The Good Samaritan: A heart-stopping and utterly gripping emotional thriller that will keep you hooked

by C J Parsons

  ‘Am I? Carrie put a hand to her mouth. It was strange, when her features moved on their own like that. But good-strange. Special-strange. ‘You’re right, Sofia. I am.’ And she felt the smile grow beneath her fingertips.

  ‘What the hell is he doing?’

  Juliet peered at the grainy image on the screen in front of her. It had come from a member of the public: mobile-phone footage of a toddler’s birthday picnic, shot the day of the abduction. They’d received dozens of video and photo files in the wake of the public appeal, none of them helpful. This one had arrived late, and Juliet’s expectations had been low, given that it was shot at the south end of the park, nowhere near the playground or tadpole pond. So she had delegated it to the nearest PC and quickly forgotten about it.

  Until this morning.

  ‘Show us again,’ Alistair said. They were standing on either side of PC Levine, leaning over his shoulders for a closer look at the computer screen.

  ‘No problem.’ The constable’s voice was bright with enthusiasm. He was new to the force, and clearly delighted to be presenting his discovery to senior officers. The screen blurred with speed as he scrolled backward, stopping at the tail end of the birthday picnic. Toddlers ran in circles with cake-smeared faces while mums packed dirty paper plates into a bin bag. A little girl raced at the camera trailing a balloon shaped like a number three and stuck out her tongue.

  ‘There he is,’ Constable Levine said, somewhat redundantly, given that this was their second viewing.

  Nick Laude loped across the stretch of grass behind the party, a shovel propped against his shoulder like a rifle. He stopped when he reached the fringe of trees bordering the grassy area. Looked around. Stood for a while under a large oak, prodding at the earth with the shovel in an obvious attempt to appear busy. A Frisbee soared across the shot, chased by a woman with a dog. Children wheeled in the foreground. Nobody was paying the slightest attention to the park keeper. Then, from somewhere on the other side of the trees, another man appeared: tall and lean, wearing jeans and a hoodie with a camouflage pattern. He walked up to Nick and they shook hands. Then Camouflage Man removed something from his back pocket and handed it across. Nick took it, nodded once, then turned and walked away with his fist clenched around whatever he’d just received.

  ‘We need to know what’s in his hand,’ Juliet said. ‘Can we zoom in on that?’

  ‘Already done.’ Constable Levine minimised the video and clicked on a thumbnail image on his desktop. ‘I took a screen shot going in as tight as I could and then used Photoshop to clean it up. I’m sure Tech can do a more professional job, but at least this gives you the idea.’

  Juliet reigned in her irritation at not having been given this information from the get-go; this was the PC’s big moment and he was clearly determined to milk it. And, to be fair, he’d done a good job; the enlarged image was grainy, but clearer than she would have thought possible, given how tightly he’d zoomed in. It showed the unidentified man’s hand, frozen just short of Laude’s outstretched fingers. And now they could see what he was holding.

  She whistled softly. ‘Well, now. That changes things.’

  ‘Yep.’ Levine crossed his arms behind his head with a cat-who-got-the-cream smile. ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  Fourteen

  ‘Wow,’ Tara said, as Carrie sliced the cherry pie, trying not to let the pastry break apart. ‘Not being able to read people’s expressions . . . that must be tough.’

  Carrie turned the knife on its side, levering out a slice as she considered her answer.

  Tara was seated sideways, facing her from the neighbouring stool, legs crossed, prosecco glass in hand. She had arrived an hour earlier, sweeping through the door in a sleeveless black dress, carrying homemade pie and trailing a bright stream of chatter. She’d been very understanding about the chicken (Carrie had put the oven on the wrong setting, so dinner was now an hour behind schedule), suggesting they be ‘naughty’ and eat pudding first.

  A blob of cherry fell onto the counter as the pie wedge travelled from dish to plate.

  ‘Yes, my condition does cause problems, especially with clients. The main one is that I can’t work out whether they actually like my designs.’

  ‘But . . . don’t they tell you that in words?’

