A Place to Lie Read online

  Rebecca Griffiths grew up in rural mid-Wales and went on to gain a first class honours degree in English Literature. After a successful business career in London, Dublin and Scotland she returned to mid-Wales where she now lives with her husband, a prolific artist, four vampiric cats black as night, and pet sheep the size of sofas.

  Also by Rebecca Griffiths

  The Primrose Path

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-751-56199-9

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Rebecca Griffiths 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Lyrics from ‘Winter Wonderland’ on p6 © Richard B. Smith.

  Lyrics from ‘Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ on p32 © Jimmy Kennedy

  and John W. Bratton.

  Lyrics from ‘Yellow Bird’ on p67 and p272 © Alan Bergman,

  Marilyn Keith and Norman Luboff.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Rebecca Griffiths

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Present Day

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Part Two

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  Summer 1990

  Present Day

  The following morning

  Autumn 1990

  Present Day

  Meanwhile in Bayswater …

  In memory of Eira and Grace – saviours both.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks must go to my agent Jane Gregory and all at Gregory & Company, especially Stephanie Glencross for her continued guidance.

  There are many people at Sphere for whose knowledge and dedication I am grateful to – patricularly, of course, Maddie West, my editor, Lucy Dauman and Thalia Proctor.

  But most of all my thanks must go to my husband, Steven, for his indominitable belief, love, and creative inspiration. And last but not least, dear Harris.

  I’d give all the wealth that years have piled, the slow

  result of life’s decay,

  To be once more a little child for one bright

  summer day.

  Lewis Carroll

  PART ONE

  Present Day

  She knows she’s in trouble the moment she steps into the street. Corralled by looming buildings and confused by the dazzle from fiercely lit shops and headlamps, the danger that is only a heartbeat away has her braced for attack. With her bag secured across her front like a shield, she slips her hand inside to clasp the knife. Her bag, with its sharp edges and thick leather strap, works as a weapon too. She’s grateful for it. And with everyone and everything a threat to her safety, she needs all the help she can get. Overtaking an androgynous couple in dark winter clothes, she spins her head to the amplified rush of tyres on wet tarmac and skids on the rain-polished pavement. Taking a moment to steady herself, she watches a dying bird at her feet – its frantic flapping is distressing, until she realises it’s nothing more than a collection of dead leaves.

  With her thumb caressing the pommel of the knife, she is on the move again. Supposing she doesn’t see him coming … supposing he springs out on her from behind? She shouldn’t have left the flat, wouldn’t have done had she not run out of food and been desperate for chocolate … and painkillers. She’s had a thumping headache all day and it’s too late to do an online shop, not that she can risk strangers coming to her home.

  As she negotiates the string of Bayswater streets spun with Christmas lights, the cul-de-sacs of night-time shadows take on terrifying shapes. She passes open-doored cafes, sniffs the bite of cardamom, the pungency of foreign cigarettes. Sensations once enjoyed, but now everything is tarnished and every stranger – once fascinating and captivating – is out to get her. Each laugh, too loud, too close, is spiked with menace, and the rise and fall of men’s voices stoke her paranoia.

  Around her, a flutter of women made black as jackdaws by a modesty of layers where faces should be. Only their hands are visible, sallow-skinned and weighted with gold; they engulf her in the smell of Chanel and Gucci. She sidesteps them by crashing through a crowd of metal chairs set out on the empty terrace of an Italian pizzeria. He could be among them – panic flares behind her ribs as she presses her broad back against a window – how would she know? The bastard could be anywhere, disguised as anyone … he could have others working for him; everyone is dangerous … everyone is after her. She thinks of the strange telephone calls in the night, the heavy-breather she swears is him, acting out some kind of psychological torture. And why wouldn’t he toy with her, harass her, grind her down until she completely loses her mind? Having tracked her to Bayswater, killing her was never going to be enough; he would want to see she’d been properly punished first.

  A sharp rapping on the inside of the glass. She staggers forward, lip-reads the anger spouting from the white-shirted waiter who is wielding a pepper mill and telling her to clear off.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she shouts, sticking up two fingers.

  Her outburst appals her. This isn’t how she behaves. This is his fault, her fear of him is turning her into someone she doesn’t recognise. Stepping backwards, she collides with a rabble of charity fundraisers disguised as Disney characters. A man pounces, jangling a bucket of change, his Mickey Mouse mask inches from her nose.

  She screams into the chaos, and the man flinches. ‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to frighten ya,’ he says before ducking away to re-join his troupe.

  Finally, she sees the welcoming sign of her favourite mini-market. Grateful to leave the perils of the street behind, she steps inside and nods hello to the pretty Asian lad behind the till. Their eyes collide and, aware of a slight quiver in her chest, she is the first to look away. Poised for trouble, her left hand still curled around the knife deep inside her bag, she gives the CCTV camera above the counter a quick glance while reaching out with her other hand for a small trolley.

