Copyright © 2019 Dorothy Koomson
The right of Dorothy Koomson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Headline Publishing Group
First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2019
by Headline Publishing Group
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover photograph © Laurie Fletcher
eISBN: 978 1 4722 6036 9
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
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www.headline.co.uk
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
Also by Dorothy Koomson
About the Book
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Prologue
Part 1
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Part 2
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Part 3
Jody
Jody
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Part 4
Pieta
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Pieta
Jody
Part 5
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Part 6
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Part 7
Jody
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Part 8
Pieta
Part 9
Pieta
Jody
Pieta
Pieta
Callie
Pieta
Pieta
Jody
Part 10
Pieta
Jody
Part 11
Pieta
Jody
Callie
Kobi
Find your next favourite read by Dorothy Koomson . . .
Dorothy Koomson
Dorothy Koomson is the award-winning author of fifteen novels including twelve Sunday Times bestsellers.
Her third novel, My Best Friend's Girl, was chosen for the Richard & Judy Book Club Summer Reads of 2006, and reached number two on the Sunday Times bestseller list. Two of her books, The Ice Cream Girls and The Rose Petal Beach, were shortlisted for the British Book Awards. And in 2013 a TV adaptation loosely based on The Ice Cream Girls was shown on ITV1.
Dorothy has lived and worked in London, Leeds and Sydney but is currently a full-time Brighton resident. She calls herself a method writer and for Tell Me Your Secret, she took up making pottery and spending even more time on the beach.
Praise for Tell Me Your Secret
‘I raced through this compelling thriller about families, secrets and, above all, survival. Congratulations on a real page-turner Dorothy Koomson’ Catherine Isaac
‘Kept me pinned to my sofa and turning the pages. A totally addictive, can’t put down, rollercoaster ride of a story’ Araminta Hall
‘I LOVED Tell Me Your Secret. Such a gripping and pacy thriller with a clever, twisty plot. I cared about the two main characters and I couldn’t put it down. The ending was brilliantly shocking’ Claire Douglas
‘Tell Me Your Secret is a stunningly tense, completely compelling thriller that had me gripped from the first page. A taut, twisting drama peopled with living, breathing characters you believe in and a story that has you rushing to turn the pages. This book will mess with your head, steal your breath and scare you senseless. I loved it!’ Miranda Dickinson
‘Tell Me Your Secret is a compelling page turner. It’s thrilling. Honest and raw. Also, Dorothy can write a fire sex scene’ Black Girls Book Club
Praise for Dorothy Koomson
‘Immediately gripping and relentlessly intense [. . .] a darkly inventive and thought-provoking thriller’ Heat
‘An instantly involving psychological thriller’ Daily Telegraph
‘If you only do one thing this weekend, read this book. . . utterly brilliant’ Sun
‘Full of heart and sympathy’ Daily Mail
‘A touching and engaging story’ Good Housekeeping
‘Gripping and compelling’ Closer
‘Another moving and thought-provoking read’ Cosmopolitan
‘An excellent roller-coaster ride of a book, which keeps you guessing until the very end’ Bella
‘Gripping stuff’ S Magazine
‘Incredibly moving and intelligently written’ Woman
‘Another page-turning, addictive read’ Black Hair Magazine
‘Koomson just gets better and better’ Woman & Home
‘Full of mystery and intrigue, it's a book that will grip you from the very start’ Take A Break
‘Koomson’s characters are perfectly formed yet flawed, showing acute insight into the human psyche. Thanks to their depth and intricately woven, ever changing relationships, the novel simmers with tension and an undercurrent of darkness’ Daily Express
‘A fast-paced, gritty and exhilarating read’ OK! Hot Stars
‘A touching tale of love and loss’ Best
‘Fast moving and compelling’ Sunday Mirror
‘A riveting read from start to finish’ Woman
‘Koomson is a fine writer whose prose is compulsive’ Sunday Express
‘An unforgettable, beautifully crafted testimony to an unbreakable love that lasts a lifetime and beyond’ Daily Record
‘Gritty and realistic, it mixes crime, drama and romance’ Candis
‘A psychological thriller where the suspense and fear comes from the protagonist rather than events that surround her’ The Lady
Dorothy Koomson, ‘Queen of the big reveal’, is back with a gripping page-turner full of twists and turns.
Pieta has a secret.
Ten years ago, Pieta was kidnapped by a man calling himself The Blindfolder who said he wouldn't kill her if she kept her eyes closed for 48 hours. She never told anyone what happened to her, vowing to move on with her life. But when The Blindfolder starts hunting down his past victims, Pieta realises she may finally be forced to tell her deepest secret to stay alive . . .
Jody has a secret.
