The Babysitter E-Book

Emma Curtis

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 485

Beschreibung

***THE No.1 BESTSELLING SENSATION!*** 'Activate your '"do not disturb" because you will NOT be able to stop reading until you turn the last page' Tammy Cohen Three women. Three secrets. Claudia's life imploded ten years ago when she was convicted of the murder of her child. Now she has done the unthinkable and confessed to manslaughter in order to be granted parole - her only hope of finding out what really happened to Tilly. Sara is married to Joe, Claudia's ex-husband, and they have a young child together. She finally has everything she ever wanted, but Claudia's release threatens the perfect life she has created. Anna was The Babysitter who let Claudia and Joe down on day their daughter disappeared. Married with a child of her own, Claudia's reappearance in her quiet cul-de-sac is an unwelcome surprise. These three women are tied together in more ways than they realize. But only one of them is capable of killing. 'A one-sitting read' Andrea Mara 'Layer upon layer of chilling suspense' Gilly Macmillan 'The tension doesn't let up' Claire Douglas 'Had me riveted' Jane Corry

Leseprobe

Emma Curtis was born in Brighton and now lives in London with her husband. After raising two children and working various jobs, her fascination with the darker side of domestic life inspired her to start writing psychological suspense thrillers. She has published five previous novels: One Little Mistake, When I Find You, The Night You Left, Keep Her Quiet and Invite Me In.

Also by Emma Curtis

One Little Mistake

When I Find You

The Night You Left

Keep Her Quiet

Invite Me In

To Ollie and Emma

Published in Great Britain in 2023 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Emma Curtis, 2023

The moral right of Emma Curtis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 972 2

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 974 6

Printed in Great Britain

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

Prologue

November 2013

Her parking place has gone, which is not a huge surprise in Culloden Road, and Claudia is forced to park at least six houses away. There’s no let-up in the weather; if anything, it’s worse, with thunder rolling and gutters overflowing. There are few people out. Just a man running in the opposite direction holding his briefcase over his head, and, walking towards Claudia, a woman in a quilted black coat with a huge fur-fringed hood. Claudia wraps her coat around Tilly and carries her, clamped against her waist, to the house, fumbling for her keys with wet fingers. She drops them and they fall between the olive tree in its waterlogged terracotta pot and the wall of the house. Resting Tilly’s weight on her knee, she crouches in the wet and delves amongst the spiderwebs. To her surprise, the pot shifts and a stranger scoops the keys up and hands them to her. It’s the woman in the black coat. She’s pulling the tip of the hood forward to keep the rain off her face, her wide sleeve obscuring her features.

‘Thanks.’ When the woman doesn’t continue on her way, Claudia adds, ‘It’s Nadine, isn’t it?’ and unlocks the door. ‘You’re a little early, but don’t worry. It’s fine.’ She’s embarrassed by the nasty egg on Tilly’s forehead and the plaster covering the cut, and is about to explain that it looks worse than it is when her mobile rings. ‘Sorry, would you mind holding Tilly while I get this?’

They go inside and Nadine takes Tilly, who is thankfully still fast asleep. Claudia fishes her mobile out of her bag and answers it.

‘Hang on, Joe.’ She cups a hand over the mouthpiece and turns to the agency babysitter. ‘Give me two minutes. Take your coat and boots off and make yourself comfortable in the front room. Tilly won’t wake up.’

And then she leaves her daughter with a stranger and walks into the kitchen, phone clamped to her ear, listening to Joe telling her he’s going to be late and will meet them at the theatre. She gives him a hard time because tonight was meant to be perfect; a new beginning. She asks what’s keeping him and he says something about an incident and having to speak to the parents. She tells him about Tilly’s tumble and they have a short conversation, no longer than a minute and a half, then she goes to find Nadine.

The front room is empty. Claudia’s first thought is that the babysitter must have needed the loo and has taken Tilly with her because she didn’t want to leave her alone, so she waits at the bottom of the stairs, listening for the flush and becoming increasingly uneasy.

‘You okay?’ Her voice sounds strangled.

When she goes to investigate, her anxiety is off the scale. She checks every room, then hurtles downstairs and into the street, yelling their names. Across the road, Kate is letting herself into her house, her wet hair hanging in rats’ tails around her face.

‘Claudia?’ she shouts, peering through the downpour. ‘What on earth’s happened?’

Claudia is barely able to form the words. ‘Tilly. She’s taken Tilly.’

Kate checks the road and sprints over. ‘What do you mean? Who’s taken her?’

‘The babysitter.’

Just then, a woman in a camouflage coat and a brown woolly hat with an enormous bobble hurries over from the other side of the road, lifting her hand to wave a greeting.

‘Wow! This weather,’ she exclaims cheerfully. She has a South African accent. ‘Are you Mrs Hartman? I’m Nadine, from Mulberry Nannies.’

SHE LIED: MONSTER MUM JAILED

by Greg Davies

A ‘quick-tempered’ mother who killed her baby has been jailed for 15 years. Claudia Hartman, 25, was today convicted of killing Tilly Hartman, aged 8 months, and concealing the body.

In her statement, Mrs Hartman said that her baby was stolen by an unknown woman who she took to be an agency babysitter. However, her testimony fell apart when police investigating the crime found traces of Tilly’s blood in the Hartmans’ sitting room.

Colleagues of Mrs Hartman, a primary school teacher, painted a picture of a woman who was fantastic with the children she taught but found it hard to form relationships with the staff and avoided social events. A friend described her as ‘overly possessive’ of husband Joe, 34, head of Overhill School in Surrey. Another described her as jealous of her husband’s slavish devotion to their child.

After the discovery of the blood, Mrs Hartman changed her story, confessing that Tilly had fallen off the sofa and cut her head on the corner of the coffee table.

