by cass green
‘MY-PLEASURE-DARLING.’
She thinks guiltily of Leon, who will be doing his nut.
Angel begins to thumb through the messages. As predicted, Leon has been going crazy with worry about where she is. She needs to call him.
Then she sees a message that makes adrenaline ping in her spine. From the last person in the world she would expect to hear from.
Nina.
60
Nina
I have been drifting in and out of a sickly kind of twilight. I keep thinking I can hear the silvery, sci-fi ringtone of my phone, but I don’t know where it is coming from, or whether I am imagining it.
When the bedroom door opens, I experience the strangest mix of sensations. Fear and revulsion at being near Quinn again, and intense relief that he is still here; that I haven’t been left alone.
Now that I am fully awake again, my neck and back ache from being in this position and the pain in my arm beats like an internal drum. It seems to stain everything around me, as though the air itself is pulsing, angry red. When he sits heavily next to me, making the bed compress, I let out a small cry.
‘What’s the code for your phone?’ he says. He’s properly drunk now, words slurring and skidding. Wossthecode.
‘Why?’ I say. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, my voice comes out thick and muffled.
‘Because you don’t want your son to be worrying too much, do you?’ he says and there is a sharp, malicious edge to his tone that sends a further jolt of fear through me. Drunk, he’s likely to be even meaner and less able to control himself. Breathing quickly, I force myself to try and sound calmer than I feel. I need to comply now. Get myself through this alive.
‘It’s 0501,’ I say. January 5th. Sam’s birthday.
‘Ian,’ he says. ‘That your husband? He’s asking where you are.’
‘Yes,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘I’m meant to be there.’
Quinn grunts then taps at my phone, breathing heavily. I can’t bear to think about what he might be saying. Maybe it will be obvious it isn’t me?
The very thought of Sam being given some lame excuse – of thinking I just didn’t care enough to be there – is awful. I’d be lying, though, if I said it was worse than the agony radiating from my arm into my shoulder. Every breath in and out is a mist of pain. I can’t even care that much about Sam right now. It is all-consuming.
‘There, that should buy you some time,’ he says and gets up heavily. But he has left the phone on the bed, near my knees. My heart leaps as I try to think of a way to distract him.
‘When is your flight?’ I say.
‘I’m leaving in twenty minutes,’ he says. Twenny minutes.
‘Can I have some water please?’ I say. ‘I’m very thirsty.’
He makes that grunting sound again and moves towards the door. I thrust my joined hands down towards where the phone is lying and fumble to pick it up, experiencing a rush of triumph. But then the door is open again and he is roaring at me.
‘Give me that fucking phone, you silly bitch!’
I scream, and he wrenches it from my fingers, throwing it hard against the wall near the door, well out of reach.
I’m sobbing now, all hope lost, and he’s shouting but I can’t even make out what he is saying. There is only helplessness and pain.
‘Why can’t you just—’ Quinn shouts, but he doesn’t get to finish the sentence because someone is banging on the door.
For a large, drunk man, he moves fast, and I barely have time to cry out before the gag has been balled up and thrust inside my mouth once again. He wrenches my hands apart and pulls them behind me to re-tie them. The pain this causes is on a whole new level now. I almost feel my mind wrenching free of its moorings. Like I will never be me, Nina, again. I am just an arm, a shoulder, and agony.
I can hear him speaking downstairs and in my dazed state it takes me a moment to realize I recognize the other voice.
It’s Detective Gilbey. She’s only a few feet away from me, down those stairs.
I try to cry out but all I manage is a sort of guttural rumble that hurts my throat and makes me want to be sick even more. What can I do? What can I do?
Gilbey’s actual words are still too quiet to make out but then I hear Quinn say, ‘Well, thank you for telling me, DC Gilbey. I don’t understand why that young woman continues to try and cause trouble for me. I assure you that if I hear from Nina, I will get in touch with you straight away.’
Then I hear her voice, a little louder.
‘What happened to your table? Looks like someone sat on that.’
He laughs, easily. ‘Oh, that,’ he says. ‘My fault. I was bringing in a large suitcase and I knocked it over. Such a shame. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have rather a lot to do …’
Gilbey doesn’t reply and I hear Quinn say, ‘Who are you calling? What are you doing?’
My phone – lying on the carpet over by the door – starts to ring.
I strain against the gag and try to scream but it’s impossible. I hear Gilbey shout, ‘Stop!’ and the sound of the front door opening. Then I hear another male voice, yelling, and then there is the sound of feet pounding up the stairs.
Time seems to turn back on itself. I’m in my kitchen again – that morning – as the air is suddenly filled with shouting, urgent voices.
Someone yells, ‘In here, Rosie! She’s in here!’
And then a red-haired figure looks down at me, her cheeks flushed with exertion.
‘Hello, Nina,’ DC Gilbey says breathlessly. ‘Looks like you could do with a bit of help there.’
61
Lucas
Lucas wakes to a pearly, early-morning light. The room is cold. He’s always cold, now.