  The store is unexpectedly full. She
must dodge a mother pushing a toddler in a buggy and an elderly man in a grubby raincoat before she can reach the bank of confectionary. With lighting as bright and artificially jolly as the piped festive cheer circulating above, the handle of the trolley digs into her big, soft body. The young man at the till smiles as she trundles past with fairy cakes, biscuits, cocktail sausages, jumbo bags of Haribo, chocolate and packets of aspirin.

  ‘Ice cream,’ she mumbles, licking her lips as she moves along the sub-zero shelves, hunting down her favourite. There, she spots the tubs of Häagen-Dazs behind the frosted glass and tugs open the door to the accompanying blast of cold air. The movement causes two chocolate bars to fall through the mesh of the trolley and slide to the floor. She crouches to save them before they disappear under the freezer and doesn’t notice the man slip free from the end of an aisle, heading straight for her, his reflection lost to the open freezer door. She isn’t ready for him, realising too late she can’t move. His face pressed close to hers – a face she remembers from childhood – there isn’t the time to scream. She whips her head in alarm and is momentarily blinded by the too-bright strip lights as terror rumbles: a thunderstorm on her periphery. Scrabbling inside her bag, she yanks out her knife-holding hand. A scuffle. She puts up a brave fight and is surprisingly strong; she doesn’t make it easy for him, but flabby and out of condition, she can’t sustain it. The man is stronger.

  Then she is down. The seam of her collarbone against the cold linoleum. Her attacker, a black cataract balancing on the rim of her vision, looms over her, pinning her into position. She identifies a hot feeling, deep in her abdomen. It rises up through the befuddled haze and sea of voices. Something is wedged in her side: alien, rigid; a knife, she supposes, touching it and finding it tacky with blood.

  ‘You ?’

  The accusation is far louder in her head, the reality is little more than a whimper above Johnny Mathis telling the muddle of shoppers who’ve gathered round to look, to help, to face unafraid, the plans that we’ve made …

  Breath against her lips, hotter than the steam of cooling bread, boiling through her teeth, down into her throat. Blowing her open. Stunning her like an electric charge. Conscious of a face held menacingly close to hers, the hazel eyes are the last thing she sees before her head lolls back against the floor with a sickening crack. Lips are on hers again, ungluing her mouth, and she floats to the surface of her shock.

  The world turns and settles. And slipping in and out of consciousness come flickering ghosts of her childhood in Witchwood.

  … the slow, summer slop of water … bulrushes slicing her thighs …

  With her pulse pumping in her ears, she hauls her terrified gaze to the ceiling and makes one final plea for someone to save her.

  But no one is listening.

  … there is sand from the bank under her fingers, the harsh quack of ducks taking off from the lake, their black shapes flung against an apathetic sky …

  Her attacker’s hands sheer back and wheel away.

  ‘Please. No,’ she begs, blood bubbling at her lips. ‘Not like this … please … ’ Air hisses from her lungs. ‘Not like this.’

  Fearing she is about to be struck again, she scrunches her eyelids closed against the expected force. But nothing comes. When she prises her eyes open again, she sees the man lurch away, absorbed by the pulsating ice-blue lights in the street outside.

  Present Day

  Joanna is woken by the doorbell. It tips her out of her dreams, as does the enthusiastic barking of the family Labrador. She sits up and fumbles for the alarm clock, its green digits glowing in a room still dark. Three o’clock. The time when the warm, healthy body runs at its lowest ebb, and death certificates are signed … these are her jumbled thoughts as she rolls sideways out of bed, careful not to wake Mike. Until she remembers, stuffing arms into her dressing gown and stumbling downstairs, Mike isn’t here; he’s in New York attending an end-of-year conference.

  She lunges for the door and pulls it wide to find two uniformed police officers filling her porch.

  ‘Mrs Peters?’ One of them requires verification.

  Joanna doesn’t answer. Disorientated, she tugs the cord of her dressing gown tight against the frosty night. Peters isn’t a name she goes by, she’s only ever referred to as Joanna Jameson – her concert pianist’s name.

  ‘Mrs Joanna Peters?’ the officer tries again, and she sees the low-slung paring of moon reflected in his polished boots.

  ‘Y-yes, that’s me,’ she stammers, pushing her curls from her eyes.

  ‘It’s about your sister, Caroline,’ one of them says, she isn’t sure which. ‘D’you think we could come inside?’

