April 2012
They would be here any minute. I was running out of time. At first I hadn’t wanted them to come. It had been Michael’s idea. I didn’t feel like hosting a dinner party. But I’d made an effort, been to the hairdresser’s, bought a new dress, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t look anywhere near as elegant as my friend Jenny, but I could scrub up pretty good. If only I had a few minutes.
‘Hush, little baby, don’t you cry,’ I sang, but Amber wasn’t having it. She screamed louder, covering my tuneless singing, making me feel – not for the first time – utterly useless as a mother.
I walked up and down the floor of the nursery, Amber in my arms, rubbing her back. She threw up. I had a cloth over my shoulder, but most of it went over my new dress. I sighed. It didn’t matter. It would wash off with a flannel.
Once I’d changed Amber into clean pyjamas, I sat down on the rocking chair and rocked her. She was still crying. I held her across my arm, her head in my hand. She was getting big and I had to shift in my seat as the arm of the rocking chair was getting in the way. Sometimes it soothed her when she lay with her tummy across my forearm and so I often held her in this way. That evening, though, I couldn’t stop her crying.
I’d tried everything. My GP had shrugged and referred me to a paediatrician. She’d said, ‘Babies cry. Some more than others. There’s nothing wrong with her.’ I tried Calpol and various homeopathic and herbal remedies to help her digestion. I’d even prayed for the first time in decades. Nothing worked. I suggested getting a dummy for her. ‘No way,’ Michael had said. ‘Babies look so ugly with those bloody things in their gobs. And then they won’t speak properly when they get older. None of that for my little darlings.’
Amber’s screams grew more anguished and I moved her so that I was holding her upright, her head against my shoulder. Standing up, I placed my hand on the back of her head, pushing her into my neck to encourage her to suckle on my bare skin. It seemed to quieten her and I held her tightly to me, rocking my upper body. I thought about calling Clémentine, but she was busy in the kitchen. And anyway, she was great with Ellie. With Amber, not so much. But as the thought entered my mind, I realised Amber had stopped crying.
I think I gathered that wasn’t a good sign, but I was still for a moment longer, frozen in time and frozen to the spot. After a few seconds, I lay Amber gently in her cot next to her sister’s cot. Ellie had slept through the whole racket. I tiptoed out of the nursery.
In the bathroom, I took off my dress and sponged off the baby sick with a flannel. Then I slapped on some make-up – too much foundation and blusher, and some mascara and lipstick. I was zipping up my dress again when the doorbell went.
At the dinner table, I tried to act normally. I felt like such an impostor. I felt like I didn’t belong here, in my own home. I didn’t feel like myself, but rather like someone who had stepped into my life and was pretending to be me. Even before I felt the effects of the alcohol in my bloodstream, I struggled to speak coherently.
I spent the whole evening willing the baby monitor to sputter into life. All the while I gripped it in my hand, I was convinced Amber would wake up screaming. Hours ago I’d wanted her to stop crying. Now I would have given anything – anything – for her to start up again.
When it crackled with Ellie’s gentle cries, but Amber made no sound, I knew for sure. I turned up the volume, but there was no point. Not because when Amber screamed with hunger you could hear her from anywhere in the house without the baby monitor, but because she wouldn’t scream with hunger ever again.
I delayed the moment. I didn’t want to face it, or face up to it. So I went outside and smoked a cigarette with Jenny, much to Michael’s disgust. Strangely, the nicotine relaxed me slightly, or perhaps it was the getting out of the house and the cold night air that did it.
Then it was time to go to Amber.
Standing outside the nursery door, I sobered up in an instant as the reality of what I’d done hit me. I dared to hope I was wrong and that Amber was still breathing in her cot. I strained my ears, but it was calm. Too calm. I couldn’t make out Amber’s snuffles, the sound of her breathing.
I still don’t remember walking into the nursery or looking into the cot. I only recall hearing myself scream when I could no longer convince myself and no longer pretend to everyone else that nothing was wrong.
I was convicted of murdering Ellie. I accepted it. But I didn’t kill Ellie. It was Amber I killed. Technically, I suppose, it wasn’t murder. It was manslaughter. It was a tragic accident, a fatal mistake. I held her against me to stop her crying. It hadn’t felt too tight, but I’d obstructed her airway by pushing on her little head. I should have tried to revive her immediately, but instead I laid her in her cot and went to put on my make-up.
I deserved to go to prison. I deserved to die. Not Amber. Not Ellie. Me.
I was given a life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit. Recently I was freed. But I’m not free. I will spend the rest of my life paying for the crime I did commit.
Gripped by The Guilty Mother? Don’t miss He Will Find You, another unputdownable novel from Diane Jeffrey. Available now!
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Acknowledgements
A MASSIVE thank you to …
… Clio Cornish, my brilliant editor. This book is far better than I could have achieved alone thanks to your hard work and insightful feedback.
… the whole team at HQ Digital.
… my amazing agent, Sam Copeland, at Rogers, Coleridge & White. Thank you for always replying so quickly to my messages even when I ask stupid questions! Thanks also to Eliza and Honor at RCW.
