The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

voice drops, and I find myself leaning forward to hear. ‘There was one time, a few weeks before he d—’ Siobhan pulls herself back from saying the dreaded word, ‘before it happened, when they were arguing in the kitchen and she actually pulled a knife on him.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before? Or tell the police?’

Siobhan cowers slightly. ‘Things like that happened sometimes. I’m sure she didn’t mean it. We were all pretty highly strung. Regionals were coming up.’

‘So, you just let it go?’

‘I really don’t think she would have done anything, Mrs Hardy. She put the knife away just as quickly. And anyway Michael was winding her up something awful.’

‘Winding her up?’

‘He kept on singing “Creep” to her.’

‘“Creep”?’

‘You know – the Radiohead song. “I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo” – but Michael just kept on singing “you’re a creep, you’re a weirdo” to Lisa. It was really pissing her off.’

I force myself to remain calm and not get carried away with this new information.

‘And she threatened him?’

Siobhan’s expression returns to one of guarded alarm. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ She whispers. ‘I mean I’m sure Lisa wouldn’t have actually done anything.’

‘But she did threaten him.’

Siobhan stares at me, unwilling to reply. Standing up, she wipes imaginary crumbs from her skirt and glances towards the exit. ‘I’ve really got to go.’ She gives me an awkward smile and, picking up her handbag from the chair, adds, ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mrs Hardy. I really do.’

‘Lisa Edwards. Lisa Edwards,’ I mumble, as I walk back to my car. Frustrated and tired, I ease myself into the driver’s seat, but there’s no time to waste, and taking my mobile out of my bag I begin searching the internet for any information on ‘Lisa Edwards, Cornwall.’ My mobile gives a desperate buzz and then suddenly goes blank.

‘Dammit!’ I begin searching through my glove compartment for my car phone charger but only come across some tissues, a torch, old sweet wrappers, and, in the far corner, a leather bracelet I bought Michael for his fourteenth birthday. Worn once too often when training, the chlorine had started to erode the leather and the clasp had rusted. I clutch it in my fist like a talisman, then forcing myself to remain calm, I slip it into my handbag, start the car and begin my journey back to Calstock. I’ll have to wait until I get home before I can do any searches on Lisa Edwards.

When I reach the cottage, Tam, as usual, is sitting by the front door meowing loudly. Inside, I can hear the muted ringing of the telephone.

‘Out of the way,’ I say, gently pushing the cat aside with my foot and opening the door. The cat races past me and into the kitchen. ‘There’s a cat flap in the back door you idiot!’ By now the ringing has stopped. ‘They’ll phone back,’ I mutter, and head towards the kitchen to make myself a drink. I take it upstairs, settle back on Michael’s bed, and scroll through my laptop looking for any information on Lisa Edwards. It’s been a long week and my brain feels as heavy as wet cotton wool. I lean back and rest my head on the pillow.

In my dream, Michael is swimming towards me, his muscular body powering through the water. He lifts his head, and I can see the delicate filaments of gill tissue on his neck gently pulsating. His eyes are shiny, glutinous orbs. He glances at me, then away, his attention fixed on some distant point.

I jolt awake. I reach for the blister pack of blue pills on the bedside table, then stop. My stash, which I deliberately started hoarding during that unbearable period after Michael’s inquest, is running low. I’m going to have to find some other way to cope. I hear the soft hum of Michael’s laptop. It’s open on the bed next to me, and, with little airflow, the fan has started running to cool down the machine. I glance at the screen. My Google searches for Lisa Edwards threw up dozens of hits, including a hairdresser, a quantity surveyor and a chiropodist, none of which fit the profile of a twenty-three-year-old ex-competitive swimmer. It seems like the closer I get, the further away it all becomes.

I run a steaming bath and sip from a tall glass of vodka and tonic. I wash my hair, shave my legs, and apply body lotion from a gift set I bought for my mother years ago which has never been used.

I’m just nibbling on a cracker and pouring myself another drink when I hear a knock at the door. Tightening the belt on my bathrobe, I glance at the clock on the cooker. Nine thirty. Who would be coming by this late?

There is another knock, this time louder. I hide my glass behind the toaster and make my way to the front door. Through the frosted glass window, I can make out a familiar shape. My stomach tightens and apprehension floods through me. Holding my breath, I open the door.

‘Adam.’ I try to look pleased, but a multitude of questions are firing through my brain. Why is he here? Does he know something?

‘Are you going to let me in or not?’ Adam’s face is cold, pinched, his pupils two angry pinpricks. He doesn’t wait for an answer but strides past me and into the lounge. ‘Close the door, Kate,’ he calls to me. ‘Then come and sit down. We need to talk.’

I think about fleeing. Flinging open the door and racing towards the river, diving, and swimming until I am nothing but a tiny speck on the horizon. When Michael was thirteen, I helped him train for the under-sixteens triathlon. I would get up with him at dawn, and, wetsuit clad, I would swim with him in the early morning sea, our lips blue, eyelashes encrusted with salt. Some days I would leave him alone in the water and sit sipping hot