Bring Me Back: The gripping Sunday Times bestseller now with an explosive new ending!
Bring Me Back: The gripping Sunday Times bestseller now with an explosive new ending!
B. A. Paris
The million-copy bestselling author returns with a breathtaking thriller – now with exclusive new chapters to see how the story could have ended. This Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller has been updated with bonus chapters from B A Paris showing how she originally planned that ending.‘We’re in a new Golden Age of suspense writing now, because of amazing books like Bring Me Back’ Lee ChildFinn and Layla: young and in love, their whole lives ahead of them. Driving back from a holiday in France one night, Finn pulls in to a service station, leaving Layla alone in the car. When he returns, minutes later, Layla has vanished, never to be seen again. That’s the story Finn tells the police. It’s the truth – but not the whole truth.Twelve years later, Finn has built a new life with Ellen, Layla’s sister, when he receives a phone call. Someone has seen Layla. But is it her – or someone pretending to be her? If it is her, what does she want? And what does she know about the night she disappeared?Bring Me Back is the utterly compelling, white-knuckle thriller from Sunday Times bestseller B A Paris.‘An addictive new voice in suspense fiction’ Sophie Hannah‘Just finished this BRILLIANT book…Clever, addictive and twisty, I couldn’t sleep until I found out the truth…The twist floored me! Utterly compelling from beginning to end’ Claire Douglas‘Made me stay up way beyond my bedtime! BA Paris has a knack for getting into your head.’ Jane Corry‘A page-turning masterpiece’ Amanda Prowse‘A tale of dark secrets, with mystery and intrigue building up and up to an ending with a fabulous twist. I devoured it – I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough.’ Mel Sherratt‘This book is compulsive reading from start to finish. A perfectly crafted work of art, seamless and mesmerising. I envy those yet to read it for the pleasure they have in store.’ Amanda Robson‘A cracking page turner with a killer twist.' Camilla Way‘An incredibly pacy, heart-pounding thriller – the twist at the end left me reeling. B A Paris does it again in this exhilarating exploration of love, jealousy and betrayal. A must read for 2018!’ Phoebe Morgan
Everyone is talking about Bring Me Back:
‘Made me stay up way beyond my bedtime! B A Paris has a knack for getting into your head.’
Jane Corry, Sunday Times bestselling author of My Husband’s Wife
‘Just finished this BRILLIANT book…Clever, addictive and twisty, I couldn’t sleep until I found out the truth…The twist floored me! Utterly compelling from beginning to end.’
Claire Douglas, Sunday Times bestselling author of Local Girl Missing
‘Addictive and twisted, it will keep you guessing until the very end.’
Alice Feeney, author of Sometimes I Lie
‘Bring Me Back is AWESOME.’
Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me
‘This dark, deliciously twisty thriller will keep you guessing till the end.’
Mel McGrath, author of Give Me the Child
‘A tale of dark secrets, with mystery and intrigue building up and up to an ending with a fabulous twist. I devoured it – I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough.’
Mel Sherratt, author of Watching Over You
‘Bring Me Back will not leave your hands until you have turned the last page!’
Wendy Walker, author of All is Not Forgotten
‘This book is compulsive reading from start to finish. A perfectly crafted work of art, seamless and mesmerising. I envy those yet to read it for the pleasure they have in store.’
Amanda Robson, author of Obsession
‘A cracking page turner with a killer twist.’
Camilla Way, author of Watching Edie
‘An incredibly pacy, heart-pounding thriller – the twist at the end left me reeling. B A Paris does it again in this exhilarating exploration of love, jealousy and betrayal. A must read for 2018!’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll’s House
Also by B A Paris:
Behind Closed Doors The Breakdown
Copyright (#ulink_bca0d836-2c4e-502a-a99e-f849ec4916a1)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © B A Paris 2018
B A Paris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008244880
Version: 2018-07-16
For Christine, the best sister in the world
Contents
Cover (#ua4288225-43c9-52c9-a999-2fe9c6250a49)
Praise (#u829cbc38-ed1f-524b-b71b-edd667a3a01d)
Also by B A Paris (#u3c608a96-bef6-5bfe-8880-063d5ece705e)
Title Page (#u40103b49-81d9-5062-a183-eb5ba4ff8b97)
Copyright (#ulink_8ad21299-1d52-5710-b3db-0b0ff86a76bd)
Dedication (#ua274d684-8aff-5444-be37-f27aa17d83cd)
TWELVE YEARS BEFORE (#ulink_9d691294-77cd-597d-83f7-a1b86b9bbd2a)
PART ONE (#ulink_e98507c3-b782-5b44-92dc-9012f4def929)
ONE (#ulink_ba42da57-fb3f-5abf-8282-ca71ae2fb43a)
TWO (#ulink_5e96cdc4-6a45-5e3b-9672-776f4beca5c8)
THREE (#ulink_dc07e75d-4e5f-5c02-a94f-079d518708ac)
FOUR (#ulink_24cb6c53-6888-5511-be31-ea5857b78f4a)
FIVE (#ulink_9309c88a-3fe8-53f7-be27-35e255489bb9)
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
PART TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
PART THREE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
Alternative Ending (#u427bcaa0-1f0d-53e0-b6ff-cc61a3dd45a6)
Acknowledgements
Extract (#u8a4f27ee-6fd0-5a1e-adb1-b955f73a1f9d)
About the Publisher
TWELVE YEARS BEFORE (#ulink_e9e2ecbc-c171-53ec-a5f9-f0e57accee4f)
Interview: Finn McQuaid
Date: 15/03/2006
Time: 03.45
Location: Fonches
We were on our way back from skiing in Megève. I decided to stop in Paris on the way up as a surprise for Layla, because she had never been there before. We had dinner in a restaurant by the Notre-Dame cathedral and then went for a walk along the Seine. We could have stayed the night there – now, I wish we had – but we were both eager to get home to our cottage in St Mary’s, in Devon.
It must have been around midnight by the time we left Paris. About an hour and a half into our journey I wanted to go to the toilet so I pulled off the motorway, into the picnic area at Fonches. It’s not a service station, you can’t get petrol there or anything but I knew it had toilets because I’d stopped there before, on previous skiing trips to Megève. The place was deserted apart from the car I told you about, the one parked directly outside the toilet block. I think there were a couple of lorries in the lorry bay on the other side; there must have been at least two, the one I saw leaving and the other one, the one whose driver we spoke to after.
There was an empty bottle of water rolling around the car and we’d been eating snacks on the way up from Megève so I drove past the toilet block and down to the end of the car park where there was a rubbish bin, so that I could get rid of the wrappers. I – I should have just parked outside the toilet and walked down. If I had, then I would have been nearer. I should have been nearer.
Layla was asleep – she’d fallen asleep as soon as we’d hit the motorway, and I didn’t want to wake her so I sat for a while, just to relax a bit. She woke up when I started gathering up the stuff to throw away. She didn’t want to use the toilet there, she said she’d rather wait until we stopped at a proper service station, so as I got out of the car I told her to lock the doors behind me, because I didn’t like leaving her there in the dark. She really hates the dark, you see.
On my way into the toilets, I passed a man coming out and a minute or so later, I heard a car drive off. He was shorter than me, maybe six foot? I think he had dark hair, he definitely had a beard. I was quick in the toilet, I didn’t like being in there, I felt unnerved, as if someone was watching. Maybe it was because one of the stall doors was closed.
As I made my way back to the car, I heard a lorry pull out of the parking bay and I watched it as it headed along the slip road to the motorway. He was driving fast, as if he was in a hurry, but I honestly didn’t think anything of it at the time. In the distance I could see the silhouette of our car, it was the only one left because the other one, the one that had been parked in front of the toilet block, had gone. It was only when I got closer that I realised Layla wasn’t in the car and I thought she must have changed her mind about going to the toilet. I remember looking behind me, expecting to see her hurrying after me – I knew she’d be as creeped out by the whole place as I was – but she wasn’t there, so I got into the car to wait. But the darkness began to get to me so I started up the engine and moved it in front of the toilet block, where there was at least a modicum of light, so that Layla wouldn’t have to walk all the way back in the dark.
It must have only been a couple of minutes before I began to worry. It didn’t feel right that she hadn’t appeared yet so I got out of the car and went into the ladies’ side of the block to look for her. There were three stalls, two were empty but the other one had the door closed so I presumed she was in there. I called to her and when there was no answer I put my hand on the door and pushed against it. It swung open easily and when I saw that Layla wasn’t there I hurried back outside and began calling for her, thinking that maybe, after I left the car, she’d decided to go for a short walk to stretch her legs or get some fresh air. But even as I was thinking it, I knew she would never have wandered off, not at night, not when it was pitch-black because, as I said, she hated the dark.
I ran round to the back of the block, in case she was there, and when I couldn’t find her I got a torch from the boot and widened my search, taking in the whole picnic area, shouting her name. There was still one lorry in the bay so I went over and called out, hoping to find someone to help me look for her. But there was no one in the driver’s cabin and when I hammered on the door no one answered, so I assumed the driver was asleep in the back. I tried hammering on that door too but nobody came and when I took out my phone and realised that I didn’t have a signal, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave in case Layla had fallen and was lying injured somewhere, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to find her with only the light from my torch. So I got back into the car and drove as fast as I could to the next petrol station and ran in shouting for someone to help me. It wasn’t easy to get them to understand me because my French isn’t very good but they finally agreed to phone the local police. And then you came and you spoke good English and you took me back to the picnic area to help me look for Layla, because I really needed to find her.
