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

by Debbie Howells

  *

  The custody centre has white walls and a cheap blue carpet. Inside, I’m led into a small room where they take my fingerprints and a DNA swab. Forcing myself to stay calm, I tell myself it’s only a matter of time before they realise their mistake. Her eyes avoiding mine, PC Page waits with me, while the custody sergeant completes the necessary paperwork, then I’m asked to hand over my personal belongings. When they ask me for my phone, suddenly I realise I haven’t brought it with me. ‘I need to call someone – a lawyer.’

  PC Page nods. ‘As soon as we’ve finished the paperwork.’

  ‘This is so fucking ridiculous.’ I know I’m not helping myself, but a cocktail of anger and helplessness fuels me as I imagine the police in my home, going through my things, even picking up my phone, scrolling through my calls, putting their own interpretation on my personal messages. As a suspect, even though I’m innocent, I have no privacy. ‘I haven’t done anything. I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I understand you’re upset.’ As PC Page speaks, for a moment, I look for a hint of compassion. But there is none. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’

  It’s the million-dollar question. I’ve never needed a lawyer before. Shaking my head, I shrug. ‘I don’t know anyone.’

  ‘We can arrange a solicitor if you need us to.’ PC Page’s voice is matter of fact. ‘This quite often happens.’

  Nausea sweeps over me, as I hear myself casually referred to as similar to any other suspect. ‘I need a glass of water.’

  For the first time I notice another uniformed PC near the door, as PC Page glances towards him. ‘Could you fetch a glass of water?’

  I’d thought about calling Dominic, but as I think of Jess, I know he isn’t the right person to tell her. ‘If I’m allowed to make a call, I need to speak to my daughter. She should hear what’s happening from me.’

  PC Page nods, passing me a phone. Taking it, I start dialling Jess’s number with shaking hands, then changing my mind, I call Cath.

  *

  An hour later, apart from the CCTV camera monitoring the cell I’m being held in, I’m alone. Calling Cath was the right thing to do. When I spoke to her, after she got over the initial shock, she took charge, immediately offering to drive down to Falmouth to see Jess. In Bristol, she’s closer to Jess than Dominic is. She’ll also be more supportive. I’d imagined Jess’s reaction if I called her, the shock that she wouldn’t have been able to hide from her fellow students – for all I knew, she might have been in the middle of a lecture. I don’t want her painted as the daughter of a suspected criminal, especially when I’m completely innocent.

  Knowing Cath will make sure no-one overhears, that she’ll protect Jess, is some comfort. On the narrow bed, I wrap my arms tightly around myself, thankful that she is on her way to Jess. At last away from everyone, tears scald my face, as the indignity and injustice of what’s happening to me close in.

  Only now that it’s been taken away do I appreciate the basic liberty that freedom is. As my tears subside, an urgency grips me; to demand to be heard. To be told how long I’m being held here. But then a cold, logical part of me takes hold. The police clearly have enough evidence to convince them I’m a suspect. I have to stay in control, keep my wits about me, in order for them to realise that I’m not.

  Sitting in the cell, I scrutinise everything I know about Matt, trying to imagine what someone might have told the police. Maybe something Lara said; what evidence may have been planted, as I take in the unfamiliar sounds around me. Briefly raised voices, the opening and closing of doors, footsteps coming closer, but not close enough, knowing twenty-four hours of this could lie ahead of me, though unless they find evidence that proves my innocence, it could be longer.

  If you’re suspected of a serious crime, you can be held for up to ninety-six hours. The thought of ninety-six hours feels interminable, as words keep repeating in my head. Serious crime. Matt. Matt’s disappearance.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alone, I lose all sense of how much time passes before I’m escorted to the interview room. As I sit at the small table, I imagine those who’ve sat here before, echoes of their fear, desperation and anger rebounding off the dingy walls. They’re tangible, seeping into my skin, then into my blood, tainting me with their crimes; unwanted, when I’m innocent.

