The Babysitter: From the author of digital bestsellers and psychological crime thrillers like The Girl Next Door comes the most gripping and addictive book of 2020!

by Phoebe Morgan

  ‘Of course she is,’ I say, ‘she slept the whole time. No trouble at all.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Caro,’ Jenny says, reappearing in the hallway, putting a hand on my arm. ‘We really appreciate it. God, I don’t know what we’d have done if you weren’t here! She’d have screamed the place down if we’d woken her up. They probably wouldn’t have let her into the ward.’

  She smiles at me, and her eyes are warm, warmer than they were earlier in the evening. She looks relieved, and grateful – properly grateful, as if I really have saved her from something rather than just looked after a sleeping baby for a couple of hours while she rushed to her mother-in-law’s bedside. I wonder if she’s coping with motherhood quite as well as I thought she was, as the cute pictures of baby Eve dotted around the house would have everyone believe.

  I glance at my watch, surprised to see that it’s almost midnight.

  ‘I’d better be getting home,’ I say, ‘it’s pretty late.’

  ‘You could stay over?’ Jenny offers, ‘sleep on the sofa? I’m so sorry it’s got so late. We didn’t realise the time.’ She yawns, not bothering to cover her mouth with her hand.

  ‘No, no,’ I say, because although I’m tired, the thought of waking up surrounded by their busy, happy space is almost more than I can bear. The text message has really shaken me up, and I have a sudden longing to be in my own bed, with the duvet pulled over me like when I was a child, the door bolted shut behind me. I always bolt the door before I go to bed, and usually end up getting up ten minutes later to double-check that I’ve done it. I’ve never got used to sleeping alone, which is ironic really, given that most of the time I have to.

  ‘Rick can run you home?’ Jenny says, and he nods immediately, but I wave her away, anxious at the thought of spending even a few minutes cooped up with her husband and his pity.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll walk. It’s only ten minutes.’

  She looks worried. ‘Are you sure, Caro? It’s late.’

  ‘It’s only Ipswich,’ I say, forcing a little laugh, ‘I’ll be fine.’ I hesitate, wondering whether to say what’s been on my mind, the words I was drafting in my head as I stared down at Eve in her little cot. ‘And listen, Jenny, if you need me to look after Eve again, any time, I’m very happy to. Honestly.’ I pause, swallow. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  It’s only brief, but I catch the look of surprise that flits across both of their faces. I try very hard not to mind. It’s fair enough that they don’t think I’m a baby person, I tell myself, because I’ve never told them what happened.

  ‘Thank you, Caro, that’s really kind of you,’ Jenny says, rectifying the awkward moment, and she reaches out and gives me a hug, wrapping me tightly in her arms. It feels nice, and with a sharp pain I realise that no one has properly touched me like that since the night Callum and I broke up. And even then, it wasn’t particularly nice. Over her shoulder, I look at the photos of Eve on the wall, then notice Rick watching me, and flick my eyes away.

  ‘No problem,’ I say to Jenny, hugging her back, and she smiles at me again, rubs her eyes with the knuckles of her hand. ‘You must be tired,’ I say.

  ‘It is tiring,’ she says, ‘this baby malarkey – no one ever tells you how hard it’s going to be.’ For a moment, it’s as though the shiny, happy armour she usually wears slips a little, and through the chink I see something else – how exhausted she is, how frustrating it might sometimes be to cope with little Eve. But as soon as the moment arrives it is gone, and she’s leading me to the door, waving at me as I leave the house. Wondering if she’s as happy with her choices as she makes out.

  I can feel Rick’s eyes on me all the way down their little garden path.

  I walk quickly back through the town – it’s much cooler now; England can never retain heat in the way mainland Europe does. I bet it’ll be boiling in France next week. It’s dark now, the only light provided by the lamps on the thoroughfare. The quickest way would be to take the side street and walk along near the harbour. Wrapping my cardigan more tightly around me, I hesitate for a second – there is something about the water that looks slightly menacing – but then I tell myself to stop being silly and set off for my flat, tucking my hands into my pockets, one hand gripped around my mobile. It’s quiet – most of the pubs and the few clubs that there are in Ipswich are only really busy on Saturday nights, and even then, it all calms down by about eleven, last orders. It’s a world away from the all-night noise of Leeds; the cacophony of traffic and party-goers that I got used to back at university.

