The Last Stage

by Louise Voss

  They’d had to wait until after Catherine Brown’s murder trial, although her three life sentences without parole back in Rampton had been worth it.

  The trial had been gruelling in the extreme. All sorts of details the twins had been unaware of had been produced: including Graeme’s van, found parked near the spot in the woods at the back of Minstead, equipped with plastic sheeting, spades and shovels, part of the preparations to bury Meredith and Pete’s bodies. They’d had to listen to Andrea’s parents sobbing in the public gallery behind them, day after day, their Hungarian translator muttering the horrific details quietly into their ears throughout.

  Paula had pushed past Meredith in the corridor after the session in which she gave evidence. She hadn’t spoken to her, and her son, Jackson, at her side, had hissed, ‘Slag.’

  Unfortunately, a passing hack had overheard. Next thing, Paula had sold her story to all the papers, and for a couple of weeks Meredith had been featured in numerous tabloid articles with headlines such as ‘My Ex Rockstar Best Friend Shagged My Husband Right before His Murder’. Paula had sold the house and moved away, to live closer to her sister in Norfolk, so at least they weren’t likely to bump into each other.

  Meredith wrote her a long and heartfelt letter of apology, to which Paula never replied; but it was closure, of sorts, for Meredith at least. She hadn’t expected Paula to ever forgive her.

  Her colleagues at Minstead House had been astonished to learn about her fling with Ralph, as well as her colourful past as Cohen’s punky lead singer, but, to a tweedy man and twinsetted woman, they had been kind and supportive. The Earl begged her not to resign every time she tried to, and in the end they agreed she could have a year’s sabbatical to recuperate and do some travelling. By the time she got back, hopefully the not-inconsiderable numbers of Cohen’s fan club who kept showing up at the shop and the cottage, asking for her, would have lost interest again. Meredith had moved in with Pete on the boat, partly to escape the curious tourists and partly to help him recuperate from the operation on his arm.

  They’d moved the Barton Bee to a different mooring though, in Kingston, to be nearer the hospital and away from the marina in Minstead, which held so many poignant memories of Andrea and Ralph.

  At least Meredith had had the chance to thank Gemma properly for finding them in time. She hadn’t seen her since the days after the attack, when Gemma visited Pete in hospital. Six months on, with her braces off and her hair cut into a more sophisticated shoulder-length style, Meredith thought she looked much older, in a good way. More self-possessed, less gauche. They caught up for coffee in a café round the corner from the court.

  ‘It wasn’t just me,’ Gemma had said. ‘It was Emad, really, who did more of the important stuff. He’s the one who figured out the link between you and Catherine-slash-Caitlin. He was the one who stopped her from killing you after we’d assumed she was dead. I couldn’t have done it without him.’

  ‘Well, please tell him how grateful Pete and I are, to him too,’ Meredith had said, and to her surprise, Gemma had blushed, the pink stain making her resemble her younger self again.

  ‘I’ll tell him this evening,’ she said, fiddling with the sugar bowl. ‘We’ve actually been dating for a few months now.’

  ‘Ha! That’s lovely,’ said Meredith, with only a slight trace of wistfulness.

  Pete too had a new relationship – with Lucy, the physiotherapist who’d been helping him post-op. She was lovely, petite and pretty, with a dry sense of humour that made them both laugh a lot.

  It felt amazing to laugh again.

  Lucy didn’t have enough holiday entitlement left to join them in their villa for the whole three weeks of their holiday, but she was flying out for the last seven days. Meredith was looking forward to it almost as much as Pete.

  During the week after Catherine Brown’s sentencing, there was one final surprise. The new Minstead shop manager received an email with the words ‘Please Forward to Meredith Vincent’ in the subject line.

  When Meredith read it, it didn’t take her long to reply, giving only the address of the boat’s mooring, and a date.

  At the appointed time, two late-middle-aged women turned up on the dock, both dressed in sensible matching holiday clothes: sturdy jeans, walking boots, some sort of Gore-Tex jacket, little backpacks, both with short iron-grey hair. Meredith had to do a double-take, but as soon as she saw the face of the taller of the two, she knew.

  ‘They’re here,’ she said to Pete, who was resting on the sofa with his feet up. She stuck her head out of the door, and waved them over.

  ‘Samantha! Come on in.’

  Samantha immediately hugged her tight, and for a moment the years and all the resentment fell away.

  ‘My God, Meredith, what you’ve been through. And look at you!’ – she pushed Meredith gently away and scrutinised her at arms’ length. Her midwestern twang was even stronger than it had been last time they’d met, Meredith thought. ‘You look amazing, honey … Oh, and this is my wife, Shelley!’

  They all shook hands. Shelley was short and cheerful; older than Samantha with deep laugh lines around her eyes and furrows on her forehead.

  ‘You look just the same,’ said Meredith, which made Samantha laugh. ‘Oh sure. Thirty-five years later, with grey hair and flab! Thirty-five years, can you believe it?’

  ‘Is it really?’ Meredith asked, although she remembered well. 1983, the year she dropped out of her A levels, lost Dad, abandoned Pete and her mother.

  Samantha had been the architect of so much destruction in her life, and for years Meredith had only been able to focus on that. But now that Samantha was finally standing in front of her, Meredith was able to remember the positive things too. Love, passion, the boys in the band. Creativity, and the success that followed. Her first love.

  After all, it hadn’t been Samantha’s fault that Caitlin was a psychopath.

  Later, over mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits, Samantha leaned forwards.

