by Susan Lewis
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Susan Lewis
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Copyright
About the Book
When journalist Laurie Forbes turns up on Beth Ashby’s doorstep, minutes after Beth’s husband, political high-flier Colin Ashby, has been arrested for murder, neither can even begin to guess the shocking repercussions that have just been triggered in both their lives.
Beth attempts to escape from her shattered life by throwing herself into the kind of reckless high-living that seems destined for disaster, while Laurie finds herself being threatened, terrorised and even taken prisoner for what she knows.
As the dangerous truth draws closer, Laurie realises that if she is to save Beth from those already preparing to destroy her, she must put her trust in hated rival journalist Elliot Russell and face up to a ghost from the past …
About the Author
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day and One Day at a Time, the moving memoirs of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com
Susan is a supporter of the childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish: www.winstonswish.org.uk and of the breast cancer charity, BUST: www.bustbristol.co.uk
Also by Susan Lewis
Fiction
A Class Apart
Dance While You Can
Stolen Beginnings
Darkest Longings
Obsession
Vengeance
Summer Madness
Last Resort
Wildfire
Chasing Dreams
Taking Chances
Cruel Venus
Strange Allure
Wicked Beauty
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Lost Innocence
The Choice
Forgotten
Stolen
No Turning Back
Losing You
Memoir
Just One More Day
One Day at a Time
To Fan
Acknowledgements
A very special thank you to my friends Ernie Back and Don Tait for their invaluable support during the writing of this book. The financial aspects of the story were patiently and expertly overseen by Ernie, and I must stress that any inconsistencies or errors are solely the responsibility of the author. Not for the first time Don came to my rescue with help and guidance for the legal parts of the story, and again I claim all responsibility for any inaccuracies that might have inadvertently occurred.
A very warm thank you to Melinda Speck for so generously inviting me into the W Hotel in Los Angeles. An absolute must for anyone visiting LA! And to Andrew Solum and Stephen Kelly for allowing me to ‘use’ their gorgeous house in Docklands.
My thanks also go to Pamela Salem for introducing me to the wonderful villa in Mexico that hasn’t only served the characters in this book so well, but so many fortunate friends too! And last, but by no means least, thank you to my agent, Jonathan Lloyd, for his loyalty, support and wonderful sense of humour.
Chapter 1
‘MRS ASHBY? UH, I’ve come about your husband.’
Beth Ashby looked at the slight, scruffy blonde whose anxious eyes and half-flushing cheeks made her seem younger than she probably was. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, Beth guessed. Certainly not yet thirty. By comparison, at thirty-eight, Beth felt depressingly overcooked. She also felt too tall, gangly, like a scarecrow whose limbs were longer than its body, and immediately envious of the girl’s natural femininity. However, despite the display of nerves and embarrassed hesitation, this was no fey miss, Beth thought, or she wouldn’t be here, would she?
What was the girl thinking of her, Beth wondered. Would she like to swap that flimsy blonde topknot for Beth’s copious brunette curls? Some said Beth’s hair was her best feature. Others preferred her almond-shaped eyes, while a number of men had commented on her wide, shapely mouth, seeming especially to admire the pointed twin peaks of the full upper lip. No prizes for guessing the thoughts behind those particular compliments – male subtext might be unspoken, but it still managed to deafen most women. Personally, Beth favoured her nose, simply for being unremarkable. She didn’t like to stand out, which was why she dressed in dark, shapeless clothes, like the olive baggy pants she’d just dragged on, and oversized brown linen shirt, but now, confronted by this phosphorescent blonde, she felt like the afterburn of a forty-watt light bulb.
So, who was she – this girl standing on the doorstep in a shiny blue raincoat and frayed denim jeans? The embodiment of Beth’s unending nightmares? The long-term mistress? The HIV carrier? The flighty little trollop with oversized tits and a firm, but fleshy bum? Why had she chosen now, today, to come? Was she pregnant? Is that what she wanted to discuss? Or had Colin chucked her and, in a fit of seething vengeance, she’d rushed over here to expose everything from his infidelity to his secret embezzlement of government funds?
The thudding of Beth’s heart was silent but hard. She knew this was going to hurt and had no idea yet how she would handle it. In a sudden bid for survival her mind swerved from the obvious and seized the doubt of this girl being a mistress at all. She wasn’t exactly Colin’s type, although those noticeably ample breasts and big blue eyes no doubt made her every man’s type, at least for a night.
Maybe she was a plain-clothes police officer come to tell her that Colin and his black, two-seater Mazda had been flattened by a juggernaut on the M25. That would hurt too, though probably him more than her. Did policewomen wear their hair in such juvenile disarray? Was it possible for them to have such tremulous mouths and guileless eyes?
He might have won something. Or inherited a fortune. Maybe he’d flashed himself at this innocent young mother while she was playing with her child in the park. So many thoughts whizzing around in her head, stirred up by panic, shying away from the obvious, alighting on the comfortingly absurd.
No more than a second had passed and already Beth felt like a she-cat purring over the instinct to kill. She took a breath to answer, not knowing what was going to come out.
‘I’m not married,’ she said, startling herself.
