In Too Deep
Page 1
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Samantha Hayes
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Prologue
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Hannah
Gina
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Hannah
Gina
Gina
Gina
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Gina
Hannah
Gina
Copyright
About the Book
Four months ago, Rick went out to buy a newspaper. He never came back.
His wife, Gina, is struggling to deal with her loss, and her daughter’s mood swings are getting worse. Then she receives a phone call from a woman at a country hotel, confirming details of a booking Rick made before he vanished.
Desperate to find out more about his disappearance, Gina and her daughter take the trip. But there is something very strange about the hotel, and the family that run it.
Soon Gina is unsure that Rick even made the booking – but one thing is clear: both mother and daughter are in serious danger.
About the Author
Samantha Hayes grew up in the West Midlands, left school at sixteen, avoided university and took jobs ranging from being a private detective to barmaid to fruit picker and factory worker. She lived on a kibbutz, and spent time in Australia and the USA, before finally becoming a crime-writer. Her writing career began when she won a short story competition in 2003. Her novels are family-based psychological thrillers, with the emphasis being on ‘real life fiction’. She focuses on current issues, and when she writes, she sets out to maker her reader ask, ‘What if this happened to me or my family?’ With three children of her own, Samantha is well-versed to talk about how the aftershocks of crime impact upon families and communities. To find out more, visit her website www.samanthahayes.co.uk
Also by Samantha Hayes
Until You’re Mine
Before You Die
You Belong to Me
Writing as Sam Hayes
Blood Ties
Unspoken
Tell Tale
Someone Else’s Son
For Julie,
who helped me find what was lost.
Acknowledgements
It is a joy to be part of the wonderful team at Cornerstone and I feel very lucky indeed. Huge thanks and love to Francesca Pathak, Selina Walker and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, my excellent and lovely editors. Sarah Ridley and Millie Seaward for tirelessly spreading the word, Alison Rae for perfection, Jon Kennedy for my stunning cover, and everyone else who works so hard to produce my books. Your dedication is truly appreciated.
Love and thanks to my dear agent and champion, Oli Munson, and to Jennifer Custer, Hélène Ferey, Vickie Dillon and everyone at AM Heath. Sincere thanks also to Conrad Williams and everyone at Blake Friedmann, plus thanks and good vibes to all the foreign publishing teams who take my books around the world.
Great awe and thanks must go to Tracy Fenton of THE Book Club on Facebook, whose love and passion for books is infectious. TBC rocks! And big thanks also to all the wonderful bloggers who help spread the word, and of course bucket-loads of gratitude to all my readers.
Much love to dear Benny Rossi, for wise words and friendship over many, many years, and love (and great respect!) to Lizzie Beesley for inspiring, educating and taking care of my girls. Finally, as ever, all my love to Ben, Polly and Lucy – my reasons why.
I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Prologue
Saturday, 29 November 2014
She’s following me.
Damn.
I want her to go away. To shut up.
I walk faster, hoping my bigger strides will outpace her smaller ones.
‘Just go home,’ I call out, but she ignores me. Her nonsense words are garbled and choked, blown away on the gusts of wind. Caught up in her tears.
It’s raining now – cold bullets hitting me in the face.
‘No . . .’ she demands, trotting next to me. ‘Please stop. Please answer me!’
I keep walking. Hands in pockets, head down.
Not listening.
She’s tugging on my coat sleeve, pulling me round. I carry on, picking up the pace, but she’s running now, galloping sideways next to me.
Pleading.
She trips. The dull scuff of skin on ground. The urge to reach out and help her is unbearable, but I walk on, unfaltering. She soon catches up.
‘There’s stuff I don’t understand . . . Things that don’t make sense.’
Those sobs again.
I close down my heart.
‘Later,’ I call back, praying it will suffice. I don’t even know where I’m going now, thrown by the unexpected hounding.
She doesn’t give up, so I head a different way, veering off the route to the shop, going down a steep track beside the canal bridge. It’s muddy and slippery, but I reach the towpath before she does, sliding the last few feet of wet bank.
I stop and turn. She’s picking her way down the steep path behind me, her body bent and thin beneath her bright windcheater. Her face is pulled and twisted from her frown, not just from the sheeting rain.
I can’t let it happen again.
I square up to her. ‘Please, go. Forget everything.’
So stern it kills me.
She jumps down the last few feet of the slope, her ankle bending sideways in the flattened muddy grass. As soon as she lands, she shoves me – a sharp push against my chest. Her face is filled with hate.
I turn and stride off again with the murky strip of grey-green canal snaking to my right.
‘Wait,’ she says, more calmly now. Still following.
I’m a good way on from the bridge, the twiggy hedge lashing out at my shoulder. The path is narrow.
