by Lisa Hall
I needed extra help when writing this book as, for the first time, the story involved some aspects of police procedures. It’s safe to say that I know approximately nothing about that, so any mistakes are purely mine . . . but writing and plotting was made a lot easier with input from Rebecca Bradley, Janine Jury and Shirley O’Dwyer. Thank you ladies, for all your assistance!
Massive thanks to Rachel Dove for her generous charity donation, in aid of The Zuri Project – the character DI Jayden Dove is named in honour of her son.
Natalie, Charlie and Christie – thanks for keeping me alive up a mountain while I was waiting for edits on this book . . . maybe we could do something more relaxing next time?
And finally, thank you to Nick, George, Missy and Mo. For everything, always.
Turn the page to read an extract from the gripping thriller, The Party complete with a twist you won’t see coming . . .
Don’t you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t made that particular decision? If you had decided to go right, instead of left? If you had said no, instead of yes? It’s strange how one, tiny, sometimes seemingly insignificant decision can have a knock-on effect on life . . . like a cleverly constructed domino chain, crashing down into a broken and ruined pile of rubble. Maybe if I had been a little bit stronger, if I hadn’t had that one moment of weakness, where I threw caution to the wind and just did what I wanted to do, as opposed to what I should have done, maybe then, none of this would ever have happened. Life would have gone on as usual, with no tears and recriminations. Nobody would have been hurt. Nobody’s life would have been ruined. There wouldn’t have been any lies, or betrayal, and we all would have carried on living our lives, completely unaware that everybody has two sides to them, completely oblivious to the fact that the people surrounding us carry their own secrets, locked deep inside them. It’s easy to look back and say none of this is my fault, that I am exempt from blame, but deep down, I know that’s not true. All of this – everything that has happened – all of it starts with me. And so now, I have to do what needs to be done. I have to finish it, once and for all.
1
NEW YEAR’S DAY – THE MORNING AFTER THE PARTY
Something happened. Something bad. That’s the first thought that swims vaguely through my mind as I struggle my way into full consciousness. Followed by the realisation that, I don’t know what, but I know it’s not good. My head hurts. I try to open my eyes, the feeble wash of winter sunshine that tries to force its way through the lining of the curtains making me squint in pain. My head hurts and I feel really, really sick. I close my eyes again, willing the thud at my temples to die down and let me go back to sleep, before I crack one eye open again, a vague sense of uneasiness making me reluctant to keep them closed.
Where am I? Peering out from under the duvet cover, the room is unfamiliar to me and I swallow down the nausea that roils in my stomach. In the dim light, I can make out a large chest of drawers pushed against the wall, the top of it free of any clutter, and a mirror hanging above it. A generic picture hangs on the opposite wall, and there is no sign of anything personal – no photos, no make-up, no clutter that tells me that this is someone’s bedroom. A spare room, then, and I seem to be alone, which is good, I think.
The same thought drifts through my mind as when I woke, that something happened last night, something that makes me feel somehow dirty and indecent. Scratching at my arms, I roll on to my back before pushing the duvet away from my clammy face, sweat making my hair stick to my forehead. The touch of fabric against my skin makes me stop for a moment, pausing in my quest to get comfortable, that and the fact that every muscle in my body seems to hurt. Sliding a hand under the covers I feel around – yes, my top is still on. No bottoms though, the fabric against my bare legs is that of the cotton sheets I’m lying on, not my trousers, or pyjama bottoms.
Something bad happened. My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I run my hand over my thighs, wincing at the sharp pain that lances me. Frowning, I push the duvet down, exposing my lower half to the warm air emitted from a large radiator under the window, and struggle my way into a sitting position. Slowly, Rachel, go slowly. As I push up on my elbows to shove my way up the pillows behind me, a surge of saliva spurts into my mouth and I swallow hard, desperate not to be sick. The thumping in my head accelerates and black dots dance at the corners of my eyes.
