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Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Sam Carrington 2018
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com 2018
Cover photograph © Arcangel
Sam Carrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008300814
Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008328689
Version: 2018-09-20
Dedication
For my sons, Louis and Nathaniel. You make me proud every day.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: 19th March 2014 – Exeter Crown Court
Part One
Chapter One: Alice
Chapter Two: Connie
Chapter Three: Connie
Chapter Four: Alice
Chapter Five: Connie
Chapter Six: Alice
Chapter Seven: Connie
Chapter Eight: Deborah
Chapter Nine: Connie
Chapter Ten: Alice
Chapter Eleven: Connie
Chapter Twelve: Deborah
Chapter Thirteen: Connie
Chapter Fourteen: Alice
Chapter Fifteen: Deborah
Chapter Sixteen: Connie
Chapter Seventeen: Connie
Chapter Eighteen: Deborah
Chapter Nineteen: Alice
Chapter Twenty: Connie
Chapter Twenty-One: Connie
Chapter Twenty-Two: Tom
Chapter Twenty-Three: Deborah
Chapter Twenty-Four: Alice
Chapter Twenty-Five: Connie
Chapter Twenty-Six: Alice
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tom
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Connie
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Deborah
Chapter Thirty: Alice
Chapter Thirty-One: Connie
Chapter Thirty-Two: Connie
Chapter Thirty-Three: Alice
Chapter Thirty-Four: Tom
Chapter Thirty-Five: Deborah
Chapter Thirty-Six: Connie
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Connie
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Alice
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Deborah
Chapter Forty: Connie
Chapter Forty-One: Connie
Chapter Forty-Two: Tom
Chapter Forty-Three: Connie
Chapter Forty-Four: Connie
Chapter Forty-Five: Connie
Chapter Forty-Six: Deborah
Chapter Forty-Seven: Connie
Chapter Forty-Eight: Tom
Part Two
Chapter Forty-Nine: Angela
Chapter Fifty: Connie
Chapter Fifty-One: Deborah
Chapter Fifty-Two: Angela
Chapter Fifty-Three: Connie
Chapter Fifty-Four: Connie
Chapter Fifty-Five: Deborah
Chapter Fifty-Six: Tom
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Connie
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Angela
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Connie
Chapter Sixty: Tom
Chapter Sixty-One: Connie
Chapter Sixty-Two: Deborah
Chapter Sixty-Three: Angela
Chapter Sixty-Four: Connie
Chapter Sixty-Five: Tom
Chapter Sixty-Six: Deborah
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Angela
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Connie
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Connie
Chapter Seventy: Tom
Chapter Seventy-One: Deborah
Chapter Seventy-Two: Angela
Chapter Seventy-Three: Tom
Chapter Seventy-Four: Connie
Chapter Seventy-Five: Connie
Chapter Seventy-Six: Angela
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Deborah
Chapter Seventy-Eight: Connie
Chapter Seventy-Nine: Connie
Chapter Eighty: Tom
Chapter Eighty-One: Angela
Chapter Eighty-Two: Deborah
Chapter Eighty-Three: Connie
Chapter Eighty-Four: Angela
Chapter Eighty-Five: Connie
Chapter Eighty-Six: Deborah
Chapter Eighty-Seven: Tom
Chapter Eighty-Eight: Deborah
Chapter Eighty-Nine: Connie
Chapter Ninety: Angela
Chapter Ninety-One: Deborah
Chapter Ninety-Two: Tom
Chapter Ninety-Three: Connie
Chapter Ninety-Four: Connie
Chapter Ninety-Five: Deborah
Chapter Ninety-Six: Angela
Chapter Ninety-Seven: Connie
Chapter Ninety-Eight: Connie
Chapter Ninety-Nine: Tom
Chapter One Hundred: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and One: Deborah
Chapter One Hundred and Two: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and Three: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and Four: Deborah
Chapter One Hundred and Five: Angela
Chapter One Hundred and Six: Deborah
Chapter One Hundred and Seven: Angela
Chapter One Hundred and Eight: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and Nine: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and Ten: Angela
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve: Alice
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen: Connie
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen: Deborah
Epilogue: Monday 6th August 2018
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
19th March 2014 – Exeter Crown Court
‘It took approximately eight hours for Sean Taylor to die.’
