by Susan Lewis
When he stopped, Andee felt herself drawn to the warmth in his eyes, the depth of the passion he clearly felt for the project. As its leader, he would be inspirational.
“It’s good to hear you’re interested,” he told her, “but you don’t have to give me a final answer now. Especially as you’d likely find yourself back dealing with some of society’s least desirables, who you gave up some time ago . . .”
“Aren’t we supposed to believe that redemption is possible even for them?” she countered wryly.
“Of course.” He smiled, and lifting his glass, he clinked it to hers, while Graeme looked on with undisguised amusement.
Chapter Four
Dan’s been on my case again to tell you something real about my background so you’ll get an insight into who I am and where I come from but do you know what? I can’t really be arsed. I mean, why would you care? It’s not the kind of story you’re used to, not someone like you. There’s nothing here to make you feel good or happy like you were reading some romance book. All you’re going to feel is sick that my words have even reached you, sicker still that I ever came into your life.
But I guess I can give you the bare facts about my family.
My dad’s never been around—getting it on with my ma was the only part he played in my life before effing off to God knows where. I’ve never tried to track him down and can’t imagine I ever will. I’d have to find out his name for a start, and who can be bothered with that when you’re talking about someone who clearly has no interest in you? My granddad, Brookie, used to live with us before he died. I’ve had a couple of foster brothers and sisters over the years, my mum took them in to get more benefits—when you need the money you do what you have to—but then she was deemed unfit, so the kids stopped coming, along with the extras.
You’d have thought they’d have taken me into care, given all the parental neglect and stuff. I suppose if I’d stopped going to school they might have, but school was somewhere I could get warm and fed, provided we had some cash for meals. So, I learned to read and write, and I was always on the football team right from an early age. Being a good goal scorer saved me from getting picked on, although going after me would have been a waste of some sad-ass bully’s time because even when I was a kid I could take care of myself—not that I went out looking for trouble. I mostly wanted to get on with my own shit, but if provoked I can get the blood flowing pretty quick, and that seems to scare most kids, so that’s what I did. Oh, I wasn’t bad at drawing, my teachers used to say, and I have a bit of a head for maths. Stephen Hawking me!
I was really into music as well. Still am, I guess. I was always plugged in to stuff you’d never imagine someone like me listening to. I don’t care what it is; it just has this way of transporting me out of whatever bad situation I’m in. I can sing too. I mean it, I really can. All I have to do is listen to a number a couple of times and I’ve got the lyrics down. It was my party piece. Bought me lots of cred, it did, and it was always a good crack watching people’s faces like they couldn’t believe what they’re hearing. I’ve been in quite a few bands, mostly house or garage, but once I started with BJ on a more permanent basis, I was always getting kicked out for not showing up.
So that’s my sob story. Tbh, I don’t even know if you can read after what I did to you, maybe someone has to read to you. Am I sorry about that? ’Course I am, I’m not a total assw***. I seriously wish it hadn’t happened, but I can’t do anything about it now and I don’t see how hearing from me will make anything better for you.
So, Dan—I know you’ll be the first to read this—nice try, but that’s it. I’m not up for any more. And yeah, OK, I’m probably depressed, that’s what you’ll say, isn’t it? But hey, if you can come up with something for me to feel good about, I’ll take it. ’Cept it’s too late for that now, and it’s not me who needs to feel good, really, is it? Not after what I did.
Chapter Five
Marcy was sitting at the dining table in their sunny seafront apartment, staring down at the mobile phone in her hand. She wasn’t actually seeing it; she was focused instead on the call she’d just ended and how she was going to explain it to Rebecca—Claudia.
Almost a month had passed since they’d left their old lives, but it was going to take a lot longer than that to get used to calling her thirty-six-year-old daughter by another name. It was likely to take even longer to stop missing her old friends, she was coming to realize, not to mention her beloved home.