  ‘Most people are uncomfortable vocalising negative opinions, so they rely on facial expression and other non-verbal cues. My first few client meetings were not successful.’ Carrie began cutting herself a slice. ‘Fortunately, my boss came up with the idea of translating for me.’

  ‘Translating?’ Tara took a sip of prosecco, brows drawing towards each other. ‘How?’

  ‘He sits next to me in meetings with a notepad and writes down which emotions are being conveyed, along with advice on what to say or do next.

  ‘And your clients are OK with that?’

  ‘They don’t know. Osman – my boss – holds the pad just under the table, so I can see it but they can’t.

  ‘Ah. Sneaky. But good-sneaky. Clever.’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately he’s away on a site visit next Thursday, when my biggest client is passing through London and insists that we speak. So I’ll have to go it alone.’ Coils of tension tightened around her ribcage at the thought of that meeting. She took a slug of prosecco.

  ‘Well, I’m good at reading people. Why don’t I stand in for him?’

  Carrie put her glass down slowly, absorbing this offer. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what the meeting would be like with Tara by her side, lighting her way through the dark maze of social cues.

  But only for a moment.

  ‘The client would never allow an outsider to attend. He’s very secretive about the design.’ She picked up her fork, sinking the edge through the pastry’s skin. Red liquid oozed up through the crack.

  Tara tapped a knuckle against her lip, forehead wrinkling. Then she took a bite of pie, making a ‘hmmm’ sound as she chewed.

  ‘Could you arrange to meet him somewhere public?’ Her eyebrows lifted unevenly, the left higher than the right. ‘A café or restaurant?’

  Carrie blinked. It seemed an odd question. How could adding more people – and therefore more potential social interactions – possibly make things better?

  ‘Yes. But why would I wish to do so?’ She popped the pie into her mouth. It was surprisingly tart: delicious, but not in the way she’d expected.

  Tara’s eyes moved left-right-left, as though watching a tennis game. Then she smiled. ‘I’ve got an idea.’ She slid down from her stool and began rummaging inside the handbag at her feet, taking out her mobile phone. She tapped at the screen. ‘One sec, let me just . . .’ A moment later, Carrie’s handset pinged.

  She read the new text: ‘Unsure, sceptical. Explain your concept more clearly.’

  ‘Is that the sort of message your boss writes?’ Tara asked, tossing her phone back into the bag.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great.’ She climbed back onto her stool, overbalancing, so that she had to grab the counter to steady herself. ‘That’s that sorted, then.’ She picked up her fork and began digging into the pie again. ‘I think being allowed to eat dessert before dinner is one of the best things about being an adult.’

  Carrie stared at her, baffled. ‘What’s sorted? Can you clarify?’

  She waited while Tara, who had just put a forkful of pie in her mouth, finished chewing.

  ‘Sorry, that was a lot clearer in my head. I skipped right over the part about coming to the same café as you and your client. We’ll need to choose a place that lets you reserve the exact table you want, so we can make sure we’re next to each other. I’ll watch his face and send you texts like that one, keeping it short so you don’t need to touch the screen to open them.’ She finished off her last bite of pie and wiped her palms against each other. ‘You’ll have to keep your phone on mute,
obviously. And put it in your lap so you can pretend to be looking down at your plate when you’re reading my messages.’

  Carrie was blinking fast as her mind circled this idea, inspecting it from all angles, searching for flaws. And finding none. Hope unfolded itself inside her.

  ‘But . . . what about your work?’

  Tara lifted a shoulder. ‘I don’t have much on next week. And if anything does crop up at the last minute, I can arrange for my partner to handle it. That’s the joy of co-owning a business.’

  Carrie took another bite of pie, chewing slowly as she searched for the right words to convey how touched she was by this act of generosity, to capture the scale of her gratitude. But all she came up with was: ‘Thank you. Very much.’

  Tara waved a hand in the air.

  ‘It’s really no problem. In fact, it’ll be fun. I’ll pretend I’m a spy.’ She put down her fork and ran fingers through her hair. ‘So . . . How’s Sofia getting on?’

