by C J Parsons
Copyright © 2020 C J Parsons
The right of C J Parsons 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 as an Ebook in 2020 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 image © Karina Vegas/Arcangel Images
Cover design: Heike Schüssler
eISBN: 978 1 4722 7652 0
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
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Contents
Title
Copyright
About the Author
Praise
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
About the Author
Author photo © Alexander Shields
C J Parsons was born in Britain and grew up in Canada. She graduated from Montreal’s McGill University with a degree in psychology and went on to earn a graduate degree in journalism.
She worked as a newspaper reporter at Canada’s Globe and Mail before moving to Hong Kong, where she became a columnist at the South China Morning Post.
She also spent two years covering crime, seeing first-hand the disturbing forces that drive people to kill, something that has informed her writing to this day.
After returning to Britain, she moved into television news, working as a broadcast journalist for both the BBC and CNN International. She is now a senior producer at CGTN and lives in north London with her daughter.
Readers love The Good Samaritan:
‘This book was brilliant. I was gripped from the very first chapter which is a rarity these days. I loved the characters, I was constantly changing my mind on who was the bad guy, right up until the last pages!’ Bella O, Netgalley Reviewer
‘Absolutely fantastic read. I haven’t been able to put this one down. I have been completely gripped from the very beginning. A definite five star read’ Vikkie W, Netgalley Reviewer
‘A great story with a really unique storyline. Filled with suspense and tension and I was left breathless. Brilliant. Highly recommended’ Gillian M, Netgalley Reviewer
‘The Good Samaritan has such an interesting plot! I’ve never met a character like Carrie before but she was written perfectly . . . the plot picks up, is fast paced and interesting and kept me guessing until the end!’ Samantha L, Netgalley Reviewer
‘Great plot line, interesting characters, I will recommend to friends and family’ Tabby D, Netgalley Reviewer
About the Book
YOUR CHILD GOES MISSING. THEN A STRANGER BRINGS HER HOME . . .
When five-year-old Sofia is taken from the park, her mother, Carrie, is beside herself with worry. Carrie has a condition which means she struggles to read facial expressions, so she is terrified she missed something that put her daughter in danger.
But just days later, Sofia is found unharmed. The police immediately suspect Josh, the man who found Sofia, but with no evidence against him they are forced to let him go without charges.
Josh is keen to make sure Sofia is safe and well and Carrie is charmed by his kindness. Carrie also befriends Tara, a mother from the park who helped with the initial search party. But with the identity of Sofia’s abductor still unknown, how much should Carrie trust those who have offered their help?
Are they good Samaritans or has Carrie missed the warning signs?
For my daughter Caitlin, who has shown me all the wonders – and terrors – of motherhood
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the fantastic team at Headline Publishing, but especially my editor Katie Sunley, who championed this book, then made it so much better with her invaluable feedback. Also my agent, Teresa Chris, for her guidance and her unswerving determination to see The Good Samaritan published.
A special shout out to the talented Ness Lyons: friend and volunteer book editor, without whom this novel would not have been the same.
Friends and generous donors of advice Lotte Pang, Eddie Batha, Peter Higgins, Roger Ewart-Smith, Connie Lee, Clare Hayes, Clare Garnett.
Joanne Smith, for not letting my police officers stray too far from the rules of procedure.
And above all my mother and my sister Claire, for their endless supply of love, support and belief.
One
Sofia wanted to go all the way to the top of the rocket ship, just like Tommy Marks. Tommy said you had to be six years old to do it, but five-and-three-quarters was almost the same thing and, anyway, she’d beaten him at arm wrestling, so it wasn’t like he was so strong. Tommy was probably just making it up, that six rule, to keep her from going up, so he could act like he was the best at everything. But she would show him.
Unless Mummy made her stop.
Sofia turned and looked at her mother, who was watching from just inside the playground gates. There were swings between them, and a boy with orange hair swung up and blocked Mummy’s face for a second. Then he went down and Mummy saw her looking and waved. Sofia gave her a big smile. Mummy didn’t smile back, but that was OK. She hardly ever smiled, on account of her assburger’s. That sounded like a rude word, but Mummy had explained it was a condition, like Johnny B’s lazy eye was a condition, and some of the kids at school seeing letters flipped around the wrong way inside their heads was a condition. It just meant that Mummy’s feelings didn’t always show on the outside the same way as other people’s, even though her feelings were th
e same on the inside. And another thing was: she couldn’t tell if other people were mad or sad or confused just by looking at them. That part was called facial espression blindness. Sofia had overheard people talking about Mummy, saying she was weird or rude, but that was only because she didn’t understand what they were saying with their faces. She could understand Sofia, though. She said her espressions were nice and clear and easy. Sofia thought it was too bad other people couldn’t see how lovely Mummy was under the not-smiling-very-often face, so they didn’t want to be friends with her. One time Sofia had asked Mummy if she was lonely and Mummy had said how could she be lonely when she had the best daughter in the whole wide world? But something in her voice made Sofia feel like Mummy was sad underneath. It would be nice for her to have a friend. Even a friend like Tommy, who sometimes pinched and said annoying things, like about five-year-olds not being allowed at the top of the rocket.
