landing, and she stepped over him to check Lena’s room one final time. The space was devoid of her presence, and there was an unfriendly chill to the air.
Bampton that morning was covered in a shroud of mist waiting for the pale spring sun to rise. The first part of the drive was slow. She could see nothing further than a few feet in front of her, and, although she knew the roads well, the speed of other drivers hurtling towards her made her fearful. As she left Derbyshire behind, the promise of sunshine proved to be false. The day opened out into a bleak morning, clouds gathering and darkening in the grey sky.
She switched on the radio and let music soothe her frayed nerves. By the time she had reached North Yorkshire, the rain was pelting fat blobs onto the windscreen.
The sky reflected the black hues of the moor in the final miles to Whitby. As she drove down the narrow streets, she was suddenly aware of the futility of what she was trying to do. She knew that Lena came regularly to the town, but the only clue was an address she knew her sister had stayed at years ago.
Parking was clearly an issue in Whitby. When she finally found a space and hunted around for enough change to pay for a few hours, she retrieved the piece of paper she had from her pocket. The ink had faded only slightly, and Lena’s swirls were still legible on the yellowing paper. Crowther Terrace. Kat took out her phone and found the street on the map. She had parked on the wrong side of the river. She not only had to go down the steep incline, her ankles groaning in protest at the unfamiliar pull, but then puff up the hill on the other side. When she got to the street, she quickly found number 43. One look at the house, and she sighed. It was a holiday cottage now. Or perhaps it had been all those years ago. A card in the window was advertising Whitby Holiday Homes with a mobile number underneath.
Her call was answered by someone with a husky male voice, his Yorkshire accent immediately apparent. Kat plunged in. ‘I’m standing outside 43 Crowther Terrace, which I’m thinking of renting at some point in the future. I just want to know, has it been on your books for long? I’m looking for something with an up-to-date interior.’
There was a short silence. Then a cough. ‘Hold on. I can check.’ Silence, and then he came back on. ‘It’s been with us since 1995. Not that recent, I suppose. I’ve just called up the property on the computer. The rooms are traditionally furnished with—’
‘Fine, fine.’ Kat was making some mental calculations. Lena must have rented the house off this company when she stayed here. ‘Do you have a list of people who have used the cottage over the years?’
It was a long shot, and too much for the man at the other end of the phone. ‘Hang on, who are you?’
Kat cut the connection and stepped into the road to take a good look at the house. It was a traditional fisherman’s cottage, built in the days when houses and shops were jumbled together on the same street. Next door was its mirror image, the brick whitewashed less recently, though.
Kat went to the house and rang the bell. The door opened immediately. ‘I thought you were a potential burglar staring at my house like that.’ He was a tall man with a black beard, roughly trimmed. A thick-ribbed green jumper was half-tucked into his jeans and his feet were bare.
‘I wondered if you could tell me something about the cottage next door? My sister stayed there, I think. A few years ago.’
‘You’re Lena’s sister? It gave me a shock when I saw you outside. I thought you were her for a moment. You look like her, you know.’
Kat sighed. ‘I do know. I’m Kat Gray and I’m trying to find Lena. Have you seen her? This week, I mean?’
‘Lena?’ The man stared at her. ‘I haven’t seen her for years. That’s why I was surprised to see you standing there. It would’ve been nice if it was her. I miss her. You okay?’
Kat suddenly felt
Bampton that morning was covered in a shroud of mist waiting for the pale spring sun to rise. The first part of the drive was slow. She could see nothing further than a few feet in front of her, and, although she knew the roads well, the speed of other drivers hurtling towards her made her fearful. As she left Derbyshire behind, the promise of sunshine proved to be false. The day opened out into a bleak morning, clouds gathering and darkening in the grey sky.
She switched on the radio and let music soothe her frayed nerves. By the time she had reached North Yorkshire, the rain was pelting fat blobs onto the windscreen.
The sky reflected the black hues of the moor in the final miles to Whitby. As she drove down the narrow streets, she was suddenly aware of the futility of what she was trying to do. She knew that Lena came regularly to the town, but the only clue was an address she knew her sister had stayed at years ago.
Parking was clearly an issue in Whitby. When she finally found a space and hunted around for enough change to pay for a few hours, she retrieved the piece of paper she had from her pocket. The ink had faded only slightly, and Lena’s swirls were still legible on the yellowing paper. Crowther Terrace. Kat took out her phone and found the street on the map. She had parked on the wrong side of the river. She not only had to go down the steep incline, her ankles groaning in protest at the unfamiliar pull, but then puff up the hill on the other side. When she got to the street, she quickly found number 43. One look at the house, and she sighed. It was a holiday cottage now. Or perhaps it had been all those years ago. A card in the window was advertising Whitby Holiday Homes with a mobile number underneath.
Her call was answered by someone with a husky male voice, his Yorkshire accent immediately apparent. Kat plunged in. ‘I’m standing outside 43 Crowther Terrace, which I’m thinking of renting at some point in the future. I just want to know, has it been on your books for long? I’m looking for something with an up-to-date interior.’
There was a short silence. Then a cough. ‘Hold on. I can check.’ Silence, and then he came back on. ‘It’s been with us since 1995. Not that recent, I suppose. I’ve just called up the property on the computer. The rooms are traditionally furnished with—’
‘Fine, fine.’ Kat was making some mental calculations. Lena must have rented the house off this company when she stayed here. ‘Do you have a list of people who have used the cottage over the years?’
It was a long shot, and too much for the man at the other end of the phone. ‘Hang on, who are you?’
Kat cut the connection and stepped into the road to take a good look at the house. It was a traditional fisherman’s cottage, built in the days when houses and shops were jumbled together on the same street. Next door was its mirror image, the brick whitewashed less recently, though.
Kat went to the house and rang the bell. The door opened immediately. ‘I thought you were a potential burglar staring at my house like that.’ He was a tall man with a black beard, roughly trimmed. A thick-ribbed green jumper was half-tucked into his jeans and his feet were bare.
‘I wondered if you could tell me something about the cottage next door? My sister stayed there, I think. A few years ago.’
‘You’re Lena’s sister? It gave me a shock when I saw you outside. I thought you were her for a moment. You look like her, you know.’
Kat sighed. ‘I do know. I’m Kat Gray and I’m trying to find Lena. Have you seen her? This week, I mean?’
‘Lena?’ The man stared at her. ‘I haven’t seen her for years. That’s why I was surprised to see you standing there. It would’ve been nice if it was her. I miss her. You okay?’
Kat suddenly felt
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