  Consciously, I steel myself as the solicitor appointed to me, Andrew Nelson, sits down. Short-haired and clean shaven, he wears a middle of the road suit and polished shoes. Catching sight of the time on his expensive watch, I’m shocked to see only two hours have passed.

  Across the table from me, PC Page sits beside DI Lacey. ‘Amy, I’d like you to tell us what you did the day that Matt disappeared.’ There is no trace of her former friendliness. Instead her voice is matter of fact, her blank eyes those of a stranger.

  ‘I drove to Brighton to deliver some orders. Then on my way back to my car, this old woman called after me.’ I stop suddenly, frowning. ‘I told you about her. I think she was some kind of a clairvoyant – at least, that was what she wanted me to think. She told me that Matt wasn’t who I thought he was. Then she told me I was in danger. I dismissed it at the time.’ But however implausible it sounds, she was right – about absolutely everything.

  ‘Ms Reid, could you start again from the beginning, and take us through exactly what you did when?’ DI Lacey’s voice is loud, his eyes boring into me.

  I stare at him, my gut feeling kicking in, instantly not liking him. For whatever reason, I sense he wants to find me guilty. Swallowing, I force myself to stay calm. I have to be logical, careful to state my case clearly to him.

  ‘I got up at around seven. Just after Matt.’ Already, it feels like a lifetime ago. ‘We had breakfast together, then at about eight, he left for work. I did a bit of clearing up and put on some washing …’ I pause. ‘Then I drove to Brighton to deliver two orders.’

  ‘You’re a herbalist, I understand?’ His voice is questioning. ‘But you don’t have a shop. Can you tell me exactly what’s involved with your work?’

  His manner is dismissive, but I’m used to the reaction of people like him, none of whom understand the power of herbs. I meet his eyes. ‘I make herbal remedies – tinctures, teas, creams – from herbs and flowers I grow myself. They’re organic – more and more people want natural, locally sourced products. I have regular clients and I also supply some local businesses.’

  He raises his eyebrows before frowning slightly. ‘I understand you told PC Page that you started by treating your daughter’s eczema with herbal remedies you made yourself, before studying at college. That was quite a responsibility to undertake. It’s a good thing you didn’t get it wrong.’

  I shake my head, because it’s clear he has no idea. ‘They were simple treatments. There is a wealth of information available. I used herbs I’d grown myself, so I knew they were pure. I learned what strengths to use, as well as the healing properties of each of them.’ I look from one to the other. ‘Later, I studied herbalism at college. I have a qualification.’

  ‘What do you grow?’ For the first time, he sounds as though he’s interested.

  ‘Common or garden herbs that many people grow – rosemary, bay, oregano, mint, lavender, calendula, echinacea, several types of sage. The list goes on.’

  ‘Do you use berries?’ He stares at me.

  ‘Sometimes.’ I pause. ‘Herbalism isn’t limited to leaves and flowers. Some preparations use the root and bark and seeds …’

  ‘But you said you use berries.’ He repeats it too quickly.

  I frown. ‘That’s correct.’

  He nods slightly. ‘I was just thinking about how many poisonous plants there are out there. It wouldn’t be hard would it – if someone wanted to kill a person.’

  I stare at him, aghast, then turn to Andrew Nelson. ‘I can’t answer that. It’s like admitting I’ve done something.’ Then I add slightly accusingly, ‘I thought you were supposed to be helping me.’

  ‘It isn�
��t a trick question, Ms Reid.’ The DI interrupts. ‘I’m asking if it would be possible, that’s all.’

  His words shock me. Do they think I’ve poisoned Matt? ‘The whole world knows about plants like deadly nightshade or hemlock, that can kill people. Others can be dangerous and like any reputable herbalist, I’m aware of them.’

  ‘Tell us more about the old woman in Brighton.’

  ‘I was walking through the Lanes – after making a delivery. On my way back to my car. The first I knew of her was when she called after me.’

  PC Page’s voice is sharp. ‘Can you tell us about her?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know who she was. I’d definitely have remembered her if I’d met her before. She said she had a message for me. I assumed it was to do with Matt.’ I shake my head, remembering. ‘She told me I wasn’t safe. To get away. She said Matt wasn’t who I thought he was. Then she told me I was in danger.’

