The enthralling, page-turning new thriller from the internationally acclaimed author of Sticks and Stones.
Stage One of Grief
DENIAL
CHAPTER ONE
Beth Lomas
Sorry.
Just one word on the back of a discarded envelope. I told
the police that no way, never, not in a million years was that
a suicide note.
I said, ‘You’re going to have to trust me. I know him better
than you do, and I know that Oscar would never take his own
life.’
His writing was as familiar to me as my own. There was a
cat’s tail swirl on the S and the Y, followed by a single X. A
kiss. Perhaps he’d used the last of the milk, or forgotten to
take the bins out. Something silly and forgivable that we’d
laugh about in time.
‘You idiot,’ I’d say, punching his shoulder. ‘You scared me
half to death.’ And he’d wrinkle his nose in that way he did
when he was embarrassed, and I’d rest my head on his chest.
I shouldn’t have told the detective about the note on the
kitchen table, propped between the salt and pepper grinders.
The slump of her shoulders and the downturn of her mouth
made it clear that DC Lowry Endecott’s mind was made up.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t that,’ I said.
‘Then why’s he apologising?’ she asked.
‘We argued. No, not really, that sounds too strong. We’d
had words on Friday night. He left the house before I got out
of bed yesterday, making the most of the last day of good
weather, you know. He told Gabe – that’s our son – that he
was going for a hike and he’d see him that evening. The note
was an apology for the argument, you see. That’s all. Please, I
beg you. You have to find him. What if he’s hurt? Don’t give
up on him now.’
‘Can I ask what the argument was about?’ Endecott said.
She was tenacious, I’ll give her that, but I couldn’t allow
her to get side-tracked.
‘It was something about nothing. One of those silly spats
all couples have from time to time. I can’t even remember
what started it.’
Was that the first lie I’d told her? Of course I could remember
the argument, I could remember it word for word, and
that’s why we had to find Oscar so I could take it all back.
We’d been inseparable since the day we met. Beth and Oscar.
Oscar and Beth. You couldn’t have one without the other
because we came as a pair. People envied us because Oscar and
I, well, we were still going strong after all these years. My heart
fluttered, and I caught my breath, every time I saw him unexpectedly
in a crowd. I didn’t know who I was without him. So
much of me was tied up in him that it made no sense to me
that he wasn’t here by my side as the storm clouds tumbled in,
talking about making sure the drains were clear of leaves.
Endecott was dishing out platitudes she’d learned on a
training course that were meant for other families, not people
like us. She was trying to prepare me for the worst but she
should have saved her breath. I had to believe they would find
him while I stayed home and waited.
And waited.
Waited, while the rest of the world carried on laughing, and
bickering, and attaching importance to matters that were so
insignificant I wanted to scream, ‘How can you pretend the
world isn’t in turmoil?’ And so I prayed, I pleaded and I begged.
If Oscar could be delivered safely home, I would never take
him for granted again. Never snap, never scold, never nag.
“Endecott assured me they were searching in the right area now. It was a matter of time, and a matter of clinging on to the little hope we had left.”
I wanted to be out there looking for him, but I was no asset
to the search party of two dogs, the Peak Rescue Team, and a
drone. Oscar’s car was in a lay-by in the shadow of Wilders
Pass. The keys were in the ignition, which wasn’t like Oscar
at all. Me? Sure, I often leave keys in the outside of doors or
the insides of cars, but I’m forgetful like that. Oscar remembers
everything; the names of his employees’ kids, the number
plate of his first car, even the way someone slighted him eight
years ago. He’d never forget to come home to us.
Endecott assured me they were searching in the right area
now. It was a matter of time, and a matter of clinging on to
the little hope we had left. But with plenty of crags and caves,
Oscar could be anywhere. The Peak District was treacherous
terrain for those who weren’t familiar with the landscape but
Oscar and his brother, Harvey, had made these hills their playground
from the moment their mother cut her apron strings.
The Limestone valleys of the White Peak with stepping-stones
across rivers, and the dramatic ridges and gritty moorland of
the Dark Peak made up over five hundred square miles of
land, and somewhere, in the midst of it all, my husband was
waiting for me to find him and bring him home.
Harvey was heading up the search party. Though he volunteered
for the Peak Rescue Team, and had located countless
climbers who were injured or lost, he’d never imagined that,
one day, he’d be looking for his own brother. If anyone could
find Oscar, it would be Harvey. He was the level-headed one
of the two. He and Oscar shared that unbreakable bond that
meant they loved and fought fiercely, and Lord help anyone
who got between them. The Lomas brothers were a team to
be reckoned with. They climbed together, holidayed together,
and ran a business shoulder to shoulder. They were terrible
practical jokers, always setting the other one up through
prank phone calls and in-jokes.
