We Don't Speak About Mollie: Book 2 in the DI Rachel Morrison series
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We Don’t Speak About Mollie
Vicky Jones
Claire Hackney
Copyright © 2020 by Vicky Jones
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Acknowledgments
Special mention to Mark Romain for all the police procedural advice and input.
Check out his books HERE.
Visit his website:
https://www.markromain.com/
Contents
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About Vicky Jones
About Claire Hackney
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The DI Rachel Morrison series
The DI Rachel Morrison series
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones
Also by Vicky Jones
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
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The DI Rachel Morrison series
The DI Rachel Morrison series
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Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Also by Vicky Jones
Also by Vicky Jones
Acknowledgments
Our Team
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About Vicky Jones
Vicky Jones was born in Essex, England. She is an author and singer-songwriter, with numerous examples of her work on iTunes and YouTube. At 20 years old she entered the Royal Navy. After leaving the Navy realising she was drifting through life with no sense of direction, she wrote a bucket list of 300 things to achieve which took her traveling, facing her fears and going for her dreams. At the time of printing, she is two-thirds of the way through her bucket list.
One item on her list was to write a song for a cause. Her anti-bullying track called “House of Cards” is now on iTunes to download.
Writing a novel was on her bucket list, and through a chance writing competition at her local writing group, the idea for Meet Me At 10 was born. Vicky hopes she can change hearts and minds due to some of the gritty themes of the book.
Vicky is a keen traveler, stemming from her days traveling the world in the Royal Navy, and has visited around 50 countries so far. She has also graduated from The Open University after studying part time for her degree in psychology and criminology—another bucket list tick! She is currently writing a book series about her bucket list adventures, the first of which is entitled ‘Project Me, Project You’, alongside planning and writing more fiction books and book marketing guides for self-published authors.
Also in the pipeline is a writing course, put together to help aspiring authors plan and write their first novel.
She now lives in Cheshire, splitting her time between there and visiting her family and friends back in Essex.
For more information on upcoming book releases, to tell us what you think of the books, or just to say hi, click on the icons below:
About Claire Hackney
Claire Hackney is a former English Literature, Drama and Media Studies teacher who, after attending a local writing group with Vicky and writing several of her own short stories over the years, has now decided to focus her career on full-time novel writing.
She is an avid historian and has thoroughly enjoyed researching different aspects of the 1950s for the ‘Shona Jackson’ trilogy of novels.
Claire is very much looking forward getting started on the many future writing projects she and Vicky have in the pipeline, including the ‘DI Rachel Morrison’ thriller series and several standalone novels.
For more information on upcoming book releases, to tell us what you think of the books, or just to say hi, click on the icons below:
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Just about to read the first book in the DI Rachel Morrison series The Burying Place?
Want to know the backstory of the three mysterious characters we meet in the lighthouse?
Click HERE for your FREE digital copy of the prequel to The Burying Place, to find out more about The Nurse, The Teacher and The Gardener.
The DI Rachel Morrison series
Book 1: The Burying Place
One high-profile case. No leads. No witnesses. No body. Amanda Walker’s mother is missing. Detective Inspector Rachel Morrison has no leads on the case and time is running out. Amanda appeals to the public, but when no one comes forward, she chooses to immerse herself within a murderous underground group she believes is responsible for her mother’s disappearance. But will the group believe Amanda’s cover story?
The DI Rachel Morrison series
Book 3: Wolves
Would you ruin your chances of a normal life… to save others?
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Chloe - A prequel to Meet Me at 10 - FREE DOWNLOAD
A family tragedy forces Chloe Bruce to rethink her future.
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Shona: Book 1 - A prequel to Meet Me at 10
Everyone has a secret. Hers could get her killed… Mississippi, 1956. Shona Jackson knows two things—how to repair car engines and that her dark childhood secret must stay buried. On the run from Louisiana, she finds shelter in the home of a kindly old lady and a job as a mechanic. But a woman working a man’s job can’t avoid notice in a small town. And attention is dangerous, especially when it comes from one woman in particular…
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
Meet Me At 10: Book 2
Four lives inextricably linked. Will tragic events part them forever? Shona Jackson is on the run again, forced to flee Mississippi. Arriving in Alabama, to continue her journey to safety, she convinces Jeffrey Ellis, the wealthy co-owner of a machinery plant, to give her a job. But when Chloe Bruce returns from college and is introduced to the workforce, there are devastating consequences for all those involved.
