And Then She Ran

by Karen Clarke

  About the Author

  KAREN CLARKE is a multi-published author living in Buckinghamshire with her husband and three grown-up children.

  Having previously written twelve romantic comedies, Karen has moved to the dark side and now writes psychological suspense. As well as her solo novels, she has co-written two thrillers with fellow author Amanda Brittany.

  When she’s not writing, Karen reads a lot and loves walking, gardening, watching TV and films, photography and baking (not all at the same time).

  Also by Karen Clarke

  Your Life For Mine

  Books by Karen Clarke and Amanda Brittany

  The Secret Sister

  The Perfect Nanny

  And Then She Ran

  KAREN CLARKE

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  Dublin 4, Ireland

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Karen Clarke 2021

  Karen Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008400408

  Version: 2021-04-06

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Karen Clarke

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Two days ago

  Chapter 2: Now

  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

  Extract

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  This one’s for my lovely mother-in-law Edna

  Chapter 1

  Two days ago

  ‘You can’t take the baby, Grace.’ Patrick’s tone was pleading. ‘I need her.’

  ‘Please, just let us go.’

  ‘I can’t.’ His tone hardened. ‘I won’t let you. It’ll ruin everything.’

  ‘If you don’t, I’ll go to the press.’ My heart pounded. ‘I’ll tell them the truth.’

  He froze, perhaps imagining the implications, what it would mean for his career. He came closer. For a moment, I thought he was going to hit me. I cringed as he punched the wall by my head. ‘What am I supposed to say to people?’

  I straightened my shoulders. ‘You’ll think of something,’ I said, heart racing. ‘You’re good with words.’

  He stared at me with something close to hatred. ‘And if I let you go, you won’t tell anyone?’

  ‘I promise.’ I kept my eyes on his. ‘And you’ll leave us alone?’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  I bundled Lily into her carrier, opened the door and ran.

  Chapter 2

  Now

  I looked around the busy airport, heart drumming against my ribs. Despite the promise he’d made, I wasn’t convinced that Patrick wouldn’t come after me or have me followed.

  The urge to keep checking hadn’t left me since I boarded the plane in New York. When I wasn’t feeding or pacifying Lily during the seven-hour flight, I was inspecting the other passengers in case Patrick had sneaked on board, or sent somebody to reclaim his eight-week-old daughter.

  My chest tightened with worry, my hand rigid on Lily’s back as I scanned the arrivals area once more, while a sea of people surged past. It was both familiar and strange being back in England – the first time since a fleeting visit to my mother’s place in Berkshire four years ago. There was no one here to meet me. No one knew where I was. Patrick had probably guessed I’d return to the UK, but would have no idea where I was heading from Heathrow. I hadn’t mentioned my aunt when we were exchanging potted life histories a year ago. He didn’t know where she lived and I hadn’t told him. Morag was a private person and I respected her wishes. She’d only told my mother her new address in case of emergencies, though her sister was probably the last person Mum would turn to in a crisis, their long-standing rift unhealed.

  Unaware of our noisy surroundings, Lily slept soundly at last in the ergonomic carrier Patrick had bought, designed to hold her against my chest like an embrace. Her cheeks were stained red, her long lashes spiky with tears as she nuzzled into me. I kissed the soft fuzz of her fine dark hair as I hoisted her gingham baby bag onto my shoulder. Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I followed signs to the taxis, inhaling sharply as a blast of cold air greeted me outside. It was mid-March, but the temperature felt Baltic after the overheated journey and milder Manhattan weather I’d left behind.

  I tugged out Lily’s lemon-coloured blanket and draped it around her as she began to stir. ‘Hush, hush,’ I murmured, shivers of cold rippling through my cheap, zip-up jacket as I hurried to the first waiting taxi.

  ‘S’cuse me, there’s a queue.’ A man stepped forward blocking my way. He had wiry grey hair and an aggrieved expression; the look of someone spoiling for a fight.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Tears rushed to my eyes, anxiety spilling over. ‘I didn’t … I wasn’t—’

  ‘Leave her alone, Len. You can see she’s got her hands full.’

  A woman – probably his wife – gave a compassionate smile that creased her whole face. ‘Take it, love. We’re not in a hurry.’

  Relief made me gush. ‘Thank you, if you’re sure? I need to get her home and settled. My husband’s expecting us.’ Home. I no longer had one.

  ‘Shame he’s not here to pick you up.’ The man’s hard gaze didn’t soften as he jammed meaty hands in the pockets of his padded coat.

  ‘Stop it, Len.’ The woman rolled her eyes. They were large and glassy, like marbles. ‘I remember what it was like with little ones, even if this one doesn’t.’