Best not to dwell on it, it wouldn’t make anything feel better, only worse, and that wasn’t going to help any of them.
Curiously, she wasn’t having a problem with her granddaughter’s name, for Jasmine seemed to suit her better than Cara. Just like the flower, she was sweet and pretty and appeared far more delicate than she actually was. She’d always had plenty of spirit, had known her own mind, and had been filled with optimism until the horrors at home had effectively crushed her. Since they’d arrived here it had taken almost no time for her to come back to life, to blossom into the lively teenager who’d been subdued for so long. It was like giving water to a parched plant. She was settling in well at school, had just almost finished her exams, and had made several friends already. Moreover, only yesterday she’d passed an audition to play with the school orchestra in the new school year. This was the first time for several years that she’d put herself forward to be part of a musical ensemble; her violin performances, private lessons, and even practice had stopped when she’d realized what her talent, her limelight, was costing her mother.
Marcus Huxley-Browne, that brutal, conniving egotist who’d tricked them all at the start into believing he was a decent and caring human being. How far from the truth that had turned out to be.
Taking an unsteady breath, Marcy looked around the room full of sunlight and soft, natural colors. She took in the mint-green sofas with pale blue cushions, the coral-colored rugs covering pale oak floorboards, the coffee table that was a refashioned door, the artfully distressed vintage sideboard, and all the small touches Claudia had added to reflect a nautical theme. Her daughter’s design skills were exceptional, and turning this place into a home with all her sewing and sanding, painting and crafting had done much to help her through this difficult time.
Glancing down at her phone again, Marcy felt her heartbeat quicken with concern. What had she done?
She escaped the question by tuning in to the sounds of the waves sweeping gently through the open windows. Diaphanous drapes fluttered in the breeze and in a fanciful part of her mind she could hear Jasmine’s bow gliding over the strings of her precious violin, haunting and ephemeral, proud and sweet. She loved to listen to her granddaughter play, to marvel at the gift she’d been blessed with that was all her own. No one in the family that Marcy knew of had passed on this artistic gene, but as soon as they’d recognized it they’d nurtured it. Her father, Joel, had bought Jasmine her first instrument when she was only three, and for her ninth birthday he’d presented her with a copy of an Il Cessol Stradivarius. He’d known by then that he wasn’t going to make it to her tenth birthday, and so had given her the magnificent piece for her to play when she was older, maybe for her first professional engagement. It had always been her most prized possession, nothing else had ever come close, but for the past few years Marcy had looked after it at her home where it was safe.
Now it was here, carefully stored beneath Jasmine’s bed, as exquisite and treasured as ever, and it wouldn’t be long, Marcy felt, before Jasmine was ready to play it in public.
Getting up from her chair, Marcy went to put on the kettle. She wasn’t sure she wanted tea, but it was giving her something to do as she tried to decide how to tell Claudia what she’d done. Her daughter and granddaughter had always come first for her, they still did, otherwise she wouldn’t be here—and she truly didn’t regret coming, in spite of the hankering for her old routines. She’d find new ones, immerse herself in charity work, maybe even find a part-time job. However,
none of it could happen if the news reports about them didn’t abate.
The search for Marcus Huxley-Browne’s missing wife and stepdaughter, and now his mother-in-law, had begun to stir up so many lurid and outlandish theories that Marcy was losing sleep over them. She’d known for a while that something had to be done, but Claudia wouldn’t discuss it. For her, immersed in her world of decorative pillows and hand-painted shell accessories, it was as though it wasn’t happening. Marcy had no such distraction, and the latest report that the police were preparing to dig up the back garden of the house in Kensington meant that she’d had to act.
“Hey, Nana,” Jasmine trilled cheerfully as she came in the door, making Marcy jump.
“Hello, darling,” Marcy responded, turning to watch her granddaughter dump a heavy schoolbag and battered violin case on the table. “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until six.”
