The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Read online

Later, as I lay in bed, I kept listening for twigs cracking underfoot and rustling in the undergrowth. The hinges on the side gate were creaking and at one point I thought I heard him trying to get in through the back door. As soon as I got up this morning, I went outside again to check for footprints and patches of flattened grass, but he’d covered his tracks well. If he comes back tonight, I’ll be ready for him. There must be weapons in Dolly’s shed that I can use. Spades, pitchforks, a hammer …

  I pull myself up short. No, no, that won’t work. I must put all thoughts of violence aside. There is too much at stake, too much to lose. I have to pretend to make friends with the ghastly Bob and Barbara and banish all suspicions from their minds. A cake will do it. Muffins, perhaps. Blueberry or chocolate chip. I’ve never made a cake in my life, but I’m sure I can whip up something edible. Besides, it’s the gesture that counts rather than the quality of the baking. Sunday is the perfect day for acts of kindness. Nobody will suspect me if I come bearing gifts.

  Resolved, I drag Mabel’s bouncy chair into the kitchen, parking her by the back door while I search for suitable equipment. She watches me curiously as I rummage through Great-Aunt Dolly’s cupboards, pulling out a large biscuit-coloured mixing bowl, a plastic sieve and a metal patty tin with spaces for twelve little fairy cakes.

  ‘Pity I can’t look up a recipe online,’ I moan, reaching for the most battered-looking cookery book on the shelf. Motes of ancient dust are stuck to its greasy cover, the spine is in tatters, and several pages fall out as I open it up. I turn to the baking section. ‘Here we go … Hmm … butter, caster sugar, eggs, self-raising flour … none of which we’ve got.’ I sigh loudly. ‘What a nuisance. We’ll have to make a trip to the shops.’

  Taking Mabel out is a risk, but it’ll be worth it. Anything to get Bob and Barbara off my back. I make a quick list and put some cash in my pocket, then dress my darling in her pink snowsuit. She’s not very impressed by the idea of an outing and fights me as I buckle her into the car seat.

  The weather is miserable – leaden skies and a biting wind. Deciding to avoid the nearest village, where I might bump into the locals, I drive northwards. Ideally I need to find a large out-of-town supermarket where everyone is busy doing their own shopping and won’t give us a second look. I won’t be able to leave Mabel in the car; I’ll have to push her around in the buggy. I’ll drape a little blanket over the hood so that nobody can see her face. Parents do that all the time when a baby’s sleeping. Nobody will think it out of the ordinary. We’ll be fine. Just a quick nip in and out, pick up the stuff, pay in cash …

  I drive along the twisty lanes, negotiating a series of bends, hugging the hedgerows where the road narrows, shifting gear to climb the hills, swerving to avoid ruts and puddles. Mabel falls asleep and thoughts of the past skitter through my mind.

  This was the route we took when we first visited Midsummer Cottage, although we were travelling in the opposite direction. It was a Friday evening; we’d both left work early, hoping to miss the weekend exodus from London. The car was packed with food and booze and there was love in the air. After some rocky times, we were going through a settled phase and I was feeling more confident. We hadn’t had an argument for weeks.

  I insisted on being at the wheel for the last bit of the journey. It made me feel more in control of the situation. This was my cottage, my inheritance. I was more than happy to share my good fortune but I needed it to be understood that for once, I was in charge. Stupid, really. I never was in the driving seat of that relationship. Not that I care any more. When we’re back together, I’ll be content to play second fiddle.

  I glance across at the empty seat next to me and make a silent plea to the ghost sitting there. Please come and find us. You know where we are. Don’t make me wait much longer. Mabel needs you. I need you. It’s time to be a family.

  After a few miles, the road widens and straightens, and we reach a roundabout. Following a promising sign, I eventually reach a small retail park on the outskirts of the next town. The place is heaving with Sunday shoppers. Perfect, I think, pulling into a space.

  As soon as the engine stops, Mabel annoyingly starts to stir. I get out of the car and open the boot, removing the buggy I bought in anticipation of many happy outings. I haven’t had the chance to use it yet. I give it a shake, expecting it to open and fall effortlessly into position, but nothing happens. Perhaps it’s fastened, I think, examining the handles and legs. Strangely, there doesn’t seem to be anything to press or twist or undo.

