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Copyright
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 Ltd 2021
Copyright © Charlie Gallagher 2021
Cover design by Stephen Mulcahey © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Charlie Gallagher 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: 9780008445515
Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008445522
Version: 2021-02-15
Dedication
For Lynn and Pete. Who started the story.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: One month later. A hotel just outside Dover. Tuesday
Chapter 2: Wednesday
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5: Thursday
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11: Friday
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16: Saturday
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23: Sunday
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27: A few hours earlier
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35: Monday
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52: Tuesday
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62: Two weeks later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
This had always been her happy place. The sort of place every fifteen-year-old has. A place to be free, to be among friends. To be safe.
But today was different. Today it was just her, a handful of pills and a bottle of water to wash them down.
The sound of children playing grabbed her attention. In the distance she could see two toddlers in matching blue, giggling on a colourful merry-go-round. Right next to them a young girl occupied the swing, her red hair trailing behind her. She shrieked for her dad to push her higher, wearing a smile like nothing else in the world mattered.
It wasn’t so long ago that had been her: carefree, happy. Innocent. A child whose only knowledge of evil came from storybooks, from stern warnings from her parents, from Halloween. Evil wore a witch’s hat; it was a stranger who would try to lead her away in a crowd or the bogeyman in a mask with fake blood round the mouth. It was obvious, you knew to scream or to run.
But now she knew the truth.
Evil isn’t shrouded in black, beckoning from the darkness under the bed. It doesn’t make itself known. Evil is slow, quiet and patient. It is the shadow consuming a smoker’s lung, it is the person who pretends to be your friend so they can silence you for ever.
Now she knew evil. And because of her, all those other girls would know it too.
She threw the tablets to the back of her throat, the water to wash them down part of the same movement. Her focus was lost as her eyes blurred with tears. Soon, for her at least, this would all be over. But evil doesn’t stop, the shadow will still spread in silence.
He was never going to stop with her.
Chapter 1
One month later. A hotel just outside Dover.
Tuesday
A Tuesday night, sitting on the same barstool as so many nights before: Danny Evans could have no way of knowing his life was about to take another dramatic turn. The pub was called The Duke Inn, the name a nod to the military school that almost shared an entrance but none of the grandeur. Though a separate building, the pub also served a hotel where Danny had a booked room that was just a short stumble away. Danny was pretty certain he was not the demographic of choice. In truth, the pub was more a restaurant aimed at families, and he might well have recognised himself as the eyesore at the bar if he had taken a moment to consider his surroundings.
But now it was late. The families were gone. Only the drinkers were left. Another pint dropped in front of Danny, a shot glass followed, and his place among the drinkers was affirmed.
He swept up the shot first: neat dark rum that lingered in his throat. He swigged at the pint next, smacking his lips while the heat from the rum spread through his chest.
‘Who won?’ A stool scraped next to him, then creaked under the weight of a man taking the seat. Looking down, Danny could only see thick thighs in grey suit trousers over two-tone shoes: tan with a streak of blue through the middle that made Danny think of a classic car interior. Danny raised his eyes to the TV screen above them. He’d picked the barstool in front of the television out of habit, but had only been vaguely aware of the football match showing. It had passed him by as a fuzz of green and an occasional word breaking through from familiar-sounding commentators, like having old friends talking to each other in a room while you sat on the periphery.
‘No idea, mate.’ Danny’s words were his first for a while and they made the roof of his mouth itch.
‘I know you!’ the man said, suddenly seeming animated, pleased with himself. Danny lifted his head to look higher than the thighs: a grey suit jacket matched the trousers, wrapped round a man in his late forties maybe. He wore a white shirt that was hanging open and crinkled like it had given up a tie. An expensive-looking watch gripped his wrist, the metal strap and matching cufflinks catching the light as he ran his fingers over pursed lips that stood out from a patchy-grey beard. He was tanned too, despite it being February.
‘Don’t think so, mate,’ Danny replied.
‘Evans, right? Danny Evans!’ Danny felt himself grimace. He’d come to hate the sound of his own name, especially when it meant he had been recognised. ‘You played football for the town, the captain! You did a few seasons up at the Gills too, right? You’re a legend round here.’
‘Legend,’ Danny snorted. He’d never felt further from the word.
