Emma Page - Last Walk Home

Harper An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1983 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1983

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008175887

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175894

Version [2016-02-18]

For

Rosemary and Anthony

with love

(Not forgetting Daniel, Lucy and Oliver)

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

In the front bedroom of Ivydene, on the outskirts of Cannonbridge, Lisa Schofield lay fast asleep with her long blonde hair spread out over the pillows. In the muted light her peachdown skin had a faintly golden quality and her bare shoulders gleamed against the lacy top of her trousseau nightdress.

She dreamed she was learning to ride a bicycle, laughing and squealing, falling off every few yards. Someone held the saddle as she climbed on again, a man’s hand, firm and strong.

‘Don’t let me fall, Derek!’ she cried out to her husband in the dream, although she knew without turning that it wasn’t Derek but her father who held her safe.

Beside her in the big double bed Derek gathered him­self up into a ball, tucking his head down towards his belly, trying to ward off his dream pursuers. They were gaining on him, crowding in on him, brandishing broken boughs—

Lisa turned over suddenly, flinging an arm across his face. He woke with a start of terror and leapt up with his heart pounding. ‘A-ah!’ he cried aloud.

He came wide awake and saw the shadowy outlines of the furniture, the mahogany tallboy, the bow-fronted chest of drawers. He drew a long shuddering breath – it was all right, he was safe in bed at Ivydene. He’d moved into the house on his marriage a few months ago; it had been Lisa’s home for seven years before that, she had lived there with her older sister Janet and their mother.

Ivydene didn’t yet feel like home to Derek but at least the sprigged wallpaper and chenille curtains of the bedroom greeted him as familiar acquaintances, if not old friends. His heart began to slacken its rapid beat.

The yellow sunlight of late July stole in through a gap in the curtains. He glanced at the bedside clock. Five minutes to six. If he lay down again he’d probably oversleep – and he daren’t risk being late for work, particularly not on a Monday morning. Things were already dicey enough at the Cannonbridge Mail Order Company without his making the boss an outright present of an excuse for cutting down on staff.

He eased his way out from under the bedclothes, found his dressing-gown and slippers and went from the room with accustomed noiselessness; he was always up long before Lisa.

At the head of the stairs sunlight streamed in through an uncurtained stained-glass window, throwing shifting patterns of colour on to the landing, luminous pools of amber and green, rose and blue, as a wandering breeze rippled the tall trees in the garden.

He went softly down to the kitchen, comfortable and old-fashioned, he crossed to the window and drew back the flowered curtains.

‘A nice cup of tea,’ he said aloud; the words had a cosy, reassuring sound. He filled the kettle and put it on to boil. As he turned from the stove he met his own gaze in the mirror that hung to one side of the fireplace.

An unremarkable face, not bad-looking in a nineteen-thirties bandleader way. His brown eyes stared back at him, large, habitually anxious.

He was thirty-seven years old but had the air of being older. His light brown hair had a strong natural crimp that he’d fought for years to subdue, only to discover now on the verge of middle age that it had suddenly become fashionable. The growth was beginning to recede from his temples and nowadays his exploring fingers could locate a treacherous spot of thinning on the crown.

While he waited for the kettle to boil he unlocked the back door and went out into the garden. Ivydene was a solidly-built Edwardian villa standing on the edge of Hadleigh, a semi-rural suburb of Cannonbridge; until fifty years ago Hadleigh had been an independent village.

The garden was large enough to stroll about in and gave a pleasant sense of space and seclusion. He plucked a weed here and there, lifted a wayward strand of a rambler rose and draped it over a neighbouring stem – he must remember to get a ball of garden twine in the lunch-hour. A fine climbing rose, trained along a trellis and over an arch, was just coming into flower, the blooms a deep soft peach tipped with cream. He selected a bud with care, the petals just about to unfurl, free from the smallest blemish. He carried it back to the kitchen and put it in a glass of water.

He made the tea, poured himself a cup and stood at the window drinking it, looking out at the tranquil garden, thinking about Lisa and his marriage, his new life at Ivydene.

There were moments when he felt as if it was all a dream; this struck him most often at work. He sat at the same desk, followed the same routine, nothing there was changed. But it seemed to him sometimes in odd disturbing flashes that he must shortly wake to find that home was still a cramped bedsitter in a down-at-heel quarter of Cannonbridge and Lisa no more than a beguiling face glimpsed in a bus queue.