No One I Knew

by A J McDine

  No One I Knew

  A J McDine

  Copyright © 2021 by A J McDine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by A J McDine

  Also by Cherry Tree Publishing

  Chapter One

  SUNDAY 13 JUNE

  I closed my eyes and stretched out in the chair, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun on my face and the delicious buzz from three glasses of champagne drunk in quick succession.

  Five minutes’ shuteye wouldn’t hurt. I’d worked slavishly all day, mixing marinades and tossing salads, tenderising steaks, spearing lamb and peppers onto kebab sticks, and making my signature dessert - a beautiful raspberry and passion fruit pavlova, oozing with whipped cream and sticky meringue. I’d sorted drinks and nibbles, swept the patio, cleaned the downstairs loo and lugged the gas barbecue out of the garage. I’d played the perfect hostess and now I was knackered and a little bit pissed and I bloody deserved forty winks.

  The soft hum of bees on the wisteria that crept across the back of the house and the burble of the river at the bottom of the garden washed over me, the sounds as soporific as any sedative, lulling me to sleep.

  I opened one eye. My husband, Stuart, was regaling our best friends Bill and Melanie with a story about the dormice he’d found while monitoring a new site earmarked for housing. Melanie listened intently, her head cocked to one side and her slender fingers curled around the stem of her champagne flute. Bill lounged next to her, his arm hooked over the back of the rattan sofa, his legs loosely crossed. He caught my eye, and I glanced at Stuart and fluttered my hand in front of my mouth, feigning a yawn. He shot me an amused look - Stuart could bore the pants off a nun when he started wittering on about his precious bloody dormice - then tipped the rest of the champagne into his glass and mouthed ‘cheers’ to me.

  Satisfied our guests were happy, I closed my eyes again and concentrated on the thrum of the bees and the murmur of the river and the soft drone of Stuart’s voice. I was a whisper away from oblivion when I felt a sudden chill. Stuart loomed over me, blocking out the sun.

  ‘Have you seen the kids?’ he said.

  I waved a hand towards the lawn at the side of the house. ‘They’re playing croquet, aren’t they?’

  I’d bought him the croquet set as a joke the first Christmas we’d moved to Stour House. It was supposed to be ironic. To show that although we were now the proud owners of a £1.2 million Grade II listed riverside house, we weren’t the type of people who played croquet on the lawn. We were still unaffected, unpretentious. We were still us.

  ‘No. I just checked.’

  I stretched and stifled a yawn. ‘They’ve probably gone inside to watch TV.’

  ‘I’ve checked inside, too. They’re not there either.’

  My tongue felt furry, and I reached for the jug of water on the table, filled my empty champagne flute and swirled the water around my mouth like mouthwash before gulping it down. I could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsating behind my right temple.

  ‘They must be in the den,’ I said, pulling myself to my feet.

  Stuart’s face cleared. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten the den. I’ll have a look.’

  Melanie jumped up as I began clearing plates.

  ‘Let me help. You’ve worked so hard today. It was delicious, Cleo. Everything was perfect.’

  I smiled. Perfection was what I strived for: in the kitchen, at work, in life. ‘Thank you,’ I said, with a demure nod of the head. I handed Melanie the stack of dirty plates. ‘The dishwasher’s empty.’

  I sat in Melanie’s place and gave Bill’s knee a brisk pat. ‘I know we’re supposed to be off duty, but we need to talk about the annual figures.’

  Bill groaned. ‘Christ Cleo, do you ever switch off? It’s five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘We’re due to see the accountant at ten. I wanted to go through the numbers with you before he arrives.’

  He rubbed his face, then frowned. ‘Didn’t you say Sheila was popping over with the file?’

  ‘I expect she’s had another crisis with her mum. Poor Sheila. Looks like you’re off the hook.’

  He grinned and looked hopefully at the empty champagne bottle. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any more where that came from?’

  ‘I expect I can run to another bottle. But,’ I waggled a finger at him, ‘it’s on the understanding that you get to the office by eight tomorrow so we can go through the accounts before the meeting.’

  He touched his temple. ‘Yes, boss.’

  I filled a tray with glasses, headed through the patio doors to the kitchen and plonked it on the worktop. Retracing my steps outside, I almost collided with Stuart on the patio. He was red-faced and breathing heavily, as if he’d sprinted from the kids’ den under the apple tree on the far side of the garden.

  ‘Nate was there,’ he said, his hand gripping my shoulder. ‘But there was no sign of Immy. I can’t find her anywhere.’