When asked why she hadn’t sought medical attention for her daughter instead of going shopping, Mrs Hartman said the injury wasn’t serious, and that Tilly had cried immediately and afterwards had been her normal giggly self. She later confessed that she had in fact been on her way to A&E but had become anxious, worrying that her baby would be taken from her, given that she had suffered from postnatal depression and psychosis and had secretly stopped taking her medication. Mrs Hartman insisted she had told the truth in the rest of her statement.

The prosecutor alleged that Tilly had in fact died in the accident, and accused Mrs Hartman of concealing the body and fabricating the story of the abduction to cover her negligence. He described her account of her psychosis as an exaggeration.

Mrs Hartman’s GP said that although aware of her condition, he had considered it under control and had no reason to believe she had ceased to take the pills. Mr Hartman had also thought his wife was taking her medication as prescribed.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Ten years later: Monday 23 October 2023

CLAUDIA

The buzzer sounds, the door opens, and Claudia Hartman steps blinking into the outside world, the strobing effect of several cameras flashing at once a sudden and brutish welcome. Clutching a clear plastic bag containing her mobile phone, her keys and the black leather shoulder bag she came in with, she covers her face with the crook of her arm. It’s 6.30 a.m. and still dark. A chill wind whips across the prison car park. She stands with her back to the door and tries to adjust quickly to a change as seismic as birth. For a split second she’s so frightened of what awaits her that she wishes the guard would drag her back in, tell her it’s all been a terrible mistake, she should never have been freed.

The minicab driver doesn’t get out to open the passenger door; instead he waits, windscreen wipers shunting from side to side, headlights picking up the rain. Between Claudia and the car there are at least a dozen journalists, burly in their winter coats, steam puffing from their mouths. They barrel towards her, microphones held aloft, blocking the wind.

‘Claudia! Do you have anything to say to your ex-husband?’

‘Why did you change your plea?’

‘How are you going to survive on the outside when no one wants you?’

That last question comes from someone at the back, and the tone is different; it’s more personal. It’s also a question she has asked herself, a question that cuts right to the heart of her. She has a feeling of being hollowed out as she squints to see who asked it, but the flash bulbs blind her. It was a woman, though. She sees a figure holding a large black umbrella that obscures most of her face. Her chin is swathed in a scarf and she’s standing apart. She doesn’t look as though she belongs with the rest.

Claudia sways, grey with exhaustion. Her last night in the cell was peppered with yells and taunts. No one was happy that she was getting out. The women felt cheated, even though they’d spent years tormenting her. The guards offered little protection, believing middle-class Claudia Hartman considered herself better than them. They would miss the fun of taking her down a peg or two. If only she’d said what her lawyer had advised her to say sooner, it might have taken the heat out of the situation, they might eventually have got used to her and been kinder, but it took a long time to admit defeat and say the words. I am guilty. It still sticks in her craw.

She gasps, feels the cold air in her throat and marches forward, pushing against arms and coats, gagging on breath stinking of coffee and cigarettes, bacon butties and fried eggs. She reaches the car, pulls open the door and dives in.

The driver picks up an envelope from the front seat and reaches back to hand it to her. Then he pulls away, moving deliberately slowly, allowing the few who are fit enough to run alongside the car. Someone raps hard, a pale face coming out of the darkness, and Claudia shies away. Only then does he put his foot down.

He doesn’t speak. Occasionally, he raises his eyes to the rear-view mirror, gives her a hard stare before returning his gaze to the road. Her mother booked him through a local firm, so she assumes he’s used to picking up freed inmates, taking them and their smell and their miserable bags of belongings back to whatever halfway house has been organised. She wonders how many he drops off outside detached houses in neat suburban cul-de-sacs. The man is in his forties and there’s a photograph stuck to his dashboard of two little boys in school uniform.

Claudia turns her head and watches the urban landscape roll by, and her eyes widen, taking it all in, aching from the stimulation. The envelope is on her lap, under her hand. She picks it up. The name on it has been typed. Claudia Hartman. She wrinkles her brow. Could it be an invoice for the cab? That would be odd, unless it was her stepfather, Robert, who organised it and this is him being unpleasant. It would be typical of him to take a dig at her without telling Louisa, her mother. Robert had never warmed to her. Coming into her life three years after the death of Claudia’s father in the car accident that had injured Louisa, he had made her feel like the cuckoo in the nest. Even more so when Jason was born.

She hasn’t heard from her half-brother since before her conviction. In the meantime, he has married and produced two children. She’s seen the pictures: the family together in Shires Close for Christmas, playing in the garden with Grandpa Robert, building sandcastles on a beach in Cornwall. She supposes she and Jason are estranged; at any rate, she’s not going to bother him. She adored him as a child, and it hurts that he can walk away. Louisa maintains it’s his wife, Amelie, who is behind it, but Claudia doesn’t believe that. Her mother is trying to lessen the pain, but prison has a way of letting you know who your real friends are.

She opens the envelope, pulls out an A4 sheet and unfolds it. The note is typed as well. Just the one line.

You were safer inside. Outside you are dead.

She clutches the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘I don’t know, missus.’

‘Was it a man or a woman?’

‘Woman.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Dunno. Ordinary. She banged on my window. I opened it and she slipped it through, then she walked away.’

Claudia sits back. Could it have been the woman who seemed out of place amongst the journalists? She folds the note, slips it back into its envelope and puts it in the plastic bag. It’s only to be expected, given that the world has been encouraged to hate her, but even so, this isn’t a good start. Who was it, though? Someone who knows her, or a stranger?

Spits of rain splay across the windscreen and chase each other to the corners. The minicab drives past Hampton Court Palace and through Bushy Park. Workers standing at bus stops look frozen. Cyclists in top-to-toe Lycra zip by. Claudia’s eyes follow the rhythmic flash of their fluorescent detailing, their revolutions matching the beat of the windscreen wipers, round and round, thwack, thwack, thwack. It’s hypnotic, and before she can blink her way back to reality, she’s back in her own car on that day, Tilly strapped in behind her. The rain has gone from steady to torrential in the five minutes since she left home, surprising her and everyone else attempting to pass through Kingston. People are hooting, frustrated. Ahead of her she sees cars climb the pavements. Behind her the traffic is at a standstill. There must be a flood where the road dips beneath the railway line. She considers her options, then swings the steering wheel hard round, grimacing as she takes the last possible left turn, even though it’s no entry, and drives home, into hell.