  As I walk, I start to feel a prickling sensation along the back of my neck, as though I am being watched. I’m imagining things, I think to myself, that stupid text message has freaked me out, but even so I walk a tiny bit faster, counting my steps – fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven – to stop my thoughts from spiralling. As I round the corner onto my road, I pass someone walking – wearing a dark coat, the gleam of white headphones peeking out from their collar. I can’t see their face and my breathing increases as I approach them, but it’s just a woman, and she doesn’t even glance at me. Feeling stupid, I ignore the odd sensation and gratefully tap my fob against the little sensor outside my block of flats, hear the reassuring beep of the system letting me inside. I’m glad they’ve fixed the security – there was a period where it kept breaking, giving anyone access to the main door. I think a few of the residents complained, not that I actually got round to doing so. The defunct CCTV camera stares blankly at me, its screen shattered into jagged pieces the same way it’s been since last year when the kids from the Warwick Estate threw stones at it. Still, at least the lift is working today, something that’s not always a guarantee. In the lift mirror I stare at myself – my cheeks are flushed and my eyes a bit glittery. Too much time with Eve, playing the babysitter, I think.

  Back in my flat, I turn on all the lights and plug my phone in to charge, setting it on my bedside table as I pull off my clothes, my body sticky, sweat lingering from a day in the August heat. I open up the text message again. I know what you’re doing. Don’t take what isn’t yours. The words blur, the angry little letters bouncing into themselves beneath my gaze. Frowning, I copy and paste the mobile phone number and put it into Safari, but all that comes up are random streams of ‘who called me?’ sites that don’t give any help at all.

  I try to think calmly, logically. I think of Jenny’s face, the coldness in her voice when she asked me about Callum earlier, but then I think of the way she hugged me just now, the way she let me look after her child, and the fact that I have both her and Rick’s numbers saved in my phone, and that as far as I know, they don’t have another one used for threatening friends on special occasions. Why would they?

  It’s almost one in the morning. My sad little how are you? to Callum, sent all those hours ago, sits resolutely at the top of my WhatsApp screen. I stare at the page. Last seen at 22.04. He hasn’t even looked at his phone for hours, he’s probably in bed with Siobhan and has left it on charge like a normal person. Like someone who isn’t obsessing over their mistress. Like someone who hasn’t given me a second thought at all. Like someone who doesn’t care that he’s ruined my life. I hate the last seen function on WhatsApp, designed to make us feel ignored. Us. The mistresses, the after-thoughts. A group of women I wish I didn’t belong to.

  It’s then that the thought occurs to me: Siobhan. And I can’t believe I haven’t thought about it before. The person who has the most obvious reason for threatening me is Callum’s wife.

  I’ve seen her a couple of times. Once, when I followed him home one night, keeping my distance, my hands shoved deep in my pockets and a big scarf across my mouth because it was Christmas time, and cold. It’s not as bad as it sounds; I just wanted to see her, see where they lived. Their big house by the park was all lit up, a Christmas tree in the window, golden lights glittering along the roof. She was in one of the upstairs bedrooms, her figure illuminated by the light of the room. I watched as Callum went i
nto the house – we’d been drinking mulled wine; she thought it was after-work drinks with his colleagues. I could only see her outline, really, the sway of her long hair, but it was enough to confirm that she was better than me. I stood there for about ten minutes, watching the house, my hot breath pushing into my scarf.

  I lie down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, so familiar to me now with its whorls and stains. I think of all the times Callum and I have lain here together, kissing and laughing and talking. After a moment or two, I get up to check that the door is locked, run my fingers over the bolt, slide the chain across. I think of Callum with Siobhan, of her long hair tumbling over her shoulder, touching him on the arm. Don’t take what isn’t yours. Could the message be from her?

