Kate Simants [Simants - Lock Me In

Kate Simants was born in Devon. After studying English at university, she worked in TV production in London for ten years, specialising in undercover investigations (which was much less glamorous than it sounds), then moved from her little boat on the Thames to a bigger boat on the Avon to start a family and concentrate on writing. She holds two MAs in creative writing from Brunel University and the University of East Anglia, and has been shortlisted for the Crime Writers Association Debut Dagger and the Bath Novel Award, and won the UEA Literary Festival Prize. Kate is now a land-lubber and lives between Bristol and Bath with her family and demented cat. She is a committed faddist, and her current interests include roller-skating, macrame, and Persian cookery. To get in touch, tweet her at @katesboat or visit her website at www.katesimants.co.uk.

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Some considerable years ago, when I was filming officers at Oldham Police cut a dead man down from a tree, it occurred to me that my career in TV wasnt quite turning out the way Id hoped. So I did what only a few of us on this planet are lucky enough to do, and phoned Charlotte Cox, who told me I should be a writer instead. So thats what I did. Thanks, Auntie Charles.

Because it took such a long time to pupate into a published author, there have been many, many patient friends who have given feedback and encouragement. A comprehensive list would just be silly but Louise King, Nic Gunning, John Moyes, Tanya Cowan, Jo Fielding, Rob Stevens, and Helen Williams all deserve special mentions. Mum, Dad, and Faye: thank you for your love and support.

Writing is a very isolating job, and I wouldnt have got this far without an army of writers standing in as ersatz colleagues. Were talking legions of nerds and oddballs here, but special appreciation goes to Jess Mitchell, Harriet Tyce, Trevor Wood, Garry Abson, and Anne Corlett for help with this book, and also to Emma Shevah, Jen Faulkner, Kerry McKeagney and Harriet Kline for general writerly support. Thanks to Celia Brayfield, Fay Weldon, Maggie Gee, Henry Sutton, Tom Benn and Laura Joyce for showing me how it should be done. Late-night graduate-bar glasses should also be raised to fellow UEA alumni Marie Ogee, Stephen Collier, Merle Nygate, Suzanne Mustacich, Jenny Stone, Caroline Jennett, Geoff Smith, and Shane Horsell.

Massive thanks to my boundlessly enthusiastic agent Veronique Baxter, and to Stephanie and Jane at Gregory and Company for early support. Kathryn Cheshire and the team at HarperCollins have been a dream to work with.

Much of the police procedure in this book was learned by osmosis during my work on Crimewatch UK and other police shows, but specific advice came from DCI Steve May of Merseyside Police, the best-read copper Ive ever met and whose surname I shamelessly appropriated for Mae; DCI Matt Markham of West Midlands Police (whose demonstrations of J-turns still give me nightmares); and DI Gary Stephens of Avon and Somerset Police. Thanks also to Albinko Hasic of bosnianhistory.com.

But above all else, thanks to my gang. Prize-winning author Mo Kennedy isnt allowed to read this book yet (because of Very Bad Words that no ten-year-old should know) but has championed my career since she could say, my Mum writes stories about people murdering each other. Expert right-arm spinner and ship-builder Sid Kennedy has waited patiently (ish) for attention when my head has been in my laptop (though he would probably rather this book had a higher body-count). And then theres Tom. Thank you, Hound, for the absolute and unwavering belief in me, especially when Id had enough and decided it was all a waste of time. I bloody love you bunch of weirdos.

I woke gasping, the sheet dislodged and twisted tight around my limbs.

I kicked a leg out against the thin partition between my room and the kitchen. Through the wall I heard the radio being clicked off.

Ellie? Mums voice, muffled through the plasterboard.

Siggy went still, and became a cold, thin layer at the base of my brain. She was quiet for a few moments, then she disappeared like a flame in a vacuum, leaving just the staccato sound of my breathing.

Ellie, sweetheart? You awake?

I let my eyes open, worked my jaw and mumbled a croaky, Yeah.

It was later than Id thought. A cold screen of early winter daylight sliced through the middle of my tiny room. Motes of dust danced in its blade. I spread my hand across the bare wall. All our walls were bare, in all the flats and houses wed lived in since I was a child. We never stayed long, and whenever we left, we left in a hurry.

She gone? Mum called. She always managed to sound cheerful.

Mm-hmm. I untangled myself from the sheet and tried to swing my knees over the edge of the bed, but I couldnt do it. Too heavy. It was bad this morning, worse than usual. Soreness bloomed across my right shoulder and down my arm. I had to heave my breath in.

Just doing coffee, she said, her voice already moving away. She turned the radio back up. The track finished and was replaced by a DJ in an inoffensive, sing-song voice. I heard her unlock the crockery cupboard, taking out mugs, locking it again, setting them down.

I lay for a minute in the S-shape of warmth, trying to salvage what I could of the dream. There was a bright blue sky, and that building. Always that building, the one Id drawn as a child over and over again: long and low, as unchanging and precise as a photograph, every time. Every night.

Slowly, under the duvet, I shifted. But as I moved to push myself up, bright, brilliant pain shot across my hand, bringing tears to my eyes.

Bisecting my palm, intermittent but extending right over to the base of my thumb, was a ragged tear. Deep punctures, red and swollen. I touched it and winced: it was exquisitely sore, the flesh not yet dry.

Gingerly, I pushed away the covers and looked myself over. Across the right of my pelvis, a blue-black mess of bruising. I pressed the tip of a finger to the centre of the darkest part. The ache, bone-deep, rose up to meet it.

Where had it come from?

A fine thread of fear started to tug at me, hard. I sat up, planted my feet on the floor. Built up the courage to look at the door.

It would be locked. It had to be locked. Hadnt I heard Mum lock it? I played back the last moments of the day before. Matt had dropped me off after our quick trip to the pub near the narrowboat he was renting. Mum had made me dinner, a pasta thing we ate together in the kitchen. Id gone to bed early to read for a while. Mum had locked me in before she left for her late shift. She had.