by Susan Lewis
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Also by Susan Lewis
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
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Copyright © Susan Lewis 2009
Susan Lewis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Arrow Books Random House 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
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To James, with love
Lost Innocence
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of 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, Silent Truths, Wicked Beauty, Intimate Strangers, The Hornbeam Tree, The Mill House, A French Affair, Missing and, most recently, Out of the Shadows. She is also the author of Just One More Day, a moving memoir of her childhood in Bristol. She lives in France. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com
Also by Susan Lewis
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
Silent Truths
Wicked Beauty
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Just One More Day, A Memoir
Acknowledgements
Having received so much advice and support during the research for this book it’s hard to know where to begin with the thank yous when everyone’s input was so enthusiastic and invaluable. However, I think my biggest debt of gratitude must go to Ian Kelcey of Kelcey and Hall, who not only provided the inspiration for Jolyon Crane, but who so patiently guided me through the process of bringing a rape case to trial. If I have made any errors, please know they are entirely mine. PC Carl Gadd of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary is my hero – thank you so much, Carl, for your incredible support and all the vital information you provided regarding arrest and interrogation procedures. Also from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary I’d like to thank PC Liz Cole of the Sexual Abuse Investigation Team for so much detailed information on the role of a SAIT officer. From the Crown Prosecution Service I would like to thank Mark Barton for helping me to understand the rudiments of the CPS role at the outset of a prosecution. And last but not least for this section, a big thank you to Melissa Cullum at Corporate Communications of the Avon & Somerset Constabulary.
My love and thanks go once again to my dear friend Lesley Gittings, who gave so generously of her time and her wide knowledge of Somerset to help me situate the book. More love and thanks to an exceptionally talented sculptor Clare Tupman, whose strikingly beautiful art provided the inspiration for Alicia’s sculptures. Please go to www.claretupmansculpture.co.uk to see for yourselves. Also to Jake Tupman for his highly entertaining and energetic tour of Bruton, plus the invaluable flashes of insight into the minds of young men his age. A huge thank you to Lisa Trowbridge, a dear friend and wonderful vet who provided such helpful advice. And to David Anderson, the Bridge Master of the Clifton Suspension Bridge for sharing his expert knowledge of this exceptional landmark.
Once again I want to thank my wonderful editor Susan Sandon for all her amazing support and insightful advice. Also Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Kate Elton, Rob Waddington, Trish Slattery, Louisa Gibbs, Louise Campbell, David Parrish and everyone else on the Arrow team. And of course my dear friend and agent, Toby Eady.
Lastly, a very special thank you to Rachel Herrington whose generous donation to Autism Speaks resulted in her name being used for Alicia’s dearest friend in the book.
Chapter One
Nothing ever happened in Holly Wood. Buried like a plum in a pudding, in the heart of the Somerset countryside, it was no more than a sleepy backwater, looped on three sides by a meandering river, and connected to its neighbouring villages by sweeping grassy glades, and a tangle of country lanes that flowed through the hedgerows like a loose ramble of veins. It could boast no more than a few hundred dwellings, some dating back to the sixteenth century, several to Victorian times, and others, such as the avenue of bungalows that curved like a jaunty tail around the southern outskirts of the village, to the sixties. Lately a uniformed arrangement of new builds had sprouted up in what used to be the Bluebell Field, next to the Bruton Road. This estate stood huddled like a batch of new boys at the gates of an old school, still too gauche to be accepted into the fold, but eagerly and shyly waiting its turn.
Holly Wood’s high street was both quaint and banal, starting on one side with a terrace of four picture-book cottage
s, followed by Tom Sebastian’s car-repair shop and taxi service, then came the Friary with its mock-Tudor frontage and swinging neon sign that lit up the letters O P and N when the fish and chip bar was serving. Next to it was the old Midland Bank which had long since closed its doors, then came Neeve’s, the village shop, that used to double as a post office until recent cuts. Now the locals had to drive four miles into Bruton for their stamps, pensions and parcels, while those who didn’t have cars either gladly accepted lifts or rode the number eighty-five bus along a circuitous, scenic route into the medieval city of Wells. After the shop was the turning into Holly Way where the village’s most exclusive residences backed on to the river, then came St Gregory’s, the crumbling old Norman church that sat snugly amongst its clutter of tilted and faded gravestones, like a crusty grandfather watching over his sleeping brood. The main street was sliced down the middle by a narrow stretch of green where Holly Wood’s obelisk of a war memorial and a couple of benches with shiny brass plaques were like sentries at each end of a lovingly tended bed of impatiens, or marigolds, or cyclamen, depending on the time of year – and what Mimi the florist had in stock.
