The Promise: The twisty new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller, guaranteed to keep you up all night

Chapter 3

Connor leant his head against the passenger window as his father drove to their new home. He looked down at the gutter as they moved through the streets, most of the roads covered with russet-coloured leaves. Even the trees here were different to the ones back home. He didn’t want to look up at the houses; at least kerbs and leaves couldn’t be that different on this side of the world, could they? There was a sense of unease in him; he figured it came from being on the other side of the car, on the other side of the road, on the other side of the planet.

The smooth sounds of Nina Simone’s smoky voice filled the space around them. At least his father, Jacob, wasn’t trying to hold a conversation with him anymore. Connor felt the car grind to a stop and the air fell silent as his father turned the engine off. He took a deep breath and looked up at their new home grudgingly. They were parked in front of a three-storey red-brick house, with a balcony running across the front and a garage to the side. It occurred to Connor that there wasn’t a chance in hell their car would fit in that tiny space even though it was smaller than their car back home.

Without speaking to his father, he got out of the car and walked around to the boot to grab the suitcases. He may as well get on with it. No turning back now. The door to the left of their house opened and a girl came trudging out, head hung low, carrying a black sack; she put it in the wheelie bin and disappeared back inside without looking up or saying a word. Connor’s father was still getting to his feet. He pulled himself up and surveyed the area, leaning on his cane with a nostalgic smile on his face.

‘Keys?’ Connor said.

Jacob rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a hefty lump of keys, tossing them to Connor – not to where Connor actually was, but further, enough to make him stretch, to make him work for it. Grabbing them, Connor walked up the steps and let himself into the house. It smelled old and empty.

Jacob wasn’t far behind him, the sound of his left sole followed Connor as it gently scraped across the floor with every other step.

‘Get us a beer from the fridge and let’s christen this place.’

‘Is there even any electricity?’ Connor clicked the light switch and the hallway lit up.

‘Uncle Joel came and sorted things out for us, said he put some brews in there.’

Connor noticed his father’s voice changing already; he had always had an accent that was different to him and the people back in California, but now all traces of any American at all had virtually disappeared. As if Connor didn’t feel different enough.

He went into the kitchen, a small and dingy room with a metre square window facing onto a garden that looked overgrown and untouched.

‘What’s outside?’ he asked as his father appeared behind him again.

‘Who knows what the olds did to it. Looks like they let it go though. Dad used to spend hours in that garden, in that shed right at the end; he spent more time in there than in the house.’

Jacob put his hand on Connor’s shoulder, it was a touch full of force; controlling, making sure his son stayed close. Maybe he was trying to stop him from going outside.

‘I wish I could have met them,’ Connor said, knowing that would unsettle his father. Any suggestion that growing up with just a single dad wasn’t enough for him, that somehow he was missing something from his life, was like poking a raw nerve.

Jacob let go immediately. ‘Well, I left for a reason. You didn’t miss much.’

Connor waited for his father to be distracted before grabbing a can of beer. He unlocked the back door and stepped outside onto a decked platform. He then made his way down some wooden steps into a wild and unruly mess that came up past his waist. Everything was washed with a cold blue light as the sun faded behind the rooftops. Hacking his way through the stinging nettles, pampas grass and bushes with his arms until he got to the end of the garden, he looked back at his father who stood by the back door. Connor was grateful for the distance between them as he clocked his father’s disapproving stare.

He pulled on the door of the shed. The wood was swollen and cracked, but he kicked it a couple of times and jarred it loose. Inside, it was dark and dingy not unlike the house, full of stacked boxes and crates. Connor ventured further, the sparse light cloudy and full of dust.

