STRANGERS
C.L. Taylor

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 2020

Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Mohamad Itani / Trevillion Images (legs and shadows), Magdalena Russocka / Trevillion Images (woman), Shutterstock.com (floor)

C.L. Taylor 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: 9780008222468

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008221065

Version: 2020-06-19

PRAISE FOR C.L. TAYLOR

‘This masterfully woven story comes together in a thrilling and unexpected climax. I could not put it down.’

Fiona Cummins

‘Wonderfully devious, clever cliffhangers and utterly addictive.’

John Marrs

‘She’s done it again … what a brilliant read Strangers is.’

Cass Green

‘Strangers is her best yet. Expertly woven and so pacy – my heart was banging at the end!’

Holly Seddon

‘This is REALLY good. Read it in a day.’

Jane Fallon

‘Stayed up to finish Strangers, unable to put it down. It’s her best one yet. A joy to read, full of living, breathing characters, a compelling plot, humour and a killer twist.’

Mark Edwards

‘Clever, surprising and nuanced – C.L. Taylor is at the top of her game.’

Gillian McAllister

‘Brilliant characters and a jaw-dropping denouement. I swear I hardly breathed for the last 100 pages. This one is going to be HUGE in 2020.’

Claire Allan

‘Clever and unsettling, with a brilliant cast of characters, I am sure this is going to be another huge success.’

Rachel Abbott

‘A deep and dark tale of three individuals whose lives collide with such force, I’m sure I was holding my breath near to the end. Utterly sinister and compelling.’

Mel Sherratt

‘Claustrophobic and compelling.’

Karin Slaughter

‘A masterclass in character. Clear to see why she’s a million-copy seller.’

Sarah Pinborough

‘Highly original – kept me utterly enthralled.’

Liz Nugent

‘Twisted, unbearably tense, and a shock ending.’

C.J. Tudor

‘Has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, and a final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’

Fiona Barton

‘Fans of C.L. Taylor are in for a treat.’

Clare Mackintosh

‘Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’

Elizabeth Haynes

‘A gripping and disturbing psychological thriller.’

Lucy Clarke

‘Pacy, well written, and anxiety-inducing.’

Lisa Hall

‘A compulsive read.’

Emma Kavanagh

‘Kept me guessing till the end.’

Sun

‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a gripping rollercoaster of suspense.’

Sunday Express

‘A rollercoaster with multiple twists.’

Daily Mail

‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller will get your blood pumping.’

Fabulous Magazine

‘A real page-turner … creepy, horrifying and twisty. Intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.’

Julie Cohen

‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale. Can’t recommend it enough.’

Louise Douglas

See what bloggers are saying about C.L. TAYLOR …

‘I devoured Strangers. Twisty and clever, utterly compelling characters and a superb edge-of-the-seat finale.’

Liz Barnsley, Liz Loves Books

‘My eyes were simply glued to the page, I couldn’t tear them away!’

The Bookworm’s Fantasy

‘An intriguing and stirring tale, overflowing with family drama.’

Lovereading.co.uk

‘Astoundingly written, The Missing pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the final full stop.’

Bibliophile Book Club

‘Imaginative, compelling and shocking – The Fear is a highly engrossing read.’

The Book Review Café

‘The Fear is a dark tale of revenge and just when you think you know where the story’s going, the author takes you by surprise!’

Portobello Book Blog

‘[The Missing] inspired such a mixture of emotions in me and made me realise how truly talented you have to be to even attempt a psychological suspense of this calibre.’

My Chestnut Reading Tree

‘Tense and gripping with a dark, ominous feeling that seeps through the very clever writing … all praise to C.L. Taylor.’

Anne Cater, Random Things Through My Letterbox

‘C.L. Taylor has done it again, with another compelling masterpiece.’

Rachel’s Random Reads

‘In a crowded landscape of so-called domestic noir thrillers, most of which rely on clever twists and big reveals, [The Missing] stands out for its subtle and thoughtful analysis of the fallout from a loss in the family.’

Crime Fiction Lover

‘When I had finished, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and wrung it out like a dish cloth.’

By the Letter Book Reviews

‘The Fear is a gripping, fast-paced read.’

The Book Whisperer

‘The Missing has such a big, juicy storyline and is a dream read if you like books that will keep you guessing and take on plenty of twists and turns.’

Bookaholic Confessions

‘Incredibly thrilling and utterly unpredictable! A must read!’

Aggie’s Books

‘A gripping story.’

Bibliomaniac

‘It’s the first time I have cried whilst reading. The last chapter [of The Missing] was heart-breaking and uplifting at the same time.’

The Coffee and Kindle

‘Another hit from C.L. Taylor … so cleverly written and so absorbing that I completely forgot about everything else while reading it. Unmissable.’

Alba in Book Land

Dedication

To Kellie Turner

My favourite Aussie

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for C.L. Taylor

See what bloggers are saying about C.L. Taylor …

Dedication

Chapter 1: Alice

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Alice

Chapter 4: Gareth

Chapter 5: Ursula

Chapter 6: Alice

Chapter 7: Gareth

Chapter 8

Chapter 9: Ursula

Chapter 10: Alice

Chapter 11: Gareth

Chapter 12: Alice

Chapter 13: Ursula

Chapter 14: Gareth

Chapter 15: Alice

Chapter 16: Ursula

Chapter 17: Gareth

Chapter 18: Alice

Chapter 19: Ursula

Chapter 20: Gareth

Chapter 21: Gareth

Chapter 22: Alice

Chapter 23

Chapter 24: Ursula

Chapter 25: Gareth

Chapter 26: Alice

Chapter 27: Gareth

Chapter 28: Ursula

Chapter 29: Alice

Chapter 30: Gareth

Chapter 31: Ursula

Chapter 32: Gareth

Chapter 33: Alice

Chapter 34

Chapter 35: Ursula

Chapter 36: Gareth

Chapter 37: Alice

Chapter 38: Ursula

Chapter 39: Gareth

Chapter 40: Alice

Chapter 41: Ursula

Chapter 42: Gareth

Chapter 43: Alice

Chapter 44: Ursula

Chapter 45: Gareth

Chapter 46: Ursula

Chapter 47: Alice

Chapter 48: Gareth

Chapter 49: Ursula

Chapter 50: Alice

Chapter 51: Gareth

Chapter 52: Ursula

Chapter 53: Joan

Chapter 54: Alice

Chapter 55: Larry

Reading Group Questions

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1
Alice

Alice Fletcher has never seen a dead body before. She always imagined they’d look peaceful: their skin slackened, their muscles softened and their mouths settled, not into a smile exactly, but a loose, contented line. Alice Fletcher was wrong. The body lying motionless at her feet looks nothing like the soothing mental image she’s been carrying around with her for the last forty-six years; the mouth is open, the jaw is hinged into a silent scream and the glassy, lifeless eyes are staring into the distance, somewhere beyond the toes of her sensible court shoes.

Alice isn’t aware of the frantic pounding of her heart, the heavy-duty lino beneath her feet or the steel-grey shutter that separates her from the rest of the world. Nor is she conscious of the people around her. She doesn’t notice when the tall hulking woman to her left takes a step closer. She doesn’t see the sweat patches under the armpits of Ursula’s pale blue sweatshirt or the way her hands are shaking, one fingernail torn away leaving behind a raggedy nail bed, tinged with blood. She isn’t aware of Gareth’s laboured breathing or the bruise blooming on his jaw.

An anguished scream from across the shop snaps Alice back into herself. There are other sounds too: whispering, sobbing and ‘Oh God, oh God’ repeated over and over again. And then there’s the pain, the deep, nauseating ache that radiates up her arm and across her shoulder to her neck. Alice clutches at her arm, her fingers sliding over the warm, wet polyester sleeve of her blouse. But it’s not the blood that makes her stomach lurch and her legs weaken. There’s a dead body at her feet and her nightmare isn’t over yet.

‘I need my phone,’ she mutters. ‘I have to find my phone.’

‘Where are you going?’ Ursula shouts as Alice stumbles away and the frantic wail of a siren drifts through the open window. ‘The police are coming. What do we tell them when they get here?’

Alice turns slowly, her gaze returning to the corpse. She looks at it for a second, two, three, then draws an exhausted, raggedy breath and raises her eyes.

‘We say it was self-defence.’

Chapter 2

THE SAME EVENING, ON TWITTER

@realmadwife:

Massive police presence in the centre of Bristol. What’s going on?

@DiddleyBopDee:

Probably a road rage incident. The traffic is MENTAL.

@PeterCrussell:

I follow BBC Radio Bristol and they haven’t mentioned anything.

@realmadwife:

That doesn’t mean there’s nothing going on, Peter. It just means we haven’t been told about it yet.

@pauldunphy:

Everyone’s a conspiracist. Ring the police if you’re so worried.

@realmadwife:

I think they’ve got enough to deal with, don’t you? Anyway, thanks for butting in with your ‘helpful’ advice.

@onthecliffedge:

I bet the Harbourside Murderer is pleased.

@lisaharte101:

About what?

@onthecliffedge:

That we’re talking about something else for a change. Ha. Ha.

@lisaharte101:

Seriously? People have died and you’re laughing?

@cris_matthiesen:

There’s no such thing as the Harbourside Murderer. It’s an urban legend.

@snugbookshop:

Really? So how did three people just disappear then? Answer me that …

Chapter 3
Alice

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Monday

It’s the beginning of March but a bead of sweat winds its way down Alice’s spine as she unbuttons her damp coat and slides it off her shoulders. There’s a small round wooden table in front of her and a print of a dog sitting next to a gramophone on the wall but Alice isn’t interested in what she can see. She’s listening: for the tinkle of the bell above the door and the squeak of shoes on the sticky pub floor. But there’s no one creeping up behind her. The pub is silent apart from the tap-tapping of a man at his laptop on the other side of the room, the murmured voices of two old blokes at the bar and the clink of glasses as the dishwasher opens. She takes a steadying breath then flings the coat over the back of a chair and sits down on the padded corner seat, shuffling around the table so she’s facing the door. Her pulse slows.

Alice likes predictability. All-day delivery slots make her tense and just the thought of someone sneaking up on her, covering her eyes and shouting, ‘Guess who?’ is enough to bring her out in hives. The day she turned thirty-nine she texted all her friends telling them that under no circumstances were they to arrange a surprise party for her fortieth. It was probably the worst thing she could have done. Her phone didn’t stop pinging with threats to hire village halls, to swipe her spare house keys, to collude with Peter. One so-called friend had even tormented her with the promise of a male stripper.

She shudders at the thought and takes a sip of her lemonade. As it turned out there was no surprise party for her fortieth and, although she’d felt nervous stepping into the restaurant her friend Lynne had booked, there was no stripper either. It was a lovely evening, surrounded by good friends and full of laughter. Peter had been on his best behaviour all evening and, even though she’d girded herself for unpleasantness in the taxi on the way home, he hadn’t started a fight.

Her mobile vibrates on the table and she snatches it up, certain it’s Michael, cancelling their date. But it’s just Lynne, her best friend and workmate at Mirage Fashions, asking her how it’s going. She taps out a reply, keeping one eye on the door. It’s tipping down with rain outside and people are running past the pub, heads down, their faces obscured by heavy hoods and damp brollies.

He’s not here yet and I’m shitting myself. I don’t know why I agreed to this. Actually I do. Emily!

She inserts a rolling eyes emoticon at the end of the text, then deletes it. Her twenty-year-old daughter didn’t force her into using Tinder. But Emily certainly dropped a lot of hints:

‘It’s been two years since Dad left …’

‘I can’t remember the last time you went on a date.’

‘You’re forty-six, not eighty-six. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life alone.’

‘Doesn’t it get lonely? Spending the weekends on your own?’