That was the statement I gave to the police, sitting in the police station somewhere off the A1 in France. It was the truth. But not quite the whole truth.
PART ONE (#ulink_27717364-e0cf-5aad-85dd-55f47c5e3504)
ONE (#ulink_c146492e-c48c-52f0-a88e-bf3667cdf9a8)
Now
My phone rings as I’m walking through the glass-walled foyer of Harry’s impressive offices on London Wall. I turn and check the time on the digital display above the receptionist’s desk; it’s only four thirty, but I’m impatient to get home. It’s taken months of perseverance to get Grant James, the famous business magnate, to invest fifty million pounds in Harry’s new fund and I’m ready for a celebration. As a thank you, Harry has booked dinner for me and Ellen tonight at The Hideout, the best restaurant in Cheltenham, and I know she’s going to love it.
I glance impatiently at my phone, hoping it’s a call I don’t have to take. The caller name comes up as Tony Heddon, a police detective based in Exeter. We first met twelve years ago when I was arrested on suspicion of Layla’s murder, and we’ve become good friends since. There’s a curved steel bench to the left of the reception area so I walk over and put my briefcase down on its metallic seat.
‘Tony,’ I say, taking the call. ‘Good to hear from you.’
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘Not at all,’ I say, noting that he sounds serious, the way he always does when he calls to tell me that an unidentified woman’s body has been found by the French authorities. Guessing how awkward he must feel, I decide to plough straight in. ‘Has another body been found?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ he says reassuringly in his soft Devonshire accent. ‘Thomas Winter – you know, your ex-neighbour from St Mary’s – came into the station yesterday.’
‘Thomas?’ I say, surprised. ‘I didn’t think he’d still be alive after all these years. How’s he doing?’
‘Physically he’s pretty good, but he’s quite elderly now. Which is why we don’t want to give too much importance to what he said,’ he adds, pausing. I wait for him to carry on and while I wait, my mind analyses what Thomas could have told them. But then I remember that before Layla and I left for our holiday in France, before she disappeared, Thomas only knew us as the happiest of couples.
‘Why, what has he said?’ I ask.
‘That yesterday, he saw Layla.’
My heart misses a beat. I lean my free hand on the cold metal back of the bench, trying to process what he’s just told me. I know he’s waiting for me to say something, but I can’t, so I leave him to fill the silence.
‘He said he saw her standing outside the cottage and that when he went to speak to her, she ran off,’ he goes on.
‘Because it wasn’t her,’ I say, my voice neutral.
‘That’s what I suggested. I reminded him that twelve years have passed since he last saw her but he said he’d know her after fifty. She was wearing a hood thing over her head but he was adamant it was Layla. Something about the way she was standing, apparently.’
‘But he didn’t speak to her.’
‘No. He said, and I quote, “I called her name and she turned her head, but when she saw me, she ran off.” He said she went towards the station but the ticket office was closed at that time and we can’t find anyone who saw a woman waiting for a train. There’s no CCTV so we’re none the wiser.’
I search for the right response. ‘You don’t really think it was Layla, do you? Not after all these years.’
Tony sighs heavily. ‘I’m inclined to put it down to Mr Winter’s overactive imagination. I thought you should know, that’s all.’
‘Well, thanks, Tony.’ I want to hang up but it seems too soon. ‘When are you retiring? September, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, just another couple of months to go. Not too sure what I’ll do with myself, though.’
I grab onto this. ‘You can start by coming down to see us. I know Ellen would love to see you.’
‘I will, definitely.’
Maybe he understands that I’m not up to speaking because he tells me that he has another call to make. I stand for a moment, trying to get things in perspective, wondering why Thomas thought he saw Layla. I make a quick calculation; we had celebrated his eightieth birthday just before leaving for that fateful holiday in France in 2006, which means Thomas is ninety-two now, an age at which people get easily confused, an age where it’s easy to dismiss what they say, or what they think they saw. It can only be the ramblings of an old man. Confident, I take my keys from my pocket and carry on to the car park.
The journey home is unbelievably slow, which isn’t unusual for a Friday afternoon. As I drive past the ‘Welcome to Simonsbridge. Please drive slowly’ sign at the entrance to the village, my earlier excitement over the new deal starts to come back. It was good of Harry to book The Hideout; he said I should go for the venison steak, and I probably will.
A minute later I’m pulling up in front of the house, nothing much to look at from the outside maybe, but once inside it’s my haven, and the garden, my sanctuary. In a normal world Ellen would be standing on the doorstep, as impatient to see me as I am to see her. More often than not, roused from whatever illustration she’s working on by the sound of the tyres scrunching on the gravel, she opens the door before I’m out of the car. But not now. And today, it seems ominous.
I tell myself not to be stupid, that she doesn’t always open the door, that if I’d phoned ahead to tell her the good news, of course she’d be waiting. But I’d wanted to tell her face to face, I want to see her telling me how clever I am rather than just hearing it. I know how it sounds but it isn’t that I have a huge ego, more that pulling off this deal is a career highlight. A result like Grant James is such an adrenalin rush. It even beats the high I get from outsmarting the markets.
The sound of my key in the lock doesn’t bring her to the door. It doesn’t bring Peggy, our red setter, either, which is even more unusual. Instead of calling out, I go in search of Ellen, a flicker of worry making itself felt. As I push open the door to the sitting room, I see her curled up in one of the armchairs, wearing my blue denim shirt, which she continually pinches from my wardrobe. I don’t mind, I love to see her in it. She has her knees pulled up to her chest and the shirt pulled down over them, like a tent.
My silent sigh of relief at finding her there is checked by the way she’s staring unseeingly out of the window, her eyes on a distant past. It’s a look I haven’t seen for a while but a look I know only too well. It explains why Peggy – always sensitive to Ellen’s mood – is lying silently at her feet.
‘Ellen?’ I say softly.
She turns her head towards me and as her eyes come into focus, she scrambles to her feet.
‘Sorry,’ she says ruefully, hurrying over to me, Peggy following more sedately behind her, her age showing. ‘I was miles away.’
‘I can see that.’
She reaches up and kisses me. ‘How was your day?’
‘Good,’ I say, putting my news about the contract on hold for a moment. ‘What about yours?’
‘Good too.’ But her smile is just a little too bright.
‘So what were you thinking about when I came in?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing.’
I put my finger under her chin and tilt her head upwards so that she can’t avoid my eyes. ‘You know that doesn’t work with me.’
‘It really is nothing,’ she insists.
‘Tell me.’
She gives a small shrug. ‘It’s just that when I came back from taking Peggy for a walk this afternoon, I found this’ – she puts her hand into the front pocket of the shirt and takes something out – ‘lying on the pavement outside the house.’
I look down at the painted wooden doll sitting in her palm and a jolt of shock runs through me, quickly followed by a flash of anger, because for one mad moment I think she’s been rummaging around in my office. But then I remember that Ellen would never do such a thing, and concentrate on chasing the red mist away. Anyway, hadn’t she said that she found it on the pavement outside the house?
‘Someone must have dropped it,’ I say, as casually as I’m able. ‘A child, on her way back from school or something.’
‘I know. It’s just that it reminded me—’ She stops.
‘Yes?’ I prompt, preparing myself mentally, because I know what she’s going to say.
‘Of Layla.’ As always, her name hangs suspended in the air between us. And today, because of Tony’s phone call, it feels heavier than usual.
Ellen laughs suddenly, lightening the moment. ‘At least I have a full set now.’ And of course, I know what she’s referring to.
It was Layla who first told me the story, of how she and Ellen both had a set of Russian dolls, the sort that stack one inside the other and how one day the smallest one from Ellen’s set had gone missing. Ellen had accused Layla of taking it but Layla denied that she had, and it had never been found. Now, thirteen years after I first heard that story, the irony strikes me because, like Ellen’s little Russian doll, Layla went missing and has never been found.
‘Maybe you should put it on the wall outside, like people do with dropped gloves,’ I say. ‘Someone might come looking for it.’
Her face falls and I feel bad, because it’s only a Russian doll. But coming on the back of Tony’s phone call, it feels a bit too much.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she says.
‘Anyway, I’ll be able to buy you as many Russian dolls as you like now,’ I say, although we both know that isn’t what this is about.
Her eyes grow wide. ‘Do you mean . . .?’
‘Yes,’ I say, lifting her into my arms and spinning her around, noting – not for the first time – how much lighter she is than Layla was. Tendrils of chestnut hair escape her short ponytail and fall around her face. Her hands grip my shoulders.
‘Grant James invested?’ she squeals.
‘He did!’ I say, pushing thoughts of Layla away. I stop spinning and lower her to the ground. Dizzy, she stumbles a little against me and I enclose her in my arms.
‘That’s wonderful! Harry must be over the moon!’ She wriggles out of my embrace. ‘Stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.’
She disappears into the kitchen and I sit down on the sofa to wait. Peggy pushes herself between my legs and I take her head between my hands, noting with a heavy heart how grey she’s getting. I pull her ears gently, as she loves me to do, and tell her how beautiful she is. It’s something I often tell her, too often maybe. But the truth is, Peggy has always represented more than just Peggy to me. And now, because of the Russian doll, it seems wrong.
I feel restless, too full of kinetic energy to sit. I want to go to my office – a bespoke outhouse in the garden – and make sure that my Russian doll, the one Ellen doesn’t know about, is there, in its hiding place. But I force myself to be patient, reminding myself that everything is good in my world. Still, it’s difficult, and I’m about to go and find Ellen when she comes back, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other.
‘Perfect,’ I say, smiling at her.