She mustn’t go back there. She must move forward, make the devastating lie she told worthwhile, make it up to her daughter. The thought of Tilly growing up not knowing she was stolen has always been bittersweet. People say she’s dead, because it’s impossible these days to keep a baby off the radar, but without a body, there’s no proof of that. Claudia has to keep the faith: Tilly is alive; she has been loved and well treated. If she doesn’t believe that, she will collapse under the weight of her own guilt.

She wonders what Joe is doing now. He would have been warned that she was about to be released as a matter of course. She imagines him waking next to his second wife, spooning his body against hers like he used to against Claudia’s. He’ll press his face into the crook of Sara’s neck and shoulder, blocking thoughts of Claudia, but he won’t be able to block Tilly. No matter how much he wants to put the past behind him, their daughter will make her presence felt. He gave up on Tilly, choosing to prioritise his mental well-being, and Claudia will never forgive him for that.

They turn into Shires Close. Behind them, several cars and a motorbike pull into the kerb, not caring if they’re blocking driveways. Doors fly open, men and women swarm with those who are already waiting patiently. Even more than her emergence from prison, this is the money shot: Claudia Hartman arriving at her parents’ home with her tail between her legs. She presses herself rigidly against the back of the seat, her stomach squirming.

The driver twists round. ‘You need to get out.’

She detects a note of sympathy, even though he immediately turns away and starts keying his next ride into the sat nav.

All she has to do is barge past them. They can’t prevent her from going inside. She has the key; her mother dropped it in at reception last week, when they came to visit the day before they left for an extended visit to Robert’s relatives in South Africa.

That had been an unpleasant surprise, but she got it. Robert didn’t want to be in the country when it all kicked off. Anxious to spare her mother anxiety, Claudia had insisted she would prefer to navigate the transition period alone. It was at least partly true.

‘Go on, lady. You’ll make me late.’

‘Yes, okay. I’m going.’

She pulls the handle and pushes the door open. The noise drops off and the silence bulges until it pops like an overblown balloon and they’re all shouting at once.

‘Claudia! How does it feel to be out?’

‘Hey, Claudia, over here! What have you got to say to your neighbours?’

‘Will you be seeing your ex-husband?’

‘Do you regret what you did?’

And then louder, more forcefully, a male voice bellows. ‘Where did you bury your baby, Claudia?’

Chapter 2

SARA

‘It’s either a scammer or your mother,’ Joe said when the phone rang.

Joe was a great one for the zinging one-liner, his mind as rangy and elastic as his body, but with the earliness of the hour, and given that they’d been expecting a call for the last few days, Sara only raised a smile with difficulty.

Joe reached for the phone because he was closest, and Sara had Maeve, their eighteen-month-old daughter, on her knee. He read the caller display. ‘It’s Michael.’

‘Oh God.’ Michael Chancellor was Joe’s lawyer.

Joe’s fingers rose to rub at the vertical frown lines between his eyebrows. ‘Morning, Michael. This is early even by your standards.’ He left the room, the phone clamped to his ear.

Above her, Sara’s husband paced the spare bedroom, which he used as an office. She lifted Maeve into her high chair, put a bowl of Weetabix in front of her and waited, hoping it wasn’t what she thought it was. There was a sliver of logic to that hope, hinging on Claudia Hartman having caught COVID in the late spring of 2020, when it surged through the prison population. She’d had pneumonia the year before, which had damaged her lungs, so when Michael phoned Joe to inform him that his ex-wife was dangerously ill, Sara had prayed that Claudia would die. Maybe she was dead now, either from her compromised health, or because the other prisoners had been so incensed she was being freed that they’d taken matters into their own hands.

After a while, she heard his guitar. The melody made her think of a time at the beginning of their relationship when she had begun to wonder if she’d ever break down the barriers. He’d told her that if his mood took a downturn and he couldn’t stop thoughts of his daughter crowding in, music was the one thing that helped. It was the shift of focus, both mental and physical.

Five minutes later, the stairs creaked and Sara set down her mug of tea, folded her arms and waited. When he came in, Joe fixed her with his eyes, his expression rueful.

‘She’s out.’

Sara sprang up and went into his arms. His dressing gown smelled slightly stale. ‘What did Michael say? Is she going to be a problem?’

‘I doubt it. Staying away from us is one of the conditions of her parole. She can’t come here, and if she does, she’ll be recalled. Michael is all over this.’

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. The tension in his face scared her.

‘I’m fine. It’s not as if it’s a surprise.’ He arranged his mouth into a smile. ‘It’s a bit like when you know someone is dying, but it’s still a terrible shock when they go. I’ve known for months that she’s coming out, but I’m still finding it hard to take in now it’s actually happened.’

Maeve started to whinge; she was a jealous little thing. Sara pulled herself out of Joe’s arms reluctantly and went to her. She picked her plastic spoon up off the floor, washed it and handed it back. Her daughter hated being fed.

‘It’s good that she confessed,’ Sara said. ‘It draws a line.’

‘There is no line, at least as far as Claudia is concerned. She admitted guilt because it was expedient.’

She looked at him sharply, alarmed by the dull monotone. His face was impassive. ‘Joe?’

‘I can’t talk about this now. I need to get a shower and get on. I’ve got a day full of meetings.’

‘Can't you cancel and stay here with us? It is half term after all.’

‘Sorry, darling. They’ve been in the diary for weeks. And frankly, I am not going to allow Claudia to disrupt our lives.’

‘Is that what she wants?’

‘I don’t know. I hope not. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about you. I don’t want her bringing the nightmares back.’

