Acknowledgements
During the writing of this book, I received a lot of help and inspiration from the following people: Lisanne Radice, Jenny Hewson, Anneberth Lux, Mark and Cal Pannone, Guy Mart-land, Tom Palmer, James Nash, Steve Mosby, Wendy Wootton, Dan Jones, Jenny, Adle and Norman Geras, Susan Richardson, Suzie Crookes, Aimee Jacques, Katie Hill, Dominic Gregory and Rosanna Keefe, Nicky Holdsworth, Vikki Massarano, Chris Tulley, David Welsh, Anthony, Susan and Ben Rae, Jo Colley, Rebecca Hossack, Ana Finel Honigman, Fiona Harrold, Jill Birch, Christine Parsons, Morgan White, John Silver, Nicholas Van Der Vliet, Alison Steven, Nat Jansz, Anne Grey, Debra Craine, Adrian Searle, Neil Winn, Tony Weir, Swithun Cooper, Paula Cuddy, Hannah Pescod, Will Peterson.
I am particularly grateful to my superb agent Peter Straus, and my fantastic and lovely publishers, Hodder and Stoughton, especially Carolyn Mays, Kate Howard and Karen Geary, without whose expertise and support I hope never to find myself, and Alasdair Oliver whose jacket designs are to my books what Gok Wan is to frumpy women.
Finally, Id like to thank all the readers who have written to meyour letters, more than any other inducement, keep me motivated to write the next book.
The Future Famous Five article took its inspiration from a real newspaper feature with the same title written by Imogen Edwards-Jones and published in The Times in 1999.
AVAILABLE FROMPENGUIN
ISBN 978-0-14-311408-6
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ISBN 978-0-14-311630-1
The Wrong Mother
Sally Thorning is watching the news with her husband when she hears an unexpected nameMark Bretherick. Its a name she shouldnt know, but last year Sally treated herself to a secret vacation and met a man. After their brief affair, the two planned to never meet again. But now, Marks wife and daughter are dead and the safety of Sallys own family is in doubt.
Friday 29 Feb 2008
Here she is. I see her face in profile and only for a second as her car passes me, but Im sure its her. Detective Sergeant Charlotte Zailer. If she drives past the part of the car park thats reserved for visitors, Ill know Im right.
She does. I watch her silver Audi slow down and stop in one of the spaces marked Police Parking Only. I reach into my coat pockets, allowing my red-cold hands to rest in the fleecy warmth for a few seconds, then pull out the article from the Rawndesley and Spilling Telegraph. As Charlotte Zailer gets out of her car, unaware of my presence, I unfold it and look at the picture again. The same high cheekbones, the same narrow but full mouth, the same small, bony chin. Its definitely her, though her hair is longer now, shoulder-length, and today she isnt wearing glasses. She isnt crying, either. In the small black and white picture, there are tears on her cheeks. I wonder why she didnt wipe them away, knowing the press were there with their cameras. Perhaps someone had told her it would go down better with the public if she looked distraught.
She hitches her brown leather bag over her shoulder and starts to walk towards the looming red-brick building that casts a long, square shadow over the car park: Spilling Police Station. I instruct myself to follow her, but my legs dont move. Shivering, I huddle beside my car. The winter sun warming my face makes my body feel colder by contrast.
There is no connection between the building in front of me and the only other police station I have been insidethis is what I must tell myself. They are simply two buildings, in the way that cinemas and restaurants are also buildings, and I am never stiff with fear when I walk past Spilling Picture House or the Bay Tree Bistro.
Detective Sergeant Zailer is moving slowly towards the entrance: double glass doors with a sign saying Reception above them. She fumbles in her handbag. Its the sort I like leastlong and squashy, with a silly number of zips, buckles and protruding side pockets. She pulls out a packet of Marlboro Lights, throws it back in, then pulls out her mobile phone and stops for a moment, jabbing the keys with her long-nailed thumb. I could easily catch her up.
Go. Move. I stay where I am.
This time is nothing like last time, I tell myself. This time I am here by choice.
If you can call it that.
I am here because the only alternative would be to go back to Marys house.
Frustrated, I clamp my mouth shut to stop my teeth chattering. All my books advocate the technique of repeating encouraging mantras in your head. Useless. You can issue yourself with sensible instructions endlessly, but making those words take root in your mind and govern how you truly feel is another matter. Why do so many people believe that words have an innate authority?
A lie I told as a teenager pushes to the front of my mind. I pretended Id said something similar to my father about the Bible, boasted to my friends about the terrible row it caused. Its only words, Dad. Someone, or maybe lots of people, sat down thousands of years ago and made it up, the whole lot. They wrote a book. Like Jackie Collins. The lie was easy to tell because those words were always in my head, though I lacked the courage ever to speak them aloud. My school friends knew Jackie Collins was my favourite writer; they had no idea that I hid her books under my bed inside empty sanitary-towel packets.
Disgust finally gets me moving: the realisation that Im thinking about my father in order to dishearten myself, offering myself an excuse to give up. Charlotte Zailer is heading towards the doors, about to disappear inside. I start to run towards her. Something has found its way into my shoe and its hurting my foot. Im going to be too late; by the time I reach reception, shell be in an office somewhere, making a coffee, starting her days work. Wait! I yell. Please, wait!
She stops, turns. She has been unbuttoning her coat on her way up the steps, and I see shes wearing a uniform. Doubt stills me, like an invisible blow to the legs, then I lurch forward again, staggering. Detective sergeants dont wear uniforms. What if it isnt her?
She is walking towards me. She must think Im drunk, swaying all over the car park. Are you after me? she calls out.
Other people are looking at me too, those getting into and out of their cars; they heard me shout, heard the desperation in my voice. My worst nightmare, to be seen by everybody. Strangers. I cant speak. Im confused, hot and cold at the same time, in different parts of my body. I cant work out any more if I want this woman to be Charlotte Zailer or not.
She draws level with me. Are you all right? she asks.
I step back. The thing in my shoe presses into the skin between my little toe and the next one as I put my weight on my left foot. Are you Detective Sergeant Charlotte Zailer?
