The Babysitter: From the author of digital bestsellers and psychological crime thrillers like The Girl Next Door comes the most gripping and addictive book of 2020!

by Phoebe Morgan

  SD: [pause] I was upset, Detective. Not angry.

  DCI McVey: OK. Siobhan, have you ever met Jenny and Rick Grant before?

  SD: No. Their names meant nothing to me until – until all of this. I don’t know them, and neither does Callum, as far as I know. He’s never mentioned their names to me.

  DCI McVey: How can you be sure about that, Siobhan? When up until a few months ago, you had no idea your husband was sleeping with Ms Caroline Harvey?

  SD: [pause]

  DCI McVey: Siobhan? Answer the question, please.

  SD: I suppose I can’t. I can’t be sure.

  DCI McVey: No. You can’t be sure, Siobhan, can you?

  SD: [silence]

  DCI McVey: And on the night Caroline died, you say you were with your book club, is that right?

  SD: Yes. It’s not far, we meet at a pub in the town. The Horse and Crown. There were about six of us, they’ll all tell you I was there. We were reading White Teeth. The Zadie Smith.

  DCI McVey: And you got home at what time?

  SD: Eleven, I guess. Maybe a bit later. We stayed for a few glasses of wine; it was light until quite late. When I got back I knocked on my daughter’s room, popped my head around the door to say goodnight. She was sleeping already. She’s a teenager, as you know, they need a lot of sleep. Anyway, I looked in on her, and then I went to bed.

  DCI McVey: And your husband was already there?

  SD: [pause] I…

  DCI Mcvey: Siobhan? Was your husband home when you arrived back from book club that night?

  SD: I think he was still working in the studio. I mean, I was very tired, as I’ve said.

  DCI McVey: You and your husband usually share a room, that’s correct?

  SD: Yes, of course. But sometimes, if one or other of us came in late, we’d go into the spare room instead, it wasn’t uncommon. We tried not to disturb each other.

  DCI McVey: So your husband didn’t sleep in the spare room because you’d had a row, then? Because, say, you’d found out about his affair and confronted him?

  SD: No, that wasn’t it.

  DCI McVey: [leaning forward, closer to Siobhan] Look, Siobhan. [voice softens] I know how you must be feeling. On top of everything else, you’re feeling betrayed. Sad. Hurt. [sighs] I was married once, you know. Years ago, now. He left me for his secretary. [laughs] What a cliché, but it happened. I was humiliated. Eventually I moved here, became a police officer. Never looked back.

  SD: [silence]

  DCI McVey: I understand the desire to protect your husband, Siobhan, I do. I understand your wanting to keep your family together, protect your daughter. But you need to tell us the truth now. If you’re not sure whether your husband was home that night, my officers need to know. [leans forward] We can help you, Siobhan. We can help you and Emma. Get you somewhere safe. But I need you to work with me, not against me. Did you check to see if the studio light was on? Did you see him in there? And did you actually hear him enter the house, like you said you did?

  SD: I –

  DCI McVey: I’m on your side, Siobhan. I’ve been in your shoes. [pauses] Aren’t you angry with him, just a little bit?

  SD: No.

  DCI McVey: No, you’re not angry?

  SD: No, I didn’t check. I don’t know what time he came home, OK? That’s the truth. But it doesn’t mean he did it, Detective, does it? Does it?

  DCI McVey: Thank you, Siobhan. I really appreciate your being honest with me. It’s very helpful, very helpful indeed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ipswich

  10th August: The night of the murder

  Caroline

  Jenny barely knocks on the door before inserting herself into my flat, Eve in one arm and a huge, unwieldy-looking travel cot tucked under the other.

  ‘Helloooo,’ she calls out, in that way people who are very comfortable living with other people do, and then she appears in the doorway of my living room slash kitchen, her hair piled on top of her head and looking – well, a bit frazzled to be honest. Quickly, my eyes dart to the sink but the tell-tale wine glass is hidden from view. I wish I had some gum, or a mint, something to mask it on my breath. Still, hopefully she’ll be gone soon, and it’ll be just me and Eve. And Eve isn’t likely to notice, is she!

  ‘Thank you so much again for this, Caro! You’re becoming my star babysitter!’ she says, setting the cot down in the middle of the room with a loud ‘ooph.’ To my surprise I see that Eve is awake, her mouth silenced with a little pink dummy, her eyes wide and blinking at me.

