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

by Debbie Howells

  ‘Your daughter gave me an example.’ PC Page speaks slowly. ‘She told me how when you were planning your wedding, you were going to get married on a beach. You’d even picked the venue in the Caribbean. Jess said it was the wedding you’d dreamed of. You’d even emailed them and confirmed a date.’ She pauses, watching me. ‘Then after buying the dresses, Matt reminded you you’d discussed it and changed your plans. You were getting married here, but you’d obviously forgotten. He was kind, but firm. He’d already booked somewhere else. There was no way you were having the beach wedding you’d dreamed of.’

  As she speaks, I feel my mouth fall open, then tears fill my eyes, only this time they’re tears of release pouring unchecked down my face, as a new feeling comes to me. Relief – that I’m not mad, that I didn’t imagine it. God, I remember that night so clearly. How thrilled I’d been to have found fairytale dresses for both Jess and me, picturing a wedding under the Caribbean sun at this gorgeous guesthouse I’d found. I was so sure that Matt had agreed, otherwise I’d never have bought those dresses, but in the end, when he disputed it so confidently, I’d believed him, just as I’d always believed everything he said to me. What PC Page described is exactly what happened, countless times. ‘He must have deleted the emails.’ I’m dumbfounded. ‘I knew I didn’t remember having that conversation. I was sure we were planning a beach wedding.’ I look at them both in disbelief. ‘He did that to me so many times. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.’

  ‘That’s how it works,’ Dana says quietly. ‘Nothing too aggressive to start with, just a subtle undermining, chipping away at your reality, until before long, you’re so under their spell, you believe everything they tell you, to the point you question your own sanity.’

  I gasp in surprise at how accurately she describes it, because it’s exactly how it was. Even at the end, when Matt told me it was me who was controlling him. That he was was walking on eggshells, when in fact it was the reverse of what was happening. I knew he was wrong, but through sheer force of will, he’d convinced me he wasn’t.

  Dana continues. ‘Very often, there’s an abusive background. It’s a means of avoiding emotional intimacy.’

  Instinctively, I shake my head. ‘What if he was doing it intentionally? Trying to wear me down?’

  ‘That’s what we need to establish.’ PC Page’s voice is grim. ‘Because that’s what it’s starting to look like. And if he was, the next question has to be why.’

  ‘I have to ask you something.’ My voice is shaky, unsure how much I should tell them. ‘The woman Matt was seeing …’ I watch PC Page exchange glances with the psychologist. ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  After a pause, PC Page nods. ‘We’ve interviewed her, yes.’

  ‘I imagine she will have said things about me. The way Matt could behave … he could have said anything he wanted to about me – true or false – if it served his purpose.’ I pause for a moment, looking at them. ‘You do realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘We do understand he was playing with you.’ Dana sounds reasonable. ‘Did you have any idea that there were other women?’

  Leaning forward, I sigh, for the first time being completely honest – with the police, as well as with myself. ‘I suppose, once or twice I did have suspicions, but I told myself I was imagining it. I really couldn’t bring myself to believe that Matt would do something like that. When he was the same as he always was towards me, and with the wedding coming up, I was convinced I’d made a mistake.’

  Dana’s quiet for a moment. ‘It must have been so hard for you. I think the fact that he managed to carry off this double life, shows the extent to which he’d been manipulating you.’

  Leaning forward, I rest my head in my hands. ‘It sounds weak, but I couldn’t acknowledge that he was mistreating me. I kept asking myself, was it really so bad? No relationships are easy all the time but I thought he loved me. If I’d challenged him, it would have meant the end of our wedding, of the future we’d planned …’ My voice is uneven. ‘I’d been on my own for so long. When I met him, I was so happy … There was a lot that was good in our relationship and that’s what I focused on. It’s what I do when things are painful. It’s a way I’ve learned to block them out.’

  ‘I can understand why you’d do that.’ Dana’s voice is kind, but there’s an edge to it. ‘But this is a police investigation. Right now, it’s crucial you tell us everything.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The following morning, when I’m taken back to the interview room, I ask for a moment with my solicitor.

