In a Cottage In a Wood: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Woman Next Door - Cass Green

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Her instinct is to tell the woman to mind her own business but she is too tired now. Her heels hurt. Her head aches. It’s freezing here.

      ‘It’s Neve.’ Neve wraps her arms around herself as a shudder of cold mingles with a yawn.

      ‘Neve … what?’ says the woman.

      Neve stares at her.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Please?’ says the woman, and her eyes sparkle. She makes a small, desolate sound in her throat. Neve takes another step towards her.

      ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Don’t cry.’

      ‘Please,’ says the woman emphatically. ‘Can you just tell me your name?’

      Neve stares at her for a moment before replying. ‘Neve … Neve Carey. Um, what’s yours?’

      ‘Isabelle,’ says the woman in barely a whisper, and then, with more force, ‘Neve, will you do something for me?’

      She pictures herself getting on the night bus with this strange wraithlike creature and both of them rocking up at Lou’s. Clearing her throat, she has to work hard not to sound sulky.

      ‘Uh, yes, I guess,’ she says. ‘But it depends on what it is.’

      Isabelle opens the clutch bag and produces a small brown envelope. ‘I want you to take this.’

      Neve hesitates and eyes it suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

      ‘It’s a gift. For being kind to me.’

      Neve takes a step back and holds up her palms. ‘Look, I’ve done nothing. I just don’t want you freezing to death on my conscience. I’m not that kind, trust me. I’m actually a bit of a cow. Ask anyone.’

      ‘You are kind,’ says Isabelle quietly. ‘I can sense it. Will you take this, just to humour me? Say you will. Say it.’

      Neve stares back at the woman, discomfited by her intense, strange manner.

      A passing car washes them with its headlights. For a moment Isabelle looks cadaverous, her eyes sunk in deep pockets of shadow.

      ‘It’s important,’ she says fiercely. ‘Please.’

      Neve is so unnerved now that all she can do is thrust out her hand and take the envelope.

      Isabelle’s shoulders droop and she seems to shrink in on herself.

      ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘Thank you so much.’

      She fumbles inside the bag and, after producing a mobile phone, turns away and whispers something quietly into it. The she returns the phone to the bag and looks at Neve. Her eyes are gleaming now, as if she is close to tears.

      ‘You should go,’ she says thickly. ‘I’ll be fine here.’

      It’s tempting.

      Neve sighs heavily.

      ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s get the fuck off this freezing cold bridge. Where do you need to get to? I can—’

      ‘No.’ The sharp retort makes her gasp. ‘I’m sorry. But you need to go now. Leave me here. You shouldn’t be—’

      She seems to bite the end of her sentence off and, for the first time, Neve sees that she is terrified in a way Neve has never witnessed before in real life.

      Neve crosses her arms.

      ‘No way,’ she says. ‘I’m not leaving you here. It’s bloody cold and—’

      She yelps as Isabelle lunges, kissing her quickly on each cheek with cold, dry lips. Her grip is surprisingly strong. Neve feels a flash of fear as Isabelle’s lips brush her ear.

      ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. And keep it, if you can bear to.’

      Then she turns to face the water and, in one neat movement, climbs over the side of the railing and jumps into the river.

       3

      Neve sits in the back of the police car now, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket as blue light smears rhythmically across the windows. The hiss and crackle of the radio begins to fade as icy rain pounds onto the roof of the vehicle.

      The RNLI had arrived first, confusing her with their jaunty logo because she thought they were people who rescued you at sea. They came with astonishing speed after she made the call. Later she would learn that one of their emergency stations was situated close to Waterloo Bridge.

      They arrived before the police. Neve’s phone had died before she could finish the conversation with the operator so for ten surreal minutes before the police car had arrived, she’d stood on the bridge alone, looking down at the boat as it turned slow circles in the blackness below, its spotlight swishing back and forth. She half thought about hurrying away and leaving them to it. But it seemed desperately sad that this stranger should have no one apart from the emergency services rooting for her to be found.

      So instead she kept up the vigil, staring into the depths below. Her heart had jolted when she saw something white swell and roll in the water, then she realized it was a large plastic bottle. The sensation of relief, that she wouldn’t have to jump in and attempt a rescue, had almost buckled her at the knees.

      Later, she would understand that no one would expect her – someone with only average swimming ability – to try and rescue a drowning woman from the Thames in winter. But guilt periodically comes in a bright, sharp jab under her ribs. This at least is a sensation she recognizes.

      When the police arrived she’d told them what happened in jerky, shocked sentences. They’d gently encouraged her to start again from the beginning and tell them the whole story.

      Now here she is, in the strange aftermath and she can’t stop shivering. Every now and then a particularly strong shudder jerks through her, which makes her clench her jaw. It’s unnerving. She read somewhere that shock can be dangerous in some physiological way she doesn’t really understand and wonders whether she ought to ask for something from the ambulance crew.

      She looks out the window and sees through the condensation and raindrops that one of the RNLI men is talking to the policewoman. It’s the small, Northern one with tight curly hair and an efficient air about her. The policewoman nods and then glances at the car. Neve draws back, as though caught doing something wrong.

      The door of the police car opens, but it is the young black officer who pokes his head in and peers at her.

      ‘You alright, love?’ he says gently. He has pretty eyes, thickly lashed, and a cold that clogs his voice and makes him fumble for a tissue. He honks into it and regards her.

      Neve nods.

      ‘Look,’ he says, ‘we have been informed by the rescue crew that the tide is very strong tonight and the weather is taking a turn for the worse. They’ve made the decision that they aren’t going to continue the search.’ He pauses. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

      His formal words are countered by the kindness in his face.

      ‘I think so,’ she says in a small voice. ‘There’s no hope. Will she just … stay down there?’

      He makes a face.

      ‘Probably not,’ he continues, ‘but it can take a little while for, uh, people to wash up at this stretch of the Thames.’ He pauses. ‘Was she a friend of yours, the woman who jumped in?’

      Neve swallows, picturing the moment again.

      The shocking speed of it all. Cold, dry lips on her cheek and clawed hands gripping her shoulders. The bright flash of the dress as she tipped herself up and over into the black water.

      ‘I was just walking

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