The Pact_A gripping psychological thriller with heart-stopping suspense

by S. E. Lynes

  Bridget nods. ‘Yes.’ She feels tired, in her bones. ‘The police.’

  ‘She called you an assassin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  An eerie calm has descended on the ward. There are no raised voices, no hints of disruption in the corridor. Wherever they have taken Emily, they must have her behind closed doors. Bridget wonders what she will do now. Will she confess to everything? And then of course they’ll have to face the matter of the body. Emily knows it was her; the fingerprints on the gun will match. Arrest is inevitable now.

  Slowly Bridget drags the privacy curtain back around its U-shaped runner. From the other side of her niece’s hospital bed she faces Toni once again: Tones, her mad, broken little sister, the sister she has spent her life trying to save, mostly from herself. With a heavy heart, she digs in the pocket of her leather jacket and pulls out the empty packets she found in the bathroom bin. From the other pocket the ones she found under Toni’s bed. She meets her sister’s eye, holds it, keeps her voice low.

  ‘We have minutes.’ She throws the blister packs onto the bed. ‘I found the diazepam in the bathroom bin, the rest under your bed. I only went under there to grab a sports bag. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’

  Toni looks from the empty packs back to Bridget. Tears spring, overflow, run down her face, which she plunges into her hands.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Tell me, Toni. Tell me quickly and very quietly. I can’t help you unless you tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t realise she’d been drugged.’ Her voice is no more than a whisper. ‘You never said. I just… I just wanted to give her something to help her sleep. I gave her too many.’

  ‘But diazepam? I thought you were going to give her a couple of paracetamol. How many?’

  ‘Bridge, please. Too many, yes, too many, but not enough to—’

  ‘What were you thinking? You must have known you’d knock her out even if she hadn’t had anything else. And what about all these? Movicol, Imodium… Why were they under the bed?’

  Toni’s face crumples, reddens. ‘I was trying to keep her safe.’

  ‘You gave them to her? What, all at once?’

  Toni nods, gives a loud sob.

  ‘What? Was she… When?’ And then it hits her. ‘Before the auditions? Is that why she was sick? The diarrhoea? The constipation? Tell me. You have to tell me.’

  Toni stares down at her hands folded in her lap. She looks so small. After a moment, she gives another sob. ‘I just wanted… She’s only fifteen. Oh God.’

  ‘You could have burst her colon or… or seriously dehydrated her.’ Bridget makes her way around the bed, grabs the spare plastic chair to sit on. She takes her sister’s hands in her own.

  ‘I would never… I just wanted to keep her safe, Bridge.’ Toni’s voice is a low howl. ‘And she was so peaceful afterwards, all cuddled up with me on the sofa. She was my little girl… she was mine.’

  ‘We need to keep our voices right down. We need to whisper. Look at me, Tones. Look at me.’

  Toni sniffs. Her eyes are red. They are scared.

  ‘You can’t ever do that again, Tones. Yeah? You can’t. I know you were trying to protect her, I know you’re finding it hard letting her go, but you can’t do that. They’ll take her away from you. You could go to prison. I’m going to prison for sure, so there’s only you now. I won’t be able to look after you or Rosie for a long time, hon. And you’ll lose her, Tones. They’ll take her off you. Do you get that? Tell me you get that.’

  Toni’s mouth distorts. ‘I only did it a few times. It was all right before Emily came, but then… I didn’t trust her. Rosie loved her though. And then I did trust her, a bit, but I was jealous. I didn’t want her coming in and taking my daughter. But I could feel Rosie breaking away from me. She will break away. She’ll go off into the world and she’ll never come back. It will never be the same. I can’t lose her, Bridge. I can’t be on my own. What if she’d got that film part? What if she’d become famous?’

  ‘But there never were any auditions, hon.’

  ‘What?’ Confusion writes itself all over Toni’s face.

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you. Emily and her brother were working together. Kidnapping and God knows what, God knows how many girls. I’m guessing the auditions were a way of luring them in…’

  Toni wipes her face with her hand. She exhales heavily, shakily. ‘I can’t take it in. I can’t believe it.’ She bites on the knuckle of her thumb, a tiny cry escaping her. ‘But why bother with the online thing? Why not just bundle her into a van?’

