by Tim Weaver
Tim Weaver
* * *
NO ONE HOME
Contents
Part One: THE VILLAGE Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Joline
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Motel
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two: THE DEER Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Caraca
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Late-Night Call
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Pioneer
Part Three: THE STUDENT Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
The Suicide: Part 1
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
The Suicide: Part 2
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Clear: Part 1
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Clear: Part 2
Part Four: THE ENVELOPE Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Monster
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Martina: Part 1
Part Five: THE ROOM Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Martina: Part 2
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Dead Ends
Chapter 44
Part Six: THE MOTHER Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
The Photograph Album
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Empty
Part Seven: THE DIPLOMAT Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Retirement: Part 1
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Retirement: Part 2
Chapter 57
Part Eight: THE FOREST Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Circle
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
An Ending
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Part Nine: HOME Chapter 69
Family
Chapter 70
Part Ten: THE AFTERMATH Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Tim Weaver is the Sunday Times bestselling author of ten thrillers, including I Am Missing and You Were Gone. Weaver has been nominated for a National Book Award, selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club, and shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Dagger in the Library award. He is also the host and producer of the chart-topping Missing podcast, which features experts in the field discussing missing persons investigations from every angle.
A former journalist and magazine editor, he lives near Bath with his wife and daughter.
Praise for Tim Weaver
‘Terrific’ Sunday Times
‘Thrilling’ Richard and Judy Book Club
‘Packed with twists’ Daily Express
‘I couldn’t put it down’ Sun
‘Serpentine and satisfying’ Daily Mail
‘Impressive’ Guardian
‘Dark, complex and visceral’ Financial Times
‘So many twists and surprises’ The Times
‘Full of clever twists’ Dead Good Books
‘Little short of brilliant’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘It had me racing to the end’ Fiona Barton
‘Enthralling’ Liz Nugent
‘Kept me guessing until the final page’ Jane Corry
‘The rising star of British crime’ Tony Parsons
‘Tense and twisty, with an emotional punch’ Karen Perry
For The Linscotts
Part One
* * *
THE VILLAGE
1
The sign said: Welcome to Black Gale.
It was weather-beaten, rinsed pale over the time that it had stood guard at the gated entrance to the village. Purple crocuses were dotted like jewels along the grass bank it was on, and beyond the sign was a mud track littered with stones, leading to three homes in a semicircle and a farm. The farm itself was modest, surrounded by a crumbling drystone wall dotted with moss and half covered by weeds, which also hemmed in the other homes. But on the other side of the wall, the farm’s fields unfurled across the moors like a huge patchwork quilt.
I’d met Ross Perry just outside Grassington, a market town twenty miles south of Black Gale, and had followed him up here. The further I drove, the higher I climbed, daffodils dotted along the banks of the narrow, one-lane roads. Even in March, though, winter hadn’t quite vanished. As I pulled my Audi in next to Ross’s Range Rover, I looked north, towards the heart of the moors, and could see hills still painted with ribbons of snow.
Ross waited for me next to his vehicle, dressed in a smart black suit and a bright red windbreaker. Stitched into the breast pocket of the windbreaker was CONNOR & PERRY PROPERTY | YORKSHIRE. I’d done a little reading up on Ross: he was young, twenty-six, but already the co-owner of an estate agency, and one of West Yorkshire’s most eligible bachelors according to a list in a local magazine. He was stocky, dark-haired and olive-skinned, the latter an endowment from his mother, Francesca, who had been born and raised in Florence.
The three houses were all roughly the same size and the same build too – a mix of stone and render, with slate roofs and double garages, and then a U-shaped garden that wrapped around the front and sides of each. They were separated from each other by wooden fences, wild flowers and vines weaving their way through the slats, so that each property maintained a degree of privacy. But the privacy was more of an illusion than anything: the buildings were beautifully constructed – big, four-bedroomed homes – but they were close enough to one another that it would have been almost impossible to live here if you didn’t get on with your neighbours.
The farmhouse fanned out behind one of the houses, a bungalow all on one level. It too was built from stone but it had a thatched roof and was a little less pristine, hay bales randomly, untidily scattered, tractor tyres piled up. There was an overturned animal trough close to the front door and two ruptured water butts. But nothing could quite impair the view: in whatever direction you looked, hills rolled into the distance and the dark spring sky seemed to go on for ever.
‘Which one was your mum and dad’s?’ I asked Ross.