  The driver had got ou
t of the taxi and was stowing my suitcase in the boot. He slammed it shut and returned to the driver’s seat.

  ‘Well … thank you,’ I said to the woman, keeping my face averted, not wanting the pair to remember my face.

  She was wearing a navy baseball hat, tortoiseshell glasses, no make-up. Plain, I suppose. Early thirties, hard to tell. Had a baby, but covered up. No idea what it looked like.

  Lots of women with babies must pass through the airport every day. Maybe some of them were running away too, wearing a cheap disguise; reading glasses that slightly magnified everything; hair thrust into a generic baseball cap to disguise its length and colour; a baggy grey sweatshirt with shapeless jeans and jacket, all purchased at a Walmart on the way to the airport and changed into in the toilets, before I continued my journey in a different cab.

  Patrick wouldn’t recognise the dowdy, androgynous woman currently climbing awkwardly into the taxi. No one from my old life would.

  Heart jumping, I sat back and settled Lily. She was falling towards sleep again, her rosebud mouth making little sucking noises. Love rose like a sickness. This has to work.

  ‘Where to?’

  I met the driver’s disinterested gaze in the rear-view mirror, then took a last look through the window at the dreary grey afternoon, where the couple were now quietly arguing at the pavement’s edge. ‘Victoria Station, please.’

  Once there, I’d buy a ticket and take a coach for the last leg of my trip; to my aunt’s home in deepest Wales where, I prayed, no one would ever find us.

  Chapter 3

  It felt strange at first, being on the opposite side of the road. I kept catching my breath whenever a car drove past in the ‘wrong’ lane, but after feeding and changing Lily, glad of the empty seat on the coach beside me, I finally dozed, worn out from adrenaline and the flight. My body was still running on a different time zone, aware it was early afternoon in Manhattan.

  It was seven-thirty and dark by the time we reached Fenbrith and rain was falling steadily. Lily awoke, blinking her round brown eyes – recently darkened from blue – as she looked about, her tiny fingers splayed out on my chest.

  ‘Hello, little mouse.’ I felt an ache in my lower back as I rose. ‘Looks like we’re here.’

  The driver got out and dumped my case on the rain-slicked ground. ‘OK?’ he asked as I disembarked, as if compelled to question the silent woman he’d just driven for over five hours and two hundred miles.

  I forced a bland smile, one hand cupping Lily’s head as I summoned my steadiest voice. ‘Yes, thank you. It’s been a long day that’s all. We’ll be glad to get out of this weather.’

  Long day. Weather. I was speaking a universal code.

  ‘You and me both.’ The driver nodded in tacit understanding. ‘On holiday, are you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, this time of year Snowdonia’s not too busy so make the most of it.’

  ‘I will.’ Every contact leaves a trace. I realised afresh how hard it was to truly disappear, to become invisible. Especially somewhere like this, where a stranger was bound to stand out.

  Patrick doesn’t know where you are.

  For a second, as the coach pulled away, I imagined him appearing behind me, saw the flash of anger in his night-dark eyes and felt the grip of his fingers on my shoulder. You didn’t really think I’d let you go, did you?

  I wheeled around, a tremor running through me. There was no one there, just Lily and me on the empty street.

  The rain had eased, but Lily was growing restless, flexing against me, unhappy at being back in her carrier. It had been a couple of hours since her last feed, which I’d undertaken in a sleepy haze, thankful I’d stuck to my guns and continued to secretly breastfeed whenever I could, despite Patrick insisting I use formula or at least pump and freeze, as if I was a machine – or a cow. It was clear by then that fatherhood didn’t suit him. Or maybe it was because Lily wasn’t the son he’d longed for.

  Shivering with cold, desperate to get my baby to warmth and safety, I moved closer to the pub I was standing outside; a low-roofed building with light spilling from diamond-paned windows. The Carpenter’s Arms, according to the sign, which creaked in the breeze like something from a horror film. The pub where I’d arranged to meet Morag. As I bumped my suitcase into a sheltered porch in front of the door, I briefly considered phoning my mother to let her know I was in the country, but it was better she didn’t know in the unlikely event that Patrick decided to call her. Then I remembered; she didn’t have the same surname as me, had changed it after my father’s death, which would make her hard to find. An image of Patrick rushed in again, his lip curled in anger. I squashed it down. The day was taking its toll. I needed to sleep properly, in a bed, and give myself time to adjust to my surroundings.

  I hoped Morag was already waiting in the pub. She lived three miles from the village. I could hardly walk in the dark with a baby and a suitcase, and didn’t want to attract attention by taking a local taxi – if there was such a thing in this tiny hamlet. It had the air of a place from a bygone era. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pony and trap clatter past.