‘Just answer, then I’ll go.’
I stop. There’s barely room for her to get past, so I turn round slowly.
She’s panting. Her face is smudged from the rain and her tears.
‘I don’t know how to make this right,’ I say, staring at the ground because her expression is too much.
‘Just tell me it’s not true.’ Her voice is barely a whisper. The wind picks up her words like autumn leaves – a flurry of desperation.
Then she stamps her foot and makes a sound like an animal.
‘Tell me it’s a lie! Tell me!’ She’s screaming now. Red-faced and angry.
I scan up and down the canal as her fury grows. There’s no one about, only a scarlet-and-blue narrowboat locked up in the murk.
‘You need to calm down,’ I say, reaching out to take hold of her.
‘Get off me!’ She slaps me away. Her breathing is
shallow and fast, her eyes wide with fear. Her hands are up defensively, batting about. ‘Tell me it’s not true . . .’
I look her in the eye, as sincerely as I can manage.
‘It’s not true.’ I smile. ‘Simply not true.’
I hold out my palms. A gesture of honesty.
She pauses, simmering beneath her own thoughts as she processes this, trying to make it believable.
Simply not true . . .
‘You swear?’
I smile even more, allowing a small sigh. My chest sinks under my coat.
‘Of course. I swear on my kids’ lives.’
Her face twitches and her nose wrinkles. She cocks her head sideways. Narrows her eyes.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that,’ she whispers.
I start walking again.
‘Liar,’ she throws after me. ‘Fucking liar!’
I don’t falter this time. With my head down, I trudge along the slippery path. She will believe me eventually. I’ve learned it’s human nature to accept the most palatable reality.
Through the rain I smile briefly. A mental pat on the back. It’s dealt with.
But the hard shove takes me by surprise, the piercing scream even more so.
I stumble, trying to turn, trying to grab her. But I miss and stagger back a few paces.
She’s up close, her teeth exposed and her cheeks hot pink. She’s screaming obscenities, but I’m more intent on grabbing her wrists, on calming her down.
Then she shoves me again, squarely in the chest, and I trip again, not expecting the rock behind my heels. I’m tumbling backwards.
Going down.
Her expression changes from anger to horror as she watches what she’s done. She reaches out a hand.
But it’s too late.
I wait for the pain of the ground hitting my back. My eyes remain fixed on her – right until my vision jolts as my head hits the rock.
A second later, icy water is wrapping around me, sucking me down, freezing my thoughts, cramping my body.
Immobilising my life.
The light has gone. Everything has gone, even her voice calling out after me has gone.
There’s simply nothing left.
And the decision to die is made. It’s what I deserve after all.
Gina
Saturday, 14 March 2015
The telephone. Piercing my heart with shots of hope.
As long as I don’t answer it, there are still precious seconds without bad news. The longer I leave it ringing, the more I cling on to the tattered shreds of hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, it’s him.
Truth is, I don’t want to speak to anyone else – to my mum, to Steph, my boss Mick, or someone selling insurance, and certainly not to Adrian.
I just want PC Lane to contact me, stumbling over her words in that breathy way, telling me they’ve found him safe and well, that it’s all been some ghastly mistake, inverting my world through another 180 degrees, putting it right back to where it was last November.
Rewinding to that Saturday morning where we left off so casually with barely a second glance as he walked out of the front door.
My husband has been missing for nearly four months.
I’ve analysed a thousand times those few hours before he went. Gone over them second by second in forensic detail, replaying the order of events so many times that I’m afraid they’re wearing away, becoming tarnished, fading from my mind so that I’m now almost convinced I made it all up.
Did the front door bang a little harder than usual when he left, meaning he slammed it, indicating he was unhappy, that he had planned on leaving?
Or perhaps it was just the wind – a downdraught through the hall.
But that would only happen if I had the kitchen window open a crack, perhaps if I’d burned the toast. Did I even burn the toast that day? I swear I did. Though did I open the window? It was a very cold day. I’ve analysed the weather from that weekend, studying national reports and those from the local Met Office, working out the probability of the door slamming from a freak change in atmospheric pressure.
Or anger.
And I swear I heard it open and shut again a minute or two later. Did he forget something, change his mind about going out? Or, more likely, was it my imagination concocting false memories afterwards?
This unending spiral in which I’m caught – fixating on one thing then another, churning my thoughts round and round – somehow keeps me going. Eking out meaning from the void of what had begun as such a normal Saturday morning is the mainstay of my life.
And as far as I can see, it’s the backbone of my future.
I can’t think about anything else.
Still, it doesn’t prevent me from collapsing in tears several times a day. I’m just better at hiding it now. That Saturday was the second-worst day of my life.