Joe put down his coat and stroked her cheek, brushing back her hair. For the son of an Irish father and a half-Italian, half-British mother, he was a surprisingly even-tempered man, but that even temper somehow didn’t diminish the crackling energy apparent in his long, nervy hands and mobile face. With his wiry black hair laced with grey, bright blue eyes and smile that combined mild amusement with warmth, he could still turn Sara’s knees to jelly. Even now, when it felt like their lives were about to be upended.

‘I admit the thought of her being free makes me sick, and it isn’t going to be easy, but as long as I have my two favourite girls, I’ll weather it.’

Joe left. The house slipped into its routine. Tidying up, shadowed by Maeve, Sara wondered where Claudia was now, who had picked her up from prison, how it felt to walk out into a grey autumn day with a bag of belongings musty from being stored in a cardboard box for the best part of a decade.

Two years ago, Claudia, Joe’s ex-wife, had confessed to the manslaughter of their baby, having previously refused to admit guilt. She’d had her fill of prison life, Sara assumed, and wanted out even if it meant admitting to what she had done. It wouldn’t make much difference, since no one had believed in her innocence anyway. As a baby killer, Claudia’s life had been over for a long time, even with mitigating circumstances taken into account. There would be no second chance.

Sara picked up the iPad and went to the news. Claudia’s release was the top item, and the press had gone to town, knowing the public relished stories about the car-crash lives of the privileged. There was little mention of Sara; just a brief acknowledgement of the woman who had taken on Joe Hartman, the attractive, grounded, common-sense wife who had given him a new daughter. The perception was that she wasn’t as worthy of copy as her predecessor, and that was the way Sara preferred it.

She pushed the iPad away. Claudia couldn’t touch her. Whatever had once tied her to Joe was broken and could never be fixed. Even so, she spent the entire day on edge, waiting for the knock on the door that never came. She moved around the house touching her possessions, as if to ward Claudia off, resting her fingers on the table, the bed, on Maeve’s cot; things belonging to her and Joe.

Deep in her heart, in a dark place she tried not to acknowledge, taking what Claudia Hartman had once valued gave her, not satisfaction exactly, because that would be mean-spirited, but a kind of piquancy that was hard to explain and even harder to justify.

Chapter 3

CLAUDIA

The studio flat smells of wet paint. Claudia is touched that her mother has redecorated. Louisa originally had the double garage converted after her husband died, to create a second income, and when Claudia was growing up, it had been let to a series of young people working at Sandown, where Louisa, before she retired last year, had been the events coordinator.

It’s basic: a white box with a pale wood laminate floor that bounces when she walks on it. The front door opens onto the close, the back door onto a fenced-off decked area with a gate to the garden of her parents’ house. A shower room and a kitchenette bookend the back door. In the living room there’s a window to the front, a sofa bed, a wardrobe, and a table which serves as a desk. Claudia plugs in her phone, then sits down, pulls her chair in and slides across the sheet of typed instructions. This isn’t about when to go next door and feed the cat, how to use the oven, when the bins go out, useful phone numbers – that one is stuck to the fridge under a magnet. This is from Robert, who has been concerned enough about how the neighbours will react to her presence to compile a list of dos and don’ts.

Don’t try to talk to people, even if you know them.

Don’t ask favours.

Do leave the studio as seldom as possible, and try to do it when there are less likely to be others around.

Don’t use the front door of number 7 when going in to feed Frank.

As if she needs telling.

Robert had been against her moving into Shires Close, but Louisa stood up to him. Her daughter would always be welcome.

‘You haven’t thought about what Claudia living here will mean, love,’ he had said, sitting next to Louisa at the cramped table in the visiting room when the proposition was first mooted. ‘People will think what they think. We can’t stop them. It doesn’t matter what we believe. She admitted guilt. That puts us in a difficult position.’

‘You know why I did,’ Claudia whispered. ‘The only way to find out what happened to Tilly is for me to be free.’

‘But you’re never going to be free. How can you be?’

‘I’ll clear my name. I don’t know why you can’t understand that. I didn’t take her, so someone else did. I intend to find out who it was. I’m going to get her back.’

Robert clasped his hands on the table. ‘We only want what’s best for you, but there’s a risk this situation will make our lives very uncomfortable indeed. The neighbours won’t like it.’

‘They’ll just have to get used to it,’ Louisa said. ‘This is non-negotiable.’

Robert, a man who knew exactly which side his bread was buttered, had given in with a grumble. ‘Just don’t make a nuisance of yourself, and don’t try and persuade them you’re innocent. You’ll only put their backs up.’

‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t risk being recalled. But that doesn’t mean I can’t investigate. There’s always a way.’

‘Claudia . . .’ her mother said.

‘Don’t you want to know what happened to your granddaughter?’

‘Of course I do, but not like this. It’s more important to me that you’re safe.’

‘Safe?’ She held her mother’s gaze until it was painful and Louisa had to look away.

‘We’ll need ground rules,’ Robert said, bringing the conversation back to the practical.

‘It’s all on the list,’ Louisa said. ‘You’ve covered everything.’

Claudia forced a weak smile. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’ll keep myself to myself and I won’t stay long. Just until Culloden Road is sold.’

‘If you need any help . . .’

‘I’ll use my solicitor.’

‘It shouldn’t take long,’ Robert said, brightening. ‘And it’ll have appreciated a lot since you went inside. Frankly, we need the money. Almost a decade of covering your share of the mortgage, well, that’s at least seventy grand you owe us.’

‘We don’t need to go into all that now,’ Louisa said.

‘You’ll get it back.’ Claudia appreciated them hanging on to her interest in the house, but Robert never missed an opportunity to mention it.

There was a silence, then Robert looked around, checked no one was listening and spoke under his breath. ‘You said you put her body in the river.’

‘I had to tell them something.’

‘So she’s not there?’