… my writing buddy, Amanda Brittany, author of Tell the Truth and Her Last Lie. Your suggestions, encouragement and ideas during the writing process were invaluable.
… Andy Keeble. Thank you for taking the time to tell me about your career as a North Devon journalist and editor. You gave me loads of ideas for the character of Jon as well as some journalist jargon.
… my beta readers: my mum, Caroline Maud, my friends, Emmeline Blairon and Bella Henry, and my cousin, Anne Nietzel-Schneider. Thank you for your time, comments and support.
… my fellow authors: Caroline Mitchell, author of Silent Victim and Witness, and Imran Mahmood, author of You Don’t Know Me, who answered my questions about women in the police force and criminal law courts respectively. A special thank you to the Savvies.
… all the wonderful, supportive bloggers who have helped me along the way. A special mention for Mark Fearn, Book Mark!
… and above all, my family: my husband, Florent, and our children, Benjamin, Amélie and Elise, for putting up with me writing and making me endless cups of tea while I’m typing away, as well as to my Labrador, Cookie, who keeps my feet warm while I write.
And finally, a huge thank you to all my readers, whoever you are and wherever you are, for taking the time to read my books. I hope you enjoy reading my novels as much as I enjoy writing them.
Diane
xxx
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Chapter 1
2017
This can’t be it, I think, my heart sinking as I see it for the very first time. I pull in to the side of the country lane. Resting my arms over the steering wheel, I lean forwards and study the house through the windscreen. Even from this distance it appears austere. Isolated. Built in cold, dark grey stone, the building dominates the valley from the top of a steep gravel driveway. It is prison-like with its barred sash windows. It must be at least five times the size of the two-bedroom semi my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – and I bought as our first home ten years ago in Mi
nehead.
I look to the right, observing the lush green grass speckled black and white with sheep, and beyond that the blue-brown water of Lake Grasmere. I’m struck by how incongruous this residence seems against the surrounding countryside. This isn’t the right place. But a quick glance at the black and white chequered flag on the satnav screen confirms that I have arrived at my destination. Even so, I remain hopeful that the right house might be situated a few metres further along the road until I see the slate sign on the wooden gate. The Old Vicarage.
I can’t quite believe it. It has taken me nearly eight hours to drive all this way, but I’m here at last. The Old Vicarage, my new home. I’ve left everything and everyone I know; I’ve left my whole life behind in Somerset. Here I am, moving to a region I’ve never visited, into a house I haven’t laid eyes on before. This is the start of a new existence for me. It should be exciting, but I feel so scared. Butterflies are hurtling around in my stomach. It’s only to be expected, I suppose. This is such a monumental change.
As I get out of the car to open the gate, I notice a mailbox. To my surprise, my name is on it. He has handwritten it on a scrap of white paper and stuck it next to his own name, engraved on the rectangular metal plate. It must have rained since it was added because the ink has run slightly where the Sellotape has come away. I can still make out my name, though. KAITLYN BEST. But even that is about to change.
There is a cattle grid and I’m careful walking over it as I push the gate open. I have to get out of the car again to close the gate once I’ve driven through it. It’s only then that I realise how cold it is outside this evening. Even as I shiver, I can’t help but admire the view of the fields and the lake. The daylight is fading fast now, but the scene is breathtaking. I could get used to this place.
But then I turn around and see the house again. It’s late Georgian, although it makes me think of a Gothic castle. It’s been in his family for years, this place, and I know he loves it. Telling myself it’s probably more welcoming inside, I drive up to the house.
I use the heavy knocker to bang on the front door. I wait for several seconds, but there’s no sign of anyone moving inside. I step down from the porch and pace up and down in front of the house, looking around me and pushing my hands into my coat pockets for warmth. Creeper covers part of the wall. I imagine in any other season it must look beautiful and detract from the drab colour of the stone, but at this time of the year the web of spindly branches looks dead and bare. There’s a light on upstairs. He must be here. I’ll try again and then I’ll text him.
Am I making a terrible mistake? I wonder, not for the first time. My dad and my elder sister both tried to talk me out of coming here. After all, I’ve only seen this man once in the past twenty years. I step forwards again and go to grab the knocker, but then I spot a metal handle hanging down to my right and so I pull on it instead. I hear a loud chime sound inside the house. Seconds later, the door opens and he’s standing there. Alexander Riley. My heart beats madly. He’s smiling and it warms me through. Any doubts I had evaporate as I look up into his handsome face.
‘Katie,’ he says, sweeping me into his arms and squeezing me so tightly I can hardly breathe. He smells amazing. ‘Come in. Welcome.’ He releases me, takes my hand and leads me into the house. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ He doesn’t pause for me to answer. ‘I hope your drive wasn’t too long,’ he gushes as we walk side by side through the entrance hall, away from a huge pine staircase leading upstairs.
‘Here’s the sitting room. Go on through and I’ll bring you some tea.’ He pushes me gently into a spacious room to the left with high ceilings and a log fire burning at the end of it. ‘I’ll bring your stuff in from the car later. I’m so glad you’re finally here.’ And with that, he disappears.
I stand with my back to the fire for a couple of minutes, admiring the built-in bookshelves. Many of them have books on them, but there’s more than enough space for some of my paperbacks when I bring up the boxes I’ve stored at my dad’s house.
