The Vow: the gripping new thriller from a bestselling author - guaranteed to keep you up all night!

by Debbie Howells

  After what’s been the strangest day, all I want is for Matt to come home, so that we can add the final touches to our wedding plans, then go to bed. But I’m still in the dark at this point. As I turn to go downstairs, I have no way of knowing what lies ahead.

  Chapter Two

  The kitchen is lit by the dim glow from a corner lamp, the sense of unease still with me as I pile dry kindling into the wood burner before lighting it, then add seasoned wood. In no time it’s throwing out heat, the crackle of flames welcome, breaking the silence. After making a cup of tea, I switch on my laptop, bringing up the file that contains our wedding plans. From food and wine to flowers and music, each detail has been carefully chosen – by both of us.

  After Matt proposed, I’d wanted to get married on a faraway beach, imagining Jess and I barefoot in dusky dresses, our hair windswept by a tropical breeze. I’d provisionally booked a place in the Caribbean, a small bougainvillea-clad hotel, looking onto white sand shaded by palm trees, beyond which clear turquoise water stretched. But in the end, we decided on an intimate wedding at home, Jess my only bridesmaid, trading the Caribbean sun for candlelight, winter flowers and wood smoke.

  It would be no less the fairy tale. And it was the wedding itself that mattered. When Matt reminded me of the obvious impracticalities of having our wedding so far away, I had to concede he had a point. Both of us wanted our closest friends and family to be there. I’ve tried to explain to Jess how relationships are about compromise. That not all battles are worth fighting, because it’s what I believe. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my instincts, listen to my inner voice. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, it serves me well. But when I think about the stranger in Brighton this morning, it’s oddly absent.

  I have no reason to believe anyone wishes me harm. No reason not to trust Matt. But it’s the way he sounded earlier when he called me – not just what he said, but the way he said it. I need to talk to you later. Then, take care, babe …

  None of it was in any way normal, I tell the police much later on. It was the way his voice changed, as though he knew someone would overhear him. I know the way Matt thinks, how he speaks. When he called me earlier today, something was wrong.

  The silence is broken by the ping of an email into my inbox, from our wedding planner, Lara. An old friend of Matt’s, when she heard we were getting married, she offered to help us, saving us the hours it would take to find suppliers. Her email’s about finalising the seating plan that Matt and I had planned to look at tonight. Reading through the document she’s attached, making one or two changes, I keep it to run past him before replying. Then I click on my vows, re-reading the words I know so well for the hundredth time.

  I promise to always be there for you. To be the moon in your darkness, your wildflowers in the shade of the forest, your brightest star lighting the night sky. My heart is yours, Matt; my love a forever love. I am yours for the rest of my life. Words I’ve deliberated over for hours, that are mine and no-one else’s; that on our wedding day will be my gift to Matt.

  Seeing the piece of paper with Matt’s vows, I fold it and put it out of sight, already regretting reading them this morning. When we’d agreed not to share them until our wedding day, it feels like a betrayal of trust.

  It’s nearly ten by the time I finish going through my emails, replying to a WhatsApp from Jess about when she’s next coming back from Falmouth. Switching on another light, I pour myself a glass of wine before calling Cath, my closest friend.

  ‘Hey! How’s it going?’

  In need of a fresh start, she’s packing up her flat. She moves next week – to Bristol.

  ‘Since you ask, horrible. I’ve had to throw so much out, but at least it’s a distraction. To be honest, I’m trying not to think about it.’

  ‘This move is what you need,’ I tell her. ‘A change of scene, your new job … Who knows what might happen – in time.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t involve men,’ she says shortly. ‘Honestly, I’m relishing being single again.’

  I’m silent for a moment. Cath’s suffered.

  ‘How are you?’ Her voice rallies. ‘I keep meaning to call round.’

  ‘So come tomorrow. We’ll have lunch. I need to tell you about something weird that happened today – when I was in Brighton.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’ She sounds curious. ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

  Hearing a car outside, I’m guessing it’s Matt. ‘I think Matt’s just come back. It’ll wait.’