  ‘I’ve been here three days. How much longer can they keep me here?’

  Andrew Nelson looks uncomfortable. ‘If they have reasonable evidence to incriminate you in the case of Mr Roche’s disappearance, they can charge you and remand you in custody until the case comes to trial.’

  As he speaks, blood drains from my face. ‘But they can’t do that. I haven’t done anything.’

  He sighs. ‘Unless they’ve found new evidence, I don’t think they will keep you much longer. I will request that you are allowed to leave, but it’s impossible to guess what they’ll say to that.’ As he finishes speaking, footsteps come closer, then the door of the interview room opens.

  ‘Good morning.’ PC Page sits opposite me, DI Lacey next to her.

  Before either of them can say anything, Andrew Nelson speaks up. ‘In the absence of a body being found, and unless you have further evidence to the contrary, my client would like me to voice very strongly on her behalf her objection that she is being held when she is clearly innocent.’

  ‘Noted.’ It’s all PC Page says, glancing at the notes in front of her before turning to me. ‘As it happens, we do have such evidence. Since we’ve been holding you, we’ve uncovered a potential murder weapon at the back of the drawer in your workshop table, buried under various garden items – old trowels and secateurs, packets of seeds, brown string, that sort of thing. It’s a knife, part of quite a new set in your kitchen that someone had obviously tried to clean but not well enough. As well as finding your fingerprints, there was a microscopic amount of blood on it, of the same type as Mr Roche’s. This, added to the fact that Mr Roche is still missing, a person who according to several witness accounts described you as unstable, who was frightened of what you were capable of, a man who tried to help you but whose help you repeatedly refused, I’d say the picture is getting clearer.’

  Of course the knife has my fingerprints on it. Everything in my workshop does. But as she speaks, my fear escalates. Suddenly I’m terrified. They really believe they have proof I killed Matt. My body starts to shake. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘Not yet. But I can’t imagine it will be much longer. We still have one or two leads to follow up.’

  I stare from one to the other. ‘How can you accuse me of murder when there’s no body?’

  ‘If we have enough evidence, it is possible.’ The DI leans back in his chair. ‘Unless there’s anything you can prove to the contrary?’

  ‘I can’t prove anything,’ I cry. ‘But nor can you.’

  PC Page takes over. ‘We’ve been speaking to some of your clients. They speak well of you, but one of them did say that when you delivered her order the morning after Matt disappeared, you did seem unusually agitated.’

  I can’t believe how she’s turning this against me. She’s talking about Davina, and I had been anxious. ‘It’s hardly surprising. I couldn’t get hold of Matt. I was worried out of my mind.’

  ‘I see.’ Then she moves on to something else. ‘Amy, I went to your house today.’

  The fact PC Page has been there again doesn’t shock me. I’ve become immune to the repeated invasions of my privacy by the police. The words are out before I can stop them. ‘Did you see Jess?’

  ‘I did, only briefly. But while it remains an active crime scene, Jess is staying with friends.’

  The mention of Jess is like scraping away a layer of raw skin. Where is she staying? Is Cath still with
her?

  ‘By the way, Jess ferociously defends your innocence.’ PC Page pauses. ‘While I was there, I went to look at your workshop. After, I was looking at your garden.’ She pauses. ‘It tells quite a story, if you look closely enough. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’

  My skin flushes hot. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you’re quite the expert on the meanings of flowers and herbs, you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed?’ There’s a slightly scathing tone in her voice.

  I look at her, confused. ‘I’m really not sure what you’re getting at. I grow herbs as you know. And flowers. They have meanings. But there’s no story.’

  ‘I’d disagree. It was something your therapist, Sonia Richardson, said to me, about gardens telling stories – apparently she came to see you and found you standing in your neighbour’s garden. She overheard you apologising.’

  ‘That is out of context,’ I contest hotly. ‘I was fond of Mrs Guthrie. I was sorry I hadn’t been more help to her – that was all.’