‘I hid it at the back of the fridge a couple of weeks ago,’ she says, putting the glasses down on the table and holding the bottle out to me.
‘No,’ I say, grasping the bottle and using it to pull her towards me. ‘I mean you.’ I hold her tight for a moment, the champagne trapped between our bodies. ‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ Uncomfortable with compliments, she drops her head and plants a kiss on my shoulder. ‘How did you know that Grant would come through?’ I go on.
‘I didn’t. But if he hadn’t, the champagne would have been to commiserate.’
‘See what I mean about you being perfect?’ Releasing her with a kiss, I untwist the wire and ease the cork from the bottle. Champagne bubbles out and Ellen quickly grabs the glasses from the table. ‘Guess where I’m taking you tonight?’ I say as I fill them.
‘McDonald’s?’ she teases.
‘The Hideout.’
She looks at me in delight. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Harry booked it as a thank you.’
Later, while she’s upstairs getting ready, I go out to my office in the garden, sit down at my desk and slide open the top right-hand drawer. It’s a large antique walnut desk and the drawer is so deep I have to reach a long way in to find the wooden pencil box, hidden at the back. I take out the little painted doll nestling there. It looks identical to the one that Ellen found outside the house and as my fingers close around its smooth, varnished body I feel the same uncomfortable tug I always do, a mixture of longing and regret, of desolation and infinite sadness. And gratitude, because without this little wooden doll, I might have been tried for Layla’s murder.
It had belonged to her. It was the smallest one from her set of Russian dolls, the one she’d had as a child, and when Ellen’s had gone missing, Layla had carried this one around with her for fear that Ellen would take it and claim it as hers. She called it her talisman, and in times of stress she would hold it between her thumb and index finger and gently rub the smooth surface. She had been doing exactly that on our journey from Megève, huddled against the car door, and the next morning, when the police returned to the picnic area, they’d found it lying on the ground next to where I’d parked the car, by the rubbish bin. They also found scuff marks, which – as my lawyer pointed out – suggested she’d been dragged from the car and had dropped the doll on purpose, as some kind of clue. As there was insufficient evidence to prove this either way, I was finally allowed to leave France, and to keep the Russian doll.
I put it back in its hiding place and go and find Ellen. But later, when we’re lying in bed, our hunger sated by the exquisite dinner we had at The Hideout, our bodies knotted together, I silently curse the little Russian doll she found earlier. It’s another reminder that no matter how many years go by, we will never be completely free of Layla.
Barely a month goes by when we don’t hear her name – someone called out to in the street, a character in a film or book, a newly opened restaurant, a cocktail, a hotel. At least we don’t have to contend with supposed sightings of Layla any more – Thomas’ yesterday was the first in years. There’d been hundreds after she first disappeared; it seemed that anyone who had red hair was put forward as a possible candidate.
I look down at Ellen, snuggled in the crook of my arm, and wonder if she’s thinking of Layla too. But the steady rise and fall of her chest against me tells me she’s already asleep and I’m glad I didn’t tell her about Tony’s phone call. Everything – all this – would be much easier if Ellen and I had fallen in love with other people instead of each other. It shouldn’t matter that Ellen is Layla’s sister, not when twelve years have passed since Layla disappeared.
But, of course, it does.
TWO (#ulink_53f1a107-f45c-5aaf-a6d4-376684e4b0bf)
Before
It feels a lifetime ago that I first saw you, Layla. I’m not sure if you even know this but at the time I had a girlfriend, someone so unlike you, someone who was as high-flying in the world of advertising as I was in my city job. Time is an oddity when it comes to memories; I always think of you when I remember Harry and the flat in St Katharine Docks, yet you spent much less time in that world than my ex did. You instigated the end of the life I had. Everything became ‘Before Layla’ and ‘After Layla’.
It must have been just after 7 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2004. You probably don’t remember that but I know, because Harry had insisted we leave too much time to get to the theatre. I’d felt indifferent to it being a big night but I was indifferent to so many things back then. Until I met you.
As Harry and I went down into the underground station at Liverpool Street, I never thought I was about to fall in love. He needed to top up his Oyster card so while he queued at the machine, I watched everybody rushing to get wherever they were going to celebrate the New Year.
After a few minutes my attention was caught by a flash of colour amongst the greys and blacks of the Londoners, the most beautiful red I’d ever seen. And of course it was you – or rather, your hair. Do you remember how you stood with your back against the opposite wall, your eyes watching in alarm at everyone surging around you? You looked scared, but back then the simplest things seemed to scare you; crowds, dogs, the dark. You were so terrified of dogs that if you saw one coming towards you, you would cross over to the other side of the street to avoid it, even if you were with me, even if it was on a lead. And that day in the underground station, as you pushed yourself further into the wall to avoid the crowds, your hair caught under the artificial lighting and it seemed to be on fire. With your tiny purple skirt, lace-up ankle boots and curvy figure, you looked so different to the stick-thin women in their smart suits and dark winter coats. Then you raised your head, and our eyes met. I felt embarrassed to be caught staring at you so intensely and tried to look away. But your eyes pulled me towards you and before I knew it, I was striding across the concourse.
‘Do you need help?’ I asked, looking down into your green-brown eyes. Hazel, I learned later. ‘You seem a little lost.’
‘It’s just that I didn’t expect London to be quite so busy,’ you replied, your voice lilting with a Scottish accent. ‘All these people!’
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I explained. ‘They’re on their way out to celebrate.’
‘So it’s not always like this?’
‘Early morning and late afternoon, usually. Did you want to buy a ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you going?’
Do you remember your reply?
‘To a youth hostel,’ you said.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. Near Piccadilly Circus, I think.’
‘Do you have an address?’ You shook your head. ‘On your reservation?’ I persevered.
And then you admitted that you hadn’t reserved a room.
Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. ‘It might be difficult to find a bed on New Year’s Eve,’ I explained.
Your skin paled, heightening the freckles, and that’s when I fell in love with you.
‘Have you got a mobile?’ I asked.
You shook your head again. ‘No.’
To meet someone so unorganised, so unaffected by modern life and the London rush was like a hit of alcohol. If it had been anybody else, I would have walked away quickly before they could ask me how to find a number for a hostel. But I was already realising that I couldn’t walk away from you.
‘How old are you?’ I asked, because suddenly, I needed to know everything there was to know about you.
‘Eighteen. Almost nineteen.’ You raised your chin defiantly. ‘I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I was saved from answering by Harry appearing at my elbow.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t I leave you standing over there?’
My eyes stayed fixed on you. ‘This young lady is looking for a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus. Do you know it?’ I asked, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t, because I was already counting on bringing you back to ours.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked thoughtfully at you. ‘They must have given you the address when you reserved.’
‘She doesn’t have a reservation.’
His eyes widened. ‘I doubt you’ll find a bed on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Then what should I do?’ you asked, a slight panic creeping into your voice.
Harry scratched his head as he always did when faced with a problem. ‘I have no idea.’
‘We’ll have to think of something,’ I said, my voice low.
He turned to me with that ‘it isn’t our problem’ look in his eyes. And he was right, it wasn’t our problem, it was mine. ‘Look, I’ll help her look for a hostel, or a hotel, or something,’ I told him. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’
‘Well, maybe somebody else can help her. We’re going to the theatre,’ he reminded me.
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. It’s my fault, I should have planned ahead. But I never realised London would be so . . . ’ you searched for a word ‘ . . . crazy.’
I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my wallet. ‘Here,’ I said, fishing out my theatre ticket and handing it to Harry. ‘Take Samantha. She wanted to go, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, but—’
I pressed the ticket into his hand. ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you at the party later.’ He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him. ‘Phone Samantha. She can meet you at the theatre.’ And before he could say another word, I took your bag and set off across the concourse. ‘Follow me.’
I headed for the exit, my heart now hammering as it always did when I was on the verge of doing something exhilarating, or dangerous. Worried I would lose you in the crowds that thronged the streets, I reached for your hand.
‘Stay with me!’ I shouted above the noise of the traffic.
Your hand tightened around mine. ‘Don’t worry, I will!’ you called back.
And I hoped that you would, forever.
THREE (#ulink_d8c2277b-569d-5882-8f11-a115d2251f5b)
Now
It’s Saturday, so Peggy and I go to get fresh bread for breakfast while Ellen has a lie-in. On Sundays, I usually lie-in while Ellen makes bacon and eggs. Ellen says that one day we’ll be too old to lie-in and will be up at dawn, making porridge, unable to stay in bed any longer after being awake half the night with insomnia. She’s probably right.
It’s a short walk to the village where the bakery stands between the newsagent’s and the butcher’s. I buy a granary loaf and a couple of newspapers, and when I go in to say hello to Rob, the butcher, I see a nice leg of lamb for our lunch tomorrow, a little too big for just me and Ellen, but there’s Peggy too.
I take Peggy for a detour along the river on the way home, hoping I won’t bump into Ruby, the owner of our local pub, The Jackdaw. She often walks her Airedale in the mornings and it’s still a bit awkward when we meet. I first got together with Ruby back in 2014, about a year after a small memorial ceremony we’d had for Layla, where I met Ellen for the first time. Until then, nobody in Simonsbridge knew I was the ex-partner of the young woman who’d gone missing in France. When my true identity was revealed in a newspaper article, not long after the ceremony, it didn’t give anyone cause for concern, as I’d been living peacefully among them for six years. People were interested, rather than frightened, about having a possible murderer in their midst. This gave me the confidence to stop hiding myself away and I began to mix with the locals in a way I hadn’t before. If people asked me about my past, I spoke truthfully – well, with as much truth as I wanted them to know.