Though they were equal business partners, it was Oscar who captained that ship. Harvey
preferred to take a less visible role, but you couldn’t have one
without the other. Oscar was as extroverted as Harvey was
introverted. Oscar was flamboyant where Harvey was measured.
They each needed the other for balance. Harvey was the
one who talked about projected income and cost-saving
measures while Oscar went after orders they couldn’t fulfil
and expanded their premises without planning permission.
Harvey knew as well as I did that the possibility of Oscar
taking his own life . . . well, there was no possibility. It was
ridiculous the police were even considering it.
The coming storm was all anyone was talking about. News
reporters would have us believe that three months of rain
would be falling in the space of forty-eight hours. Flood
warnings were already in place. People in picturesque market
towns were dragging sandbags into doorways and driveways,
buying in extra milk and bread with tins upon tins of store
cupboard essentials. But Oscar knew all of this, we’d watched
the news together, commented on how impossible the roads
would be. Oscar took risks, it was one of the things I loved
about him, but never with the weather. I knew he would’ve
been home by now if it was within his power.
“I supposed Oscar had taken himself off somewhere to sulk, still angry with me for the way I’d reacted to our quarrel.”
Judge me if you must, I don’t care, but I didn’t report him
missing until lunchtime even though I hadn’t seen him since
Friday night. Though I was concerned, and tried his phone
twice, I didn’t immediately assume the worst. Why would I?
I supposed Oscar had taken himself off somewhere to sulk,
still angry with me for the way I’d reacted to our quarrel. He
could have stayed the night with Harvey and Miriam after
one too many brandies. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
‘Have you checked with family and friends?’ Endecott asked.
‘No one has heard from him since Friday night when his
brother spoke to him on the phone. His parents are on their
way up from Cornwall now. They’ve not heard from him at
all this week. There’s not really anyone else to call. They’re a
tight-knit family. Sorry, not they. I mean we.’
DC Endecott said I had to be patient and, as anyone who
knows me will tell you, patience is something I excel at. There’s
power in my patience. No one can bide time, fill time, or spend
time as I do. Patience brings all good things to bear and, as my
father used to say, time has a way of burying your enemies.
I’d just taken a dozen lemon and blueberry muffins out of
the oven. They were cooling alongside the tray of chocolate
brownies. Oscar would be hungry when he came home. I
bake. It’s what I do. I bake to celebrate, to console, and to
nourish. You can chart my stress levels by how much time I
spend in my kitchen.
It might’ve been the heat from the oven, or the tension in
the house, but there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen left
in there for me. I flung open the door but the air was just as
thick outside. My clothes were sticking to me as I slipped into
the garden, pulling at the neck of my T-shirt.
My bra strap was twisted and digging into my shoulder but I didn’t alter it.
The pain was a welcome focus; a domestic cilice.
Clouds gathered over the hills, dark heads together in collusion,
plotting destruction. The wind ruffled my hair as I sat
heavily on the bench. I looked over my shoulder and saw our
daughter at the window on the second floor. Honey’s face
was intent on the horizon as if she could spot her father and
guide him home. She was the beacon in the window. If anyone
could bring Oscar back to us, it’s her.
The patio door slid open and I snapped my eyes shut.
‘Mrs Lomas?’
The first drops of rain fell on my head.
‘Beth?’ Louder this time. The detective’s feet tapped down
the three steps towards me but I didn’t look at her. I could tell
that she judged me for not reporting Oscar’s disappearance
soon enough, and for baking cakes while rescue teams risked
their lives. The slight arch of her right eyebrow had suggested
she thought me careless for misplacing something as precious
as a husband. She was everything I wasn’t. Organised, resilient,
strong, authoritative. I bet she’d never gone to pay for groceries
and realised she’d left her purse by the kettle, or put petrol
in her diesel car, never forgotten that the clocks had gone back
and ended up an hour late for an important meeting. I would
hazard a guess that she’d never been late for anything, whereas
I couldn’t remember when I’d ever been on time.
I opened my eyes.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Just needed a moment. Is there any news?’
It was the same question I’d asked half a dozen times
already.
But this time the answer was different.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there is.’
Sorry.
Extracted from What His Wife Knew by Jo Jakeman, out now.
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