The Vow: the gripping new thriller from a bestselling author - guaranteed to keep you up all night!

by Debbie Howells

  Methodically I check my mother’s chest of drawers, but other than clothes and the trace of her lingering scent, there’s nothing to find. Then slowly I go to my own room. If someone’s still trying to hurt my mother, the next obvious target is me.

  *

  It’s late by the time we get back to Zoe’s. Upstairs in my room, I shower, wanting to wash away any trace of today, then pull on a t-shirt and jogging bottoms. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I reach for my bag and search inside for my mother’s post.

  There’s a load of junk mail and what looks like a couple of bills. But then I frown. The letter for Matt isn’t there. In all the upset of calling the police, I must have left it behind in the kitchen. Then my mind is racing again. I’ve been so caught up in searching the house, I’ve completely forgotten about Allie – or Fiona, as she now calls herself.

  ‘Jess?’

  Hearing Zoe’s voice call from downstairs, I jump up, fetching my laptop and taking it with me. In the kitchen, she’s already serving up bowls of curry and rice, and a plate of warm naan bread.

  ‘This looks amazing.’ As Cath joins us, she glances at my laptop. ‘You’re still busy, Jess?’

  ‘I need to see what I can find out about Fiona.’ But there’s more. I need to look for anything about Kimberley, if there are any news cuttings from that time; any links between my mother, Fiona, Matt. Frowning, I look up. ‘Where can you look up old newspaper reports?’

  ‘You could try online?’ Zoe suggests. ‘There are archives, too. But that’s where I’d start. About Fiona … do you know anything about her?’

  When I shake my head, she goes on. ‘It’s just that one of Nick’s golfing friends is a lawyer – in Brighton. I’m sure he’d do some digging if you wanted him to.’

  At the prospect of more help, relief fills me. ‘That would be amazing.’

  ‘I tell you what.’ Zoe sits down opposite me with her phone. ‘I’ll text Nick now. I think James is with him in the Algarve. What did you say her name was?’

  ‘Fiona Rose. She used to be known as Allie Macklin. The name of the girl who died is Kimberley Preston, in case he needs that.’ Hardly able to believe she’s doing this, I take a mouthful of curry. ‘Thanks.’

  *

  After we’ve eaten, I take myself off to one of the armchairs in the sitting room. Opening my laptop, I google Allie Macklin. Then out of curiosity, I google Matthew Roche and a list of headlines come up. ‘Local man missing,’ and ‘Missing man suspected murdered.’

  Sitting there, I try to think. Then slowly I start to type into the search bar. Kimberley Preston 1996 teenager death.

  Even though it happened over twenty years ago, there are links to news articles and screenshots of newspaper front pages, but it’s no surprise that the death of a teenager would have been headline news. As I read about the parents of Kimberley Preston, instead of dissociated names, they become my family: Kimberley my aunt, her parents my grandparents. People I’ve never met, a chapter of her life my mother rarely talks about. And at last, after all this time, I understand why. In the aftermath of Kimberley’s death, their lives must have been devastated.

  I focus on a photo of an elderly woman, grief clearly written in her eyes, in the lines of her skin. Kimberley’s grandmother – my mother’s grandmother, more family I’ve never known about. Then I find another photo of happier times, of my mother and Kimberley, with their parents.

  As I continue searching, another story comes up. This time it isn’t a headline, but mentions Charlie Brooks, who after losing his girlfriend, Kimberley Preston, hung himself from a tree in the garden where she’d died. Realising it must have happened in our garden, shock hits me. It’s as my mother said, one reckless action from which waves of heartbreak rippled; are still rippling, even today.

  While I’m searching, Rik texts me from Falmouth. Miss you. It’s followed by a line of red hearts. I text him back. Miss you too xx Will fill you in on everything xxx.

  Zoe comes back into the kitchen. ‘Jess? I just heard from Nick. When James gets a chance, he’s happy to look into this. He couldn’t say when, but he’ll be in touch with you when he’s back.’