In a strange twist of fate, the journalist who traced me to Devon and ‘outed’ me was a cousin of Ruby’s. She felt bad about the role he’d played and made it up to me in more ways than one. I enjoyed being with Ruby; she was vivacious and easy-going. When Harry persuaded me to go back to work, I would stay at the flat in London during the week and return to Simonsbridge at the weekends to see Ruby, and Peggy, who would stay at The Jackdaw while I was away. As far as I was concerned our relationship was a casual thing, something that could be dropped on a Monday morning when I left for London and picked up again when I returned to Simonsbridge on the Friday evening.
I knew from Harry, who had kept in touch with Ellen since the memorial ceremony, that she was trying to make herself a career as an illustrator. When she finally found herself an agent, and had to come to London for meetings, Harry would invite her to stay at the flat. At first, I kept my distance, leaving her and Harry to have dinner together, wondering if there was something between them. As her career took off, she started coming to London more often and I found myself looking forward to her visits. Sometimes our eyes would meet across the table, and I would look away, determined not to get involved. But then I began inviting her to join me in Simonsbridge at weekends. And relaxing in front of a log-fire one evening, she leaned over and kissed me, and we ended up in bed.
It hadn’t been my intention to lie to Ruby when she asked me about Ellen, it was more that I was uncomfortable about who Ellen was. I don’t blame Ruby for feeling sore when Ellen moved in with me last year. Unfairly perhaps, I’ve always suspected Ruby of being behind the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ headline which appeared in the paper shortly after. And because Ellen and I are now getting married, I’d like to delay the conversation – the one where Ruby tells me she’s very happy for me while throwing me daggers – until I’ve had time to get used to the idea myself.
We haven’t been to The Jackdaw since the wedding announcement appeared in the local paper a couple of weeks ago. Ellen insisted on placing it because she felt that everyone, especially Ruby, should know that she’s here to stay. I think she was hoping to silence those who whispered that we shouldn’t be in a relationship, as there are some who disapprove that I’m marrying Layla’s sister. They don’t come right out and say it but I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices as they congratulate us.
I call Peggy out from the river, and after she’s shaken the water off her and onto me, I take the path back up to the road, glad that I’ve managed to avoid Ruby. As I approach the house, I see something standing on the stone wall that borders the front garden and recognise the little Russian doll that Ellen found last week. The fact that she kept it for so long before putting it back where she found it tells me how much it means to her and I feel guilty all over again for saying she shouldn’t keep it, because I doubt the owner is going to come looking for it. But I also feel guilty for another reason. It’s more proof that Ellen never goes against what I tell her, never disobeys me, and although it makes for a peaceful life, I find it perplexing.
I put the doll into my jeans pocket and go into the house. I expect to find her in the kitchen but she calls down to me from upstairs. I send Peggy to fetch her while I check the markets on my phone. A couple of minutes later Ellen comes into the kitchen, looking so desirable in her skimpy pyjamas that I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her back to bed.
‘I hope you didn’t go outside like that,’ I tease.
‘Outside?’
‘To put the Russian doll back.’ I slip my hand into my pocket, intending to surprise her with it, because why shouldn’t she keep it?
‘I haven’t put it back yet.’
I look at her, thinking that she’s joking. But her cheeks have flushed red.
My fingers, clasped around the Russian doll, freeze. ‘What do you mean, you haven’t put it back yet?’
‘I was going to do it after breakfast,’ she says, mistaking my shock for annoyance. ‘I wasn’t going to keep it.’
‘Where is it?’ I hate that I sound angry because I’m not, I’m rattled.
She hurries out of the room and comes back carrying the large Russian doll that has sat on top of the teak cupboard in our dining room since she moved in with me last year. She unscrews it in the middle, takes out the Russian doll inside, unscrews that one in the middle, takes out the next one, unscrews it, then takes out the next one. As she twists the last one apart, I realise that she’s joking, that there’ll be nothing inside and she’ll smile and tell me that of course she put the doll back outside. I raise an eyebrow and begin to smile.
‘Here it is.’ She takes a little Russian doll out and puts it down on the worktop amid its dissected relatives. ‘I was only going to keep it for a while.’
Keeping the smile on my face, I casually remove my hand from my pocket, leaving the doll I found on the wall where it is. ‘Hey, it’s fine, keep it if you want to.’
She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, nobody’s going to come looking for it, are they?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ She begins putting the Russian dolls back together but instead of stacking them one inside the other she places them side by side on the kitchen worktop, starting with the biggest and ending with the little one. It matches the rest of her set exactly. ‘There we are, a complete family of five. How strange that after all these years, I’ve finally found what’s been missing.’
I turn away, wondering what she would say if I told her that I just found a second Russian doll. If Layla’s body had been found, she would put it down to a bizarre coincidence. But her body has never been found. And if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s Ellen thinking that Layla might still be alive.
I’d hate for her to have false hope.
FOUR (#ulink_5a6e50e8-6175-5e68-82f7-6d4f910c1c8d)
Before
That night, it took thirty-six minutes to get from Liverpool Street Station to St Katharine Docks. As we made our way through the crowds standing outside pubs and wine bars, already celebrating the New Year, I told myself it was the atmosphere that made me feel drunk. But I knew it was because of you.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Layla.’
‘I expected something more Scottish,’ I admitted.
‘I was lucky, my mum got to choose my name. My dad chose my sister’s name and she wasn’t so fortunate. He’s originally from Islay so he called her Ellen, after Port Ellen.’
‘It’s still a pretty name.’
‘Yes, it is. What about you? What’s your name?’
‘Finn.’
‘Irish?’
‘Yes. I was born and raised in Ireland,’ I explained.
You couldn’t get over the size of the Tower of London, proudly illuminated against the night sky, or the majesty of Tower Bridge. By the time we reached the docks, where people were partying on the various yachts and boats moored there, you were completely overwhelmed.
‘This is London?’ you asked.
‘It is,’ I said, pleased at your reaction to the city I loved. I stopped in front of my apartment block. ‘And this is where I live.’
‘Where you live?’ You seemed suddenly doubtful and I remembered that I was meant to be finding you a hostel or hotel.
‘Yes. You’ll never find somewhere to stay tonight so you can stay with me and Harry. Tomorrow, we’ll find you a hostel.’ You still weren’t convinced. ‘We have a little study with a sofa-bed, you can sleep there. You’ll be fine, I promise.’
I tapped in the door code and after a moment’s hesitation you followed me inside. In the lift, your unease grew – but of course, I had more or less kidnapped you. I wanted to put your mind at rest, to tell you that I hadn’t been lying, that you would never have found anywhere to stay that night because every hotel, every hostel would have been booked up months ago. But we were already on the third floor and I hoped that once you saw the flat, you’d feel more comfortable.
‘Oh my God, is this really yours?’ you breathed as I showed you around.
‘Mine and Harry’s.’
‘It’s beautiful!’
The next couple of hours passed in a blur. You were hungry, do you remember? So I made an omelette and while we ate, we exchanged information about our lives. You told me you’d lived on Lewis, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, all your life and had been fairly happy until you were fourteen and your mother died. After, things had become difficult, you said. Your father became an alcoholic and ever since, you’d been counting the days until you could leave.
‘I stayed for Christmas,’ you said. ‘Then I packed up and left. I was determined to be in London for the first of January.’ You paused, and the light from the massive lamp that hung above the dining room table bounced off your hair. ‘A new year, a new life. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.’
‘What about your sister?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to leave?’
Your eyes had filled with tears. ‘Yes. But in the end she couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
You took a long time answering. ‘My dad has cancer. He’s also diabetic. Somebody has to look after him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
You laughed suddenly, unnerving me. ‘Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to be sad on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I’m meant to be going to a party tonight.’ I pointed through the window at a building on the opposite side of the dock. ‘My boss lives on the top floor. We should go.’
You looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really have anything to wear to a party.’
‘You’re fine as you are,’ I told you.
I don’t remember much about the party except feeling as if I’d stepped into a parallel universe. You were completely out of place among the women in their dresses, their nails manicured and polished, their hair styled, and I couldn’t believe it was a world I’d inhabited just a few hours before. It felt stifling and dull, and when Caroline slid her arms around my waist and asked me how I’d enjoyed the theatre, I had trouble remembering she was my girlfriend. I introduced her to you and explained something of what had happened. Maybe it was the mention of a youth hostel, but the story amused her and when she turned and raised her eyebrows at me, I knew she was laughing at you. And my fists clenched, hating her for it.