“I’ve just popped in to change out of my uniform,” Jasmine explained, giving her a hug. “Are you OK? You looked miles away when I came in.”
Marcy forced a smile. “I was, but I’m fine. Do you want anything to eat?”
“No, I’m cool, thanks. Where’s Mum?”
“She went to buy some wiring for a lamp she’s making, but she texted just now to say she was popping into the post office to pick up a form for your provisional driver’s license.”
Jasmine’s eyes lit up. “Awesomazing,” she cheered joyfully. “Not only about the license, but that she’s actually gone somewhere apart from the beach.” Sobering slightly, she added, “Poor Mum. It’s all been so hard for her, hasn’t it, and not even knowing he’s gone to prison for two years seems to have cheered her up.”
“Because he could be out in as little as eighteen months,” Marcy reminded her. “But don’t let’s talk about him. Have you booked your first driving lesson yet? You know I’m paying for a course of six as your birthday present.”
“You are the best, and I will, but my birthday’s not for weeks, so what’s the hurry? Oh, I know, you guys want me to be the chauffeur so you can have a drink when you go out.”
“Guilty,” Marcy replied wryly. In truth they were so close to everything that they could walk, unless they were after a major supermarket shop or a browse around the factory outlets over in Somerset. “The instructors get pretty booked up,” she cautioned, “so you should look into it soon. Did you ask your friends for some recommendations?”
“Actually, I did, and apparently there’s a woman who lives out in one of the villages who gets everyone through first time, so I’ll give her a try. Now I need to get changed fast. I don’t want to be late for my lesson.”
Remembering she was seeing Anton, her violin coach, today, Marcy watched her bound off to her room and all over again she felt glad, happy to see how well she was settling into this comparatively parochial world. That alone made the change, the sacrifice, worthwhile.
A few minutes later Jasmine was gone, violin case in one hand, mobile phone in the other as she chatted to her new BFF, Abby. Her contacts list must be growing by the day, Marcy reflected, and it was certainly about time she was able to live a normal life, if this was indeed what they were living. It didn’t always feel that way, but of course it would take time, and she had to admit that her own contacts list had accumulated a few numbers too. Dentist, doctor, estate agent, landlord, and a few new friends she’d made at the community center. There was even quite an interesting man among them, Henry Matthews. He was a recently retired solicitor, about her age, whose cheery and somewhat dry demeanor seemed to incite goodwill in everyone. She hadn’t mentioned anything about him to Claudia; why would she when there was nothing to tell? He was just someone Marcy had got talking to the last time she was at the center.
Hearing the front door open and close, she experienced a sharp pang of nerves. She would have to explain what she’d done now, and she had no idea how her daughter was going to react.
As Claudia came in from the hall, looking too thin, but now tanned and almost as lovely as she used to be, she put down a shopping bag, a few brochures from an estate agent, and the driving license application form.
“Everything OK?” Marcy asked breezily.
Claudia turned to gaze at her, her eyes soft with affection, and yet shadowed by the fear that continued to haunt her. “You don’t have to look like that,” she said, “I already know.”
Marcy frowned. She couldn’t know. It wouldn’t be possible. “Know what?” she countered, feigning surprise.
Claudia smiled wryly. “That you’ve spoken to the police in London to tell them we’re alive and well.”
Marcy’s heart skipped a beat. “How . . . But . . .”
“I called too,” Claudia interrupted. “I spoke to a Detective Inspector Phillips and he told me he’d already heard from you.” Uneasy amusement showed in her eyes. “God knows what he must think of us, and I’ve no idea yet if we’re going to face charges for wasting police time, but apparently he’s coming to talk to us to verify that we are who we say we are.”
Moving past her astonishment, Marcy said dryly, “Well, good luck with that.”
Claudia had to smile. “So, what exactly did you tell him?” she asked, pulling out a chair to sit down.