  ‘That’s so brilliant. Thank you so much …’ I glance down as another text from Rik flashes up on my phone. Can I help? I think quickly. Rik is a geek. I should have thought about it before. Quickly I start typing. Any dirt on Fiona Rose, a Brighton lawyer, or info on what really happened to Kimberley Preston. xxx. Then as an afterthought adding, any dirt on Matthew Roche would be a bonus.

  Pressing send, a bubble of hearts float up the screen of my phone, then I turn back to my laptop.

  *

  I spend the following day finding out everything I can about Fiona Rose, when I google her, finding out there are many. But as I whittle them down by location, I find one listed as a partner at Hollis and James, a law firm, which fits with her ambition to become respected and credible. It mentions her previous position at a firm in Cobham, Surrey, called Dentons. But not a whole lot more than that. Studying the headshot of her, estimating her at around my mother’s age, I take in coolly appraising eyes, a posture that suggests confidence, feeling my heart sink. Pitched against my mother, it’s easy to imagine who the police would find more plausible.

  Scrutinising her social media, I search for her parents, but in every visible aspect of her life, there is no sign of them or any other family members, as my mother’s words come back to me. Allie’s parents sent her away, then they disowned her.

  Sighing, I try to imagine what that must have felt like. When her parents found out she’d been involved in Kimberley’s death, I wonder if they ever forgave her. And if they didn’t, what that could do to a person. As a teenager – then later, as an adult, carrying all that unresolved anger and bitterness. It would seriously screw someone up, to the point that if you were bitter and twisted enough, you’d stoop to anything to get revenge.

  Maybe that’s what this is about. Revenge.

  At last, I receive a message from Mandy. Thank you for your message, Jess. All I can tell you about Matt is to never believe a single word he says about anything. He’s the worst kind of liar – insidious, yet utterly believable. Nothing he does is without a self-serving motive. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had tried to kill him. There isn’t much more I can add. But I do hope you find the evidence you’re looking for.

  After I read the message, I keep it to forward to PC Page. And Mandy’s right about needing to find evidence. Turning back to my laptop, I think about what I definitely know. I have my mother’s account of Kimberley’s death, and about what happened to her and Allie/Fiona after. Then Charlie. Then I remember my mother’s words. So many deaths … Kimberley, Charlie, my parents … Then poor Charlie Brooks …

  Suddenly my heart is racing. What about Charlie’s parents? Might they have been seeking some kind of retribution for their son’s death, even this many years on? I know enough about revenge to understand that it’s one of our deepest instincts. I try to imagine how it must have felt, seeing their son’s body hanging from our apple tree, as powerful emotions take over. The sorrow, empathy, regret, my mother must have felt. Not only had she lost Kimberley, she’d been faced with another death.

  Frowning at my screen, I wonder where Charlie’s parents live now. Charlie Brooks. Death. 1996. Steyning. I type the words into the search bar, then start scrolling down the list of links. A couple of news items I haven’t seen before have come up, one of them mentioning Charlie’s father, Harold Brooks, a well-known local businessman.

  After typing Harold Brooks Steyning into the search bar, a photo comes up. It’s black and white, grainy, alongside a piece about the growing success of his health foods business.

  Clicking on the next link, there’s a photo of the shopfront, on Steyning High Street. It’s no longer there, but when I read the following link dated 1997, it describes how the business was sold after a family tragedy.

  Which can only have been Charlie’s death.
Absorbed, I keep reading article after article, then I stumble across another photo. But this one isn’t just of Harold. Instead, he’s with his family – his glamorous wife, their two teenage boys standing in front of them. I study the taller one, recognising him as Charlie, then my eyes turn to the younger boy. Until now, there’d been no mention that Charlie had a brother. Zooming in on him, I stare, as shock hits me.

  *

  After telling Cath what I’ve found out, I call the police. When they arrive, I show PC Page what I’ve found. ‘I think Matt is Charlie’s younger brother. I was looking online into Charlie’s family and I found a photo of the family together. I know he was much younger, but it would explain everything wouldn’t it? If Matt held my mother responsible for his brother’s death – and why he’d want revenge.’ I show her the photo. ‘Look at his father. There’s a real likeness.’