The boxes nearest the ground had been saturated at one point or another and the bottoms were blown, a mulch of paperwork peeking through the holes. He poked around inside one or two. There were some photo albums and a couple of his father’s school reports. He found a small red exercise book, shiny with a black wreath emblem on the front. Inside, some of the pages were stuck together and the words blurred, but he could just about make out that it was a story of some sort. Connor thumbed through it, wondering what his father might have written about in school, what stories he could have possibly told. He couldn’t make out the writing very well in this light and so he tossed it back in the box. The air was thick and the more stuff he disturbed, the more dust he could feel in his mouth. Leaving the shed, he pulled the door behind him. He might come back and look around here another time.

Next to the shed, there was a large tree with strips of wood nailed horizontally to the trunk that went up into the branches.

‘What’s this?’ he called out to his father who had already pulled up a chair outside with a box of beers to the side of him. They had been travelling for a few hours and so it was nice to be outside, even though it was cold. He couldn’t begrudge him that.

‘Is that still there? It’s a tree house. Or it should be. Your grandfather built it. About the only good thing he ever did.’ He knocked back the beer. ‘It’s probably fucked. I wouldn’t go up there if I were you.’

Ignoring his father’s advice, Connor climbed the makeshift ladder, careful not to spill his beer. He couldn’t see his father on the decking anymore. He kept climbing until his hand reached what felt like a platform. He pulled himself up onto it and, sure enough, he was inside a tree house. It smelled musty and there was a hole in one of the corners, but something about it felt good. Connor moved slowly across the floor, unsure how safe it was. There was a window, but it was filthy. Connor pulled off his jacket and tried to rub away some of the thick dirt that obscured his view. He picked up his beer and splashed the window with the liquid, then rubbed hard with his jacket; it was already smelly from the travelling so he didn’t mind getting it a bit grubby as well.

He managed to clear a fair bit of the muck off the inside of the window. Opening it, he slid his arm through to the outside and wiped that as well. It was smeared and kind of disgusting, but at least now he could see outside. The tree house looked directly into the neighbour’s back garden and onto the rear of their house. Connor smiled as he saw a couple, presumably his new neighbours, kissing against the countertops in the kitchen.

He looked around the tree house and felt a little glimmer of hope. There was no way his father would make it up here – he had a place where he could be by himself, without his father’s watchful eye, without the hand on his shoulder, without feeling like he was to blame for everything that was wrong in the world.

Connor shuffled back against the wall and sat down with his beer in his hand, thinking about the different things he was going to have to get used to here in England. His father had always maintained he would never come back, but when his parents had died and left him the house, it seemed like a logical move after the incident back at home. If Connor was honest, he needed a change too. He couldn’t carry on being the person he was in California; people had started to notice that he wasn’t the same as them, and he couldn’t stand that.

He pulled out the Zippo his father had given him as a gift for his sixteenth birthday and struck the wheel with his thumb, watching the flame flickering in the light breeze that ran through the empty tree house. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it before peering through the window again. The woman next door was up on the countertop now, her legs wrapped around her partner’s waist, his trousers around his ankles. Upstairs, he could see into what looked like a girl’s bedroom; she was sitting at her dressing table, with a lamp on. It was the girl he had seen earlier when they arrived. As Connor watched, she undid the plait in her hair and started to brush it out.

The loud pops of fireworks in the distance unsettled Connor, and he saw the sky to the east flashing pink. People had already started to set them off in the run-up to Bonfire Night. Looking back at the girl, he could see a blank expression on her face which was reflected in her dressing-table mirror. He wondered if she could hear what was happening downstairs, or outside. The girl stood up and walked over to her window, her face changing colour as the fireworks erupted overhead. Connor shrank back, making sure she didn’t know he was in there. For now, he just wanted to watch them – to see what a normal family did. Something he had never known.

The girl had long mousy hair and round glasses, around his age. She stared out of the window into her own garden, which was comprised of a tidy lawn and a decked patio with black plastic furniture and a big orange parasol. Fixating on a point in the distance, she just stared for a while. Her face was empty, not interested, not sad – nothing. After a few seconds, she pulled a book from a shelf in her room and then got into her bed. Connor continued to watch her; she read for less than five minutes and then flipped a switch that turned her reading light into a soft pink glowing orb. It was only then that he realised the dusk had turned to night-time, he had never known it to get this dark so early back home, it was barely six in the evening.

