The Unburied Past by Anthea Fraser

soon.’ And he rang off.
    She restarted the car, almost immediately regretting having accepted the invitation. The call had caught her off-balance while her mind was churning with the ramifications of the day’s disclosures, but on reflection she knew she wasn’t ready to start a new relationship, if that was Nick Shepherd’s intention. The break-up with Lance had been bruising, but there was a certain freedom in being ‘single’ again. Added to which, she realized belatedly, she knew nothing of this man she’d committed herself to spending an evening with. He could even – a disturbing thought – be the sender of that email.
    She frowned, thinking back to their meeting, sure she’d not given him her mobile number. Why hadn’t she at least prevaricated, told him she’d have to check her diary? That way she could have thought more clearly about the implications, while any attempt to back down now would be an all too obvious excuse.
    Oh, God, as if she’d not enough on her mind without having to worry about this new complication! At least Angie would be home by the time she got back. It would be a relief to talk over the enormity of what she’d learned with someone not personally involved.
    Thirty minutes later Kirsty turned into the driveway of the tall Edwardian house and drew up alongside Angie’s car, grateful as always for the off-street parking that was at such a premium in central Westbourne.
    Closing the front door behind her, she dropped her keys on the hall table and bent over it briefly, her hands resting on its surface as a wave of exhaustion, aftermath of the shock and traumas of the day, swept over her.
    â€˜Kirsty?’ Angie had appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Are you OK?’
    Kirsty raised her head. ‘Not really,’ she said.
    â€˜Oh, poor love. Was it awful?’
    â€˜Worse than you can imagine.’
    â€˜Come on up and I’ll open a bottle of wine.’ She disappeared in the direction of their domestic kitchen and slowly, almost painfully, Kirsty went upstairs and into the sitting room, making her way, as she always did on returning home, to the bay windows and their spectacular view.
    The town of Westbourne was attractive, historic and, in the view of some, inconvenient, since those approaching it from the north were forced to negotiate roads leading steeply downhill that put a strain on brakes and were especially treacherous in icy weather.
    There were, however, compensations, one of which was that houses on this side of town, Kirsty’s and Angie’s among them, were afforded a bird’s-eye view over the roofs of those on a lower level to the large park that lay in the centre of town, the twin crescents that encircled it and, beyond, the towers and turrets of Westbourne College. This evening the familiar view assumed a new significance and the college had never seemed so close. Soon, Kirsty thought incredulously, Adam would be working there.
    Behind her she heard Angie come in and set down a bottle and two glasses on the coffee table.
    â€˜Come and tell me about it,’ she invited.
    Kirsty turned, and at the sight of her face Angie gave an exclamation. ‘Even worse than usual?’ she asked sympathetically.
    â€˜Much,’ Kirsty acknowledged shakily. ‘It seems my parents didn’t die in a car crash, as I’d always been told.’ She paused and drew a tremulous breath. ‘They were murdered, Angie. Both of them. While we were on holiday in the Lake District.’
    â€˜It changes everything,’ she said. It was two hours later and they were still sitting on the sofa, the bottle of wine two-thirds empty. ‘Before today, it had just seemed a tragic accident which could – and does – happen to anyone. But to hear they were killed
deliberately
, as far as we know through no fault of their own, and on top of that, that their killers might still be alive out