Closing my eyes again I wait a moment, drawing in a ragged deep breath and letting it out slowly. I’ve never had a hangover like this before. The nausea fades, and I run my hands over my lower half again, the skin on the inside of my thighs feeling bruised and sore. I slide my hands between my legs, and my heart beat doubles as I realise the bruised, raw feeling extends to there too. Oh, God. I lean back against the cool of the pillow, eyes closed again against the watery light, trying my hardest to remember what happened last night. There’s nothing, not a single thing that I can hook my memory on, just that uncertain feeling that something happened to me last night. It’s like there’s a gaping hole in my memory, a black bottomless pit that has sucked away any recollection of the previous evening. Gareth. What about Gareth? Where is he? I have to get home. I have to see Gareth; he’ll be worried (angry?) that I didn’t come home last night.
Steeling myself, I swing my legs round and out from underneath the duvet, pressing my feet to the floor as dizziness washes over me. My mouth is dry, so dry it hurts to swallow. Spying a plastic water bottle on the floor, half-hidden under the bed, I lean over, another wave of nausea making my mouth water, and take a sip. It tastes stale and dusty, as though it has been there for a long time, but it relieves the scratchiness of my throat, squashing down the bile that sits at the back of it. Placing the bottle back down on the floor, the sleeve of my top rides up to reveal a thick, purple bruise on the underside of my bicep. I poke at it, hissing as the tender skin shrieks out at my touch, the muscle sore and delicate. I wrap my fingers around my arm and see that the bruise is a perfect thumbprint, as though someone has grabbed me roughly. Remember, Rachel.
I slide my body slowly down the bed frame until I have sunk onto the immaculate carpet, the thick pile tickling the undersides of my bare thighs, my head pounding in time to a rhythm that no one else can hear. Scrubbing my hands over my eyes, I take a deep breath and look up – I am naked from the waist down, and that needs to be rectified before I can go anywhere. I need to get out of here. Something flutters in my stomach at the thought of the door opening and someone walking in, finding me like this, half naked and vulnerable. Getting to my knees, and squashing down the horrid, shameful thoughts that lurk at the outskirts of my mind at the soreness in my thighs, I crawl towards a tangled mass of black, bunched into the corner of the room, against the mahogany of the chest of drawers. Reaching out a hand, I pull the bundle towards me, unravelling it to reveal my black wet-look leggings. Thank God. Relief floods my veins as I recognise the snarl of black fabric as my own clothing, but that fades as I shake them out, searching for my underwear. It’s not there. I turn the leggings inside out and back again, hoping that I’ve pulled everything off in a drunken state last night, but my underwear is definitely missing.
And are you sure that YOU took them off, Rachel? A stern voice whispers at the back of my mind, the bruising on your thighs . . . the fact that you can’t remember anything . . . what does that tell you? I hunch forward over the bundle of cloth in my arms, fighting back tears and the ever-present urge to throw up. What the hell happened to me last night? What did I do? And who else was involved?
On shaking legs, now clad in yesterday’s leggings, the plasticky fabric clinging uncomfortably to my clammy skin, I gently push open the bedroom door and venture out into the hallway. The murmur of low voices wafts up the stairs towards me, uncertainty making me waver on the landing, not wanting to go and face whoever is down there. At least now though, I have some idea of who it will be – a family portrait hangs at the top of the stairs, and I recognise the tiled hallway and stained-glass windows of
the front door below. It’s a house that I’ve only ever visited occasionally, and I’ve never ventured upstairs, which goes a long way towards explaining why I was confused when I woke up this morning. White Christmas lights glitter around the front door, and the scent of pine from the Christmas garland that circles the banister catches at the back of my throat. A tacky silver banner hangs drunkenly across the wall of the entrance hall, loudly proclaiming for all to have a ‘Happy New Year’. The glitter of the lights makes me dizzy and I squeese my eyes closed for a moment, gripped by vertigo, certain I am about to lose my footing and tumble down the stairs. The dizziness passes, and slowly I make my descent, one hand brushing the wall to keep my balance, as I still feel ridiculously hungover – more than I would ever have expected, the insistent throbbing in my temples making me long for my own bed, and the safe comfort of my own home. My silver sandals dangle from the other hand, found in the opposite corner of the bedroom much to my relief, although I think I would have walked barefoot if necessary.