  ‘Hello Eve,’ I say, standing up from where I’ve been sat on the sofa and coming to help Jenny, who is looking around my flat as if suddenly realising for the first time how un-baby proof it is. I see it through her eyes: the sharp edges, the gaping plug sockets, the little balcony with a sheer drop down to the concrete below. The wine bottles stacked in the rack by the cupboard, the glasses that might shatter. The many, many ways that something could go wrong. My heart skips a beat, but I’m committed now, aren’t I? It’s all going to be fine.

  ‘Is she OK on the sofa?’ I ask awkwardly, ‘just while we set up the cot?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Jenny says, disentangling Eve’s little arms from where they’re wound around her neck, and placing her daughter gently onto my sofa. Callum laughed when he first saw my sofa – ‘It’s tiny! It’s more like a big armchair. How are we ever going to shag on that?’ – but then again, he comes from a life where plush four-seater sofas are the norm. A different life to mine.

  Eve’s brown eyes are huge, they stare around the room, and I wonder how much one-year-olds can really take in. Can baby Eve sense my loneliness, the emptiness of my life from just a scan around my living space? I notice Callum’s suitcase, stuffed away near where I keep my unused ironing board, and hope Jenny doesn’t notice the name tag, start on at me again. I wish he’d come and get it, the sight of it reminds me of our mini-break and how happy we were, or how happy I was, anyway.

  Eve blinks at me, and I long to touch her, to pick her up and cuddle her close, but it feels awkward with Jenny here, huffing and puffing over the travel cot.

  ‘Honestly,’ she says, ‘this bloody thing is meant to be “portable and easy to use, any time, any place”. It’s a sodding nightmare! It weighs a ton for starters and I can never get it to pop up the way they said it would in Mothercare.’

  Her cheeks are flushing red and quickly I grab the other side of the cot, pull on it so that the mechanism expands. I did it! I’ve never even set foot in Mothercare, and I feel a tiny, silly burst of pride.

  ‘There,’ I say to Jenny, ‘we’re all good. Shall I put it in the bedroom for now?’

  She looks disproportionately relieved, and nods. I drag it through to my room, which thankfully looks a bit tidier than usual.

  ‘God, well done,’ Jenny says when I return, distractedly stroking the top of Eve’s head. ‘Thanks for helping. Ugh, sorry if I seem a bit stressed, it’s doing my head in, this constant carting back and forth to the hospital. Rick’s insistence that I’m always there to help. I mean, why can’t he go on his own? It’s ridiculous. And then when we do get there to see Margaret, he sort of clams up, just sits there like a shell-shocked little boy who can’t believe his mum isn’t bustling around putting the fish fingers in, you know? He goes all quiet and then I’m left to make conversation with bloody Margaret, who to be honest, Caro, has never really liked me all that much anyway. We sit by her bed for what feels like an eternity, with all these sick people coughing and spluttering around us, and the nurses virtually ignore us, and then eventually they throw us out and I have to drive back here, listening to Rick bang on about her.’

  She stops, out of breath.

  ‘Sounds rough,’ I say, and she starts laughing, and despite myself, I join in.

  ‘God, listen to me, I’m a barrel of laughs. Sorry, Caro. It’s just getting to me, I suppose. I’d rather be home with Eve. Well, I’d rather be here with you and Eve, drinking wine and gossipi
ng about the old days.’ She smiles, nods to the wine rack. ‘Nice collection, by the way.’

  She bends down and reaches into her bag, pulling out various items – bottles of milk for Eve, a blanket, a pack of nappies.

  ‘Just in case,’ she says, ‘everything you need should be in here, I’ll leave you the whole bag, look. But let me just pop these in the fridge.’ She glances around and I direct her to the corner, where my rather bare fridge feels embarrassing in comparison to their full-to-bursting family Smeg.

  ‘You need to get some proper food in Caro, gosh!’ Jenny says, and although I’ve started to feel quite warm towards her, a flicker of annoyance bubbles inside me. She sounds like my mother – well, if I still had one.

  ‘Now, are you going to be all right, princess?’ Jenny asks, bending down to Eve who is still sitting in a vaguely upright position on the sofa, her head lolling against the grey cushions.

