise in her voice must have hurt Gwen, but she just hadn't been able to hide her surprise. Gwen, the prototype spinster, the old-fashioned girl from the seclusion of the countryside... Gwen, for whom time seemed to have stood still, somewhere in a bygone century, when the young women waited at home for the nobleman to mount his horse came and asked her hand in marriage... marry? Simply that way?

Sorry, she said hastily, it's just...I always thought you didn't care about marriage.

That was a lie. She knew that Gwen had longed to be able to bring to life in her own life the romance stories she devoured.

I'm so happy, Gwen said, "so incredibly happy. .. I mean I really had given up hope of finding someone else and now I'm getting married this year! We thought early December would be quite nice. Ah, Leslie, it's suddenly all . . . so different!'

Leslie had finally composed herself.

Gwen, I'm so happy for you! she said sincerely. "Really, you have no idea