  Mabel is properly awake now and making grumpy noises from the car seat. ‘Won’t be a minute!’ I call, turning the contraption this way and that with an increasingly puzzled look on my face. How the hell does the damn thing unfold?

  ‘Having problems?’ says a voice. Looking up, I see a young woman standing over me wearing leggings and a large waterproof coat with a fur-rimmed hood. She has a toddler in a pushchair – a far cheaper model than Mabel’s – who’s sitting quietly, stuffing his face with crisps. Bags of shopping swing from hooks on the handlebar.

  ‘No, it’s just I … er …’ I falter.

  ‘Need help?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘New, is it?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The buggy.’

  ‘Yes,’ I mutter, turning my face away from her, trying to avoid eye contact. I’m getting hot, my fingers are sweating, fumbling at the mechanism. Mabel starts to cry.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says the girl. ‘Somebody’s not happy.’ She walks around to the other side of the car, bending down to peer into the side window.

  My heart almost stops. She’s looking right at Mabel, her face pressed close to the glass.

  ‘Oh bless! She’s all upset because she can’t see you. It’s okay, darling, you haven’t been abandoned,’ she soothes.

  I want the nosy bitch to move away from the car. Mabel’s face is in everybody’s news feed; it’s probably on the front of all the Sunday newspapers today. She could so easily recognise her. And here I am behaving like an idiot, unable to perform the simplest parental task. I might as well have ‘abductor’ tattooed across my forehead. I hurl the buggy to the ground, swearing under my breath.

  She straightens up. ‘Sure you don’t want help?’

  ‘Yes! Just leave me alone!’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on.’ She shoots me a hostile look. ‘What’s your problem?’

  I pick up the buggy and fling it back into the boot, then get into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut. She puts her face up to the window, and tells me to get a life. I turn the ignition and hurriedly reverse out of the space without looking properly. There’s a horrible moment when I can’t see her toddler and slam on the brakes. But he’s safe, stowed at her side.

  So much for the low-profile in-and-out approach, I think bitterly as I zoom out of the car park. I made a complete spectacle of myself back there – how stupid was that? I don’t think she recognised Mabel. At least, I hope not. But maybe she memorised the number on the licence plate. Maybe she’s calling the police right now.

  I drive back towards the roundabout, constantly checking the rear mirror, listening for the sound of sirens. Mabel is still crying, her sobs building towards a crescendo. I imagine her tears filling up the car, our chins bobbing above the waterline as we gasp for air.

  ‘You’re driving me nuts!’ I shout. ‘Shut up! For God’s sake, just shut up!’

  My hands are sweating, sliding off the steering wheel. The engine surges as I put my foot down, and jolts when I release the clutch. I’m driving like a learner; my timing gone to pot. Got to concentrate. Make sure we get home in one piece. Forget the shopping, forget the baking. It was a stupid idea anyway. Fuck the Nosy Neighbours, they can go to hell.

  Mabel’s screams are drilling a hole in the back of my head. As I swivel around to shout at her again, I catch sight of something in my peripheral vision: a large solid shape coming around the bend towards us. I whip back, but it’s too late; I’
ve drifted too far into the middle of the road and now the large solid shape – a truck – is bearing down on us. As I pull sharply to my left, it clips me on the front wing, only slightly, but enough to send the car shooting across the tarmac like a silver ball in a game of bagatelle. We bounce off the hedge, then lurch back, heading for the opposite bank. I slam on the brakes and everything goes into slow motion. The wheels screech and rubber burns. We spin around, missing a tree by centimetres, skimming a fence and finally stopping just short of a hefty farm gate.

  My heart is thumping out of my chest. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and try to steady my panting breaths.

  Gradually I become aware of the stillness around me. Everything has gone deathly quiet. The engine has stalled. Mabel is no longer crying. Oh God, what if she’s hurt? I don’t dare look round.

  Suddenly the passenger door opens and the red face of the truck driver looms in. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ he barks. ‘‘You were on the wrong side of the bloody road. We could have both been killed.’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ I protest. ‘You came around the bend way too fast.’

