by Karen Osman
THE GOOD MOTHER
Karen Osman
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
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About The Good Mother
How far would you go to protect your children?
A gripping psychological suspense, with a shocking twist that will leave you reeling…
Catherine is a good mother and a good wife. The family home is immaculate, her husband’s supper is cooked on time, but when she starts writing to Michael, a prisoner convicted of murder, she finds herself obsessing about his crime and whether he can ever truly be forgiven…
Kate has no time for herself. Caught in the maelstrom of bringing up two young children with no money, and an out of work husband, she longs to escape the drudgery of being a wife and a mother. And she soon starts taking dangerous risks to feel alive…
Alison has flown the nest. But university life is not what she had hoped for, and she finds herself alone and unhappy. Until the day her professor takes a sudden interest in her. Then everything changes…
Three women – all with secrets. And as the days tick down to Michael’s release, those secrets can no longer be ignored.
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Good Mother
Dedication
Preface
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
Acknowledgements
About Karen Osman
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For my boys – Fahad, Zane, and Ryan x
Preface
He lunged at her and, whether it was the amount of wine he’d drunk making him clumsy or he had simply tripped over a chair leg, he came crashing down on the floor. Seeing the knife still in his hand, she didn’t hesitate. She turned and ran for her life. Out through the kitchen and into the hallway. She could see it now – the front door was just a few seconds away. She had to get out into the street where there were other people. Her hand reached for the door handle and she yanked it hard. But it wouldn’t open – it was either stuck or locked. She tried again, praying the door was just jammed by the carpet, but it didn’t budge. She could see the keychain hanging on its hook to the side and made a grab for it. Shaking, she tried to find the right key from the bunch to open the door. She could hear him stumbling around in the kitchen and knew she only had seconds to spare. Hearing him coming out of the kitchen, she turned to look back. He looked deranged. There was blood where he had banged his head on the floor and as he came rushing towards her, the last thing she saw was the cruel glint of the blade of the knife, and she knew everything was over.
Chapter 1
Catherine
15 August 2010
Dear Michael,
My name is Catherine and I am a volunteer with the charity Friends of Inmate Rehabilitation. I hope things are as well as they can be.
When I was asked to correspond with you as part of the charity’s efforts to help prisoners, I was initially apprehensive. However, I reminded myself that we have a duty to help those less fortunate than ourselves, and I hope that through these letters I can give you a little insight into the outside world. The only information I have about you is your name and offence and I’m aware that you have spent over ten years in prison already. The charity informed me that you will soon be up for parole, which I’m sure you’re looking forward to. As a result, they assign people like me to help you prepare for life outside through letters.
So, where shall I start? My husband, Richard, our daughter, Helen and I live about two hours away from Durham. Richard works in finance, and I volunteer for various charities as well as work at the local library.
Are you from Durham? I used to know the city fairly well and I always thought it was such a lovely place, especially the cathedral. In fact, I have a lot of memories of strolling through the cobbled streets, and I have walked for miles along the river. We moved to the Lake District just under ten years ago, and we really enjoy life here. When the weather’s fine, we spend a lot of time outdoors, walking and hiking, and my daughter loves nature and wildlife, so for her it’s ideal.
Do you get to go outside a little each day? I do hope my questions aren’t too personal. Perhaps in the next letter, you can tell me a little bit more about yourself? If you have any specific questions, please feel free to ask me. This is the first time I have done anything like this and I’ll be honest, I’m not quite sure what I’m doing! I’m hoping you can help and guide me through it.
Catherine looked at the letter in front of her. Then, before she could change her mind, she carefully wrote her signature at the bottom of the page. Leaving the letter to one side, she headed for the kitchen to make tea. Returning, she sat in her favourite chair by the window looking out over the beautiful views. A rugged mountainous backdrop gave way to gentle green slopes. But the rolling hills were not enough to capture her attention; the letter taunted her from its place on the desk. Was she really going to write to a murderer? Her family would be horrified if they found out. She had taken up various volunteer positions in her time but nothing like this. Once she had contacted the rehabilitation centre it had all happened remarkably quickly and, in hindsight, Catherine had been surprised at how easy the process had been. She had thought they would do intensive background checks, but they had simply sent her a list of prisoners for her to review, interviewed her over the phone, and asked her if she had a preference. When she saw Michael’s profile, she instantly felt a connection. She couldn’t explain it – not yet, anyway – but instinctively she knew it had to be him.