The blonde wasn’t listening. She was looking over her shoulder at the car that had just screeched to a halt against the kerb. A young, balding man in a Barbour and black jeans leapt out. Beth couldn’t see his face behind the camera he was pointing at her. Oh God, no! No! No!
She tried to close the door, but the blonde jammed a foot against it. ‘You are Mrs Ashby,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.
The man was still clicking.
Another car pulled up.
‘What’s going on?’ Beth demanded, her voice
bubbling up through a vortex of fear. ‘Who are you? Stop doing that,’ she shouted at the photographer, who was now focusing his lens on the front bedroom window.
‘Will you stand by your husband over this?’ the blonde hastily demanded.
Beth’s heart was skipping beats so fast she could hardly breathe. She should have been ready for this. Then she remembered she didn’t know what the girl was talking about, so how could she be ready? She was distracted by another car arriving. Everything was happening so fast. A small crowd was gathering at the gate, a mere six paces from where she was standing. They were reporters, of course, all shouting and clicking at once, starting to scale the wall, about to burst through the gate. The blonde was trying to block her from view, a desperate attempt to hold on to her exclusive. After all, she’d got here first.
Inside, the phone was ringing incessantly.
‘Mrs Ashby! Have you spoken to your husband?’
‘Will you be going to see him?’
‘Did you know the girl?’
Beth’s eyes were wide and scared.
The blonde was watching her closely. ‘You don’t know, do you?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my God.’ Then before Beth could stop her the blonde was pushing her inside the front door and slamming it behind them.
‘Through here,’ the girl urged and, grabbing Beth’s hand, she tugged her along the narrow hall to the kitchen, as though she knew her way round. The mistress suspicion flared up again. Had she been here with Colin while Beth was out? But no. These Victorian terraced houses were all the same. Everyone knew the layout.
Fists began hammering on the front door. An ugly chorus of voices called her name. Phones all over the house repeatedly rang, stopping when the machine picked up, then starting again.
The blonde shut them in the kitchen, rushed round the table to lock the back door, then whipped the curtains closed.
‘Is there access to the rear?’ she demanded, peering out.
Beth only stared at her. This was surreal. Less than five minutes ago she’d been coming down the stairs, returning to the computer. Now she was practically hunkering down in the kitchen, hiding like a Résistante from a bunch of murdering Nazis. She’d seen a film, recently, with a scene much like this, yet how bizarre that it should come to mind now, and make her feel sad all over again, that the hero and heroine had been caught and killed.
‘You are Beth Ashby aren’t you?’ the blonde said. ‘I recognize you.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Beth demanded. There was no need to be hostile, but fear was hard to control.
The phone was ringing again. She reached for the kitchen extension, but the blonde stopped her.
‘No,’ she cautioned sharply. Then more gently, ‘It’ll probably be a reporter.’
Beth almost screamed. ‘For God’s sake! What is going on?’
The blonde glanced over her shoulder at the back door. ‘You really don’t know?’ she said, turning back.
‘Do I look like I’m acting?’
‘No, you don’t,’ the blonde conceded.
Beth waited.
The blonde fixed her with cautious, watchful eyes. ‘Your husband’s been arrested,’ she said.
Beth opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then a sudden spurt of laughter broke free of her throat. Arrested? That’s what she’d said. Colin had been arrested.
The blonde looked uneasy.
‘What for?’ Beth finally managed.
The girl’s lucid eyes seemed to be seeing too far into her own. Beth forced herself to hold the gaze. Suddenly her heart felt like a dead weight struggling to stay alive. But she had nothing to fear. She was his wife, she had every right to ask questions.
The girl no longer seemed willing to speak.
Beth wondered what she should say or do now. She had to think fast, but her brain was sluggish and bewildered. Then suddenly she grabbed the girl and began to shake her. ‘What for?’ she seethed. ‘Tell me what for.’
‘Murder,’ the blonde answered.
Beth’s hands were still on the shiny blue raincoat as she stared into the girl’s face. Arrested for murder? Was the girl mad? Dimly she was aware of the noise outside shrinking back to a distant place. Her eyelids blinked up and down as time seemed to halt its journey and transport them to another dimension. There was the odd breath from the girl, whose beautiful ocean eyes watched her closely, whose collar was still bunched in Beth’s fists.
‘I – I’m sorry,’ the blonde stammered. ‘When I came … I presumed … Did no one call? The police? Your husband? Didn’t anyone let you know?’
Beth let her go. Her eyes drifted to the pitted surface of the table where that morning’s mail was still half open. There was no going back from this.
‘Stupid question. We wouldn’t be standing here now if they had,’ the blonde mumbled.
Beth blinked, refocusing her eyes. She turned them back to the blonde. This time she saw her for what she really was – a reporter. Beth’s defences instantly rose. Whatever she said or did now she had to remember she was in the presence of the enemy.
‘Who?’ she said. ‘Who did he kill?’ Her tone was dull, devoid of emotion.
The next day, when the question was quoted, in the newspaper Beth always took, it was made to sound like a presumption of guilt. There were no protestations of, ‘He would never kill anyone, they must have got the wrong man,’ or even, ‘Who is he supposed to have killed?’ Simply ‘Who did he kill?’