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B. A. Paris
The million-copy bestselling author returns with a breathtaking thriller – now with exclusive new chapters to see how the story could have ended. This Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller has been updated with bonus chapters from B A Paris showing how she originally planned that ending.‘We’re in a new Golden Age of suspense writing now, because of amazing books like Bring Me Back’ Lee ChildFinn and Layla: young and in love, their whole lives ahead of them. Driving back from a holiday in France one night, Finn pulls in to a service station, leaving Layla alone in the car. When he returns, minutes later, Layla has vanished, never to be seen again. That’s the story Finn tells the police. It’s the truth – but not the whole truth.Twelve years later, Finn has built a new life with Ellen, Layla’s sister, when he receives a phone call. Someone has seen Layla. But is it her – or someone pretending to be her? If it is her, what does she want? And what does she know about the night she disappeared?Bring Me Back is the utterly compelling, white-knuckle thriller from Sunday Times bestseller B A Paris.‘An addictive new voice in suspense fiction’ Sophie Hannah‘Just finished this BRILLIANT book…Clever, addictive and twisty, I couldn’t sleep until I found out the truth…The twist floored me! Utterly compelling from beginning to end’ Claire Douglas‘Made me stay up way beyond my bedtime! BA Paris has a knack for getting into your head.’ Jane Corry‘A page-turning masterpiece’ Amanda Prowse‘A tale of dark secrets, with mystery and intrigue building up and up to an ending with a fabulous twist. I devoured it – I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough.’ Mel Sherratt‘This book is compulsive reading from start to finish. A perfectly crafted work of art, seamless and mesmerising. I envy those yet to read it for the pleasure they have in store.’ Amanda Robson‘A cracking page turner with a killer twist.' Camilla Way‘An incredibly pacy, heart-pounding thriller – the twist at the end left me reeling. B A Paris does it again in this exhilarating exploration of love, jealousy and betrayal. A must read for 2018!’ Phoebe Morgan
Everyone is talking about Bring Me Back:
‘Made me stay up way beyond my bedtime! B A Paris has a knack for getting into your head.’
Jane Corry, Sunday Times bestselling author of My Husband’s Wife
‘Just finished this BRILLIANT book…Clever, addictive and twisty, I couldn’t sleep until I found out the truth…The twist floored me! Utterly compelling from beginning to end.’
Claire Douglas, Sunday Times bestselling author of Local Girl Missing
‘Addictive and twisted, it will keep you guessing until the very end.’
Alice Feeney, author of Sometimes I Lie
‘Bring Me Back is AWESOME.’
Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me
‘This dark, deliciously twisty thriller will keep you guessing till the end.’
Mel McGrath, author of Give Me the Child
‘A tale of dark secrets, with mystery and intrigue building up and up to an ending with a fabulous twist. I devoured it – I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough.’
Mel Sherratt, author of Watching Over You
‘Bring Me Back will not leave your hands until you have turned the last page!’
Wendy Walker, author of All is Not Forgotten
‘This book is compulsive reading from start to finish. A perfectly crafted work of art, seamless and mesmerising. I envy those yet to read it for the pleasure they have in store.’
Amanda Robson, author of Obsession
‘A cracking page turner with a killer twist.’
Camilla Way, author of Watching Edie
‘An incredibly pacy, heart-pounding thriller – the twist at the end left me reeling. B A Paris does it again in this exhilarating exploration of love, jealousy and betrayal. A must read for 2018!’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll’s House
Also by B A Paris:
Behind Closed Doors The Breakdown
Copyright (#ulink_bca0d836-2c4e-502a-a99e-f849ec4916a1)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © B A Paris 2018
B A Paris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008244880
Version: 2018-07-16
For Christine, the best sister in the world
Contents
Cover (#ua4288225-43c9-52c9-a999-2fe9c6250a49)
Praise (#u829cbc38-ed1f-524b-b71b-edd667a3a01d)
Also by B A Paris (#u3c608a96-bef6-5bfe-8880-063d5ece705e)
Title Page (#u40103b49-81d9-5062-a183-eb5ba4ff8b97)
Copyright (#ulink_8ad21299-1d52-5710-b3db-0b0ff86a76bd)
Dedication (#ua274d684-8aff-5444-be37-f27aa17d83cd)
TWELVE YEARS BEFORE (#ulink_9d691294-77cd-597d-83f7-a1b86b9bbd2a)
PART ONE (#ulink_e98507c3-b782-5b44-92dc-9012f4def929)
ONE (#ulink_ba42da57-fb3f-5abf-8282-ca71ae2fb43a)
TWO (#ulink_5e96cdc4-6a45-5e3b-9672-776f4beca5c8)
THREE (#ulink_dc07e75d-4e5f-5c02-a94f-079d518708ac)
FOUR (#ulink_24cb6c53-6888-5511-be31-ea5857b78f4a)
FIVE (#ulink_9309c88a-3fe8-53f7-be27-35e255489bb9)
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
PART TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
PART THREE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
Alternative Ending (#u427bcaa0-1f0d-53e0-b6ff-cc61a3dd45a6)
Acknowledgements
Extract (#u8a4f27ee-6fd0-5a1e-adb1-b955f73a1f9d)
About the Publisher
TWELVE YEARS BEFORE (#ulink_e9e2ecbc-c171-53ec-a5f9-f0e57accee4f)
Interview: Finn McQuaid
Date: 15/03/2006
Time: 03.45
Location: Fonches
We were on our way back from skiing in Megève. I decided to stop in Paris on the way up as a surprise for Layla, because she had never been there before. We had dinner in a restaurant by the Notre-Dame cathedral and then went for a walk along the Seine. We could have stayed the night there – now, I wish we had – but we were both eager to get home to our cottage in St Mary’s, in Devon.
It must have been around midnight by the time we left Paris. About an hour and a half into our journey I wanted to go to the toilet so I pulled off the motorway, into the picnic area at Fonches. It’s not a service station, you can’t get petrol there or anything but I knew it had toilets because I’d stopped there before, on previous skiing trips to Megève. The place was deserted apart from the car I told you about, the one parked directly outside the toilet block. I think there were a couple of lorries in the lorry bay on the other side; there must have been at least two, the one I saw leaving and the other one, the one whose driver we spoke to after.
There was an empty bottle of water rolling around the car and we’d been eating snacks on the way up from Megève so I drove past the toilet block and down to the end of the car park where there was a rubbish bin, so that I could get rid of the wrappers. I – I should have just parked outside the toilet and walked down. If I had, then I would have been nearer. I should have been nearer.
Layla was asleep – she’d fallen asleep as soon as we’d hit the motorway, and I didn’t want to wake her so I sat for a while, just to relax a bit. She woke up when I started gathering up the stuff to throw away. She didn’t want to use the toilet there, she said she’d rather wait until we stopped at a proper service station, so as I got out of the car I told her to lock the doors behind me, because I didn’t like leaving her there in the dark. She really hates the dark, you see.
On my way into the toilets, I passed a man coming out and a minute or so later, I heard a car drive off. He was shorter than me, maybe six foot? I think he had dark hair, he definitely had a beard. I was quick in the toilet, I didn’t like being in there, I felt unnerved, as if someone was watching. Maybe it was because one of the stall doors was closed.
As I made my way back to the car, I heard a lorry pull out of the parking bay and I watched it as it headed along the slip road to the motorway. He was driving fast, as if he was in a hurry, but I honestly didn’t think anything of it at the time. In the distance I could see the silhouette of our car, it was the only one left because the other one, the one that had been parked in front of the toilet block, had gone. It was only when I got closer that I realised Layla wasn’t in the car and I thought she must have changed her mind about going to the toilet. I remember looking behind me, expecting to see her hurrying after me – I knew she’d be as creeped out by the whole place as I was – but she wasn’t there, so I got into the car to wait. But the darkness began to get to me so I started up the engine and moved it in front of the toilet block, where there was at least a modicum of light, so that Layla wouldn’t have to walk all the way back in the dark.
It must have only been a couple of minutes before I began to worry. It didn’t feel right that she hadn’t appeared yet so I got out of the car and went into the ladies’ side of the block to look for her. There were three stalls, two were empty but the other one had the door closed so I presumed she was in there. I called to her and when there was no answer I put my hand on the door and pushed against it. It swung open easily and when I saw that Layla wasn’t there I hurried back outside and began calling for her, thinking that maybe, after I left the car, she’d decided to go for a short walk to stretch her legs or get some fresh air. But even as I was thinking it, I knew she would never have wandered off, not at night, not when it was pitch-black because, as I said, she hated the dark.
I ran round to the back of the block, in case she was there, and when I couldn’t find her I got a torch from the boot and widened my search, taking in the whole picnic area, shouting her name. There was still one lorry in the bay so I went over and called out, hoping to find someone to help me look for her. But there was no one in the driver’s cabin and when I hammered on the door no one answered, so I assumed the driver was asleep in the back. I tried hammering on that door too but nobody came and when I took out my phone and realised that I didn’t have a signal, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave in case Layla had fallen and was lying injured somewhere, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to find her with only the light from my torch. So I got back into the car and drove as fast as I could to the next petrol station and ran in shouting for someone to help me. It wasn’t easy to get them to understand me because my French isn’t very good but they finally agreed to phone the local police. And then you came and you spoke good English and you took me back to the picnic area to help me look for Layla, because I really needed to find her.
That was the statement I gave to the police, sitting in the police station somewhere off the A1 in France. It was the truth. But not quite the whole truth.
PART ONE (#ulink_27717364-e0cf-5aad-85dd-55f47c5e3504)
ONE (#ulink_c146492e-c48c-52f0-a88e-bf3667cdf9a8)
Now
My phone rings as I’m walking through the glass-walled foyer of Harry’s impressive offices on London Wall. I turn and check the time on the digital display above the receptionist’s desk; it’s only four thirty, but I’m impatient to get home. It’s taken months of perseverance to get Grant James, the famous business magnate, to invest fifty million pounds in Harry’s new fund and I’m ready for a celebration. As a thank you, Harry has booked dinner for me and Ellen tonight at The Hideout, the best restaurant in Cheltenham, and I know she’s going to love it.
I glance impatiently at my phone, hoping it’s a call I don’t have to take. The caller name comes up as Tony Heddon, a police detective based in Exeter. We first met twelve years ago when I was arrested on suspicion of Layla’s murder, and we’ve become good friends since. There’s a curved steel bench to the left of the reception area so I walk over and put my briefcase down on its metallic seat.
‘Tony,’ I say, taking the call. ‘Good to hear from you.’