  ‘OK.’ Cath hesitates. ‘How is Matt?’

  ‘He’s good. We’re just putting the final touches together for the big day. You wouldn’t believe how long everything takes.’

  ‘I’m happy never to find out.’ Cath’s voice is cynical, then she sounds apologetic. ‘Look, I didn’t mean that. I’m sure it will be a great day.’

  After her abusive ex-boyfriend, Oliver, reduced her emotionally to the shadow of the woman I know so well, she’s trying to rebuild her life – alone. If I hadn’t seen it happen, I wouldn’t have believed it possible, because I’ve always thought of her as strong, but Oliver’s manipulation was masterful.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just glad you’ve got away from Oliver. I know it’s hard right now, but it will get easier.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She’s quiet for a moment. ‘But you’re happy? You and Matt?’

  There’s no hesitation as I answer. ‘Blissfully.’

  *

  But the car I hear isn’t Matt’s. By eleven, when he still isn’t home, I’m only mildly surprised, but it’s happened before, a business dinner morphing into a late session in a bar. I frown, wondering what it is he wanted to talk to me about, but it will have to wait. With an early start ahead of me, I text him briefly as I go to bed. When he doesn’t reply, I imagine him deep in conversation over yet another scotch. I’ve no reason to worry. Not yet.

  When I stir in the night and realise the bed is empty beside me, it vaguely registers as odd. Thinking of our wedding, imagining us side by side as we become husband and wife, I drift back to sleep. But it isn’t until I awake the next morning, and find he still hasn’t come home that alarm bells start to ring. Nor has he replied to any of my texts, and when I call him, like last night, it goes to voicemail.

  *

  An air of unreality hangs over me as I shower and dress, stopping now and then to try him again. When my phone eventually buzzes with a text, my heart leaps, but instead of Matt, it’s a client wanting to check on a delivery. The order is prepared, but I’m worried about Matt and it’s slipped my mind that I’d promised it for this morning.

  Pulling on a jacket and boots, I hurry outside. The grass is crisp with last night’s frost, glistening where the sun reaches it, my hands pink with cold as I open my workshop. Inside, the temperature is higher but only marginally, as after picking up the order, I take it out to my car.

  Normally I love early mornings, the way the low light casts shadows, how the world is slowly stirring into life. But today, as I drive, I don’t see any of it. Instead, uncertainty fills the air as I call Matt, leaving him another message. My mind in a whirl. Five minutes later, I try again. Then, because she’s been keeping in touch with both of us about the wedding, I pull over at the side of the road and call Lara.

  By the time I remember how early it still is, she’s already answered. ‘Hi, Amy.’ Her voice is sleepy, as though I’ve just woken her. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m sorry to call like this.’ I feel a rush of guilt for disturbing her. ‘Have you by any chance heard from Matt?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’ She pauses. ‘Is something wrong?’ Her voice is suddenly wide awake.

  I hesitate. ‘He didn’t come home last night. I’m really worried about him. I’ve called him several times, but it goes to voicemail. I just wondered when you last spoke to him.’

  There’s a brief hesitation before she speaks. ‘A couple of days ago. Sunday – it was to do with the orders of
service.’ She’s quiet for a moment. ‘I’m sure he’s fine, Amy. He probably had too much to drink and crashed out somewhere.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ I’m nodding as I speak, but he would have been in touch. And in all the time I’ve known him, Matt’s always made it home after a night out.

  Her voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘Have you thought about calling the police?’

  At the mention of the police, my heart quickens. I’ve been putting off thinking about it, not wanting Matt to be a missing person, hoping he’ll reappear with a credible excuse that will make everything OK. I crashed out at the hotel … I lost my phone. ‘I thought it was too soon. They won’t do anything, will they? Not for at least twenty-four hours.’ My voice is husky, the note of panic one I can’t hide. ‘The chances are you’re right. He’s got held up somewhere. It’s probably nothing.’ I say it as much for my benefit as Lara’s. ‘He might have lost his phone – or broken it. Ended up spending the night in a hotel … there could be any number of possibilities.’ But it isn’t what my instincts are telling me. No longer silent, they’re screaming at me that something’s happened to him.

