A Face in the Crowd: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

by Kerry Wilkinson

  A Face in the Crowd

  An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller

  Kerry Wilkinson

  Books by Kerry Wilkinson

  Standalone novels

  Ten Birthdays

  Two Sisters

  The Girl Who Came Back

  Last Night

  The Wife’s Secret

  The Jessica Daniel series

  The Killer Inside

  Vigilante

  The Woman in Black

  Think of the Children

  Playing with Fire

  The Missing Dead

  Behind Closed Doors

  Crossing the Line

  Scarred for Life

  For Richer, For Poorer

  Nothing But Trouble

  Eye for an Eye

  Silent Suspect

  The Unlucky Ones

  Short Stories

  January

  February

  March

  April

  The Andrew Hunter series

  Something Wicked

  Something Hidden

  Something Buried

  Silver Blackthorn

  Reckoning

  Renegade

  Resurgence

  Other

  Down Among the Dead Men

  No Place Like Home

  Watched

  Contents

  Five Years Ago

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  The Girl Who Came Back

  Kerry’s Email Sign-Up

  Books by Kerry Wilkinson

  A Letter from Kerry

  The Wife’s Secret

  Last Night

  Two Sisters

  The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker

  Ten Birthdays

  Five Years Ago

  Ben pats the breast pocket of his suit jacket, then his trouser pocket, his backside and his wrist. Keys, wallet, phone and watch. It’s the new head, shoulders, knees and toes.

  ‘Got everything?’ I ask, unable to come up with anything better to say.

  He checks his trouser pocket once more, removing his phone to make sure it’s definitely there. I don’t like it when he’s nervous; his anxiety feeds mine, a contagion that’s spreading along the hallway of our house.

  ‘We’re close,’ he says, answering a question I hadn’t asked. ‘If I can just get this bloke to invest…’

  He tails off, biting his lip and glancing towards the front door.

  ‘Train tickets,’ he says to himself, going back through the routine of checking all his pockets.

  Keys, wallet, phone and watch; phone and watch… and eyes and ears and mouth and nose…

  Ben eventually finds the train tickets in his inside pocket, breathing a sigh of relief. There’s a bead of sweat along his hairline, which he wipes away with his sleeve. He scratches the base of his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt, where the top button looks as if it’s done up a little too tightly. After that, he rubs the scar that’s underneath his Adam’s apple. He does this a lot when he’s worried. The mark is barely there and, if he’d not pointed it out on our very first date, I’m not sure I’d have noticed it unless I really looked. There’s a narrow trace of squiggly purple that hoops under the bulge in his throat – an old rugby injury, apparently. He needed reconstructive surgery.

  I was shocked when he said he got it playing rugby. He’s not particularly tall or broad, and nothing like the rugger-bugger type. He said it happened at school.

  ‘This is it,’ he says. ‘We might be able to book the venue tomorrow. It’ll be the wedding you’ve always dreamed of.’

  I almost tell him that the venue doesn’t matter to me. That it feels like, for all the talk of what I’ve always dreamed of, what we’ve really spent months looking into is the wedding he’s always dreamed of.

  Montgomery Manor is out in the countryside, a massive building that’s featured in at least half-a-dozen movies and television shows. We’ve visited twice, ostensibly to decide the room in which we’d like to be married. There’s the Robinson Suite that overlooks the stream at the back, with lots of natural daylight during spring and summer, apparently. If not that, there’s the Westley Room, in which Kate Winslet once snogged some actor whose name I can never remember in a film I’ve not seen. The reason we’ve committed to neither room is that we can’t afford it. Even marrying on a weekday off-season is beyond our budget. I don’t mind. I’d get married in a register officer with no hesitation. I’d do it this weekend. I’d do it tomorrow.

  Ben breathes out deeply and strides towards the front door. He opens it and then pauses before leaving, taking another deep breath.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says, half turned. ‘Once we’ve got the house by the park, we could maybe think about getting you those stables…?’

  It takes me a second to process what he’s said – but it still makes no sense. ‘Getting those what?’ I ask.

  ‘Remember on our second date when you said you liked horses and always wanted your own when you were a girl? If everything comes through today, I might be able to make that happen.’

  He stares at me with such clear, unblinking focus that a tingle flickers up my spine, making me shiver. One of the first things I noticed about Ben was those long eyelashes. They make his brown eyes appear even duskier than they are. Some women would kill for eyelashes like those – either that, or pay a small fortune to a doctor somewhere. It is part of what makes him so seductive; so appealing. But the darkness of his eyes is also what makes me feel as if there’s something else there. Something about him that I’ll never understand.

