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I SIP MY HALF PINT at the sticky bar and listen to the pub owner talking to the two regulars at the next stools along.

“Heard the inquest found she had it in her system, same as the rest of ’em,” the guy two down says. “So she was driving while high and had some sort of bad trip, a hallucination or something. Ran off the cliff into thin air.”

Even Francesca Meadows couldn’t manifest her way out of that one.

I never got the confession I came for. The reprieve from fifteen years of gnawing, life-altering guilt. But perhaps it was a na?ve hope. Turns out a leopard doesn’t change its spots, even if it’s covered them up with some wellness bullshit and white linen.

But it wasn’t really about my absolution: I know that now. I was brought here for the woman—the mother—buried in an unmarked grave in Tome woods. Funny. As it was Francesca herself who said I lacked a purpose. And for the last fifteen years she’d have been right. But in coming back here, I found one. I can look my daughter in the eye now. Perhaps I’ll never be quite whole myself but I can pass something better on to her.

It’s time to say goodbye to this place. It’s why I’m back for this one night. In an hour I’ll meet Jake Walker to stroll along the cliff path, for old time’s sake. Just two people briefly reunited, finally freed from the shadows of the past.

I need a jot of Dutch courage first, though. It’s been a while—and the rest. I take another sip of my beer and tune back in to the conversation along the bar.

“You heard what old Tate’s been saying of course,” the guy next to me says. “He swears blind it was them—”

“Graham Tate wouldn’t know one end of a bottle of Bell’s from the other,” the landlady says, cutting him off, “so you’ll forgive me taking his fairy tales with a big pinch of salt. Besides, for what it’s worth his own son testified that he saw her set fire to the place. Torching your own hotel—if that doesn’t sound like someone off their rocker on drugs then I don’t know what does.”

With Hugo and Oscar Meadows left to suffocate inside. Even for her that seems beyond the pale.

“Course...” the guy next to me says, turning to his fellow with a grimace (and maybe a touch of excitement?), “you saw the body, mate.”

“Yeah.” His drinking buddy shudders. “Coming in from the morning catch. Nasty business. Wasn’t a fan of that place or the family but I wouldn’t wish that end on anyone.”

“Oh and you heard about the prodigal? A policeman of all things! Thought we’d never see hide nor hair of Jake Walker again. That’s going to be a strange family Christmas.”

“Shh.” The other guy nudges him. “His mum’s here this evening, look.”

I follow their gaze to the long table at the back. A table of women, slightly incongruous in this fairly masculine space. Most of a certain age (lots of gray hair, a few untouched roots), talking in a low, respectable murmur.

Now I’m looking closely there are a couple of faces I think I recognize. Wasn’t the blonde one, the youngest among them, the manager from The Manor? And is that...? Yes, I see the dog collar: the vicar I met at the village cross. And now the landlady steps out from behind the bar with a tray of drinks, sets them down at the table to a chorus of appreciation. Pulls up a chair to join the others.

The first guy turns back round. Shrugs. Takes a sip of his pint. “What’s with all the old birds in here this evening? Place is overrun with them.”