Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins)

by Alison Belsham

  Things have been getting worse for a while, haven’t they? Your mother is dying, for real this time. There have been remissions in the past but now her doctors have run out of options. She’s at home, but you don’t see her. She won’t have you in the room. You’ve barely seen her at all over the past year. Valentine tells you how she’s feeling, and how she’s thinking of you. But you know full well when Valentine is lying. He tells so many lies. It’s a little harder to know when he’s telling the truth. That doesn’t happen very often.

  Your sixteenth birthday is the day your mother chooses to die. The cancer has finally run its venomous course.

  How does that make you feel?

  How does that make Valentine feel? This question is easier to answer. He comes to you in the middle of the morning, his eyes red-rimmed, and tells you she’s been dead an hour. He says she died peacefully and the doctor is coming. You think it’s a bit late for that. It’s not pleasant to see your father cry. And worse when they’re crocodile tears.

  You feel hollowed out.

  From a distant room, you hear Jay’s roar of anguish. Doors slam. You hear his feet running across the gravel. When you look out of the window, you see him, standing on top of the flint-stone wall at the end of the drive, his arms outstretched. It looks as if he’s howling into the wind, though you can’t hear him. He drops out of sight on the other side of the wall.

  You feel that you’ve already spent your grief for your mother. You grieved so long ago when she didn’t read to you. You grieved when she went into hospital the first time. When she wasn’t at your school play. When she stopped smiling. When she became a stranger. There’s very little left, and that grief you keep for yourself. It’s behind the wall you’ve been building to protect yourself.

  Sixteen today, in a silent house.

  The doctor comes and goes. You don’t see him. But later you watch from an upstairs window as your mother’s body is carried out. Valentine asked if you wanted to see her before she left. Why? To steal another small piece of the memories you have of when she was really your mother? He didn’t ask you if you wanted to see her while she was still alive. Now she’s a cadaver and you feel numb.

  No birthday party this year. But you haven’t had one for years. No dinner with Valentine in a swanky restaurant. That wouldn’t be appropriate on the day his wife and your mother died. In the dining room, he’s set a place for you in your mother’s seat, opposite him at the far end of the long table. A setting too grand for the cauliflower cheese he’s dug out of the freezer. He pours you a glass of wine. Jay won’t come out of his room.

  ‘Why aren’t you drinking your wine, Aimée?’

  He tries to top up your glass.

  Your mother’s death has precipitated a hard, sharp pain in your side which you counter with hard, sharp cuts to your forearm using your father’s razor blade. You are determined not to succumb to his will.

  ‘You look so like her when she was sixteen,’ he says.

  You don’t eat but he doesn’t even notice any more.

  He gives you your mother’s ring.

  Valentine has been drinking. He wears it lightly, but you know. It makes him a little more talkative. A little more demanding. Things happen when he’s drunk, things you don’t like.

  Later, your father comes to your room and rapes you. Then he lies in your bed, crying for his dead wife.

  Poor, sweet Aimée. Where is Jay when you need him most? Did he hear the muffled shriek of pain when Valentine forced himself on you? Silenced by your father’s hand over your mouth.

  You cry for yourself and make plans.

  This wasn’t the first time Valentine has raped you. But it will be the last.

  46

  Tuesday, 29 August 2017

  Francis

  Francis was late to his own mother’s funeral. Stinking hot and unable to sleep through the night, on this morning of all mornings he overslept. He slapped off the alarm, tired and angry, for an extra ten minutes. Ten minutes became half an hour, until he was finally roused by the dull ache in his knuckles from punching Tom Fitz.

  Remembering what day it was, he cursed and rolled out of bed. His black suit hung in the wardrobe, back from the cleaners, but a white shirt needed ironing. Glancing out of his bedroom window, he could see people arriving at St Catherine’s for the service. He recognised some of them, but he didn’t have time to stop and stare. He was supposed to be there, greeting them at the door. At least he didn’t have far to go. He knotted his tie as he ran down the stairs, making it to the church with just a minute to spare.

  Father William caught his arm in the porch.

  ‘Francis, slow down and take a moment with me.’

  Francis looked at his watch.

  ‘Your mother won’t mind waiting.’

  The vicar was right. But Robin would.

  ‘How have you been, Francis? I’ve not seen much of you in church.’

  ‘Sorry, Father William. Work has me by the . . .’ His usual excuse, but now wasn’t the time to tell Father William that he’d lost his way and felt abandoned.

  ‘You look like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends. You need to take some time for yourself. Come and talk to me soon, Francis. You’re looking troubled.’

  Francis gave the older man a quick embrace. ‘I need to go to Robin.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Father William. ‘I’ll give you a few minutes before I start the service. And I’ll see you after.’

  Francis hurried up the aisle to the front row, where seats had been reserved for the family. His was between Robin and James Baines, but Jered Stapleton currently occupied it. Robin looked up from their conversation to glare at Francis as he arrived.

  ‘I thought you were going to miss it,’ she hissed. ‘And you have the shortest distance to come.’