  ‘When I asked Ms Richardson why she’d visited you, she said she’d been in Steyning to see a friend. As she was near, she’d gone to check how you were. Apparently, she had concerns about you – you saw her before, some years ago, didn’t you? She said you’d had some kind of breakdown when your marriage ended and she was worried you were on the edge of another one. Once she was satisfied you were coping, she said you talked about the plants in your neighbour’s garden. Quite a coincidence that she has the same interest in herbs and flowers that you have. She told me she had this theory that a garden could somehow tell the stories of the people who’d lived there.’ For a moment, she sounds disbelieving of herself, as beside her DI Lacey looks irritated. ‘To be honest, I didn’t pay too much attention. But then I went back to your garden. After the conversation with Ms Richardson, I started looking around. One of our officers is a bit of an expert and between us we identified some of the plants, so that I could look them up. And like I said, it’s only a theory, but you have mock orange – which means deceit. Anemone, meaning forsaken. Marigolds, which signify pain and grief – they are everywhere. Narcissi – for egotism. Lavender – it isn’t in flower at the moment, but its meaning is distrust. The aconites are coming up in your polytunnel – meaning poisonous words. Oh – and down behind your workshop are a clump of yellow hyacinths. Interesting choice of colour, because they’re about jealousy, aren’t they Amy? Rosemary, for remembrance of whatever it was that’s taken place there. I have one question.’ She pauses. ‘Tell me. Are there snowdrops in your garden?’

  I remember Sonia asking the same question, of Mrs Guthrie’s garden. Snowdrops mean hope. And they used to be there, but they stopped flowering a year or so after I moved in. ‘There used to be.’ I frown. ‘Most of the plants you’ve named were there when we moved in.’

  ‘Maybe your garden is cursed.’ Beside her, DI Lacey shifts in his chair.

  ‘Maybe it is.’ I swallow, willing her to change the subject, but the questions keep coming.

  ‘Some of the shrubs must have been planted years ago.’ Breaking off, she frowns. ‘Did you know the previous owner, Amy?’

  I shake my head. ‘As far as I know, it belonged to an elderly woman who had died. It had been empty quite a while when I moved in.’

  ‘It never seemed an odd choice for a single mother and a young child, to be so far away from community life?’ Each word is like a bullet, carefully loaded, aimed at me.

  I defend myself. ‘It wasn’t that far. I love the countryside – and it’s a wonderful place to bring up a child. I needed the garden for my work. Steyning is only two miles away. That’s nothing. And when Jess was young, Mrs Guthrie used to help out babysitting.’

  DI Lacey glances towards her. ‘This is the neighbour who died recently?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Nodding, PC Page falls silent, apparently satisfied by my answers, at least for now.

  ‘It wasn’t suspicious, was it?’ He sounds thoughtful.

  It’s the same question I asked PC Page when I met her in Mrs Guthrie’s garden that evening. ‘It wasn’t.’ But there’s what sounds like a hint of doubt in her voice.

  For a moment I’m aware of how fragile my position is. How little it would take, in the eyes of the police, to swing the balance from being a suspect to guilty. But then we’re interrupted by a knock on the door. It opens enough for me to see the uniformed officer who completed the paperwork when I was brought in.

  ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

  Getting up, the DI follows him out, closing the door behind them. Left with PC Page, I seize my chance. ‘How much longer do I have to stay here?’

  ‘Amy, you know I can’t answer that.’

  After waiting in silence, when the DI comes back in, I ask him the same question. ‘It isn’t possible to say. At the moment, all our evidence points to you, and you alone being involved in Mr Roche’s disappearance.’

  ‘What evidence?’ I stare at him. ‘There’s no body. You have what you say is a potential murder weapon, but it could have been planted by anyone. And snippets of gossip from two women who aren’t reliable.’

  He frowns slightly. ‘We have a bit more than that – the knife that matches a set in your kitchen, more blood, in your workshop, which someone had obviously tried to clean up, and more in the area of your compost heap. Then there’s the fact that the night Mr Roche disappeared, you were in Brighton.’

