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  This one’s for Lizzy and Caroline with love and thanks

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter One

  ‘We will shortly be arriving at Manchester Piccadilly station. Change here for trains to London Euston, Liverpool Lime Street and Edinburgh International. Manchester Piccadilly, your next station stop in approximately two minutes. All change, please.’

  As the train nosed its way along the platform, the carriage became a bustle of activity: bags hauled down from the overhead shelf, dog-eared newspapers abandoned on seats, phones stuffed into pockets. Rachel Jackson was already one step ahead, in a line of people snaking back from the doors, jolting against the luggage rack as the train braked to a jerky halt.

  ‘Manchester Piccadilly, this is Manchester Piccadilly. All change, please. All change.’

  This was it. She had made it. Her adrenalin surged as the doors were unlocked and the hot crush of passengers began spilling out onto the platform. She followed numbly, not caring as someone’s suitcase bashed against her legs. Hello, Manchester, she thought, stepping down from the train. I’m here to get some answers. Do you have any for me?

  The station felt enormous after Hereford, a cavernous space, the ceiling criss-crossed with an intricate grid of struts and girders, the tannoy echoing around them. It was early June, and the school run that morning had promised milky sunshine breaking through the clouds, but the air felt cool now and she pulled her pale-grey cardigan around her as she walked along the platform amidst a stream of other travellers. Nerves prickled through her. Now that she was here, she felt overwhelmed. The enormity of what she was doing began to pound like a drum-beat, louder and faster. Did she even want to find out the truth any more?

  Yes, she reminded herself resolutely, striding forward. Yes, I do. After all the lies she’d been told, she needed to know, had to see this through.

  There was an impatient crowd building around the ticket barriers, people muttering crossly as first a group of Japanese tourists seemed to have lost their tickets, and then an elderly couple held up another aisle by getting a tartan shopping trolley caught in the electronic gates. The agitation was infectious and Rachel felt her irritation rise. Come on, come on. Hurry up. If she paused like this much longer, she might change her mind about the whole thing. She had to keep moving, maintain momentum.

  Finally, it was her turn to post her ticket through the gateway with clammy fingers and be released into the main concourse, which buzzed with all human life. There were hordes of people in every direction, dragging suitcases, barking into mobile phones, hurrying towards their trains. A woman with killer heels and a briefcase barged into her without seeming to notice, barely breaking stride. The tannoy bing-bonged, mothers hauled along small children, a group of Scandi-looking teenagers with enormous backpacks and enviably tanned legs stood arguing over a map.

  Rachel felt small, quiet and anonymous as she gazed around for signs to the exit and taxi rank. Miles away from the green hills and farmland of home, nobody knew her here, or had any idea that she’d even made the journey. ‘A meeting,’ she’d said vaguely to Sara over the road when she’d arranged for her to pick up Luke and Scarlet from school later that afternoon. ‘I’ll be back by five at the latest.’ A flying visit, that was all. She’d phoned from the train to double check that Violet was at work that day – ‘Yes, she’s here, let me put you through,’ a nice lady had said but Rachel had hung up instantly, heart hammering. No. Not on the phone. It had to be face to face, where she could look into the other woman’s eyes and hear the full story.

  Oh God. It was terrifying. What might Violet have to say?

  Maybe she should have an espresso before she headed off, she decided, weakening as she spotted a nearby stall and breathed in cinnamon, coffee, vanilla. There was plenty of time, after all, and she could do with something to rev her up, give her that last push onwards. One sharp hit of caffeine and she would feel ready to jump in a cab, just do it, no more dithering. Up and at ’em, kiddo, as her dad used to say.

  She joined the queue, her mind a jumble of worries, snagging once again on the incriminating newspaper report she’d discovered, the conversation at her father’s funeral that had opened this whole can of worms. Did your dad ever . . . mention me? She wished she had never met Violet now. Even coming here seemed too reckless an idea all of a sudden. What if the whole thing was a wild goose chase?

  Lost in her doubts, she jumped at the sound of a male voice behind her. ‘Excuse me, love?’

  She turned expectantly but as she did so, someone grabbed her handbag from the other side, catching her unawares. ‘Hey!’ she cried, her hands flying up to pull it back, but in the next moment she’d been shoved hard from behind, lost her balance and was falling, falling, falling . . .

  There was just time to dimly register the sensation of her bag being snatched from her grasp and the sound of running footsteps, before her head smashed against the ground. Then everything went black.

  ‘She’s what? She’s missing?’ Becca repeated into the phone, then turned away slightly from the distracting sight of her flatmate Meredith, who was plucking a lute at the other end of the sofa. Meredith was a member of a Medieval Re-Enactment Society and spent most of her weekends in a cloak. The lute-playing was a new and unwelcome sideshoot of this hobby. ‘Say that again, sorry,’ Becca said, putting down her half-eaten slice of pizza in order to concentrate.