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘Not at all,’ I say, noting that he sounds serious, the way he always does when he calls to tell me that an unidentified woman’s body has been found by the French authorities. Guessing how awkward he must feel, I decide to plough straight in. ‘Has another body been found?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ he says reassuringly in his soft Devonshire accent. ‘Thomas Winter – you know, your ex-neighbour from St Mary’s – came into the station yesterday.’
‘Thomas?’ I say, surprised. ‘I didn’t think he’d still be alive after all these years. How’s he doing?’
‘Physically he’s pretty good, but he’s quite elderly now. Which is why we don’t want to give too much importance to what he said,’ he adds, pausing. I wait for him to carry on and while I wait, my mind analyses what Thomas could have told them. But then I remember that before Layla and I left for our holiday in France, before she disappeared, Thomas only knew us as the happiest of couples.
‘Why, what has he said?’ I ask.
‘That yesterday, he saw Layla.’
My heart misses a beat. I lean my free hand on the cold metal back of the bench, trying to process what he’s just told me. I know he’s waiting for me to say something, but I can’t, so I leave him to fill the silence.
‘He said he saw her standing outside the cottage and that when he went to speak to her, she ran off,’ he goes on.
‘Because it wasn’t her,’ I say, my voice neutral.
‘That’s what I suggested. I reminded him that twelve years have passed since he last saw her but he said he’d know her after fifty. She was wearing a hood thing over her head but he was adamant it was Layla. Something about the way she was standing, apparently.’
‘But he didn’t speak to her.’
‘No. He said, and I quote, “I called her name and she turned her head, but when she saw me, she ran off.” He said she went towards the station but the ticket office was closed at that time and we can’t find anyone who saw a woman waiting for a train. There’s no CCTV so we’re none the wiser.’
I search for the right response. ‘You don’t really think it was Layla, do you? Not after all these years.’
Tony sighs heavily. ‘I’m inclined to put it down to Mr Winter’s overactive imagination. I thought you should know, that’s all.’
‘Well, thanks, Tony.’ I want to hang up but it seems too soon. ‘When are you retiring? September, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, just another couple of months to go. Not too sure what I’ll do with myself, though.’
I grab onto this. ‘You can start by coming down to see us. I know Ellen would love to see you.’
‘I will, definitely.’
Maybe he understands that I’m not up to speaking because he tells me that he has another call to make. I stand for a moment, trying to get things in perspective, wondering why Thomas thought he saw Layla. I make a quick calculation; we had celebrated his eightieth birthday just before leaving for that fateful holiday in France in 2006, which means Thomas is ninety-two now, an age at which people get easily confused, an age where it’s easy to dismiss what they say, or what they think they saw. It can only be the ramblings of an old man. Confident, I take my keys from my pocket and carry on to the car park.
The journey home is unbelievably slow, which isn’t unusual for a Friday afternoon. As I drive past the ‘Welcome to Simonsbridge. Please drive slowly’ sign at the entrance to the village, my earlier excitement over the new deal starts to come back. It was good of Harry to book The Hideout; he said I should go for the venison steak, and I probably will.
A minute later I’m pulling up in front of the house, nothing much to look at from the outside maybe, but once inside it’s my haven, and the garden, my sanctuary. In a normal world Ellen would be standing on the doorstep, as impatient to see me as I am to see her. More often than not, roused from whatever illustration she’s working on by the sound of the tyres scrunching on the gravel, she opens the door before I’m out of the car. But not now. And today, it seems ominous.
I tell myself not to be stupid, that she doesn’t always open the door, that if I’d phoned ahead to tell her the good news, of course she’d be waiting. But I’d wanted to tell her face to face, I want to see her telling me how clever I am rather than just hearing it. I know how it sounds but it isn’t that I have a huge ego, more that pulling off this deal is a career highlight. A result like Grant James is such an adrenalin rush. It even beats the high I get from outsmarting the markets.
The sound of my key in the lock doesn’t bring her to the door. It doesn’t bring Peggy, our red setter, either, which is even more unusual. Instead of calling out, I go in search of Ellen, a flicker of worry making itself felt. As I push open the door to the sitting room, I see her curled up in one of the armchairs, wearing my blue denim shirt, which she continually pinches from my wardrobe. I don’t mind, I love to see her in it. She has her knees pulled up to her chest and the shirt pulled down over them, like a tent.
My silent sigh of relief at finding her there is checked by the way she’s staring unseeingly out of the window, her eyes on a distant past. It’s a look I haven’t seen for a while but a look I know only too well. It explains why Peggy – always sensitive to Ellen’s mood – is lying silently at her feet.
‘Ellen?’ I say softly.
She turns her head towards me and as her eyes come into focus, she scrambles to her feet.
‘Sorry,’ she says ruefully, hurrying over to me, Peggy following more sedately behind her, her age showing. ‘I was miles away.’
‘I can see that.’
She reaches up and kisses me. ‘How was your day?’
‘Good,’ I say, putting my news about the contract on hold for a moment. ‘What about yours?’
‘Good too.’ But her smile is just a little too bright.
‘So what were you thinking about when I came in?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing.’
I put my finger under her chin and tilt her head upwards so that she can’t avoid my eyes. ‘You know that doesn’t work with me.’
‘It really is nothing,’ she insists.
‘Tell me.’
She gives a small shrug. ‘It’s just that when I came back from taking Peggy for a walk this afternoon, I found this’ – she puts her hand into the front pocket of the shirt and takes something out – ‘lying on the pavement outside the house.’
I look down at the painted wooden doll sitting in her palm and a jolt of shock runs through me, quickly followed by a flash of anger, because for one mad moment I think she’s been rummaging around in my office. But then I remember that Ellen would never do such a thing, and concentrate on chasing the red mist away. Anyway, hadn’t she said that she found it on the pavement outside the house?
‘Someone must have dropped it,’ I say, as casually as I’m able. ‘A child, on her way back from school or something.’
‘I know. It’s just that it reminded me—’ She stops.
‘Yes?’ I prompt, preparing myself mentally, because I know what she’s going to say.
‘Of Layla.’ As always, her name hangs suspended in the air between us. And today, because of Tony’s phone call, it feels heavier than usual.
Ellen laughs suddenly, lightening the moment. ‘At least I have a full set now.’ And of course, I know what she’s referring to.
It was Layla who first told me the story, of how she and Ellen both had a set of Russian dolls, the sort that stack one inside the other and how one day the smallest one from Ellen’s set had gone missing. Ellen had accused Layla of taking it but Layla denied that she had, and it had never been found. Now, thirteen years after I first heard that story, the irony strikes me because, like Ellen’s little Russian doll, Layla went missing and has never been found.
‘Maybe you should put it on the wall outside, like people do with dropped gloves,’ I say. ‘Someone might come looking for it.’
Her face falls and I feel bad, because it’s only a Russian doll. But coming on the back of Tony’s phone call, it feels a bit too much.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she says.
‘Anyway, I’ll be able to buy you as many Russian dolls as you like now,’ I say, although we both know that isn’t what this is about.
Her eyes grow wide. ‘Do you mean . . .?’
‘Yes,’ I say, lifting her into my arms and spinning her around, noting – not for the first time – how much lighter she is than Layla was. Tendrils of chestnut hair escape her short ponytail and fall around her face. Her hands grip my shoulders.
‘Grant James invested?’ she squeals.
‘He did!’ I say, pushing thoughts of Layla away. I stop spinning and lower her to the ground. Dizzy, she stumbles a little against me and I enclose her in my arms.
‘That’s wonderful! Harry must be over the moon!’ She wriggles out of my embrace. ‘Stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.’
She disappears into the kitchen and I sit down on the sofa to wait. Peggy pushes herself between my legs and I take her head between my hands, noting with a heavy heart how grey she’s getting. I pull her ears gently, as she loves me to do, and tell her how beautiful she is. It’s something I often tell her, too often maybe. But the truth is, Peggy has always represented more than just Peggy to me. And now, because of the Russian doll, it seems wrong.
I feel restless, too full of kinetic energy to sit. I want to go to my office – a bespoke outhouse in the garden – and make sure that my Russian doll, the one Ellen doesn’t know about, is there, in its hiding place. But I force myself to be patient, reminding myself that everything is good in my world. Still, it’s difficult, and I’m about to go and find Ellen when she comes back, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other.
‘Perfect,’ I say, smiling at her.
‘I hid it at the back of the fridge a couple of weeks ago,’ she says, putting the glasses down on the table and holding the bottle out to me.
‘No,’ I say, grasping the bottle and using it to pull her towards me. ‘I mean you.’ I hold her tight for a moment, the champagne trapped between our bodies. ‘Do you know how beautiful you are?’ Uncomfortable with compliments, she drops her head and plants a kiss on my shoulder. ‘How did you know that Grant would come through?’ I go on.
‘I didn’t. But if he hadn’t, the champagne would have been to commiserate.’
‘See what I mean about you being perfect?’ Releasing her with a kiss, I untwist the wire and ease the cork from the bottle. Champagne bubbles out and Ellen quickly grabs the glasses from the table. ‘Guess where I’m taking you tonight?’ I say as I fill them.
‘McDonald’s?’ she teases.
‘The Hideout.’
She looks at me in delight. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Harry booked it as a thank you.’
Later, while she’s upstairs getting ready, I go out to my office in the garden, sit down at my desk and slide open the top right-hand drawer. It’s a large antique walnut desk and the drawer is so deep I have to reach a long way in to find the wooden pencil box, hidden at the back. I take out the little painted doll nestling there. It looks identical to the one that Ellen found outside the house and as my fingers close around its smooth, varnished body I feel the same uncomfortable tug I always do, a mixture of longing and regret, of desolation and infinite sadness. And gratitude, because without this little wooden doll, I might have been tried for Layla’s murder.