  Owl-light: eerie and ominous; clogging the passageway of her beautiful Hertfordshire home. Joanna flicks on light switches as she walks, conscious only of the plush carpet pile between her toes. Reaching the lounge, they stand together and she plucks words from the gloom: ‘ … ambulance called … knife attack … a twenty-seven-year-old man living in the area … in police custody … arrested at the scene … we’re dreadfully sorry, no one could get to her in time … ’

  ‘What ? What are you saying? It can’t be … it can’t be Carrie.’ Joanna’s incredulity spins and flaps around the room.

  ‘Is your husband home, Mrs Peters?’ The same voice punctures her crowding confusion.

  She stares at the floor, shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says limply. ‘Mike’s in America. He’s not due back till Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Right.’ The police officers exchange looks. ‘It’s just that we will need you to come in and identify your sister’s body.’

  ‘Identify her body ? What, now ?’ Joanna is horrified.

  ‘As soon as you can, Mrs Peters.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?’

  ‘Afraid not, Mrs Peters. You’re her next of kin. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’ Eyes downcast. ‘But not on my own.’ Anxiety rising. ‘I don’t have to come on my own, do I? I’ll call Mike … ask him to get the next flight home. Can it wait until then? A couple of days?’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to, if that’s what you’d prefer. But is there someone we can call for you in the meantime? You really shouldn’t be on your own.’

  ‘No. It’s okay.’ She reaches out to touch the Christmas tree glinting through the dark, its artificial branches laden with decorations her sons put up in readiness for their father’s return. ‘I’ve got my boys … my boys are here.’

  Joanna looks away. Out through the darkened windowpane on to a strange moon-washed land where a cold wind from childhood blows. Echoes of things long past ring in her ears as she refocuses on the brace of police officers and shivers, fearing at any moment that Freddie and Ethan will wake and come padding downstairs, demanding answers their mother cannot give.

  When the police leave, Joanna sits on the bottom stair, rigid with shock. Buttons finds her and drops his heavy head in her lap, nudging her fingers with his wet nose.

  ‘Good boy.’ She ruffles his fur and is grateful for the company.

  Staring at her feet, which are as blue as the murky edges of dawn beyond the glass panel of the front door, she tries to absorb the horror of what she’s been told. Repeating her sister’s name over and over until it becomes flat and feeble, bleached of meaning.

  Mike . She needs to talk to him. Only five hours behind, he might still be awake; it won’t yet be midnight in New York. She dials the number she knows by heart and he picks up after the second ring.

  ‘Hi, babe. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Mike, love.’ Her face crumples at the sound of his voice. ‘Thank God you’re there,’ she says, and bursts into tears.

  Summer 1990

  The women of Witchwood carried bundles of arum lilies into the church. Armfuls of them. Large, white trumpet-headed blooms, which were already beginning to rot. The centuries-old stone walls of St Oswald’s could generally be relied upon to keep the outsid
e out. But not today. Today, with the congregation swelling by the minute, transporting the freakish heat within the darkened pleats of their clothes, it bordered on unbearable.

  Dora Muller, in her mid-fifties with hair as black as it was when she was seventeen, was seated near the front, a great-niece squashed either side of her ampleness. With her money-slot mouth pursed for the occasion, her Delft Blue irises missed nothing and no one. Who were they all? She blinked in disbelief: Derek Hooper had been bedbound for years. These weren’t villagers; the inhabitants of this Gloucestershire parish barely amounted to a handful … her thoughts as she sieved through faces, dabbing perspiration from her disproportionately tiny nose with an embroidered handkerchief. She saw Cecilia Mortmain, the vicar’s attractive and considerably younger wife, tucked out of harm’s way at the back. A surprise to see her – diagnosed with multiple sclerosis some years ago, and more recently confined to a wheelchair, she wasn’t seen around the village all that often any more.

  Dora’s great-nieces, fidgety in their finery – well, the finest of what they brought with them; no one had envisaged their need to attend a funeral here – swivelled on the pew for news of what was going on behind them. They were greeted by row upon row of impeccably turned-out women in extravagant hats, who fanned their own corpse-like foreheads with the Order of Service. Catching their eye, Tilly Petley – co-owner with her husband, Frank, of Witchwood’s only shop – bestowed a generous wink. Shy under her unexpected interest, the sisters turned to the front again, but not before they noticed Cecilia Mortmain.

  ‘Who’s that pretty lady?’ Thirteen-year-old Caroline: surly, complex, her hen-brown hair scooped back in its Alice band.

  ‘Shhh .’ Dora pressed a finger to her lips.

  Luckily the barn-like church interior held greater interest. Caroline extended a hand to touch the smudged gold Cotswold stone. But ashamed of her bitten nails, she jerked her fingers back and burrowed them in the pocket of her dress to twirl the little flat vanes on a silver teaspoon that, fashioned into a windmill, was just one of the things she’d pinched from her great-aunt’s holiday cottage.