  ‘Nothing has changed since you last saw her.’

  ‘Yes, but I mean . . . how is she coping with the trauma? Is she having nightmares?’ She picked up her prosecco glass, rotating the stem, sending liquid lapping up the curved walls. ‘Does she remember anything? Anything that could help the police work out who took her?’

  Carrie severed a chunk of pie with the side of her fork as she considered how best to respond. DCI Campbell had asked her not to tell anyone about the suspect until formal charges had been laid; she didn’t want the press getting wind of it before they were ready.

  But Tara was hardly going to go running off to the tabloids. And besides, Carrie found she really wanted to tell her. Lingering guilt over her baseless suspicions was tainting her relief over the arrest. Perhaps trusting Tara now would help make up for not having trusted her then.

  ‘The police think they know who took her. They have a man in custody.’

  Tara’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you haven’t told me! That’s huge! I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything on the news.’

  ‘The police aren’t releasing the information until he’s been charged and they’ve asked me not to say anything. But I believe I can trust you to keep this news to yourself.’

  ‘Of course you can! So . . . who is he?’

  ‘One of the park keepers.’

  ‘Wow,’ Tara said. She drained her glass in one long sip, tipping back her head. Dabbed the corners of her lips with a fingertip. ‘Do they know why he did it?’

  ‘They aren’t sure about that yet.’

  Carrie picked up the bottle to refill Tara’s glass and was surprised to find it empty. That was fast. She slid from her stool and went to the fridge to get another one. Tara’s voice followed her.

  ‘But they are sure they’ve got the right person?’

  ‘It seems so.’ Carrie grabbed another prosecco bottle from the fridge door. Just as well she’d stocked up. ‘I’m told the evidence against him is strong.’

  She returned to her stool. Foam hissed as she refilled their glasses.

  ‘Well, this definitely calls for a toast.’ Tara picked up her drink. ‘To happy endings.’

  ‘Yes. Happy endings.’

  The rims of their glasses chimed against each other, then they drank in a mirror-image motion. There was a beat of silence while Tara sat watching Carrie’s face, swaying slightly on her stool.

  ‘How were you able to get through it?’

  ‘Which part? Waiting for the abductor to be caught?’

  ‘All of it.’ Tara waved her drink in the air, sending liquid sloshing over the rim. Drops rained onto the counter. ‘Sofia disappearing. Not knowing what to do. The helplessness.’ She shut her eyes tight for a moment, making them wrinkle at the edges. ‘Helplessness. I think that’s the worst part. When my little girl—’

  ‘Girl?’ Carrie interrupted, confused. ‘But . . . I thought Peter was your only child?’

  The prosecco glass froze just short of Tara’s lips. She sat perfectly still, eyes fixed straight ahead. The kitchen clock measured the silence. Twelve ticks. Then she put down the glass and said: ‘Yes, of course. I meant to say “boy”, obviously.’ She released a high-pitched laugh. ‘How funny! It’s because we were talking about Sofia, so I was thinking of her.’ She slid from the stool and smiled with her lips closed. ‘I’m bursting. Do you mind if I use your loo?’

  Sofia dreamed she’d discovered a door beside her bookcase leading into a secret room, but when she went through it, the door disappeared and she was trapped inside a big wooden box. She beat against the wall where the door had been, trying to scream, but no sound came out. Then a lady’s voice said ‘Shhhhhh, Don’t be scared.’ Maybe the lady knew where the door had gone? She banged against the wall again, but the room was beginning to lose its shape. The wood turned see-through, letting cartoon stars shine through. Then she could feel her bed beneath her and knew that it was just a dream, that she was safe in her room. Relief rose inside her, filling her all the way up. But then the dream-lady’s voice spoke again, right near her ear.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m here.’ A hand touched her forehead. Sofia sucked in air.

  Someone was in her room, sitting on her bed!

  She yanked herself all the way awake, heart speeding. Then she saw who was there and flopped back against the headboard. Yawned.

  ‘Hi, Tara. What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I was on my way to the toilet when I heard you whimpering. I thought you must be having a bad dream, so I came in to comfort you.’

