The Mother: A shocking thriller about every mother’s worst fear…

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 AVON 2017

Copyright © Jaime Raven 2017

Cover layout design © debbieclementdesign.com 2017

Cover photographs © Getty

Jaime Raven 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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: 9780008253462

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008253479

Version: 2017-07-31

Dedication

This one is dedicated to my agent Leslie Gardner, whose help and guidance is very much appreciated

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

Also by Jaime Raven

About the Publisher

1

Sarah

I was attending the morning briefing when I received the text message that was going to bring my world crashing down.

I heard the ping as it arrived on my phone, but I decided it would be impolite to check it straight away because DCI Dave Brennan was in full flight. He wanted us to know that there was a lot going on and that we should prepare ourselves for a busy week ahead.

‘As you all know there was a near-fatal stabbing last night in Peckham,’ he said. ‘And in the early hours of this morning a warehouse was turned over in Camberwell. A security guard was badly beaten and goods worth a hundred grand were stolen. All this on top of a caseload that already has us stretched to the limit.’

It wasn’t such an unusual start to a Monday morning, certainly not in this part of South London, which had been a crime hotspot long before I joined the CID team. That was four years ago, and in that time I’d come to realise that the job was never going to get any easier.

London’s population was growing at an alarming rate and so were the number of criminal gangs. Yet at the same time cutbacks in manpower and resources were continuing to put pressure on the force. We were trying to control things from a position of weakness, and reckless politicians were content to let it happen.

‘I’ve managed to beef up the overtime budget,’ Brennan said. ‘That means you should all expect to work longer hours, at least until we get a handle on things. And it goes without saying that I’ll be turning down any requests for time off. So don’t even think about booking any last-minute holidays.’

Chance would be a fine thing, I thought. I hadn’t had a holiday since before Molly was born, when Adam and I spent a week in Spain. The aim of that sojourn had been to try to get our marriage back on track. But it had been a total disaster. We ended up screaming at each other during a drinking session on our hotel balcony and that was when he confessed to an affair and I told him that I wanted a divorce. A month later I discovered I was pregnant with his child and six months later we were both single again.

‘I want you to assist on the stabbing, DI Mason,’ Brennan said, looking at me with those bulbous eyes of his. ‘The victim’s undergone surgery on a punctured lung at King’s College Hospital. He should be about ready to make a statement, so let’s find out what he remembers.’

‘I’ll get right on it, guv,’ I said.

Brennan was a tall, gruff Irishman who commanded the loyalty and respect of his team. He was in his mid-fifties, and I was one of his biggest fans, partly because he’d seen fit to promote me to detective inspector on my return from maternity leave. It was something I’d welcomed at the time, but the extra work and responsibility often conflicted with my role as a single mother.

More than once I’d considered switching to a desk job with regular hours and less stress. But I hadn’t, mainly because I loved being a front-line copper despite the drawbacks.

‘There’s something else you all need to be aware of,’ Brennan was saying. ‘It’s about my forthcoming retirement. For reasons I won’t go into, I’ve had to bring it forward. So now I’ll be bowing out at the end of September. That’s four months from now.’

This didn’t come as a great surprise to anyone. We all knew that Brennan’s wife was suffering from early onset dementia and that she needed him to look after her. Nevertheless, it prompted a strong reaction.

‘We’ll miss you, boss,’ one detective said.

‘Hope we’ll all get invites to the leaving bash,’ said another.

Everyone else either rushed towards the front of the room to shake Brennan’s hand or made a sound to express their disappointment.

I decided to hold back so that I could take the opportunity to see who had sent me a text message, just in case it was important. There were two messages in the inbox. The first had come in half an hour ago and I hadn’t noticed. It was nothing important, just notification of my latest electricity bill.

But the second message made me frown. It was from a private number and there was a photograph attached. The photograph showed my Molly sitting on a sofa with a cuddly toy on her lap that I hadn’t seen before.

The text below it was short and sweet and it caused my stomach to twist in an anxious knot.

Thought you might like to see your daughter settling into her new home.

The message totally threw me.

As usual, my fifteen-month-old daughter was supposed to be spending the day with her grandparents. But the picture had not been taken at their house in Streatham.

The white leather sofa that Molly was sitting on was unfamiliar to me. And so too was the room she was in. I was absolutely certain that I’d never set foot in it before. I didn’t recognise the red cushions either side of Molly, or the framed print on the wall behind her. It looked like a sailboat on water.

I used my finger and thumb to expand the image and saw what appeared to be a startled look on Molly’s face. She was staring directly into the camera, her large brown eyes wide as saucers.

I didn’t doubt that the picture had been taken this morning. She was wearing the same pale green dress she’d had on when I’d dropped her off at my parents’ house before coming to the office. And her shiny fair hair was just as it had been then, swept away from her face and held in place at the back with a grip, the fringe hanging down across her forehead.

Was this someone’s idea of a joke? I wondered. And if so who? It certainly wouldn’t be my parents, and I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d think it was funny.