  As he bent to kiss her cheek, Stapleton stood up to vacate his place on the pew.

  ‘It will be a beautiful service,’ said the verger.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Robin.

  Francis couldn’t help but notice their hands brushing as Stapleton moved away. They seemed close, something Francis should have been happy about. Robin needed some stability in her life – and much as he wanted to, he couldn’t be there for her all the time.

  He leaned forward and bowed his head in prayer. It was easier today than it had been recently, but he knew what he was praying for. His mother lay in front of them in a simple wicker coffin, crowned by a profusion of white hydrangeas, her favourite flower. Robin had organised everything because, although he’d promised to help, he’d missed countless calls and most of the meetings about the arrangements. Looking back down, he prayed for his mother, then for his sister. He left it at that. What prayer could he say for himself? The problems he faced were his to solve, not God’s.

  When the time came, Francis rose and went to the lectern to deliver his mother’s eulogy. He took a sheaf of notes out of his breast pocket, but he didn’t need to refer to them. He could speak about his mother from his heart – the lessons she’d instilled in him and Robin, the jokes she told them and, for him, the best feeling in the world, the moments when he knew he’d made her proud.

  ‘She was, overall, a remarkable woman who shaped not only mine and Robin’s lives, but the lives of all who were close to her. Her humour and grace carried her through a long and difficult illness, and we’ll both miss her more than words can say.’

  He looked at Robin. Her eyes were shining bright with tears, but she smiled at him and he smiled back. Then he looked up at the rest of the congregation as he folded his unused notes.

  His heart stopped in his chest.

  A man was standing at the back of the crowded church.

  A man he hadn’t seen for at least six years.

  His father.

  Robin immediately whipped her head round to see what had ca
used such a change in his countenance. Francis heard her gasp as she recognised him.

  Francis stared. His father didn’t look a day older. In fact, he looked slimmer and fitter, with a healthy tan. Standing next to him was an Asian woman, considerably younger than him. In her arms was a child. A boy who looked to be about four years old. He had black hair like his mother, but his face had been unmistakeably inherited from his father. From their father.

  The rest of the service rushed by in a blur. Next to him, Robin sat stiffly, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the pew. He sang the hymns on autopilot and if anyone had asked him afterwards, he wouldn’t have remembered a single word of Father William’s blessing. He didn’t dare turn around to look in case he wouldn’t be able to face the front again. As they filed out behind the coffin, as he supported Robin down the aisle, he looked for Adrian Sullivan. Their father was nowhere to be seen.

  Francis stood impatiently at the side of the grave as the coffin was interred, scared that his one living parent had left while he attended to the needs of his dead parent. Robin sensed his distraction and tightened her grip on his jacket sleeve, as if to stop him running off.

  ‘. . . we therefore commit her body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  Francis bent and picked up a dry clump of earth from the neat pile by the side of the grave. It clattered as he threw it down onto his mother’s coffin. ‘Amen.’ As he did it, the images of Tash Brady, Sally Ann Granger and Lou Riley came to the forefront of his mind. Soon to be buried by their families. Who would be next?

  Robin followed suit, then James Baines and the rest of his family. In the distance, dark clouds massed on the horizon, making Francis wish the rain would come. It was muggy and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The graveyard was silent apart from the sounds of dirt hitting wicker, and the soft murmurs of the mourners as they turned and made their way back to the path. His mind wandered to the case.

  Robin started sobbing and Francis took her hand, waiting alone at their mother’s graveside until she could get her tears under control.

  ‘I won’t speak to him,’ she said with a sniff, as they walked round the corner of the church.

  ‘Come on,’ said Francis. ‘He’s made the effort to be here.’

  ‘And brought his other woman.’

  ‘His wife,’ said Francis.

  ‘And what about that child? Whose is it?’ Robin’s tone was accusatory.

  It was quite clear to Francis whose child it was, so he said nothing.

  Finally, he saw his father standing by the gate. Robin let go of his hand as he changed direction to go over to him. Instead, she turned to say something to James Baines’s wife, Amanda.

  Greeting his father felt awkward. Francis didn’t quite know how to address him as they shook hands. It didn’t seem like he was ‘Dad’ any more, but it would be equally strange to call him by his first name. They both let it pass as Adrian introduced the woman by his side.

  ‘This is Nita, my wife,’ he said.

  The woman was older than he’d thought from a distance, and she had an engaging smile.

  ‘Hello, Francis,’ she said. ‘Adrian’s told me a lot about you.’ Her English was good. ‘I understand you’re a policeman?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you work, Nita?’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ she said, ‘but only part-time since Kip came along.’ She smiled at the small boy who was currently hugging her leg, overwhelmed by the strangeness of everything around him.

  Francis squatted down.

  ‘Hello, Kip,’ he said.

  The boy hid his face in his mother’s skirt.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Adrian. ‘You used to be just as shy.’

  Francis stood up again.

  ‘Are you over here long?’ he said.

  ‘We fly back tomorrow. Nita has been speaking at a medical conference.’ Adrian Sullivan looked at his wife with pride. ‘Keynote speaker, in fact.’