  ‘I’m not sure if I want stables,’ I say, stumbling over the words. The truth is, I’d forgotten telling him about my young dreams of owning a horse. Seven-year-old girls want for all sorts of things. That was eighteen years ago. I’ve barely thought about it since. I wanted a pink helicopter and an endless supply of Cadbury’s Fruit ’N’ Nut bars when I was that age, too.

  ‘It was only an idea,’ he replies. ‘I want to provide for you.’

  ‘I don’t mind working. I like working.’

  He nods, but it doesn’t feel as if he’s listening. ‘You’ll be able to do what you want. Work or not work. Study or not study.’ There’s a momentary pause and then: ‘Take a few years off and we can try for kids…’

  I fight away a roll of the eyes. We’ve been through this and I’m not ready for kids. I want to visit Thai
land and travel through south-east Asia. I want to finally go to university, or study for a degree from home.

  It’s not the time to point all that out, however. I don’t want to burst Ben’s bubble when he’s got such an important day ahead of him. I’m hoping that, if today goes well, it’ll put an end to the mood swings and the nights by myself when he sleeps on the sofa.

  Ben works as a day trader, buying and selling shares from the relative comfort of our living room. I can always tell the type of day he’s had by the way he greets me when I get home from work. Or, indeed, whether he greets me at all. There’s darkness and light within him – or, more recently, darkness and dark.

  The light makes it worth it, though. The way he smiles; the times we cuddle under a blanket on the sofa to binge-watch some overhyped drama series; even the way he says my name. He’s never called me ‘Lucy’, always ‘Luce’ – or ‘Loose’, I suppose. It’s hard to describe, but it makes me feel as if I’m at the centre of the world. As if there’s only me. That’s love, isn’t it? When a single word spoken can make a person’s throat dry up.

  From nowhere, Ben grimaces. He angles forward slightly, as if about to bow.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  He closes his eyes for a moment and then reopens them. ‘Last night’s sushi, I think.’

  ‘Will you be okay?’

  He shrugs, which is something I hate. It’s hard to say why, other than that it doesn’t suit him. It’s like when I try to do something left-handed. There’s a lack of coordination; a general sense that the action isn’t quite right.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he replies. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  A reflex.

  Bang.

  I love you―I love you, too. I’m pretty sure I do love him. Sometimes I’m certain, other times I wonder if I know what the word means.

  ‘See you later,’ he says. He’s being kind today, going through the whole routine. He doesn’t always say goodbye. I sometimes leave for work and he doesn’t look up from his computer. Sometimes, I say I love him and he doesn’t reply at all.

  ‘See you later,’ I say, parroting him. ‘You’ll do brilliantly today.’

  He steps outside, leaving a hand on the front door.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, not sounding convinced.

  ‘Good luck,’ I add.

  There’s a second in which I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. As if I’m doubting his ability by implying he needs good fortune. Luck shouldn’t come into it, after all. Luck is what people need if they aren’t skilled enough to get the job done.

  A flutter tickles my heart, but he doesn’t pick up on it.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ben replies. He checks his pockets and wrist one final time – keys, wallet, phone and watch – then he pulls the door closed.

  I stand alone in the hall for a moment, watching through the rippled glass of the front door as his silhouette shrinks its way to the end of our driveway.

  ‘See you later,’ I repeat, this time to myself.

  Chapter One

  Friday

  I’m not sure if there are many things more humiliating than looking at a rolly-eyed bus driver and saying, ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ He has tufty gingery hair and is wearing the weary expression of a man who can’t wait to finish his shift. I get on this bus twice a day, five days a week. He drives it three or four times of those ten journeys. We do not know one another, but there’s still indignity in that I recognise him, while he’s sure he’s never once set eyes on me.

  ‘It’s two-twenty,’ he says with yet another roll of the eyes. I can practically hear his thoughts. Not another nutter…

  ‘I’m not trying it on,’ I reply, ‘I really do have a monthly pass. I use it every day. I was hoping you’d know me…?’ I tail off, knowing I’ve lost the argument.

  The person behind me in the queue to get on shuffles and sighs. I’m one of those people. The ones who can’t simply get on a bus without causing trouble.

  My purse gives no clues as to where the pass could be. I always leave it in the front window section, precisely so that it’s impossible to lose. It’s not there and neither is it in that compartment.