She’d answered all of her daughter’s comments with a sharp comeback but when she tried to respond to the last question the words dried in her mouth. Returning to her empty two-bedroom flat wasn’t so bad in the week when her daughter was there. Besides, she was so tired after spending eight hours a day on her feet, smiling at customers and rallying her staff, that all she wanted to do was sink onto the sofa and lose herself in a documentary or some terrible reality TV show. But on a Sunday, when her daughter disappeared off to her boyfriend Adam’s place, the flat seemed to swell and Alice seemed to shrink. As she walked from room to room, looking for something to do, she felt like a marble rolling through a maze. And on the rare occasions when she spoke – to herself or to the television – her voice seemed to bounce off the walls. It was almost a relief to wake up on Monday and get ready for work.

She stares at her phone, pushing down the wave of self-pity that threatens to engulf her and deletes the part about her daughter. She presses send and, a couple of seconds later, the phone vibrates with a reply.

Leave! Meet me for a coffee and a sandwich! Kaisha can cover for me.

It’s a tempting offer but there’s no way she’s going to let her nerves stop her from meeting Michael. She decided, on 31st December, as she whirled around Lynne’s living room with her hands in the air and her head thrown back as eighties hits pounded at her eardrums, that the new year would see a more assertive Alice. She’d learned through bitter experience that when you sit back and wait for what life throws at you, you mostly get covered in shit.

She glances at her watch. 1.10 p.m. She only gets an hour for lunch and even if Michael walks through the door right now they’ll only be able to spend forty minutes together before she has to leave. An old man’s boozer with a sticky floor, tobacco-stained walls and choice of two soft drinks – ‘Coke or lemonade, that’s your lot’ – wouldn’t have been her ideal venue for a first date but he said it was his favourite pub and that they’d easily get a table because it wasn’t busy at lunchtime. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt. He was new to Bristol and probably hadn’t had chance to visit any of the nicer places yet. Either that or he has low standards. She smiles ruefully to herself, then pushes the thought away.

The bell above the door tinkles and a man in a black waterproof jacket walks in. Alice’s stomach hollows as he pauses, his gaze flitting from the blonde bloke with the laptop to the two older gents at the bar. She fights the urge to slip down in her seat and slither under the table. Assertive Alice wouldn’t do that, she tells herself as she straightens her spine and fixes a smile to her face. Assertive Alice does not hide. Instead she casts an eye over the man at the door. Michael’s shorter than she imagined, five foot eight or nine to her five foot four, but he’s better-looking than his photos (her daughter warned her that the opposite was more likely to be true). His thick dark hair is peppered with grey at the temples and he’s very masculine-looking with his heavy brow, wide jaw and strong nose, the tip pinked from the cold. There’s a tautness to his expression but it vanishes as he turns his head and his eyes flick towards her. His lips twitch at the edges. It’s not a smile per se, more a flash of recognition, and as he ambles across the carpet towards her the pit in her stomach fills with self-doubt. He doesn’t fancy her. She can see it in his face.

‘Alice!’ As Michael nears her table he half-falls, half-lunges in her direction and lands a cold kiss on her cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late!’

‘It’s fine,’ she lies, shifting across the padded bench to make room for him as he unceremoniously plonks himself next to her rather than taking the seat opposite. ‘But I can’t stay long. I need to get back to work.’

‘You’ve got time for a quick drink, though …’ His brow furrows as he takes in the near-empty glass on the table in front of her. ‘Gin and tonic is it?’

‘Lemonade.’

‘Have a gin and tonic!’ Still in his wet coat he heaves himself back onto his feet. ‘You can’t let me drink alone.’

‘I’m working! I don’t want a—’

But Michael is already halfway to the bar. As he signals to the bored-looking twenty-something barman Alice picks up her phone.

He’s here, she texts Lynne. He’s a bit … exuberant … but he’s nice-looking.

She stares at the phone, waiting for a reply, then quickly drops it into her bag as her date returns from the bar, two glasses in his hands.

If that’s gin I’m not drinking it, she thinks, warily eyeing the clear liquid and slice of lemon in one of the glasses.

‘Lemonade.’ He slides it across the table, his eyes not meeting hers.

She takes a sip to check – definitely lemonade – then sets it back down and takes a better look at Michael, or at least the part of his face that isn’t hidden behind the rim of his pint glass. Up close his skin is grey and dry, spidered with red thread veins and dotted with age spots. His thick hair is dull and brittle and his nails are gnarly and split. She sniffs subtly, silently drawing his scent into her nostrils. Booze. And something worse: unwashed clothes. He senses her watching him and sets down his pint, swivelling his bloodshot eyes in her direction.

He’s drunk, Alice realises. He’s turned up to our first date drunk.

Perhaps he’s nervous, she thinks, trying desperately to reconcile the glassy-eyed man to her right with the witty, clever man she exchanged dozens of messages with. It’s after one o’clock, technically the afternoon. Maybe he had a glass of wine with his lunch to calm himself down and one swiftly became two, or three.

‘Cheers! Here’s to meeting at last.’ He holds out his drink and clinks it, slightly too heavily, against hers. Lemonade slops over the glass and wets the cuff of her sleeve. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Catfish. You don’t know who you’re talking to on the internet half the time.’ His words aren’t slurred but they’re louder than they need to be, given there’s barely a foot between them. Definitely nervous, Alice tells herself.

‘Have you been catfished before?’ she asks.

He gives her a long, lingering look, his gaze drifting from eyes to her mouth. It rests there a fraction too long, making her feel so self-conscious she presses her lips together, pulling them between her teeth.

‘I’ve met a lot of people who can’t be trusted, but you seem different.’ He pauses. ‘Are you?’

Alice runs her hands up and down the skirt of the dress she changed into in the staff toilets at work. Nervous or not, this is too much, this intensity. She thought they’d make small talk, then segue into chat about their interests, their families and their plans for the future. She thought he’d be as light-hearted and jokey as he’d been in his messages.

She forces a laugh. ‘I don’t think I’d have got the manager’s job if I was untrustworthy.’

‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’ He presses a heavy hand over hers. ‘Are you someone I can trust?’

Alice glances at the bar but the near-teenager is too engrossed in his phone to notice the look she shoots in his direction and the two older men have their backs turned to her. But someone has noticed her anguish. The man with the laptop on the opposite side of the pub has stopped typing and is looking at her with concern. She raises her eyebrows at him, signally what she’s not sure, but he doesn’t move from his seat. Instead his attention returns to his screen and he hunches over, typing furiously. He wasn’t watching her at all, he was staring into space.

‘I asked you a question,’ Michael says. ‘Are you someone I can trust?’

Alice keeps her gaze firmly fixed forward. ‘Yes,’ she says from between her teeth. ‘Of course I am.’

She tugs her hand away from beneath his sweating palm but he’s quicker than she is and he pins her hand to the light cotton material of her skirt.

‘Look at me. Look at me, Alice.’

No, shouts the voice in her head. I don’t want to.

There’s a part of her that wants to shout at him to take his heavy, clammy hand off hers. He’s drunk but he must be able to see how uncomfortable she is, how rigid she has suddenly become. But there’s another part of her, a bigger part, that doesn’t want to cause a scene or risk angering him. He’s not sexually abusing her. He hasn’t touched her boobs or her bum. But that doesn’t make it okay. Hot angry tears prick at her eyes. Of all the men on Tinder, she chose him. It’s like she’s got a sign on her head: complete walkover seeks utter arsehole. Decent men need not apply. Well she’s not going to let him see her cry.

‘Excuse me.’ She stands abruptly, yanking her hand from his, grabs her handbag, shifts to her left and rounds the table. Out of the corner of her eye she spots laptop man packing up his things. ‘I’m just going to use the ladies.’

Irritation flares on Michael’s face. ‘You’re doing a runner.’

‘No, I’m not.’

But I will, she thinks. When I get back.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Michael calls after her as she hurries across the pub, following the sign to the toilets. ‘Might make you a bit less uptight!’

Alice’s pulse pounds in her ears as she throws open the door to the ladies’ loo and stalks over to the sink. She grips the cold, ceramic sides and folds over herself, her eyes screwed shut, breathing rapidly through her nose.

‘Arsehole,’ she says, lifting her head, staring into the eyes of her tear-stained reflection. ‘Stupid bloody arsehole.’

She steps into the nearest cubicle, grabs a handful of cheap, rough toilet paper and blows her nose. She flushes it, grabs another handful and returns to the sink. She blots the tears that roll down her cheeks, cutting pale rivulets through the thick foundation that mask her freckles. As she takes a deep, steadying breath, an image of her ex-husband flickers in her brain – curled up on the sofa with his new wife and her burgeoning baby bump – and fresh tears replace the ones she wiped away.

‘Stop it,’ she says to her reflection. ‘Alice, stop it! You’ve got a nice flat, a lovely daughter, a good job and great friends. You don’t need this shit.’

She roots around in her handbag for her concealer and powder and does her best to cover the redness on her nose, then replaces the eyeliner that disappeared down her cheeks. She doesn’t want to give Michael the satisfaction of knowing that he made her cry.

‘It’ll do,’ she tells herself and snaps her handbag shut.

She steels herself before she opens the toilet door. She’ll go back to the table. She’ll pick up her coat, say a cursory, ‘It was nice to meet you,’ and she’ll walk out of the pub with her head held high.

‘Right,’ she says to herself, then she turns the handle, opens the door and steps out of the ladies’ toilets.

‘Hello, Alice.’

Michael is standing at the end of the narrow corridor, blocking her route back to the bar. As his eyes meet hers, her heart stills its frantic thumping. It pauses between beats.

A slow smile forms on Michael’s lips. ‘Did you get lost?’

‘No. Why?’ There’s a quiver in her voice that she’s never heard before.

‘I thought maybe you were waiting for me to join you.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He shrugs, his dark anorak shifting on his shoulders and Alice’s stomach lurches. Clenched in his right hand is her coat.

‘You only had to ask.’ He leers at her. ‘If you wanted a quickie. I’m all for a bit of … fun.’

‘I have to go back to work.’ She steps towards him, gesturing for her coat.

There’s a pause as Michael considers the request, then he lifts her coat and holds it out towards her. She reaches for it, limp with relief. Her fingertips graze the shiny material and she fixes her mouth into a tight smile as she mentally prepares the last words she’ll ever say to him.

It was nice to meet you.

No, it wasn’t. How about, I really must get back to work. Bye then.

Or maybe just: Goodbye.

She raises her eyes to his, the word forming between her lips, then gasps in shock as the coat is ripped from her curled fingers.

Michael holds it behind his back. His smile widens.

‘Kiss goodbye?’

She stares at him, too stunned to speak.

‘I had to take half a day off work to meet you. And I bought you a drink.’

Her incredulity morphs into anger. He took the morning off work to get pissed and shelled out for half a lemonade and he thinks that entitles him to a kiss? What century does he live in? What planet?

‘My coat.’ This time her voice doesn’t betray her. Every ounce of anger she feels is compressed into the two words.

He shakes his head then leans forward, lips pursed. Alice reaches round him, squeezing half her body between him and the wall, and grabs at the coat, dangling from his hands. ‘Just fucking give it to me!’

The air is knocked from her lungs as Michael lunges to the side, his elbow connecting with the small hollow between her collarbones. She stumbles backwards, the crown of her head hitting the wall as her handbag tumbles to the ground.

‘Don’t swear at me.’ His breath is sour, his eyes glassy. ‘Never swear at me.’

Alice presses a hand to her throat, sucking in air, her brain empty. She is vaguely aware of the soft squeak of a door opening and a dark shape in her peripheral vision but all she can do is stare up into the sweaty, open-pored face of the man whose right hand is clamped around her right shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft tissue beneath the hard bone. Michael lowers his face to hers, his dry cracked lips parting, as he draws closer.

He’s going to kiss me.