  As Lily let out a thin wail, I reached for the worn brass knob on the door just as it swung inwards. A wave of beer-scented warmth, the chink of glasses and the sound of laughter hit me. A pungent aroma of food made my mouth water. When had I last eaten?

  I stood back, a protective arm across Lily, and yanked my suitcase out of the way as a woman emerged, backlit by the brightness inside so I couldn’t make out her features. She half-turned, starting at the sight of me lurking by the door.

  As Lily began crying in earnest, a tired sound that squeezed my heart, the woman’s eyes met mine. I was aware of her comforting scent; laundry powder overlaid with something earthy; the smell of a garden, a hint of rosemary, and when she spoke, I instantly recognised her voice: raspy with a hint of steel, her Welsh accent barely detectable.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Why are you hiding out here?’

  ‘Hey, Aunt Morag.’ I heard my slight American intonation and knew I’d have to lose it. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  She stared for a long moment, the silence punctuated by Lily’s intermittent cries, then let the pub door close behind her.

  ‘We’d better go.’ She jerked her head at the tiny car park at the side of the pub. ‘You’ll catch your death out here.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘I haven’t been drinking, in case you were wondering.’ Morag swiped some clutter off the passenger seat of a dusty blue van, indicating that I get in before throwing my suitcase in the back.

  I obeyed with a nod, clutching Lily like a precious parcel. The interior smelt of compost, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

  Morag drove in silence but I felt her eyes on us a couple of times as she navigated the dark, narrow roads, their surfaces shiny with rain. There was something dreamlike about the situation. I had to keep blinking and focused my gaze ahead.

  After turning sharply and jerking the vehicle down a long bumpy track, Morag pulled on the handbrake and switched the engine off. The cooling radiator ticked in the sudden quiet.

  ‘Come inside,’ Morag instructed, leaping out before I could speak and slamming the driver’s door.

  It felt good to be told what to do, like being a child again. I tumbled gratefully onto a muddy patch of earth, adjusting Lily in her carrier. She’d been soothed back to sleep by the rocking motion of the van, but now stretched with a mewling sound and rubbed her nose on my top.

  ‘Wait here a second.’ Morag strode into a surrounding blackness so dense it felt like a living thing pressing down. Everywhere was silent, except for a rustle of leaves stirred by a restless breeze. For a second, I felt eyes on me and my mind flew back to a scene of shattered glass on tiles, pain slicing my thumb as I tried to clear away the mess before Patrick came back, blood trickling down my hand. As a prickling sensation crept across my scalp, a security light burst into life, illuminatin
g a clearing outside a small, grey-stone building. I let out a breath and my shoulders slid down. The cottage wasn’t the ancient wreck I’d expected; no slate tiles spilling off the roof, or boards covering spaces where windows had once been.

  I’d looked for images of the cottage during an internet search at the New York Library, but found nothing, leaving my imagination to run riot. I hadn’t even been sure she still lived in Fenbrith until I called Mum to check, claiming I wanted to send my aunt a sixtieth birthday card and perhaps give her a call. Mum hadn’t stayed in touch with her sister, but Morag and I had exchanged the odd postcard over the years. Reluctantly, Mum had passed on the landline number for the cottage and I’d called it from a payphone, fingers trembling with anxiety. I hadn’t mentioned Lily, or given a reason why I was phoning out of the blue, but if Morag was surprised to hear from me, she hadn’t said anything, merely instructed me to let her know when I was arriving and that she’d meet me at the pub in the village.

  ‘Come on.’ She was back, lifting my suitcase from the back of the van as though it weighed less than a feather. Leading the way, she pushed open a weathered door and stood aside to let me enter. The first thing I felt was warmth, wrapping around me like a blanket, the smell of wood-smoke competing with whatever Morag had cooked for her dinner. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said, flicking a switch on the rough-textured wall.

  In a pool of brightness that made me blink, I saw we were in an area comprising a kitchen and living room, sparsely furnished with a mix of old and new, the doors, ceilings and woodwork stained dark brown. A set of chunky wooden steps led up to what must be a bedroom, wooden struts like fencing on either side of the gap at the top of the stairs.

  ‘The bathroom’s through there.’ Morag nodded to an adjacent door, as though she’d intuited that I suddenly desperately needed the loo. ‘Here, let me.’

  Her fingers were at the carrier, unfastening the sturdy straps with deft movements until it fell loose. She prised Lily from my arms and swung her away. For a second, I could still feel the imprint of her on my chest, a cold draught where she’d been, an echo of her tiny heartbeat.