Lost Souls

by Jenny O'Brien

  ‘Now, what about a goodbye kiss from your pretty mam then?’ Charlie said.

  Pushing himself to standing, the car seat in the crook of his arm, he leant in for a kiss reminiscent of the best Hollywood romances.

  ‘You daft thing,’ she laughed. But secretly she was pleased, more than pleased.

  She watched as he reversed the Mini into the road and continued watching until they were out of sight before returning to the warmth of the house. She slipped off her shoes by the front door and, fumbling into her slippers, headed for the kitchen. There was washing and ironing, not to mention food to prepare. There were so many things she knew she should be doing but she felt sick with tiredness. With a mug of tea in her hand, she returned to the sofa and, feet propped up on the end, rested back, allowing the silence to envelop her.

  There was always noise in the cottage. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault that he was one of those men you could hear long before you could see them: Charlie, her one-night stand, who seemed to have taken up root in both her house and her heart. He was always clomping around the place with a heavy tread and if it wasn’t him, it was one of his mates he’d invited back for her to feed. The house suddenly felt empty with the pervading sound of silence.

  She’d close her eyes, just for five minutes … they’d be back soon.

  The fire had died back to nothing, the embers just a pale glow in the grate. She turned her head towards the window, her hand instinctively pulling the woollen blanket around her shoulders, a shiver snaking its way across her spine. The last time she’d looked out, the sun had been streaming in through the pane but all that was visible now was the dense grey of twilight. The phone rang, slicing through her sudden fear. She struggled to sit, her neck stiff from the arm of the sofa. A million excuses chased through her mind.

  They’ve been delayed, maybe had a puncture … or knowing Charlie, he’s run out of petrol.

  Her hand lifted the receiver to her ear before gently replacing it. She’d learnt the best way to treat cold callers was by doing exactly that. No comment. No words. Nothing.

  She pulled the throw tighter over her shoulders, her eyes now on the clock on the mantelpiece, her mind in a tangle.

  Two hours? How the hell could she have slept for so long? This was quickly followed by the worst thought of all: He must have had an accident. Even now, he’s in some anonymous hospital bed and as for Alys …

  Her stomach clenched when there was no need – she’d just ring his mobile. Reaching out a hand, she quickly tapped in his number.

  The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.

  She was scared now, really scared. He never left his phone switched off even if it was only to check on the football scores. They’d been gone hours. She had no idea where the hell he could have taken her. Alys would need a feed and a nappy change. There was nowhere he’d go, not with a newborn.

  Izzy heaved a sigh at her foolishness and, for one long moment, relished the feel of wool against skin as she tried to laugh her fears off. She wasn’t his keeper. They’d got held up. Something had happened, something silly that she couldn’t guess at and, in a minute, she’d hear the creak of the gate and the turn of the key.

  The moment passed. The minutes continued ticking and her sliver of calm disintegrated.

  In a sudden burst of movement, she leapt from the chair and ran up the stairs.

  That’s it. They came in earlier, hours earlier and even now they’re both curled up in their beds, not wanting to wake me.

  But Alys’s cot was empty, apart from the pale-yellow blanket folded neatly over the end, just the way she’d left it that morning. Their bed was empty too, the duvet flung back any old how, the sheets cold, wrinkled, uninviting.

  Outside. Maybe he pulled up and decided to close his eyes. Maybe it’s like the last time when he forgot his keys and, if Alys has fallen asleep in the car, he might have decided not to wake me.

  She remembered the last time. His sheepish grin when she shook him back into the land of the living, which developed into their first big row and ended in a swift coupling against the back of the sofa.

  There was post on the mat but she just stepped over it. She wasn’t in the mood for bills and flyers. She just needed to know that Alys was safe.

  The air was cold, wiping the smile from her face. There was barely a glimmer of light as twilight switched to dusk. They were far enough away from everyone for darkness, when it hit, to mean exactly that. There wasn’t even a visible moon or any stars to light the way. She took a second to drag air into her lungs, the smell from the winter-flowering jasmine around the door filling her senses, but there was no joy to be had from the scent. Her eyes adjusted enough to see the outline of the gate and the telegraph pole next to it. There was no car, no indication that he’d returned. There was nothing apart from the empty track leading up to the house.

  Izzy stayed a while. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong – something that she had no way of putting right.

  She finally wandered back into the hall, the post in her hand, the throw trailing in her wake. She was cold down to the bone, but it wasn’t the type of cold that the warmth from wool was going to solve. Her hand stretched towards the phone for a third time, her arm brushing against her breasts, now heavy with milk. She hesitated, her gaze lingering on the mail and the postcard on top. Was she overreacting? Was this the paranoid response of a new mum? Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully.

  The card was plain white and, with no name or address scrawled on the front, must have been hand delivered. She flipped it over and all thoughts of a simple explanation died along with any hope in her heart.

  I’ve got Alys. Don’t try to find us, Charlie

  Chapter 1

  Izzy

  Monday 23 December, 5.10 p.m. Swansea

  It took one look, just one, for Izzy’s world to shatter a second time.