‘I’m right though, aren’t I?’
‘I’ve played a bit. Not no more, though.’
‘That’s a shame. I used to get up Crabble a lot, me and my little girl. You were her favourite player, a proper no-messing centre-half. “The Beast”, right? They called you that after someone bit a piece of your ear off and you played on. I remember the pictures, you were covered in claret.’
‘That was a long time ago and it was just a nick.’
‘A nick! Still living up to the name, I see. How about I get your next beer? You know, as a thank you.’
Danny waved him away. ‘No need. I got paid, I got cheered, that was thanks enough …’ He stretched out his finger to rest it against the side of his pint glass, keeping his attention on where the bubbles rose as a twisting line to rush for the surface. ‘Best days of my life,’ he muttered.
‘I bet. Any chance I can get a quick picture? Just to send to my daughter. She won’t believe me when I tell her.’
‘I’m not so sure, you know. I’m hardly the model athlete tonight. I’m happy to sign something for her maybe? I might have a shirt back in the room?’
This time it was the man waving Danny away. ‘Look, don’t worry. I’m bothering you, I can see that. I didn’t think you would still be around here. Dover, I mean. Most of the players come from all over the place these days.’
‘I’ve no idea where I am right now, mate.’
‘Are you still working for the club then?’
‘I’m back involved, yeah. Coaching mainly now … you know.’ Danny didn’t really know himself anymore. His energy for the game and conversation about it was all but gone. His whole life’s obsession and suddenly he could barely care less. He tried not to think about how that had happened, how quickly. It terrified him.
‘Well, I’m sure you get this a lot, people like me bothering you when you’re enjoying a quiet one. I don’t get down here much anymore. I can’t believe I got to meet you.’
‘Sure. Have a nice night.’
The chair scraped and squeaked again, this time until it was empty. Just a few moments later Danny’s commentator friends said goodnight too before the screen they had occupied went black. The only movement left was from the bar staff who were well into their closing-up ritual. Danny dragged at his beer until his throat burned. He closed his eyes to it and instantly the room did a little spin. It was time to go.
The night sky seemed to provide a ceiling that held the sound of the passing traffic. It was steady, even at this time of night. The A20 passed right across the front of the pub, carrying traffic away from the busy ferry port that was just out of sight at the bottom of the hill and had Dover’s famous white cliffs as its backdrop. There was a service station to his left, the bright lights of its forecourt only serving to thicken the shadows of the path to the hotel’s main entrance. He considered a cigarette, just to warm his throat if nothing else. It was a new habit, one he might quit if he could even remember why he had started.
‘Hey!’ Danny turned to see the same suited man who had taken the seat next to him. He was walking after him waving a piece of paper. Danny pushed his cigarette back into the packet. He lifted the collar on his jacket and dropped his chin. It was freezing cold. He didn’t like the cold. He wanted to make sure his new friend was aware of his discomfort.
‘Oh, did you want that autograph?’ Danny had made it far enough for the shadow to swallow him whole.
‘It’s not your autograph I want, Danny. I know who you are.’
‘You said that.’
‘I don’t mean Danny Evans the washed-up footballer. I mean, I know who you really are.’
‘What is this?’ Danny looked around, expecting the shadows to give up another assailant. This conversation suddenly had a very different feeling.
‘I know why you’re currently living in a hotel, drinking yourself into a stupor every night. I know that you had to get away from your wife, from your family. I know what happened, Danny. I know about Callie.’
Danny’s hands lifted out of his jacket pockets already bunched into fists. He took a step towards the suited man, who didn’t react – he didn’t step back or raise his own hands in defence. Danny managed to keep his fists by his side. He was no stranger to being the target for a windup.
‘What is this? You trying to get a smack off me? You should know, there’s nothing left. Wind me up and I will lash out but there’s no money. You’ll just end up with a busted jaw; a local headline if you’re lucky but they don’t pay nothing.’
‘I don’t want a smack, Mr Evans. I just wanted to get your attention. I can help you.’
‘We were talking, weren’t we? In there. You had my attention.’
‘I don’t like talking in places like that, I know better. And I wanted to be sure it was you. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by someone like you, someone who went through the same thing you and your family are going through. I have information, Danny. I have answers.’