  I shook my head and removed his hand. ‘Let me check. You never look properly.’

  Nate was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the wooden teepee-like camp playing with the Lego Star Wars set Bill and Melanie had given him when they’d arrived. Immy, to her delight, had been presented with a pink Peppa Pig Beanie. I crouched down to Nate’s level, my head framed by the doorway.

  ‘Nathan, where’s your sister?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he said, twirling a tiny Anakin Skywalker figure round and round in his hand. ‘She said she was thirsty. ’Spect she went to get a drink.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ages ago.’

  ‘Oh Nate, how long is ages? Five minutes? Ten? An hour?’

  Nate finally looked up at me. ‘At least an hour,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Or even longer.’

  ‘Gre
at,’ I muttered. I stood, brushing dust from my skirt, and gazed around me. The garden, which wrapped around the house in a generous L-shape, was the main reason we’d bought the place. When we were house-hunting I’d dreamed of a former rectory surrounded by cherry orchards, not what amounted to an end-of-terrace in Fordwich, the smallest town in the country, even if parts of the house did date back to Saxon times.

  But when the estate agent led us through the plain wooden garden gate, I gasped in wonder. The previous owners had spared no expense, engaging the services of one of the county’s top garden designers to separate the half-acre plot into a series of defined areas, each with its own colour themes. Formal lawn, green oak pergola, kitchen garden, orchard, a secret garden and two wrought iron water gates set into the far wall that opened straight onto moorings on the River Stour. It was perfect.

  ‘We can have our own rowing boat for messing about on the river,’ I said, my mind alight with possibilities.

  ‘Canterbury’s only two miles upstream,’ confirmed the estate agent. ‘And it’s a lovely trip downstream to Sandwich through the Stodmarsh Nature Reserve.’

  That piqued Stuart’s interest, I could tell.

  ‘My husband’s an ecologist,’ I explained.

  ‘Plenty of wildlife on the Stour,’ the estate agent said. ‘And the garden is on the site of the ancient port of Fordwich, which was owned by St Augustine’s Abbey. They transported the Caen stone used to build Canterbury Cathedral along the river and landed here.’

  ‘They carried the stone for the cathedral through this garden?’

  ‘That’s what it says here,’ the estate agent said, handing me the glossy particulars.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stuart said, frowning at the water gates. ‘It’s not exactly child-friendly, is it?’

  I swept his reservations away with a wave of my hand. ‘We can keep the gates locked. Stop seeing danger where there is none. I love it.’

  Of course, we both knew I’d have my own way because I was the one who earned the money, wore the trousers, and had the casting vote. It was a done deal. And I was right. It was perfect.

  ‘Mummy?’ Nate said, bringing me back to the present.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’

  ‘I wasn’t lying. Immy really was thirsty, but she also wanted to play Pooh sticks. But I didn’t because I was playing with Anakin. I think she went to play Pooh sticks with Peppa instead.’

  A trickle of unease slid down my back like a drip from a cold tap, but I shook it away. We always kept the water gates locked and the keys out of reach. Always. ‘Be an angel and check she’s not sulking in her bedroom, will you? I bet Daddy forgets to check under her bed.’

  Nate nodded and disappeared towards the house, Anakin Skywalker in one hand and his yellow and grey Jedi Interceptor in the other. I walked to the nearest water gate and turned the handle. It was locked and I let out a long breath. The second gate was half-hidden behind a virginal-white mock orange, and the heady scent filled my nostrils as I pulled the handle. We hadn’t used this gate in the two years we’d lived here. In fact, I was pretty sure it had rusted closed. So when the handle turned in my grasp and the gate swung open with barely a creak, my hand flew to my mouth.

  Below, the river meandered past our narrow wooden jetty. A pair of moorhens squawked with fright and disappeared with a flap of wings behind the curtain of branches on the weeping willow on the opposite bank. I glanced up and downstream, but there was no sign of Immy. I called her name, just to be sure. But it was pointless. She was in the house; she had to be.

  I was about to head indoors when something in the reeds caught my eye. Something flesh pink. My heart pounding in my chest, I knelt down on the jetty and peered into the water. A round eye stared back at me.

  A scream ripped through the still summer air.

  It wasn’t until Bill came hurtling over, shock etched on his face, that I realised the person screaming was me.

  Chapter Two

  The scream died on my lips as Bill cried, ‘Christ, is she in the water?’

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, pressing pause on the horror. Hoping that when I opened them the gate was locked - it was always locked - and Peppa Pig was where she should be, clasped in Immy’s chubby fist and not staring up at me from the reeds.