Also by Vicky Jones and Claire Hackney
The Beach House: Book 3
New town. New life. Old enemies. With the past and present colliding and threatening their future together, can Shona protect her new lif
e and the lives of those closest to her?
Also by Vicky Jones
How to Create a Killer Profile Page
Are you a Counsellor or a Therapist? Are you wondering why you aren't getting more enquiries from your Counselling Directory profile page? Are you now having to consider paying out for expensive advertising, as nothing seems to be working? This book will reveal all the secrets you'll need to create an irresistible Counselling Directory profile page. Alternatively, I lay it all out in an online course. CLICK HERE to access.
Also by Vicky Jones
Bucket List Book 1: Project Me, Project You
“Writing this book changed my life. Reading it could change yours.” Looking to kickstart your life? Want to add more excitement to your day? Start with this book, where bucket listing and achieving your goals becomes addictive.
We Don’t Speak About Mollie
Prologue
The little boy ran as if seconds from death. As he squelched through the mud as fast as his thin, short legs could carry him, the wind on the heather-coated Scottish moors jabbed its spiky claws into the soft skin of his face. It was pitch black in every direction, the sodden ground beneath his mud-splattered Nike trainers the only certainty as to what lay ahead. The last light he could remember seeing was the amber glow of the taxi’s interior light. “Car won’t make it up that dirt track in the dark. Not with those waterlogged potholes,” the driver had said after driving him from the tiny train station in Crailach village. “But head straight up for about a hundred and fifty yards after the cattle grid, and you can’t miss the farmhouse.”
Icy cold sheet rain hit his skin like needles the second the boy had gotten out of the Volvo, matting his curly brown hair to sharp, dripping wet shards across his forehead. Finally, fifty yards after he’d stepped carefully over the slippery cattle grid, his longed-for destination was in sight. Almost crawling the last hundred yards, he collapsed exhausted at the front door of a cottage situated in the middle of nowhere. The tiny fragment of moonlight that peeked through the only crack in the storm clouds above glinted off the windscreen of an old tractor parked in the front yard.
Blinking through the rivulets of water running down his frozen face, the boy staggered up the driveway to the black-painted oak front door of the farmhouse and hammered on it. He hopped from foot to foot and wrapped his arms around himself as he waited for someone to answer. After what felt like an age, a light illuminated the window to the side of the door.
“Who’s banging on my door at this time of night?” a sharp female voice called from behind the door.
“N-n-n-n-n-an,” the boy said, his teeth chattering uncontrollably in his mouth and rattling like Scrabble tiles in a bag. “It’s me. Robbie.”
The door opened and a woman, easily into her sixties, appeared in the hollow. She was wrapped in a thick navy blue dressing gown and holding a lantern torch. She shone it unapologetically in the boy’s face, causing him to flinch as his small brown eyes reacted to the bright light. He lifted his arm to cover his face and lowered his head.
“That’s nay possible. My Rab’s only a bairn. Can nay be more than ten.” The old woman reached out a bony, callused hand. “Put yer arm down, ween. I can nay see yer face.”
“It’s me, Nanny Morag. I swear down,” the boy said, sniffing. He lowered his arm and stared at her, his brown eyes now adjusted to the light that was being shone in them. The old woman let her wrinkly blue eyes inspect his face and nodded.
“As I live and breathe. It is. What in God’s name are yer doing up here on yer own, so far from home?” Her eyes wide, she looked behind him and all around, looking for a vehicle.
“Something really bad’s happened, Nan,” was all Robbie could squeeze out of his freezing cold mouth.
Chapter 1
“I’m sorry for your loss, Katie. Your aunt was truly a beautiful person inside and out.”