It had belonged to her. It was the smallest one from her set of Russian dolls, the one she’d had as a child, and when Ellen’s had gone missing, Layla had carried this one around with her for fear that Ellen would take it and claim it as hers. She called it her talisman, and in times of stress she would hold it between her thumb and index finger and gently rub the smooth surface. She had been doing exactly that on our journey from Megève, huddled against the car door, and the next morning, when the police returned to the picnic area, they’d found it lying on the ground next to where I’d parked the car, by the rubbish bin. They also found scuff marks, which – as my lawyer pointed out – suggested she’d been dragged from the car and had dropped the doll on purpose, as some kind of clue. As there was insufficient evidence to prove this either way, I was finally allowed to leave France, and to keep the Russian doll.
I put it back in its hiding place and go and find Ellen. But later, when we’re lying in bed, our hunger sated by the exquisite dinner we had at The Hideout, our bodies knotted together, I silently curse the little Russian doll she found earlier. It’s another reminder that no matter how many years go by, we will never be completely free of Layla.
Barely a month goes by when we don’t hear her name – someone called out to in the street, a character in a film or book, a newly opened restaurant, a cocktail, a hotel. At least we don’t have to contend with supposed sightings of Layla any more – Thomas’ yesterday was the first in years. There’d been hundreds after she first disappeared; it seemed that anyone who had red hair was put forward as a possible candidate.
I look down at Ellen, snuggled in the crook of my arm, and wonder if she’s thinking of Layla too. But the steady rise and fall of her chest against me tells me she’s already asleep and I’m glad I didn’t tell her about Tony’s phone call. Everything – all this – would be much easier if Ellen and I had fallen in love with other people instead of each other. It shouldn’t matter that Ellen is Layla’s sister, not when twelve years have passed since Layla disappeared.
But, of course, it does.
TWO (#ulink_53f1a107-f45c-5aaf-a6d4-376684e4b0bf)
Before
It feels a lifetime ago that I first saw you, Layla. I’m not sure if you even know this but at the time I had a girlfriend, someone so unlike you, someone who was as high-flying in the world of advertising as I was in my city job. Time is an oddity when it comes to memories; I always think of you when I remember Harry and the flat in St Katharine Docks, yet you spent much less time in that world than my ex did. You instigated the end of the life I had. Everything became ‘Before Layla’ and ‘After Layla’.
It must have been just after 7 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2004. You probably don’t remember that but I know, because Harry had insisted we leave too much time to get to the theatre. I’d felt indifferent to it being a big night but I was indifferent to so many things back then. Until I met you.
As Harry and I went down into the underground station at Liverpool Street, I never thought I was about to fall in love. He needed to top up his Oyster card so while he queued at the machine, I watched everybody rushing to get wherever they were going to celebrate the New Year.
After a few minutes my attention was caught by a flash of colour amongst the greys and blacks of the Londoners, the most beautiful red I’d ever seen. And of course it was you – or rather, your hair. Do you remember how you stood with your back against the opposite wall, your eyes watching in alarm at everyone surging around you? You looked scared, but back then the simplest things seemed to scare you; crowds, dogs, the dark. You were so terrified of dogs that if you saw one coming towards you, you would cross over to the other side of the street to avoid it, even if you were with me, even if it was on a lead. And that day in the underground station, as you pushed yourself further into the wall to avoid the crowds, your hair caught under the artificial lighting and it seemed to be on fire. With your tiny purple skirt, lace-up ankle boots and curvy figure, you looked so different to the stick-thin women in their smart suits and dark winter coats. Then you raised your head, and our eyes met. I felt embarrassed to be caught staring at you so intensely and tried to look away. But your eyes pulled me towards you and before I knew it, I was striding across the concourse.
‘Do you need help?’ I asked, looking down into your green-brown eyes. Hazel, I learned later. ‘You seem a little lost.’
‘It’s just that I didn’t expect London to be quite so busy,’ you replied, your voice lilting with a Scottish accent. ‘All these people!’
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ I explained. ‘They’re on their way out to celebrate.’
‘So it’s not always like this?’
‘Early morning and late afternoon, usually. Did you want to buy a ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you going?’
Do you remember your reply?
‘To a youth hostel,’ you said.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. Near Piccadilly Circus, I think.’
‘Do you have an address?’ You shook your head. ‘On your reservation?’ I persevered.
And then you admitted that you hadn’t reserved a room.
Your naivety both appalled and charmed me. ‘It might be difficult to find a bed on New Year’s Eve,’ I explained.
Your skin paled, heightening the freckles, and that’s when I fell in love with you.
‘Have you got a mobile?’ I asked.
You shook your head again. ‘No.’
To meet someone so unorganised, so unaffected by modern life and the London rush was like a hit of alcohol. If it had been anybody else, I would have walked away quickly before they could ask me how to find a number for a hostel. But I was already realising that I couldn’t walk away from you.
‘How old are you?’ I asked, because suddenly, I needed to know everything there was to know about you.
‘Eighteen. Almost nineteen.’ You raised your chin defiantly. ‘I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I was saved from answering by Harry appearing at my elbow.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t I leave you standing over there?’
My eyes stayed fixed on you. ‘This young lady is looking for a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus. Do you know it?’ I asked, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t, because I was already counting on bringing you back to ours.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked thoughtfully at you. ‘They must have given you the address when you reserved.’
‘She doesn’t have a reservation.’
His eyes widened. ‘I doubt you’ll find a bed on New Year’s Eve.’
‘Then what should I do?’ you asked, a slight panic creeping into your voice.
Harry scratched his head as he always did when faced with a problem. ‘I have no idea.’
‘We’ll have to think of something,’ I said, my voice low.
He turned to me with that ‘it isn’t our problem’ look in his eyes. And he was right, it wasn’t our problem, it was mine. ‘Look, I’ll help her look for a hostel, or a hotel, or something,’ I told him. ‘We can’t just leave her here.’
‘Well, maybe somebody else can help her. We’re going to the theatre,’ he reminded me.
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. It’s my fault, I should have planned ahead. But I never realised London would be so . . . ’ you searched for a word ‘ . . . crazy.’
I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my wallet. ‘Here,’ I said, fishing out my theatre ticket and handing it to Harry. ‘Take Samantha. She wanted to go, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, but—’
I pressed the ticket into his hand. ‘It’s fine. I’ll see you at the party later.’ He tried to catch my eye but I ignored him. ‘Phone Samantha. She can meet you at the theatre.’ And before he could say another word, I took your bag and set off across the concourse. ‘Follow me.’
I headed for the exit, my heart now hammering as it always did when I was on the verge of doing something exhilarating, or dangerous. Worried I would lose you in the crowds that thronged the streets, I reached for your hand.
‘Stay with me!’ I shouted above the noise of the traffic.
Your hand tightened around mine. ‘Don’t worry, I will!’ you called back.
And I hoped that you would, forever.
THREE (#ulink_d8c2277b-569d-5882-8f11-a115d2251f5b)
Now
It’s Saturday, so Peggy and I go to get fresh bread for breakfast while Ellen has a lie-in. On Sundays, I usually lie-in while Ellen makes bacon and eggs. Ellen says that one day we’ll be too old to lie-in and will be up at dawn, making porridge, unable to stay in bed any longer after being awake half the night with insomnia. She’s probably right.
It’s a short walk to the village where the bakery stands between the newsagent’s and the butcher’s. I buy a granary loaf and a couple of newspapers, and when I go in to say hello to Rob, the butcher, I see a nice leg of lamb for our lunch tomorrow, a little too big for just me and Ellen, but there’s Peggy too.
I take Peggy for a detour along the river on the way home, hoping I won’t bump into Ruby, the owner of our local pub, The Jackdaw. She often walks her Airedale in the mornings and it’s still a bit awkward when we meet. I first got together with Ruby back in 2014, about a year after a small memorial ceremony we’d had for Layla, where I met Ellen for the first time. Until then, nobody in Simonsbridge knew I was the ex-partner of the young woman who’d gone missing in France. When my true identity was revealed in a newspaper article, not long after the ceremony, it didn’t give anyone cause for concern, as I’d been living peacefully among them for six years. People were interested, rather than frightened, about having a possible murderer in their midst. This gave me the confidence to stop hiding myself away and I began to mix with the locals in a way I hadn’t before. If people asked me about my past, I spoke truthfully – well, with as much truth as I wanted them to know.
In a strange twist of fate, the journalist who traced me to Devon and ‘outed’ me was a cousin of Ruby’s. She felt bad about the role he’d played and made it up to me in more ways than one. I enjoyed being with Ruby; she was vivacious and easy-going. When Harry persuaded me to go back to work, I would stay at the flat in London during the week and return to Simonsbridge at the weekends to see Ruby, and Peggy, who would stay at The Jackdaw while I was away. As far as I was concerned our relationship was a casual thing, something that could be dropped on a Monday morning when I left for London and picked up again when I returned to Simonsbridge on the Friday evening.
I knew from Harry, who had kept in touch with Ellen since the memorial ceremony, that she was trying to make herself a career as an illustrator. When she finally found herself an agent, and had to come to London for meetings, Harry would invite her to stay at the flat. At first, I kept my distance, leaving her and Harry to have dinner together, wondering if there was something between them. As her career took off, she started coming to London more often and I found myself looking forward to her visits. Sometimes our eyes would meet across the table, and I would look away, determined not to get involved. But then I began inviting her to join me in Simonsbridge at weekends. And relaxing in front of a log-fire one evening, she leaned over and kissed me, and we ended up in bed.