  ‘Two-twenty or you’ll have to get off,’ he says.

  I half turn, ready to get off, but it’s at that moment the rain starts to thrash the windscreen like a kid playing whack-a-mole at the fair.

  Losing something is surely one of the worst feelings in the world. I’ve known real loss and pain, but there’s something about the way a person’s stomach sinks when a valued item has gone astray.

  I start to fumble through the coin part of my purse, but this is about more than the two pounds and twenty pence. By the time I’ve paid rent and all the other bits and pieces, there’s so little left that everything else is brutally budgeted. This extra £2.20 means I’ll probably have to miss a meal. It’s a straight choice: Food – or a six-mile walk home in the pounding rain.

  ‘I’ll pay.’ It’s the man behind me in the queue. No, not a man. A teenager at most. He’s probably fifteen or sixteen, clutching a backpack.

  I start to say no, but my heart isn’t in it because everything about me must be screaming yes. Before I can make any sort of fake protest, he’s passed a five-pound note to the driver and told him to take it out of that.

  I mutter a ‘thanks’, but it doesn’t feel like enough. A wave of relief slams into me as if the bus itself has thundered into a wall. I try to take a step, but my knees wobble.

  For his part, the kid shrugs away my thanks with a, ‘no problem – it’s only two quid’. He offers a thin smile and then edges past, manoeuvring his way as far back into the bus as he can manage.

  Only two quid.

  Only.

  It’s funny how far I can make only two quid stretch.

  I’m lost for a moment, but, as more passengers get on, I find myself following the flow until I’m clinging to a pole. The engine rumbles like a low-level earthquake and then everyone shunts forward as we set off.

  It takes me a few seconds to realise that the man next to me has gone full-on chemical warfare. If any government agencies are still hunting for weapons of mass destruction, this guy is hiding in plain sight. He’s clinging onto one of those plastic loops that hang from the roof of the bus, thrusting his armpit to within a few centimetres of my face. Showering is free and even I can afford deodorant. How hard is it to not smell like mouldy cheese?

  What is wrong with some people?

  The man is oblivious, holding his phone with his other hand and thumbing his way through Facebook. Someone named Jenny has some seriously ugly children. Someone called Dave has posted a map of the route he ran that morning. Mr Stinky types ‘Good going dude’ into the comments and presses ‘post’. In all the millions of words that have been added to the internet since it was invented, I wonder if there has ever been anything more inane.

  I’d move away but it’s a Friday, so the number 24 bus is full. I’m never quite sure why so many more people appear on this one single day of the week compared to any others. It’s a throbbing, sweating pit of humanity.

  I attempt to ignore the smell while also trying not to worry about my missing bus pass. It will be in my bag somewhere. I had it this morning. I still have the receipt at home, too. If need be, I can go to the bus station and get it replaced.

  The bus slows and the floor starts to vibrate as the driver pulls into the next stop. There’s a collective groan from the people around me. As if the bus isn’t full enough. We’re British, though, so nobody says anything.

  No one gets off, but passengers start to shuffle into one another as, presumably, more people get on. I can’t see much past Mr Stinky. His armpit edges ever closer, the chloroform about to smother its target.

  I’m in the front third of the bus, with people standing all around me. The unseen door hisses closed again and there’s now no room to move. Barely room to breathe. We’re packed in like beans in a can.

 
As the bus pulls away, I wobble slightly and tighten my grip on the vertical metal pole with one hand, while trying to cling onto my bag with the other. It’s no wonder the roads are full of cars. Who’d choose to travel like this? To pay to travel like this?

  It feels as if everyone around me is so much taller than I am. As well as Mr Stinky’s armpit, there’s a woman in gym gear with one of those drawstring bags over her shoulders. She’s holding onto a pole with one hand and thumbing away at her phone with the other. If nothing else, modern technology has turned us into a population of multi-taskers.

  The groan of the engine changes as we slow for a set of traffic lights. I take this bus so often that I know the potholes, the traffic lights, the junctions, and the give-way signs, even though I don’t own a car of my own.

  There’s a scuff of feet from behind, but I’m too crammed in to be able to turn. A man in a beanie hat lurches sideways and lightly treads on my foot.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, straightening himself as the bus speeds up again.

  He’s young; early twenties or late-teens. Probably on the way back from college, something like that. He’s got a kindly smile but immediately looks back to his phone.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I reply, though he doesn’t acknowledge it.