by Jacqui Rose
JACQUI ROSE
Betrayed
Copyright
Avon
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2014
Jacqui Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007503612
Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007503629
Version: 2015-04-09
Dedication
To Tim, my soul mate;
for everything you’ve ever done. x
A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that
speaketh lies shall perish.
Proverbs 19: 9 (King James Bible)
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
1990 London
Present Day: Soho – London
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Five Months Later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Jacqui Rose
Read on for an exclusive extract from Jacqui’s next book Avenged …
About the Publisher
1990
LONDON
‘Come on out. It’s not funny now, Bronwin. Mum said we had to be back by seven. She’ll skin us a-bleedin’-live if we’re late.’ The tall skinny girl shouted loudly in no particular direction before looking down at her bitten nails, peeling off the last of the pink nail varnish as she waited for her sister to come out of her hiding place.
Exasperated, Kathleen looked up again. It was getting dark, and even though she’d known it was cold before she came out, she’d only put on a thin t-shirt. Better cold than looking frumpy in the brown coat her mum had bought her last week. The thought of bumping into any of the boys from the Stonebridge estate looking like something left over from a jumble sale made her shudder more than the evening chill of the October air.
Peering into the darkness, she could just make out the dark silhouette of her sister, Bronwin, scuttling about in the thicket of trees, thinking she couldn’t be seen. The girl sighed as she watched. What her sister found so exciting about playing in a stupid park was beyond her. Parks and swings and trees were for babies. And Kathleen certainly wasn’t that.
There were only four years between them, yet her only sibling seemed so immature next to her. Ever since she was little she’d felt older than her years. And even though she’d just started secondary school, she knew she wasn’t a silly little girl anymore. Not now, anyway. Not now she’d lost her virginity with the boy across the landing. Although it’d lasted less time than it took the kettle to boil, and he’d only just managed to get inside her before he’d exploded, groaning and coming everywhere, it still counted. Counted enough to make her special. For the first time in her life she had something to brag about.
Kathleen knew she wasn’t pretty like her sister, nor was she clever, and she certainly wasn’t popular. Everything was always a struggle. Everything she felt ashamed of. Even down to the way she dressed. Hand-me-downs from anywhere and anyone. Musty clothes ingrained with the stains and smells of poverty, which brought nothing but ridicule.
But that was all going to change now. The sense of being a born loser had gone. She was proud of being the first one in her year to do it and envious word had got around the class. Now, the girls wanted to speak to her and the boys didn’t avoid her any longer.
Looking back towards the trees, Kathleen realised couldn’t see her sister now. She wasn’t worried. This was how it always went. Her younger sister’s idea of a joke. Hiding and making her search her out. Letting her be on the verge of panic before she’d appear, grinning all over her face.
As she stood waiting, chewing on her nails, Kathleen thought about her mother who was only fourteen years older than her and had decided a long time ago that even though she’d given birth to two girls, she didn’t want the responsibility of caring for them, nor did she want the trouble of loving them; preferring instead to spend her time with any man who’d buy her a drink down the local. Kathleen shook her head in disgust and walked slowly towards the trees, resigned to the fact she was going to spend the next ten minutes searching for her sister in the woods.
‘Bron!’ She was getting pissed off now. She’d been looking for over ten minutes. Her arms had already been scratched by the bushes and she was certain something nasty had crawled down her top. She was cross, but she wouldn’t let her sister know she was. They both had enough of their mother being cross at them without her adding to it.
Kathleen heard a branch snap just ahead. Her eyes darted towards the sound. In the shadow of the night, she saw a dark silhouette a few feet in front of her.
‘Bron! Please stop messing, babe. I want to go now.’ There was no reply. She edged forward, feeling the ground as she stepped carefully through the bracken, when suddenly she heard the breaking of another branch. Only this time it was coming from the side of her rather than in front of her.
Kathleen listened,
waiting to hear the stifled giggles of her sister. In the darkness she could hear breathing, but it didn’t sound like Bronwin’s soft breath. This breathing was heavier, and she turned in panic. The next thing she felt was the taste of blood as the stinging blow of something hard landed on her lips.
