The Doll House: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!

You never know who’s watching…

Corinne’s life might look perfect on the outside, but after three failed IVF attempts it’s her last chance to have a baby. And when she finds a tiny part of a doll house outside her flat, it feels as if it’s a sign.

But as more pieces begin to turn up, Corinne realises that they are far too familiar. Someone knows about the miniature rocking horse and the little doll with its red velvet dress. Someone has been inside her house…

How does the stranger know so much about her life? How long have they been watching? And what are they waiting for…?

A gripping debut psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming. Perfect for fans of I See You and The Widow.

The Doll House

Phoebe Morgan

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Then

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

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

PHOEBE MORGAN is an author and editor. She studied English at Leeds University after growing up in the Suffolk countryside. She has previously worked as a journalist and now edits crime and women’s fiction for a publishing house during the day, and writes her own books in the evenings. She lives in London and you can follow her on Twitter @Phoebe_A_Morgan. The Doll House is her debut novel.

This book would not exist without the support, encouragement and ideas of my agent Camilla Wray at Darley Anderson, who never stopped believing in me and whose editorial help was invaluable. Similar thanks go to Celine Kelly, whose incredible insight is very much appreciated. Thanks too to Naomi Perry, who did a stellar job of looking after me last year during Camilla’s maternity leave – I finally found someone who shares my love of red pandas! The whole team at Darley Anderson are superstars and I’m lucky to be on their books.

A huge thank you to my wonderful editor Charlotte Mursell, who has made this process so smooth and enjoyable for me, and who is a great champion of all her HarperCollins books. Thank you to Victoria Oundjian and Lucy Gilmour at HQ for taking a chance on my book; I am so grateful. Thank you to Anna Sikorska for designing such a wonderfully creepy cover and for being the one to put my name onto a book jacket, which has always been my dream. Thank you to Alex Silcox for a great copy-edit and for catching all the things I missed, and thanks to all at HQ; you are all wonderful and I’m very proud to be published by you.

I feel lucky to know such talented, creative publishing professionals, but even luckier to call these people friends: special thanks go to the brilliant Helena Sheffield for your work with the bloggers and your friendship – you always go above and beyond. Thank you to the beautiful Sabah Khan who organised publicity for the book, I owe you a LOT of rainbow coloured flowers. Thank you to Eloise Wood for reading a draft of this book and being a constant supporter and an excellent advice-giver too.

Thank you to the Doomsday Writers – you know who you are and I couldn’t have done it without you, and I hope I never have to. Thank you to the kind authors who have read and quoted for my book, and to Kate Ellis, Kate Stephenson and Natasha Harding for your support too.

Thank you to Donald Winchester, who was one of the first agents to show interest in my writing, and to all of Team Avon and Helen Huthwaite at HarperCollins, the best bunch of colleagues anyone could ask for who publish amazing books with incredible passion and make my day job such a pleasure.

Thank you to my girlfriends for your encouragement and enthusiasm throughout this process; I promise never to put you in a crime book unless you come out on top.

Thank you to Alex for being my voice of reason, and for keeping me calm when I think I can’t write at all. You are an amazing supporter and I love you.

And finally, the biggest thank you to my family – to my brothers Owen and Fergus for reading countless drafts and answering all my incessant WhatsApps – you are my favourite people on the planet. Thank you to my dad for building me a doll house, then reliably informing me which parts of the book made no sense (especially geographically – not my strong point) and for putting me in touch with helpful people too who know more about architecture than I do. Thank you to my lovely grandma for digging out my old short stories, encouraging me and making me smile. And finally thank you to my mum; there are no words for how much you have championed me and this book and I love you so much and am so grateful. Thank you.

To my family, for not being like this one.

Then

‘Can we go now?’

I am tugging on Mummy’s coat, my fingers clutching the thin black fabric of it as though it is a life raft. Mummy’s eyes don’t move; her gaze doesn’t falter. It is as if I have not spoken at all.

Minutes pass. I begin to cry, small, quiet sobs that choke in my throat, sting my cheeks in the wind. Mummy takes no notice. I push my palms into my eyes, blotting out the last remnants of light in the shadowy garden around us. The darkness continues to fall, but still Mummy stares, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t comfort me. She just stares. I bite down hard into the flesh of my cheek, harder and harder until I can taste a little bit of blood on my tongue.

I’m trying to be quiet, trying not to make a sound. Mummy tells me that I shouldn’t complain, that we’re just playing the game. But it’s too cold tonight, and I’m hungry. The chocolate bar I had at school is swirling around in my stomach. I don’t think I’ll get anything else tonight, not if we don’t see them soon.