  ‘Bloody didn’t. It was you that—’ He spots Mabel and immediately softens his tone. ‘Christ, I didn’t realise you had a kiddie in the back. Is she okay?’

  I turn to look at her. She’s staring at me stony-faced, bottom lip pushed out, eyes narrowed in judgement. ‘Yes, by the look of it.’

  ‘And yourself?’

  ‘Fine. Just a bit shocked. I thought I was going to end up in the ditch.’

  There’s a pause. I think he’s expecting me to get out and inspect the damage to the car, but I really don’t want to. There’s been far too much face-to-face contact already.

  ‘Right, well I guess we’d better call the police,’ he says, taking his mobile out of his pocket.

  ‘No, no, don’t do that,’ I reply hastily. ‘There’s no need. We’re not hurt, the damage is minimal. I’m sure neither of us wants the fuss.’

  He frowns. ‘You have to report it or you can’t claim on the insurance.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be claiming. Can’t be bothered.’ He looks at me doubtfully. ‘I’m sure the damage is minimal, and you’re right, it was my fault. My excess is horrendous, it’s not worth it.’

  He looks back at his vehicle, parked on the verge. ‘Hmm, the truck’s okay. Maybe a slight scratch where we made contact … nothing much, not worth fixing. I must admit, I could do without the paperwork.’

  ‘Exactly. And it’s Sunday. We could be ages waiting for the police to turn up.’

  Our eyes lock. I sense him weighing up the situation, deciding whether to agree to break the law. If he calls the police, I’ll have no choice but to drive off at speed. He’s thinking I don’t have a driving licence, or proper insurance. Will he take pity on me?

  ‘There’s no real damage to your vehicle,’ I say, giving him a pleading look. ‘Does either of us really want the bother?’

  ‘Hmm …’ His eyes flick back to Mabel, who rewards him with a half-smile.

  ‘I can’t see the point in involving the police,’ I add. ‘It’ll be such a hassle.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I’m behind with my deliveries as it is. If you’re happy, I’m happy.’ We exchange a few more pleasantries, then he returns to his truck and pulls away.

  I drive back to the bungalow at a snail’s pace, trembling as I think of the narrow escape I’ve just had. That was close. Too close. I can’t let all my plans fail for the sake of a stupid road accident. We’re going to have to stay at home from now on, and only go out when it’s absolutely necessary.

  Pulling onto the driveway, I park up and turn off the engine. It’s a relief to be home, but I’m still breathing too fast and my nerves are on edge. Oddly, there hasn’t been a peep out of Mabel since we crashed. Nor has she fallen asleep again. I get out of the car and open the rear passenger door.

  She glares at me as I undo her straps. ‘No need to sulk, madam,’ I say. ‘It was your fault we had the accident. I’ve had enough of your screaming. Do that again and I’ll dump you in the ditch and drive away.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Day Eight without Mabel

  Amber takes the casserole and puts it down on the granite worktop.

  ‘I was going to bring flowers,’ says Polly. ‘Then I thought, no, make her one of your lamb tagines. I don’t suppose you feel like cooking at the moment.’ She moves towards the table and parks herself on one of the dining chairs.

  Amber tries to suppress a frown. Why ever did she agree to Polly ‘popping by’? She could easily have told the officer guarding the door to send away all visitors, even so-called friends bearing gifts.

  ‘Have you lost weight?’ Polly says, scrutinising her.

  ‘Not deliberately.’

  ‘I didn’t mean … I just …’ She falters. ‘I can’t imagine … The stress must be unbearable.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Do you want a tea?’

  ‘Please. Do you want me to make it?’

  ‘It’s okay, I can still boil a kettle.’

  ‘Of course.’ Polly shrugs apologetically. ‘It’s the little everyday actions that keep you going, I expect.’ Amber plonks a tea bag in a mug and pours over hot water. ‘The other mums send their love, by the way. We’ve given out hundreds – I mean literally hundreds – of lengths of lilac ribbon. The response has been fantastic, they are everywhere. People are mad keen to help. We want to launch a Find Mabel campaign on social media. We’ve already had offers of sponsorship for T-shirts, posters, leaflets, Facebook ads, but it needs you and George to front it.’ She stops and draws breath. ‘You may not realise it, but the negative press your family’s getting is terrible, Amber. There are all sorts of disgusting rumours flying around. The police can’t protect you forever.’ She trails off, stalled by Amber’s hostile expression.