Panic churned in my belly as I looked again at the photograph and thought back to what Mum had said about her plans for the day. She was going to take Molly to the park this morning because the weather was set to be warm and sunny. My father was spending a few hours at his allotment and they were going to meet up later and have lunch together in a pub garden.

I looked at my watch. It was just after ten-fifteen, about the time I would have expected Molly to be enjoying herself on the park swings and slide and roundabout. But the photo suggested she was somewhere else.

Thought you might like to see your daughter settling into her new home.

What the hell did that mean? Molly’s home was in Dulwich where she lived with me. So why had she been photographed sitting in what appeared to be a stranger’s house?

I tapped out a short reply to the message – Who are you? – but three seconds after I sent it I got a message back: The recipient you’re sending to has chosen not to receive messages.

I needed to halt the rising sense of alarm so I speed-dialled my mother’s mobile number. But after a couple of rings it went to voicemail. I then rang my parents’ landline. My heart leapt when no one answered.

I would have called my father next but he didn’t have a phone of his own. He’d always insisted that he didn’t need one.

The ball of anxiety grew in my chest as my eyes were drawn back to the photograph. I wanted desperately to believe that it was nothing more than a misguided prank and that Molly was perfectly safe. But surely if there was an innocent explanation then my mother would have answered the phone. Did that mean she was in trouble? Was Molly still with her?

‘Oh, Jesus.’

The words tumbled out of my mouth and fear flooded through me like acid. I had to find out what was going on and I needed to be reassured that Molly was OK.

I took a moment to get my thoughts together, then dashed towards the front of the room to where my boss stood surrounded by a small bunch of detectives. I forced my way between them and seized Brennan’s attention by addressing him in a voice that was charged with emotion.

‘You’ll have to get someone else to visit the hospital,’ I said. ‘I need to leave right away.’

He arched his brow at me. ‘Bloody hell, Sarah. Whatever’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I took a deep, faltering breath. ‘It’s my daughter. I have to find out if she’s all right.’

‘Well I’m sure she’s fine,’ he said with a hesitant smile. ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’

I held my phone up in front of his face.

‘Because someone just sent this photo to me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a really bad feeling about it.’

2

Sarah

Brennan took the phone from me and squinted at the photo. Then as my fellow detectives fell silent he read the text message out loud.

‘I have no idea who sent it,’ I said. ‘It’s from a blocked number. And I don’t recognise the room Molly’s in.’

Brennan lifted his eyes and pursed his lips. ‘You usually leave her with your parents, don’t you?’

I nodded. ‘That’s why this is so weird. I dropped her off earlier and Mum was going to take her to the park.’

‘And have you tried calling your mother?’

‘Of course, but there’s no answer on her mobile or on my parents’ home phone.’

I explained that my father didn’t have a mobile and that nothing like this had ever happened before.

‘Well you shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ Brennan said. ‘We’ll help you get to the bottom of it. First thing to do is run a check on your phone to see if we can unblock the number of the caller.’

‘That’ll take time,’ I said shakily. ‘I can’t hang around. I have to go to the park and then to Mum and Dad’s.’

‘I quite understand, Sarah. In fact, I’ll come with you while your colleagues make inquiries.’

Brennan assigned two of the other detectives to the task and told another to go to the hospital to interview the stab victim in my place. Then he got me to forward the message and the photo to the office manager’s phone so that he could arrange for it to be checked out.

‘Try not to worry,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘I’m guessing this is some unfortunate misunderstanding or someone’s pathetic attempt at humour.’

The trouble was he didn’t sound convinced of that, and the knowing looks he gave the others sent a wave of adrenaline crashing through my bloodstream.

Brennan drove and I sat in the passenger seat of the pool car. The park was only a few miles from the police station in Wandsworth, and that was going to be our first stop.

It was within walking distance of my parents’ house and where my mother usually took Molly. If they weren’t there, then we’d go straight to the house.

I prayed silently to myself that I was overreacting, but it was impossible not to dwell on the worst-case scenario – that my daughter had been abducted.

It was every parent’s nightmare, and I’d had first-hand experience of the devastating consequences of such an event. During my time on the force I’d investigated seven cases where children had been kidnapped by strangers. Only four of them had been found safe and well. Two were still missing, and one six-year-old girl had been brutally raped and murdered.

But in none of those cases had the abductor sent a photograph of the child to the mother. And I hadn’t heard of it happening before. That at least gave me reason to believe that this might not be a straightforward snatch; that perhaps it was indeed some pathetic prank.

‘Try calling your mother again,’ Brennan said, as he steered the car along side streets in order to avoid the worst of the South London traffic.

I tried but it rang out and went to voicemail. I’d already left a message for her to call me and it wasn’t like my mother not to respond asap. I left another just the same and this time I told her I was desperately worried.

‘Please get back to me straight away, Mum. It’s urgent. I need to know that Molly is OK.’

I rang my parents’ landline again but still there was no answer.

My heart was in my throat as I hung up. I gulped down a breath and squeezed my eyes shut.

Oh God, please don’t let my worst fear be realised.