‘For God’s sake, Robert,’ Louisa said. ‘Don’t make her feel worse than she already does.’

‘Sorry. You’re right. She has enough guilt to contend with without me putting my oar in.’ He looked straight at Claudia when he spoke. Louisa wouldn’t have seen the sneer in his expression.

‘I don’t feel guilty, Robert. The person who should feel guilty is the person who stole Tilly.’

It was a lie. Claudia does feel guilt, a white-hot, searing guilt that she’ll never shake off. She had looked away, and when she looked back, her daughter was gone. The idea of being able to forgive herself is laughable, but she doesn’t want Louisa to know how futile and pointless everything feels to her. She understands that she has to allow her mother to have hope.

‘I have no idea where Tilly is. I didn’t kill her and I didn’t get rid of her body. I just want her back.’

In that barren visitors’ room time crushed like a tin can under a heavy foot, and she felt the hurricane of confusion and panic in the moment she realised her child was gone. She raised her head and saw her pain reflected in Louisa’s eyes.

Her parents stood up, their visit over. Her mother embraced her and turned away to hide her emotion; her stepfather surprised her by opening his arms. After a hesitation, Claudia went into them, felt his breath close to her ear.

‘I want you to know,’ he murmured, in a voice she barely recognised, it was so cold, ‘that I believe you killed our grandchild.’

‘I didn’t . . .’ She tried to get away, but his embrace was like steel.

‘I believe you did it, and I always have, but I pretend for your mother’s sake that it isn’t the case. The sooner you get your own place, the better. I wish you well in your future life, and I hope you find redemption, but please do not outstay your welcome. I have a certain standing in our community. And remember, the only reason you go into the house is to feed Frank and pick up the post. I don’t want you making yourself at home there.’

She has a shower in the tiny bathroom, sloughing the prison from her skin. She can’t scrub hard enough. Afterwards, the sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror screwed to the back of the bathroom door is a shock. Her posture is terrible. It deteriorated in prison as she strove to efface herself. Glimpsing her stretch marks, she is swept up in a wave of misery. When she gets dressed, she feels as though she’s encasing the rawness.

Her mobile rings, making her jump. It’s been such a long time since she last heard its ringtone. The caller display reads: International.

‘Mum?’

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Louisa says. ‘You’re home. I was so worried. How are you?’

‘I’m okay.’ She has already decided not to mention the threatening note. ‘Thanks for leaving food.’

‘I was glad to. I have an account with Tesco for online shopping. The password is Frank2015. You might find that easier. How’s the studio?’

‘It’s lovely. Very cosy.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have been there for you. I can’t bear to think of you leaving that place on your own.’

‘It’s fine. I’m fine. And Robert was right: why should you have to deal with a media invasion? None of this is your fault.’

‘Have you . . . Do you have any plans?’

‘Not really.’

‘Have you spoken to anyone?’

‘Who would I speak to?’

‘Joe, I suppose. Or Kate.’

‘I can’t speak to Joe, Mum. You know that.’

‘I only thought . . . well, he might contact you, mightn’t he? About the house.’

‘That’s what lawyers are for.’

She feels smothered by her mother’s concern, and even though she wanted to speak to her, she now wants to be left alone.

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

As she runs her eye down Robert’s list again, the stark reality of her situation sits like a boulder in her stomach. She mustn’t care. Only Tilly matters. She whispers her mantra under her breath. ‘I have been to hell. I am unbreakable.’

Chapter 4

CLAUDIA

Her mother has hung a variety of pictures on the walls of the studio in an effort to make it more homely. Tasteful neutrals, a misty landscape with a deer, some pebbles, sand dunes and silver birches, which probably came from IKEA along with the furnishing. On the desk is her old laptop, plugged in; above it Louisa has hung Claudia’s final school photograph. Claudia can’t understand how her mother could possibly have thought she would have wanted it displayed, but she nonetheless finds herself drawn to it. She leans on the desk and peers at the faces. She finds her seventeen-year-old self on the back row towards the centre, taller than the two girls either side of her. Her hair, which she normally wore in a ponytail, is down.

Sitting in the front row, with the rest of the staff, is Joe. He’s wearing a blue shirt and cream linen jacket, and his smile is huge. She runs her finger over his face. He was, must still be, an incredible teacher. She envies him his career. It breaks her heart that she isn’t allowed to teach any more. She can see him now, strutting in front of the whiteboard, pretending to be a character from a Shakespeare play, the girls in stitches.

The headmistress, Miss Colville, is in the middle of that row, posture erect, expression bland. Claudia feels her hatred of the woman in her stomach and is surprised it’s still so present, after everything else that has happened.

Joe and Claudia had kissed for the first time on Claudia’s last day at Lady Eden’s, and Miss Colville had walked in on them. Claudia had been seventeen, Joe twenty-six, but the headmistress had made him feel like a paedophile and called Claudia a disgrace. Now, looking back, Claudia concedes that she had been too young, and Joe, despite scrupulously keeping his distance, despite barely brushing her fingers with his, shouldn’t have allowed her to fall in love. But she had, and so had he. Miss Colville had protected the school by sweeping the incident under the carpet, but she had been vile, and that had almost destroyed them.

Joe had resigned, and gone to work in the state sector, pushing Claudia away for both their sakes. He had told her she needed space to grow up, and that he would wait. The split had been painful, and the relief of coming back to him four years later so intense she’d thought she might die of it.

Miss Colville’s unpleasantness and the way she’d taken what felt suspiciously like sadistic pleasure in making Joe and Claudia squirm was the reason why they didn’t attend her memorial service. Claudia feels a pang of guilt. Perhaps they should have paid their respects. It was petty not to have done so. After all, Miss Colville’s reference for Joe, if not exactly glowing, hadn’t mentioned what she’d seen.

‘I warn you, Claudia, nothing good will come of it,’ she’d said when Claudia had passionately defended Joe’s honour. Miss Colville had been proved right, although it had been too late by then for her to derive any satisfaction from it.