‘That one,’ he said, gesturing to the house closest to us. I’d seen pictures of the house already in the research I’d done, in the police file I’d managed to get hold of as well, but as they all looked the same, I wanted to be sure. ‘They moved in three and a half years ago,’ he added.
‘They were obviously looking for somewhere quiet.’
Ross smiled, but it was sad and seemed hard to form.
‘They loved this part of the world,’ he said softly, his eyes scanning the hills. The nearest village was a mile to the east. In between it was just fields and stone walls. Other houses were dotted further out, like smudges against the morning and, way off into the distance – little more than a few strokes of a brush – was the ashen hint of a town. Chimneys. Roofs. Telegraph poles.
‘Before this,’ I said, ‘they live
d near Manchester – is that right?’
‘About twenty miles away, in a village called Denshaw.’
‘They seemed happy there?’
‘They were in the same house for twenty-one years. The house I grew up in.’ He glanced at me. ‘They always seemed happy wherever they were.’
His mouth flattened – an attempt to appear stoic – and then his eyes instantly betrayed him as he looked at their home again. He started to blink a little faster, obviously not wanting to stand here, in front of me, in tears. I saved him any embarrassment by moving past him, closer to the house. At the side I could see a grey Mercedes, parked outside a garage, and then a glimpse of the back garden.
‘How come the car’s still here?’ I asked Ross.
He shrugged. ‘The police did take it away for a while and then – after they’d completed all the tests they needed to do – they gave it back. I know it sounds weird, but I didn’t know what to do with it once they returned it. I didn’t want to drive it, because it would only …’ He stopped. Bring back bad memories. ‘But I didn’t want to sell it on in case Mum and Dad just walked through the front door one day.’
None of that sounded odd. I’d heard something similar, on repeat, in every missing persons case I’d ever worked. The idea that loved ones might suddenly resurface, out of the blue, even after decades, was powerful and impossible to let go of.
I turned back to the house and saw a garden room with skylights and a grey slate roof at the rear, and then somewhere, out of sight, I heard a weathervane move, its gentle squawk like a bird that had injured itself.
‘What about the neighbours?’ I asked. ‘Everybody got on?’
‘Yeah,’ Ross replied, stepping in alongside me again, his composure restored, ‘they got on well. That’s why Mum and Dad loved it here so much. It wasn’t just the house, it was everything. The eight of them – the four couples – they were always getting together as a group. Dinner parties, nights out, pub lunches. I mean, literally the first year they moved in – when I was in Australia for Christmas – they all got together on Boxing Day.’
I looked to my right, down the remainder of the track, past the third house to where the farm was visible. Each of the properties had driveways and two out of the three had cars parked on them. The Perrys had the Mercedes; the people in the second house had a Porsche Cayenne. There was plenty of money up here, and plenty more at the farm: it might have been less pristine than the houses, but as well as a tractor, and all the farm equipment, there was a new Land Rover Defender parked outside.
‘I just don’t understand what happened to them,’ Ross said.
For a moment, as I looked at him, he was perfectly framed, his parents’ house behind him, the grass too long out front, weeds running rampant, the dark windows giving just a hint of the empty hallways within. He told me over the phone that he’d been trying to keep the house together, the lawn mowed, the rooms tidy, but it was hard when even the process of unlocking the front door hurt. His parents had been gone two and a half years, with no answers and no trace.
But they weren’t the only ones.
As I looked again at the other two houses, and then back in the direction of the farm, I saw windows that were just as dark as the Perrys’ and gardens just as overgrown. That was what made the scale of this case so intimidating.
It wasn’t just the Perrys that had disappeared.
It was the whole village.
2
Before I’d met Ross Perry, I’d met someone else.
I’d arrived late at the drab motorway hotel where he was staying. The drive up from London had been bad, the journey pockmarked by constant roadworks, and as I crossed the empty car park, rain hammering against the tarmac, I glimpsed him at one of the windows, partially formed behind a white gauze curtain. He looked like a ghost, a shape drifting in and out of existence, and in some ways that was what he’d become; but this ghost was what had first got me interested in Black Gale.
His obsession had now become mine.
The foyer was unremarkable, the woman behind the counter uninterested in who I was and why I might be there. She never looked up, didn’t even move, her face washed white by the glow from her monitor. Bland music was being piped out of a speaker close to me, but mostly all I could hear above the rain and traffic was the intermittent sound of her fingers across the keyboard.