  ‘Cleo!’ Bill bellowed.

  My eyes snapped open.

  ‘Is Immy in the river?’

  ‘Not Immy,’ I said. ‘Peppa. Peppa Pig. In the reeds.’

  ‘Show me.’ He pushed past me to the gate.

  ‘Down there,’ I pointed.

  ‘But you didn’t see Immy?’

  I took a deep breath to steady my heart rate. ‘No.’ So much hope resting on one tiny word. ‘Maybe she dropped Peppa in the water when she was playing Pooh sticks and then went inside.’

  The tension in Bill’s face eased a fraction. ‘You’re right.’

  I touched his shoulder. ‘Will you check the shed, glasshouse and garage and I’ll help Stuart and Melanie search the house.’ He nodded and loped towards the shed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  Trying to ignore the sense of dread that was unfurling inside me, I scooted around the perimeter of the garden, checking under rose bushes and behind trees, anywhere my three-year-old daughter may have hidden, calling her name, over and over. But there was no answering cry, no sign of her yellow T-shirt or her fiery-red hair. With each step my sense of panic escalated, and when I reached the back door, I was almost hyperventilating.

  I sucked air into my lungs, choking on a rising sob, then darted into the kitchen, pulled off a square of kitchen towel and blew my nose. I didn’t want the others to see me disintegrating. It would only freak them out. Because I didn’t panic. I was the calm and collected one, the one who knew what to do in a crisis. I pressed my hands against my face. My skin felt hot, fevered. I curled my fingers into fists and jammed them into my eye sockets until I saw stars.

  Something my grandad used to say to me when I was a little girl popped into my head.

  ‘See, Cleo? Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday, and all is well.’

  And he was right. It was silly to worry. Who was to say that Immy wasn’t in her bedroom right now, playing with her dolls or leafing through a picture book, oblivious to our panic? I ran up the stairs and burst into her room.

  Stuart was staring vacantly into the built-in cupboard between the chimney breast and the wall while Nate peered under the bed.

  ‘She’s not here, Mummy,’ he said, his brows puckered.

  Stuart turned to me. ‘Should we call the police?’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘We need to report her missing.’

  I swallowed. Calling the police made it real. Wheels would be set in motion, protocols and procedures followed. There was no turning back from that. ‘Let’s search the house one last time,’ I said. ‘We’d look pretty silly if she’s hiding in the attic. You checked the attic?’

  Hope flared behind his eyes and he started for the door. ‘The attic, of course,’ he said. ‘She’s bound to be there.’

  I followed him across the landing to the steep, narrow staircase that led to the second floor of Stour House. Once the servants’ quarters, the two rooms now served as my home office and a guest bedroom. Tucked away beside the bed in the guest room was an oak door that led to a gap in the roof space sandwiched between the bedroom wall and the chimney. Chipboard lined the floor and an LED lantern hung from a rafter. The kids had dragged cushions and soft toys inside and spent many a rainy afternoon in there playing.

  The door was closed, and Stuart yanked it open, calling Immy’s name. As soon as I saw the yawning black hole behind him, I knew she wasn’t there. Immy may have loved the attic room, but she hated the dark. She’d never have gone in without the light on.

  Stuart crawled in and turned on the lantern. Immediately, his bulk projected a monster-like shadow on the brick chimney breast behind him. He turned on his phone light and pointe
d it into the furthest cobwebby corners.

  ‘She’s not in there, Stu,’ I said.

  ‘She has to be.’

  ‘She hates the dark, you know that.’

  He sat back on his haunches and cradled his head in his hands. ‘Oh, my baby girl, where are you?’

  Footsteps pounded on the stairs and across the wooden floorboards of my office and Melanie appeared, her face pale. ‘I’ve checked the house again from top to bottom and Bill’s checked the outbuildings. We can’t find her.’

  We stared at each other in silence. Grandad had been wrong. Today was the tomorrow I’d worried about ever since Immy was born. I ran a hand across my face.

  ‘Cleo?’ Stuart said. ‘What do we do?’

  I licked my lips. This was now real. ‘We phone the police,’ I said.

  My hand was shaking as I ended the call.

  ‘They’re sending a patrol,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’

  Bill set off towards the front door. ‘We’ll start searching the street.’ He glanced back at Stuart, who looked dazed, as if someone had just clobbered him over the head with a cricket bat. ‘Mate?’

  Stuart gave a little shake of his head. ‘Coming. I’ll just grab my phone.’