  ‘Sure.’ Lara doesn’t sound convinced.

  Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, I remember the delivery. ‘I should go. I have a delivery to make. Can you let me know if you hear from him?’

  ‘Of course.’ She sounds uncertain. ‘Can you do the same?’

  Chapter Three

  I drive towards Brighton on autopilot, barely noticing as the sea, then the town come into view. Reaching the outskirts, I hit the early morning traffic, slowed by roadworks that weren’t there yesterday, unable to stop worrying about Matt. When at last I turn off the main road and head for the quiet tree-lined street of Regency houses where my client lives, I’m running late. Managing to park outside her house, I’m flustered as I take her order from the back of my car and ring the bell. Davina opens the door straight away.

  ‘Amy. I was about to call you. I was getting worried.’ There’s a look of concern in her clear brown eyes as an air of strong perfume and calm wafts over me. A client for five years, Davina’s always the same, unflustered – her dark hair sleek, her make-up minimal. As she looks at me, she frowns. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ My nerves are on edge. ‘I should have been here ages ago. I hit the traffic.’ Trying to compose myself, I pass her the order. ‘You should find everything’s there.’

  ‘Thank you. Is the invoice inside?’

  I flounder for a moment, realising my error, then shake my head. ‘I completely forgot. Can I email it to you?’

  As I walk back to my car, I’m cursing myself. I’m meticulous about finances and I’ve never forgotten an invoice. But Matt has never gone missing before. With hindsight, I wished I’d told her what had happened. I’ve no way of knowing that when the police talk to her, she’ll tell them I was agitated, flustered, as though my mind was elsewhere. I didn’t tell her that my head was spinning, how worried about Matt I was.

  Before I head home, I call him again. When it goes to voicemail, I call his office. A management consultant for a company called Orbital, Matt can work anywhere their clients are based, but at the moment I happen to know he’s working in Brighton.

  ‘Good morning. Can I speak to Matthew Roche?’

  ‘One moment please.’ I don’t recognise the clipped, professional voice of the receptionist, unlike her predecessor, Sophie, who would have known instantly who I was. ‘I’ll put you through. Who’s calling, please?’

  I forget that he hasn’t called me in nearly twenty-four hours, just feel a layer of normality return, relief flooding through me that he’s there. ‘Amy – his fiancée.’

  As she connects me and the line starts to ring, I feel a weight start to lift. Then the ringing stops, but instead of Matt’s voice, it’s the receptionist again. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Roche doesn’t appear to be in his office. Would you like to leave a message?’

  Any sense of relief instantly vanishes. Instead my voice is shaking, as my fear comes flooding back. ‘Yes. Please ask him to call Amy. As soon as he gets in. It’s important.’

  Ending the call, I sit there for a moment, oblivious to the rush hour traffic flashing past, trying to think of who else I can call. Pete, his best man, is the obvious place to start. Then, even though I’ve never met them, his parents. Knowing their contact details should be in our wedding file, I pull out onto the road again.

  In a hurry to get home, I drive too fast, unable to concentrate. Then as I turn into our lane, I catch sight of the stooped figure of Mrs Guthrie, our closest neighbour, who lives in one of the three cottages further up the lane. She may look fragile, but she ferociously maintains her independence. Recognising my car, she raises a hand in greeting, as hope rises in me that she may have seen Matt. Pulling into my driveway, I get out and hurry to meet her. ‘Morning … How are you?’

  Wearing a padded coat that hides her diminutive frame, her face breaks into a smile. Then as I get closer, she peers into my face. ‘Amy, dear. I was going to come and see you. My Japanese anemones are still flowering and I thought you might like some for your wedding.’ Her garden has always been her passion, as mine is to me.