  To anyone else it was only a flicker, a face in the crowd but to her it was a face so intrinsically linked to her past that she paused in her fur-lined boots, unable to do more than stare at the woman disappearing across the street. It was all there in the angle of her head, the sway of her hips, the colour of her jet-black hair. It had been five years and yet it still felt just like yesterday.

  Grace. Grace Madden.

  A wave of ice-cold worked its way across her shoulders and down her spine, pinning her to the spot. She couldn’t move even if her life depended on it. Instead, she watched, transfixed as Grace clambered into a waiting taxi before zooming into the distance. She was too late and yet what could she have done? Shout? Scream? Surely she could have done something instead of just standing there? The tears came in a sudden deluge. Tears for the opportunity she’d just lost.

  ‘Are you all right, love? All this Christmas cheer getting to you?’ The stranger’s soft Welsh accent was a welcome interruption.

  Izzy wiped a hand over her cheeks before scooping up her bags.

  ‘I’m fine, just a little overcome,’ she said, jolted out of her reverie. She was standing outside Costa, her gaze still lingering on the spot where she’d last seen her. Stepping out of his way with a brief smile, she headed inside to buy a coffee she didn’t want simply because the tremors running up her legs made sitting an urgent necessity.

  Costa was busy but she managed to secure a table right at the back and, pushing her coffee to one side, rested her head in her hands.

  Was it even Grace? It certainly looked like her with her distinctive black hair sweeping her shoulders in sharp contrast to her pale face and razor cheekbones. But now, as the seconds ticked into minutes, she wasn’t so sure. Bottle black was such a popular look these days and it wasn’t as if she was that unique.

  Squashing back tears, she reached for her cup with an unsteady hand and took tentative sips until the cup was drained. But still she sat, clenching it between her hands, trying to drag the strength up from somewhere to think about someone she hadn’t thought of in a very long ti
me. Grace, the woman she’d thought her best friend. A great friend she’d turned out to be, leaving town at a time when she’d needed her the most – the weekend Alys disappeared. She hadn’t even bothered to get in touch since. But now she was back.

  Izzy frowned, trying to remember but suddenly the only thing she could think about was the glaring fact that Grace had chosen to leave the area at the same time Charlie had taken Alys. Now it seemed a little too convenient and, if she hadn’t been on fistfuls of tranquilisers at the time, surely, she’d have forced the police to investigate this aspect of the case further.

  She didn’t know how long she sat, staring into the past. Time was irrelevant to someone like her. Time was irrelevant to someone who’d had the whole world in the palm of her hand only to lose it in an instant. She didn’t know what pulled her out of her fugue. A rattle of cups? The door being pushed? The happy family of two-plus-two at the next table making more noise than sense?

  In a spurt of energy, she picked up her scarf and wrapped it loosely around her neck, a quick look at her watch confirming that she’d spent far too long thinking about the past. She couldn’t do happy families, not now. Now she had to leave, if only to catch the last train home. Spending the night in Swansea weighed down with shopping was the very last thing she wanted to face just before Christmas.

  The local supermarket was packed, but it was always going to be at this time of the evening. Her mind was still buzzing with thoughts of Grace but she clamped them down under an iron lid. She would think about her but not now. Not here. Not yet. She’d get all her jobs out of the way before letting her creep back inside.

  Head down, she avoided anyone and everyone. She wanted to buy what she needed before journeying home and slamming the door. Only then would she allow her thoughts to drift back into the past.

  ‘Hello, Izzy, long time no see.’

  She looked up into the face of DI Rhys Walker, brother of Rebecca, an old friend from her school days, and the lead detective in the search for Alys. St David’s wasn’t the largest place in the world and she was always bumping into people she knew but not in Rhys’s case. He was right when he said he hadn’t seen her around but that was only because she’d managed to avoid him by ducking into whichever bar, shop or restaurant she’d happened to be standing outside.

  She’d dealt with Rhys. She’d spent what felt like a lifetime holed up in Swansea Police Station going over the case. It was just her luck that he’d decided to commute when he’d been promoted rather than move out of St David’s altogether. Every time she caught a glimpse of his burly frame around town, she had to shove her heart back down her throat with a thump. She’d had no choice but to deal with him then but now? Now she chose to avoid him and, if it hadn’t been for spotting Grace, she’d have managed to avoid him again.

  It wasn’t that he was bad-looking, far from it. He wasn’t that tall, probably five-ten but his well-muscled, powerful build made up for what he lacked in height. His dark brown hair used to be collar-length before police regulations dictated the short crop he was currently sporting. All in all, he was your boy-next-door type. A boy she’d grown up with through the years, despite him being six years older. They’d gone to the same school. They’d frequented the same cinemas and social venues. But he was a copper, only that.

  She hopped from one foot to the other, her gaze flicking from her trolley to his and back again before landing on his ringless left hand. The last time she’d spoken to him he’d been single. But, by the state of his trolley, nearly overflowing with Christmas cheer, there was now bound to be a bride and a bundle of babies to complete his happiness. Well, bully for him. However, instead of passing the time of day, all she wanted was to hide under her duvet and think about the implications of seeing Grace again because, despite her misgivings, she was now one hundred per cent sure it was her.