She listened as the man spoke, her heart beating a little faster, her eyes blinking a little more than necessary. She shifted in her seat. Her bottom was numb, her legs heavy. She didn’t want to hear the details. She needed to. Her gaze fixed on the coroner; she couldn’t move her limbs and escape the courtroom, couldn’t close her ears to the words.
She had to know.
‘The stab wound to the back of his neck entered between cervical C5 and C6, causing complete severance of the spinal cord. Not immediately fatal, but it would’ve paralysed him.’
A tight band constricted her chest wall, threatening to squash her heart. Still, she listened.
‘He lay, unable to move, in his own blood for hours. It wasn’t until the tide came in fully that his life was finally taken.’
‘So, cause of death was drowning?’
The man’s left eye twitched. It was visible even from her seat in the gallery. ‘Well, officially, yes – suffocation from water was the decisive factor. But, clearly, the stab which caused—’
‘That will be all, Doctor Varsey. No further questions.’
The young man in the dock was standing very still – like a shop dummy, frozen in position by the person who put it there. Unmoved by proceedings. His mop of blond hair fell in loose curls, covering his eyes. Blocking his guilt from view. How could this unremarkable eighteen-year-old have caused so much devastation?
She swallowed.
He deserved what was coming to him. Didn’t he? A lifetime in prison.
A life for a life.
But he wasn’t the only one who needed to be punished.
CHAPTER ONE
Alice
Wednesday 31st January 2018
The chairs form an almost perfect circle. I manoeuvre the last two so they have equal distance between them. It’s important I try to maintain the personal space of those who’ll be seated here. Satisfied, I step back to check. Only one chair is different – double the room either side of it – separated from the rest of them. It’s also the only soft-furnished chair, the others being brown plastic.
This is my chair.
I’m their leader. I need to be seen easily by all the members – all eyes will need to be able to find mine. Eye contact is so important. That’s how they can see my empathy. My pain. Share it all with me.
Ten minutes left to wait.
It’s taken a few months of organisation: a lot of online chats, convincing others there was need for in-person interaction rather than virtual, finding an appropriate venue. Hopefully there’ll be a good turnout; at least six. I’ve optimistically put out ten chairs. Not a big group, but that doesn’t matter. Not to begin with. It will grow, once people realise how much they’re gaining. How much help and support it will offer them. And then they’ll travel from further afield to be a part of my group, a part of each other’s lives.
Five minutes.
A fizz of excitement bubbles inside my stomach. Most people wouldn’t understand that. Not with the type of group I’m running.
But this means a lot to me.
This is going to help redeem me.
‘Hello.’ A quiet, hesitant voice drifts in from the outer door of the church hall.
I straighten, my muscles hardening for a few seconds before I recover. I deftly smooth my black pencil-skirt with both hands, and pat my hair – the new curly style is taking some getting used to. I take small, quick steps towards the voice.
‘Welcome, I’m Alice Mann, come on in.’ I’m relieved to hear the words effortlessly flowing from my mouth as I thrust my hand into the palm of my first group member. The robust, ruddy-faced woman gives a shaky smile in return.
‘Wendy,’ she manages, her eyes flitting around the church hall.
I can tell she’s nervous. I must put Wendy at ease quickly, to make sure she stays; doesn’t turn tail at the first opportunity, or only attend this first session and never return.
‘A church,’ Wendy says. ‘Is it appropriate?’
‘Well, the church hall, to be exact,’ I say, as confidently as I can. ‘It’s the only venue I could secure locally.’ I pop my arm around Wendy’s shoulders and guide her to a chair.
I did wonder if this would be the best place, but I’d been limited. And this only cost £25 for two hours. It’s not like we’re in the actual church. But anyway, isn’t God meant to forgive people their sins? And the people coming to my group aren’t the ones who’ve sinned. I keep this thought to myself.