  ‘I had a nightmare. It was scary.’ Sofia tried to remember what it had been about but the dream was already flickering out of reach. ‘Are you and Mummy having a good playdate?’

  Tara laughed softly. ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re my mummy’s friend.’

  Sleep was tugging at her now, dragging on her eyelids. But just when they were about to shut, Sofia saw something so surprising that she pushed them back up.

  There was a tear on Tara’s cheek. The only time Sofia had seen a grown-up cry was when she came back from being in the shed and Mummy did happy tears. But nothing sad or super-happy was happening now.

  ‘Why are you crying? What’s wrong?’

  The light from the hallway caught the side of Tara’s face, making the tear glisten. She wiped it off with her wrist.

  ‘It’s nothing, just my hay fever acting up.’

  She smiled, but it was one of those wobbly ones that happen when you’re trying to smile but there’s sad underneath.

  Then Sofia heard Mummy’s voice calling from downstairs and Tara jumped up and ran out of the room like she’d been caught doing something bad.

  Carrie was about to go upstairs – Tara had been gone a long time; maybe all the prosecco had made her ill? – when her guest suddenly reappeared, thudding down the stairs two at a time. She began wheeling across the living room floor as soon as she reached the bottom, throwing her arms out sideways.

  ‘Let’s dance!’

  ‘You mean . . . here?’ Carrie blinked, caught out by the sudden gearshift, the burst of manic energy.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Her head was bobbing, as though moving to a beat only she could hear. Her eyes looked pink, fuelling Carrie’s suspicion that she’d just been sick. ‘You do have music, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pulled up her music streaming app and chose a list entitled ‘Classic Dance Mix’, sending the first track through the speakers on her bookshelf. Tara sang along, arms lifted, body swaying. Carrie recognised the song: ‘Dark Horse’ by Katy Perry.

  Carrie turned up the volume until the air throbbed with the beat. She enjoyed dancing. She wasn’t very good at it, but she liked the way it drove everything else out of her head, laying down a pattern of sound for her body to follow.

  Tara was belting ou
t the lyrics with her head thrown back. Carrie gave herself to the music, socks pivoting against wood, limbs loosened by alcohol. She had never danced like this before, with another woman, and watching Tara gyrate across the floor, she felt something inside her unbuckle, freeing her from self-consciousness, from the fear of doing or saying the wrong thing. She added her voice to Tara’s, both of them loud and off-key, singing about dark passions with their hands in the air.

  Five songs later, they collapsed, panting, onto the sofa.

  ‘God, I miss dancing,’ Tara said, using the hem of her dress to dab sweat from her forehead. ‘I must have spent half my waking hours on the dance floor when I lived in Hong Kong.’

  Carrie turned down the music.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d lived in Asia.’

  ‘Yeah, my dad worked there when I was a teenager. My older sister never left. She’s an editor at the South China Morning Post.’

  ‘Oh.’ Carrie tried to think how to move the conversation forwards. Should she ask more questions about Hong Kong? Or go back to talking about dancing?

  ‘Did you stop going dancing after you left Hong Kong?’

  ‘God, no. I used to hit Soho with my friends pretty much every weekend before I had Peter. Back when I had a social life.’

  ‘But . . . don’t your friends have children too now?’ Carrie asked, puzzled. The mothers at Sofia’s school seemed to socialise endlessly. She would overhear them chatting and planning, organising group picnics and ‘mums’ nights out’. Carrie had long since given up hope of being asked along. But Tara . . . she would have been invited. She was confident and fun: someone who knew what to say and laughed in all the right places.

  ‘Yeah, most of my friends have kids, but . . .’ Tara stopped the sentence before it was finished, head tipping back against the sofa. She stared up at the ceiling. ‘Motherhood changes you, doesn’t it? You lose things, lose people. You just have to find a way to move on.’

  Carrie blinked as she considered this statement, unsure how to respond. She didn’t really understand what it meant; she hadn’t lost anything by having Sofia. She had only gained.