by Tom Bale
And now Thomsett was back. After offering his congratulations on how well they’d borne the media interest, he cleared his throat, as if about to read the nominations at an award ceremony, and announced that he’d had the heads up – he didn’t say from whom, exactly – that no further action would be taken against Harry. Official written confirmation would be forthcoming in due course.
The wider investigation into Laird and Vickery’s activities was ongoing, but even there Thomsett gave the impression that any prosecutions, if they happened at all, would be rather low-key. His own hunch, he confessed, was that the enquiry would drag on until the world had lost interest, and then be quietly kicked into the long grass.
‘Nerys and her son are giving wildly contrasting versions of what happened at Beech House, but I think we’ll get them both for Renshaw’s murder. That’s something, at least.’
Maybe it was, but once Thomsett had gone they agreed that it didn’t make sense. For all the anguish they had caused, Nerys and Michael’s crimes had been little more than a sideshow compared to the main conspiracy here.
‘They’re covering it up, aren’t they?’ said Alice.
‘That’s how it looks to me.’
It wasn’t wild paranoia to think so – not when they considered the question of Ruth Monroe. Someone had intervened, that first night, Harry guessed: orders from on high. During the formal interviews he had given a detailed account of her involvement, and yet the detectives questioning him had never once indicated that they had any intention of following it up. At times they greeted his tale with outright incredulity.
Nothing had been said about her in the media – the police had specifically warned Harry and Alice to stay silent on that score – and the impression, unofficially confirmed by Thomsett, was that Ruth’s prior career threatened to prove too embarrassing to risk pursuing her any further.
So, they stayed perplexed for two days. Then came a news story about a UK-born businessman, a stalwart of the Sunday Times Rich List, who inexplicably had leapt to his death from the roof of a luxury apartment block in Dubai.
On the same day, it was announced that a long-serving cabinet minister, with some of the highest approval ratings in government, was resigning with immediate effect, to spend more time with his family. A little odd, given that his grown-up children reportedly had nothing to do with him.
Harry wouldn’t have given either story much thought, except that he happened upon an anonymous blog which claimed the two men were linked by certain unspeakable proclivities – and that they had indulged those proclivities via a number of secret and utterly illegal adoptions.
That post had been taken down within six hours, and the whole blog was gone by the following day, never to return.
Nearly six weeks later, with Evie’s first Christmas just days away, Harry was conducting the usual last scoot round the house before bed, making sure everything was switched off. Tonight they’d both held out till twenty past ten: an extraordinarily late night by their recent standards.
In part that was because Evie was sleeping better. They’d moved her into the nursery and so far she seemed comfortable with the transition. On one astonishing – and quite scary – occasion she’d slept right through from seven p.m. till five in the morning.
Harry trudged upstairs, feeling tired yet strangely content. Probably because work was back on track, and the Christmas break was coming up, and he couldn’t wait to see what Evie made of Christmas morning: all that glossy paper to be crumpled in her lap. Unknown to Alice, he’d bought his daughter a remote-controlled helicopter. He felt sure she’d love it nearly as much as he would.
On the final step he paused. He’d set the new burglar alarm but had forgotten to prop the ironing board against the kitchen door as a little extra precaution.
He thought about going back down, then decided that he couldn’t be bothered. They’d be fine.
Alice was already in bed, the light off. Harry climbed in, gave her a quick cuddle, then turned away. He wasn’t expecting anything more – because it was a Wednesday, and they’d both had busy days, and a few slightly better nights hadn’t yet compensated for the sleep deficit built up over the past three months.
But then he felt her wriggling towards him. ‘A cuddle. Is that it?’
‘I thought you’d be too knackered.’
‘Ohh.’ A playful groan. ‘What’s up, don’t you have the energy, old man?’
‘Who are you calling “old”?’
And later, when they were lying together, relaxed and drowsy but not quite ready for sleep, he judged that now was the right time to confess.
First he recapped why Ruth had been searching for Laird, and what Laird had told Ruth about Benjamin’s new life away from his birth parents.
‘The step-sister or whatever she is?’
‘Yeah, half-sister, I think. But Laird told me something different.’
She grew sombre. ‘What?’
‘I went down to him, as he was dying. The last thing he said was, “I sold him.” Which is what Ruth suspected all along – that Laird was selling children, regardless of who wanted them, and for what purpose – and that he’d got the idea after what he did with Benjamin.’
‘Oh my God,’ Alice said quietly. ‘You didn’t tell Ruth?’
‘No. I was going to, sort of. But then she brought up this half-sister thing, and how she’d decided it was better for Ben if she just left him alone.’
Silence, until Alice blew out a sigh. ‘And she’s really able to do that? Give up her search?’