  ‘I’d love some – thank you.’ It’s by some quirk of her garden’s microclimate that her flowers bloom slightly later in the year than mine. But right now, I can’t think about flowers. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of Matt?’

  ‘Now why would you be asking me about Matt?’ She starts to chuckle, then realising I’m serious, stops. ‘Is something wrong?’ A frown wrinkles her brow as she studies me.

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ Even now, I try to play it down. ‘It’s just that he went out with a client last night and didn’t come home. He hasn’t called me, either.’

  She doesn’t hesitate. ‘Then you should call the police, dear, don’t you think?’

  *

  As I walk back home and go inside, my fear is building, that something terrible has happened. But when I think about what Mrs Guthrie said, I’m convinced it’s still too soon for the police to be interested. Knowing I need to make some calls, I open my laptop and bring up our wedding file. Sure enough, Pete’s mobile number is there. With shaking hands, I call it.

  ‘Pete? It’s Amy.’

  ‘Hey. How’s it going?’ His voice is characteristically cheerful. ‘Not long till the big day, is it! How can I help?’

  ‘It’s Matt.’ My voice is husky as I grip my phone. ‘I don’t know where he is. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Suddenly he’s sharp. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday. Before he left for work,’ I whisper. ‘Then he called me during the morning, to tell me he’d be late home – he had to take a client out. I’ve been calling him ever since. Countless times, but he isn’t answering his phone.’ There’s a note of panic in my voice. ‘I’ve called his office, too. But he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Jeez, Amy. I last spoke to him the day before that, but not since. You must be worried sick.’

  My eyes fill with tears. ‘I am.’

  ‘There has to be an explanation.’ Pete’s silent for a moment. ‘Have you spoken to his parents?’

  ‘Not yet. I was going to call them next, after speaking to you.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls. Check out the bars he goes to. Let me know when you’ve spoken to his parents. But if there’s still no sign of him …’

  ‘I know.’ I’m biting my lip. ‘I’ll call the police.’

  Putting down my mobile, I turn back to my laptop, scrolling down the list of wedding guests until I find Matt’s parents. Punching the number into my phone, I pause for a moment, knowing whatever I say, I’m going to worry them. But I make the call anyway, steeling myself to explain to them why I’m phoning, but instead of someone answering, the line goes dead.

  Frowning, I check the number, but when I try it again, the same thing happens. Staring at my phone, there�
��s only one explanation, that Matt must have made a mistake when he typed the number next to their names on the wedding list. Uncomfortable, I call Pete again, swearing under my breath when my call goes to voicemail, before texting him instead. The number I have for Matt’s parents isn’t connected. Sitting there, I wait for his response, but when I remember the list of orders I need to prepare I head outside towards my workshop.

  Even in my sanctuary, it’s impossible to focus. My unease, no longer a shadow, is palpable. Trying to distract myself, I think about our wedding, holding on to the image of us in my mind. Matt tall, his suit and white shirt showing off the tan he’ll have after his stag do in Malaga; me spray-tanned, because it’s all I have time for, setting off the dusky pink dress that’s hanging in the spare room. The flowers I’m growing from which to make the simplest, most delicate of bouquets; Jess beside me in pale grey, her long hair loosely pinned up. The hotel cosy, decorated with flowers and candles, the wood fires lit, on the most perfect of winter days where the air is crisp, the sky blue, the sun shining. In the dream, the sun always shines.

  A text from Pete jolts me out of my thoughts. He must have made a mistake. I’ve been asking around but no-one’s seen him. I’d call the police, Amy. And keep in touch.

  Still holding on to hope that Matt will call me, that there’s an innocent explanation, I put it off a little longer, turning my attention to the orders coming in, until by mid-morning, fear gets the better of me. Filled with trepidation, as I walk back to the house, I dial 999. Half expecting to be told to give it twenty-four hours, I’m surprised when the woman who takes my call efficiently records my details, before putting me through to a PC Page.

  ‘When did you last see your fiancé?’ From her voice, I know she’s taking me seriously. It’s what I’d dreaded most before I called – not being taken seriously.