  She studies it carefully. ‘So you think Matthew Roche is really Matthew Brooks? If it is and he’s changed his name, there will be records. We need to look more into this, but if you’re right, it does suggest a motive.’ She pauses. ‘But it doesn’t explain why he would have waited for so long. And it still doesn’t tell us what’s happened to him.’

  When I’d been hoping for so much more, her response disappoints me. ‘It’s him alright. And if I know Matt, he’ll be hiding out, enjoying every minute of this,’ I say bitterly.

  PC Page glances at me. ‘We’ll definitely look into this, Jess. If you’re right, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’ve almost forgotten to tell her. ‘There’s something else. I had a reply from Mandy. I think you should read it.’ Getting my phone, I bring up the message to show her, passing her my phone.

  Her face is grave as she reads it. ‘Can you forward it to me?’

  *

  When she leaves, I’m filled with frustration that what I’ve found isn’t enough to clear my mother. Still needing to find concrete evidence of her innocence, by mid-afternoon, it seems like my only option is to go back to the house. Not wanting to go alone, I try to find Cath. But I only see Zoe, in the kitchen, sitting at her laptop. ‘I was hoping to go back to the house. Do you know where Cath is?’

  Zoe’s eyes search my face. ‘She popped out a little while ago. She didn’t say when she’d be back. Why don’t you call her?’

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t worry.’ I don’t want to put her out any more than I already have. ‘I’ll get a bus.’

  Zoe hesitates. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea? I really don’t mind driving you.’

  Not wanting to feel pressured by time, I turn her down. ‘Thanks. But I’ll get the bus. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be.’

  ‘OK …’ Zoe sounds reluctant. ‘If you’re sure? But I’ll tell Cath what you’re doing. I expect she’ll want to come and join you.’

  Pulling on my jacket, as I step outside, under the shade of the trees that line the road, the air is cool. Pausing for a moment, I zip my phone into a pocket, before I turn and start walking in the direction of the seafront. It’s a typical February day – grey, the breeze cold where it catches me, clouds scudding across the sky. As I walk, I try to think what the missing pieces of this jigsaw are, knowing the person I need to talk to is Fiona.

  Reaching the seafront, I cross over and stand there, gazing at the green-grey waves rolling towards the shore, turning to white foam as they crash onto the shingle. On impulse, I get out my phone and search for a number for Hollis and James, the firm Fiona works for. When I call them, someone answers straight away.

  ‘Can I speak to Fiona Rose?’

  The voice sounds surprised. ‘Ms Rose has been called away unexpectedly, but perhaps I can transfer you to one of our other partners. Can I take …’

  I hang up before she finishes. Called away unexpectedly … by the police? Deep in thought, I carry on walking along the seafront, breathing in the clean salt air, feeling the breeze buffeting my face, until I reach a bus stop.

  After checking the timetable, I don’t have to wait long. As I find a seat, the bus is half-empty, and as it sets off along the coast road, through the window, I watch a couple of kite surfers. Since moving to Cornwall, I’ve developed a fascination for the power of the wind, the might of the waves and I watch in awe as one of the kite surfers is lifted airborne, before speeding away along the coast. Suddenly homesick for Falmouth, I take a photo, texting it to Rik. Miss you xxxx.

  While the bus makes its way towards Steyning, I lean my head against the window, watching the landscape change from busy streets to empty fields, the river meandering through them, trying to think hard. If I wanted to hide something where no-one would find it, where would I put it?

  *

  As I walk from Steyning up the lane to our house, on edge, I check my phone is in my pocket. When I reach the house, I stand there for a moment, looking up at the windows. I’ve always felt so safe here, but today, for some inexplicable reason, the idea of walking in there alone unnerves me. But for my mother’s sake, I have to do this. Inside, I lock the door behind me, then turn on lights. Like last time, the house is cold and unwelcoming, a feeling that grows stronger as I go upstairs.

  In the small study, my mother’s old course notes and my school books are piled inside an old chest, a bookcase holding her collection of books, most of which I’ve read. Running my finger across their spines, I take in the titles that are so familiar to me. But on the desk or in the small drawer underneath, nothing is out of place.