The sound of footsteps catches my attention. A sigh of relief forms but dies in my throat. At least it’s not going to be just the two of us. That would be a disaster. I smile as I greet four more people: three women and one man. I hope he won’t be the only male. It’s important to have a good selection.
After a few minutes of mumblings, squeaking of metal legs on the wooden floor, shuffling of bodies into a comfortable position – the room falls silent.
I can hear my own breath as it escapes my lips.
Six people, including me. All here for the same thing.
‘Welcome to the group.’ My enthusiastic voice fills the high-ceilinged room, and I almost jump – it sounds loud, unfamiliar. ‘I’m really pleased you’ve made it here today.’ I take a moment to look directly at each of the group members in turn. ‘I thought we’d start by going around the circle, each giving a brief introduction, start getting to know each other.’
A few people drop their gaze from mine. They don’t want to be the first to speak, the first to verbalise the reason they’re here. It’s easy, online, you see. To talk in a chat room, remain anonymous, unseen. This is different, and it’ll take a while before they build up trust in each other. In me. It will take time before they can be themselves. I can relate to that. I’m not even at that stage myself, yet.
I’ll start. I am the leader, after all.
‘Okay. I’ll begin.’ I take a large lungful of air, and slowly expel it before speaking again.
‘My name is Alice. And my son is a murderer.’
CHAPTER TWO
Connie
Connie Summers all but sprinted up the hill towards the building that housed her psychological therapy practice, puffs of breath clouding the cold space in front of her. Eight months ago, she’d struggled to walk it – extra weight gained through long periods of stress-related binge-eating had taken its toll and prevented her from even ascending stairs without gasping for air. But when her new housemate had moved in, so too did a new regime: healthy eating, gym sessions, hikes over the moors. Detective Inspector Lindsay Wade had brought the best out in Connie.
Not everything in Connie’s life was rosy, though. The weight of worry still hunched her shoulders and tugged at her thoughts – still meant she couldn’t fully relax. Even now, as she strode past the familiar Totnes shops, flashbacks permeated her mind in short, sharp bursts. The images – bright, vivid and unwelcome – came to her when she didn’t even realise she was thinking about the events that had shaken her so profoundly last year.
Connie hadn’t fully recovered from the aftermath of her involvement in the Hargreaves’ murder, and she doubted she ever would. It was bad enough that she’d been one of the professionals responsible for the decision to release Ricky Hargreaves from prison, when days later he reoffended by raping a woman, but to then be dragged into Ricky’s murder case a year later when she’d begun to put her prison career behind her – it was like the red-blood icing on a poisoned cake. She’d lost clients, quite literally, due to a cruel twist of fate: the lethal mix of her previous work with offenders and her own father’s criminal links. The innocent faces of the young woman and her little boy – both now dead – were still at the forefront of Connie’s mind. She’d also struggled financially – her failure to drag herself to work every day, coupled with an inability to motivate herself to build her business back up, took its toll. This wasn’t only a direct effect of Hargreaves, but also her family’s own dubious past, its secrets unexpectedly revealing themselves, causing her thoughts to spiral uncontrollably for a while. Lindsay moving in had helped, enabling her to afford the mortgage repayments and the rent on her business premises. But it wasn’t the main reason Connie had suggested the arrangement. A friend was what she really needed.
Despite the memories haunting her walk to work, Connie was looking forwards to starting the week by welcoming a new client. Having completed the journey from the train station through the narrow side streets onto High Street and up the hill towards East Gate Arch, all in a dazed fog, Connie came back to the moment as she reached her building. She shook her head to clear it, took a breath and unlocked the blue front door. After taking a few steps across the reception area, she dashed up the stairs, giving a cursory glance at the newly installed security camera as she went. She unravelled her scarf and slung it, together with her coat, on the stand in the corner of her upstairs consulting room. The gentle clanking of the radiator filled the room – she’d timed it to come on at 8.45 a.m., so it was comfortable by 9 a.m. Connie went back downstairs to make a coffee, to let warmth replace the chill of the room before beginning her day.