  ‘I don’t know. A game of trust or something. We’ll find out, I’m sure. Diversion? So that Emily stayed beyond suspicion? Although I can’t think how they thought the police wouldn’t trace the phone. I don’t know, Tones, I don’t know.’

  Toni nods, bites her thumbnail, tears off a thin white strip with her teeth.

  ‘You won’t tell them, will you?’ she says. ‘The police? About what I’ve done?’

  ‘Of course I won’t. But this stops here, today – do you understand? You have to promise you’ll get help. Professional help. I need to know you can look after Rosie when I’m not here. You have to promise me.’

  Toni meets her eye and nods, her face sorrow itself. ‘I promise.’

  Voices outside, in the ward. Another walkie-talkie.

  ‘They’re here. This is it.’

  Toni nods, sniffs. ‘What do we say?’

  ‘Nothing. We know her, she’s Rosie’s agent – we thought she was nice. But apart from that, we say nothing, yeah? Just leave Ollie out of it for now.’

  Bridget stands. She feels the brush of Toni’s fingers across her palm as their hands slowly separate. She looks over at her niece. Rosie’s legs are straight and still as a soldier’s. Her tube of saline is undisturbed. It takes Bridget another second to see that her eyes are open.

  Sixty-Two

  Transcript of interview with Emily Mirabelle Wood (extract)

  DS Andrews: This interview is being tape-recorded and may be given in evidence if your case is brought to trial. We are in an interview room at Twickenham Police Station, Richmond Borough. The date is July 2018 and the time by my watch is 3 p.m. I am Detective Sergeant Luke Andrews. The other police officer present is Detective Constable Hope Caton. Please state your full name and date of birth.

  Emily Wood: Emily Mirabelle Wood.

  DS Andrews: Ms Wood, would it be all right to refer to you as Emily from this point on? For the benefit of the tape, the suspect is nodding. Also present is Stephen Richardson, solicitor. Mr Richardson, you are not here to act simply as an observer. Your role here is to advise the suspect, facilitate communication and ensure that the interview is conducted fairly. For the benefit of the tape, Mr Richardson has nodded. Emily, at the conclusion of the interview, I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the tapes and how you or your solicitor can get access to them, all right?

  Emily Wood: Yes.

  DS Andrews: Emily, I need to caution you that you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?

  Emily Wood: I have been in The Bill, you know. [Laughs] Sorry, yes. I understand, Officer.

  DS Andrews: Do you agree that there are no other persons present other than those previously mentioned?

  Emily Wood: [Coughs] Yes.

  DS Andrews: All right. Emily, you were apprehended apparently attempting to suffocate Miss Roisin Flint at West Middlesex University Hospital yesterday evening at approximately 7.15 p.m. Can you explain what happened?

  Emily Wood: Why? [Laughs] You’ve just explained it yourself. That’s exactly what happened.

  DS Andrews: Can you tell me why this was?

  Emily Wood: I’d brought the girl home for Owen, but she got away. I didn’t want her blabbing, so obviously I had to shut her up, as it were.

  DS An
drew: Can you tell me who Owen is?

  Emily Wood: He’s my brother.

  DS Andrews: Can you describe your relationship with Miss Rosie Flint?

  Emily Wood: I’m her theatrical agent. I offered her representation but that was a ruse. In reality, I needed a girl for Owen.

  DS Andrews: So you’re saying you took Rosie Flint to your property at 31 Parkview Close, Ham, Richmond Borough, which you have stated is your own home, at approximately 12.15 p.m., and that you did this for your brother, Owen? For the benefit of the tape, the suspect is nodding. Could you take us through the events as they unfolded after you brought Miss Flint into the property at number 31?

  Emily Wood: That I can. [Coughs] I brought the girl into the kitchen in the usual way. We waited there for Owen, who comes by bus. He doesn’t drive, you see. He came in and said hello and sat down with us at the table. We had tea together and ate the scones with butter and honey. I always bake scones when we take a girl.