There are around four hundred children and staff in the photograph, so the scale is tiny, but Megan Holt’s face jumps out at her. Megan, with her mournful brown eyes and her forehead scattered with spots, had grown up at number 12, on the opposite side of the turning circle. She’d been undersized and plain at fifteen, but Claudia thinks she would have turned into a good-looking woman. Her suicide had been a huge deal, the police swarming the school and Shires Close. They had talked to Claudia; she still remembers her reply. ‘I didn’t really know her.’ They had been puzzled. ‘But this seems like a close-knit community. And Megan’s mother is your mother’s best friend, isn’t she?’ Claudia had flushed. ‘I mean, I knew her, but she was younger than me, and she wasn’t really my type of person.’

The newspapers had printed articles describing Megan as a promising young scientist. Some girls, Claudia remembers, had claimed friendship out of a perverse desire for reflected glory. Claudia had kept quiet about her own behaviour. Her guilt over that piss off, casually thrown at Megan only hours before she died, wasn’t going to go away. She wishes she knew who told the family years later.

If only she’d had the maturity to understand what was going on. She had felt mature at the time, but she certainly hadn’t been. Joe had been absolutely right to put some years between them. Instead of rejecting her, she could have told Megan that she wouldn’t always feel pulverised by things she had no control over. She swallows back a sudden ache in her throat; she would have been wrong about that. Pulverised exactly describes her permanent state.

She takes the photograph off the wall and slides it behind the wardrobe. She doesn’t need a reminder. Nowadays she can understand the impulse to end it all.

When it’s time to leave for her appointment with her probation officer, Claudia pulls the hood of her coat over her head and darts out of the house. Cameras flash and voices clamour for attention. She has upset the quiet order of Shires Close.

A woman carrying a toddler on her hip – a little boy with tufty strawberry-blond hair – strides with purpose from one of the houses on the opposite side of the close. Claudia recognises Tilly’s old babysitter. Megan’s little sister. All grown up now.

‘Claudia Hartman,’ Anna says. ‘You shouldn’t be here. I think it’s totally inappropriate, frankly.’

Claudia holds her head high, but her instinct is to shrink. Her shoulder blades, rammed back, carry as much tension as bridge cables.

A journalist thrusts a microphone at Anna, but Claudia doesn’t hear his question as she hurries away.

‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ Anna shouts after her.

She’d forgotten that her mother told her Anna and her husband had bought number 13 after Connie died. It had surprised her that Anna had chosen to live next door to her parents, but the husband was a property developer and knew he could make money. It was more of a surprise that they hadn’t moved on once the house was finished. On-tap childcare was the most likely reason. Even so, she finds it strange. But then there is a lot about the Holts she doesn’t understand.

In 2013, seven years after Megan killed herself, they discovered what Claudia had said to her only hours before she died, and cut Claudia’s family out of their lives. It was the day Tilly went missing and she had been catapulted into a terrifying nightmare from which she still hadn’t awakened. But the upshot was, Frances and Patrick finally had someone to blame for what had happened to their own daughter. Despite having been a close friend of Louisa’s for years, Frances Holt offered the minimum emotional support, and according to Louisa, these days she barely nods in passing.

But Claudia didn’t know anything about this at the time. Tilly had been taken and her world had shrunk to a hard, hot little kernel. Nothing else mattered.

Anna, though, was a link to the past. The fact that she’d cancelled at the last minute had been the reason they’d booked the agency babysitter. If Claudia could only talk to her, get her to explain what had happened that day, maybe she’d have another piece of the puzzle. She’d have to pick her moment, but it was worth a try.

Chapter 5

ANNA

Mum is standing outside her front door as I march back across the close clutching Max. She frowns, but I shake my head. I do not want to talk to her, or to be told I shouldn’t have confronted that woman, or that it would be healthier to reflect on my feelings around Claudia Hartman than project them onto her. It is actually a pain in the arse having a psychiatrist for a mother. She has an ‘I’m listening’ look that is intensely irritating. Why the fuck I agreed to buy Connie’s house, I do not know. We were going to sell it in the new year, but that plan has been put on hold until Claudia’s gone, because Owen thinks it’ll attract rubberneckers and people will expect a price reduction.

Still, the free babysitting goes some way towards compensating for the irritation. And this house is gorgeous. I put Max in his high chair and pull the lid off a Petits Filous. Bad mother. But it’s been one of those mornings.

‘Hey, babe.’ Owen strolls into the kitchen freshly shaven and gives me a kiss, then bends to kiss his son, who offers him a spoonful of yoghurt. ‘Sorry, mate. I’ll have to pass. What did you say to her?’ he asks.

‘I let her know she wasn’t welcome here.’

‘Harsh.’

I scowl. ‘Do you think I’m being unreasonable? I’m not. This is the woman who told my sister to piss off when she was only wanting some help.’

‘Claudia was insensitive, sure, but hardly culpable.’

‘If she hadn’t been so mean and dismissive, Megan might not have felt so alone. Claudia didn’t have to be a bitch. She chose to be one. You should be on my side.’

‘I am on your side. You’re right. What she did was unforgivable.’

‘Thank you,’ I huff.

Owen throws back a coffee, munches a piece of toast, then grabs his phone and keys and he’s off. He never used to dash out this early. I watch from the door as he reverses off the forecourt. Now that Claudia has left the house, all but one journalist has driven away. A stocky man in a bulky coat gets out of a grey hatchback. He wanders over, smiling.

‘Greg Davies,’ he says. ‘Mind if I ask you a question or two? It seemed a bit personal just now. Do you know Claudia from before?’

‘I used to babysit for her.’

‘Ah. Right. The one who cancelled, yeah?’

I frown. ‘I was ill.’

‘What’s your problem with her? She’s done her time; this is her family home. What is it about her being here that upsets you so much?’