She looked up the curved climbing frame, arching into the sky, the bars painted blue and red, with flakes missing so metal showed through. There was a little boy with a Spider Man T-shirt hanging on one of the sticky-out bits at the bottom (Mummy said those parts were called ‘fins’, like on a fish). But otherwise, Sofia had the whole rocket to herself.
Tommy couldn’t tell her what to do. She was brave, with strong arms, and she was going to climb all the way to the top and look down at the playground and get that dizzy but exciting feeling of being so high up.
Sofia glanced back towards the playground entrance, where her mother was still watching. Then a lucky thing happened: Mummy started talking on her mobile, which meant she stopped looking over, and this was Sofia’s chance.
She grabbed the rung above her head and began to climb, up and up, as fast as a monkey. The rungs got narrower the higher she went, so by the time she got to the pointy bit of the rocket, there was only just enough room for two feet right next to each other. There was a big piece of metal bent into the shape of a star at the top and she held on to it as she looked down with triumph swooping around inside her chest, imagining she was a queen and this was her kingdom, made of swings and playhouses and a curly slide. She could see Mummy, still on the phone, with one hand covering up her ear. The boy with orange hair jumped off the swing and ran towards the queue for the zip-wire, which was zooming children along next to the fence, with the woods on the other side.
Sofia frowned. Something was weird. There was a broken part in the fence that wasn’t there last time: a rip in the metal big enough to fit through, like a shortcut. Her gaze moved across the branches crowded together on the other side.
Then Sofia’s eyes went big with surprise. Something was leaning against one of the bushes: a huge toy penguin with a red bow around its neck, like a present. She climbed quickly back down the rocket, shoes bonging on the metal, eyes fixed on the penguin. She stepped off the bottom rung and ran towards the gap in the fence. But she stopped short when she reached it; Mummy would be cross if she went outside the playground all by herself. Sofia looked over her shoulder. Her mother was bending down to pick up something on the ground, the phone still stuck on her ear. If Sofia ran super-fast, she could go look at the penguin and be back before Mummy noticed she was gone. The thought gave her the acidy feeling in her tummy that came from doing something naughty.
She stared through the fence at the penguin. What was it doing there? Curiosity was pulling at her, playing tug of war with her conscience. She kicked the broken fence, making the metal vibrate. Looked at Mummy again (still on the phone).
Made a decision.
Sofia slipped through the gap with her heart kicking.
The penguin was leaning against the bush with its back against the leaves, the bow shiny in the sun. She looked around for the owner. Why would someone leave it there? She crouched down and stroked the fluffy tummy. Maybe the owner didn’t want it any more. Maybe the penguin was like an orphan waiting to be adopted. The thought made Sofia’s heart reach out and she grabbed the toy, hugging it against her face. But it had a weird smell, like something sweet mixed together with the stuff Mummy used to clean the oven. It went up Sofia’s nose and inside her head and made her feel dizzy. She lost her balance and tipped sideways into the bush, still holding the penguin, the branches scratching her all the way to the ground. Sharp pebbles were digging into her shoulder, but for some reason she couldn’t get up. She tried to push the penguin away to escape from the chemically sweet smell, but suddenly it seemed to be hugging her back, as though its flippers were wrapped all the way around her body, squeezing tight, not letting go. Everything started going around and around, like a carousel. Sofia and the penguin were spinning together, whirling faster and faster, until finally they spun right out of the park and into darkness.
Two
Sofia was standing at the base of the rocket ship when Carrie’s mobile rang. She looked at the screen and the warm sense of wellbeing that came from watching her daughter play evaporated, replaced by a hard knot of dread.
‘Simon.’ She closed her eyes and the playground view was hidden behind a curtain of red: sunlight passing through her eyelids. ‘What is it?’
Silence. Well, not quite silence, because she could hear faint background noise: distant shouts. Then he cleared his throat.