He turned his attention back to the couple downstairs, who were still grabbing and pawing at each other desperately until he slumped against her and she pushed him away. The urgency gone, they redressed and disappeared back into the parts of the house that he couldn’t see. He watched the sky for a while until the popping slowed to a stop and the sky returned to its lifeless dusky black.

Reluctantly, Connor climbed back out of the tree house and down the tree. It was harder than going up, but still it just reassured him that his father would never be able to make the journey with his leg. He walked back through the garden to his father, who was sitting in the almost-darkness, from the looks of it on his fourth beer already. It wasn’t as cold as he expected it to be, from the stories he had heard it did nothing but rain over here. So far his denim jacket had been enough to keep him warm.

‘Anything good up there?’

‘Like what?’

‘Me and your uncle used to read comics and pornos up there, wondered if there was anything still knocking around.’

‘Nope. It’s empty.’

Connor pulled at the back door handle to go inside and check the rest of the house out; he hadn’t even seen his bedroom yet.

‘Listen, Con, this is a chance for both of us to do something right,’ his father said.

Connor froze.

‘I know, Dad.’

‘Try not to fuck things up at school.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘You better try pretty fucking hard; we can’t just move to a new country every time you do.’

‘I will, Dad, I promise.’

‘You’d better get an early night. You need to get proper rest before you start school on Monday.’

Connor took a deep breath. At least here in Exeter he would get to be who he wanted; he would make himself, he would decide what people saw. What they knew and didn’t know. He would make sure no one found out about him.

Chapter 4

Adrian was sitting in the interview room opposite Sarah Lawson, Erica’s sister and ICE contact. Imogen walked in and sat down opposite Sarah, who looked like a slightly older version of Erica, although her hair was tidier from the photos they had seen. Adrian noted the puffiness around her eyes; she probably hadn’t slept since her sister had been found – as she had been the one to find her.

Imogen noted the date and time, plus persons present for the recording, and then nodded at Adrian to start.

‘How are you holding up?’ Adrian asked, recognising that look on her face. Grief. Since he had lost someone important, the word bereft had taken on a new meaning. Sarah was obviously bereft, missing something, a touch of confusion mixed with sadness. Like walking into a room and trying to figure out what you went in there for, then realising that you would never find it, because it was gone forever.

‘I … I can’t believe it.’

‘We’re sorry for your loss.’ Adrian said the hollow words. He could feel Imogen’s focus on him as he spoke; he faltered for a moment as Lucy popped into his mind.

‘Your sister appeared to be dressed to go out. Could she have been on a date? Did she mention anything like that?’ Imogen said, stepping in to speak, to give him a moment.

‘No, she didn’t say anything about it.’

‘Were you not close then?’ Adrian said.

‘We were. We were really close. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me.’

‘So, you have no idea who your sister was meeting? She didn’t mention anyone to you?’ Imogen said.

‘I swear I have no idea. If I did I would tell you!’ Sarah’s voice cracked as she spoke. The tears started to gather at the edges of her eyes. She was on the brink of losing it altogether.

‘Is there anyone else she was likely to confide in? Did she have a best friend?’

‘I was her best friend! I don’t know why she didn’t tell me if she was meeting a man,’ Sarah said again.

Adrian sighed. ‘There could be lots of reasons why she wouldn’t tell you, Sarah, maybe she didn’t want you to know because she wasn’t sure it was going to go anywhere. I know this is difficult, but the more you can tell us the better. At this point we are just trying to build a picture of Erica. She’s the victim here and there’s a reason she was targeted. The more we know about her, the more likely it will be that we can find out why that was.’

‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ Sarah said, her body tense, as though she almost didn’t want to know the answer. ‘Did he rape her? I asked but no one would tell me.’

‘There were signs of sexual activity, but at this point there is no evidence of sexual assault, we will know more when we get the post mortem.’

