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CHAPTER ONE

Katie pulled her beanie further over her ears and wondered where the hell her chauffeur had got to.

With five days to Christmas blue skies had greeted her when the coach dropped her at Windermere Station that morning. The taxi drive to Keswick had been glorious, passing snow-topped fells, sparkling lakes and green pine forests straight out of a Christmas card. The sunlit scene had calmed her nerves and convinced her that inviting her nearest and dearest to spend the festive season in one of the most remote houses in England had been a good idea.

The clouds had finally descended when they’d arrived in Keswick. Katie had expressed her surprise but the driver had chuckled. ‘This is the Lakes, miss. There’s a reason why the place is full of water.’ She had a feeling he’d said it before to many a clueless visitor.

Now, half an hour later, having arrived at the jetty on the northwest side of Derwentwater, Katie was surrounded by a gloom so thick she could reach out and touch it. Water droplets clung to her lashes as the rain turned to sleet and her toes were growing numb despite her leather boots. It might even snow as the temperature dropped.

Who wouldn’t want snow to fall during a Christmas break in the Lake District? Who wouldn’t want that perfect accompaniment to a two-week stay in a luxurious house on an island in the middle of Derwentwater?

The owner, Mr Crabtree, had said in his email that someone would meet her at the jetty in the Island House launch. He’d followed it up with a WhatsApp at Windermere Station and a text en route in the taxi to Keswick. He’d told her not to worry if she didn’t hear from him after that because the signal was very patchy ‘out in the wilds but the boatman would be at the jetty at 2 p.m., come hell or high water’.

Well, it was now two thirty and the water was slapping the side of the jetty and there was no sign of Mr Crabtree’s boatman. In fact, for the best part of forty minutes – since the driver had left Katie and her bags – there had been no sign of any person or other living creature bar a robin that occasionally flitted on to the jetty, looked at Katie as if she were nuts, and flitted off again.

She considered digging her waterproof out of her rucksack, but realised it wouldn’t fit over her padded coat so she’d just have to put up with getting wetter.

Aha! She thought she heard a ghostly bark across the water but no matter how hard she strained her eyes, nothing appeared. It was hard to tell where the fog began and the lake ended.

Maybe it was a ghost dog and a ghost boat, ready to take her to a ghost island with a ghost house.

Suddenly, the idea of spending the night in the Island House alone hit her. And what if the other guests really couldn’t get there the following day or the next? What if Katie ended up alone on the island for days rather than the hours she’d planned? What if the power failed? What if Mr Crabtree didn’t turn up as promised or turned up and proved to be a serial killer?

Her writer’s imagination was working overtime and she knew that this experience would make its way into a story: if not her next book, then another.

All experiences eventually did: both the nice and the annoying ones, like time in the dentist’s chair, or someone being rude or unkind to you, or just being a twat. Then there were the absolutely gut-wrenching ones. The ones that were too painful to even say to yourself, ‘One day I will put this in a book.’ They were the ones that you couldn’t grit your teeth and think: It’s all good material.

These experiences bled out of you, even years down the line, in the pages of a story. She wasn’t yet ready to channel the hurt, loss and guilt that had stalked her over the past year – in fact, a year ago to the very day – when a terrible moment had turned her own life, as well as many others, upside down.

How she hoped this special Christmas break alongside those she loved and owed would create new pages filled with love and laughter and crackling fires, silly hats and too many mince pies … little things that would hopefully add up to a lot.

Katie’s what-ifs – once so irritating to her parents and teachers – had eventually ceased to be the bane and burden of her life and become rather useful. They’d led to a job in magazine journalism until, at the age of twenty-nine, she’d had her first novel published. Now, five years later, she’d written ten books. Her recent bestseller had stunned her with its success. It had sold in the hundreds of thousands, been translated into twelve languages, and been optioned for a Netflix series.

She felt simultaneously proud, lucky and guilty that her books had led to money her parents could only have dreamed of and that she didn’t dare admit to her friends. She was determined to pay something back to the people who’d helped her along the way – the people whom she owed big time. She hadn’t always treated these people as they deserved and she needed to thank them and make it up to them.

Would they think that being carted off to a damp house in the middle of an island in the sleet was a treat?

Sharp barks cut through the fog.

‘Ah, the ghost dog …’ Katie muttered, hearing the faint phut-phut of a boat engine. ‘And finally the ghost launch and the potential serial killer …’

She was still laughing at herself when the wooden prow of a boat cleaved through the fog as it slowed to approach the jetty. After slipping alongside, a man in a green Berghaus jacket jumped off and tied it to the metal mooring post. He was followed by a large Labrador who ran towards the shore and sniffed around the leaves.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ the boatman muttered from under his hood. ‘You must be Ms Quillam, I presume?’

All Katie could see of him was a beard. He didn’t seem the least bit sorry that he’d kept her waiting in the rain and fog for almost an hour now and that she was drenched. ‘No, actually, I’m a walker hoping for a lift to Keswick. I kind of wandered off the path.’

‘You went walking dressed like that? Well, I’m afraid this isn’t a public launch service but as you need transport, I can take you as far as the marina at Portinscale and you can get a taxi from there to wherever you’re heading.’

‘And my luggage?’ she said.

‘Your luggage?’ He followed her pointing finger to the large suitcase and rucksack she’d left against the trunk of a tree to try to keep them dry. ‘You went walking with that lot?’

Even though she thought the boatman was very rude, Katie felt she’d tormented him long enough. ‘Sorry, that was my attempt at a joke. I am Katie Quillam.’

His shoulders slumped. ‘Thank goodness. I took you for another gormless tourist who thinks they can hike the fells in flip-flops and a hoodie.’

‘No, I’m just the regular type of tourist who hoped someone would be waiting when the taxi dropped her off.’