‘Answers? What are you talking about?’
‘I know what happened to Callie. And I know why you can’t talk about it, why you lash out at anyone who even mentions your daughter’s name. She wasn’t the only one who suffered. There were others.’
Danny stepped towards the man, his foot scuffing the concrete, a stone kicked and rolled. The suited stranger flinched slightly this time, but still didn’t step back.
‘I don’t know you. And I barely trust the people I do know these days. I suggest you scurry away before you get that smack you came here for.’
‘I understand.’ The man held his hands up in surrender. ‘You’re right, you don’t know me.’
‘And you don’t know who I am either. Don’t believe what you’ve read or heard. It’s all bullshit.’
‘Private investigators like me only believe what we find out for ourselves. That’s why I’m here, because of what I have found out. Think about that, Mr Evans.’
Danny didn’t want to think. Not now. He walked away as quickly as he could. When he emerged out of the shadow it was with a new destination in mind. The service station sold alcohol all night. He checked behind him, making sure his new friend had stayed put. When he came back out of the shop, the man was gone.
Chapter 2
Wednesday
The morning was always an extension of the night before when Danny had been drinking. The muzzy head was an instant reminder, but he knew that would pass; it was the fatigue in his muscles that would linger. It usually got worse as the day wore on. By evening, he felt lacklustre and wiped out. This morning, even the few steps to the bathroom were laboured. The sudden whirr of the extractor fan made him wince. He turned to sit on the toilet, not even bothering to stand up to urinate. As he finished, he glanced out of the bathroom and saw a white envelope on the floor by the door of his room; it looked like it had been slid underneath.
The envelope was A4 in size, face up and blank. At first it felt light enough to be empty, but it wasn’t. From inside he took out a single sheet of paper. The writing was scratchy, barely legible:
Maybe I didn’t get it right last night. I just wanted to talk, to help. I took the liberty of making an appointment for you to see me.
You should know, I don’t usually work for free. But this is different. I know how much you and your family must have suffered.
I’m sorry about the time but you will understand when you get there. Those answers I mentioned, I do have them. But they’re no good to me.
The Old Mill Development: CT17 OAX. Tonight, 10pm. Follow the light.
‘Follow the light!’ Danny scoffed. ‘God left it, did he?’ He turned the letter over in his hand, but there was nothing else. He opened his door and stepped out into a long, bland corridor. His eyes followed the patterned carpet up to a set of fire doors. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see. There was no one about. The envelope could have been pushed through at any time. The end of his night had seen him swigging from a bottle of rum until he had passed out on the bed.
His phone’s sudden vibration had him wincing again. The screen glowed with the name MARTY JOHNSON: his agent. Marty always called to confirm breakfast appointments. Danny didn’t answer. Marty wouldn’t be expecting him to by now. Instead, he threw his phone into the middle of his messed-up bed and turned the shower on.
‘Jesus, Danny, your wife tried to warn me, but you’re worse than she said.’
‘You spoke to Sharon?’ Danny’s knife dropped to clang against the plate as he fixed on Marty. His toast would have to make do with being half-buttered.
‘Of course I did. You don’t answer your phone anymore.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That you were staying in a hotel. That you were drinking too much and that whatever hotel it was she was sure it would have a shit-hole bar to suit your new lifestyle. She wanted to know which hotel too. Obviously I said I didn’t know.’
Danny took a moment to look around. The Duke Inn doubled as the venue for their buffet breakfast. Shutters had been pulled down to conceal the bottles of alcohol but from their table he could still see the stool he had made his own. The interior of the place looked worse in the daylight. There was no hiding the carpets with their worn tracks to the bathrooms, the slapdash paint job in fading orange, or the fake fireplace stacked with dusty pine cones. His wife was right; she was always right.
‘I needed somewhere to go, somewhere she can’t find me. Just for now.’
‘You can’t stay here for ever.’
‘Nothing’s for ever, Marty. The last year has taught me that for sure.’