  I fall asleep with the phone clutched in my hand.

  Chapter Nine

  France

  13th August: The day of the arrest

  Siobhan

  I lie to Emma, tell her that I’ve no idea who Caroline Harvey could be or how her dad knows her. My stomach twists as I do so – haven’t there been enough lies? – but at this stage, I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never told my daughter about Callum’s affairs; I’ve always prided myself on shielding her from it. In the background, Maria swears – she is still on hold to the airline company, trying to change our return flights and get the next ones possible back to the UK. I can hear the sound of their holding music, very faintly, the noise of it tinny in the large hallway.

  Suddenly desperate for some fresh air, I pull back the blinds from the large French doors, still in my nightie. The dazzling sunlight hits me, bright and unrelenting, and I twist the door handle, stepping outside onto the patio. There’s a bottle of wine, empty, standing at the foot of one of the comfy chairs, and I stare at it, imagining us all grouped out here the other night, with no idea of the shock this morning would bring. But then I think of Callum on the plane, his odd jitteriness, and I wonder if he knew exactly what this holiday might bring, had been counting the hours until the dreadful sound of the doorbell, clanging through the house. Surely not, I reassure myself, surely my husband isn’t capable of a crime. Adultery is one thing, but murder? I think of the tears in his eyes as he learned of Caroline’s death. Real or false?

  The lack of internet here, once a blessing, is now a curse – I want desperately to google her name, search the British news websites for any sign of what might have happened. Surely someone will call soon, the police will come back and tell us this has all been a big mistake. Not knowing is torturous.

  ‘Siobhan!’ Maria is calling me from inside the house, the cordless landline phone pressed to her ear. ‘They’re saying the next flight they can get us on is tomorrow.’

  I stare at her through the open French doors. ‘Tomorrow? Isn’t there anything today?’

  She shakes her head. ‘We can get the 7.20 from Caen in the morning. They’ll move the booking for us. That way you won’t lose the money. Or we could drive, I guess.’ She taps her fingers against the plastic casing of the phone, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Got to let them know now, S.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, ‘OK.’ The thought of a six-hour drive in this heat is unappealing, and this way, I have some time to collect my thoughts. ‘OK, yes, yes please. If that’s the best we can get.’

  She nods at me and turns her attention to the person at the other end of the phone line. Anxiety courses through my veins. Part of me can’t bear the thought of returning to England, of all this becoming real, but then staying here feels almost as bad. None of us can enjoy the holiday now, can we? The thought is absurd. And all the while we’ve no idea what is happening to Callum, where he is, what they’re actually accusing him of.

  ‘Done.’ Maria appears on the patio beside me – I didn’t even hear her come outside. ‘We’ll be home by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll leave the car here and fly back with you. I can pick it up another time. I’ll let the police know, too.’ Gently, she wraps an arm around my waist and I shiver slightly; my sister and I don’t tend to show much physical affection, not now that we’re adults. When we were younger, we did – we shared a room until I was almost fourteen – but I feel slightly stiff under her touch.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I whisper to her, my voice cracking a little as I think of the next twenty-four hours stretching out in front of us.

  She sighs; I can feel her breath warm against my neck. ‘S, look, I bet they’re only wanting to talk to him at this stage. Those officers weren’t charging him. Not yet.’

  There’s a beat of silence. We both know that they wouldn’t come all the way out here, track him down like this, if there wasn’t more to it all than meets the eye. They wouldn’t arrest him for nothing. I need to know more – when they think she was killed, where my husband was at the time. How much they have already pieced together. I need to be a step ahead.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say to her, ‘but what if they do? What if he’s done something, Maria?’

  She doesn’t answer me, and when I look at her again she won’t quite meet my eye.

  We don’t eat breakfast – I can’t stomach it and Emma says she’s not hungry either. Maria makes a pot of coffee, black and steaming, and the three of us sit outside on the terrace for a little while, mobile phones on the table in front of us, even though it’s relatively pointless due to the lack of signal. Above us, the rock towers into the bright blue sky. The crickets continue to chirp. The sun feels like it’s mocking us, and eventually I tell the others I’m going inside to pack. I step inside, past the pile of rugs, the ornate lamp and the beautiful bookcase, the shiny life of my sister, untouched by an adulterous husband who may or may not be a killer.

