Greetings my friend, I’m about to tell you a tale that will chill your soul to its core, unsettle the depths of your mind and deeply impale the emotions of your heart. So, beware and take heed, curl up by the fire with a blanket, make yourself cosy and I’ll begin. My story begins on a cold, bleak January day. The sort of day where Christmas is long forgotten and Spring waits, indefinitely cowering. The skies are devoid of any shade of blue, but instead are infused with heavy, somber, smoky clouds, threatening yet another bout of snow and ominously billowing out as far as the eye can see. The frozen landscape is evidence of the weeks of harsh weather. Snow and ice have swathed the countryside in an arctic blanket, yet a calmness and peace have quickly ensued. The sort of quiet that only occurs after heavy snowfall, where everything is still and nature is in awe of its new, stunning canvas. The Church The little church looks out wistfully across frozen valleys, rivers and lakes. Permanently staked to its ancient crest, it appears to long to be part of the magnificent spectacle below. Its founder had clearly decided a view was infinitely more important than the practicalities of its congregation reaching it’s destination. In years gone by, the elderly and infirm had struggled to climb the elevation once a week on the Sabbath, but with the invention of the car and then in due course a car park - the journey was made much easier for it’s subsequent descendants. Today all is peaceful for now. Snow and ice covers the graveyard, adding a ghostly chill to the permanence of the gravestones. The ground is dotted with yellow, orange, red - the tops of flowers just peeping through the snow, like a carpet of confetti adding a scattering of vivid colours. A steady drip, drip, drip from the icicles on the church roof, hints of an impending thaw. But the skies are foreboding, and promise yet more snow. Winter is far from over. A car makes its way to the car park. It has struggled to get to the top, but the vicar and a few parishioners had had the foresight to grit the road the night before, so it is passable and slightly less treacherous for now. The vicar and occupants enter the church and within minutes the bell is ringing loudly, regretfully welcoming the line of cars now arriving. All are relieved to have made it without incident through the winding narrow lanes, but also anxious of the perilous descent they will have to undertake on their return. A group of people make their way to the church entrance. They’re a curious bunch, dressed in that awkward contrast between looking smart and being warm. Hopping from one leg to another, rubbing their hands, discussing the weather, like all English people seem to do so well. The hearse arrives shortly after, followed by a long, black gleaming limousine. Ruefully, they pull up next to the ancient kissing gate, which gracefully arches the entrance to the church. Inside the hearse, lies a coffin with just one single red rose lying on top - the family has requested no other flowers. The passengers exit the limousine and solemnly form a line, while the pallbearers respectfully ready themselves to transport the coffin down its final path. Let me pause here for a moment, for the story cannot continue without an introduction to its characters. Everyone is present, and all have a secret. Imogen Imogen, she is beautiful - on the outside anyway. She has shiny, wavy long brown hair, which languishes perfectly around her elegant profile. Large beguiling brown eyes, give her a curious haunted look - a sad face, or so it seems, which a solitary tear dramatically rolls down. Her trim frame is dressed in designer black, she’s forsaken practicalities to look as good as she does. No sensible footwear here, stiletto heels complete her attire. How she manages to stay upright on the icy path is a feat in itself, she is well rehearsed and looks the part. Furtively she glances round and when she’s satisfied all eyes are on her, she gracefully wipes the tear from her cheek and rests a protective arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Alex Alex - Imogen’s husband, is well used to providing for the avaricious demands of his wife. He is the village GP and is well known and respected in the local community. And just as Imogen is exceptionally beautiful, Alex is exceptionally plain - his strawberry blonde hair caps weak, weathered features. Over the years, Imogen has flourished like an exotic bird, while Alex, resentful and rejected has paled significantly in her company and become increasingly downtrodden. Today is no exception, Alex blends effortlessly into the background, in his favourite black suit. The one he’s had for years, that comes out for every formal occasion. Everyone ignores him, like he’s not there, even his own daughter. Detached and angry, he watches the proceedings from a distance, isolated from the group. Maya Maya is Imogen and Alex’s daughter. Now a headstrong, surly teenager, she has inherited her mother’s flair for fashion, looks and temperament. But where her mother’s hair cascades in waves, Maya’s is a torrent of curls, shrouding her head in an eruption of chaos. But instead of the glorious deep chestnut brown paraded by Imogen, Maya has inherited a shade of her father’s colouring. Not the weak shade of gold her father sports, instead a deep rustic red, the sort that anyone blessed with would hate and others would envy. Her personality mimicks her hair, fiery and tempestuous topped off with slate green eyes that miss nothing. She has spent most of her teenage years in a hormonal rage against her parents. Today, just a slight blush of rose betrays her calm exterior, and irritated, she shrugs off her mother’s arm. Danielle Or Aunt Danny as Maya used to call her and is Imogen’s younger sister, although it seems a whole different set of genes are in play here. Frail and tiny elfin features, with mousy limp hair encased by a purple woolly hat, she is a teacher at the village school. There are no airs and graces with Danny, she has decided warmth will reign over style. She wears a long thick black padded coat, thermal gloves and a pair of wellies. She fidgets nervously with her hat and grasps her husband’s hand tightly. She stares at the ground, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Ewan Ewan - Danny’s husband. A cool calm lawyer, handsome and distinguished - he is everything Alex wants to be. He had frowned in despair at Danny’s insistence to wear wellies - to a funeral! He tolerates her lack of sophistication, because she’s wealthy and conveniently it keeps him closer to Imogen. He smoothes back his short black cropped hair, straightens his jacket and shakes free of Danny’s grasp. Aggie The beloved mother of Alex - Nana to Maya. Aggie is in her seventies and an eccentric role model to her wayward granddaughter. Her curls, now grey are tamed rigidly into a bun, tied high on her head with a length of black lace. She wears a black Chanel jacket which is left open just enough to glimpse the priceless family jewels fanning her neck. The years have taken their toll, and she teeters unsteady in fur lined boots, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Ewan, now free of Danny, makes his way towards her and takes her arm in his to steady her. Aggie is fond of Ewan and she smiles. Damien Best friend and best man to Alex. Damien’s twinkling eyes and good humour, make him popular with the ladies. He struggles to look serious and today is no exception. Despite the occasion, his eyes sparkle, they have a habit of crinkling up at the edges. Everyone likes Damien, he appears honest, dependable and extremely handsome. He straightens his tie nervously and risks a quick glance at Imogen. She doesn’t look back. So these my friend, are the main players, the bones of this story, the bread and butter. They all have their own story to tell and confidences to keep, but before I go further, I’ll let you in on a secret… One of them is a killer.. One of them has been cruelly betrayed and is already dead…