‘I’m not upset. I’m just irritated. She’s brought you lot here, hasn’t she? We just want to live in peace.’

‘I understand,’ he says. ‘It’s tough when you have your own little one to be reminded of a tragedy, especially when you played an indirect part in what happened. It’s hard not to feel guilty, even when you know you’ve done nothing wrong, isn’t it?’

I turn on my heel and slam the front door in his face.

Chapter 6

CLAUDIA

She needs to see Joe. It’s important to her to look him in the eye and tell him she did not hurt Tilly. He needs to know she’s innocent, despite the later admission that led to her release.

It’s going to be hard. Joe put up with a lot when they were together: her suspicion that he was seeing someone behind her back, her need for reassurance, her constant fear that she’d never be enough. It had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. But what was said in court, that vile accusation the prosecution had made, repeated after she’d been found guilty by the gutter press, that the appalling crime she was alleged to have committed had its roots in her irrational jealousy of the other female in the house, was simply not true. She had never, ever been jealous of Tilly. The dreadful unfairness of it, the knowledge that people think it, is devastating.

Greg Davies. That was the journalist’s name. He had called her a monster and the media had run with it. She had refused to give him an interview, had slammed the door in his face, and that had been his revenge.

She is banned from approaching Joe’s family, so she’s going to have to be clever. Maybe Kate can help with that. She isn’t banned from the Shaws. She bites her lip. There might not be an injunction, but Kate hasn’t contacted her since she went inside. Like Joe, she drew a line. Claudia has had plenty of time to wonder why the people closest to her slipped away when the going got tough, and she can only imagine that it’s her own fault, a glitch in her personality. She makes people feel uncomfortable. She was a loner as a child, her relationships fragmenting too easily under pressure. Until Joe. She’ll visit Kate anyway. She doesn’t exactly have options.

After seeing her probation officer, Claudia walks into central Kingston, head down, hood up. If she looks shifty, the area is too crowded for it to be an issue. Everyone’s busy; no one cares. In Old London Road, she passes the antiques emporium where she used to buy presents for Joe; quirky things that he kept on his study shelves. She peers through the window of Canbury Books and sees Kate behind the till. Taking a steadying breath, she pushes open the door.

‘Kate . . .’ she says, then stupidly starts to cry. She wipes the tears away and grimaces an apology.

Kate’s assistant sidles out from behind the counter and makes himself scarce. Kate goes to the door, locks it and switches the Open sign to Closed.

‘I’m sorry to just turn up like this.’

Kate gives her a wry look. She hasn’t hugged her. In the past, they always hugged hello and goodbye. Claudia wonders if this is left over from the pandemic, or if it goes deeper.

‘Don’t be sorry.’ Kate hesitates, discomfort written all over her face. ‘It’s good to see you, but—’

‘Did Joe tell you I was out?’ Claudia doesn’t want to hear about the but.

‘His wife called me.’

‘What did she say? I mean, was it . . . like a warning? Or just passing on the news?’

‘She was letting me know. There was no agenda.’

‘I really need to talk to you.’

‘I don’t see what there is to be gained by talking.’ Gentle but firm; that was always Kate’s way. But for once, it chills Claudia.

‘Maybe nothing for you, but a lot for me.’ She’s trying not to be challenging, but from Kate’s expression, it’s clear she’s failing. ‘You must know that I couldn’t have done the things they said I did.’

Someone pushes at the door a couple of times, then walks away.

‘I can’t help you. I can’t get involved.’

Claudia wipes her tears with the back of her hand. ‘I need you to persuade Joe to see me.’

‘Claudia—’

‘I’m Polly’s godmother,’ she blurts out in desperation.

‘Polly has a new godmother.’

Claudia’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. She can’t find the words.

‘Sorry,’ Kate says. ‘That was uncalled for. Claudia, Paul and I have talked. We thought you might get in contact and we decided it was better to draw a line.’

‘Do you have any more children?’ Claudia tumbles over her words. ‘Ignore that. You don’t have to tell me anything personal.’

‘Polly has three brothers: Henry, George and Kit.’

‘Three boys. Wow.’ She lifts her eyes to Kate’s face, searching for anything that might hint at the warmth that had been between them. ‘I would have loved another baby.’

Kate doesn’t respond, and Claudia hurries to fill the silence. ‘Why did you turn against me?’

‘I didn’t. I supported you when you had postnatal depression. I really wanted to help. I came over to be with you as much as I could, but later on you twisted that into some warped narrative of me trying to take over your household and steal your husband. I didn’t know you were washing your pills down the drain. You didn’t tell me. Your behaviour got completely out of hand. You were constantly harping on about my fixation with Joe, wanting to talk to me about it.’ Her voice rises. ‘You were the one with the fixation. I was a new mother, for God’s sake, and in love with my husband. You used to set traps for us, organising suppers then watching me and Joe like a hawk, giving us opportunities to be alone. You were so transparent, it would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetically sad.’

Claudia picks at her thumbnail, pulling at a tag of flesh. The pain is sharp. ‘Was it you who spoke to that journalist; who said I was over-possessive of Joe and jealous of Tilly?’

‘I didn’t speak to any journalists, Claudia. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Who then?’

‘I have no idea. It could have been anyone.’

‘It was kind of you not to stick the knife in when everyone else did.’

‘That was because of Joe, not you. Paul and I kept quiet for Joe’s sake.’ She shakes her head, mouth folded. ‘You’d done enough anyway. You didn’t need us to make you look more culpable than you’d already made yourself.’

They stare at each other, then Kate relents. ‘Please try to understand. Too much has happened. You should make new friends. Friends who didn’t know you before. I can’t be there for you. I have to protect myself and my family.’

Being dumped by a friend, Claudia thinks as she wanders away, is worse than being dumped by a lover. Two adults she cares deeply about, Joe and Kate, have distanced themselves. If they don’t want anything to do with her, what hope does she have? Her mother loves her, but Robert will be glad to see the back of her. Even her half-brother hasn’t reached out. She is alone in a way she has never thought possible, a small grey planet floating in a sparkling galaxy.