She screamed as she felt her top being torn and rough hands pushing her down into the damp cold earth, tugging painfully at her pants, under her skirt.
As she felt the hands tighten round her neck, her breath becoming short as the life seeped out of her, it was of some small comfort to the girl that the last words she managed to cry were, ‘Run, Bronwin! Run!’
Six-year-old Bronwin sat in the corner of the tiny room, watching the uniformed police officers milling about. Sitting by her was a plain-looking social worker.
‘Bronwin, you really need to tell us what you can remember.’
‘I don’t think she’s ready to answer any questions.’ The social worker intervened as the large detective leaned in to question Bronwin. Annoyed with the interruption, the detective snapped back, ‘I think that’s a matter for Bronwin, don’t you?’
‘Detective, she’s far too young to know what’s best. She’s had a traumatic experience and I don’t think these questions will help, do you?’
‘Listen, no one’s saying she hasn’t had a traumatic experience, but if we want to make sure the perpetrators can’t get out of this we need to make sure she tells us everything she can remember. She’s an important witness. Where’s the mother anyway?’
The social worker flicked through the notes. ‘We don’t know exactly where she is at the moment; we’ve tried leaving her a message but we’ve had no reply. She told us she’d meet us here, but maybe it’s all too much for her.’
‘She’s got responsibilities. This kid for one, and another one lying cold.’
The social worker bristled, furrowing her brow angrily as she took a sidewards glance at Bronwin.
‘That’s enough, Detective. Not everything is so clear cut. The family are well known to us and there are problems. The mother’s very young and, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, things can get difficult for her.’
The detective sighed.
‘Fine, no more questions, but we need to take her to see the line-up. It’s important; we can only hold the men for so long.’
The line-up room was dark and Bronwin wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. The woman who kept insisting on holding her hand smelt funny. A bit like the dusty old cupboard in the kitchen at home. She didn’t like the smell and she didn’t like the woman. She wanted to go home. Where was her mum anyway? She hoped she’d come and get her soon.
‘All we want you to do is tell us if you remember any of the men’s faces. We want you to have a good look and if you remember any of them, tell us.’
‘Can I have a word, Detective?’ A man with a loud booming voice appeared out of the shadows, making Bronwin step back behind the social worker. She couldn’t really make sense of the words he was using, but he seemed to be so cross; like everyone else around her.
‘Detective, my clients feel it’s unfair they’re not only being forced to be in the line-up, but that the “guilty” party will be decided on the say-so of a child. We all know what children are like. They choose things on a whim. I want a stop to this.’
The officer in charge rubbed his top teeth with his tongue. ‘If they’ve nothing to hide, they’ve got nothing to fear.’
The man grinned nastily at the detective, his eyes reflecting the coldness in his smile. Bronwin took a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t like this at all. Why wasn’t anybody taking her home to bed? She was tired and wanted to snuggle up with Mr Hinkles, the teddy bear her sister Kathleen had got her. Where was her sister anyway? She’d heard people talking about her and they’d asked her a lot of questions, but she hadn’t seen her since the woods. She didn’t want to think about the woods; thinking about them gave Bronwin a funny feeling in her tummy.
Big tears began to spill down Bronwin’s cheeks. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she watched them fall onto the floor, right next to the man with the booming voice’s foot. Cautiously, Bronwin looked at him from underneath her shaggy fringe. He was smart and clean and smelled nice.
Bronwin quickly dropped her gaze as she saw the man looking at her. Her eyes wandered to his shoes. They were black shoes. Shiny black shoes, apart from the bottom parts of them, which were dirty with mud. She looked up again, edging back as the man bent down to meet her stare.
‘Would you like a hanky?’
Bronwin shook her head but the man insisted.
‘Here, take it.’ As he pushed the crisp white handkerchief into Bronwin’s hand she noticed some letters embroidered onto it, but she wasn’t good with letters, especially fancy ones that swirled and curled like those did.