His wet, red tongue quivers against his bottom lip, saliva glistening on its tip. The revulsion that courses through her body makes her dazed brain spark back to life.

He’s NOT going to kiss me.

Her knee whips through the air then stops suddenly as it finds its target. Michael throws his head back and roars as he falls away, hands clasped between his legs.

Alice doesn’t wait for him to recover. Instead she stoops down, snatches up her bag and her coat, and she runs.

A male voice follows her as she bursts out of the pub, shouting, telling her to stop, to wait. She hears footsteps behind her, pounding the cobbled street as she heads for the Meads, but she doesn’t look back.

Chapter 4
Gareth

It’s the sudden movement across the top left screen that catches Gareth’s eye. Someone is speeding across the shopping centre, running hell for leather. He snatches up his radio, his thumb primed over the talk button. Someone moving that fast can only mean one thing – shoplifter. He pushes a button on the control desk, zooming in on the sprinter, then his eyes widen as she comes into focus. He knows this woman. She works in the ladies’ fashion boutique on the first floor. He’s watched her open up in the morning and close up at night. Given the fact she’s always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave he’s pretty sure she’s the manager. She’s short, not much more than five foot, with vivid red hair that she wears curled up in a bun on the back of her head.

He jolts in his seat as a hand darts across the screen, grasping for the red-haired woman. Male fingers latch around her shoulder. Gareth zooms out to see a tall blonde man in a beige jacket with a black laptop bag slung across his body, then lifts his radio to his mouth.

‘Alpha Charlie Zero. Anyone available on the first floor? Red-haired IC1 female being assaulted by a blond-haired IC1 male. Just outside Superdrug. Over.’

He takes his thumb off the button and stands up to get a better look at the screen. The shop manager looks terrified: her hands are up by her mouth, her eyes are wide with fright and she’s backing away from the man. He’s got something in his hand and he’s waving it in her direction. Gareth’s radio crackles.

‘Bravo Golf Seven,’ says Liam, one of his security guards. ‘I’ve spotted them. En route. Over.’

As Gareth watches, the guard sprints across the expanse and inserts himself between the man and woman. Gareth holds his breath, waiting to see what Liam will do next. He’s already had one warning for aggressively apprehending a shoplifter, on top of another for the state of his uniform. One more and he’s out.

Gareth pans back in so he can see everyone’s faces. The tall blonde man is shaking his head, holding up his hands as though in surrender. He opens his right hand and looks from Liam to the red-haired woman. There’s a small, black purse on his palm. The woman stares at it in surprise then opens her handbag and rummages around inside. Her lips move as she looks back at the man with the laptop and, not for the first time, Gareth wishes he could hear what was being said. He continues to watch as the woman takes the purse out of the blonde man’s hand then scurries away in the direction of Mirage Ladies Fashions.

Gareth’s radio crackles to life.

‘Bravo Golf Seven,’ Liam says. ‘Incident under control. No assault took place. IC1 male was returning a purse to IC1 female. Apparently she dropped it during a scuffle in the Evening Star pub on Broad Street. Over.’

Gareth raises his eyebrows. ‘Received. What do you mean by scuffle? Over.’

‘Not entirely sure. Sounds like she was assaulted but fought back. Not by the IC1, someone else. Over.’

‘Is she pressing charges? Over.’

‘I asked her that and she said no. Over.’

Gareth runs a hand across his face. He wishes he could go down and chat to her, to see if she’s okay and counsel her about pressing charges. But he can’t. He can’t leave the CCTV office when he’s manning it alone, not even for five minutes. At 2 p.m. he’ll swap with one of the other guards, currently on patrol. Until then he’s got to stay where he is.

‘All right,’ he says into his radio. ‘Don’t forget to write it up and file it. Over and out.’

He wheels himself over to the side of the desk and enters the details of the incident into the database, then rolls back to the centre of the desk. He looks from screen to screen, watching mothers pushing babies in prams, dads carrying young children on their shoulders, toddlers having tantrums, two elderly ladies walking arm in arm, a small group of teenagers on the skive from school, a single bloke, a single woman, people frowning, laughing, chatting and deliberating. It’s not a large shopping centre – two floors (three if you count the level where the CCTV office is situated) containing about forty shops. But hundreds of people go in and out of the Meads every day, and he watches them – looking for signs of trouble, for shoplifters and vandals, for the infirm and unwell, for missing children and frantic parents, for accidents waiting to happen (or accidents that already have). Even when he’s on patrol people rarely look him in the eye. The other guards moan about their families – how their wives nag, how their kids fight, and how the dog’s shat behind the sofa again. But in the same breath they’ll tell him what a bloody good mum their missus is, how their kids were ‘star of the week’ at school, and how the dog’s learned a new trick.

Gareth’s just got his mum. He lives in the same house he was born in. You could blindfold him and spin him around and he could still find his way from the living room to his bedroom without stepping on the loose nail in the stairs or the squeaky plank in the hall.

His mum used to wake him up in the morning with a sharp tap on the door and a cup of tea on his bedside table. He can’t remember the last time she did that. Before Dad left maybe? These days it’s him doing the waking up: knocking softly at her door, opening it a crack, holding his breath, looking at the small shape of her shrouded by the duvet, watching for the rise and fall of her chest.

The thought makes him dig in his back pocket for his mobile. It’s 1.40 p.m. and, sure enough, there’s a text from his mum’s carer Sally.

All good. Mum seems coherent today. She was telling me all about your dad and how he won the biggest marrow competition at some fair. I’ve left her with a sandwich and Bargain Hunt on the TV. Yvonne arrived before I left.

Yvonne is his mum’s other carer. Gareth hits reply and slides his thumb over the screen.

Any visitors today?

There’s a pause then,

That man from the church popped in.

Gareth grimaces. William Mackesy, the local Spiritualist Church leader, aka the biggest fraud that ever lived. He taps out a reply: What did he want?

A text pings back: He just wanted to say hello but he did mention something to your mum that freaked her out a bit.

What’s that?

I’m not sure I should tell you.

Tell me!

There’s another pause then Gareth’s phone pings again.

He said he’s been receiving messages from the other side for you and that you should be careful. There’s someone close by who means you harm.

Chapter 5
Ursula

Ursula steps from foot to foot as she fumbles her key into the lock.

‘Come on, come on, come on!’

The key doesn’t turn so she wiggles the handle. To her surprise the door opens. It’s the middle of the day and both of her flatmates are at work. There’s a distinct possibility that she might be about to interrupt a burglar clearing out the house, but Ursula doesn’t care. She bursts into the hallway, slams the front door shut with a kick of her foot and speeds up the stairs to the bathroom. At the sight of the white porcelain her pelvic muscles weaken, she lets out a little squeal of alarm and yanks down her jogging bottoms. She needs to use the toilet, leave the house and get back in the van as quickly as possible. The traffic was terrible at Temple Meads and she’s already running seven minutes behind schedule. Much more and she won’t complete her delivery round on time.

‘Ahhhh.’ She sighs with relief as her bottom hits the seat. As she reaches for the toilet roll there’s a sharp knock at the bathroom door that makes her jump.

‘Ursula, it’s Charlotte. Can I have a word in the living room when you’re done?’

Charlotte? What’s she doing at home? Ursula pulls up her pants and jogging bottoms, washes her hands and reaches for her pink hand towel. But it’s not on the top rung of the metal wall radiator. Matt’s black towel is on the next rung down and Charlotte’s grey towel beneath that, but hers isn’t there. She looks down at the tiled floor then peers behind the sink. It’s definitely gone. As she casts her eye around the small bathroom she notices other missing items – her toothbrush and toothpaste, her shower gel, her shampoo and conditioner, her body cream and her contact lens solution and pot. Charlotte and Matt’s things are still in their usual places so it’s not as though one of them went on a cleaning rampage – something Matt is very fond of doing ridiculously early on a Sunday morning, Ursula’s only day off. So why move her things? Glancing at her watch, she hurries across the landing, throws open the door to her bedroom and steps inside. Then immediately steps back out again. She’s in the wrong room, maybe even the wrong house …

‘Charlotte!’ She hurries down the stairs and through the open door of the lounge. She stops short and gawps at the enormous pile of cardboard boxes crowding the middle of the room.

‘We’re very sorry, Ursula.’

She jolts at Matt’s voice. He’s sitting on the sofa behind the mountain of cardboard, his fingers entwined with Charlotte’s.

‘Sorry? Sorry about wh—’

The pieces slot, Tetris-like, into shape. They’ve packed up all her stuff. That’s why her bedroom has been stripped bare and none of her things are in the bathroom. That’s why Charlotte zipped back into her room without saying good morning when they passed on the landing a little after seven. It’s why Matt cheerily offered her a cup of coffee when she came downstairs. They planned this. They let her think they were going to work and then they let themselves into her room and they moved her out.

‘You’ve been through my things,’ she says, goose bumps prickling beneath the thick cotton of her hoody. ‘My personal things.’

‘Not just your things, Ursula.’ Matt tugs his hand from Charlotte’s and stands up. At a little under six foot he has to tilt his chin up to make eye contact with Ursula but there’s no fear on his face (despite her size). Instead he looks determined, and more than a little pissed off.

‘We knew it was you.’ Unlike Matt’s steady tone, Charlotte’s voice is tight and screechy with emotion. ‘We tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. We made allowances for you, Ursula. We even told you that if you returned our things we’d say no more about it but—’

‘You took her granny’s wedding ring,’ Matt says. ‘That had huge sentimental value to Charlotte. Didn’t it, Char?’

Charlotte nods, her eyes shining with tears. Ursula’s throat tightens. She didn’t know it was her granny’s ring or that it had sentimental value. The little ceramic dish had been in the bathroom for what felt like forever. There wasn’t much in it – some hair bands, toothbrush heads, the knob that had come unscrewed from the cupboard, and a slim gold band with a slit that broke its perfect circle. It had glinted at her in the early morning sun and she’d picked it up and put it in her pocket. She barely even noticed herself doing it. She’d been thinking about Nathan at the time.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says now. ‘I meant to put it back.’

‘Like you meant to put my watch back,’ Matt says, ‘and Char’s mug and my pen and her scarf and my photo frame and …’ He shakes his head. ‘I’d be here all day if I listed it all. We found it, by the way, all our stuff, and some things that belong to our friends. Friends who stayed over on the sofa believing that their belongings would be safe in our house.’

Ursula swallows. She hadn’t meant to take the fancy shower gel from the bathroom, or the book from the arm of the sofa, or the umbrella from the hook in the hall. She’d wanted to return them – she always wanted to return the things she took – but the friends never stayed long enough for her to sneak their valuables back into their bags. Unfortunately there’d been no way she could return Charlotte’s ring to the dish after she’d practically torn the bathroom apart looking for it.

‘There was other stuff we found in your room too,’ Charlotte says. ‘Clothes, jewellery, knick-knacks with price tags attached. Matt said we should go to the police but I don’t want you to go to prison. I just want … I just want …’ Her voice breaks and she sobs.

‘Please, Charlotte,’ Ursula begs. ‘Please don’t do this. I’ll change. I promise. You can’t kick me out. I’ve got no money and nowhere else to go.’

‘You could stay with your mum.’

‘I can’t. Even if she wanted me there I couldn’t afford the flight to Spain and there’s no one, literally no one else in Bristol I can stay with.’

‘Nathan’s mum then.’

‘No.’ Ursula shakes her head violently, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘Please, Charlotte. Let’s talk about this. Let’s sit down this evening, have a glass of wine and sort it out.’

‘I can’t.’ Charlotte shakes her head miserably. ‘I’m sorry but I really can’t.’

Matt presses a hand to his girlfriend’s shoulder and gives it a consoling squeeze. ‘I’m sorry, Ursula. We just want you out.’