  DS Andrews: Emily, do you mean to say that there were other girls? That you’ve kidnapped others? For the purpose of the tape, the suspect is nodding. And can you tell us where they are now?’

  Emily Wood: I can. In the greenhouse. Under the greenhouse, I should say. Owen loved the greenhouse. He has very green fingers. Had. But he’d let all that go lately. Which is a shame. He grew fabulous tomatoes.

  DS Andrews: Emily, is the greenhouse at your property, at number 31 Parkview Close?

  Emily Wood: No, dear. At my brother’s. Next door. Number 29.

  DS Andrews: How many girls?

  Emily Wood: Rosie would have been our third.

  DS Andrews: Do you have their names?

  Emily Wood: Lucy Tavistock and Cosima Wright. I kept the newspaper articles. They’ll be in my folder, in the unit to the left of the stove, third drawer down. The first one was years ago, 2010 or ’11 sometime. Before we got the greenhouse. The last one was more recent. I started keeping tabs on her in November time. We weren’t meant to be taking another but Owen was getting antsy. The Rosie Flint operation wasn’t going as I had hoped. I told him we had to go slow. She wasn’t biting, and the mother would barely let her out of her sight. When she got the part in the play, I changed tack. I knew exactly how I would take her, but then, when I made my move, as it were, she kept getting sick. I didn’t want to take another girl, but we needed an interim. We got Cosima from a café in Putney. Tennis champ. That slowed the Rosie operation down somewhat, I can tell you. Almost had to let it drop. But we soon picked up where we left off.

  DS Andrews: Emily, I’m arresting you for the abduction and murder of Lucy Tavistock and Cosima Wright. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?

  Sixty-Three

  Toni

  They interviewed us separately, there in the hospital. They took notes in their little black notepads. They were going to take us to the station, but you needed me and they could see I needed your auntie Bridge. They told us to report to Twickenham Police Station at 2 p.m. the following day so that they could take a formal statement. We agreed.

  You were awake. You ate a sandwich from the vending machine, drank some water. After a stern lecture on the dangers of misusing barbiturates, they discharged you. It was a little after 10 p.m.

  On the way home, in the back seat of the cab, you were OK. You were tired and pale, but you were OK. Your auntie Bridge and me were fragments of ourselves, but we put on brave faces. You told us bits and pieces. I had a million questions; I wanted a full account, second by second, but I knew you were not strong enough yet. There would be time, and at that moment it was a great comfort to me to know that, even though their drugs had caused an involuntary overdose, you had been knocked out for most of your ordeal, and nothing too unthinkable had actually happened. Still, I knew you’d been frightened, and that you’d yet to process what they’d intended to do to you.

  So here we are at home. It’s the next morning. The police will have interviewed Emily last night, maybe this morning. They know that some mad late-middle-aged woman tried to kill a teenage girl. But once Emily has pinned her brother’s death on your auntie Bridge, they’ll be here not with their notepads but with sirens and cuffs. Something tells me we won’t actually have to present ourselves at the station. We’ll be taken away in the back of a squad car. Your auntie Bridge will not come back.

  But you know none of this yet.

  Last night, when we got home, I helped you change into your PJs. Auntie Bridge brought you hot milk with honey, but to our great joy you told us you were starving, that you could murder some toast and peanut butter.

  ‘Coming up.’ Through her unimaginable turmoil, Auntie Bridge still managed to smile – all either of us wanted to do was make it right, make what were potentially our last hours together as special as they could be, and toast was as good a place as any to start.

  I was alone with you in your room. You were sipping your hot milk. The moment was a lull, a kind of peace. The colour was returning to your face, a faint hint of pink beneath your freckles.

  ‘Are you tired… love?’ I asked. I could not, I realised, say baby girl. Not any more. I wonder now why I ever called you that. You are fifteen years old. You are not a baby.

  You shook your head, drained your mug, which I slid onto your bedside table. ‘I don’t know.’