Opposite the church was a long swathe of garden that belonged to the Traveller’s Rest, while the pub itself, whose cosy interior was dominated by a large stone fireplace and an abundance of crooked black timber beams, was on the corner of The Close – a narrow, leafy street that ran down to the riverbank, then curved round to offer an alternative road out of the village. On the opposite corner was a high brick wall surrounding a piece of wasteland, next to which was a boarded-up charity shop with the soaring steeple of an old clock tower rising above it like an oversized magician’s hat, then came Mimi’s flower emporium with its colourful hanging baskets and highly prized Interflora franchise. After that there were a few more flat-fronted cottages and a small rank of empty shops that used to belong to Stan the butcher, Goldie the greengrocer and Felicity the seamstress. Now, Felicity ran up curtains and designed the odd wedding dress at home, while Stan presided over the meat counter at the local Tesco and Goldie laboured for a landscape gardener.
While Holly Wood was definitely a pleasant village with its enticing cobbled enclaves and a claim to having once given refuge to a fleeing King Charles – the hiding place itself was so secret that even the locals didn’t seem to know where it actually was – it wasn’t appealing enough to tempt many tourists from the county’s more exotic offerings, such as those at Glastonbury, Wells and Cheddar. However, the village sign, about a mile outside the village itself, was often photographed by venturesome ramblers and holiday-makers, who seemed to enjoy the idea of stumbling upon such a quaint little signpost with lofty and glamorous pretensions in the heart of the English countryside.
Though the Holly Wood residents were, on the whole, a friendly bunch, they generally preferred tourists to take their snapshots and be on their way, because they didn’t much welcome being stared at, or asked which films they’d starred in, or where George Clooney lived, followed by snorts of laughter, as if the joke had never been made before. In fact, they didn’t much care for being fussed about by outsiders at all, especially those who tried to change things, or tell them how to run their lives. Some interference they couldn’t avoid, such as bossy county councillors with their befuddling recycling rules and even more bizarre pots of yellow paint to prevent parking in the high street – an imposition that was universally and rigorously ignored. The residents of Holly Wood prided themselves on being a successful self-regulating community with a vigilant Neighbourhood Watch scheme; a highly efficient chauffeur service for the elderly and infirm – paid for by weekly door-to-door collections carried out by the Guides and Brownies – and an environmental awareness (once the confusion about bins was resolved) that had earned them some very high praise in Fosse Way Magazine and The Buzz, two oracles of great local standing.
On the day Alicia Carlyle drove towards the village, a lone car weaving through the lush green flow of the countryside, with a small suitcase and laptop computer on the back seat of her second-hand Renault, and a rawness in her heart too tender to touch, there were no indications of what was to come. The summery stillness was as smooth and unshakable as a painting, and she was only focused on trying to empty her mind of what she’d left behind. What awaited her, after a prolonged absence – not of her choosing – could be worse, but she wasn’t going to think about that either. She was simply going to continue her journey, keeping her eyes on the road and her thoughts skimming over easy issues such as the need to pick up some milk when she reached the village, and how wonderfully familiar and welcoming everything looked in the generous sparkle of the sunlight.
Alicia was tall, very slim, with long, crinkly fair hair that flowed down her back in a tangle of bouncy coils. Her eyes were pale blue – as clear and inviting, Craig used to say, as a tropical sea before it reached the shore. ‘They make me want to wade in so I can get even closer to you and maybe find out what’s hidden in the darkest depths.’ She smiled as she recalled the words, then her lips shook and tightened as grief threw its black cloak over the memory. She hadn’t had any secrets back then, and as far as she knew nor had he.