Mug cradled in both hands, the heat penetrating her cold fingers, Connie leant back in her chair and listened to her answerphone. The third message made her sit forwards abruptly, spilling her coffee over the desk. What the hell?
‘Long time no speak, Con,’ the overly cheerful female voice said.
Connie reached forwards to delete the message before it played out, her finger hovering over the button. Curiosity prevented her from pressing it.
‘I know this might be a long shot,’ Jen paused, and Connie heard a sigh before she carried on. ‘But we’re in the shit here, really. You know how it is: lack of staff, too many prisoners to assess, parole board breathing down our necks. We’re swamped.’
A worm of dread began its journey through her stomach. She knew where this was heading.
‘So, anyway. The psych department has had permission to draft in some help, by way of independent psychologists popping in to carry out some of the backlog of reports. Obviously, I thought of you. You’re local, know the job, the prison. It makes sense. There are only a few men to assess, but the money will be good.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought perhaps you might appreciate a bit of extra income at the moment?’
Yes. She would. But, there was no way she’d be returning to HMP Baymead, no matter how much they paid her.
‘Think about it, eh, Con? Would be great to see you. Give me a call!’
CHAPTER THREE
Connie
‘It might not be such a bad idea,’ Lindsay said, sitting on the sofa with one leg tucked under her, both hands nursing her second mug of coffee.
‘Really? After everything that happened there? After leaving because of the fallout?’ Connie took a long, drawn-out breath. Even thinking about it was increasing her anxiety levels. Although if she was being honest, those levels had been elevated ever since listening to Jen’s message yesterday. The decision to leave her lead psychologist position at HMP Baymead had been the best move for her – she’d been off sick for months before she resigned, the fear of making another error of judgement too much in the end. She’d needed to feel as though she was contributing to something good, so made the focus of her new practice counselling those who’d been affected by crime. Victims, not offenders.
‘Think about it logically. And, you know – financially …’ Lindsay raised her eyebrows so they disappeared beneath her red fringe.
‘Yeah, I need the money. But I’m really not sure it’s worth putting my well-being at risk by going back in there. When I left, it was for good.’
‘Okay.’ Lindsay shrugged. ‘Say no, then.’
Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you trying reverse psychology on me, Wade? That’s not your area.’
‘No. Although, I am quite good at it. Picked it up from the best.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled.
‘Well, stop it.’ Connie got up from the sofa and walked to the window. A crisp, white layer of frost covered the ground. She shivered. She wasn’t ready for this. Not ready, nor willing to go backwards.
‘How many reports is Jen asking you to complete?’
‘A few.’ Connie made quotation marks with her fingers.
‘So what’s that, in terms of time within the prison walls?’
‘Three, maybe four days. I’d only need to see each prisoner for two sessions, I reckon. Then the rest could be done at home.’
‘So not even a week. Easy money, then.’ Lindsay’s voice softened. ‘I’m here, you know, to support you. It wouldn’t be like before.’ She got up and strode towards Connie, embracing her in a quick, tight hug. ‘I must get going – don’t want to be late for the morning briefing. Mack will take the lead without me, and I can’t have him feeling too important.’
Connie listened as Lindsay’s footsteps hurried through the house, grabbing her coat and bag. She heard the jangling of keys, then the slam of the front door. She didn’t relish the silence of the house when Lindsay wasn’t in it. She watched from the window as Lindsay got in her car and drove off, waving, as she always did.
Lindsay didn’t understand the battle Connie was having inside her head. Not fully. It wasn’t only the thought of going back into the prison causing her anxiety, it was the responsibility of compiling the written reports. What if she got it wrong again? And by worrying about being too positive about the prisoner, she’d probably err on the side of caution and perhaps not give a balanced, objective report. Just in case. Whatever way she played it, she would be wrong. And she wasn’t prepared to chance having another person’s life – or death – on her conscience.