‘Maybe. At the time I sensed she had some doubts, quite understandably, about whether Laird had told her the truth. Now I keep wondering if I should try to get in touch, and set her straight—’
‘No,’ Alice said. ‘You did the right thing.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t, for sure. But bear in mind that Laird might have been lying to you, not to Ruth. Perhaps the sister is the truth, and he only changed his story when he realised he was dying. One last act of cruelty, to make sure Ruth suffered for the rest of her life.’
Harry nodded. He’d considered that possibility himself and been unsure, but it sounded a lot more plausible coming from Alice.
She said, ‘In the end, we choose what we want to believe. We shape the truth to fit our requirements, because otherwise life would be just too hard to bear.’
‘You think so?’ Harry asked.
‘You said yourself, Ruth had her doubts, but after years of torment she’s chosen the explanation that offers her peace. That’s a good choice, Harry. Don’t give her reason to change it.’
And Harry, who’d had his own agonising choices to make, found that he could not disagree with her.
Letter from Tom Bale
SEE HOW THEY RUN started with a sleepless night. I’d gone to bed at about midnight and was still lying awake when I heard a noise outside; at first I thought it was a cat jumping on to our dustbin. Then the security light came on, and when I got up and opened the bedroom window, a would-be burglar ran away from the back door and disappeared over our fence.
The police attended very quickly, but the culprit was never traced. Afterwards it struck me that, if I hadn’t been lying awake, I doubt if either the noise or the outside light would have woken me or my wife. And the brazen nature of the attempted break-in troubled me a lot in the days and weeks that followed. I couldn’t help wondering what might have happened had the intruder made it into the house without disturbing us.
What followed was a pattern of very light sleeping which still hasn’t quite left me, but it also sparked an idea for a novel, drawing on the many subsequent occasions when I woke suddenly and froze, trying to identify the noise I’d just heard. It reminded me of that other stage in life when light sleeping becomes an exhausting habit – so I thought it only right that Harry and Alice should have a new baby to worry about!
As with most of my novels, this story centres on ordinary people whose lives are suddenly thrown int
o chaos – and I hope you find it as exciting as I did to discover how they manage to cope with the many challenges that confront them.
If you do enjoy the book, can I ask you to spare a little time to add a rating or a review to the website of your choice? I think most readers are conscious now of the vitally important role that reviews on Amazon, Goodreads and elsewhere can have on the success of a book. And as I’ve mentioned in the acknowledgements, getting that positive feedback makes a tremendous difference: writers work in silence, metaphorically speaking, and a nice review or a favourable comment on social media is the equivalent of an actor or musician hearing applause from the audience.
You can contact me or find out more about my books via the links below, and receive news of my new releases by signing up to my email list:
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Also by Tom Bale
SINS OF THE FATHER by David Harrison
SKIN AND BONES
TERROR’S REACH
BLOOD FALLS
THE CATCH
About the Author
Tom Bale was born in Sussex in 1966. While pursuing his lifelong ambition to be a writer, he worked in a variety of jobs, but none was as exhausting – or as rewarding – as the several years he spent as a househusband with two pre-school children. His first novel, SINS OF THE FATHER, was published in 2006 under his real name, David Harrison. With his next book, SKIN AND BONES, he acquired an agent, a pseudonym and a publishing deal that enabled him to write full-time. A keen cyclist and sea swimmer, he lives in Brighton with his family.
@t0mbale
tombalewriter
www.tombale.net
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Keshini Naidoo, my editor, for the time and dedication she put into ensuring that this book is as good as it can possibly be. I’d also like to thank Oliver Rhodes, Kim Nash and the whole team at Bookouture – it’s a thrill to be on board!
Similar thanks are due to my agent, Camilla Wray, and everyone at Darley Anderson, particularly Mary Darby, Emma Winter and Rosanna Bellingham.
As always, I’m deeply indebted to my wife, Niki, as well as my family and friends. And since we’re hitting the half century in 2016, this feels like the right time for a shout-out to the old geezers who have offered me comradeship and support for four decades or more: Ian Gilburt, Shendon Ireland, Rod Lambert, Stuart Marsom, Denis Sorrill and Ian Vinall. Cheers, guys!
A special thank you to Demetra Saltmarsh, who worked chiropractic miracles on my creaking back: it’s been rather an exotic delight to sit without pain (and type without numb fingers) for the first time in over ten years.
Lastly, those of you who have read my previous books will know that this one has been a while coming. I won’t bore anyone with the reasons behind that delay but I will say that, as far as my writing career is concerned, the past few years have involved rather more downs than ups. There were times when I wondered if I should pack it in and do something else, but two things kept me on track: the unwavering support of my wife, and the messages I received from readers who had enjoyed my books.
So this is for everyone who took the trouble to contact me by email, Facebook or Twitter; everyone who mentioned my work on their blogs or was good enough to post a review: your positive feedback really did make a difference. Thank you.
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN
United Kingdom
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Tom Bale 2016
Tom Bale has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
ISBN: 978-1-910751-69-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-910751-68-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-910751-68-8