I opened my eyes and looked again at the photograph of Molly on the sofa. My beautiful little girl clutching a beige teddy bear that I didn’t recognise. I wanted to believe that my parents had bought it for her, but I doubted it. Molly had plenty of cuddly animals both at home and at her grandparents’, and I had always discouraged them from spoiling her with too many toys.

So who had got it for her? And who had sent me a picture of my daughter claiming she was settling into her new home? What the fuck did it mean?

‘Are you sure you have no idea where the photo was taken?’ Brennan asked me.

‘I’m positive,’ I said.

‘Then it could be the home of someone your mother knows. Maybe she went there instead of to the park.’

‘I’ve thought about that,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t explain the creepy message or why the photo was sent.’

‘What about your ex-husband? Could he have taken Molly?’

My body stiffened. I hadn’t given any thought to Adam, but that was partly because I knew he wouldn’t dream of scaring me like this. Sure, we were divorced, but we made every effort to get along for Molly’s sake. He saw her every week as part of the custody arrangement, and as a copper himself he would know better than to do something that would cause such alarm.

I said as much to Brennan and added that I’d been to Adam’s flat in Mitcham and he did not have a white leather sofa like the one in the photo.

‘Perhaps you should call him anyway,’ Brennan said. ‘I’m sure he’d want to know what’s happening.’

‘I will, but not yet,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily if Molly’s at the park or at home with Mum.’

It was a big if and with every passing second I was becoming more worried.

Why hadn’t my mother called me back? Why hadn’t I received another message from whoever had sent the first one?

What was I going to do if we couldn’t find Molly?

We reached the park fifteen minutes after leaving the station. It wasn’t much more than a small patch of greenery surrounded by flats and houses.

There was a children’s playground in the centre and as we pulled into the kerb I could see that it was busy. But then it usually was on a day like today with the sun beating down and not a cloud in the sky.

I jumped out of the car even before Brennan had switched off the engine. As I ran across the grass I stared intently at the playground in the hope of spotting my grey-haired mother.

But as I drew close it became evident that she wasn’t there, and I felt the panic swell up inside me.

I counted eight mums, two dads and about fifteen pre-school kids. But my own mother and daughter were not among them.

I walked around the playground and looked beyond it towards the surrounding roads, but there was no sign of them.

When Brennan caught up with me he was out of breath and struggled to speak.

‘Don’t assume the worst,’ he told me. ‘Maybe they’ve been here but are now on their way back to your parents’ place.’

‘We’ve got to go there,’ I said.

‘Is it far from here?’

I pointed. ‘About half a mile in that direction.’

‘Come on then.’

As we hurried back across the field towards the car, Brennan took out his phone and made a call that I assumed was to the station. But I couldn’t hear what he was saying because my head was filled with the sound of my own heart banging against my chest.

I couldn’t believe that this was happening. The day had started off so well. Molly, bless her, had been on her best behaviour this morning, as excited as ever at the prospect of spending time with her grandparents.

I felt tears well up in my eyes as I thought back to when I’d dropped her off. My dad had picked her up in his arms and got her to wave goodbye and blow me a kiss.

She was so sweet, the sweetest little girl. The centre of my world. I couldn’t bear the thought that she might be in danger. Or that I might never see her again. The prospect filled me with a cold, hard dread that settled in my stomach like a heavy rock.

‘You need to stay calm, Sarah,’ Brennan said, when we were back in the car.

‘That’s easy for you to say, guv,’ I replied. ‘I just don’t understand what’s going on. The photo, the message, the fact that my mother won’t answer her phone.’

He left it a beat and said, ‘I’ve just called the office and told them to circulate the photo and alert uniform. Just to be on the safe side.’

It should have reassured me but it didn’t. Instead his words brought a sob to the surface and I had to force myself not to burst out crying.

‘Take this,’ Brennan said, handing me a handkerchief he produced from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

I lowered the visor and looked at myself in the mirror. The face that stared back at me was pale and gaunt. I suddenly looked much older than my 32 years.

Tears sparkled in my eyes and my short brown hair was dishevelled from where I’d been raking my hands through it.

I dabbed at my eyes with the hanky and then used it to blow my nose.

‘You need to tell me where to go,’ Brennan said.

I cleared my throat and told him to take a left at the next junction and then the first right after that. He didn’t respond, just concentrated on the road ahead.

‘Thank you for coming here with me,’ I said. ‘I’m grateful.’

‘You don’t need to be,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t let you do this by yourself. I can imagine what you must be going through.’

Brennan, who had a grandson a similar age, had met Molly a couple of times when I’d taken her into the station. He had always been understanding of the problems faced by single mothers in the department and I’d come to view him almost as a father figure as well as my boss.

Right now I was so glad he was with me. I knew he would do whatever he could to help me find my daughter.

‘It’s the house up there on the left behind the privet hedge,’ I said.

My childhood home was a semi-detached pre-war property in a quiet, tree-lined street. My father’s ageing Mondeo wasn’t parked out front so I took that to mean that he was still at his allotment.