Fat tears drop onto the piece of paper in Ursula’s hands. The back of the van is crammed with her belongings, the engine is running and she’s nearly forty-five minutes behind schedule, but she can’t bring herself to release the handbrake and pull away.

She managed to hold it together until Matt held out his hand. When she went to shake it he snatched it away.

‘Your house keys.’

Hot tears welled in her eyes as she unclipped two keys from her keyring and dropped them into his palm.

‘Where do I go?’ The words scratched at her throat. ‘I’ve got nowhere to live.’

Other than Charlotte and Matt, she doesn’t really know anyone in Bristol. There’s Bob, the guy who drops round her packages every morning, but other than a brusque ‘hello’ they’ve never actually spoken. Her boss Jackie is nice but she’s married with two kids and won’t have space. And Ursula isn’t in touch with anyone from her previous job as a primary school teacher. Her thoughts flit from the present to the past, to a bench outside Banco Lounge, six pints lined up on the table, male laughter and the sun making her squint. Nathan is beside her, as small, round and hairy as a bear, his rotund tummy wedged between his lap and the top of the table. His friends … she searches their sepia faces and plucks names from the air. Andy. ‘Randy Andy’, Nathan called him. Joe. Tom. Harry. Even if she could get in touch and they had a spare room, they wouldn’t want her to move in. They blame her for what happened, even if they’ve never come out and said it. It’s why she deliberately lost touch with them. When she lost Nathan half her world disappeared too.

She swipes a hand over her eyes, dampening the sleeve of the Long Tall Sally hoody she bought on eBay, and focuses on the image on her phone. It’s a photograph Charlotte just texted her of an advert in a shop window. She can see the grey shape of Charlotte reflected in it. Something twangs in Ursula’s heart. She’d assumed that Matt was the driving force behind getting her out of the house. She never completely warmed to him, despite sharing a home for over half a year. He’d given her a strange, narrow-eyed look, and wrinkled his nose – just the tiniest amount but enough for her to notice – when Charlotte introduced them for the first time.

‘My boyfriend, Matt!’ Charlotte’s face glowed with pride, before a flash of apprehension dulled it as she glanced at Ursula, looking – hoping – for approval.

They were living together – Charlotte and Ursula, best friends since secondary school – in the two-bedroom terraced house that Charlotte had bought with her inheritance money when her father died. They were happy – happyish – and then Matt moved in and everything changed. All the little routines they’d established – late night sofa chats, girls’ night in, cinema on Sunday – gradually disappeared and Ursula began to spend more and more time alone in her room. Three was most certainly a crowd.

House share available now.

She reads the first line of the handwritten advert.

William Street. Decent-sized double room with bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers available for clean, tidy, non-smoker employed person (m or f). Shared use of kitchen. Live-in landlord. Parking available. £350 pcm including bills. No pets, couples or benefits.

A telephone number is listed below the description.

Ursula glances back at the house she called home for nearly two years and spots movement at the far left of the living room window, Roman blinds that suddenly close.

She looks back at the advert. William Street is still in Totterdown, just a few roads away. If she stays in the neighbourhood she’ll get to keep her round and she likes her clients and the safe familiarity of the local roads. The rent is very reasonable too. It’s a whole hundred pounds less than she’s been paying Charlotte.

She dials the number, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. She mustn’t get her hopes up. The room’s bound to have gone, or else it’s tiny and dirty, or the landlord’s a weirdo. If she doesn’t – or can’t – take it she’ll have to find a hotel for the night, something she can barely afford when she’s earning seventy pence for every parcel she delivers. And she can’t take tomorrow off work to go round letting agents; she simply can’t afford it.

As the number dials out she raises her eyes to the ceiling of her white van and says a quick prayer.

If this pans out I’ll never steal anything again. I promise.

And this time I’ll keep it, she adds as an afterthought.

‘Hello?’ a pleasant male voice says into her left ear.

‘Hello, I’m calling about the room. My name’s Ursula Andrews and—’

‘Like the Bond girl?’

She fakes a laugh, the number of times she’s heard that. ‘No, that was Ursula Andress, she’s like eighty or something. I’m thirty-two years old. I don’t smoke and I’m very neat … well … quite neat. I’m a courier. I wasn’t always one. I used to be a primary school teacher … Sorry, I’m waffling. Anyway, I need to take in my deliveries every morning but they wouldn’t get in your way and—’

Warm laughter interrupts her. ‘You sound nervous, Ursula. Take a breath.’

He sounds posh, which makes her more nervous, but she does as she’s told and fills her lungs with the warm cab air then exhales shakily. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need to be sorry. The room’s still available if you’d like to see it.’

‘Is it? Brilliant. When could I move in?’

There’s a pause, then, ‘Are you free to see it now?’

‘Yes! No.’ Her heart sinks as she remembers the thirty-odd parcels squeezed up against her belongings in the back of the van. ‘I’ve got to finish my round first, but I could be with you about sixish. Is that too late? I do really want it. I’m very keen and, as I said, I’m very reliable and tidy and—’

More laughter. She’s not entirely sure if he’s laughing at her or with her. ‘You haven’t seen it yet. You might hate it.’

‘I’m sure I won’t. It sounds perfect.’

‘Listen, no one else has booked in to see it today and, if anyone does ring, I won’t make any decisions until after you’ve come round. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ A warm wave of optimism courses through her. She’s not going to end up penniless or on the streets. Everything is going to be okay.

‘All right then,’ says the male voice. ‘I’ll see you about sixish. I’m number fifteen by the way.’

‘I’ll be there. Oh.’ A thought hits her. ‘One more question before I go.’

‘Shoot.’

‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘It’s Edward.’

‘Edward what?’

There’s a pause, then Edward laughs lightly. ‘Goodbye, Ursula. Looking forward to seeing you soon.’

Chapter 6
Alice

Alice catches Lynne staring at her as they sort through the rail of rejected clothes outside the changing rooms and pile them over their arms, preparing to return them to the racks.

‘What?’

‘You’re amazing. You know that?’

Alice laughs. If Peter had been as ready with the compliments they might still be married. Actually, no, they wouldn’t. Nothing would have allowed her to forgive him for his infidelity, but she might have left the relationship with a tiny amount of self-confidence.

‘Why am I amazing?’

Lynne lugs a heavy coat off the hanger and loops it over her arm. ‘Most normal people would have gone home after what happened to you.’

‘So I’m not normal then? Cheers.’

Now it’s Lynne’s turn to laugh. ‘You know what I mean. I’d have been straight under my duvet. Or …’ she gives her a sideways glance ‘… at the police station. Are you sure you don’t want to report him? I don’t want to go on at you but—’

Alice sighs. That was what Simon said – the man who’d nearly given her a heart attack by running after her all the way from the pub to the mall with her dropped purse. He’d seen the whole thing and was willing to make a statement to the police. She’d said no, she just wanted to forget it, but her decision has been rankling at her ever since. What if she wasn’t the first woman Michael abused on a date? What if there were dozens of other women he’d creeped out and hurt? She realised she was going to have to report what happened but now she had no way of getting in touch with Simon, the only witness. She’d gone back to the shop without getting his details, desperate to put the whole episode behind her.

‘Oh, crap.’ She swears softly under her breath, causing Lynne to look round. It’s not long until they close and a customer has just wandered in.

‘It’s her.’ Lynne sidles up beside her and hisses in her ear. ‘The one I told you about.’

Alice watches the customer as she drifts from rack to rack, trailing her fingers over the clothes. She’s the tallest woman Alice has ever seen – at least six foot three or four – with wide shoulders, a weighty physique and a large face with a broad forehead that her fine fringe draws attention to rather than hides. She’s dressed casually, in jogging bottoms, trainers and a lumpy wool coat.

‘Last time she was in she took a size eight skirt,’ Lynne hisses. ‘One of the new lot of stock – the ugly blue floral design none of us like. And she’s at least a size twenty-four.’

Alice’s gaze flicks towards the door where Larry, their sixty-something security guard, is staring longingly out towards the concourse. Probably desperate to get home.

‘Did he catch her?’ she asks Lynne, already knowing the answer.

‘He didn’t even notice and there was nothing on the CCTV.’

Alice sighs softly. Chances are the woman’s stealing to order – probably has a list as long as her arm. The regular shoplifters are known to every manager in the Meads. They’re all banned but it doesn’t stop them from chancing it if Larry’s distracted and the staff are busy. But this woman isn’t on the printout Alice has got pinned up in the back of the shop.

‘But she definitely took it?’

‘Yeah. I saw her stuffing it into her jacket, but I had a customer kicking up a fuss about a button coming off a pair of trousers she’d bought two months ago. The next time I looked up, Godzilla over there had disappeared. So had the skirt.’

Alice watches as the tall woman drifts towards the back of the store where they keep the handbags and jewellery.

‘You cash up,’ she tells Lynne. ‘I’ll tell her we’re about to close.’

She follows the shoplifter across the store, dawdling at the racks en route, sorting the sizes into order as she keeps an eye on her. It doesn’t seem as though the woman’s looking for anything in particular but there’s a strange, tense air about her as though she’s holding her breath or she’s primed for a fight. It reminds Alice of her daughter and the way the air in the house changes when she gets back from work. There’s no point talking to Emily for at least half an hour after she comes in. Alice has to wait for her to stomp along to her room, get changed, stomp back down again to the kitchen, open the cupboard, uncork the rioja and glug a sizeable measure into a glass. Then they both relax.

‘Excuse me?’ The tall woman with the fringe appears beside Alice, making her jump. She looms rather than stands, her shoulders curved inwards, her head slightly bowed. The blue/grey eyeliner under her lower lashes is smudged and there’s a faint tint of pink lipstick on her top lip.

‘Yes?’ Alice tries to read her body language. Most shoplifters are harmless – they want to get in and out without being spotted. But there’s another, more dangerous, breed: feisty and desperate women who’ll threaten anyone who gets too close with a dirty syringe. This woman doesn’t look like a druggy but there’s an edgy vibe to her that puts Alice on her guard.

‘There’s a man over there who’s trying to get your attention.’ The shoplifter raises a long arm and points over Alice’s head.

Standing near the cash desk, shifting awkwardly from side to side with an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hands, is Simon. Lynne, still behind the counter, catches Alice’s eye and pulls a face as if to say, ‘What the fuck?’

‘Excuse me.’ Alice abandons the shoplifter and hurries across the shop towards Simon. He clears his throat as she draws closer, the base of his neck flushed red.

‘I … um … sorry, this is probably a bit weird but I … er … I’ve been wrestling with what happened earlier. I can’t help but feel that I should have stepped in or done something and I really didn’t help matters by chasing you down the street so um …’ He thrusts the bouquet of lilies and roses at her. ‘These are to say sorry. For what you went through and me …’ he clears his throat again ‘… being a bit crap.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Alice feels herself flush as she takes the flowers. She buries her face in the blooms, sniffing to give herself a couple of seconds thinking time. She can’t remember the last time someone gave her flowers. Peter was never much of a romantic; she was lucky to get a card on Valentine’s Day and she’d always receive something functional and lacking in romance on her birthday.

‘My … um …’ Simon taps the cellophane wrapper. ‘I wrote my number on the florist’s card. Just in case you changed your mind about talking to the police.’

‘Thank you.’ Alice raises her eyes to meet his. ‘You really didn’t have to do this. But it’s very kind of you.’

He smiles awkwardly, one side of his mouth lifting more than the other. He’s not an attractive man per se – it’s not just his mouth that’s asymmetrical; there’s something about the balance of his face that’s a little bit off – but his grey eyes are soft and warm and his voice is deep and melodic.

‘Okay then.’ He shrugs and half-turns to go.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Alice says.

Simon stops walking and looks back at her, surprise registering on his pale, freckled face.

‘About the police,’ she clarifies. ‘I’m going to ring them when I get home.’