He forces himself to pick up his phone, which is next to the bed on the floor. It wasn’t charging overnight and so the battery life is low. He glances at the latest missed calls and texts from his sister and drops it back onto the carpet.
He doesn’t know how to communicate with her right now. She doesn’t seem to understand that he might as well be in prison. It’s as good as anywhere else. Being ‘free’, as she calls it, doesn’t bring anyone back, does it? Nothing has really changed. The only small satisfaction is the thought that Quinn is having to exist shoulder to shoulder with the kind of people he despises. No bail for him, either.
Even though the murder charge was dropped, the other charges against Lucas and Angel initially remained in place. Lucas stayed on remand for another few weeks until a hearing at which the prosecution confirmed that, after a review, the decision had been taken to discontinue the case.
They explained they didn’t believe there was a reasonable prospect that a jury would convict, given the circumstances in which he had taken Zach. Also, Nina had provided a written statement seeking to withdraw her statement and saying she would only attend court as a Crown witness if compelled to do so.
Angel’s charges were also dropped by the CPS.
Angel had hugged him, eyes shining, outside the courtroom. She couldn’t understand why he refused to come to the pub with her.
‘Don’t you see?’ she’d said. ‘That we finally got him? You’re free now!’ Then she got irritated. ‘Why aren’t you happier, you nutter?’
Lucas had only shaken his head and said he needed a bit of time. He was just shattered, that was all. He’d be in touch.
But a week had passed now and he hadn’t been able to face seeing her.
He could only sleep in short bursts. Every time he dropped off, he saw his mother’s face.
Dev Shah had told him that the police were going to be looking into the case, after what Nina told them about Quinn’s supposed partial confession. But he had been warned that the chances were very slim of getting a conviction after all this time.
Knowing that his mother hadn’t chosen to leave them had been like a gift covered in broken glass. Something good but unbearably painful all at once.
Lucas knows he should get
up now and eat something. He can’t remember what he last ate, or when. The bedsit smells bad too, and he knows he hasn’t washed for days. But he can’t seem to get up.
He starts to cry, softly, wrapping his arms around himself.
Quinn finally did it, it seems. Managed to destroy him.
He lies there, curled in a foetal position, before his wandering thoughts tip into sleep again.
He’s in the kitchen with his mother, making cakes.
Everything is golden. Sunshine fills the kitchen and Lucas feels such a lightness inside; he could just float away like an untethered helium balloon.
Marianne is singing again; some sort of cheesy pop and he joins in, singing with all his heart.
Now they are in Grandad’s barn, and he can hear the sounds of animals. The old dog is nuzzling his hand. All is warm and safe.
He snaps open his eyes to the grey light of the room. And feels a loneliness that is worse than anything he has felt before.
Lucas lies there for another few minutes, listening to the tick of the water pipes and the traffic outside. Then he reaches for his phone.
Angel, he texts. Help me.
62
Nina
Four months later
My phone buzzes from where it sits on top of the packing crate.
Putting down the salad bowl I’m wrapping in newspaper, I pick it up.
What if I forget to feed it, the message reads. No question mark. It’s a habit of hers.
I sigh and then laugh, despite myself. These messages are a daily occurrence at the moment. Recent queries have ranged from: What if they can’t get it out to I might leave it on the bus. What then.
It looks like I have been appointed the expert on all things motherly by Angel.
Which is a little alarming, considering I have had to resort to blackmail with my own son.
When Ian and Sam came into A&E and saw me in the bed, with my arm in a cast, looking like death warmed up, Sam’s expression had almost finished me off.
He hugged me, hard, and even though it hurt all my injured places I didn’t say anything, just stroked his hair and let him cry for a while. But when he pulled away, his eyes were filled with something I hated to see. It was a kind of suspicion, or, I don’t know, distance. Like his ordinary old mum had suddenly become someone else; a person who sucked in all this drama and didn’t really fit with him any more.
He and Ian had waited for ages at the house. When they had received the strangely abrupt text message, ostensibly from me, Ian had known something seemed off, and put it down to the fact that we were in such a strange place with each other. But what could they do, other than go back to Laura’s? I hope Sam will eventually forget what it felt like, waiting for me and thinking I just didn’t care enough to be there.
I have Angel to thank for my rescue. She risked her bail by telling the police she was in touch with me and sharing her fears about where I had gone. She knew what Quinn was capable of, as well as anyone could.
I know that at some point I am going to have to stand in a witness box and describe exactly what happened in Quinn’s house. It is a complicated case and I have been warned it might be well into the new year before it happens.
I still get flashbacks, especially if I awake at night to find myself lying face down on my pillow. I vividly remember the feeling of the gag; the taste of it. The utter helplessness of not being able to see him coming behind me. I’m still having physio from that bad, self-inflicted break to my arm. I had concussion from the bash against the wall, then my own attempts to be heard. I still get the odd headache from that.
I was so very lucky, though. I got away, unlike some of the other women who were unfortunate enough to come up against Nicholas Quinn.
I’m told Marina Goldman has come forward as a witness for the prosecution.
I have been working so hard at making life a bit more normal again, for Sam, but for me too.