In the winter time it’s always cold like this, but Mummy never lets us leave. In the summer time it’s better, sometimes the game is almost fun. The garden is the best part, I like the way the grass feels against my knees, and the way the hole in the fence fits me perfectly, like it’s been built just for me. I’m really good at getting through it now, I never even snag my clothes any more. I’m almost perfect.

Now though it’s freezing and my hands are red, they burn like they’re set on fire. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and pretend that it’s summer time, all nice and warm, and that I can feel the rays of sun on my back from where I’m hiding. In summer I get to see animals. They have rabbits in cages but I don’t go near those any more. One time I did, I crept right up to the cage and put my fingers through the gap, touched one of the bunnies on his little soft nose. But when Mummy realised, she got very angry, she said I had to stay back in the shadows. She says the bunnies don’t belong to us. So I don’t see them any more, but I do get to see the little hedgehog that lives near the fence, and all the creepy-crawlies; the worms and the beetles that Mummy says I oughtn’t to touch. I do touch, though. I push my fingers into the dirt and pick them up, lay the worms flat on my hand and watch them wriggle. I don’t think they mind. It’s nice to have things to play with. I’m usually by myself.

Mummy suddenly leans forward, grabs my frozen hand in hers. I can feel the bones of her hand against mine, clutching me tight. It hurts.

‘Do you see them?’ she says, and I open up my eyes, blink in the darkness. It’s almost fully dark now but I look at the golden window, and I do see them. I see them all. My heart begins to thud.

1

Now

13 January 2017

London

Corinne

The house is huge. It sits like a broken sandcastle in the middle of the lawn, strangely out of place amongst the remnants of construction, discarded hats and polystyrene cups left by over-caffeinated builders. I cling to Dominic’s hand as we pick our way through the site. Two fold-up chairs are positioned mid-way across the lawn, their silver legs wet with cold condensation.

‘Dominic? You’re here early!’ A man is striding towards us, hand outstretched. I let go of Dominic and step backwards, feel the immediate rush of anxiety as we disengage.

‘You must be Warren.’ Dom smiles, reaching out to grasp the bigger man’s hand in his own. ‘This is my girlfriend, Corinne Hawes.’ He propels me forward slightly with his left hand. ‘She’s got the day off work so I thought I’d bring her along with me. Got a keen eye for a story too, so she might be of use!’

Neither of these things are exactly true. Dominic is a journalist; it’s easy to twist the truth, blur the lines. He’s good at it.

‘Thanks for coming down,’ Warren is saying, his voice loud and fast. ‘We really appreciate the coverage.’ Spittle connects the fleshy pouches of his lips, hangs horribly before separating itself into two sticky drops. He is moving as fast as he speaks, leading us both towards the house, raising a hand to builders as they walk past. The closer we get to the building, the worse I feel. It looms over us, white in the winter sun. There is something strange about it, something sad. It looks ruined. Forgotten.

‘So, Dominic, Dom, can I call you Dom?’ Warren continues without bothering to wait for an answer. ‘Dom, the thing is, this building is going to be a beauty by the time we’re finished with it. Yeah, it needs a bit of TLC, but that’s what we’re here for.’ He looks at me suddenly and winks. I recoil. He reminds me of Dom’s colleague Andy, the one who spent the entire Christmas party staring down my blouse, his eyes finding the gaps between the buttons on my chest. The memory makes me shudder. That man has never liked me since.

‘Shall we start off with a few questions, I’ll tell you what you need to know? Then you can take a few snaps, I know what you paparazzi are like!’ Warren laughs. I want to catch Dominic’s eye, share the horror of Warren together, but he’s scribbling in his notebook, little squiggles of grey against the white page.

We sit down at the chairs, I feel the wetness of the cold plastic seep through my jeans. The sun hits my eyes and I close them momentarily; they feel dry, the tear ducts emptied. Dom made me come with him today, told me I needed to get out of the flat. He said a week is long enough. He’s right, I know he is. I just can’t bear the fact that we’ve failed again, that another round of IVF has led to nothing. I feel empty.

‘Our readers love a good backstory,’ Dominic continues, and I find a glimmer of peace in the familiar rise and fall of his voice. ‘Especially with a building as beautiful as this.’

‘Well, let’s see,’ Warren says. ‘Carlington House – this is what’s left of it – was originally built back in 1792. It was designed by a guy named Robert Parler—’

Something shifts slightly in my brain, a bell of recognition.

‘I know Robert Parler,’ I say. ‘Well, not know him, of course. I mean I know of him; my dad told me.’