Fifteen years ago, policewoman Jody made a terrible mistake that resulted i
n a serial killer known as The Blindfolder escaping justice. When Jody discovers journalist Pieta survived an attack by him, she realises she may finally have found a way to catch him. But that would mean endangering at least two innocent people . . .
They kept quiet to protect themselves.
Will telling all save or sacrifice each other?
Also by Dorothy Koomson:
The Cupid Effect
The Chocolate Run
My Best Friend’s Girl
Marshmallows for Breakfast
Goodnight, Beautiful
The Ice Cream Girls
The Woman He Loved Before
The Rose Petal Beach
The Flavours of Love
That Girl From Nowhere
When I Was Invisible
The Friend
The Beach Wedding
The Brighton Mermaid
Acknowledgements
It takes a small village to create a single book, it honestly does. Here are some of the people in my village I need to thank:
My wonderful editor: Jennifer Doyle
The cover genius: Yeti Lamberts
My brilliant copy-editor: Gillian Holmes
Expert editorial co-ordinator: Katie Sunley
Proof-reader: Rachel Malig
Production: Tina Paul
Expert research help: Graham Bartlett and Vanessa Smith (who gave me the basics and I ‘tweaked’ to fit my purposes)
Additional research help: Katie Fforde, who so kindly let me spend time on her fabulous boat.
Marketing and sales: Vicky Abbott and Becky Bader
Publicity: Emma Draude and Annabelle Wright
And, thank you to:
My lovely family, who are my support system and without whom the books wouldn’t be written; my cheerleader friends, who always have my back; and my splendiferous agents: Ant and James.
And, of course, thank you to you, the reader, for buying this book. I hope you enjoy it.
For our Alex.
A dab hand with the Romulan Ale.
Miss you mate.
Prologue
‘If you want to survive this weekend . . . there is only one thing you must do – keep your eyes closed . . . For forty-eight hours you must not open your eyes. If you do open your eyes, I will end you.
‘No matter what you feel or hear, you must not open your eyes, not even for the briefest of seconds . . . If you do as I ask, I will release you and you can go back to your ordinary little life . . . It’s really that simple. Do you understand?
‘I’m going to take off this blindfold in a few moments, but before I do, nod if you understand . . . Come on, just a little nod to show you know what I’m talking about. A nod . . . That’s it, that’s right. Thank you. Now our weekend together can begin.’
Part 1
Pieta
Monday, 10 June
Keys, bag, coffee cup, tape recorder, notebook.
Pens. Mustn’t forget the pens. I open my bag and peer inside. All present and correct.
Right, time to go.
Inhaler, car keys, memory stick, painkillers.
I open my bag for the third time. Definitely all there. I can go.
Purse? Security pass? Spare pair of armwarmers?
Gosh, I’m being slow today. I open my bag, again, and check everything is in there. Great. All there. Now it’s time to go. Properly go.
At the front door, I turn to the woman and boy who have been standing in the corridor, waiting for me to leave. I grab my laptop in one hand and my reusable coffee cup and car keys with the other.
‘Thanks so much for coming over early, Sazz,’ I say to the childminder. ‘I really couldn’t have made this breakfast meeting without you.’
‘No problem, Pi-R,’ she says with a smile. She’s known me many years and has shortened my name (Pieta Rawlings) like this pretty much since day one. She wraps a protective arm around my son and affectionately draws him to her. ‘Me and the Kobster, we’ll have a great time getting ready.’
No one else – not even his beloved grandparents – would get away with calling my boy that. Kobi is very serious about his name – except when it comes to Sazz (real name Sarah Sazzleoj). Sazz can pretty much do anything she likes without consequences. Me? I’m regularly treated to a combination of ‘the look’ and a tone of voice that scorches every letter as it leaves his mouth for the smallest of indiscretions.
I have to put down all the things in my hands to reach for my son. I wrap my arms around him, pull him close, kiss his head. I linger over our goodbyes, I always do. It’ll only be a few hours till we see each other again, but I get so few of these moments with him in life, I want to enjoy and savour every second of every one.
‘Have a good day. I love you,’ I say. ‘Eat your breakfast. Behave for Sazz.’ I let go before he pushes me off and begin to gather my stuff up again. ‘And enjoy yourself tonight with Miles and Austin.’
‘It’s Sam and Oscar, actually,’ my son informs me.
‘What?’ I pause. ‘It’s Miles and Austin tonight. That’s what you told me. That’s what I wrote down, that’s what’s been arranged.’
My son shakes his head. ‘Nope. Sam and Oscar.’
