GROWING up in a mansion house in Ireland, writer Gabrielle Mullarkey would drift off to sleep with the sheets pulled up to her eyes as nocturnal noises echoed through the old building. Often, the stai

The mini digger we hired was bright yellow. It sounded like a bus and belched out black smoke. Phil, looking like he sat upon a child’s toy, aimed it down the garden after the hire company unloaded it

STAY still,” a strong, male voice commanded from the gloom. The autumn sun was setting on Wildwood Cottage, silhouetting its undulating structure dramatically against a charcoal and orange sky. “Well,

ISOBEL had known that living in her old childhood home would bring back memories. However, she never expected so many, or for them to be so vivid. Sometimes, in the last minutes before waking, she ima

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

Clare had theories about her friend’s disappearance. Could she prove them to be true?