‘It’s happened again,’ he said, and Carrie’s stomach-knot tightened. ‘Just a brief flash, maybe nothing, a one-off. But I went to see Samji anyway, to check whether the new stuff he gave me is working. And he said I should go back to Clearbrook, just as a precaution. I don’t have to; there’s been no sign of trouble since. But I think it’s the right call. I’m on my way there now and I . . . I wanted to let you know.’ A pause. ‘How is she?’
Carrie glanced over at Sofia, who had begun climbing the rocket.
‘She’s fine.’
‘I miss her.’ A long silence followed this statement. Had Simon said everything he’d called to say? Was it time for them to say goodbye and hang up? She hoped so. She used to love the sound of his voice, the baritone richness of it. And the posh accent, so different from her Canadian one, lifting away the r’s that she sharpened. But that was before. He sighed down the phone. ‘This is where you’re supposed to say she misses me too.’
‘Oh.’ Carrie considered this. ‘She does talk about you.’ It was true. In spite of everything, Sofia had begun asking when she was going to see Daddy again. Carrie couldn’t understand it. Wasn’t she frightened? ‘But after last time . . .’
‘I know. God, I know. And believe me, all I want in this world is to make it up to her.’ Another silence. Was she supposed to fill this one too? Because that wasn’t going to happen. A distant shout travelled through the receiver. Then a dog barking. Where exactly was he? Carrie was about to ask when he said: ‘I’d like to make it up to both of you. If you’ll let me.’
Carrie’s eyes moved instinctively to the climbing frame. Sofia was right at the top, looking down at the children’s woods. She was very high up. What if she fell? Carrie pushed the thought away. She had to learn to let go, give her daughter some freedom.
‘I’m not ready for that, Simon. I made a mistake last time. A terrible mistake.’ Guilt pressed down on her like a weight. ‘I failed my daughter.’
‘Our daughter.’ He amended. ‘And you didn’t fail her. I did. But at some point, we all need to try and put what happened behind us and . . . move on. Get back to where we used to be.’
She stared down at her feet. There was a crack in the tarmac and a dandelion was growing through it, wrapped in a dense orbit of seeds. She bent to pick it. Sofia would make a wish and blow, watching the seeds float away on their tiny parachutes.
‘Was there anything else you wanted to tell me, Simon?’
A long pause. ‘No, that’s it.’
What was the appropriate thing to say? This scenario hadn’t been covered in any of her books or sessions. So she settled on: ‘It’s good that you informed me about C
learbrook.’ Thought a bit longer, then added: ‘I hope your visit there is . . . successful.’
‘Thank you.’ Another sigh, louder this time. ‘Goodbye, Carrie.’
Her eyes returned to the climbing frame, but Sofia wasn’t there any more. She must have grown bored and moved on.
‘Goodbye, Simon.’
She slipped the mobile back into her denim jacket as she strode across the playground, holding the dandelion carefully, to protect the wish-seeds. The rectangular space was packed with children: jumping, spinning, climbing, running. Their shouts filled the air like a cloud, shot through with parental commands (‘Share with your brother!’, ‘Ten-minute warning!’, ‘Hurry up, or we’ll be late!’). Her eyes darted from the spiral slide, past the roundabout to the queue for the zip wire. Sofia should have been easy enough to spot, in her pink polka-dot skirt and rainbow trainers, the silver top with a sequinned heart across the front. But there was no sign of her and Carrie felt a small kick of adrenalin. Irrational, of course. It happened every time her daughter stepped out of view, and she always reappeared. She was probably in the birdcage.
Carrie scaled the ladder leading up to it. Children were packed into the circular space like tiny inmates in an overcrowded prison. But Sofia wasn’t among them. She pushed to the front and looked out between the bars. From up here, she could see the whole playground. Her eyes swept the rocket, the roundabout, the swings, the slide. Still no sign. She must be inside the playhouse. Carrie scrambled back down the ladder, dropping to the ground before she reached the bottom, landing hard and jarring her knees. She dashed to the playhouse, with its walls painted in primary colours, and thrust her head through the square gap representing a window. A small blond boy with a runny nose and a plastic shovel blinked up at her. But no Sofia. The dandelion dropped to the ground as she spun away, zigzagging across the playground.
‘Sofia! Come here.’ Her head whipped from side to side, ears straining for the familiar voice rising from some undiscovered hiding place. She’d had nightmares like this ever since her daughter was born – dreams that Sofia was lost and she was searching. And, just for a moment, she wondered whether this was one of them, whether she was actually at home, asleep in bed. ‘I’ll buy you an ice cream if you come out right now.’