  ‘Shall I take her dummy out? I don’t like to leave them in too long really,’ Jenny says, and without waiting for an answer she whips it out of the baby’s mouth and pops it into a small Tupperware box, produced from the depths of the Mary Poppins bag.

  Almost immediately, Eve starts to cry – I don’t know what sparks it, but she’s staring at me as her eyes begin to fill and her mouth opens.

  ‘Ohhh, dear,’ Jenny says, picking her up whilst simultaneously glancing at the clock. ‘I’m going to have to go, I’m afraid – it’s OK, darling, Mummy’s here, and this is Mummy’s friend, Caro, who you met the other night. She looked after you then, didn’t she? Yes, she did, shh, shh. It’s all going to be fine.’ She smiles at me and her daughter reaches out, grabs her finger tightly.

  ‘I don’t think she wants you to go,’ I say, and even though I know, I know it’s stupid I feel a little dart of disappointment, of inadequacy that this tiny child is rejecting me too.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be fine, she’ll settle down. Have you got anything you could read to her?’

  And then I remember: I keep a little shelf of competitor books in the next room, to look at when I’m doing illustrations. Not to copy, as Callum not-so-kindly put it, but to use as inspiration for my own drawings.

  ‘I think they’re a bit above her reading age, though,’ I tell Jenny, but she waves a hand.

  ‘I told you the other day, we’re trying to get her used to books as early as possible. It’s good for her to hear the sound of the words, you could read a couple to her? If she doesn’t settle? And show her the pictures?’

  Another glance at the clock – it’s almost twenty past six.

  ‘I really do have to go, Caro, but you’ll be OK, won’t you? Just call me if you need anything; I’ve got my mobile, of course.’

  Eve is still crying, and the cries worsen as Jenny holds her out to me.

  ‘Here, take her. She’ll get used to you in a few minutes, and if she carries on crying, walk her around the flat a little bit – oh, I suppose there isn’t much room – but still, a bit of movement normally helps to quieten her down.’ She glances at the windows. ‘Don’t take her out on the balcony though, will you? It’s so high! I don’t know how you stand it.’

  I grit my teeth at the dig; she doesn’t mean it. ‘Of course not.’

  I reach out and she puts Eve in my arms. The sudden weight of her makes me gasp, but Jenny doesn’t notice. She’s gathering her handbag to her, and I feel a splash of panic.

  ‘What if she gets sick?’ I say quickly, and Jenny stares at me.

  ‘Sick? She won’t get sick. She’s been fed already, and you can give her a bit more bottle around eight if she isn’t asleep by then. But she will be! Don’t look so worried, Caro.’ There’s a buzzing and she pulls out her phone.

  ‘Oh, God, it’s Rick wanting to know what’s taking so long. Bye, Caro. And thank you! Bye princess.’ She leans forward, kisses her daughter on the forehead.

  ‘See you in a couple of hours. I’ll make it as quick as I can, promise. And I’ll text you when I’m leaving the hospital.’

  The door bangs shut behind her, and she’s gone. It is 6.25 p.m.

  The moment the door closes and Jenny is out of sight, Eve’s cries intensify and I worry that Jenny will be able to actually hear them going down the corridor. Quickly, I use my foot to shut the living-room door, creating another barrier between the sound and the hall, and then I begin to pace, making small circles around the kitchen, from the fridge to the sofa and back again.

  ‘Ssh, Eve, ssh. What’s the matter? You’re fine, we’re fine, and Mummy will be back soon.’ I clutch her to me, loving how warm she is, how alive. After a few minutes, she does begin to quieten and I feel a wave of elation – I can do it, after all. I’m not completely useless. I don’t have to be the person everyone thinks I am – I can be someone else.

  When I’m sure – well, as sure as I can be, with my total lack of experience – that she isn’t about to burst into tears again, I gingerly sit down on the sofa, Eve in my lap. It’s easier now; I turn her around so that she’s facing me, her little feet balancing on my thighs. She has white frilly socks on, and a pale pink romper – not for Jenny any worries about gender stereotypes.

  There are little bubbles of spit in the corner of her mouth, and her lips are pink, a proper pink that you don’t see on adults unless they’re wearing a very specific shade of lipstick called something hideous like Candy Heart.