  ‘I know you all mean well, but I’m not interested in being the new Kate McCann.’ Amber walks across the room and bangs the mug on the table.

  ‘Well, who would? But that’s not what I meant.’ Polly picks up the mug and sniffs its contents curiously. ‘We’re really worried for you, Amber. You’re already getting death threats; if you don’t start being more proactive—’

  ‘Shut up, Polly!’ Amber shouts. ‘I don’t need you or your opinions, or your T-shirts or posters or fucking lilac ribbons.’ She shoves the casserole across the counter. ‘And you can take back your Le Creuset while you’re about it too. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can barely manage to wash and dress myself. You have no idea of the hell I’m going through. I don’t give a shit what people are saying about me. All I want is Mabel back.’

  ‘That’s all we want too,’ replies Polly stiffly. She puts down the mug without taking a sip. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I was trying to show my support, trying to help. But if I’m not wanted …’

  Amber sighs. ‘Look, things are really difficult right now. I need some time to myself.’

  ‘By the way,’ Polly says, rising, ‘Sonya rang me from India. She was very upset that she’d been a suspect, but I managed to calm her down. We had a long chat about George …’ She walks towards the door, the words trailing behind her like a toxic cloud.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, obviously you know …’

  Amber feels the blood draining from her extremities. ‘Know what?’

  ‘Sonya feels really guilty about what happened,’ Polly carries on. ‘But as I said to her, it takes two. And it wasn’t as if she was the only one. Anyway, she wanted me to tell you that George definitely wasn’t the father of the baby she lost.’

  Amber’s head starts to swim. This can’t be true. It can’t be true. Yes, George can be a flirt. He’s gorgeous and fit; women queue up to have him as their personal trainer, especially the older ones, but surely … surely he’d never …

  ‘Sonya’s lying,’ she says firmly.

  Polly lingers at the threshold, observing her reaction. ‘Oh God, you didn�
��t know … Sonya told the police, so she assumed it had all come out. I’m so sorry. Oh dear, now I feel awful. I came here to help—’

  ‘No you didn’t, you came to gloat,’ Amber spits. ‘Get out, Polly.’

  Polly holds up her hands. ‘Hey, don’t blame the messenger. We’re on your side. All we want to do is find Mabel.’

  Amber picks up the casserole, its weight tempting her to throw it at Polly’s head. ‘Take this and fuck off out of my life.’

  Polly snatches the pot back. ‘Charming,’ she says. ‘That’s the thanks I get. Don’t worry. I’ll see myself out.’ She swings around and exits. Amber only just manages to stop herself pushing the woman down the stairs.

  It’s early evening when Sally rings, rousing Amber from a strange delirious sleep. After Polly dropped her bombshell, a migraine came on. She threw up and collapsed on the bed, feeling as if she’d drunk two crates of wine rather than only two glasses.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ she rasps. Her teeth feel slimy, while her tongue is as rough as sandpaper.

  ‘We’ve located George,’ says Sally. ‘But it’s tricky. We need your help to bring him in.’

  ‘Why? Where is he?’

  ‘At Batley Reservoir. He’s in a bad way, won’t come out of the water. Will you talk to him?’

  Never again, Amber thinks, if what Polly told her is true.

  ‘Amber? Can you be ready in five minutes?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘I’m on my way. Oh, and wrap up warm. It’s freezing out there.’

  Sally ends the call, leaving Amber in a daze. She doesn’t want to see George. She doesn’t care about him. He’s a violent monster. A sexual predator. A hypocrite. But the police are coming. They’re expecting her to help. And they already know about his reputation anyway. Oh, the shame of it …

  She puts on her thickest jumper and double-layered socks, then washes her face and combs her hair, tucking it under a woollen beanie. Going downstairs, she takes her winter coat off the peg and stuffs her arms into the sleeves. The jumper is so bulky she can only just do up the buttons, and she struggles to bend down as she pulls on her boots. Next, she slips on the knitted gloves George put in her stocking last Christmas. They’re soft and beautiful, the perfect match for the emerald-green coat. What a bastard …