  In our room, I pick up my suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe and place it on the still-unmade bed. I always unpack fully upon arrival whenever we come away; I hate the way my clothes feel after being crumpled up inside a suitcase for days on end. I run my fingers over my dresses, sliding them from their hangers. As I do so, I find myself wondering what she wears – or wore. Caroline Harvey. I try not to think about her, have tried not to for four months now, pushing away the thoughts of what she might look like, what she might sound like. I googled her name, of course, when I first found out, but reams of them came up. I had no way of knowing which Caroline was the one my husband had decided to screw. I’ve been thinking what to do for all this time, if I’m honest – debating whether to leave, whether to stay, whether to confront or ignore. I’ve ignored for so long, let all these women pass me by for the sake of our family, but Emma is sixteen now, older. I feel differently to how I used to. Somehow, him starting another affair after a period of fidelity feels much worse. I suppose I let my defences come down. I paw through my clothes, wondering whether my daughter and I could weather a broken marriage. But what has happened today will change everything, won’t it? The same options are no longer available.

  A red dress slithers through my hands, one Callum bought for me on our anniversary, a few years ago now. He’d presented it to me with a flourish, and that night I’d put it on for him, feeling giggly and young, even though I was well into my thirties, my stomach marked with the scars of Emma’s birth. A difficult birth; torturous almost. My daughter still tortures me, I think wryly, just in a different way. Callum used to buy me things a lot earlier in our relationship – clothes, jewellery, trips away. He hasn’t bothered for years. Too busy with other things – or other people.

  In spite of what’s happened today, of the stab of pity I felt when he walked out of the door, I feel now a splash of rage against him, and in quick, decisive moves I yank the rest of my dresses from their hangers, begin stuffing them into my suitcase, taking none of the care I normally exhibit when it comes to my belongings. I scoop up my jewellery from the dresser, catching sight of myself in the large, ornate mirror – I look like a mad woman. My hair is all over the place, my nightie clings to me oddly and the clutch of bright jewellery in my hands glitters strangely against the pale of my skin. For a second,
I stare at my reflection, as though it is someone else, and then I resume my frantic packing, shoving everything into my case, leaving only my toothbrush, my passport, and a change of clothes out on a chair for tomorrow.

  Then the sound comes again – the clang of the bell. My insides freeze. Pulling on the cardigan I’d left out, I make my way back into the hall and see Maria and Emma standing at the door with the female police officer who was here before. For a moment, my heart leaps – she’s going to tell us it has all been a mix-up, and any second now, Callum is going to appear behind her – but even as I walk towards them, I know that isn’t the case. Maria is nodding, Emma biting on her lip beside her, a strand of blonde hair falling over her face.

  ‘What?’ I say quickly, ‘for Christ’s sake, Maria, what is it now?’

  ‘Your husband’s things.’ The policewoman surprises me by speaking in English, her heavy accent distorting the words. I feel a flicker of anger, wondering if their refusal to speak anything other than French this morning was designed to unnerve us all, intended to purposely confuse.

  ‘They want us to leave everything as it is,’ Maria says, ‘they’ll need to search the villa.’

  ‘Can we take our own things?’ I ask, stunned, and the policewoman shakes a head. ‘Just yourselves,’ she says gruffly, ‘leave everything else. Including the car. We need to check it.’

  She looks at me, and emboldened, I take a step forwards, pulling my cardigan over my breasts. She isn’t better than me, this woman with her uniform and her orders.

  ‘What will happen to my husband?’ I say to her, ignoring the way Emma is anxiously watching me, and the nervous energy radiating off my sister.

  ‘Your husband is being flown to England,’ she says, her words short and sharp. ‘He with English police.’ She sniffs, as though the thought of the English constabulary is distasteful to her somehow. Maria, as if sensing my annoyance, steps forward and puts a hand on my arm, pulling me gently towards her.