‘Of course.’ He gives a small sharp nod, his eyes flicking towards the hulking woman who slips between him and Larry and trots out of the shop, arms folded tightly over her bulky coat.

‘Oh shit,’ Lynne breathes from behind Alice. ‘She’s nicked something else.’

Chapter 7
Gareth

Gareth is still fizzing with irritation as he parks up outside the house he shares with his mother. How dare William Mackesy scare his mum with a message like that? She suffers from dementia – something Mackesy knows perfectly well – and a comment about Gareth being in danger could easily make her have one of her turns. It wouldn’t just be a momentary upset either; she could be unsettled for days. It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course he’s at risk from harm. He’s a security guard: there’s always the possibility that someone he apprehends could be carrying a weapon. Hell, just the other day he read about an ASDA guard stabbed in the arm and leg trying to stop a shoplifter.

Bloody William Mackesy with his weasely little face, dark, shiny ball-bearing eyes and balding comb-over. He’s only met the man twice – once when he accompanied his mum to one of the ‘services’ at the church and once when he returned home from work to find him sitting in his armchair and drinking out of his mug. Gareth’s mother Joan, a book-keeper pre-retirement, had always pooh-poohed religion but she’d been talked into going to the spiritualist church by a friend (some time before she developed dementia). She’d find some comfort, the friend said, in knowing there was an afterlife, even if she didn’t get a message. Gareth tried to talk his mum out of it but somehow found himself going along too.

It was mostly women in the small, packed room, their coats and bags gathered onto their laps, their eyes fixed on the slight, slim man who stalked back and forth at the front of the room, pausing whenever he received a message ‘from the other side’, one hand pressed to the side of his head, his eyes raised to the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Gareth had braced himself for a miserable experience, for the weight of sadness and loss to pin him to his plastic seat, but there was a palpable excitement in the room. All the attendees were sitting up straight in their chairs, alert and ready, desperate for a message from their loved ones.

‘I’ve got a man here,’ William Mackesy announced, his gaze sweeping the audience, ‘and he’s shivering.’

Sitting beside him, Gareth’s mum gasped softly and Mackesy zoomed in on her like a heat-seeking missile dressed in shiny Littlewoods trousers.

‘I’m so cold.’ He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, shivering dramatically. ‘That’s what he’s telling me. I’m so, so cold.’

Joan nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

‘I’m getting a … Marvin …’ Joan gently slumped. ‘No … no, that’s someone else trying to come through. Wait your turn please, Marvin!’ The audience tittered. ‘Now I’m hearing from a Jeffery …’ Gareth felt his mum stiffen at the ‘J’ sound. William Mackesy obviously noticed too. ‘Or is it John … yes, it’s John. A John and he’s …’ he tilted his head to one side ‘… he’s calling for you. He’s asking you to help him. Is that ringing any bells, love?’

His mother’s croaked, heartbroken ‘yes’ was so painful it was all Gareth could do not to storm up the aisle and punch Mackesy straight in the face. Instead he reached for his mum’s hand, squeezed it and stared at the floor. An excruciating minute or two later, Mackesy finally moved on to someone else.

‘Do you think it was really him?’ his mother whispered when they filed out of the room forty-five minutes later. ‘Do you think it was Dad?’

‘There’s no way Dad would send you a message via a cock like that,’ Gareth wanted to reply. Instead he said, ‘If it brings you peace, Mum.’

She gave him a long look. ‘I won’t find peace until I see him again.’

As Gareth gets out of his car and opens the gate his thoughts switch from William Mackesy to his dad. It’s been twenty years since he went missing whilst hiking on Scafell Pike. A huge search and rescue effort was mounted but his dad was never found. They’d always assumed, and the police had agreed, that his dad had suffered some kind of accident while hiking alone on the mountain, and his body had fallen or rolled somewhere he couldn’t be spotted by the search and rescue helicopter or the on-foot search teams. When the police interviewed Gareth and his mother and they’d asked about his dad’s mental health his mum was quick to dismiss suicide as a possibility. They were a happy family and John was enjoying his retirement. He had a sturdy constitution – physically and mentally – and rarely visited the doctor.

Gareth agreed. His had been a happy childhood, without the arguments and stony silences that seemed to punctuate so many of his friends’ memories. Life became more difficult when Gareth entered his teens. Almost overnight he seemed to morph from ‘my little man’ to ‘you don’t know what side your bread is buttered’. Looking back now he understands why his dad had such a heavy hand when it came to school and homework – he wanted Gareth to achieve more than he had – but it still stings, remembering his father walking out of the kitchen in silence when Gareth’s O Level results arrived. Years later his dad made no secret of the fact that he was bitterly disappointed with Gareth’s decision to become a security guard. ‘A job for a failed policeman,’ was how he dismissed it. But Gareth wasn’t a failed policeman. He was a man who’d failed to get into the police. Regardless of the distinction, the criticism was still there and it hurt.

He glances up, sensing movement at one of the windows in the house next door. He catches a glimpse of Georgia, the thirteen-year-old who lives with her mum Kath, but the curtain is drawn swiftly across the window before he can raise his hand in hello.

Gareth sniffs as he steps into the dark hallway and turns on the light. An eggy, carbon smell floods his nostrils. What’s she burnt this time?

‘Mum!’ he calls as he runs towards the kitchen, but there’s no sign of his dumpy mother in her sheepskin slippers and Dad’s oversized navy-blue cardigan in the tiny smoke-filled kitchen. There’s a pan holding two incinerated boiled eggs smouldering on a gas ring. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Gareth grabs a tea towel from the drawer, yanks the billowing saucepan off the cooker top, and drops it into the sink. It fizzes against the cold metal as he throws open the back door and turns on the extractor fan.

‘Mum!’ He pushes through the living room door. ‘You know you nearly burnt the house down!’

His mother, sitting in complete darkness save for the flickering television in the corner of the room, turns and looks at his feet. ‘You’ve still got your work boots on. Take them off; you’re traipsing mud into the fitted carpets.’

Gareth unlaces his boots and places them by the front door.

‘Can’t you smell that?’ he asks as he walks back in and pulls the cord on the standard lamp behind his armchair. ‘That burning smell?’

His mum wrinkles her nose. ‘Maybe, a little bit. Are next door having a bonfire?’

‘No, Mum.’ He pulls the curtains shut. ‘You just incinerated two boiled eggs and nearly burnt the house down.’

‘Oh dear.’ She moves to stand up but Gareth waves her back down.

‘It’s fine. I’ve sorted it. But I think you’re going to have to stop cooking, Mum. This is the third time it’s happened.’

‘But I like cooking.’

‘Then we’ll cook together.’

‘But …’ she glances at the clock ‘… you always get home so late and I was hungry.’

‘Didn’t Yvonne make a snack before she left?’

‘Who?’

‘Yvonne, your carer. She texted me to say you’d had fruitcake and an apple. And Sally made you a sandwich for lunch.’

‘Did she?’ His mum waves a dismissive hand in his direction. ‘Stop talking please. I’m trying to watch EastEnders and you’re spoiling it.’

As Gareth settles back into his armchair he thinks guiltily of the fifteen minutes he spent parked up in McDonald’s car park enjoying a Veggie Deluxe burger and large fries, washed down with a vanilla milkshake. He’s going to have to give that up and get home earlier to cook supper for his mum. Not that he knows one end of a saucepan from the other. He’s going to have to get some recipe books and teach himself. Or maybe he could ask someone to teach him. He thinks idly of Kath next door and the nice smells that emanate from her kitchen when he’s out in the back garden hanging up his work shirts. He imagines a different life, making dinner with her after work. He’d chop and she’d organise. They’d talk about their days and they’d laugh about the stupid stuff they’d seen or heard and then—

Out of the corner of his eye he spots something unusual on the side table and snatches it up. It’s a postcard, of a man and woman dancing cheek to cheek. It’s all very 1950s. He’s in an army uniform and she’s got bright red lips and hair that’s smooth and rolled around her face. He flips it over, reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses then peers at the familiar handwriting on the back. There’s his mother’s name and address on the right and five words on the left.

I love you, Joan.

John

x

He smiles to himself at the simple romantic gesture and places it back on the table. Sally or Yvonne have obviously been through Mum’s memory box with her again, encouraging her to chat about her life. They must have forgotten to pack it all away. He gets up and retrieves the large wooden box from the dresser on the right of the TV then settles back in the armchair and opens the lid.

‘Mum,’ he says as he picks up the postcard, ‘how do you fancy scrambled eggs on toast, or maybe—’

He breaks off, frowning at the stamp in the corner of the postcard. It shows a Christmas scene but there’s something about the image that doesn’t look right. There’s a bright red post box with a bustling snowy shopping scene behind it but it’s not that that catches his eye. It’s the postwoman in a neon orange reflective jacket crouching down to retrieve the mail. A postwoman? In a reflective jacket? It’s far too modern an image for when his mum and dad were courting. He holds the postcard at arm’s length, squinting to make out the date in the blurred mark beside the wavy grey lines that cover the left side of the stamp. He turns to stare at his mother.

His father went missing twenty years ago and the postmark shows yesterday’s date.

Chapter 8

@sammypammy99:

OMG. Apparently another man went missing on the Harbourside.

@NotMobiledriver:

Yeah, I heard. Just disappeared around 3 a.m.

@sammypammy99:

Probably drunk, coming out of a club and fell into the water.

@MotobkeBob:

Clubbing on a Monday?

@elbowframe15:

People do do that you know.

@MotobkeBob:

Not if they’re over thirty.

@elbowframe15:

Well I’m over thirty and I’ve been known to go clubbing after a work do on a weekday.

@dopeydons:

Poor bloke. I’m guessing they’ll be fishing him out of the water in a few days.

@lisaharte101:

Fishing him out of the water? Nice. Imagine it was your son or brother who was missing?

@sammypammy99:

Actually the first man to go missing hasn’t been found yet.

@gemzy9:

OMG. We’re all assuming they fell in the Avon but what if a serial killer’s hiding them in his basement or something?

@MotobkeBob:

Yeah, because that’s likely.

Chapter 9
Ursula

Ursula parks up outside number fifteen William Street, flips down the sun visor and scrutinises her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her eye make-up is a little smudged and her bottom lip is chapped but she looks presentable. Presentable-ish. She rakes her fingers through her fringe then sniffs at her armpits and wrinkles her nose. She takes a deodorant can from the glovebox and applies it liberally. 5.58 p.m. Time to meet her new landlord.

After Charlotte and Matt kicked her out she burned through her deliveries, forgoing chats with her regulars to try and make up time. A visit to the shopping centre was the carrot at the end of her shift and, after she’d delivered her last parcel, she’d driven to the Meads with her shoulders hunched, a pain in her chest and her forearms knotted tight.

Don’t, said a voice in the back of her head. Don’t do it. It’s what got you in this mess in the first place. But her legs had ignored the frantic pleading of her mind and carried her out of the car park, across the forecourt and through the glass doors of Mirage Fashions. The shop was empty apart from two assistants and the bored-looking security guard. That made it risky, more risky than normal, but she didn’t turn back. Instead she headed towards the back of the shop as adrenaline coursed through her, quickening her reflexes and sweeping her anxiety away. There was no plan, no item she particularly wanted or needed, but the urge to steal crawled from her forearms to her fingertips, like ants under her skin. She’d feel better once she’d taken something, when it was in her hand or under her jacket or shoved deep into her bag; the tension knotting her shoulders would vanish and she’d be able to breathe deeply again. She searched the rows of clothes like a magpie, her heart thumping in her chest. She felt a spark of irritation as the shop manager drew closer, pretending to sort one of the racks.