  He wasn’t going anywhere. She could see it in the way his gaze drilled down through layers of skin, flesh and bone right to her heart, if indeed she still had that organ thumping inside her chest.

  His hand fastened around the wire rim of her trolley before leaning in to inspect the contents. ‘Not having turkey and all the trimmings?’ he said, a frown replacing his smile.

  Her gaze followed his and she saw what he saw: four rolls of wrapping paper nudged up beside two bottles of plonk and one of whiskey, all topped off with a ready meal and a tub of chocolate ice cream. It was a lonely basket for a lonely woman, and it was also none of his bloody business.

  ‘Yes, well. I’m not home for Christmas.’

  ‘No? Where are you off to then?’ His smile was back and she remembered again just what a nice bloke he was. ‘I hope it’s somewhere exciting?’

  ‘Hardly! Only to my parents. And you? Do you have an exciting time planned?’

  ‘Not really, although I do have Christmas off for a change.’

  She held his gaze for a second before turning her attention back to the contents of his trolley and the large bag of Maris Pipers on top. Meeting him hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared and the questions far less intrusive. But that wasn’t surprising being as they were standing next to an old woman in a purple hat as she picked over the sprouts with a slow deliberation. She knew she should bat back a question about what he was up to with his full trolley. He certainly wasn’t the only solitary man wandering around with a bemused look on his face while they searched for the cranberry sauce, but he was the only one she didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation with. There was no way she was going to continue talking about turkey and the like. In truth, she didn’t give a damn where he was spending his Christmas or with whom. She didn’t give a damn whether he was planning to gorge himself silly on turkey or a plate of nut-roast with deep-fried falafel on the side. She just didn’t care.

  They’d given up. They’d given up searching after the first few weeks, but it wasn’t something she’d ever be able to do. Charlie had stolen her child and then had the arrogance to post a card through her letter box boasting what he’d done. What kind of man would be so cruel? Certainly not the kindly man hovering in front of her. She felt rejuvenated suddenly. Seeing Grace had rejuvenated her and changed something. Where before she’d been prepared to let it ride, now she couldn’t. For the first time in what felt like a very long time she was going to get off her behind and do something. The only question was what.

  Her gaze shifted back to his face, an idea hovering. Should she tell him about seeing Grace in Swansea? Would he be interested after all this time? And finally, what good would it do? Before common sense interfered and stopped her, she leant forward, lowering her voice to a thin whisper.

  ‘Actually, I’m pleased I’ve bumped into you. There’s something I need to tell you.’

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  Acknowledgements

  Another book. Another year as I sit writing this on the first of January in the hope that 2021 will draw a line through the previous twelve months. Lost Souls will be my fourth book published with HQ Digital and the fourth during lockdown. Here’s hoping for a better fate for book five.

  Writing is an isolated profession but I couldn’t have continued to develop the character of Gaby Darin without help. Firstly a huge thank you to my outstanding editor, Abi Fenton, for her support and faith in my work. I probably wouldn’t still be writing if she hadn’t found me lurking in her slush pile! Also thanks to Dushi Horti, who has helped pick up the reins at HQ Digital and keep me on track. I’d also like to thank editor Helena Newton, editorial assistant Audrey Linton, and narrator Janine Cooper-Marshall. Writer Valerie Keogh also deserves an early mention. Her daily chats are a huge incentive for me to carry on tapping away on my keyboard.

  Wh
ile the characters here are fictitious there are a few who aren’t. Amy Potter, my friend and colleague, appears again as do swimming pals, Barbara Matthews and Katherine Jane, neither of whom resemble their characters and were happy to be murdered off, at least in print! Albert Honeybun is a wonderful name. It belonged to the father-in-law of a crime fiction reader over at the UK Crime Book Club. Thank you to Andrea Delene for giving me permission to use it.

  My books are set in Wales and I can’t speak the language but Rhian Jones, over on Twitter, can and helped me enormously with the Welsh translations needed for the school and housing estate, so thank you.

  I also like to use local businesses for authenticity. Castell Gwyn’s award-winning cracked black pepper cream cheese exists. Thanks to Jackie Whittaker for allowing me to use it. I look forward to sampling it next time I visit Wales. Nathan Jones is a very talented Welsh artist who creates the most amazing paintings, which are available online (@NathanJArt) and to view at The Life: Full Colour art gallery in Caernarfon. It was an honour to include one of his paintings on Amy’s lounge wall.

  My mum used to live in Llandudno. Take a Break Café was one of her favourite places and so gets a mention as does Providero Café.

  Much of the book centres around hip prosthetics, an idea that stemmed from a conversation I had with local jeweller, Paul Paint. The idea was expanded on with help from orthopaedic surgeon Ben Burgess, who very kindly met up with me to cement the idea and how it might work in my story. Also thanks to Julie Dunk for information on prosthetics following cremation. As a nurse, my knowledge of UK policing is limited to what I read so any mistakes are my own. I’ve researched everything that I’ve written about but errors are bound to creep in so apologies in advance if I’ve missed something.