  That look told Francis everything.

  This was his family now, and he was proud of them and delighted with himself. What was he even doing here? Paying his respects to a dead wife, whom he’d deserted? Showing off his replacement kid? Certainly not here to see a sick daughter and a son who’d inherited none of his brilliance. A son who’d tried to forge his own path and was failing. He didn’t have a clue what to do next to solve this case.

  His father didn’t come to the wake and, when the mourners had left, Francis looked for the answers at the bottom of a whisky bottle.

  47

  Tuesday, 29 August 2017

  Marni

  Marni had given up trying to sleep. Thierry had gone. Alex had taken refuge at Liv’s and wouldn’t come home. She’d cancelled her appointments for the rest of the week. She withdrew to her bedroom, seeing and speaking to no one, and even Pepper couldn’t pull her out of her dark mood.

  She gathered up all Thierry’s belongings and crammed them into bags for him to collect. This time, the split was for good. She had no room in her life for him, and she would never be free of the shadow of Paul if she continued to live with his twin. But a small voice at the back of her mind contradicted her. She’d never managed to turn her back on Thierry in the past. They were locked in an endless cycle of coming together and falling apart.

  She wanted an end to it.

  Maybe she and Alex should leave Brighton, if she could persuade him to come with her. But he was shaken to the core – accused of murder, interrogated by the police, receiving a letter that told him his father wasn’t actually his father. No wonder he’d escaped to Liv’s. He needed time to straighten his head out, but in the meantime, she needed to deal with the threat from Paul.

  She struggled off her bed and threw open the window. It was nearly dark outside, the air hot and heavy. She could taste rain but the ground was still dry and the leaves on the tree by her window rattled ominously in a breath of wind. A storm was coming and she was scared of what it would bring.

  In the early evening, thunder rolled in the distance as she walked the length of St James’s Street and across Old Steine. The town was busy – there were still plenty of tourists staying on after the bank holiday, and the restaurants and pubs hummed with the sound of voices. As she strode up North Street, she rehearsed what she was going to say. She didn’t feel bad about the thought of lying. She’d do far worse if she needed to, to protect her family.

  Marni had been to Francis Sullivan’s house once before. It belonged to his father, in fact – and he had seemed like a teenager playing house while his parents were away. He’d cooked her dinner, not long after the Sam Kirby case had drawn to a close. The evening hadn’t gone particularly well, as they both realised the differences between them carried more weight than the things they had in common. It had more or less spelled out the end of their burgeoning relationship.

  Just as well, Marni thought to herself as she walked up to the row of grey Georgian terraced houses. He was a policeman and he came from a totally different background to her. They would never be able to make it work.

  She knocked on his door and tugged the bell pull, noticing there were lights on inside. She wondered about having a quick cigarette while she waited, but thought better of it. He didn’t appear, so she took a few steps back and craned her neck to look at the upstairs windows. His bedroom was lit up, the curtains open. She couldn’t hear anything from inside, so she knocked and rang again. Perhaps he’d gone out and left the lights on, though that didn’t seem very much like the Francis Sullivan she knew. She waited another couple of minutes, looking round at the other houses along the terrace and up towards St Catherine’s churchyard. A fresh grave was almost obscured by bunches of wilting flowers.

  Finally, after a third attempt, she heard the sound of foots
teps on the flagstones of the hall. She peered through the frosted glass panels of the front door and saw a blurred figure approaching.

  ‘Who’s there?’ It was Francis but his voice sounded slurred.

  ‘Frank, it’s me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marni.’

  The door opened. Francis Sullivan leaned against the edge of it unsteadily and looked her up and down. His hair was a mess. He was in a black suit and a white shirt, top button undone. He held a lit cigarette in one hand and there was a white smudge of cigarette ash on his trouser leg. A plain black tie hung undone around his neck and she made the connection. The new grave. He’d just buried his mother.

  ‘What do you want?’ It was hardly friendly.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘It’s not a good time.’

  He started to push the door shut, but Marni stuck the toe of her Doc Marten in the way.

  ‘Please, Frank. I need your help.’

  ‘If it’s police business, go to the station.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  Francis sighed. ‘Come in, then.’

  She followed him down the hall and into his large kitchen. The Aga made it even hotter inside than it was outside, and Francis pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. A near-empty bottle of whisky stood on the kitchen table, a cut glass tumbler next to it. Empty.

  ‘Francis, I’m so sorry about your mother.’

  He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes, but said nothing. It was none of her business.

  ‘Drink?’

  She nodded and he opened a cupboard to get a second glass. He split the remains of the bottle between them, then sat down and motioned for her to do the same. He pushed the fresh glass towards her, and gulped down the contents of his in one go.

  ‘What can I do for you, Marni Mullins?’

  ‘It’s Paul.’

  ‘Your brother-in-law?’ Francis got up and rather unsteadily walked across the kitchen to a tall larder cupboard.

  Marni nodded. ‘He’s out of prison. He’s here in Brighton.’ She stated it as a fact.