The front gate, hanging from its hinges, groaned and dragged on the ground as she opened it. The garden was a patch of tangled weeds and the house was badly in need of several licks of paint. She turned, briefly raising a hand to the taxi driver, who tooted his horn before driving off.
Unlike in the big city, people were friendly here. Within two minutes of picking her up at the station, he’d already squeezed out enough information that – should the police come knocking at his door with her photo, demanding ‘Do you know this woman?’ – he’d have had no trouble describing her.
He’d say she was local, although she’d left 30 years ago and hadn’t lived here since. That – on a whim, while holidaying in Spain post-graduation – she’d accepted a job in a language school, where she’d worked ever since. That her name was Lou, which was less of a target for jokes in Spain than in the UK. That she’d only be back for as long as it took to sell her