Dom smiles at me, his eyes flashing over the notepad.

‘Corinne’s dad was an architect too,’ he tells Warren, and I feel that familiar sucker-punch at the use of the past tense. It’s coming up to a year since Dad died. I miss him every single day. I miss him more than anyone thinks. I’m grateful to Dom for not saying Dad’s name – Warren will no doubt have heard of him and I don’t want to have to hear him start to suck up to me. People do that when they realise who my father was – one of the most well-known architects in London, famous in the industry and beyond. But it hurts to talk about him, and I feel fragile today, as though I’m made of glass that might shatter at any second.

‘Got yourself a smart little lady here, Dom!’ Warren grins. His teeth are too big for his mouth; I spy a piece of greenery stuck in his gums. ‘So, Parler does a grand job with Carlington and it passes through the hands of local landowners, the few that were wealthy enough. But then the Blitz rolls around, and we suffer some pretty major damage. Family living in it at the time, the littlest of their kiddies is found under the rubble nearly three months later. Three months, can you believe. Tragedy.’

Warren shakes his head, presses on gleefully. I picture tiny bones, birdlike under the aftermath of a bomb.

‘So, the thing is, the place never had the chance to shine until years later, must’ve been around twenty years ago.’ He pauses, stares for a moment at the house before us. I follow his gaze; there is a sudden movement, a shower of white dust spills from the collapsing roof. A trio of rooks fly out from the left-hand corner, shooting into the light, their spidery legs trailing behind them like stray threads in the ashy grey sky. One of them calls out, fleetingly, a short sharp cry that echoes in my chest.

‘Anyway, eventually someone spotted its potential. Employed a whole new round of builders, started work again. By that time, it was owned by the de Bonnier family, you know, they were a big deal in the jewellery business? Very wealthy back then.’ Warren sucks his teeth and raises his eyebrows at me.

Dominic, in the midst of writing, pauses and looks up. ‘You’ve not been at this twenty years though, surely?’

‘Of course not, Dom, of course not.’ Warren laughs. ‘My men are quicker than that! No, the de Bonniers hired a new company, started to do the place up. Made some good progress—’

‘So what happened?’ Dominic leans forward. His breath mists the air; I watch the cloudy white of it disappear into nothingness.

‘Whole thing got abandoned.’

‘Abandoned?’

‘Yep. Story goes that some pretty deep shit went down between the de Bonniers and the architect firm. All turned a bit nasty. Lot of money lost, from what I understand. That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it? Money.’ He waves a large hand in the air, it comes dangerously close to my shoulder.

‘So then of course, lucky us, we manage to wangle the deal and get the go-ahead to renovate. One of my biggest commissions so far, Dom, pays for the kids’ school fees, that’s what I always say. You guys got kids? Bloody rip-off these days. My missus says the little buggers are bleeding us dry.’

He turns his head towards me, I feel the heat rise in my face as his eyes meet mine. How can he say that? Doesn’t he know how lucky he is?

‘What kind of trouble went down?’ Dominic asks, saving me from answering his question.

‘Oh,’ Warren wafts a hand airily. ‘It was all a bit hush hush—’ I receive another wink ‘—I’m sure we can find out for you though! But isn’t that more your department?’ He laughs, the criticism veiled.

Dominic inclines his head. I sense his annoyance and my heart beats a little bit faster.

‘So who owns the house now?’

‘Oh, it’s being sold,’ Warren says. ‘Woman who owns it can’t afford to keep it, that’s why it’s in the state it’s in. Been left to rot, really. But someone’s finally come forward to buy it, pumped a load of money in – not that I care where the money’s coming from, as long as it’s coming!’

Dominic winces. ‘Right, right.’

Warren grins at me. ‘I can show you the house, if you like. Any excuse to show off our work, that’s what I always say.’

We are treated to a few statistics on Warren’s builders before we all stand up and Dominic takes a couple of photos. I close my eyes when the camera flashes; I hate cameras. Dad always said he hated them too, but I don’t think he did. He loved the attention, the limelight he used to get in London whenever he unveiled a new design. Flash. Flash. Dominic sees me wincing and touches my hair, asking if I’m all right, and I force myself to smile at him. The house surrounds us. I feel like it’s watching me.

Warren leads us both around the back, to where a hole in the wall gapes brutally, exposing the half-finished rooms inside. I remove a mitten and run my hand over the sturdy stone, enjoying the cold sensation. It is an off-white colour, argent grey, I think, the paint number popping into my head, an old habit from my first gallery days. A spider drifts downwards, its legs moving quickly like tiny knitting needles, spinning itself towards the soft padding of my outstretched arm. Drops of water glisten on its silvery web.