‘But that means . . .’ I plonk down my coffee cup, dump my keys, open up my light-red, suedette bag and start to fish around for my mobile. ‘I’ll have to message Karen to double-check she’s let the school know that Sazz has to pick up Oscar and Sam. And then I’ll have to text Allie to make sure she knows that it’s not tonight . . . and I put rice for dinner beca—’
Sazz steps forward, picks up my coffee cup and keys, the latter jangling as she moves them across the gap between us. She forces them into my hands, then jams in my laptop bag, too. ‘I’ll sort it Pi-R. All of it. I’ll call both sets of parents, let the school know, then pick them up and bring them home. No worries whatsoever.’
She’s hustling me out of the door, trying to get rid of me because I’m stopping their fun. I’m never quite sure what they get up to when I’m not there, but they regularly make me feel like I am excess to requirements.
‘OK, if you can’t get hold of Allie, then call Mike,’ I say. ‘Baycroft, they’re Baycroft.’
‘Allie, then Mike, got it,’ she says, still manoeuvring me towards the door.
‘And it’s Karen and Julian Newby for—’
‘I know, I know,’ she says with that big grin of hers. Her smile – open and friendly – was one of the first things I noticed about her. The second thing was that, out of all the nannies and childminders I’d interviewed (eight of them) she was the only one who asked to see the baby. ‘I’ve dealt with them all before. I’ll sort it.’
‘Bye, Mum,’ Kobi calls approvingly when Sazz reaches around me and opens the door.
‘See you, Pi-R.’
‘Oh, just one more thing—’ I say.
‘You have the best of days, OK?’ she says. ‘I’ll be rooting for you.’
Involuntarily, I step backwards onto the path outside my house.
‘Bye,’ Kobi calls before the door is shut in my face.
‘It’s always lovely to know you’re superfluous to your life,’ I reply to my black front door. ‘Always.’
Jody
Monday, 10 June
I’m not sure about other detectives, other officers, but this never ever feels real to me.
Not straight away, I mean.
Not until I actually see the person, and then it’s brought into sharp relief, a big dose of reality forced into my face. But until then, when I am approaching a crime scene, when there are area cars and blue-and-white tape and uniforms, high-vis jackets and tents and people dressed in white overclothes, it all looks like something off the telly.
My heart feels like it is in my throat right now, but if you look close enough, you’ll be able to see it hammering away in the middle of my chest, as though it’s trying to escape. Because I know this is going to be number six. I desperately don’t want her to be, I want her to be
someone different, someone who isn’t dead because of me.
I’ve been dropped off at a place called Preston Park in Brighton. When I’d asked for a PC to drive me there because I didn’t really know Brighton beyond the seafront and the flat I’m staying in, I’d been expecting the same type of park as the one near where I live in London. Nice and green, trees, paths and benches, a slight incline here and there, but essentially you can see the other side wherever you stand. If a body had been found in that park, you’d have no trouble finding out where you needed to be. ‘Which part of Preston Park?’ the driver asked as we strapped ourselves in.
‘No idea. The parkiest bit?’ I replied.
‘It’s quite a big park, Inspector,’ he stated.
‘To be honest, it’s seven thirty in the morning. I came in early to set up my incident room, I wasn’t really expecting to be called out, I haven’t got my bearings or anything. Can you take me there and we’ll have to look for where the incident is.’ That wasn’t totally true. I had been expecting to be called out but at the same time, I had been hoping I was wrong about the pattern that had been playing out for the last seven months. I’d been rather successfully pretending to myself that I was wrong about what would happen on this particular day because it was the sixth Monday.
The officer who was driving me had kept his face neutral as he nodded in agreement. When we arrived at the park and I realised what he meant about it being ‘quite big’, I was impressed that he had managed to hide his irritation so well. To be fair, though, it didn’t take that long to find the incident. He’d asked if I wanted him to wait for me, but I’d said no. I didn’t know how long I would be there and I didn’t want to keep him hanging around.
As I approach the garland of blue-and-white police tape that links the trees and protects the area from prying eyes, I realise I’m holding my breath because this has an added dimension.
It’s not a simple case of the horror of finding a dead body, the confirmation that people can do terrible things to other people, this is a reminder, like I said to you before, that another woman is dead because of me; that this is all my fault.
Surprisingly, there are no media vans or cars, no reporters desperate for a story but I’m not sure if this has been called in yet. I know the last three – found in Queen’s Park, Hollingbury Park and Hangleton Park – were reported as suspicious deaths, which kind of gave the impression that they had been deaths as the result of misadventure (i.e. drugs or drink or both). Very little information had been given out because very little had been known. It was only when I linked them with the ones in London that I was allowed to come to Brighton to assess the bodies, and was allowed to call them the work of a serial killer. More than three means the work of a serial, after all.
Tell Me Your Secret Page 1