  ‘Five o’clock, she told me,’ came the woman’s voice down the line, breathless and rather indignant. ‘Five o’clock at the latest! And she’s not answering her mobile, none of the children have a clue where she is . . . I mean – it’s not like her, is it? I don’t know what to think. Should I call the police? She’s not with you, is she?’

  Becca was finding it hard to process all this information, delivered in such a rapid-fire burst, especially with Meredith still twanging tunelessly beside her, seemingly oblivious to the phone call. ‘No, she’s not with me,’ she said, getting up from the sofa and walking across the room to the ‘kitchen area’ as the landlord had optimistically termed it. She wiped a scatter of toast crumbs from the worktop with her free hand, vowing to do a proper clean-up tomorrow. ‘I don’t really . . .’

  ‘Well, Mabel sugges
ted we ring you, that’s all. I didn’t know who else to try! Obviously I’d have the children here a bit longer myself only we’re meant to be going out, Alastair and I – oh sorry, that’s my husband. We’ve had theatre tickets booked for ages and I’m not sure the babysitter can cope with another three as well as my two. And they can’t sleep here anyway, the spare room is full of Alastair’s gym equipment right now. I have told him to clear it all out, several times, but you know what men are like—’

  Becca held the phone away from her ear a little. The woman – Sara, had she said? Sandra? – was very shrill and very loud and seemed to have developed the skill of speaking continuously without needing to take a breath. Impressive lung capacity, she thought idly, chucking out the used tea-bags at the side of the sink. Perhaps she was a deep-sea diver in her spare time. ‘Right,’ she said, when there was finally a pause. After all that, she wasn’t sure what to say. It was sweet of her niece Mabel to have put forward her name but Becca hadn’t actually spoken to Rachel for over a year. The two stepsisters weren’t exactly joined at the hip.

  ‘So what time do you think you can get here?’

  Whoa. Without warning, Sara had suddenly cut to the chase. ‘Get there? What, you mean to . . .?’ Shit. Was she for real? Becca was due to start her shift at the White Horse in forty minutes and hadn’t even finished her tea yet, let alone started making herself look halfway decent.

  ‘Mabel thought you were the best person to call, that’s all. Seeing as you’re family, and everything. She said she can look after the younger two until you get there. Our side of Birmingham, isn’t it, where you live? So you could be in Hereford within . . . what, an hour or so? Hour and twenty? That should be okay.’

  ‘Well, yes, theoretically, but . . .’ But I do have a job, actually, a sweaty pub kitchen where I’m supposed to be working tonight, and the children barely know me, more to the point. She grimaced, wishing the woman hadn’t said that bit about Mabel thinking she was the best person to call. Becca had always been a sucker for compliments. One kind word and she was anyone’s.

  ‘Thank goodness! I’ll tell the children. Mabel! Your aunty’s on her way, okay? Just in case Mum is much later.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Becca tried saying. The woman was like a steamroller. Why wasn’t she running the country already?

  ‘So should I hang fire on the police, do you think? They’d probably only tell me to wait twenty-four hours, wouldn’t they? And she is a grown woman, obviously. Nobody’s kidnapped her or anything. Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that, I think Luke just heard me. Don’t worry, darling! Mummy’s fine! Probably just . . . well, you know. Doing something else.’

  Becca gazed out of the window onto the high street below, letting the monologue rush from the phone, like an unstoppable current. She’d last seen Rachel thirteen months ago at their dad’s funeral when they’d made stilted chit-chat about buffet arrangements and the order of service. Becca had been late – a traffic nightmare – and had had to creep through the church hall murmuring ‘Sorry, excuse me, sorry,’ all the way up to the front row where Rachel had given her a look so reproachful Becca felt her toes curl just remembering. It had been longer still since she’d seen her nieces and nephew – a year and a half, she guessed; Christmas at Mum and Dad’s. Luke must have been five then, dark-haired with the most enormous black-lashed violet eyes, painfully shy with everyone except his mother. Even Lawrence, Rachel’s suave, confident husband, couldn’t coax him into . . . Hold on a minute.

  ‘Wait,’ she said again, louder this time. Of course – she should have asked straightaway. It was ridiculous that they’d even gone this far down the conversational path. ‘Where’s Lawrence, then? Can’t he just hold the fort until Rachel gets back?’

  There was a moment’s silence from Sara. A strange, wary sort of silence. ‘Lawrence?’ she repeated, then gave a nervous laugh. ‘Well . . . Lawrence moved out at the end of last year. They’ve split up. Didn’t you know?’

  Chapter Two

  Several hours earlier

  ‘Hello there, chick, can you hear me? I think she’s coming round, Jim. Can you hear me, love?’

  Rachel opened her eyes to find herself staring up at a woman in a green uniform who had long corn-coloured hair in a side plait. Christ, her head was pounding. Thumping as if it might break. She could taste blood in her mouth, metallic and warm, and her nose twitched with the tang of disinfectant. What on earth . . .?

  ‘There we are! Hello, I’m Cathy, a paramedic, we’re on our way to the hospital. Do you remember what happened?’