  ‘You give this any credence, Ms Reid?’ The DI’s eyes are locked on my face.

  ‘Truthfully? I don’t know what to think. But after everything that’s happened, what she said makes sense.’

  ‘Did it resonate with you at the time? Perhaps tap into any unvoiced suspicions you might have had about Mr Roche?’

  Frowning, I shake my head. ‘I didn’t suspect Matt of anything – not then. At first, I wanted to dismiss what she said as nonsense. But she was insistent.’ I pause, thinking. ‘It was the same day all of this started.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The DI frowns.

  ‘It was after she stopped me that Matt disappeared.’

  The DI sounds mildly irritated. ‘Would you say you’re the kind of person who believes in clairvoyance?’

  Beside me, Andrew Nelson seems to stir into life. ‘I’m not sure that question is entirely relevant.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter towards him, then turn back to the DI. ‘Should I go on?’

  ‘If you would.’

  I continue. ‘I drove home and carried on working. Later that morning, Matt called me.’ My voice wavers. At that point, as far as I knew, our wedding was going ahead. ‘He said he was taking an American client out for dinner. He sounded flustered – and apologetic – we were trying to organise the last minute details for our wedding.’ My voice wavers again. ‘He said he didn’t have a choice.’ I pause. ‘He told me he needed to speak to me later – he didn’t say what about. Then he said, take care babe.’ I look from the DI to PC Page. ‘That’s when I suspected something was wrong.’ Watching the DI’s puzzled face, I explain. ‘Matt never called me babe. And he never said take care. Not ever. When he called me that morning, something was different.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ The DI frowns. ‘Your fiancé says take care, babe … and you interpret that to mean he’s in some kind of trouble? He didn’t give you any clue as to what it was you needed to talk about?’

  ‘No.’ My throat is dry, my voice husky.

  ‘From what we’ve been told, presumably he was planning to come home and tell you he was leaving you.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I stare at the table.

  DI Lacey looks confused. ‘So what happened next? I’ve been going through the case notes. With regard to the meeting your fiancé had with an American client – that was later discovered not to be true, wasn’t it?’

  PC Page leans forward. ‘For the record, David Avery, Mr Roche’s boss, said there was no American client. Amy knows this.’

  I swallow, remembering how alien the call had seemed. ‘At the time I had no reason not to believe him.’ I stare at him, then at PC Page, because it’s true. ‘No-one’s proved he didn’t,’ I object. ‘It’s still possible there’s a client nobody knew about.’

  ‘According to our notes, he went for a drink with a work colleague, then spent the rest of the evening with the other woman who reported him missing. It checks out – we’ve spoken to the colleague who confirms he went to a bar with Matt. And a cab driver has also confirmed driving Matt to the woman’s address. You are aware of this?’

  I shake my head. ‘I didn’t know you’d spoken to Matt’s colleague.’ But I know about the cab driver. Humiliated by his reminder, I fall silent.

  ‘It’s a pity your neighbour isn’t alive.’ The DI sits back. ‘She might have been able to vouch for your whereabouts.’

  I nod. ‘She would have confirmed what I’ve told you.’ I often used to see her face behind unwashed windows. Then my skin prickles as I realise I’ve played right into his hands. What if he thinks Mrs Guthrie was murdered? That I had something to do with it? Suddenly nauseous, I’m desperate for the glass of water on the table in front of me, but I’m terrified they’ll see my shaking hands. ‘If she could actually see,’ I add bleakly. ‘Her eyesight wasn’t good.’

  ‘But she could have seen well enough to notice if your car was there or not.’ The DI doesn’t give up. ‘She noticed a van, didn’t she? Quite probably the one that delivered the flowers?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  There’s an uneasy silence before he changes the subject. ‘So, the last morning you saw Mr Roche, what did you do after you spoke to him?’

  ‘Apart from making a sandwich for lunch, I was in my workshop most of the day.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for this?’