Marty smiled. He was Danny’s latest football agent and very likely to be his last. Danny had been through several, some of them representing far bigger players than he had ever become. But Marty was still typical of all of them. He had the expensive watch, the LaCoste motif on a crisp white polo shirt and again on fitted chinos that led down to shoes with no socks. He also had impossibly neat facial hair and, at that time, was partaking in the ‘man-bun’ craze that seemed to fit with the BMW coupe he had parked outside. The watch was on a monthly repayment, of course, the car too, and the combined amounts were eye-watering to the point that it meant Marty couldn’t rent in London like he aspired to. He would need players at bigger clubs for that. It was the unspoken truth between them but Danny didn’t think it would be long before Marty gave up on him. He was starting to get used to that.
Football had always been Danny’s obsession. He had never seen it as a negative thing. Until now, facing the end of his playing days with no real sense of a plan B.
‘She’s worried about you.’ Marty spoke like he was braced for a reaction.
Danny leaned back, giving up on the toast completely to swap it for his strong coffee. ‘How messed up is that? You kick something out onto the street and then tell people you’re worried about it!’
‘It’s a little more complicated than that.’
‘You’re my agent, Marty, not hers.’
Marty held up his hands, one containing a glass of orange juice. ‘I’m not taking sides, you know me better. I just want your head back in football. This is a big year for you. That coaching role at Dover Athletic, it was yours, signed, sealed, delighted. But the board are getting a little shaky. They’re worried about you too.’
‘Worried? They know I can do that job!’
‘They know you can do anything when you’re keen. And sober.’
Danny bit his lip to hold back his first response. ‘Coaching …’ he said instead.
‘Coaching, yeah. A coaching role at a club like that, where you’ve got some sway, where you’re respected, where you can make mistakes and they’ll still give you time … They give you the kids to manage and you get some results and who knows, suddenly you’re getting offers for football management. I’ve said it to you all along, it can be a real future for you. Plus you get a salary and—’
‘Salary! If you can call it that!’
‘Fine, it’s not Premier League money but prove yourself at this level and the only way is up. A head coach or a manager in the Football League will do you very nicely, thank-you-very-much. Earn a contract in the Championship and you’re sorted for life, whether you work the whole of it or not. Trust me, I will make sure of that.’
‘Why would anyone give me a job running a Championship side?’
‘They won’t, not straight off the bat. That’s why you need to clean yourself up, finish your coaching badges, get yourself established in this role and start doing what you do. You’re smart, Danny. You know football, you know the nitty gritty, the messing about behind the scenes to get the players you want and then getting them to do what you want. Players listen to you, you’ve captained every side you’ve ever played for. That ain’t no fluke and it’s rare. You’re The Beast after all.’
‘I don’t feel like it right now.’
‘I see that. I’ve seen it before with players when they get to the end of their playing time. They can’t see beyond, they feel a bit lost. Your home life too … It’s been a bit … topsy turvy. But I think all your issues have the same solution. Get yourself sorted, get yourself clean and back to the Danny Evans who could boss a game of football without leaving the centre circle, and everything else will fall back into place.’
Danny suddenly flashed angry, he couldn’t hold it back: ‘“Back into place”! How can everything be back in place while … I had a life, Marty, a family, or are you forgetting all that? That’s not just going to fall back into place, is it? It could get worse from here. Far worse.’
Marty made that face he always did when he was about to be patronising. He wasn’t good at sympathy. The effort required was always obvious. ‘You don’t know what’s going to happen. Callie’s in a coma today but she might not be tomorrow. The doctors have said there could be a big change any time, right? And then you can start getting back to where you were. Look at you, Danny, you’re something, even smelling like you spent last night trying to drink until that something went away. I know you are.’
‘There’s no guarantee Callie’s coma ends with her waking up; no one’s promising us that. She might never …’ Danny couldn’t complete his sentence, he’d never been able to say it out loud. He didn’t need to.
‘You gotta have hope though, am I right?’
‘So is that what this meeting was about today? A little pep talk?’
‘No. This was just about me making sure I can sit you down in front of the people at Dover Athletic and they will take us seriously. There’s a good job here for you. The meeting will be this week. There will be a contract for you to sign that will make you a coach. It can run alongside another playing contract if they offer you another year. But you need to take this opportunity, Danny, OK. This is it for you – after this we’re all out of options.’
‘I get that.’ Danny sighed. ‘Look, I do appreciate what you’ve done. I know you’re doing your best for me.’