  ‘You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Eve?’ I say to her, using that baby voice that I always hate hearing out in the street, grown adults cooing like pigeons, but somehow I can’t help myself. She blinks at me. Her eyes are big and dark, and combined with her squiggles of soft blonde hair, the effect is angelic.

  She looks much more like Jenny than she does Rick, I think, and the thought inevitably leads to another, darker one.

  I wonder what sort of baby Callum and I would have made.

  I remember so vividly the day I found out I was pregnant. I remember what I was wearing – a blue dress with little swallows on, and a cardigan because it was April and a bit cold. I’d been feeling a bit funny all week, but had put it down to working a lot, trying to make sure that being freelance didn’t mean everyone forgot about me, and I thought the fact that I was feeling sick was just down to anxiety. Or because I wasn’t eating that well now that I was freelance – I’d routinely forget to cook proper meals, exist on toast and avocado and yoghurt.

  Things were already beginning to unravel between Callum and I, and I had the sense that I was clinging onto a sinking ship, my fingers clawing at the woodwork, trying to pull him closer when he was already moving away from me. Closer to Siobhan.

  When my period didn’t come, I didn’t think much of it – I’d never been particularly regular and since changing pills I would sometimes bleed at random times, which was both embarrassing and unsexy if it happened at the wrong moment. But when it was over two weeks’ late, I thought I may as well take a test, just to be sure. Just to rule it out.

  I didn’t tell Callum – he was at home that day for his daughter’s birthday. We didn’t talk about his daughter, Emma, very much – he’d occasionally open up, perhaps if we’d had more than usual to drink, he might feel able to be more intimate – but most of the time he was a closed book on the subject. I often wished he’d take his wedding ring off; I hated the way it would graze against my skin, a little reminder that he wasn’t really mine. But he never did. The way Callum and I normally played things was to pretend that he didn’t have another family, in as much as we could.

  The result of the pregnancy test changed that.

  I went to Boots on my own, coincided it with a trip to my old office, an excuse to get out of the flat, and perused the aisles looking for what I needed, feeling like a teenager in trouble. It was ridiculous, and I knew it was – I was a grown adult, but somehow the affair made things murky, shadowy. I thought of couples going to buy tests together, or women telling their partners excitedly what they were doing, and I began to entertain thoughts of what would happe
n if I was pregnant. I suppose, looking back, I let myself fantasise.

  Callum would be a good father, I thought, as I went up to the counter to pay; after all, he was with his daughter today, wasn’t he? He didn’t want to miss her birthday, so he wouldn’t want to miss our child’s birthday either. And he wasn’t happy in his marriage, not really – obviously he wasn’t, or else why would he be with me? He said he’d never strayed from Siobhan before, that there was something different about me, something he couldn’t resist. I pushed away all the things that Jenny would say, that he was a man who wanted to have his cake and eat it, that he didn’t respect me and never would. I hated hearing those things. I didn’t think they were true. Or at least, I didn’t want them to be. I told myself that Jenny was being dramatic, that she might even be jealous, because she was stuck with boring old Rick and I was with someone exciting.

  Looking back, I don’t think Jenny was ever jealous of me at all. I don’t think anyone’s ever been jealous of me in my whole entire life.

  Back at home, I thought about asking Callum to come over but his message had said he was with Emma all day, so I didn’t. Emma. I tried not to think about her as a real live person with a name; it made me feel guilty. I pictured her as the sort of happy, healthy girl that might play hockey after school, the sort of girl that had enough going on in her life with friends and boyfriends that what her parents did didn’t matter to her too much. The sort of girl that went for manicures with her mother. The sort of girl that could live without a father, if needs be. Who might have to, now.

  I peed on the stick, hunched over the toilet, my fingers shaking just a little bit as I placed it on the side of the sink and waited. Three minutes felt like three hours. I thought about texting someone, but I didn’t know who to text. Since going freelance and meeting Callum, I’d found it harder and harder to keep up my old friendships – only the persistent ones like Jenny managed to squeeze through, and even then I was nowhere near as close to my girlfriends as I’d once been. One by one they seemed to couple up, moving into the Suffolk countryside, away from Ipswich, buying houses because we weren’t in London and they could actually afford them. And a couple of them had children now, children whose scans I’d beamed over and whose christenings I’d sat through. Maybe this will change everything, I thought to myself, maybe I’ll be back in the club.