‘Now, is everybody ready? We need to get on with this.’ The detective’s voice had a tone of weariness. He was tired and didn’t expect much from this line-up, even though in his gut he felt he had the right men; he knew only too well that with slick high-powered lawyers; like the one standing opposite him, even if the suspects had been caught with bloodstained knives in their pockets and the words ‘guilty’ written on their foreheads, there was still a possibility of them walking free.
‘Are you ready, Bronwin?’ The social worker pulled Bronwin up from her seat as the lights on the other side of the mirrored line-up room went on.
Bronwin nodded.
‘All you have to do is pick out the men who you think you saw in the woods. Do you think you can do that, Bronwin?’
Again, Bronwin nodded. She stood on a chair and in front of her a procession of men began to walk in through the door on the other side of the glass.
‘Don’t worry; Bronwin, they can’t see you or hear you.’
The men stood with their backs against the wall, staring ahead, holding up the boards they had been given. The detective adjusted the microphone as he spoke into it.
‘Can you step forward, number one, and then turn to the left and to the right, slowly.’ The tall man with dark hair stepped forward, nervously turning as instructed in both directions before stepping back to the wall.
‘Number two, can you step forward and then turn to the left and to the right, slowly.’ Without taking his eyes off Bronwin’s reaction to the men the detective stood up slightly as he realised he was too near the mike.
‘Number three, can …’
Bronwin’s mind wandered off. Her legs were getting tired having to stand up and she thought it was funny the way all the men were staring ahead. The lady had said they couldn’t see her, but she didn’t know how that was possible if she could see them.
‘Bronwin? Bronwin?’ The detective was talking to her. She didn’t know how long he had been, but she could tell he was cross; his cheeks were red like her mum’s cheeks went red when she was angry with her.
‘Do you recognise any of them? Were any of them there in the woods?’ The detective’s voice was urgent as he stared at Bronwin.
‘Detective, let me handle it.’ The social worker cut her eye at the detective. ‘Bronwin, do you recognise any of them? Were any of them there in the woods?’
Bronwin looked first at the detective and then at the lady. She didn’t know why they were asking her the same question and arguing about it.
The social worker sighed and looked at her watch. ‘Bronwin, this is very important. If you can remember anything, you need to tell us. Can you remember who it was?’
Bronwin nodded her head.
‘Show us then. Can you point them out?’
Bronwin nodded again, she raised her hand and pointed, speaking in a small voice. ‘It was him.’
The officer sprang into action. ‘Number eight.’
‘Yes. And him.’ She pointed again at the line-up.
‘Number two.’
‘Yes.’
The detective’s face didn’t give anything away. In a matter-of-fact manner he s
aid, ‘Well done, Bronwin. You’ve done great.’
Bronwin looked at him, her elf-like face turned to the side. She swivelled around, turning her back to the line-up and staring towards the door where the man with the booming voice stood. ‘And him. I saw him in the woods as well.’
‘Bronwin do you understand what happens to children who keep telling lies?’
‘I ain’t lying, Dr Berry. It was him, it was that bloke. Why won’t you believe me?’
The psychiatrist tapped his pen on his leg absent-mindedly. ‘We’ve gone over this before and we both know why I won’t believe you, don’t we?’ The psychiatrist paused dramatically then said, ‘Because it’s simply not true. How do you think a person feels to be accused of bad things, Bronwin? How would you feel if I accused you of doing something bad?’
‘But you are. You’re saying I’m lying.’
‘That’s not the same, Bronwin, because you are.’
Bronwin’s eyes were wide with fear as she cuddled Mr Hinkles, her teddy bear. ‘Please let me go home. I think I should go home now; me mum will be missing me.’
Nastily, Dr Berry spoke in a whisper. ‘Bronwin, children who tell lies, especially vicious ones, don’t go home. How would you like to never go home? I can make that happen you know. I can make sure you never go home, Bronwin, so you need to start to tell everyone you’re sorry for telling lies about those nice men.’