As we wander through the garden, around the crumbling walls, I feel the building enveloping me, touching me with its feelers, pulling me in. Cold fronds of air creep towards me from the dark holes where the windows should be. I stare up at the highest window, wondering who lived here, what secrets this house has held. As I turn away I see it – a flash in the darkness, a white movement. A face. There’s a face in the blackness, ghostly pale. I can see it.

I scream, put a hand to my chest and stumble backwards, my heart thudding.

‘No!’ I am saying, the words bursting out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘No!’

‘Ssh, Corinne, ssh now, it’s all right.’ Dominic is there, holding me, telling me to calm down, it’s just him, just the flash of his camera. Nothing to see. There is nobody there. He holds me against his chest and I take deep breaths, my legs shaking, cheeks flushing as Warren stares at me. My heart is thudding uncomfortably. I can’t keep doing this, living on my nerves, panicking at nothing. Dom continues to stroke my hair and tell me everything is fine, and I know he’s right but I can’t help it, I keep picturing the sight: a face at the window, looking out at me, staring straight into my eyes.

*

I run a bath that evening while Dominic goes to buy dinner for us both. My discarded boots sit by the radiator, their insides stuffed with old newspaper. We always have far too much of it; Dominic keeps his old copies of the Herald stacked up in the hallway.

I sit on the side of the bathtub, my legs cold against the white enamel, and turn the page of a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility. I’m trying not to think about earlier, the way I panicked at the house. It’s not good for me, these bursts of irrationality. Dom thinks it’s to do with my dad, the shock of his death. He’s said as much too.

I flip the book in my hands over. It has a picture of a serious-looking woman on the back and a photograph of a baby in a pushchair on the inside jacket flap. I have been hiding the book from Dominic since I bought it on Amazon. I’m embarrassed by it, I suppose, because actually I don’t really believe in any of this stuff, never have.

I saw the fertility book in Waterstones the other day and found myself hovering, looking around to see if anyone was watching me research ways to have children the way other people look up hobbies. I picked the book up, started to carry it to the counter, but the woman in the queue looked at me sympathetically when she saw what I was holding. I left the shop in a hurry, cheeks flaming, unable to bear her pity, but that night I found myself on the computer with my purse open beside me, typing in my bank security details and our address.

I have forgotten that I am running a bath until I feel the ends of my dressing gown getting wet against my skin. The water has reached the rim of the tub and is threatening to overflow. Swearing, I reach for the tap and turn it off, plunging my hand down into the wet heat to release the plug. The book falls from my lap onto the floor, landing with a dull thud.

Once the bath water has resigned itself to an acceptable level, I undress, my dressing gown pooling on the floor. My stomach is flat, white. I imagine it stretched out in front of me, like Ashley’s was with Holly, and the hairs on my body stand up against the cold air, only relaxing as I slide into the hot water. I put my shoulders back against the enamel, feel the points of my shoulder blades flinch at the sensation. I lean down to pick up the book. I should be more open-minded. Perhaps it will work. After all, I am fast running out of options.

Around me, the water goes cold but I stay in the bath, letting my body relax. I used to have baths when I was a little girl, I’ve always preferred them to showers. Images of Carlington House keep surfacing in my mind; the way I screamed, the darkness of the windows. I need to get a grip. I’ve always been a bit like this. When I was a little girl, I was always thinking I saw faces, ghosts in the dark. There was never anyone there. Dad used to say I had an overactive imagination. ‘Seeing the spooks again, Corinne?’ He’d laugh, ruffle my hair. He thought it was funny, but actually it made me feel scared. Still. I’m an adult now, I ought to know better.

My mobile rings twice, a sharp trill followed by a thudding vibration that echoes through the silent flat, but I don’t want to get out of the water just yet. It’s probably my sister. As the sound of the phone begins again, I give up and sink my head under the water, enjoying the cold rush enveloping me, my hair floating up and around me like a dark halo.

The next thing I know, Dominic is shouting, his hands are underneath my armpits, slipping and sliding, and there is water splashing everywhere. The bath mat is bristly under my feet and the towel as he rubs it over me is rough. My teeth are chattering and my fingertips are prune-like. He has pulled the plug and the water is draining out, forming rivulets around the sides of the sodden paperback lying on the floor of the tub.

‘Jesus Christ, Corinne,’ Dominic says, and his voice is shaky.

I blink, focus on his hands as they wrap my dressing gown around me. I can’t quite work out why he’s so worked up. Did I close my eyes in the bath?