‘Sophie Long,’ the blonde answered now, looking and sounding so apologetic that she might just as well have added, ‘his mistress’, or ‘his piece on the side’.
‘Who is Sophie Long?’ Beth asked stupidly.
‘You’re shaking,’ the blonde told her. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Let me get you a drink.’
‘Who is Sophie Long?’ Beth snapped.
The blonde looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she answered.
‘You know her name. You say my husband’s been arrested for her murder. So you must know who she is,’ Beth pointed out savagely.
‘I’m not sure yet. I think she’s someone he was … seeing,’ the blonde answered.
‘Fucking!’ Beth corrected crudely. ‘You mean she’s someone he was fucking.’
The blonde didn’t argue.
Beth looked away. She sensed the crowd outside growing, billowing up around the house like a marauding army. They were going to smash in through the windows, break open the cracks round the door. They were determined to reach her and she was afraid. She could hear them yelling. ‘Beth! Mrs Ashby! Did you know about your husband’s affair?’ ‘Will you stand by him over this?’ ‘Did you ever meet Sophie Long?’ ‘How long had Colin known her?’
They called him Colin because they knew him.
Maybe she should tell this girl that she didn’t believe it was true. She wanted to say those words, but her tongue was leaden. Nothing she said was going to make a difference now. This was the end. In her mind’s eye she could see him falling into an abyss. She was standing on the edge, her hand outstretched to his as she watched him disappear. She wasn’t able to help – or could she? Colin! Oh God, Colin! Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a sob.
All the time the phone kept on ringing. The machine was picking up the calls. Was he trying to get through?
She slumped into a chair.
‘Can I get you something?’ the blonde asked.
Beth looked up. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Lorraine Forbes. My friends call me Laurie.’ She paused awkwardly. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ she said.
I’ll bet you are, Beth thought nastily. It must be terrible being the first on the scene, getting to break the news to the wife, and then managing to force your way into her house. Oh, I can imagine how sorry you are landing this opportunity to make a name for yourself at my expense. ‘Which paper do you work for?’ she asked.
Laurie told her and Beth’s eyebrows rose. She’d never have put her d
own for a serious broadsheet; if anything she seemed more of a tabloid trainee who’d somehow managed to get lucky.
The phone was still ringing.
‘I should answer,’ Beth said. ‘It could be him.’ But did she want to speak to him with this girl here?
Laurie Forbes glanced at the phone. ‘Would you like me to take it?’ she offered.
Beth buried her face in her hands.
‘Hello?’ Laurie said into the receiver. ‘No, it’s not Mrs Ashby. Who’s speaking?’ She paused, then said, ‘I’m sorry, she has nothing to say. Please don’t call again,’ and she hung up.
‘There’s some whisky over there, in the pantry,’ Beth said.
Laurie poured them each a double shot, then sat down too.
Beth’s sense of the bizarre heightened. She became fixated on the way the two of them were sitting here, like a couple of foxes under siege from the hunt. But she had to remember that as innocuous as this girl seemed, she was even more dangerous than those outside, by very virtue of the fact that she was here, on the inside.
‘Do you have someone you can call?’ Laurie asked. ‘A mother? Sister? Friend?’
Beth thought of her mother and shuddered. Then her heart jarred on the image of Colin’s mother, whose devastation was going to be a spectacle horrible to behold. The scandal. The horror. However was she, an ex-local magistrate and dedicated churchwarden, going to cope with being the mother of a killer? She’d be booted out of her bridge club, voted off all those well-meaning, self-serving committees, and daily made to choke on all that galling pride of her son that she’d shoved down everyone’s throats.
As quickly as Beth’s hostility rose, it vanished. She was being too cruel. Colin’s mother, for all her silly pretensions and self-importance, truly loved her son and, despite the unparalleled disgrace, Beth suspected the old woman would stand by him.
‘Has it made the news yet?’ she asked.
‘It’s probably been on Sky,’ Laurie answered.
‘She doesn’t have Sky,’ Beth mumbled.
Laurie didn’t ask who.
Beth’s mind returned to her own mother and father. What would they be doing right now, down there in Southern Spain? Four o’clock here made five o’clock there, so they’d probably be strolling off the golf course, skin all crinkled and bronzed, heading towards the clubhouse. In less than an hour they’d have imbibed enough of the peppery local wine to forget they even had a daughter, never mind to wonder how she was. Why had she always been such an irritant to her mother? She’d given up trying to please her long ago, but the pain of her failure still cut deeper than she’d ever want to admit. It gave her a moment’s malicious pleasure to think of how affronted her mother would be by this scandal. What it might mean for Colin or Beth wouldn’t be a major concern for Joyce Winters, who only ever measured events by how they affected her. Beth could picture her parents an hour or two from now, all cosied up in oblivion, false teeth clacking as they snorted and snored their way through yet another hourly Sky News airing of their son-in-law’s terrible day. Rather like flying over an earthquake, she thought. Perhaps she should call and break it to them herself. If nothing else it would give her mother an early chance to blame her for Colin’s disgrace.