  ‘But I’ve already told you what happened.’ I shake my head, horrified at the thought of where they’re going with this. ‘I went to deliver an order, then I drove straight back home.’ I break off, as all of a sudden, it’s making sense. ‘That order wasn’t genuine – it must have been placed by whoever’s trying to set me up. They must have known there’s CCTV there. They wanted me to be seen. Can’t you see that?’

  Ignoring what I’ve said, he carries on. ‘Even if what you say is true, you still knew where Mr Roche had gone. Once you’d seen him, you could have gone home and waited for him. Then when he came back, you were ready for him. You stabbed him – most likely in your kitchen – or in your workshop, after which he tried to get away from you.’

  I gasp in horror. Not a single word he’s saying has any truth in it.

  The DI goes on. ‘He left a lot of blood behind, though, didn’t he? It must have been splattered all over the place. The bouquet of flowers in blood was inspired. You knew you couldn’t remove every trace of his blood, so you made the huge bouquet of flowers, left it on your doorstep, before taking it inside and purportedly dropping it by accident. The perfect cover for what really happened. As for the van your neighbour saw, that could have been delivering anything.’

  ‘This is insane.’ However plausible they think they sound, they’re wrong. Backed into a corner, my fear knows another level. ‘I keep telling you, none of this is true.’

  ‘We still haven’t found his car. Do you have any idea where it is?’

  When I don’t answer, PC Page looks at me. ‘There’s too much you haven’t told us, Amy. As well as that, almost everything you say is inconsistent.’ She sits back. ‘Even your friends have described your behaviour as erratic. And I’ve seen it here. Even at your most plausible, it’s impossible to know whether to believe you or not.’

  I’m shocked into silence. Where I’d been hoping for a glimmer of light, there is none. Instead, as I look at PC Page and DI Lacey, then at my solicitor sat next to me, within the confines of these dingy walls, I know I’m trapped.

  Jess

  Even Matt’s Facebook page is embedded with lie after flabbergasting lie, about the fictitious house he’s in the process of buying, a photo of a Caribbean beach on a date I happen to know he was in Brighton. So many lies. How difficult it must be keeping up with them.

  As I scroll down over older posts, getting a picture of the kind of friends he has, before I message anyone, I find her. Mandy. I note the heavy jewellery, how skinny and tanned she is, how her face wears the same troubled look I�
��ve seen on my mother’s, as I bring up her Facebook page. Unlike Matt, Mandy’s actually in her photos of exclusive hotels and exotic beaches. As I keep scrolling down, about two and a half years ago I find a post about them breaking up, followed by dozens of sympathetic messages that make no attempt to hide what they think of Matt. Unlike him, it seems Mandy has real friends, who see him for the rat he really is.

  Having already studied her face, I know I’ve met her – just the once, at Sasha’s house. Clicking on her list of friends, I find that she’s still connected to Sasha’s mother. Like I tried to explain to PC Page, Mandy had been Matt’s way in to the party where he met my mother.

  Needing to find out what Mandy knows about Matt, I send her a carefully worded message. Then going back to Matt’s page, I scroll back further, looking at posts I’ve already studied, searching for something I’ve missed. For a few weeks there’s another pretty woman, expensively dressed. Then before her, another. As I go through the posts, there’s a clear pattern of eligible women flitting through his life, confirming my suspicions that he’s a serial charmer. A liar. A fake, who targets specific women, lures them in then leaves them, but they have one thing in common. Money. And somehow, he knew.

  Needing to find out what Sasha’s mum knows, I call her.

  ‘Jess, I’m so sorry to hear about your mum. I couldn’t believe it when I found out. Are you OK?’

  Hearing the warmth in her voice, tears fill my eyes. ‘Yes. But I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Go on.’ She sounds puzzled.

  ‘That party at your house – when Mum met Matt. How long had you known him?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, exactly. I didn’t know him that well. I don’t know if you know, but he was with Mandy before that. She and I are not particularly close, but I’ve known her for years. I would certainly have invited her, but they’d broken up long before the party. I wouldn’t have invited him on his own.’ There’s a brief silence. ‘I’ll have to ask Michael.’ Michael’s her husband. ‘Maybe they might have bumped into each other in the pub or something. But thinking about it, it really is strange.’