As her tea cooled beside her, Catherine forced herself to refocus, taking in the familiarity of her living room. Soft lemon furnishings, echoing the sunlight that filled the room, made it feel spacious yet comfortable. The coffee table, artfully arranged, held a stack of beautiful books, a small bouquet of flowers and a white trinket box, which had been a wedding gift. The bookshelf was home to a variety of cookbooks, novels and travel guides, interspersed with silver-framed photos of family, celebrations, and holidays. A plate she had picked up from an antiques' fair took centre stage, its blue intricate swirls bringing to mind warm, exotic destinations such as Morocco and Egypt, although she had neve
r been to either. All in all, it was the perfect mix of style and family life that many of her friends had envied over the years. In fact, it was right here in this room that her friend Ruth, while admiring the blue plate, had mentioned the inmate letter-writing charity. When Catherine had learnt that it was in partnership with HM Prison Durham, the seed had been planted.
The living room was one of Catherine’s favourite rooms in the house, yet she always had a sense that it lacked a certain something. Over the years she had scoured interior magazines and high-end home shops to find that missing piece: a lamp, a picture, a mirror, but, she hadn’t found it yet, and she had a feeling she never would.
Catherine began to feel restless and automatically started to straighten the room: tweaking a cushion, teasing flowers into full bloom, retrieving a stray hair tie –one of Helen’s that had slipped under the sofa. She gained great satisfaction from getting things done and took enormous pride in her organisational skills, both at home and in her volunteer work. Yet, despite her efforts that day, Catherine felt distracted and reluctantly sat back down at her desk. She knew she wouldn’t be able to settle until she had made a decision on the inmate volunteer programme. She reached out, feeling the crisp whiteness of the letter, her fingers pausing ever so slightly as they traced over the script of today’s date, 15 August 2010. She hadn’t used her best writing set – that was for special occasions – but she had used the next best thing, which was a quality paper with a pretty floral border of daffodils and primroses. She wasn’t sure if such prettiness would taunt him or inspire him (bizarrely, the rehabilitation centre recommended writing on plain paper), but she had decided to take a chance as it was one of her favourite writing sets. Having folded the paper into thirds she placed it carefully into the envelope, its matching floral pattern giving her a pleasing sense of harmony. As she sealed it, her hands shook slightly and she felt the sharp slice of a paper cut across her skin. A small droplet of blood fell and smudged, its rich red stain distinct against the purity of the paper. Catherine covered the smear with a first-class stamp and quickly headed out to the postbox, before she could procrastinate any longer.
Chapter 2
Alison
He was gorgeous in that silent but thoughtful, studious sort of way. Not Alison’s normal type, that was for sure (did she even have a type, Alison thought to herself), and certainly a lot older, maybe between thirty-five and forty years old, she guessed, which to her eighteen years seemed ancient. But her law lecturer – or The Professor, as she had fondly nicknamed him, the Americanism referring to his Hollywood good looks – was in a different league altogether from the beer-swilling, daredevil lads she had met so far at university. Broad, tall and muscular, he was what her mother would call, a ‘real man’, a term most likely inspired by the covers of the numerous romance novels she used to read. His olive skin gave a hint of exciting, exotic foreignness, which was incredibly appealing against the dull, grey skies that so often characterised British weather. Despite his age, he was the type of man you saw in the window ads of Thomas Cook, strolling along the beach, hand in hand with a gorgeous blonde, the prerequisite palm tree framing the picture. Yet, there was also something slightly old-fashioned about him that harked back to a previous decade, as if he was trying to relive the youth of his twenties. Maybe it was the fact that his hair was slightly too long or the way his jacket sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms. He was charismatic, though. Alison liked the way he paused a moment before answering a question from a student. If you blinked you would miss it, but that pause spoke to her, as if to convey, any question you have is important and I’m going to give it serious consideration before answering. He had an intensity that, when directed at you, made you feel like you were the only one in the room.
Her friend Laura – pretty much the only real friend she had made since starting university – would be impressed that she was having such non-intellectual thoughts. According to her, Alison was far too serious for a first-year student and should loosen up a bit and have fun, go on a few dates, for example. Easy for Laura to say, thought Alison. Naturally confident, Laura was one of those girls who didn’t seem to be fazed by anything, not even moving hundreds of miles from her hometown of London to start university in Durham. Alison, however, had carried around with her a vague unease since starting the three-year course a few weeks ago. Her fellow students seemed so carefree, spending their days hungover but happy, and not fixated too much on the work. Every dorm room she passed, students were in and out of each other’s rooms, watching TV, listening to music, and generally getting to know each other. Everyone said the first year results didn’t count anyway but Alison felt that she would have to study really hard to have any chance of graduating with even a 2:2. This was an alien concept to her. She, who had always been in the top three performing students at school and sixth-form college without really having to try too hard, was now facing some stiff competition.