Knowing there was no point trying to pretend she’d held anything back, Marcy sat down too and said, “I explained what a monster Marcus turned into after your marriage; about the abuse that’s been going on, and how much worse it became once the investigation into his business affairs started.”
Claudia nodded slowly, trying to imagine what the detective must have thought as he’d listened to the tale of domestic terror that would have been so much easier to describe than it had been to endure. The belittling, the intimidation, the insane jealousy of her dead husband, Joel. It had reached a point where Marcus couldn’t even bear to hear Joel’s name; just thank God he’d never turned his rage on Jasmine—only threatened to. However, Jasmine had somehow found out that he punished her mother for her musical talents, as if she was encouraging them just to spite him.
So Jasmine—Cara as she’d been then—had stopped playing the violin and had gradually broken with her friends to avoid having to invite anyone home.
Why had she, Claudia, allowed it to go on as long as it had? Why hadn’t she found the courage to leave sooner? People only asked those questions when they’d never been in such a situation themselves, trapped, smothered by a bully, bereft of confidence and terrified he’d carry out his threats to harm her daughter if she ever tried to leave.
“All I need to know,” he’d said the last time she’d visited him in prison—yes, she’d visited him while he was on remand, she’d had to or he’d have sent someone to the house to check on them—“is that you’ll stand by me if this doesn’t end well. Tell me you’ll still be there when I come out.”
She hadn’t answered, had been unable to find any words.
“Swear to me that you will,” he growled urgently. “If I know I can trust you no one will come after you.”
No one will come after you.
Her silence made him draw back suddenly, gray eyes darkening with fury. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “Tell me what I’m thinking is wrong.”
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she replied helplessly.
“You fucking helped them, didn’t you?” he spat. “That’s what I’m seeing . . . Bitch! You’ve been working with the police . . .”
She shook her head desperately.
“If I find out you have, you’ll pay, I hope you know that.”
She’d wondered who would make her pay, the foreign investors—launderers—he was protecting, no doubt because he knew his life wouldn’t be a long one if he didn’t stay silent? Or, more likely, one of his even more dubious connections.
He’d never mentioned the case he’d stuffed into the safe the day the police had come for him, so she hadn’t either, and no one had pulled aside the filing cabinet during a search of the house. For a long time
she’d expected someone—his lawyer, maybe his sister (a raging sociopath if ever there was one)—to come for it, but no one had. It had remained where it was until the night before Claudia had left, when she’d used the code she’d watched him tap in the day of his arrest and discovered she’d memorized it correctly. She’d thought then that it might prove a kind of insurance policy, a way of protecting herself and Jasmine if anyone found them; she wasn’t sure what she thought now. In fact, for the most part, she tried to forget they had it.
“When you made your call to the inspector,” Marcy said carefully, “did you ask if it was possible to keep our whereabouts a secret?”
Claudia swallowed dryly as she shook her head. Neither of them knew for certain what would happen if Marcus found out where they were, but there was no doubt in either of their minds that he wouldn’t be in prison for nearly long enough and when he got out he’d feel the need to punish Claudia for trying to escape him.
IT WAS JUST after eleven the next morning when Claudia showed DI Phillips and another detective into the flat. Both men wore somber expressions, though they were polite and even friendly in the way they greeted and thanked her for seeing them. Phillips was just above average height with thick gray hair and shrewd brown eyes, while his colleague, clearly a decade or more younger, was a fiery redhead with a face full of freckles.
It felt odd, she reflected as she followed them along the hall, to have men in this space that she’d made so essentially feminine, but for the moment at least they didn’t feel threatening.
Her mother was in the kitchen making coffee to accompany the pastries she’d picked up from the bakery earlier. Jasmine had an exam today, so she’d gone to school. She knew that the police were coming to talk to her mother and grandmother; they’d decided at the start of this that they must never hold anything back from each other. She’d been nervous when she left, even afraid that she’d come home to find they’d been arrested and taken away, but Claudia had assured her that wouldn’t happen.