Stephanie Merritt - While You Sleep - A chilling, unputdownable psychological thriller that will send shivers up your spine!

At the head of the slipway she saw a man in a leather jacket, its zip straining over a comfortable paunch. He was holding a home-made cardboard sign that read ‘Zoe Adams’; as soon as his eyes locked on to hers and met with recognition, he broke into a broad smile and started waving madly at her, as if he were trying to attract her attention through a crowd, though she was only yards away and the few remaining foot passengers had all dispersed. She smiled back, hesitant. He was around her own age, she thought; early forties, with thinning blond hair and a round, open face, cheeks reddened by island weather or a taste for drink, or perhaps both together. He approached her with an anxious smile.

‘Mrs Adams?’

She hesitated. She could have let it go, but there would only be more questions later on.

‘Uh – actually, it’s Ms .’

‘Eh?’

Zoe tilted her head in apology.

‘I’m not a Mrs.’

‘Oh.’ He looked afraid he had offended. ‘My mistake. You’re no married, then?’

She made a non-committal noise and set down one of her cases so that she could stretch out a hand. ‘You must be Mr Drummond?’

‘Mick, please.’ He beamed again, grasping her fingers and shaking them with a vigour intended to convey the sincerity of his welcome. ‘I’m the one who’s been sending all the emails.’ He released her hand and held up the sign with a self-conscious laugh; the wind almost snatched it from his grip. ‘My wife’s idea. I told her, it’s no as if there’s going to be hundreds of them pouring off the boat, but she said it would spare you feeling lost when you first set foot here.’

Zoe smiled. If only that were all it took.

‘It was very thoughtful of her.’

‘Aye, she’s like that. Kaye. You’ll meet her. Here, let me take those.’ He tucked the sign under his arm and hefted her cases into each hand, nodding across the car park to an old Land Rover, its flanks crusted with mud.

Zoe looked back at the harbour as he loaded her bags into the trunk. Through the lit windows of the ferry she could see the shapes of people cleaning, swinging plastic bags of trash, ready for the return trip, the boat garish in its brightness against the encroaching dark of sea and sky. The gulls shrieked their tireless warnings. Here, the rolling of the waves seemed louder and more insistent, as if the sea wanted to make sure you did not forget its presence. She wondered if she would grow used to that, after a while. A faint wash of reddish light stained the line of the horizon, but it was too overcast for a proper sunset like those in the photographs. Still, there would be time.

‘Hop in, then.’ Mick held the door open for her. For one panicked moment she thought he expected her to drive, before she realised she had made the usual mistake. That perverse habit of driving on the left. Perhaps she would get used to that in time, too. The quick flurry of palpitations subsided.

‘Is it far, to the house?’

‘Five miles, give or take.’ He glanced over his shoulder, shuffled his feet. ‘Look – it’s been a long journey, I know, and you’ll be tired, but we wondered if you’d like to come by the pub for a wee drink before I take you up to the house?’

Zoe began a polite refusal but he cut across her.

‘Thing is, we’ve music on tonight, local band, it’s a thing we do on Thursdays, so there’ll be a lot of folk out and we thought – well, it was Kaye’s idea – she thought it would be nice for you to say hello while they’re all in one place. Since you’re staying a while, you know. Only a wee glass.’ He twisted his hands together and looked at his boots before raising his eyes briefly to hers, as if he were asking for a date. ‘She’s dying to meet you,’ he added. ‘They all are.’

Zoe sucked in her cheeks. Christ. She was far from dying to meet them, whoever they were; quite the opposite. She felt grimy and dishevelled from the overnight flight, the five-hour train journey and two hours on the ferry; she probably didn’t smell too fresh either, under all her layers. And the point was to be anonymous here, to slip quietly into her coastal house and be left alone. She had not come here to make friends. But it had been naïve, she now realised, to imagine that a newcomer to a small community, out of season, would not immediately become a subject of gossip and speculation. If she was going to stay here a few weeks, it would be wise not to offend the locals on day one.

‘I’m not really dressed for going out,’ she said, though the protest was half-hearted.

‘You’re grand,’ Mick said, giving her a cursory glance. ‘It’s no as if they’ll all be in dinner suits.’ He clicked his seatbelt. ‘Just the one. And then I’ll run you up to the house, I promise. We can leave all the bags in the car.’

Zoe leaned her forehead against the window, the cold solidity of the glass reflecting her exhaustion back at her. Without make-up, the jet lag and all the sleepless nights of recent months were etched on her face, like a confession. Was that why she was so reluctant to go to the pub, she wondered – plain old vanity? Was it that she didn’t want to be judged by her new neighbours until she could at least brush her hair and paint some colour into her washed-out face? Of course, it could be a scam; she would blithely go in for one drink and when she came out there would be no sign of Mick or the car, or her bags. But if she was going to think like that, the whole thing could be a scam, as Dan had repeatedly pointed out. All she had seen was a website – an amateurish one at that – and a few emails. Maybe the house didn’t even exist. If that were the case, it was too late to worry about it now; she had already transferred the money.

‘Sure,’ she said, forcing enthusiasm. ‘Why not?’

‘Lovely. I wouldn’t hear the last of it from Kaye if we’d no given you a proper welcome.’ Zoe could hear the relief in his voice as the engine belched into life. ‘You’ll like it – they’re a colourful crowd. I mean – it’s no exactly the nightlife of New York,’ he added, as if fearing he might have created false expectations, ‘but then I suppose you’ve come here to get away from all that.’

‘I’m not from New York,’ Zoe said, watching the mournful lights of the café recede as he pulled away. Then, thinking she ought to offer something else, she added, ‘Connecticut. You’re not far off.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Mick turned out on to the main road. ‘Never been myself. America. I’d like to, mind. When the kids are older, maybe. Kaye wants to go to Nashville. She’s into all the country music and that, you know? Now me, I’ve a fancy for somewhere more rugged. Hiking, fishing, that sort of thing. I’ve always liked the idea of moving to Canada.’

‘So does half my country right now,’ she muttered.

‘Aye, the great outdoors,’ Mick continued, missing the point. ‘That’s where I’m at home. Can’t get my girls interested yet, though they’re quite into animals and all that. We get otters up here – you’ll maybe see some around the bay.’

Zoe leaned against the window and let Mick fill the silence with his wilderness dreams. For as long as he was talking about himself or otters, he was not asking her questions. They passed through what she assumed was the main street of the town: a general store; a place that sold hardware, electronics and fishing supplies; a tea room; a bookshop; a few vacant shopfronts, the windows opaque with milky swirls of whitewash as if to veil their emptiness from public view. At the far end, the street broadened out into a triangular green with a war memorial in the centre, a school playground on one side and a small, plain church opposite. Mick swung the Land Rover to the right, past the churchyard, into a narrower lane. The cottages on each side lined up crookedly against one another, like bad teeth, but they looked snug, with lights glowing warmly behind drawn curtains.