All the Wicked Games, page 1
Lauren North
* * *
ALL THE WICKED GAMES
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Lauren North writes psychological suspense novels that delve into the darker side of relationships and families. She has a lifelong passion for writing, reading and all things books. Lauren’s love of psychological suspense has grown since childhood, and from her dark imagination of always wondering what’s the worst thing that could happen in every situation.
Lauren studied psychology before moving to London, where she lived and worked for many years. She now lives with her family in the Suffolk countryside. Readers can follow Lauren on Twitter @Lauren_C_North and Facebook @LaurenNorthAuthor
Also by Lauren North
SAFE AT HOME
THE PERFECT BETRAYAL
ONE STEP BEHIND
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For my dad
Don’t start what you can’t finish. It’s one of life’s rules, don’t you think? As fundamental as a commandment. I bet it’s even in the Bible somewhere, right next to that bit about ‘do unto others’.
But here’s the thing – you can’t mess with people’s lives and expect them just to forgive and forget. That’s not how this works. There have to be consequences. People have to pay for their choices. Quid pro quo.
So just you remember, when all this is over, who started this game – because I’m the one finishing it.
CHAPTER 1
Cleo
Now
It takes three words to shatter the safety glass of my oh-so-perfect world.
Rachel is missing.
My feet stop dead on the pavement. Shoppers coming from both directions step around me, knocking my shoulders. Someone tuts.
Don’t they get it? I’d move if I could. But there’s a weight on my feet, a whopping great steel anchor pinning me to this one paving slab outside M&S on Southampton High Street.
I read the text again.
Beth Winslow, Fri 15 Jan, 10.21 a.m.
Rachel is missing. Have you seen her? We’re really worried.
A cavern rips open inside me. It’s panic. It’s fear. It’s guilt. Oh my God, the guilt. Like fire and ice burning my insides. It’s everything I work so hard to keep squished deep down in the darkest of corners.
My chest tightens. I reach my fingers into the pocket of my raincoat, wriggling and pushing beyond the folds of fabric and the packet of tissues, until I touch the thin metal chain of the attack alarm that is always there.
‘Cleo,’ a voice calls out. I turn my gaze to Gemma, waving her free hand at me over a group of pushchair mums. Gemma’s heart-shaped face, her smile, is a safety beacon. All I need to do is follow. Except I can’t.
‘I’m going on,’ she calls, lifting two bulging M&S bags in the air. ‘I got the last Percy Pigs.’ She laughs, and sixty seconds ago I would have laughed too, before chasing after her with my own haul of Marmite and Maryland cookies, and the five little pots of honey-flavoured lip balm from Boots that save my lips from the constant air conditioning of the ship. ‘You coming?’
My eyes flick to my watch. I have an hour until staff boarding. Two hours until I need to be in my maroon pinafore with the lime-green collar, greeting passengers with a welcoming ‘this is your 108 days of paradise’ smile.
‘Be right behind you,’ I manage to reply.
Gemma nods and disappears and all I can think about is you and how much this guilt burns.
I find a bench away from the main high street. It’s one of those modern concrete slabs with no back, and when I sit down the January cold bites through my jeans. My fingers are numb; the tip of my nose stings. I long for a winter coat. A bulky parka with a faux-fur-trimmed hood instead of the little pocket mac that is so easy to stash in my backpack wherever I go. It doesn’t seem possible that I was in Barbados a week ago.
I pull up Beth’s number, but my finger hovers a moment too long, and just for a second I imagine myself boarding the Enchantress without a backwards thought to you.
Just like last time, then. Your voice comes from nowhere. It’s so real, so you. It’s like you’re standing right there, clinging to my arm and whispering in my ear, like you’ve done a thousand times before.
The guilt morphs – hot lava flushing my cheeks, my body. Images of the woods flash through my mind.
The moment passes. I draw in a shuddering breath and expel it like smoke from a cigarette. We never could get the hang of smoking.
Your sister answers on the first ring. A furtive ‘Hello?’ Her voice is so like yours that I have to scrunch my eyes shut tight against the hurt.
‘Beth, it’s me.’ And then, because it’s been five years since we last spoke, and because we are strangers now, I add, ‘It’s Cleo.’
‘Cleo? Oh my God. Have you seen Rachel? Is she with you?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last talk?’
I pause then, the answer jagged in my throat. ‘Not for a while.’
