Page 146 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Sammy folded her hands together. ‘No. Not really.’

He flipped open his notebook: ‘“it was a shotgun not a rifle”. That’s what you said at Brambleton Hall. How do you know the difference Ms Jenkins?’

Chloe huffed a quiet laugh. ‘Oh my God, Sam.’

Sammy tensed. ‘Don’t.’

‘What?’ Chloe said. ‘It’s not like they won’t find out.’

‘Find out what?’ the senior officer asked.

‘Nothing,’ Sammy said quickly. ‘It’s . . . she’s joking.’

‘I’m not joking,’ Chloe said, setting her mug down on the table. ‘We had a thing when we were kids. Bit of drama.’

Sammy’s throat tightened. ‘Chloe. It was nothing.’

‘Relax,’ Chloe said. ‘We were, what, fifteen? My foster dad had a shotgun. We took it out, didn’t we?’

Suddenly Sammy had both officers’ attention. She sensed it like a spotlight. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she said.

‘It was exactly like that,’ Chloe replied as lightly as if they were discussing a childhood picnic at the beach. ‘You were worse than me, actually. You insisted on holding it.’

‘That’s not . . .’

‘You said it was you,’ Chloe cut in, a flash of impatience now. ‘Remember?’

There was a ringing in Sammy’s ears. The dog. The man’s face.

The older officer spoke sharply. ‘Have either of you ever been in trouble with the police?’

‘No.’ said Sammy firmly.

The notebook was put away, and both men rose. ‘Thank you for your time. I think we’ve got everything we need for now.’

They had nothing. She’d got away with it, hadn’t she?

Thirty-five

On her last Monday off – Sammy had to keep reminding herself of that – Chloe offered to take her to the pub.

For once, Chloe paid for the drinks and chose a table on the relatively deserted terrace.

‘Have the cops been to the big house?’ Chloe asked, setting down two glasses of wine, ‘or called you?’

‘No.’ Sammy shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

A knot of locals at a nearby table erupted into laughter. Sammy shut her eyes, imagining them discussing her sacking.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. And it’s done, Chloe. They’ve gone.’

‘For now.’

Sammy reached for her glass, didn’t drink. ‘Can we not do this here? I thought we were coming to the pub to get away from it all,’ her voice sounded petulant. She hadn’t meant it to. To gather herself together, Sammy watched the wind lift a napkin from a nearby table, sending it skittering across the terrace. It caught against the low wall.

‘All right.’ Said Chloe. ‘Mr eyebrows. He just said no?’