“Rowan! Hello!” The female voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and I jumped, looking around for a camera, a microphone, a grille to speak into. I blinked, suddenly thinking of Jack’s comment in the car.

I went to press it, but it must have been motion sensitive, for I had not even made contact when a chime sounded from inside the house. A ghostly illuminated icon in the shape of a bell had appeared from nowhere, shining out of what had seemed to be solid stone, and I saw that what I had taken for simply part of the wall was actually a cleverly inlaid panel. I turned back and put out my hand, ready to rap on the wood with my knuckles, but as I did so, something embedded in the wall to the left of the door caught my eye. But he was still inside the car, checking something on the big illuminated touch screen that served as the dashboard controls. There was no knocker either, and I looked over my shoulder, seeking Jack’s guidance as to how I should announce myself. It took me a second to notice what it was.

But what was it? The door in front of me was traditional enough, paneled wood painted a rich glossy black, but something seemed wrong, missing, even.

The door in front of me was traditional enough, paneled wood painted a rich glossy black, but something seemed wrong, missing, even. The contrast with my own upbringing-the cheerless boxy suburbia of my parents’ 1950s identikit bungalow, every room except my own neat as a pin, yet all utterly devoid of any character or comfort-was almost too bitter to bear, and it was more to banish the thought than because I was ready to meet Sandra that I stepped forward into the shelter of the covered porch. Soft gray stone, lichened and weathered, golden lamps shining out through the clean rippled glass of the windows, overblown roses scattering their petals in the dusk-it was almost too perfect, unbearably perfect, in some strange way.Īs I stepped out of the car and the cool evening air settled around me, pine-scented and sharp and clear as mineral water, I felt suddenly choked with longing for this life and all that it represented.

Ruth ware the turn of the key