The silence that follows is laced with disappointment. I picture Beth sitting on the worktop in your mum’s kitchen, pushing her hand through her dark hair over and over, the same way you used to do when you were annoyed. I picture her scowl – the narrowed eyes she saved just for me.
‘No, that’s not right,’ she says. ‘You were texting each other. You met her last Friday night, didn’t you?’
‘What? No, I didn’t. I … I’ve been away.’
Another silence draws out between us and I feel her hatred burn down the phone. Your sister never liked me, did she? I tried not to mind. I put it down to jealousy. Our closeness, the bond we had that she’d always wanted with you, but never quite achieved. But after everything that happened with Luke Richards, that dislike became a gnarled, thorny hate.
The way she looked at me in the hospital, it was like she could see straight through me. She could see my secret, knew I’d lied to the police; to that detective, Anik; to you.
Five years on, her hate for me is just as sharp.
‘But why would Rachel say you were meeting when you weren’t?’ Beth asks, her voice still accusing.
‘I don’t know.’ The question rings in my mind and I swallow back the mounting guilt. You texted me last month. Early December:
Can we talk? It’s important!!
I slipped my phone into my pocket, telling myself I’d reply later, but I never did.
It wasn’t me texting you, Rach.
So who was?
Icy fingers trace across my skin. There is only one person I can think of. His name whispers through my mind. Luke Richards. Luke Richards. Luke Richards.
‘What’s going on, Beth?’ I ask. ‘What happened?’
‘I told you. She’s missing. She went out last Friday night to meet you – or that’s what I thought, anyway – and no one has seen her since. That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve tried her phone a thousand times but it’s switched off.’ Her words come fast, panicked. ‘She’s been missing a week.’
A shudder races over me.
‘A week? Why hasn’t it been on the news?’
‘Because the police aren’t taking it seriously, that’s why,’ Beth half shouts in my ear.
‘Who was the last person to see her?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. Her landlord, Simon, got in touch. He was the one who said you were meeting Rach on Friday. You know him, right?’
‘Simon?’ I frown. ‘Does Rachel still live in the house share?’
A pause. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘No.’ Images of our past threaten to take over. I force myself to stay in the present, fixing my gaze on a couple walking fast, their suitcases dragging behind them, wheels clattering.
‘I should go,’ I say, my thoughts pulling back to the Enchantress. ‘I’m sorry about Rachel. Let me know she’s OK.’
‘Wait,’ Beth says. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I know I’m being a bitch to you. I’m upset and I’m worried. Don’t go. Simon said she never came back that night,’ Beth continues. ‘He messaged me on Facebook and asked if I’d heard from her. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been calling people all week. I tried her work colleagues and your old housemates, Lisa and Katie. No one has seen or heard from her.’
Memories crawl, poison ivy, over my skin. Remember that summer between our first and second year that we spent in Bristol staying at your mum’s? Working behind the bar at Revolution, counting down the days until we could get back to London and the future that seemed so bright. I was part of something when I was there.
Two passing seagulls caterwaul above my head, reminding me that I’m part of something here. A new life I happen to like very much.
‘After what happened …’ Beth’s voice trails off and the relief that it does is almost breath-taking. I can’t listen to the end of that sentence. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know any of her friends. I’d go to London and look for her myself, but it’s Mum, Cleo – she’s sick.’
‘I’m sorry. What—’
‘Dementia. It’s early stages, but she gets so confused if I’m not here for her. There’s no one else I can ask. I can’t leave her. She keeps asking to talk to Rachel. It’s so hard. I’ve been putting her off, but I don’t know what to do.’ Beth’s voice is a squeak of emotion. She’s crying.
‘I think Rach is in trouble,’ Beth continues. ‘I think it’s happened again. The last time I spoke to her she was walking home from work and something scared her. She said someone was following her. She ran to the house while I stayed on the line and I could tell she was petrified. She laughed it off when she was safe again. I asked her what had happened and she said she’d seen the cowboy, which I didn’t understand, and when I asked her what she meant, she told me not to worry, that it was nothing. But whatever she saw, it really scared her.’
Every muscle in my body tenses. The cowboy. Beth doesn’t know what she’s said; she doesn’t know that ‘the cowboy’ is the name you used for Luke Richards. Shit!
I can’t process this. He can’t be back. It’s been so long.
I leap up and pace beside the bench, heaving in the cold air and the smell of the sea.
‘Cleo?’ Beth’s voice is shaking now. ‘What do we do?’
‘I’ll help.’ The words are out before I can stop them. ‘I’ll make some calls. I’ll ring you back.’
