House of Malice

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It was Thursday, another in a string of sunny afternoons that October and exactly one month since Mandy Freeman’s whole life had changed.

She still couldn’t believe her luck, and was in a daze as she drove up the narrow street in the quaint Cotswold village of Fairwood.

‘This is it,’ she said to Buster, who was perched on the passenger seat of her little blue Kia. Buster didn’t reply, just lolled his tongue and panted. He was Mandy’s Jack Russell terrier. Ten years old, he’d been her near-constant companion since her early twenties. Now he was about to share the biggest adventure of her life so far. He looked as excited as she felt.

Mandy parked the Kia on a double-yellow line outside the broad windows of the solicitors’ offices. The sunshine was gleaming over the name ‘Flowers & Duffy Ltd’ that was painted white on the glass. ‘Here we go. Back in a minute, boy,’ she said, her heart skipping. She got out, slammed the car door and disappeared inside the building.

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