What You Left Behind Read Free

these Warwickshire villages, especially her childhood home of Radcote, would never leave her heart. The mellow ginger stone of the local buildings, the low brows of thatched cottages, the cow parsley verges, the tiny post office with its musty wooden floor and big jars of penny candy on crooked shelves, the landmark churches with their towers and spires marking the route on endless summer bike rides—it was all tattooed on her heart.
    As the road narrowed and curved, bending between farms and livestock, crops and Dutch barns with stacks of hay, Lorraine wound down the window and breathed in deeply, tasting the air. It was sweet and slightly cloying. Just how she remembered it. Already she felt the feeling of coming home seeping into her skin.
    She smiled. This week was going to be just what she needed. A damned good rest.
    She indicated right and turned down an even narrower lane. The hedges pulled in close, cloaking their passage with varying shades of green, as well as brighter patches of white or yellow flowers. Every so often they passed a gateway with a crusted muddy entrance where tractors had been coming and going.
    “What happens if another car comes?” Stella asked, dropping her phone into her bag. Her arms were folded across her stomach as if she might be sick at any moment.
    “One of us has to back up to a passing point,” Lorraine stated.
    “But what if no one will?”
    “Then I guess we sit there all day,” Lorraine replied, quite used to her daughter’s endless questions. Occasionally her wayward line of thought would contain a shred of what seemed like brilliance or unusual insight, which prevented Lorraine from silencing her when other mothers might have grown impatient. As far as she was concerned, Stella could babble on. It was white noise that she enjoyed, a welcome contrast to her job. “But people are generally friendly in the countryside.”
    “What if they have a gun?”
    “Well, you’re in trouble then,” she said, speeding up again as the lane straightened into a more drivable stretch. “Know what they call this road?” Lorraine asked, pointing ahead. It used to scare her as a kid, give her a creepy yet slightly irresistible feeling. She’d always pedaled that bit harder when cycling along it to the next village to visit a friend.
    “A road?”
    “Devil’s Mile,” Lorraine said, with a slight growl to her voice. Before Stella had a chance to ask, she added, “I have no idea why.”
    “Probably because the Devil lives here or something,” Stella said matter-of-factly. She was obviously feeling less nauseous all of a sudden as the phone came out of her bag again in response to the bleep of an incoming text. “It would liven this place up a bit if he did. It looks dead boring.”
    “There’s another straight road not far from here called the Fosse Way,” Lorraine continued.
    She’d been going to explain about the Roman road’s route but slowed at the sight of a dozen or so wilted bunches of flowers laid at the base of a tree to their left. There were a couple of notes and cards pinned to the trunk, drooping and soggy from all the recent rain. Lorraine hated seeing these temporary shrines to lost loved ones. Usually these cases were tragic accidents rather than anythingsinister, but occasionally she’d have to deal with the cleanup, the painful aftermath of assessing what had happened when Traffic, the first officers on the scene, called her in. She’d worked a number of times with the Serious Collision Investigation Unit when initial findings weren’t entirely clear-cut and a more disturbing outcome was suspected.
    She glanced in the rearview mirror at the faded floral tribute as they passed and wondered if it was anyone local.
    “Very sad,” she said.
    “What is?”
    “Those flowers. Someone must have died in an accident.”
    Lorraine flicked the indicator again and turned down the final lane that would take them to Radcote.
    “Maybe the Devil killed someone,”