  In my mother’s bedroom, I turn all the lights on. The bags of clothes I filled are where I left them, piled in one corner, everything exactly as it was when I was here last. But now I’m here, not knowing where to start, I sit on the bed, disheartened. On my mother’s dressing table, her perfume bottle and hairspray are next to the make-up bag I gave her several Christmases ago. There’s the photo of me as a child, the small china horse I bought her. The print of sunlight through trees, on the wall. All symbolic in some way; personal to her. Frowning, it hits me how unnatural it is, that in all the time Matt lived here, though he changed the sofas and the colour of the walls, apart from his clothes and the hideous painting downstairs, there’s nothing else here that’s personal to him.

  Knowing the police have already searched thoroughly, it dawns on me that it’s pointless to search again. Getting up, I head downstairs. As I pass the sitting room, Matt’s horrible painting stares at me from its place on the wall above the fireplace. Suddenly wanting it out of the house, anger fills me as I go and wrench it from the wall. Taking it through to the kitchen, I slide open the doors and drop it heavily outside, not caring as I hear the glass shatter.

  Then the sound of someone trying to open the front door makes me leap out of my skin. It’s followed by the sound of the doorbell ringing, before I hear Cath’s voice call out. ‘Jess? Can you let me in?’

  *

  After Cath comes in, I go outside to clear up the glass that broke when I dropped Matt’s painting. Picking everything up, as I take it inside, for the first time I notice two initials in the bottom right-hand corner, in Mondrian-esque blocky letters, CB. Charlie Brooks. At last I know the reason Matt was so obsessed with the painting. It’s the one remaining link to his dead brother.

  ‘You need to tell the police.’ Cath stares at the painting. ‘I mean, it could be proof, couldn’t it, that Matt is Charlie’s brother?’

  ‘I really hope so.’ I pull my mobile out of my pocket. My call is answered immediately. ‘Hello? It’s Jess Reid. Can I speak to PC Page?’

  But as I’m put through to her, it goes to voicemail. I leave a message. ‘It’s Jess Reid. I’ve found something I think you should see.’

  *

  With the painting in the back of Cath’s car, we set off for Brighton. As we get closer to the city, I wonder if things will ever go back to how they were. ‘This has to be enough,’ I say to Cath, terrified that even the painting isn’t going to be enough for the police. ‘If not, what’s it going to take? I was going to search the
house again but the police have already been through everything. I’d really hoped that the photo of Charlie Brooks’ family was enough proof.’

  ‘Well, maybe this painting is what they need. You have to hang in there, Jess.’ Cath tries to reassure me. ‘Wait until you’ve spoken to them. Who knows what else they’ve found out.’

  Dispirited, I shake my head. ‘If there was anything, PC Page would have called me.’

  ‘She still might. And surely she’s going to want to see the painting.’

  As Cath turns into Zoe’s road, I’m silent as I check my phone for any calls. As she pulls in near Zoe’s house, I get out and go to get Matt’s painting. Taking it inside, I lean it up against the wall just inside the front door, then go through to the kitchen where I watch Zoe put the kettle on. Leaning against one of the work surfaces, I’m still preoccupied as the sound from my mobile distracts me. Glancing at the screen, seeing an unknown number, hoping it’s the police, my insides lurch. ‘Hello. Yes, it’s me.’

  PC Page sounds in a hurry. ‘It looks like you may be right about Matt being Charlie’s brother. We’ve found records of him changing his name by deed poll. It’s all there, in black and white.’

  Filled with relief, for a moment, I can’t speak. ‘So … my mother? She’s no longer a suspect?’

  ‘It isn’t quite that simple.’ PC Page sounds reluctant. ‘While it’s proof of Matt’s real name, it doesn’t actually prove anything as far as your mother’s concerned. And Brooks is a common enough name.’

  ‘But you have the photo. And it gives him a motive,’ I interrupt her, angrily. ‘Don’t you realise? He’s set this up?’ I pause briefly. ‘There was a painting in the house – it was Matt’s. He was obsessive about it. Earlier today I took it down, but when I put it outside, the glass smashed. The painting itself came loose. Anyway, there are initials on it that weren’t visible before. The artist’s. CB. Charlie Brooks.’