  ‘I just needed to apologise to you both,’ she said. ‘You and Pete. I was a total bitch to you both that night. I know it’s, like, decades ago, but I’m so sorry. And then when I learned what sparked Caitlin’s first breakdown, I felt even worse. I had no idea she’d even seen us on that silo. Or that she was so crazy about me. I’d just thought it was a casual thing.’ She had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I was pretty promiscuous back in those days,’ she added.

  Meredith remembered the girl with the short black curls who’d been at Cohen’s first ever gig, and who Pete had seen Samantha kissing. The fist of jealousy and grief in her belly when he told her about them. She smiled ruefully. ‘I think we were both unlucky to have encountered Caitlin,’ she said.

  ‘She found out that I was teaching at KU – the University of Kansas – and wrote me, you know,’ Samantha said. ‘A few times, in the nineties. I feel bad about that, too. I ought to have passed the letters on to the police and then she might have been stopped, but at the time I just thought they were the rantings of a lunatic. She kept going on and on about you, and how we’d ruined her life, and that she’d make us both pay. She would “sort you out” first then come for me. But I knew she was locked up, so I just never took it seriously. Then that time the police interviewed me about a blackmail attempt, I was mortified that you might think the letter really had been from me. If they’d told me about your attack, I could’ve helped, but I didn’t know. I just thought it was about the blackmail. I’d have known it was her doing, straight away. She was lucky to have found that guy who’d do anything for her.’

  ‘Or we were unlucky,’ Pete contributed from the sofa.

  ‘That too,’ Samantha said, looking as if she was going to cry. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

  Meredith smiled at her. ‘Yeah. It’s not your fault. Thanks for taking time to come and find me.’

  ‘Couldn’t come over to show Shelley your beautiful country and not see you, could I? We’re going walking in the Lake District next wee
k.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Meredith said. ‘Pete and I are off on holiday next month too. My first holiday in over twenty years. I can’t believe it.’

  And now here they were, on the plane, and Meredith did finally believe it. She looked down at her hands, one grasping each armrest, the skin on the backs of them both now of a uniform colour and smoothness. Pete wasn’t the only one who’d had surgery in the past year.

  Pete saw her smile and grinned back. ‘They look so great. Funny, isn’t it? I’d pretty much stopped noticing your scar, but now it’s gone, I can’t stop looking. They’re just hands, but…’

  ‘I know, me neither,’ said Meredith. ‘Although I still do have a scar.’ She traced the edges of a silvery hairline scar around the skin graft. ‘I like this one, though. It’s like a map showing new roads.’

  Pete laughed. ‘That’s poetic. You should put it into a song.’

  The plane’s engines thrust and roared, and the overhead lockers rattled as they left the ground with a lurch, neither of them speaking for a moment until the tension eased and they were above the clouds.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ said Meredith.

  Acknowledgements

  I owe huge thanks to all the following people:

  Simon Alcock, Franco Ianelli and Chris Phillips – I definitely couldn’t write anything involving any sort of police procedure without all your invaluable help. Sorry for the random text questions and thank you so much for your patience and wisdom!

  James Law, for giving up an afternoon to sit in a New Forest pub with me and help me brainstorm the plot after I got stuck.

  John Freestone, for tidal information, and Pete Sortwell, for crucial research help back in the book’s early days.

  Martin Toseland, for trying to help me work out my character’s motivations. With wine.

  Karen Cocker, for giving up her time to help me with FLO procedures – any inaccuracies are either necessary for the plot, or are my own mistakes…

  Helen Russell, for inspiration and background information on the life of the manager of a busy gift shop (and all the funny stories!).

  Suzy Aitcheson, for planting the seed of inspiration that became Minstead House.

  Elaine Burtenshaw and Marisa Rosato, for important plot assistance and hospitality over (top-quality) dinner on the Isle of Wight.

  Amanda Hills, for assistance with boat terminology and insight into life on the river.

  The Slice Girls, for support both practical and emotional: Susi Holliday, Steph Broadribb, AK Benedict, Alex Sokoloff (and the Hon Member, Harley Jane Kozak). My other lovely author friends, especially Marnie Riches, Amanda Jennings, Kat Diamond, Caroline Green, all the Killer Women, all the Team Orenda authors and of course all of CS, you know who you are…

  The powerhouse that is Karen Sullivan, and everyone else who makes Team Orenda tick: West Camel, Max Okore, Anne Cater, Liz Barnsley, Cole Sullivan, Sophie Goodfellow and Mark Swan.

  Finally, to all the amazing bloggers who have been so incredibly supportive and dedicated – your work is very much appreciated. And to anyone who’s ever read and enjoyed my books!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Over her eighteen-year writing career, Louise Voss has had eleven novels published and has sold more than 350,000 copies. Her five solo titles and the six co-written with Mark Edwards are a combination of psychological thrillers, police procedurals and contemporary fiction. Her most recent book, The Old You, was a number-one bestseller in ebook. Louise has an MA (Dist) in Creative Writing and also works as a literary consultant and mentor for writers at www.thewritingcoach.co.uk and as a crime fiction coach. She lives in south-west London and is a proud member of two female crime-writing collectives, The Slice Girls and Killer Women.

  Follow Louise on Twitter @LouiseVoss1.

  Copyright

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London SE21 8HU

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books 2019

  Copyright © Louise Voss 2019

  Louise Voss has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–1–912374–87–8

  eISBN 978–1–912374–88–5