We are moving into a ground-floor flat with a garden in a few days’ time. Sam was initially upset at leaving the only house he has ever known, but now he is looking forward to it. He will be able to walk to friends’ houses for the first time ever. Plus, there is a Nando’s at the end of our new road. There has been rather too much excitement at this aspect of the new neighbourhood.
There’s also a nice park, nearby. I expect we will be there a lot, once we have Dexter.
That’s the blackmail part.
One night not long after I’d had to break the news to Sam that the house was going to be sold, I found myself looking on puppy forums.
At first, I told myself I was only browsing; not making a commitment to anything. But by the time I dragged myself off to bed, I had made an appointment to go and visit a couple in Berkshire who had Labradoodle puppies to sell.
I’m told they are less allergenic than some other breeds. I don’t particularly care if Ian spends his time sneezing; he doesn’t live here any more. But Sam brought this issue up and so I thought I should look willing to accommodate the other important people in his life. It looks as though this situation is the only one we have. We have to make it work; all of us.
We collect Dexter, a black Labradoodle puppy, in a couple of weeks’ time. Neither Sam nor I can wait.
Ian took the news with his usual manner of late; a sort of guarded respectfulness. He still thinks I might tell Laura about what we did. But I have no wish to re-visit that night. It only happened, I think, because I was traumatized; all churned up by my recent experiences.
Still, it helped when I told Ian that I needed two thousand pounds a couple of weeks after I came out of hospital. I think he believed I was going to treat myself to a holiday. When it didn’t materialize, he didn’t ask any questions. I’m grateful for that, but it isn’t his business.
I needed it for a reason he would have thoroughly disapproved of.
Angel had rung me, in tears, and told me that Lucas was almost catatonic when she responded to a distress call from him.
I helped her to get him into the local psychiatric hospital, Asa House, that same day. He was a private patient there and it cost an eye-watering amount of money. But, Angel had some money saved up and with my contribution, plus the money from Ian, he was able to stay for as long as he needed.
This week he went back to his old gardening job for the council.
He sent me a thank you card the other day. Inside he had written: If you would like help getting your new garden together, here is my number. I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Lucas xx
It made me happy. I may take him up on his offer.
When he and his sister burst into my life, it was one of the worst experiences I have ever had. They broke into my home; terrorized me for hours.
Ian would think I am insane for staying in touch. I haven’t mustered the energy to tell Carmen or any other friends yet, for that reason.
But life is complicated sometimes and things don’t always fit into neat boxes.
I have realized it is possible for good people to do bad things with the very best of intentions. The truly wicked people are sometimes adept at hiding in plain sight.
My phone buzzes again:
What if it doesn’t like me???
I laugh.
Angel becoming a mother was news that would have appalled me when I first met her, that rainy, sweaty, frightening night. I thought there had never been a less maternal woman. Worse, I thought she was a bad, violent person.
But she never was that, and anyway, pregnancy has softened her. Even the hapless Leon (who, I now realize, is rather more sinned against than sinner) is talked of a little more fondly than he once was.
When she told me, right after Lucas had been checked into Asa House, she said, ‘I might be crap at all the things you’re supposed to do.’ There had been an embarrassed pause, and then, ‘But I already love this baby. That counts for something, doesn’t it?’
And I knew she and the baby would be alright.
I typ
e out a reply.
It will, I write. You aren’t that bad really. And I’m here with all my high-quality Mother Knowledge to help. I suggest blackmail when things get tough.
Seconds later a smiley emoji and a single X come back.
I grin and then put the phone down.
It’s time to finish packing. Then I can leave this house behind.
Acknowledgements:
Living with a criminal lawyer can be … interesting. You often might not make it to the end of a television drama that plays fast and loose with legal accuracy, for example. Once, we didn’t even get through the opening credits. But it also means you have a great deal of expertise on hand when you need it. So, thank you, Pete Lownds, for your invaluable input on this book and all the patient help in making sure I got my facts right. Any errors that slipped through are all my own. I’d like to thank the fantastic writer and ex-policewoman Clare Mackintosh too, for helping with a tricky scene that I was concerned about getting absolutely right. Thank you, Nic Garrett, for helping me with my gardening questions.
My kind early readers Emma Haughton and Helenanne Hansen are always a huge help when I am drafting a book. I hope I haven’t yet worn out the favour quotient, ladies, because I am sure I will be back with the next one!
I feel so grateful to work with a talented team of people in writing these books, from my stupendous agent Mark Stanton (Stan) at the North Agency, who does so much patient hand-holding and reassuring when I have my (many) wobbles, to brilliant Sarah Hodgson, my editor, who has been such a delight to work with on this book and the ones before. Finn Cotton and Emilie Chambeyron at HarperCollins have been so wonderfully supportive too, and make me feel really well looked after. Thanks to Rhian McKay for her forensic eye on copy edits.
I’m immensely grateful to all the people who have read and reviewed my books and who write to tell me what they think. Every time I hear from one of you, it makes all the hard bits of writing (spoiler: there are LOADS of these) much, much more bearable.