He was sitting halfway down a corridor housing a row of vending machines, holding a plastic cup of coffee, steam spiralling out of it. He had his legs crossed and, either because of the angle he was at, or because of the light, he appeared smaller than the last time I’d seen him. I tried to remember when that was and realized, despite talking to him on the phone four times a week, every week, for three and a half years, I hadn’t actually seen him in the flesh for thirteen months. Before today, we hadn’t had much choice: he’d been living off the grid in a fisherman’s cottage in south Devon that had once belonged to my parents and now belonged to me, and he’d been doing it in secret, and under the alias Bryan Kennedy. His real name was carved into a headstone in a cemetery in north London, and buried under the earth beneath was a body that was supposed to be his. It was all a lie. He’d faked his own death, I’d helped him do it, and if anyone ever found out the truth, we were both going to prison. So, in the time since, he’d steered clear of the Internet and mobile phones – anything that put him on the map – all of his bills paid by me because he didn’t have a bank account, and we’d agreed never to meet up unless it was absolutely necessary.
I’d spent the three days before coming up from London – and the entire drive out to see Ross Perry – wondering if what we were doing here qualified as necessary.
In the end, I’d come anyway.
He got up and walked towards me. In the time since he’d moved to Devon, he’d been working on a fishing trawler, being paid cash in hand to go out into the English Channel casting for hake, cod and herring. It had made him slender, sinewy, a stark contrast to how he’d looked before he’d fooled the world into thinking he was dead. Back then, he’d been a cop; even further back, he’d been a good one. He’d worked murders at the Met for nearly two decades, overweight and restless, and had existed on bad food and adrenalin. For a while, towards the end, booze had crept in too. He was in his early fifties now, his red hair shaved off, his face covered by a thick beard, but it was hard to say if he looked older or younger: physically, he was in better condition, but his face was marked by more lines than ever, cut into him like nicks from a blade. It gave him the weary look of someone permanently scarred by their history.
‘Sounds like you had a relaxing trip up,’ he said as we shook hands. He’d called me twice on the hotel’s payphone to find out where I was; the second time I’d been sitting in a four-mile tailback. He picked up his machine coffee and rocked it towards me in a cheers motion: ‘Still, after all this time, at least we get to meet somewhere really glamorous.’
I smiled and then looked through the curtain to the empty car park. Rain continued to hammer against the ground – a fierce, relentless drumbeat.
‘Did you get a taxi here yesterday?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah, from the station at Knaresborough.’ He took a sip from his coffee, his eyes scanning the foyer over the rim of the cup, and then – very quietly, his voice deliberately dialled down – he said, ‘I checked in at three yesterday and then sat at the window in my room for the entire evening, watching. There were only two other people staying here last night, and they’ve both already left. No one’s checked in this afternoon. There are four cars around the back, all belonging to staff, including her.’ He gestured to the woman at the front desk. ‘She’s the most unresponsive person I’ve ever met. Literally doesn’t give a shit who comes and goes because she’s too busy playing solitaire on her computer. It’s dead here. I’ll be fine.’
I nodded, but checked the car park again anyway.
‘Have they closed all the supermarkets in London, Raker?’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’re looking lean.’
‘I’ve been running a lot,’ I said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m doing the New York marathon in November.’
He broke out into a smile. ‘You serious?’
‘I’ve done London, I did Paris with Derryn in 2006. I did the Two Oceans when we were in Cape Town. I’m enjoying all the training. It’s keeping me focused.’
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
We both knew why.
In November 2009, my wife, Derryn, had died – aged only thirty-four – after a long battle with cancer, and then, three months ago, I’d landed a case over Christmas that had been related to her death. The case had taken everything from me – in fact, it had almost destroyed me – and I’d spent the months since trying to recover from it and return to some sort of equilibrium. So, while I’d always been a runner, mostly I’d do short distances and had only ever used it to supplement gym work – but now I was doing fifteen-mile runs as standard, from my home in Ealing, south into Kew, and then out across the northern fringes of Richmond Park. I liked the singular, solitary nature of running, the time it gave me alone, the way it cleared my head and calmed my thinking; and because I liked it, I’d kept doing more of it.
‘We’d better go through the case again,’ I said.
‘Everything’s in the room.’
We headed for the lift. As soon as the doors slid shut, I said to him, ‘Your new ID will be ready in a couple of days.’
He only nodded this time.
By now, it was just routine: another new name for another pretend life.
His room was right at the end of a corridor on the second floor. He removed a DO NOT DISTURB sign from the handle, took out a keycard and swiped it through the reader. We both instinctively checked the corridor, and then I followed him inside.