  I wondered how much of my conversation with Bridget you’d overheard in the hospital. Did you know I gave you those pills? Would you forgive me when I told you? Would you ever trust me again? I could not wait another second. The weight of it was crushing me.

  ‘Rosie.’ I took your hand in mine. ‘I need to tell you something. I need to apologise to you.’

  ‘No, I do,’ you said, tears welling. ‘I lied to you, Mummy. I am so sorry.’ You began to cry. I was crying too. ‘I’ll never lie to you again. I’m so, so sorry, Mummy.’ You pushed yourself to the edge of the bed and threw your arms around me. You sobbed into my neck and I into yours.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s all OK now. But I’m the one who should be sorry.’

  ‘No, Mummy. If I hadn’t lied, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Rosie. Listen to me. You have to listen.’

  You sat back on the bed, wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand and gave a deep sniff.

  ‘I made you ill. I did. Me.’ There was no other way to say it. It was as bald and as shameful and as unforgivable as that.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Last night. I gave you my diazepam. I gave you too many, to knock you out, to make you sleep.’

  ‘So that’s why I had to go to hospital?’

  I nodded, closed my eyes. ‘And when you had your auditions, I gave you other stuff. You weren’t nervous. I mean, you were, but not excessively. There’s nothing wrong with you, my love. It was me. I put… medicine in the Rice Krispie cakes. Laxatives one time, loperamide the other – Imodium. That’s what made you ill. Not nerves. Me.’

  I made myself look at you. Your mouth was slack with shock. I couldn’t bear the sight, but it was a sight I deserved. I should look at you, I thought. I should make myself bear it, but I couldn’t. I focused on the wet tissue I was twisting in my lap.

  ‘Last night I didn’t know you’d already been doped,’ I said. ‘I gave you too much diazepam, I know that, but not enough to make you unconscious. I would never have done that. I just wanted to give you a good night’s sleep. But I shouldn’t have given it to you at all, and I’m so very sorry.’ Words were not – would never be – enough. I was beyond forgiveness. But I would spend the rest of my life asking you for it. ‘I was trying to protect you and, ironically, I did. I foiled Emily’s plans – she was trying to lure you away from me, and if I hadn’t given you that stuff, you would have gone to her and who knows where we’d be now?

  ‘I mean, I know that’s not the point, that’s not
the point at all, and it doesn’t make it right, and I am more sorry than I know how to say. I’m going to get help, and it will never happen again, I promise. It will never happen again.’

  After a moment, you took my hand, pulled it towards you like it was a gift, and I had a flash of memory – your father doing that same thing to me. In that moment, I can’t explain it other than to say that I felt him with us – I felt his presence, his light or his soul or whatever you want to call it. He was there with us, my Stan, your daddy.

  I met your beautiful blue eyes, the eyes he gave you, with mine.

  ‘Me and Auntie Bridge will help you,’ you said. ‘That’s the triangle. That’s what we do. We’ll be OK, Mummy. I promise.’

  ‘I love you,’ I whispered. I could not tell you that whatever the road ahead, it was just the two of us now.

  ‘I love you more.’

  ‘So, so wrong.’ I smiled. ‘I love you more.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s like a Sicilian funeral in here.’ Bridget, at the door. You didn’t know that in saving you, she’d killed a man, and what that meant for her, for us. She handed you your toast – an optimistic four slices – and went to sit on the other side of your bed. You grabbed her hand and shook it a moment before letting it drop onto the duvet.

  ‘I can’t eat all this,’ you said, offering me the plate.

  I was hungry too – who knew? I lifted a slice. It was cold. I wondered how long your auntie Bridge had been standing outside the door, not wanting to intrude. So typical of her. I loved you both more in that moment than I could possibly say.

  Today, within a couple of hours, they will come. They will come and they will take your auntie away. We have hours, maybe minutes left, but to voice that will ruin what little time we have together.

  Please, God, let them see it was self-defence. Please, God, don’t let my sister go to prison. And for now, please, God, let the three of us have this moment of peace.

  Sixty-Four