Alison thought of her schooldays wistfully. While not considered one of the ‘popular’ girls, she had an active social life, was on various sports teams and committees, and had a great group of close friends that she had known all the way from primary school to sixth-form. She sighed. This was just another of the many unexpected things about university. When she first heard that she had secured a place on the law course at the prestigious institution, she was thrilled – her mother had almost gone there and it was considered one of the top universities in the country. And while she had bravely insisted to her parents on leaving home and moving into the halls of the college so she could experience student life completely, she was secretly relieved to have her family close by in the same city, if only to do her washing and provide supplies and moral support. So it was with much excitement that she had looked forward to her new life. The three-year course meant she would graduate in the millennial year, 2000, and that felt like a good omen in itself. But within weeks, Alison realised that the course was much harder than she could have ever anticipated. It wasn’t just the intellectual rigour required – the lecture style of teaching was radically different from what she was used to and the students often had a lot of time for their own study, which required huge amounts of discipline and independent learning. She was also used to having familiar relationships with her teachers but the university lecturers seemed busy and remote, sealed in their offices, their closed doors making her reluctant to knock.
One of the things she did like was her room, which was in the college of St Hild and St Bede, a traditional building perched at the top of a hill. The stone arched windows in her room formed a window seat overlooking Bede Chapel and in the distance, the square, grey buildings of HM Prison Durham. It was a warm and cosy room and she had made it her own with her sunflower-covered bedspread, bedside lamp and Jack Vettriano posters. Her desk was next to the window seat, and between study sessions she would often sit and look out, the view exposing a marked discord between the gentle curves of the hills and the sharp corners of the prison building.
Alison forced herself to refocus on what The Professor was saying, rather than the way his body moved as he paced up and down, delivering his lecture. Reams of notes later, her head full, she knew she would have to review what she’d written later in the hope that it might make more sense. As the students left the class, Alison felt disconcerted to see everyone chattering away to each other. Topics floated past her ears: the coursework that The Professor had set that day, evening plans, what to have for lunch. Yet, she didn’t hear anyone complaining about finding the course difficult. She wondered what she was doing wrong. Why was she finding it so hard? She thought of asking for some help but dismissed the idea immediately. It wouldn’t make a good impression so early on in the term. What if the Faculty discovered that she was struggling? Would they kick her out? She thought of her mother’s note she had received that morning along with a care package.
Your father and I are so proud of you, Alison, and I’m not ashamed to admit that we tell everyone about your achieveme
nt! I swear Betty next door must be fed up of hearing about it! You worked so hard to get your place and we know you’re going to make a success of this new chapter in your life as well. The University of Durham is an incredible institution that will stand you in good stead for the rest of your life.
If only her mother knew, thought Alison to herself. Troubled, she walked along the cobbled streets to meet Laura from her history lecture. She was one of the first people Alison had met when moving into halls. In that definitive way she had come to identify as being ‘very Laura’, the friendly stranger had knocked on Alison’s door, introduced herself and told her life story all within the first fifteen minutes of their meeting. It was obvious that Laura had been one of the ‘popular’ girls in school. Bright, vivacious and confident, with an open, relaxed attitude, she made everyone she came into contact with feel comfortable. Laura had been brought up in the capital, and her exhilarating childhood made Alison feel that her content but provincial upbringing in the small city of Durham was slightly on the boring side. Theatres, nightclubs, shows, fancy restaurants, Laura had experienced it all, but it was related in such a humorous manner that it didn’t come across as showing off – simply, that was her life and she didn’t know any other way. She was very friendly and suggested that the two of them go along to the Freshers’ Week event that evening together, the traditional college initiation being something Alison had dreaded attending on her own. Alison’s shyness sometimes led people to believe that she was aloof and, after years of having the same group of school friends, she wasn’t entirely comfortable when it came to meeting new people. As it turned out, the evening was a lot of fun. Within minutes of arriving, Laura had attracted a crowd of fellow freshers and they spent the evening having a laugh, playing silly drinking games, and generally getting to know each other.