It hadn’t been my intention to lie to Ruby when she asked me about Ellen, it was more that I was uncomfortable about who Ellen was. I don’t blame Ruby for feeling sore when Ellen moved in with me last year. Unfairly perhaps, I’ve always suspected Ruby of being behind the ‘Partner of Missing Woman Moves Sister In’ headline which appeared in the paper shortly after. And because Ellen and I are now getting married, I’d like to delay the conversation – the one where Ruby tells me she’s very happy for me while throwing me daggers – until I’ve had time to get used to the idea myself.
We haven’t been to The Jackdaw since the wedding announcement appeared in the local paper a couple of weeks ago. Ellen insisted on placing it because she felt that everyone, especially Ruby, should know that she’s here to stay. I think she was hoping to silence those who whispered that we shouldn’t be in a relationship, as there are some who disapprove that I’m marrying Layla’s sister. They don’t come right out and say it but I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices as they congratulate us.
I call Peggy out from the river, and after she’s shaken the water off her and onto me, I take the path back up to the road, glad that I’ve managed to avoid Ruby. As I approach the house, I see something standing on the stone wall that borders the front garden and recognise the little Russian doll that Ellen found last week. The fact that she kept it for so long before putting it back where she found it tells me how much it means to her and I feel guilty all over again for saying she shouldn’t keep it, because I doubt the owner is going to come looking for it. But I also feel guilty for another reason. It’s more proof that Ellen never goes against what I tell her, never disobeys me, and although it makes for a peaceful life, I find it perplexing.
I put the doll into my jeans pocket and go into the house. I expect to find her in the kitchen but she calls down to me from upstairs. I send Peggy to fetch her while I check the markets on my phone. A couple of minutes later Ellen comes into the kitchen, looking so desirable in her skimpy pyjamas that I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her back to bed.
‘I hope you didn’t go outside like that,’ I tease.
‘Outside?’
‘To put the Russian doll back.’ I slip my hand into my pocket, intending to surprise her with it, because why shouldn’t she keep it?
‘I haven’t put it back yet.’
I look at her, thinking that she’s joking. But her cheeks have flushed red.
My fingers, clasped around the Russian doll, freeze. ‘What do you mean, you haven’t put it back yet?’
‘I was going to do it after breakfast,’ she says, mistaking my shock for annoyance. ‘I wasn’t going to keep it.’
‘Where is it?’ I hate that I sound angry because I’m not, I’m rattled.
She hurries out of the room and comes back carrying the large Russian doll that has sat on top of the teak cupboard in our dining room since she moved in with me last year. She unscrews it in the middle, takes out the Russian doll inside, unscrews that one in the middle, takes out the next one, unscrews it, then takes out the next one. As she twists the last one apart, I realise that she’s joking, that there’ll be nothing inside and she’ll smile and tell me that of course she put the doll back outside. I raise an eyebrow and begin to smile.
‘Here it is.’ She takes a little Russian doll out and puts it down on the worktop amid its dissected relatives. ‘I was only going to keep it for a while.’
Keeping the smile on my face, I casually remove my hand from my pocket, leaving the doll I found on the wall where it is. ‘Hey, it’s fine, keep it if you want to.’
She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, nobody’s going to come looking for it, are they?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ She begins putting the Russian dolls back together but instead of stacking them one inside the other she places them side by side on the kitchen worktop, starting with the biggest and ending with the little one. It matches the rest of her set exactly. ‘There we are, a complete family of five. How strange that after all these years, I’ve finally found what’s been missing.’
I turn away, wondering what she would say if I told her that I just found a second Russian doll. If Layla’s body had been found, she would put it down to a bizarre coincidence. But her body has never been found. And if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s Ellen thinking that Layla might still be alive.
I’d hate for her to have false hope.
FOUR (#ulink_5a6e50e8-6175-5e68-82f7-6d4f910c1c8d)
Before
That night, it took thirty-six minutes to get from Liverpool Street Station to St Katharine Docks. As we made our way through the crowds standing outside pubs and wine bars, already celebrating the New Year, I told myself it was the atmosphere that made me feel drunk. But I knew it was because of you.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Layla.’
‘I expected something more Scottish,’ I admitted.
‘I was lucky, my mum got to choose my name. My dad chose my sister’s name and she wasn’t so fortunate. He’s originally from Islay so he called her Ellen, after Port Ellen.’
‘It’s still a pretty name.’
‘Yes, it is. What about you? What’s your name?’
‘Finn.’
‘Irish?’
‘Yes. I was born and raised in Ireland,’ I explained.
You couldn’t get over the size of the Tower of London, proudly illuminated against the night sky, or the majesty of Tower Bridge. By the time we reached the docks, where people were partying on the various yachts and boats moored there, you were completely overwhelmed.
‘This is London?’ you asked.
‘It is,’ I said, pleased at your reaction to the city I loved. I stopped in front of my apartment block. ‘And this is where I live.’
‘Where you live?’ You seemed suddenly doubtful and I remembered that I was meant to be finding you a hostel or hotel.
‘Yes. You’ll never find somewhere to stay tonight so you can stay with me and Harry. Tomorrow, we’ll find you a hostel.’ You still weren’t convinced. ‘We have a little study with a sofa-bed, you can sleep there. You’ll be fine, I promise.’
I tapped in the door code and after a moment’s hesitation you followed me inside. In the lift, your unease grew – but of course, I had more or less kidnapped you. I wanted to put your mind at rest, to tell you that I hadn’t been lying, that you would never have found anywhere to stay that night because every hotel, every hostel would have been booked up months ago. But we were already on the third floor and I hoped that once you saw the flat, you’d feel more comfortable.
‘Oh my God, is this really yours?’ you breathed as I showed you around.
‘Mine and Harry’s.’
‘It’s beautiful!’
The next couple of hours passed in a blur. You were hungry, do you remember? So I made an omelette and while we ate, we exchanged information about our lives. You told me you’d lived on Lewis, a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, all your life and had been fairly happy until you were fourteen and your mother died. After, things had become difficult, you said. Your father became an alcoholic and ever since, you’d been counting the days until you could leave.
‘I stayed for Christmas,’ you said. ‘Then I packed up and left. I was determined to be in London for the first of January.’ You paused, and the light from the massive lamp that hung above the dining room table bounced off your hair. ‘A new year, a new life. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.’
‘What about your sister?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to leave?’
Your eyes had filled with tears. ‘Yes. But in the end she couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
You took a long time answering. ‘My dad has cancer. He’s also diabetic. Somebody has to look after him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
You laughed suddenly, unnerving me. ‘Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to be sad on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I’m meant to be going to a party tonight.’ I pointed through the window at a building on the opposite side of the dock. ‘My boss lives on the top floor. We should go.’
You looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really have anything to wear to a party.’
‘You’re fine as you are,’ I told you.
I don’t remember much about the party except feeling as if I’d stepped into a parallel universe. You were completely out of place among the women in their dresses, their nails manicured and polished, their hair styled, and I couldn’t believe it was a world I’d inhabited just a few hours before. It felt stifling and dull, and when Caroline slid her arms around my waist and asked me how I’d enjoyed the theatre, I had trouble remembering she was my girlfriend. I introduced her to you and explained something of what had happened. Maybe it was the mention of a youth hostel, but the story amused her and when she turned and raised her eyebrows at me, I knew she was laughing at you. And my fists clenched, hating her for it.
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Бернадетт Пэрис
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The million-copy bestselling author returns with a breathtaking thriller – now with exclusive new chapters to see how the story could have ended. This Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller has been updated with bonus chapters from B A Paris showing how she originally planned that ending.‘We’re in a new Golden Age of suspense writing now, because of amazing books like Bring Me Back’ Lee ChildFinn and Layla: young and in love, their whole lives ahead of them. Driving back from a holiday in France one night, Finn pulls in to a service station, leaving Layla alone in the car. When he returns, minutes later, Layla has vanished, never to be seen again. That’s the story Finn tells the police. It’s the truth – but not the whole truth.Twelve years later, Finn has built a new life with Ellen, Layla’s sister, when he receives a phone call. Someone has seen Layla. But is it her – or someone pretending to be her? If it is her, what does she want? And what does she know about the night she disappeared?Bring Me Back is the utterly compelling, white-knuckle thriller from Sunday Times bestseller B A Paris.‘An addictive new voice in suspense fiction’ Sophie Hannah‘Just finished this BRILLIANT book…Clever, addictive and twisty, I couldn’t sleep until I found out the truth…The twist floored me! Utterly compelling from beginning to end’ Claire Douglas‘Made me stay up way beyond my bedtime! BA Paris has a knack for getting into your head.’ Jane Corry‘A page-turning masterpiece’ Amanda Prowse‘A tale of dark secrets, with mystery and intrigue building up and up to an ending with a fabulous twist. I devoured it – I couldn’t turn the pages quick enough.’ Mel Sherratt‘This book is compulsive reading from start to finish. A perfectly crafted work of art, seamless and mesmerising. I envy those yet to read it for the pleasure they have in store.’ Amanda Robson‘A cracking page turner with a killer twist.′ Camilla Way‘An incredibly pacy, heart-pounding thriller – the twist at the end left me reeling. B A Paris does it again in this exhilarating exploration of love, jealousy and betrayal. A must read for 2018!’ Phoebe Morgan