Spotting the man with the bunch of flowers, gesturing for her to get the shop manager’s attention, had been a godsend. The moment the manager set off across the store, Ursula had whipped the sparkly dress from the hanger and shoved it into her jacket. The security guard hadn’t given her so much as a second look as she’d marched through the glass double doors. Her high had lasted for all of the four or five minutes it took her to leave the Meads, enter the car park and open the door to her van. Then the shame set in and her mind filled with noise: discordant voices shouting over each other, telling her she was fat, a failure, unlovable, unliked and unwanted.

‘You’re a freak.’

‘What’s the weather like up there, Mount Ursula?’

‘You scared the children. You need to get help.’

‘You’ll never amount to anything.’

She shoved the dress under the passenger seat, squishing it up against cutlery she’d stolen from restaurants, plastic pot plants she’d taken from McDonald’s, a cushion she’d nabbed from a café, make-up she’d swiped from Debenhams and lots and lots of clothes and jewellery with the tags still on. Then she started the engine, pressed play on her CD player and blasted out George Michael, turning the volume louder and louder until her eardrums throbbed.

Now, she opens the door to the van, walks up the path to the small terraced house in Totterdown and knocks on the door. Unlike the other houses on the narrow, car-lined street there’s no light on beyond the bay window and no television screen flickering from between the gaps in the blinds. Ursula raises her eyes to the first floor. No light on in the bedroom either. She checks her watch. 6.03 p.m.

She knocks again, then jolts as the door is wrenched open, leaving her curled fist hanging in the air. Even with the step up into the house the man in the doorway is still several inches shorter than her. His gaze flicks from her face to her battered trainers and then back again and she braces herself for the inevitable comment about her height.

‘Edward.’ He holds out a slim hand. His eyes seem to bore into her from behind his round, wire-framed specs. ‘You must be Ursula.’

She returns the handshake, noting the man’s neatly clipped nails. He doesn’t look like she imagined from their brief phone call. She thought he’d be tall and angular like Benedict Cumberbatch, but he’s actually very small and slight. His is the physique of a thirteen-year-old boy but there’s a ruggedness to his skin and a peppering to his temples that suggests he’s at least mid-thirties. His accent, and polo shirt and chinos, suggest he’s posh, but the hall carpet by his feet is thin and worn, and when he turns on the light only one bulb in the overhead fixture comes on.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says.

Edward doesn’t immediately respond, instead he continues to stare up at her. The intensity in his eyes, small and bright behind his Harry Potter glasses, makes her shift from foot to foot. But then he smiles and Ursula feels the tension in her belly melt away.

‘Do come in,’ Edward says. ‘I’ll give you the tour.’

He leads her into the living room first and switches on the light. There’s nothing unusual about the rooms. Nothing remarkable either. There’s a shabby two-seater sofa covered with a multi-coloured ethnic throw that looks like it was rescued from a student bedroom in the 1990s, a forty-inch TV in the corner of the room, a large brown leather armchair and a gilt mirror above the fireplace. There are no prints on the walls, no books, no ornaments, nothing to give the room any character apart from a dartboard on the wall opposite the doorway. Edward catches her looking at it.

‘I like darts.’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Obviously.’

A memory creeps into Ursula’s head, of Nathan standing beside her in the pub, pointing across the room and shaking with laughter at the three darts she managed to embed in the wall.

‘I’m a courier,’ she says as she follows Edward to the galley kitchen. It’s so cramped she has to remain in the doorway while he points out the oven, sink, microwave and recycling bins and explains that he does his washing at a local laundrette because there’s no space for a machine. Like the living room it’s a bland, characterless space. There’s a wooden knife block with six gleaming stainless steel handles and a yellow-white kettle that looks like it’s seen better days. The only splash of colour is a portable red digital radio, the news reporter gravely explaining how another man had gone missing near the Harbourside.

‘I can’t remember if I already told you this,’ Ursula adds, ‘but I get a delivery of parcels every morning, at about 6 a.m. It’s my round for the day. Would that be a problem?’

Edward glances in her direction but his gaze doesn’t rest on her face, instead it drifts past her, towards the front door. He frowns as though considering the request. ‘Where would you keep them?’

‘In the living room.’ Ursula mentally kicks herself. She should have given herself enough time to make a good impression on him before mentioning this. ‘But only for an hour or so, until I load the van.’ She pauses, trying to read the troubled look in his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a problem, isn’t it? I can tell by the look on your face.’

‘No, no.’ His gaze sweeps past her to the knife block. He straightens the breadknife by a millimetre or so then wipes his hands on his chinos. ‘I don’t get up until 7.30 a.m. so if they’re out of the house by then it won’t be a problem.’

‘What do you do,’ she asks him, ‘for a living?’

‘I get by,’ he says in a manner that lets Ursula know that the subject is closed.

The voice on the radio stops speaking and the tinny beats of a pop song fill the room. It’s loud, louder than most people listen to the radio in their homes, but Ursula doesn’t care; when a good track comes on she cranks the volume right up in her van.

‘I like this song,’ she says, then immediately wonders why. She doesn’t like this sort of thing – a trembling female voice, screeching about a man who did her wrong. She likes George Michael, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, ABBA and early Madonna. She was too young to enjoy the music when it first came out but there’s something about 80s hits that appeals to her. They’re cosy and safe.

‘Do you listen to the radio?’ Edward asks.

‘Not much.’ She shrugs. ‘I prefer CDs. But I listen to Ken Bruce’s pop quiz sometimes, to test myself. I never score very highly though.’

He wrinkles his nose disapprovingly. ‘Well don’t get any ideas, about changing the station. I like it to stay on all the time. No turning it off. No fiddling with the volume.’

‘No problem. Oh. What’s through there?’ Ursula touches the door to her left. There are three doors in the kitchen: one at the far end that leads to a boxy garden, the door to the hall that was propped open, and this one. ‘Downstairs loo is it?’

‘No.’ Something in his expression shifts. ‘The basement.’

‘Oh. Cool. Good for storage. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff I’ve got in the van. I could—’

Edward crosses the kitchen and lays a hand on the door. ‘I’m afraid the basement is off limits.’ He smiles tightly. ‘Although you’re very welcome to make full use of the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom and the garden.’

‘Great.’ Ursula flashes a fake smile in his direction as a knot forms in her stomach. She can already predict how this living arrangement will work out. She’ll be told off for leaving coffee mugs in the living room and smearing toothpaste onto the sink. On the other hand – she glances around the minimalistic space – there’s nothing to steal.

She sniffs, subtly. There’s a weird smell in the kitchen that she can’t place. The counters and oven top are thoroughly scrubbed but there’s a distinctly musty tang to the air.

‘Upstairs next,’ Edward says and she flattens herself up against the hall wall to let him past.

Any doubts Ursula might have had about living with Edward disappear the second he opens the door to her potential bedroom. She’d anticipated the room being poky but it’s absolutely enormous. Well, maybe not enormous, but it’s much bigger than the little box room she had at Charlotte’s house and there’s a double bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers with a small flat screen television on the top and a comfy-looking armchair in the corner. Not to mention the picture window that stretches across one wall. The curtains are drawn back and the sun is an orange streak across the sky but she can imagine the room being flooded with light earlier in the day. She’d never need to venture down to the lounge with a room like this.

‘It’s £350 including bills, right?’ she asks, perching on the bed and running her hands over the spotless mattress.

One side of Edward’s mouth twitches up into a lopsided smile. ‘Plus deposit.’

Ursula’s smile slips. In her excitement she hadn’t even considered the prospect of a deposit. If he asks for three months’ rent in advance she’s screwed.

‘How much would that be?’ she asks, tightening her grip on the mattress.

‘Call it £500 all in.’

‘So …’ She tries to remember the last time she checked her bank balance. It would be tight and she’d have to live on beans on toast for the rest of the month but it’s just about doable. ‘One month’s rent in advance and £150 deposit?’

‘That’s right.’

She considers her options. There’s no doubt that Edward is a little on the eccentric side but then again she’s not exactly normal and he hasn’t asked for a reference – something Charlotte might struggle to provide. If she takes the room she’ll be absolutely skint until next payday but at least she won’t have to shell out for a hotel. She gazes around the room, taking it all in, weighing it up, then lets out a little ‘ooh’ of surprise as she notices something unusual about the door. There’s a huge great hole, stuffed with tissue paper, just under the handle.

‘There’s no lock.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I had to break in.’

‘Why?’

Edward doesn’t shift his gaze from the door. ‘I’d fit a new lock,’ he says quietly. ‘If you’d like the room. You are … female after all.’

‘Well, yes.’ She frowns.

‘Like I said, there are other interested parties but I did promise you first refusal so it’s up to you.’

‘I’ll take it,’ she says before she can change her mind. She’s got some packing tape in her bag. She’ll plaster over the toilet roll stuffed hole before she goes to bed, and put the chair in front of the door. It’s not the right height to jam under the handle but the floor’s wooden; she’d hear it moving. And besides, she’s a good eight inches taller than Edward and at least eight or nine stone heavier. Unless he’s a knife-wielding maniac she can fight him off.

I won’t need to fight him off. She catches the dark thread of her thoughts and mentally shakes herself. He’s a bit odd but that doesn’t mean he’s a psycho. I’m a bit odd and I’m perfectly well balanced. Well, a little bit off-balance, but harmless. Mostly.

‘Excellent.’ Edward nods curtly. ‘If you could furnish me with the £500 we can discuss a move-in date.’

Ursula’s heart sinks. ‘Oh. I was hoping I could move in tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes … I … um. I … er … I’ve got all my belongings in my van outside.’

‘You’ve got nowhere else to stay?’

‘No.’ She says a little prayer, not to God – she’s already broken her promise to him about not stealing again – or the universe, but to the only person who ever really loved her. If you’re there, if you’re listening, please help me out.

Edward gives her a long look over the top of his rimless glasses and she braces herself for the inevitable ‘no, sorry’, but then he gives a faint shrug.

‘I don’t see why not. If you can get the money tonight I’ll give you a hand getting your stuff out of your van.’

‘Thank you.’ Ursula practically bounces to her feet. ‘I’ll do that now. Give me five minutes to find a bank and I’ll be right back. Oh.’ She pauses, halfway across the room. ‘I think I can only get £200 out of the bank today.’

‘That’s all right,’ Edward says. ‘You can write me a cheque for the other three hundred. It’s not as if you can do a runner.’ His eyes glint behind his glasses. ‘After all, I know where you live.’

Chapter 10
Alice

Alice closes the door, rests her back against it for a few seconds, then heads into the kitchen where her daughter Emily is sitting at the table, glass of red wine in hand. There’s a scarlet smudge around her lips and the bottle is half empty.

‘You okay?’ Emily asks as Alice sits down and helps herself to a glass. ‘You didn’t shut the living room door properly, by the way.’

‘So you heard everything?’

Emily shrugs. ‘Pretty much. He sounds like a freak. What did the police say?’

‘I have to go in to give an official statement, and they’re going to speak to Michael.’

‘And the other guy?’ She nods towards the bouquet of flowers, still in their cellophane wrapper, on the kitchen counter.

‘Simon? He needs to give a statement too. I gave them his number and …’

But Emily has stopped listening. She’s tapping away at her phone with both thumbs, her brow furrowed, her lips set in a tight, hard line. It’s the same expression she had as a child when she thought some kind of injustice had occurred – a friend took her toy or Alice announced it was bedtime.

‘Everything okay with you, love?’

‘Fine.’ Emily reaches for her wine glass and takes a long swig.

‘How’s work?’ Her daughter’s been working as a receptionist for a property maintenance company in the centre of town for the last year and she knows she finds it boring.

‘Crap. Sooner I get a new job the better.’

‘And Adam?’

‘Adam’s a cock.’