  She was lying on a narrow bed, and could hear an engine rumbling. Ambulance, she thought dazedly. Her head hurt. Her jaw, too. She shut her eyes again, unable to make sense of what was going on. Just a funny dream. Go back to sleep. That was what she always said to the children if they woke in the night.

  ‘You were knocked out, lovey. Flattened, by the sound of it. Couple of thugs pinched your handbag and took off at the train station, do you remember?’

  The woman had a northern accent, Rachel noticed woozily. Like in Coronation Street. Dad’s favourite. What was she on about, though – handbag? Train station? None of it made sense. Where was her handbag, anyway? It had her keys in. She needed them to get into the house. Key of the door. Door of the key. What was it again?

  ‘We’re just going to the hospital now because you were out cold for a few minutes and your face is rather bashed up, okay? Try to keep still, that’s it. Can you tell me your name?’

  Rachel blinked. Her name. Yes. She tried to open her mouth to reply but a roaring pain seized her jaw and she could only moan. Her face throbbed. Her body ached all over. There was a ringing in her ears, high and piercing, unrelenting. Was this a dream? It must be. She was safely at home in bed really, and this was all a peculiar dream. Go back to sleep.

  ‘Okay, don’t worry about it for the minute, we’re almost there,’ she heard the woman say. Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, as if she was down a tunnel or across a busy road. Rachel thought of the Coronation Street music and how her dad had always yelled up the stairs to her as it started. The mournful-sounding notes. That ginger cat in the opening credits, padding along a wall. She and Dad cuddled up on the old brown sofa in companionable silence together back in the day, her sucking fizzy cola bottles, him with a whisky mac.

  Then the blackness rolled up once more, engulfing her, and everything melted away.

  ‘So we arrived at the scene shortly after eleven-thirty, to be told that this lady had been knocked to the floor in the train station by a couple of bag-snatchers. She doesn’t have any ID and we don’t know her name. When we got there, she had been unresponsive for several minutes according to witnesses although she came round briefly in the ambulance and seemed confused. Suspected fracturing of the jaw and possibly cheekbone, her wrist is definitely broken . . .’

  The woman was talking again. A rich, friendly voice, with that lovely accent. Rachel wondered who the poor lady was that they were discussing before realizing with a shock that it must be her. Her eyes snapped open in a panic and she stared around at her surroundings, trying to make sense of them. Doctors, nurses, the blonde woman in green, all looming above her like something from a nightmare.

  ‘Hello there,’ one of the doctors said, noticing her. He was wiry and brown-skinned with a shaved head and soft brown eyes. ‘What’s your name, can you tell us?’

  Again, she opened her mouth in an attempt to speak but the pain ricocheted through her like an electric current, taking her breath away. ‘Uh . . .’ was all she could groan, tasting warm salty blood on her lips.

  Rachel, she wanted to say. I’m Rachel. As she thought the words, the darkness that had filled her head began to recede around the edges, like smoke dispersing. Mother of Mabel and Scarlet and Luke, she remembered, pinning down each fact like pieces in a jigsaw. Thirty-nine years old, birthday November fifth. Dad’s little firework baby, he used to say.

  ‘Don’t worry, we�
�re going to give you some morphine, that’ll take the pain away,’ someone said and she closed her eyes, feeling defeated. She still couldn’t work out what she was doing there. There was a gaping hole in her mind, blank and unfathomable, when it came to what had happened, and how she had ended up in this state. It was a mystery. Something about a train station, she vaguely recalled the blonde woman saying, but where?

  Strangest of all was that everyone was speaking in northern accents except for the nurse with curly dark hair who said to her ‘Sharp scratch coming up!’ in broad Glaswegian. (Sharp scratch, my foot, Rachel thought, trying not to yelp. Dirty great stab, more like.) It was as if she’d been transplanted into another world. A confusing, painful world, where nothing made sense.

  She felt the morphine spread dreamily around her body as she was X-rayed and scanned, and it was like falling slowly through water; down, down, into the depths of the ocean. The doctors conversed in low voices just out of earshot. ‘Can you feel this?’ they asked, prodding and poking at her. ‘How about this? Oh, she’s gone again.’ ‘Hello? Can you hear me? I’m Geraldine the registrar, I need to ask you a few silly questions. Can you remember your name?’

  Of course she could remember her name! She wasn’t an idiot. She was a mother, a wife. Oh – wait. An ex-wife. Shit. It was all such a muddle. What time was it anyway? She had to get back to collect the children before three; Mabel was old enough to walk home from secondary school alone or with mates now, but Rachel still picked up Scarlet and Luke from primary every day. Their faces floated up through the dark murk of her mind; they’d be pale with anxiety if she wasn’t there. Where’s Mum?

  Rachel felt panicky at the image, forcing herself to claw her way back up through the morphine haze. ‘My children,’ she tried to say to the woman at the bedside, but her voice didn’t work properly and the sound came out slurred and wrong. This was horrible. Like a really disturbing dream. Had she suffered a stroke? Why was everything so strange? Help me!, she tried to telegraph with her eyes. Help!