‘Hannah?’ I call out when the phone hits the fourth ring. I always count. ‘Hannah, will you get that?’ My hands are covered in raw chicken.
There is no reply from my daughter. The phone keeps ringing. I am standing helpless, slimy palms upturned.
‘Hannah, please, answer the phone.’
My voice cracks over into a shriek, but still she doesn’t reply. We haven’t been home long; holdalls and bags of books are dumped in the hallway.
Seven rings. It’ll stop soon. No one rings past ten.
I swipe the tea towel from the back of the chair, wiping my hands as I dash into the hall. I step over a sack of laundry and reach for the phone just as it falls silent.
As I knew it would.
Ten.
Ten shots of hope.
Ten bursts of not knowing. It’s better that way, I tell myself, heading back to the kitchen, relieved I’m still feeling numb. I shall get on with an afternoon of cooking, tackling Hannah’s laundry (has she brought every student’s washing home?) and walking the dog. The evening will be filled with eating, catching up with my daughter, drinking and watching television. It’s a plan.
And I need simple plans to fill the void. A structure to keep me going in this new, unfamiliar and desolate life.
My once-busy household of four – the place that Rick and I scraped to afford, the shabby old house we fell in love with on first viewing – has always been crammed full of chatter, noise, dirty football kits, other people’s kids, someone being late, someone laughing, shouting, singing or needing nursing through chickenpox, the flu, a failed exam.
Now it is a dismal, grey waiting room. A space filled with too many empty wine bottles and microwave meals for one. No one actually wants to come here, even though they sometimes do. Mercy visits, I call them.
No one knows what to say, either, apart from the obvious. How are you doing? Any news? How’s work? Empty questions.
They observe and pity me, touching my shoulder, looking at me until my cheeks burn. Then they leave, thankful it hasn’t happened to them, as they step back into their proper lives.
The phone rings again.
I dash straight to it, answering it immediately. My heart drags between beats as I say a silent prayer.
Gina, darling. It’s me. I’ve missed you so much. May I come home?
‘Hello?’ I’m breathless.
‘Hello, is that Mrs Forrester speaking?’
‘Yes, yes, it is.’
She said Mrs as if she knew there was a Mr. As if she were already familiar with Rick. I don’t recognise her voice. It’s not PC Lane, and she doesn’t sound as though she’s selling anything – no call-centre noises in the background or slick patter to win me over. My heart starts up again, thumping out a stronger pace. I lean against the wall.
‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘My name is Susan Fox from Fox Court Hotel in the Cotswolds. I’m calling about your five-night booking at the end of next week. I need to check if—’
‘Booking?’ My head swims from the let-down. It’s just a wrong number.
But she knows my name.
Our dog . . .
The sound of Rick’s name cuts a path to the core of my chest, yet hearing it feels as sweet as if she’s found him.
You’ll never guess what – he’s been staying with us all this time . . .
‘Mrs Forrester?’ The woman – Susan whatever-she’s-called – sounds slightly impatient, yet still pleasant. ‘Will you be bringing your dog?’
She knows I have a dog. Rick’s Lab, Cooper.
‘There’s been a mistake,’ I say quietly. ‘There is no booking.’ My mind is racing as the silence down the line fills eternity. ‘We didn’t make any hotel reservations.’
More silence.
‘Oh God, I’m such an idiot,’ she says after a pause, sounding as if she has her hand over her mouth. ‘I think I’ve just done something really stupid.’ There’s a deep gasp followed by profuse apologies tumbling over one another.
. . . I’ll make it up to you during your stay . . . complimentary dinner . . . champagne on arrival . . .
‘I’m sorry, I . . . I don’t know . . .’ I can’t take it in.
‘Perhaps it would help if I spoke to Mr Forrester directly?’ she suggests. ‘Before I do any more damage.’ She laughs nervously.
‘You can’t,’ I say. ‘He’s not here.’ I take a breath. It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with situations like this. ‘And we won’t be needing the room.’ I think ahead to next week, the date I’ve been dreading. ‘But thank you for calling.’
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘In that case, I’d better come clean. Whether you decide to keep up the surprise or tell your husband is up to you.’
My shoulders draw up to my ears. My mouth is moving, trying to stop her, but nothing comes out.
‘Mr Forrester booked a surprise break in our hotel as an anniversary gift. He made the booking a little while ago to take advantage of our online offers, and—’
‘Like I said, we won’t be needing it. Please cancel the room.’
Another pause.
‘Just so you know, the room is all paid for, as well as several treatments in our spa. I’m afraid that because of the special internet rate, we can’t give a refund. I’m sure Mr Forrester will—’