Chapter 7

SARA

‘Sara Hartman?’

‘Yes?’ Sara swivelled away from the front door, startled. She was carrying Maeve on her hip and fumbling with her bunch of keys with her free hand. ‘Can I help you?’

The stranger was attractive, in a shabby way. Something in his posture, combined with a pair of well-cared-for combat boots, suggested a previous career in the military.

‘Greg Davies. London News. How do you feel about your predecessor’s release this morning?’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘It must be hard for you, knowing she’s out. When do you expect her to get in touch with your husband?’

Sara bit back a swear word and fitted the key in the lock. ‘I have no idea.’

‘It’s understandable that you’d feel threatened.’

‘I feel nothing of the sort.’

‘That’s interesting. You must be very confident of Joe’s affections.’

‘He’s my husband,’ she said incredulously. ‘Can you please leave? You can see I’m busy.’

‘Take my card,’ he said, proffering one.

She tore it in half and flung the pieces back at him. ‘Get lost.’

Davies smiled. ‘No problem. Call me if you change your mind. Beautiful baby, by the way.’

Sara slammed the front door and marched into the kitchen, putting Maeve down and struggling with the zip on her coat, almost tearing it off, she was so hot and bothered. She drank cold water straight from the tap, then sat down and pulled the iPad towards her, typed in Claudia’s name and tapped Images. Years ago, she had obsessed over Claudia’s face, hungrily examining the haunted eyes, the unwashed hair and the ugly rawness round her nostrils. Claudia had appeared confused, recoiling as cameras flashed and journalists thrust microphones into her face. Her gaze had darted around, desperate to find somewhere safe to land, while a police officer, his arm about her shoulder, warded off the crowd.

In another photograph, Joe looked like he wanted to punch someone. He was so obviously traumatised, stripped to the bone emotionally. Sara had never seen him so exposed. He kept something of himself hidden and he always would. She told herself it was natural, that it was about his ability to live in a world without his daughter, but the more she looked into those shell-shocked eyes, the more she wished he would show that vulnerability to her.

Joe ruffled Maeve’s hair. ‘I’m sorry for being such a bear.’

He kissed her on the lips. She smelled alcohol on his breath, but she didn’t say anything, even though he rarely drank during the day. It was the timing that worried her. It fed into her fear that Claudia Hartman still had the power to throw him into an emotional crisis beyond anything she could alleviate.

‘I’ve had an email from Claudia’s solicitor,’ Joe said. ‘We’re going to have to either buy her out or sell this house.’

‘You’re joking.’

When Sara had moved in five years ago, selling 26 Culloden Road had been an option, but her feeling had been that Joe wanted to stay, even though he said it was up to her; that somehow he had an idea that Tilly might come back one day. It seemed perverse, particularly to Sara’s mother, who had tried to persuade her to do the opposite, but Sara had been so keen to get it right, she’d actively encouraged him, and in the end, she found she rather liked living where Claudia Hartman had once lived.

‘Why on earth would I joke about that?’

‘You mean sell and give half the proceeds to Claudia? What happened to not allowing her to disrupt our lives?’

‘I spoke too soon.’

She waited to see if he had more to say, and when he didn’t, she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Where are we supposed to go?’

Joe made an effort to smile, to reassure her, but his expression made grim reading. ‘It’s crap, but we can get a bigger mortgage. You could go back to work. We could get rid of one of the cars.’

‘Working wouldn’t be practical while Maeve’s so tiny,’ Sara countered. ‘And I am not going to be stuck at home with a baby and no car. I’ll go mad.’

‘We both have to make difficult choices.’

‘Clearly,’ she said, hearing the bitchiness in her voice but unable to do anything about it. ‘So that the woman who ruined your life gets to spend the money. How can you even consider it? She doesn’t deserve anything. She forfeited the right to leech off you when she killed Tilly.’

He turned on her with a look that chilled her blood. ‘Will you stop it! She’s not leeching off me. You know perfectly well that the Myhills have been paying half our mortgage.’

That was a mere detail and beside the point. ‘Joe,’ she hissed. ‘You’ll upset Maeve.’

‘Sorry.’ He took his glasses off and polished them on his shirt. ‘I don’t know why I stayed here. I don’t know why I clung on to the past.’

She softened. ‘But we’ve made it ours, haven’t we? We’ve created new memories, created Maeve.’

‘We can create memories somewhere else.’

‘Perhaps you could help her out with rent or something? That would be better than us having to leave.’

‘We can only act within the law. Claudia will get what she’s legally entitled to, and then she’ll move on. At least I won’t be financially shackled to her. You don’t want that, do you?’

She shrugged away from him. Joe had had time to think about it. She’s suddenly suspicious. ‘This hasn’t come out of the blue for you, has it?’

He has the grace to look ashamed. ‘No. I just didn’t know how to tell you. I’ve spoken to an agent. I’m so sorry, but it’s happening.’

‘I was doorstepped by a journalist today. He wanted my reaction.’

Joe seemed relieved. ‘Me too. Outside the school. What did you say?’

‘I told him to get lost.’

‘Good for you. Don’t engage and they’ll get bored soon enough. I’m sure they’ll find plenty of people ready to give their considered opinion.’

‘This isn’t going to change things between us, is it?’

His eyes darkened. ‘I hope not.’

Sara smiled uncertainly. That wasn’t the response she’d been angling for.

Chapter 8

CLAUDIA

The thought of seeing Joe is all-consuming; a burning itch she can’t scratch. If Kate won’t help her, then she’s going to have to make the first approach cold. She knows it’s unwise, that she’s exhausted and overwrought, but precisely because of that, she messages him, We need to meet, then she drops the phone like it’s on fire and clamps her hands between her legs. Joe could go to the police with this. She has to believe he’s still the decent man she remembers.