‘You think they met before? She wasn’t the kind of person who would sleep with someone on the first date.’

Imogen handed her the box of tissues that were on the table; the girl took one and clutched it to her, ready for the tears to come out.

‘Is there a possibility it was someone from her work at the recruitment agency?’ Imogen asked gently.

Sarah shook her head. ‘No, she kind of hated everyone there, she was looking for another job anyway. I don’t think so.’

‘Did she have any hobbies? Go to any clubs? Any cafés she went to regularly?’ Imogen said.

‘No, she used to get lunch in the theatre; they did these sandwiches she liked and she never had to wait because no one else ever thought to go there for lunch. It was always empty.’

‘What about your parents? Is she likely to have told them anything?’ Adrian said.

‘Our dad lives in Spain with my stepmother; we aren’t very close. Mum died five years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Adrian said, inclining his head.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us that might help find out who she was with?’ Imogen asked.

‘Was she lonely? Was she looking for someone? Did she ever go on any dating sites?’ Adrian added.

‘She was never without her phone, I used to get so cross with her for checking it all the time, always talking to someone or other; she had a bit of a problem staying in the real world. She wasn’t very confident, but she was beautiful; I kept telling her she was beautiful.’ The tears started to fall.

‘We’re going to do everything we can to find out what happened to your sister,’ Imogen said.

‘It won’t bring her back, though will it? I don’t really care if you find the person or not. I just want my sister back. I’ve got no one now.’

Adrian looked at Imogen. It was an unusual comment; it didn’t necessarily mean anything, but in these situations people usually demanded revenge. He made a mental note to find out if there were any known issues between the sisters. Her grief was genuine; he was sure of that. He could see it, and he could feel it.

‘Can you tell us what phone your sister had, Sarah? We couldn’t find it in her home.’

‘I don’t know, it was a pink thing, she bought a load of jewels off eBay and covered it herself because she couldn’t find a case she liked.’

‘Any idea where it would be?’

‘Well he must have taken it, whoever did this to her.’

‘We thought so too, but we wanted to check with you.’

‘Did she spend a lot of time at the computer?’ Imogen asked.

‘She was always on her mobile – like I said, she was practically glued to it. She had a laptop though. Did you not find that either?’

There was a short silence; they hadn’t found it.

‘OK, well thank you for coming in and speaking to us, Sarah. We’ll get in touch with you if we need to talk about anything else. Is that OK?’ Adrian stood up and held his hand out for her to shake it.

‘What’s the point?’ She stood up, looked at his hand without taking it and turned to leave the room.

Adrian put his hand on her shoulder, she turned back to him.

‘I lost someone I cared about recently too.’ Adrian felt Imogen’s eyes burning into him as he spoke to Sarah Lawson, but he needed to say the words, he needed to get this out. ‘I know how you feel, I know you want her back more than anything, and if we could do that we would. We can’t. All we can do is make sure the person who did this to her doesn’t get away with it. She was important and what happened to her shouldn’t have happened. Help us to honour her memory by putting the man who did this behind bars.’

She nodded and sobbed. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Adrian pulled her in and put his arms around her in a hug. She had said she didn’t have anyone, and he could feel it in the way she clung to him; he felt her chest heaving as the grief engulfed her. The last person who had hugged her was probably her sister, and now she was gone. He had to pull away before he allowed himself to be sucked into his own feeling of loss.

She looked up at him; he could feel that she had understood what he was saying. He hoped that if nothing else, it had made her feel a little better, even though he knew the truth was that nothing would make her feel the same ever again. She would learn to live with the piece of her that was missing; that was all time did. There was no healing, but there was learning to cope with the absence.

Sarah left the room and Adrian followed at a distance. He felt Imogen’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Miley, are you OK?’ She was breaking their rule of asking about each other’s feelings, but for once he didn’t mind.

‘I will be.’ Wouldn’t he?

Chapter 5