Katie Spencer looked up from the worn beige carpet of her aunt’s simply decorated living room. The walls were covered in textured off-white Superfresco, and had a burgundy and gold-trimmed paper border. The cream coloured sofa had been pushed back against the longest wall of the room to make a large space for mourners who had come back to the house for the wake. They held drinks and paper plates, laden with sandwiches and sausage rolls, and for a moment or two, Katie, with a glazed look, watched as they mingled sombrely with each other. Her brown eyes refocused on the kindly face of the old lady staring at her, who was dressed similarly in black. “Thank you, Doris. And thank you for helping me organise everything with the funeral. I’m not sure I could have done it on my own.”
Doris laid a veiny hand on Katie’s shoulder. “She was my younger cousin. It was the least I could do. Should have been me that went first, being ten years older.” She shook her head. “Poor Joan. I saw her the day before the brain haemorrhage. She seemed fine. Moaning on about the bin men coming a day late, and all that mess the seagulls had made with the chip papers from it. But then, poof.” Doris blew on her wrinkly fingers. “It was like the lights had simply just gone out. I’m just glad she didn’t suffer.”
“Me too. She wouldn’t have liked being in a hospital. Too independent, she was. And she wouldn’t have been able to survive without her daily walks along the seafront.” Katie’s eyes drifted over to the front bay window, through which she had a perfect view of the grey-white flint pebbles on Brighton beach that was just across the road from the house. The early afternoon sun glinted off the ice-blue sea in the distance. “Would have sent her loopy.” She sighed and scanned the room.
Over by the grey stone fireplace, there was a group of black-suited men quietly talking to each other. Periodically, they raised their whiskey glasses when someone recalled a funny story about Joan Spencer. Sitting in overstuffed brown recliners around a small coffee table were two women. One of them, a slim woman of around thirty, with blonde hair and watchful blue eyes, sat with her daughter on her lap. The other woman, middle-aged, with brown hair and a plump but kind, open face held a small black and brown Yorkshire terrier. The little girl was dressed in a white blouse with ruffled sleeves, a black school skirt and shiny black Velcro shoes. In her dark brown bobbed hair was a thick black ribbon tied in a bow on the top. She reached out a thin pale hand and patted the dog, who whimpered and snuggled underneath it.
“It’s nice that your older sister and her little daughter could make it down here for the funeral. It’s been a while since you’ve seen each other, isn’t it?” Doris asked.
Katie followed Doris’s gaze over to the recliners. The little girl was now holding the terrier and trying to feed it half a sausage roll. “We’re not close. It looks like Charlotte has made a new friend though. Timmy seems to have really taken to her.”
“Poor thing. He hasn’t really been eating since Joan died,” Doris said. She dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “I’d better go and do the rounds.”
She left Katie and shuffled over to the small group of men by the fireplace, picking up a tray of vol-au-vents from the table as she passed it. One man, tall and dark-haired, with bright green eyes, broke away from the pack and sidled up behind Katie. He wrapped his thick arms around the waistband of her black suit trousers and hugged her close to him.
“How are you holding up, babe?”
Katie turned to face her boyfriend. “I’m OK, I guess. It feels weird, though, Auntie Joan not being here. She lived in this house all her life. Me too, pretty much. And now? Oh, Tom. It’s like losing mum all over again.” For the first time, Katie felt the tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She pressed her face into his broad shoulder, making the soft fabric of his black suit damp.
“It’s OK, darling. I know how much she meant to you. Why don’t we mill around for a bit? There are some people who have a long drive back home, so might need to go soon. It’s almost two.”
Katie lifted her face out of Tom’s shoulder and looked over at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. “Is it that time already?”
>
Guided by Tom, Katie walked around the small living room, stopping to chat to each little group. Smiling and replying in all the right places, she couldn’t shake the cloying weight on the back of her head from her sister’s penetrative glare.
A little voice piped up through the dull burr of voices. “Mummy, can I take Timmy for a walk along the beach? Please? Oh please?”