Alicia’s large, ruby red mouth formed a vital part of her beautiful smile, as infectious as the ring of her girlish laugh. Though she’d turned thirty-nine a week ago, thanks to the events of the past two years – the last six months in particular – she felt closer to fifty. She’d acquired several lines in recent weeks, and plenty of shadows, both inside and out. Today she was dressed in her usual get-up of skinny jeans with rips in the knees, a long white shirt girdled by a low-slung belt, and a hand-embroidered waistcoat, plus her trademark man’s cap, to top it off – a look highly approved of by Darcie, her fashionista of a twelve-year-old daughter.
Alicia had grown up in Holly Wood. After leaving to take up her place at Oxford Brookes to study the history of art, she’d always visited regularly, spending long weekends with her mother, as well as summer holidays and every Christmas. This hadn’t changed when she’d met Craig and they’d married. The only Christmas they’d missed was the year Darcie was born, when Monica had come to London, to help take care of five-year-old Nathan.
Alicia would never have got through the first eighteen months of Darcie’s life without her mother’s support, and nor would Craig. The terror that they might lose their precious baby girl at any moment had made it impossible for them to carry on functioning as a normal family until the mysterious virus attacking her tiny heart was diagnosed and treated, or gave up of its own accord. Monica had been there throughout, calm and steady, throwing reins around rampant fears, and always keeping their hopes alive even in the darkest hours. And, just as importantly, Monica had been wonderful with Nat, making him feel special and the centre of her world while his mummy and daddy were at the hospital, willing his little sister to stay with them.
The mystery virus never had been identified, but these days no one would ever guess at Darcie’s difficult start in life. She was the picture of health, as lively and gregarious as any girl her age could be, with a properly pounding heart and an overly developed sense of her own importance. Merely thinking of her was enough to warm Alicia all the way through and when she added her handsome young son, now seventeen, to the mix she was reminded of how very much she had to be grateful for.
Now, as she turned from the main A37 road, away from the distant view of Glastonbury Tor, to start winding towards Holly Wood, Alicia’s insides were unbearably tense. She wondered how much the village might have changed since the last time she’d seen it, while knowing it almost certainly wouldn’t have, because it never did. It was one of the things she loved most about it, and also what she was dreading.
She’d never have stopped coming if her mother hadn’t insisted. She’d have found the courage to brave out the mess they were all in, but Monica couldn’t bear the rift that had developed between Alicia and her older brother, Robert, who still lived in the village with his wife, Sabrina
, and her flighty, exquisitely lovely young daughter, Annabelle. Though neither Robert nor Alicia was to blame for what had caused the rift in their family, whenever Alicia was around Monica felt forced to choose sides, without ever doing so. When she became ill with cancer Alicia had given up arguing. The stress would only worsen her mother’s condition, and loving her as much as she did she wanted her around for many more years to come, even if she wasn’t allowed to visit her.
Monica had died a year ago. By then she was in a hospice about ten miles from Holly Wood, so Alicia had been able to visit without upsetting her. She’d stayed with her right to the end, holding her hands, smoothing her face and swearing on her children’s lives that she forgave her for pushing her away.
‘I didn’t mean to exclude you,’ Monica croaked, tears rolling from her jaundiced eyes. ‘You know I love you with all my heart, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ Alicia assured her. ‘It was an impossible situation. You were right in the middle…’
‘But it wasn’t your fault. I should have been there for you.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mum. I survived and it was important for you to be able to go on living in the house.’
Monica didn’t argue with that. She couldn’t, when Holly Wood was the only home she’d known for the past forty-two years – the nineteen before that had been spent growing up in a neighbouring village.
During the final days, at her mother’s request, Alicia had brought Nat and Darcie to say their goodbyes. It had been heart-rending to watch Darcie, barely eleven at the time, sobbing as she clung to her grandmother’s bony hand begging her not to go, but harder still was the way fifteen-year-old Nat, who’d always adored his grandmother, had refused to come any closer than the end of the bed. His pale, handsome face had shown his grief, but the fact that Monica hadn’t wanted to include his father in her final goodbyes was a slight he couldn’t forgive.