As I reach the hallway, the tiles almost painfully cold beneath my bare feet, the chatter of voices gets louder, as though a door has been opened. I scoot across the cold tiles into the front room, where all the evidence of a party lies, scattered and ground into the carpet. A Christmas tree, looking worse for wear now, its needles dropping and littering the carpet, shines gaudily in the corner of the room, almost seeming out of place in the grim aftermath of what must have been a raucous party. Several empty wine bottles line the mantelpiece, and glasses litter the coffee table, some empty, some with the dregs of boozy Christmas drinks in the bottom. The table is usually polished to a shine, but now it is marred with glass rings on the wood, crumpled napkins, and several paper plates with the remains of buffet food smeared over them. I fight back the nausea that rises at the sight of left-over canapés, the faint smell of warm seafood hitting the back of my throat. A hefty splash of red wine scars the cream rug in front of the still smouldering open fire, and there are tiny shards of glass glinting on the hearth, where someone has made a drunken attempt to sweep away a broken wine glass. I breathe lightly through my mouth, as the scent of red wine and a hint of stale smoke rises up from the damaged rug. The curtains that line the wide front bay window have been left open, and wintry sunlight glints on a frost-covered garden, watery rays streaming in and highlighting the dust motes that dance in the air.
Turning away from the window, I catch sight of myself in the mirror that hangs above the fireplace, and double take; sure at first that someone else is in the room with me, my reflection looks so unfamiliar in that fleeting glimpse. Stepping closer, avoiding the still damp wine stain, I peer into the glass. I was obviously one of those partaking in the red wine last night – a faint purple stain marks my lips. I run my tongue over my teeth, cringing at the furry feel of them. My face is pale, my long, dark hair framing it in a tangled mess. I run my fingers through in an attempt to smooth it. My eyes look too big for my face, ringed as they are by dark circles. In short, if I thought I felt like shit, I look worse. My belly rolls over as the scent of frying bacon hits my nostrils, and I bend to slide my sandals on to my feet, intent on leaving and getting home before anyone realises I’m still here.
‘Rachel!’ A deep, hearty voice behind me almost makes me overbalance, one sandal on, as I wobble precariously on the other foot.
‘Neil.’ I place my foot back down on the floor, the bruises twinging at the strain in my thigh, and inwardly sigh at not getting out before I was seen, unwilling to engage in conversation when I am so unsure of the events of the previous evening. ‘Sorry, I was just . . .’
‘I didn’t know you were still here!’ Jovial, and with no hint of a hangover, Neil grins at me, and gestures towards the kitchen. ‘We wondered where you got to last night . . . end up in the spare room, did you? Come on through, Liz is in the kitchen, and I’ve got coffee and bacon on the go.’
My stomach gives another undulating roll at the thought of the greasy, salty meat. I give a small shake of my head and open my mouth to say, ‘I’m sorry, I should go,’ but Neil holds out an arm and gestures for me to go first, and despite the ache in my head, the rolling nausea in my stomach, and the underlying fear that streaks through my nerve endings thanks to my black hole memory, I have no option other than to walk across the cold, tiled floor into the kitchen. I have obviously stayed here without my hosts knowing – so who undressed me? I remove the one silver sandal that I’m wearing and pad through into the open-plan kitchen dining area, the bright sunshine that pours in through the patio doors at the back of the room making me feel even more nauseous, if that’s at all possible. My neighbour, Liz, sits at the kitchen table, sipping intermittently from a travel mug that sits on a coaster in front of her. She turns as I enter the room.
‘Look who I found.’ Neil pulls out a kitchen chair and motions to me to sit down, before walking over to the hob and flicking the gas on. He dumps more bacon in the pan and I have to swallow back the saliva that fills my mouth.
‘Rachel!’ Liz smiles and waggles her fingers in my direction. I slide into the chair next to her – she smells of bacon fat and stale coffee, and I have to hold my breath as she gets close to me. ‘How are you feeling this morning? A little worse for wear?’ She chuckles, but her face is pale and devoid of make-up, unusually for her. ‘I think we all are. Some party, eh?’
‘Yes. Some party.’ I shift uncomfortably on the kitchen chair, the hard wood of the seat pressing against my bruises.