  I shake my head. ‘I didn’t see anyone – though my neighbours might have noticed my car parked at home.’

  ‘Can you tell us who your clients in Brighton are?’

  ‘Serenity – it’s a business in the Lanes.’ I watch as PC Page notes it down. ‘And Davina Osborne – she works from her home.’ I give her Davina’s address. ‘Both have known me for years. They’ll be able to tell you what kind of a person I am.’

  He glances at the notes on the table in front of him. ‘We have the names of two of your friends – Lara Carmichael and Catherine Bowers. Is that correct?’

  ‘Lara was our wedding planner – Matt had known her for years.’ I break off, not sure whether to mention how, in different ways, both of them had let me down. At least Cath is on her way to Jess. At the thought of Jess, tears prick my eyes. Summoning my strength, I pull myself together. ‘Cath is my oldest friend.’ My voice wavers.

  ‘We’ve spoken to Lara Carmichael before. She said that your behaviour had become quite unstable, a fact that Mr Roche had also mentioned to her. Latterly, she said you accused her of having an affair with him. Is that correct?’

  It’s what I’d dreaded her saying. Leaning forward, I rest my head in my hands.

  ‘Ms Reid?’

  I look up. ‘It’s true. I’d just discovered that she and Matt had a fling a while ago – something both of them had hidden from me.’

  ‘Long before the two of you were together, according to Ms Carmichael.’ DI Lacey’s voice is sharp. ‘From which you made the assumption that it must have been her who was the other woman now in his life.’

  ‘After she’d gone, I realised, I’d completely overreacted. It came on the back of Cath telling me that there was an occasion Matt came on to her. I was upset that she’d never told me. Then I found out about Matt and Lara … I wasn’t thinking straight, but my life has been turned upside down.’ I break off. ‘All I want is answers, but there aren’t any. You must understand why I’d be upset?’

  ‘From what Ms Carmichael said, your reaction was somewhat excessive.’ The DI stares at me. ‘It sounds like you were having trouble accepting what Mr Roche had done.’

  ‘Maybe I was,’ I say bitterly. ‘Our wedding was a couple of weeks away when he disappeared. I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. I didn’t want to believe he’d betrayed me. I wanted to blame anyone else, other than him.’

  DI Lacey doesn’t comment. ‘What did you do that evening, Ms Reid?’

  ‘After I finished working, I delivered an order to Brighton. It came in at the last minute and the woman sounded desperate, so I agreed to deliver it that evening.’

  He nods. ‘This was to a house in Brunswick Square,
I understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’ The DI frowns.

  I remember the roads being clear, that it hadn’t taken long to get there. ‘Around six-thirty, seven o’clock.’

  ‘Can this woman verify what you were doing?’

  I stare at him, realising that I haven’t told them the whole story. I shake my head. ‘When I got there, I realised she’d given me the wrong address. Flat 5, 13 Brunswick Square, doesn’t exist. It’s a heritage centre.’

  The DI’s frown deepens. ‘You’re saying you made a mistake?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I hesitate. ‘It was definitely the address in the email she sent me. I emailed her again, asking her to confirm it, but when she replied, she cancelled the order – something to do with her husband not liking the idea of herbal remedies.’

  ‘How convenient.’ The DI folds his arms. ‘So you never saw her and the address doesn’t exist. Correct?’

  ‘That’s true.’ I stare at him. ‘Why?’

  But he ignores me. ‘Can you tell us what you did after that?’

  ‘I drove home. When I got back, I went upstairs to change.’ I pause, remembering the events of that evening. ‘I picked up on an unfamiliar scent. It was faint. It definitely wasn’t anything I recognised. Then I went downstairs, checked my emails, looked at the seating plan Lara had sent over.’ As I mention Lara’s name in conjunction with the seating plan, I feel naïve that I never suspected anything. ‘I spoke to Cath. That was about it.’

  ‘What time did you speak to her?’

  I look at him incredulously. ‘I can’t remember. Maybe around ten.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to anyone else after that?’

  ‘No.’ I’m frowning.