Alice raises her eyebrows. Emily and Adam have been together for about eighteen months and it isn’t the most harmonious of relationships; even the start was rocky. Adam was dating Laila, one of Emily’s friends and there was some ‘confusion’ over when that relationship ended and his relationship with Emily began. The two girls had a massive falling-out and Laila successfully managed to convince most of their friends that Emily was a bitch. The experience threw Emily and Adam together in a way that Alice didn’t find particularly healthy but there was no talking her daughter into slowing things down. Suddenly it was ‘Adam this’ and ‘Adam that’ and she barely saw her for weeks on end. About three months in, Adam finished things with Emily out of the blue and Alice nursed her daughter through the toughest break-up she’d ever experienced – cuddling her on the sofa, making her endless cups of tea as Emily poured her heart out. And then Adam reappeared. He’d made a mistake, he said, he’d freaked out at the speed things were progressing but he wanted to give it another go. Emily, who’d heard from one of her few friends that Adam had been cheating on her, was sceptical but her love hadn’t faded and he didn’t have to work very hard to talk her into taking him back. Then things returned to normal – three or four nights spent at home during the week then every weekend doing whatever it was Adam wanted to do.

It had hurt Alice’s heart, seeing her vibrant, confident daughter shrink into Adam’s pocket, fitting herself into the tiny girlfriend-shaped space in his life. Did she learn that from me? she wondered. Had Emily watched her kowtow to Peter’s demands, putting his happiness before her own? Or perhaps she thought she hadn’t been compliant enough and that’s why he’d left?

‘What’s Adam done?’ she asks as her daughter’s phone bleeps with a reply.

Emily shakes her head, her lips stubbornly pressed together as she recommences her attack on her phone’s keypad.

‘Ems …’

‘Leave it, Mum. You wouldn’t understand.’

Sighing, Alice gets up and begins unwrapping the flowers. If there’s one thing Emily has inherited from her it’s her stubbornness. She wouldn’t have opened up to her mother at that age either. She steps on the pedal bin and drops the cellophane inside then takes the white card that was stapled to one corner from out of her pocket. There’s something about the scrawled message – Sorry, Simon – with his number written underneath that stops her from throwing it away too. Simon went to so much trouble to check she was okay; the least she can do is let him know she spoke to the police.

She slips her phone out of her work trousers and taps out a message.

Thank you again for the flowers, you really shouldn’t have. I’ve spoken to the police and they took your number. They said they’d like you to go in to give a statement.

She pauses, unsure what else to add, so ends the message with her first name, presses send and drops the card, along with the cellophane, into the bin. As she fills a vase with water a stern voice on the radio cuts through the tinny pop song and announces that it’s eight o’clock and time for the news. Alice half-listens as she trims the ends of the flowers and arranges the stems in the vase. More political upheaval, an ageing celebrity has died and … her ears prick up at the mention of Bristol, unusual given the fact that, thanks to Emily, the digital radio is permanently tuned in to Radio 1. A young man has gone missing after a night out, last seen walking along Bristol Harbourside. Forty-eight hours have passed since he was last seen. Alice sighs softly, thinking of the anguish his poor parents must be going through. The number of twenty-somethings who’ve died after getting drunk, getting separated from their friends, stumbling home alone and falling into the river Avon … She’s lost count of the number of times she’s drummed it into Emily to make sure she always leaves a club with a friend. Not that she goes out with her friends very often. It’s all Adam, Adam, Adam.

Her daughter’s shriek makes her turn sharply. Emily’s on the phone, her mobile pressed to her ear and the fingers of her other hand curled around the wine bottle as she tips it into her glass. ‘No, Adam. I won’t calm down. You fucking know how I feel about Laila and I know for a fact that she was there last night. Don’t you dare lie about—’

A question forms on Alice’s lips but Emily angrily waves her away. Sighing, Alice leaves the kitchen, the vase of flowers in her hands. As she sets it down on a window ledge in the living room her phone vibrates in her pocket. It’s a message from Lynne:

How did it go with the police?

Alice taps out a reply: I need to go in to give an official statement.

A couple of seconds later Lynne texts again.

Are you ok? Have you heard from Michael?

No, she types back. Haven’t heard a thing. Thank goodness.

With the sound of her daughter’s raised voice drifting through from the kitchen Alice shuts all the curtains. She turns on the TV and sits on the sofa then gets up to adjust the curtains again. She sits down again and flicks through the channels, watches a few seconds of a property programme about homes abroad, then checks her phone. No reply from Lynne. No reply from Simon either. She feels unsettled after speaking to the police. Maybe she needs another glass of wine, take the edge off her nerves. That’s if Emily hasn’t finished the bottle. Her phone bleeps as she crosses the living room.

It’s a text from Simon:

Police rang me. I told them everything I can remember and said I’ll go in tomorrow. I hope it helps. How are you doing?

I’m okay, she taps out. How are you?

She rereads her reply then deletes it and tries again:

Thanks so much. I am feeling a bit unsettled but

For a second time she deletes what she’s written. Why is she deliberating over every word? She didn’t agonise over the reply she sent to Lynne.

Thank you, she types. I really appreciate you doing that. I’ll be honest. I’m quite freaked out by what happened but the way you reacted has reassured me that not all men are drunken, dangerous arseholes. Need a drink (or two).

Send.

As she steps out of the living room her daughter bursts out of the kitchen, phone still clamped to her ear. She grabs her coat from the stand and snatches her keys off the sideboard.

‘You’re not driving, are you?’ Alice asks, horrified. ‘You’ve had the best part of a bottle of wine to drink and—’

‘I’ve booked a taxi to Adam’s. Don’t stress.’

And then Emily is gone, the silence she leaves behind pulsing in Alice’s ears. Sighing, she heads into the kitchen and picks up the empty bottle of red wine from the kitchen table and drops it into the recycling bin. The only booze left is a small bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin that Lynne gave her for Christmas. She pours out a large measure, adds a splash of tonic, then heads into the living room. As she settles back onto the sofa her phone bleeps again. Two new messages, one from Lynne and one from Simon:

Have you seen that new reality show on Channel 4? OMG. Makes me SO glad I’m not in my twenties again.

Alice skips over Lynne’s message to get to Simon’s.

Ah, I have my arsehole moments that’s for sure but I’d never do what that guy did. If you hadn’t dropped your purse I would have lamped him one myself, that’s for sure. What are you drinking? I’m on the gin.

Alice smiles.

I’m on the gin too. Bombay Sapphire.

Her phone beeps.

I’m an Adnams Copper fan myself.

Alice taps the Chrome app on her phone and googles ‘Adnams Copper’. She gives a little laugh.

An artisan gin! Get you. Hipster!

She takes a sip of her drink. A second or two later her phone bleeps again:

Hipster?! How very dare you. I’ll have you know that a) I don’t have a beard, b) I can’t stand craft ale and c) my thighs are far too chunky for skinny jeans. Although I have been known to crochet a cabbage and stew my own pickle juice.

Alice laughs loudly. What the hell’s pickle juice?

You know how Peter Parker was bitten by a spider and became Spiderman? Pickle juice is like that but for hipsters. It gives us superpowers.

She takes another sip of her gin as she composes her reply in her head. There’s something hugely enjoyable about bantering with him like this – batting silly comments back and forth without second-guessing herself.

As her phone vibrates again she glances down at it. Her fixed smile fades. Someone called ‘Ann Friend’ just sent her a Facebook friend request with a message. She clicks it.

Whatever you do, don’t trust Simon.

What? She clicks on Ann Friend’s profile. The photo is a black square and there’s nothing in the cover photo space either. No friends, no information. Just the name – Ann Friend. It has to be Michael, lashing out and angry because she called the police. Anger bubbles in her belly as she taps out a reply.

Leave me alone, Michael. I’ll be passing that message on to the police and any other message that you decide to send me. Don’t EVER contact me again.

Hand shaking, she sets her phone down on the table and reaches for her glass. She knocks back the last of the gin then refills it. As she raises it to her mouth her phone bleeps with a new message. It’s from Ann Friend again.

Who is Michael?

Chapter 11
Gareth

Gareth waits for the familiar dum-dum-dum music that signals the end of EastEnders then crouches beside his mum’s chair. She leans away from him, startled by his proximity.

‘What are you doing?’

He holds out the postcard, showing her the image of the dancing couple. ‘When did this arrive?’

His mother looks vaguely in the direction of the card and squints. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a postcard, Mum. Put your glasses on.’

She reaches a hand over to the side table, her hand spidering over the surface until her fingertips find the rough tapestry of her glasses case. She snaps it open then places her specs on the end of her nose. She holds the card at arm’s length.

‘Isn’t that lovely, a postcard from your dad.’

Gareth frowns, trying to read her face. The gaps between her lucidity and her dementia have been growing and he’s not entirely sure which state she’s in now. The latter probably, if she thinks the postcard is ‘lovely’. At a guess she’s firmly caught in the first fifteen years of her marriage when his dad was in the navy and would be away from home for months at a time. Gareth knows from bitter experience that breaking the news that his dad is missing presumed dead would lead to an outpouring of grief so wretched and terrible it would take him until bedtime, or beyond, to calm her down.

‘Do you know when it arrived?’ he asks. ‘The postcard?’

His mum shrugs and flips it over to look at the image. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? Reminds me of Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart.’

‘Mum, when did the postcard arrive?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. Lovely, though.’ She dismisses the card with a wave of her hand and looks up at her son. ‘I’m hungry. I should probably think about putting the dinner on.’

Standing in the kitchen, slopping singed scrambled eggs onto two pieces of toast, Gareth presses a hand to the centre of his chest. He fishes a crumpled packet of antacids from his pocket and pops two into his mouth. Bloody junk food, bloody stress. He looks down at his belly, sitting on top of his belt like a fleshy bowling ball hidden behind straining shirt buttons. It’s the only part of his body that’s carrying any weight; his arms and legs are still as lithe as they were when he was younger and competed in cross-country races, going out to run several times a week. He smooths a hand over the curve of his stomach. His dad, who prided himself in staying in shape, would be appalled at the way his son has let himself go. Gareth’s gaze flits towards the postcard, lying beside the cooker, the location on the postmark too smudged to read.

Maybe, he thinks, as he carefully places the supper tray on his mum’s lap, apologising as she warily regards the burnt offering, his dad wasn’t as content in his early retirement as he let everyone believe. Maybe he never had any intention of going anywhere near Scafell Pike and had simply packed up his navy rucksack, his walking poles and his anorak and walked out of their lives without looking back. It was a gutless move if so, and something Gareth can’t reconcile with the principled man he grew up with. To abandon him, a twenty-seven-year-old man at the time, would be one thing, but to vanish without saying goodbye to the woman who’d loved him for so many years? He can’t, won’t, let himself believe that his dad would stoop so low.

As his mum picks up her knife and fork Gareth slopes back into the kitchen, a fist pressed against his sternum, acid still burning deep in his chest. He pops another two antacids into his mouth and picks up the postcard, tracing one finger over his dad’s familiar handwriting. How well did he know him, really? Could his dad have been one of those men with another family, a secret life he’d kept hidden for years? Might he be gay or transsexual? He could have struggled with his true identity and chosen to vanish rather than out himself and cause his wife pain. For nearly twenty years Gareth has grieved his father’s disappearance, believing with more and more certainty with each year that passed that the man he’d loved and respected was dead.

Back in February, when a national newspaper broke the news that the Missing Persons Bureau were sharing images of unidentified people and their belongings on a public access website, he spent a gruelling evening searching through the records of all the men on their database. By the time he went to bed he felt hollow, as though each death, each unclaimed, unknown man, had carved a piece out of his soul. There were so many suicides – hanged, struck by trains, found in rivers. One man, whose almost skeletal remains were found hanging from a tree in the woods near a golf club, had been there for approximately three months, the website said. His identity was still unknown. How was that possible? For no one in the world to care where you were?

Gareth barely slept a wink that night.

