Page 111 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Sammy slammed the door into place. Jimmy sat back revealing what had been the focus of his attention.

On the table – her coffee table; until a week ago home to nothing but a vase of yellow roses and two coasters – was a shotgun. Dismantled. The polished barrel lay beside the wooden stock, the pieces arranged with almost casual neatness. Taken apart, it should have seemed less threatening. It didn’t.

Sammy jumped backward, as if someone had pushed her.

Jimmy picked up a cloth, sliding it over the barrel. The smell of gun oil caught in Sammy’s throat – metallic, chemical, out of place against the soft, homely warmth Sammy had built in her cottage. She couldn’t speak. When she did, her voice came out sharper than she had meant it to. ‘What’s that doing in here?’

The cloth kept moving along the length of the barrel, slowly, methodically, reminding Sammy of Magnus cleaning silver. Oh my God – Magnus. He had warned her about Jimmy; was this why?

‘I’ve got a licence,’ Jimmy said.

‘That doesn’t explain what it’s doing in my cottage.’

Chloe let out a small laugh, as if Sammy had said something overly serious. ‘Sam . . .’

‘No.’ Sammy couldn’t take her eyes off the barrel. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Jimmy glanced up then, with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach anything, let alone his eyes. ‘Thought I might get us something decent for supper. Bit of pheasant.’

‘It’s outside the pheasant shooting season,’ she said.

Jimmy snorted. ‘The pheasants don’t know that do they?’

Chloe laughed. ‘See? Problem solved.’ Chloe waved a hand lightly. ‘He’s not doing anything bad. It’s fine.’

It wasn’t fine. ‘Chloe. Bathroom. Now.’

Chloe remained sitting.

‘Chloe.’ Sammy said this time her tone clipped.

Chloe tutted loudly, then pushed herself up. ‘God, all right.’

Sammy ran up the stairs and shoved the bathroom door open, her heart hammering as she listened to Chloe following at a more sedate pace.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ Sammy hissed. ‘You can’t bring him – and that thing in here.’

‘It’s fine,’ Chloe cut in. ‘He’s licensed. He told you.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘What is the point, then?’ Chloe said, not meeting Sammy’s eyes. ‘We’re having a bit of fun. You’ve been . . .’ she gestured vaguely, ‘like this ever since I got here. You’re taking everything too seriously. It’s not like last time . . .’

‘Stop.’ Sammy closed her eyes, searching for something, anything, to make Chloe understand how unreasonable she was being. ‘This isn’t Swansea,’ she said.

Chloe smiled at that. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Loosen up a bit.’

Sammy sensed it – again – that pull. The familiarity of it. Chloe so certain. ‘Fine,’ she said. It came out quieter than she had expected.

Chloe’s smile widened. ‘Good,’ she said, already turning back to the door.

Downstairs on the sofa Jimmy was reassembling the gun, pieces sliding into place with assured clicks. He stood up, with that same half-formed smile, the gun now tucked under his arm. ‘Come on,’ he said to Chloe. ‘Light’s dimming, let’s go and get dinner the old-fashioned way.’

Chloe grabbed her jacket. ‘Back in a bit,’ she said.

The door closed behind them. Sammy looked around at the mess on the table. The space where the gun had been. Her space. She reached for her phone.

Jean answered straight away. ‘Hello, love.’