Feeling exhausted after the journey, I sink into an armchair. I look out of a sash window at the other end of the room. This one has thin wooden bars, too, in keeping with the Georgian period, no doubt. They’re supposed to be decorative, I imagine, but I find them disturbing. The windowpanes are black now; night has fallen quickly.
Alex soon comes back carrying a tray with sandwiches, biscuits, a teapot and two mugs. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then he walks over to the sideboard and pours himself a Scotch. Holding the glass in one hand, he puts his arm around me from behind my armchair and, stroking my breasts and then my tummy, he plants a kiss on the top of my head. Then he bends over the coffee table, and from a little bowl on the tray he takes two ice cubes, which chink as he drops them into the amber liquid. He drags a heavy armchair nearer to mine and sits down.
I watch him as he does all this, his blue eyes bright with excitement. Tall with dark curly hair, he’s very good-looking. I know he has an incredible, muscular body under those jeans and that sweater. When he smiles, dimples appear in his cheeks. He has an aquiline nose. His sideburns are way too long, but I find this endearing. His face has the healthy glow – even in winter – of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. I have so many photos of him – I’ve kept all the photos he sent me in his emails –but none of them really do him justice.
‘I’m finding it hard to believe we’re finally together,’ he says, picking up the teapot and swirling it around. Then he pours tea into a mug that already has a little milk in it. ‘Do you take sugar?’ he asks.
It seems strange, this question, when we know each other so well. At school, I hardly talked to him. I fancied him like mad, but I kept that a secret from everyone, especially him. Both my sisters had more to do with him than I did back then. But since we reconnected about seven months ago – initially thanks to Facebook – we’ve exchanged hundreds and hundreds of emails and phone calls. We’ve spent hours and hours chatting on FaceTime.
We’ve talked about our respective families in detail. I’ve never met Alex’s children, but he has told me all about them so I feel as if I have. I know that Alex’s favourite dish is shepherd’s pie and that his favourite dessert is tiramisu. I could tell you his place of birth, his date of birth, his hobbies and interests and his tastes in music. I know so much about his education and career that I could probably write his CV.
He read Wuthering Heights when I told him it was the best book I’d ever read and he watched The Piano because I told him I loved that film. Once, he sent me a purple silk scarf and another time, I received a pink T-shirt because these are my favourite colours. He knows I adore roses and lilies and he has had bouquets delivered to both my place of work and home. He knows I hate take-offs and landings on planes. He’s familiar with my deepest fears and darkest secrets. He could even describe my sexual fantasies.
But he has no idea how I drink my tea. I do take sugar, usually, but I can see that Alex hasn’t put any on the tray, so I shake my head.
Alex talks non-stop when he gets excited – I know this from our numerous phone calls – and he babbles away as we eat. He says that tomorrow we’ll visit Grasmere. He mentions a famous gingerbread shop, which he says is open almost every day of the year. And he promises to show me William Wordsworth’s house and his grave.
I love the idea that this Romantic poet, whose works I studied at school, links my old home to my new home. I’ve come from Somerset to the Lake District; William Wordsworth did the opposite. He moved from Cumbria to the village of Nether Stowey, which is only about fifty miles from Porlock, where I grew up. And slightly closer to Minehead, where I lived until this morning. Eventually, Wordsworth returned to his roots. He was homesick. I hope I won’t be.
I have that familiar nervous feeling in my tummy as I wonder again if I’ve made the right decision coming here. But it’s a bit late to be asking myself that question now. The rain starts to beat down all of a sudden and Alex gets up t
o pull the thick curtains across the two sets of bay windows. Before sitting back down in his chair, he kisses my cheek, and once again I’m reassured and content.
We chat for ages, although Alex does most of the talking. Even though it can’t be that late, I yawn. Alex immediately leaps up and clears away the tray. Then he insists that I stay by the fire while he brings in my things. I protest and get up to help, but he won’t hear of it.
‘You lost a lot of blood,’ he says. ‘You’re not to take any more risks.’
It wasn’t a lot, really, but I’m not going to argue.
The car is packed to the hilt with boxes, suitcases and bags, and it takes him about forty minutes. I feel a bit bad about letting him lug in all my stuff by himself, but I really don’t want to go out in the rain. I’ve had a long drive and it’s all too easy to persuade myself I’m only doing what I’ve been told. So, closing my eyes, I enjoy the heat emanating from the fire.
When he has finished, Alex comes back into the sitting room, combing his wet hair with the fingers of one hand and holding his other hand out to me. He pulls me out of my chair and leads the way upstairs. He has left the boxes and bags in the entrance hall, which he calls ‘the vestibule’, but he has brought my cases upstairs to the master bedroom, which is similar in size to the entire ground floor of the house I’ve just moved out of in Somerset.
It’s cold up here and I’m almost reluctant to take off my clothes. After taking a shower to warm myself up a bit, I climb into bed naked, next to Alex, who is waiting for me. He makes love to me with just the right mixture of passion and tenderness. This is only the second time I’ve been to bed with him and I’m surprised at how natural it feels.
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