He wants to believe that his dad is still alive but it seems so unlikely. The police searched for him. They discovered he’d taken the train from Bristol to Penrith, hired a car and then booked into a hotel at the base of Scafell Pike. If it was all an elaborate ruse to escape from family life he’d laid the trail well. Then again, he was an ex-military man. But if he had sent the postcard, why do it now, after twenty years? He must be nearly eighty. Was he looking back on his life and regretting his disappearance? Or perhaps he was dying? Maybe he’d been told to put his affairs in order and that included saying sorry to his wife. Although he hadn’t actually said sorry, had he? Just that he loved her.

Gareth runs the hot tap, squirts washing-up liquid into the tub in the sink, then plunges the pan with its burnt, eggy stains into the water. As he scrubs, he gazes out of the window. Apart from two lines of solar-powered fairy lights – strung up to celebrate his mother’s 79th birthday with a small garden party last year – that cast a wan light onto the peeling paint of the shed, the garden is in darkness. His mum loves that garden; on a sunny day she’ll sit outside for hours watching the birds in the trees. But it’s not the garden that Gareth’s looking at. He’s looking beyond the reach of his small world, out into Bristol and the lights that flicker and twinkle in the distance. Is his dad out there? Is he thinking about them? Has he reached out in the secret hope that he’ll be found? Gareth’s gaze flicks again towards the postcard and the pain in his chest radiates through his body.

I love you, Joan.

His dad hasn’t mentioned him at all.

Chapter 12
Alice

For the last hour Alice has been holed away in the back office of Mirage Fashions, rearranging the rotas to fit around childcare issues, holidays and doctor’s appointments and now her head is pounding and she feels breathless in the tiny room. She stretches her arms above her head then stands up, stamping the life back into her legs. She hasn’t finished but she needs to get back out on the shop floor and check how everyone’s getting on before she breaks for lunch.

As she walks through the staff changing room she glances at her coat, hanging on the rack that runs the length of one wall. She’s strict with her staff when it comes to checking their mobile phones at work – only ever on official break times – but the urge to see if there have been any new messages is more than she can bear. Keeping one eye on the door, she fumbles her phone out of her bag. Nothing. No new messages from ‘Ann Friend’ and nothing from Simon either.

Last night, after she received the ‘who is Michael?’ message, she rang the number of the detective she’d spoken to earlier.

‘This is Alice Fletcher,’ she said, when DC Mitchell’s phone went straight to voicemail. ‘I spoke to you a couple of hours ago about an assault a man named Michael Easton carried out on me in the Evening Star pub. Well, I’ve just had a Facebook message from someone calling themselves Ann Friend saying that I shouldn’t trust Simon, the man who witnessed the assault. I thought it might be Michael so I replied saying I’d go to the police. The next message I received said: “Who is Michael?” He’s obviously playing games with me and I wanted to tell you just in case …’ just in case anything happens to me, she thought but couldn’t bring herself to say ‘… Just in case it might be evidence. Anyway, thank you. Goodbye.’

There was a voicemail from DC Mitchell waiting for her at 8 a.m. telling her to come in and make a statement. Alice rang Lynne, telling her she’d need her to open up, then made her way to the station. After she’d finished relaying what had happened to the detective, a blonde woman in her thirties with sharp, inquisitive blue eyes, she was reassured that she was right to report the messages and to keep a record of any other contact, sightings or occurrences that frightened or upset her. Three hours later, DC Mitchell left a message on Alice’s phone. Michael Easton had been interviewed and admitted assaulting her. He’d been given a caution and released.

Alice didn’t know whether to be upset that Michael hadn’t been locked up or relieved that he’d admitted to the assault. But she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, being startled by her own shadow, because some wanker had shoved her into a wall. If he got in touch again she’d tell him exactly where to get off.

Now she tucks her phone back into her bag, then presses a hand to her grumbling belly. Lynne’s already had her lunchbreak so she’ll be eating in Costa alone.

Alice pushes open the door to Costa, takes three or four steps across the coffee shop then freezes in her tracks. Sitting at the far end of the room with headphones jammed over his ears and a book in his hands is Simon. Keeping her eyes on him, Alice moves between the tables and reaches into the sandwich cabinet.

‘A latte please,’ she says to the barista as she places a chargrilled chicken and pesto sandwich on the counter, ‘and this.’ She fishes a bottle of water out of a chiller cabinet. ‘And this.’ She adds a chocolate muffin.

She pays, then moves to the end of the counter, Simon temporarily out of sight as she waits for her hot drink. Her heart is fluttering in her chest and she feels jittery and excited, like she did as a schoolgirl when she’d spot her crush, Jim Seymour, walking down the corridor towards her. Simon must work locally to spend his lunchbreak in Costa, she thinks. Or maybe, says a little voice in the back of her head, maybe he came here for lunch today in the hope that he’d run into you.

She carries her lunch to a free table near the window and chooses a chair between the glass-walled shop front and the counter. This way she can see the door and Simon. Normally she’d sit with her back to a solid wall like he has but everyone else seems to have had the same idea and there are no such tables free. She takes a sip of her coffee and unwraps her sandwich. Someone’s left a newspaper on her table, the headline, ‘Hunt for Missing Man Continues’, splashed across the front page alongside the image of a laughing young man. Instinctively Alice thinks about Emily and how easily someone else’s heartbreak could be her own. She pushes the thought away and steals a glance at Simon. She holds her gaze for a second, two, willing him to look up from his book, simultaneously excited and terrified. It’s one thing to share jokey text banter at home with a gin and tonic in her hand, and another to run into him in the middle of the day, sober, in her work uniform. She pats at her hair, smoothing it away from her face and runs her fingers through the ends. Why didn’t she refresh her lipstick before she left for lunch?

She takes a bite of her sandwich, steals another look at Simon, then reaches into her bag for her phone. She grins to herself as her thumbs move over the keys.

If I drank pickle juice I’d be more likely to turn into a villain than a superhero.

She presses send then peers from between her fingers to watch for Simon’s reaction. A second or two later he lays down his book and picks up his phone. Alice feels a jolt of pleasure as a smile creeps onto his lips. He’s not going to answer, she tells herself. He’ll want to get back to his book instead. But she’s wrong; his thumbs move over the screen, then Alice’s phone bleeps.

What would your villain name be?

Gin-Face. Like Two-Face but with better skin, and smelling faintly of juniper berries.

She isn’t sure if she’s imagining it or not but she’s pretty sure she catches the sound of a soft chuckle from across the room.

And what powers would Gin-Face have? he messages back.

Alice’s grin widens. Invisibility.

She presses send then, before Simon has time to reply she fires off another text.

Enjoying your book?

His jaw drops, then he looks up, his gaze sweeping the room. As their eyes meet he throws back his head and laughs. He raises a hand in hello then bends back over his phone. As Alice reaches for her latte her phone pings again.

Want to join me or shall we continue to text and pretend we’re not both in the same café?

Smiling, Alice gathers up her things and makes her way towards him.

‘Well, fancy seeing you here,’ he says as she draws closer. ‘Are you stalking me?’

She laughs. ‘I could ask you the same thing seeing as I actually work here.’

‘True, true. So you’re a Batman fan then?’ he asks and all the awkwardness Alice is holding in her chest slips away as they segue into a discussion about Ben Affleck, Christian Bale or Michael Keaton and who made the best Batman. As Simon talks – all expressive hands and bright eyes – she takes in the details of his face: his nose, the bridge bending towards his left eye, permanently skewed by a rugby ball, an accident or a fist, his grey eyes framed with dark blonde eyebrows, his wide, pale lips and the hint of ginger stubble on his jaw. The difference between his face when he talks, and when he listens, is extraordinary. It’s as though a light goes on behind his eyes when he speaks. It’s not that he’s not interested in what Alice has to say – he listens intently, his eyes never leaving hers – but he seems to find real joy in expressing himself. And he does it so well.

‘Has anyone told you what an amazing voice you’ve got?’ she blurts, before she can stop herself.

Simon laughs. ‘That might have been mentioned before.’

‘Has it?’ She feels a flush of embarrassment and averts her gaze. As she does she notices the woman sitting at the table to their right. She’s around Alice’s age, dressed in jeans and a pale pink jumper, with shoulder-length brown hair and greying roots. She’s got a book in her hands and a coffee in front of her and she’s openly gawping at Simon. Alice looks away. It seems she’s not the only one who finds Simon attractive.

‘Yeah, anyway.’ He moves a hand through the air, as though swiping the topic away. ‘Tell me more about you.’ His gaze flickers towards her left hand. ‘I’m guessing you’re not married?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Great!’ His response is so enthusiastic, so unchecked, that now it’s Simon’s turn to colour. He looks away and clears his throat. When he looks back at her something inside Alice lurches. He likes her, she can see it in his eyes. And, even more terrifying given what she went through the day before, she likes him too.

‘You?’ she asks.

He shakes his head. ‘Never been married.’

‘Right.’

There’s a beat as they continue to look at each other, neither of them saying a word. It is as though the volume has been turned down in the café. The chatter, the hiss of the coffee machines and the mewling of babies – Alice can’t hear any of it, just her pulse, pounding in her ears

‘So …’ Simon smiles. ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’

Alice nods, not trusting herself to speak.

‘I’d like to do it again.’

She clears her throat lightly. ‘Me too.’

‘Is tonight too soon?’

‘For what?’

They both laugh.

‘Dinner? There’s a really nice restaurant I know where …’

As Simon describes his favourite restaurant Alice tunes out, distracted by the woman at the other table. She’s put her book down and has turned in her seat so she’s facing them. She’s tapping her fingertips on her thighs and she’s staring openly at Simon. There’s a weird expression on her face – excitement mixed with nerves – and a strange energy emanating from her, as though she might jump out of her seat at any second.

Simon hasn’t noticed her; he’s still staring at Alice with an expectant look on his face. He wasn’t joking about taking her out to dinner. He genuinely wants to see her again, but it’s all happening so quickly – the first meeting, the flowers, the lunch and now an invitation out to dinner – that there’s a part of her that wants to put her foot on the brake. Particularly after what happened yesterday. But Simon’s not Michael – her gut instinct tells her that they’re very different men – and she’s so tired of being cautious and scared. She needs to be brave.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’d love to go to dinner with you.’ She’s just about to ask him what time when she’s interrupted by her mobile bleeping. ‘One second, sorry.’ As she takes her phone out of her bag she inhales sharply. It’s 2.17 p.m. She’s late back for work.

Where are you? Lynne’s text asks. Everything ok? Fancy the cinema later?

Sorry, she texts back. I’ve got a night in with Emily planned.

She cringes at the lie but she can’t tell her best friend about dinner with Simon or she’ll have to explain that she ran into him at Costa. Lynne would insist on analysing every detail to death and she can’t face the third degree, not when she’s got so much else on her mind.

‘You all right?’ Simon asks as she gathers up her partially eaten sandwich, the edges dry and curling.

‘Yes, yes. Just um … I didn’t realise what time it was. I’m late for work.’

‘Oh God, sorry. Shall I text you later, about going out for dinner?’

‘Yes,’ she says, as she pushes her chair away from the table. ‘That would be lovely.’

As Alice and Simon get up, so does the woman at the other table. She bounds across the two metres or so that separate them and touches Simon on the arm. He reacts as though he was prodded with a knife rather than a finger and turns sharply, knocking against a passing barista.

‘Simon?’ the woman says as he stares at her with undisguised horror. ‘It is you, isn’t it? I’ve so missed—’

He shakes his head sharply. ‘You’ve confused me with someone else.’

‘No, I don’t think I have. I’ve been—’

The rest of her sentence is lost as Simon says to Alice, ‘Let’s get you back to work,’ then he takes her by the arm and half-guides, half-pulls her down the narrow corridor between the other diners. Alice glances back as he opens the door. The other woman is still standing by the table, watching them go, her arms spread wide and a look of incredulity on her face.

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