‘Bacon sandwich?’ Neil holds out a plate to me, and I try and fail to stop myself from recoiling. ‘No New Year’s diet actually starts on New Year’s Day, does it?’
‘No, thank you. Could I just have a glass of water, please?’ I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not sure I could keep the sandwich down if I ate it. My throat is still painfully dry, and I feel as though my entire body is craving a cold glass of icy water.
‘Here.’ Liz fills a glass from the water dispenser built into the fridge, her fingers leaving a trail in the condensation on the surface as she hands it to me, and as I reach out to take it from her, I get a flashback. Last night, Liz opening the door to me, a glass in her hand, the smile on her face much the same as it is now – slightly smug, a mildly boozy air about her. I feel the frosty air on my bare arms, as she opens the door and pulls me inside; warm, sweaty air enveloping me, the beat of the music – something Christmassy? An old song, perhaps – thumping through the house. The smell of cloves and woodsmoke in the air – Liz has the open fire lit, even though the house is sweltering. I shake my head to clear the image, setting the bells clanging inside again, and sip at the water.
‘Thank you . . . for letting me stay, I mean.’ I sip again at the water, as Liz pulls a chair out across the table from me and sits back down. I try not to wince at the harsh scraping noise the chair makes as she drags it across the tiles. Neil hums under his breath as he slaps bacon between two slices of bread and drops the plate in front of Liz. ‘I didn’t mean to impose.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, you’re not imposing.’ Liz takes a bite of her bacon sandwich, before dropping a Berocca tablet into her own glass of water. She offers the packet to me and I take one, gratefully, dropping it into my glass and watching the bubbles start to erupt. ‘I didn’t realise you’d stayed to be honest; I thought you must have left with Gareth.’ Oh shit. Gareth. He’s going to be furious, I should imagine.
‘Well, thank you. For the hospitality, I mean. I don’t really remember going to bed.’ I watch her carefully, hoping that she’ll tell me who it was that must have helped me upstairs. Who bruised my arms, and my thighs, and . . . worse? And did I go willingly? Liz gives nothing away, sipping at her travel mug and still munching on her sandwich, taking each bite with relish.
‘God, I don’t think many of us do.’ She gives a huff of laughter through a mouthful of food, a stray crumb flying from her mouth and landing on her plate. It makes me feel sick. ‘Never let it be said that the Greenes don’t know how to th
row a party.’
‘Right.’ I look away, wanting to ask her if she saw anything, but not wanting at the same time, afraid of what she might say. ‘Was I . . . was I bad? Like, drunk?’
‘Oh darling, we were all tipsy. I don’t remember you doing anything you shouldn’t have, if that’s what you mean. Gareth left early, and you wanted to stay for another drink, no harm in that. It was New Year’s Eve, after all.’ She pushes her plate to one side, and makes to take my hand but I pull away, grabbing at my glass of water. No harm. Only, I think maybe there might have been.
‘It’s bloody New Year! Gareth needs to lighten up,’ Neil says, as he slides his own sandwich onto a plate. ‘Rachel, it’s lovely to see you, and if you’re sure I can’t tempt you with my fried pig slices, I’m going to slope off and watch last night’s Hootenanny.’
I wait for Neil to leave the room, headed for Jools Holland and a mild food coma if the amount of food on his plate is anything to go by, before I speak again.
‘Did we . . . did we argue, do you know? Me and Gareth?’ I pick at the skin around my nails as I ask, not wanting to make eye contact with Liz, as I feel as though I’m confessing to being absolutely hammered last night. You’re a disgrace. The words float through my mind, spoken by someone else, an unseen, unknown someone, and I feel a hot flush of shame. ‘I know he must have left without me, but I just wondered if we’d had a disagreement about things and that’s why he left.’ I raise my eyes to look at her, as she sips from her travel mug again, gripping it tightly in her hands as if afraid I might snatch it away.
‘No, not that I’m aware of,’ Liz says briskly, but her eyes slide away from mine, and I get the feeling that maybe she’s not telling me something. ‘He’s probably at home wondering where you are.’