I check the time. Forty minutes until I need to be on board.
I think of the girls on our make-up course. Would any of them know where you are? I doubt it. It was always us and them.
Which leaves Simon. Bloody hell, Rach. I can’t believe you still live there. How can you bear it?
He answers on the fifth ring. ‘Yep.’ Just that one word grates on me. Same old Simon. What did I ever see in him?
‘It’s Cleo. Cleo Thomas.’
There’s a pause, a silence on the line that makes me lift the phone from my ear to see if we’re still connected. We are.
‘Cleo,’ he says eventually. ‘It’s been years. Still waxing bikini lines for wrinkly old cruisers?’
His words sting, but I have no retort.
I see him in my mind – those sharp features, the small eyes and the eyebrows tilting up at the ends, that brooding attractiveness. God, he could be so rude, though.
It didn’t stop you.
I wish it had. That was a mistake.
I wonder if he still works crazy hours, ignoring his tenants for weeks on end. I wonder if he still has moments of being a massive arsehole.
‘I’m calling about Rachel,’ I say. ‘What’s going on?’
He sighs. A proper long ‘do I really have to waste my time talking to you?’ kind of sigh. I guess I have my answer to the arsehole question. ‘Like I told her sister, I’ve not seen her since last week.’
His words hit with the same shock as Beth’s text. I long to be on the ship, for none of this to be happening. My eyes search the nearby shoppers, fixing on a man across the street. He has his back to me. Thin frame. Cropped blond hair. My pulse drums in my ears.
I don’t breathe. I don’t move. My legs are jelly, my feet cement, as I wait for Luke Richards to turn around and see me. And then he does and I catch the profile of his face.
‘It’s not him,’ I say, heaving a breath.
‘What was that?’ Simon asks.
‘Nothing.’ I shake my head, wishing I could free my thoughts from the panic. ‘Beth said you reported Rachel missing to the police?’
‘Of course. Not that it’s done any good.’
‘So they’ll find her, then. I’m leaving today. I can’t … I’ll be away for four months.’ I want to help you, Rach. I do. Please believe that. But I can’t; it’s too much.
‘Fine. Whatever you want.’ There’s an abruptness to his tone that makes my jaw clench. ‘You called me, remember?’
‘Because her sister is worried.’
‘So am I, but I’ve got a meeting. Have a nice life, Cleo.’
‘Wait,’ I say, before he can hang up. There’s a silence and I feel his annoyance vibrating in my ear. ‘I’m sorry, OK? For how I left things with us.’
He laughs, a barking ‘ha’. ‘We slept together a couple of times five years ago, Cleo. There was no “us”.’
‘Good, then,’ I snap, remembering how infuriating Simon is, how cutting his blunt honesty can be. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about Rachel, anything that might help Beth find her?’
‘One thing.’
‘What?’
‘She was doing it again.’
‘Doing what?’ Even as the words leave my mouth, I know. A dread is creeping over me, a scream lodging in the back of my throat.
‘She was playing your game again.’
I feel myself falling. Plunging into ice-cold water. Drowning. I pull the phone from my ear, ignoring the tinny sound of Simon’s voice calling my name.
CHAPTER 2
Rachel
Five years earlier
The brush tickles the top of Rachel’s cheek, feathery light in a way that makes her squirm. She’s the make-up artist, not the model, but this is what they always do on Fridays. They sit on the bed in her room, they drink their cheap toilet-cleaner white wine – £6.98 for a litre and a half of Frascati Superiore from Mr Hakimi’s corner shop – and they practise their make-up techniques.
It’s always Rachel’s room, not Cleo’s. Rachel’s is bigger and warmer, despite the fact that it’s downstairs and right by the front door, which is always crashing open and shut when their housemates troop in and out.
They used to hang out with the other housemates, back when they first moved here. They used to cook meals together and spend all night in the kitchen. Freddie on the top floor, always complaining how hot it was in his room. Lisa, Katie and Cleo in the middle, Rachel at the bottom. They had parties sometimes too, until Simon would shout at them to shut up because he had to work in the morning. Those were the best days. But then Freddie moved back home and Lisa and Katie fell in love and got a place together in Clapham and everything changed.
New people came in and they tried to be friendly, but no one stays long any more. Not that Rachel can blame them. Now it’s Efe on the top floor, who doesn’t speak much English. Then a stoner in Lisa’s old room, who always forgets to shut the front door properly, and Jess, who steals their milk and never replaces it.
