His Wife's Sister, page 1
His Wife's Sister
A J Wills
His Wife’s Sister
Copyright © A J Wills 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any other means, without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
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
Acknowledgements
Also by A J Wills
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Prologue
July 2000
I'm so scared I can hardly breathe. I want to yell at the top of my lungs. But I can't. I'm frozen, cowering in the corner with my head in my hands, the floor cold and gritty. The man, I don’t know his name, smells like he's been working all day in the sun and needs a shower. I can still smell him now, the lingering stink of his hand over my mouth as he pulled me from my sleeping bag stuck in my throat.
I don't understand what's happening, but I know it's not good. I want to go home to be with Mum and Dad.
He's whistling to a tune I don't recognise on the radio, his thick, curly black hair bobbing up and down in time to the beat.
'All right back there?' he asks cheerily.
A lump forms in my throat like I've swallowed a marble. I want to go home, for this nightmare to end.
I didn't know I could miss my parents so much. What if I never see them again? I sniff back the snot running from my nose and try to think happy thoughts.
The van finally comes to a stop, and as he kills the engine, a chill runs down my spine. He gets out. I hear the crunch of his footsteps. The rear doors fly open, and as he snatches my ankle, I finally scream. But it's too late. There’s nothing around us but trees. We're in the middle of nowhere where nobody can hear me, and there’s no one to see.
He stands me on my bare feet and grabs a handful of my hair, pulling me towards the shadow of a dark building. I stumble along, watching the ground race under my feet. Up four steps. Along a narrow path. In through a door. Lights flash on, blinding me.
He pulls me into a room with a red, floral carpet that's soft on my soles. His hand is rough on the back of my neck as he pushes me down a flight of wooden steps into the dark.
I'm falling, losing balance, and hit the cold ground hard. I cry out in pain. He lands on top of me, rolling me onto a thin mattress, his body pressing against mine. I beg him to let me go, but he doesn't even look at me. His hand wraps around my wrists, and he yanks my arms above my head as I hear the sound of a heavy chain and feel cold metal against my skin.
It’s clear now he plans to leave me here, in this dark pit with my hands chained to the wall, my shoulders aching from the awkward position he’s put me in.
As much as I hate him, I don't want him to go.
'Please,' I cry, hot tears running down my cheeks, soaking into my pyjama top. 'Don't leave me.'
But he's already lumbering up the steps. He drops a hatch into place, and I'm plunged into total darkness.
I hold my breath as furniture scrapes across the floor above my head, and I listen to his footsteps pad across the floor. And then there is only silence and the galloping beat of my heart.
I know then that I am utterly alone. Nobody knows I'm here. The thought makes me shiver. I take a deep breath and scream until my throat is raw.
1
Damian stood squinting into the sun, his hand shading his eyes, seeking out April's yellow t-shirt or a glimpse of her long, russet hair amongst the hordes of excited children. He took a step to his right to see past the slide, ignoring the faint pangs of panic simmering in his chest. There were kids everywhere, running, jumping, climbing, chasing, screaming. But none of them was April.
'Stop kicking that ball,' he shouted at Dylan, every thud against the metal railings sending his irritation levels soaring.
Dylan stared at his father with a sulky pout. He scooped up his football and ran off to the other side of the playground.
Damian sighed. He loved his kids, but the school holidays were a trial. The thought of another five long weeks of full-time childcare, while he tried to run the business, filled him with dread. And it was only the beginning of the second week of the break.
The last time he'd seen April, she'd been on the roundabout squealing with delight as two older boys spun her faster. He'd only taken his eye off her for a second to check his emails on his phone. She couldn't have gone far. Christ, he'd drilled it into her not to wander off.
'April?' he shouted, trying not to sound anxious.
A group of young mothers sipping iced lattes looked up. He shot them a humourless smile, pushing away the dark thoughts. He was over-reacting. Nothing had happened to her.
'Dad...' Dylan's voice whined.
His son was trailing across the playground empty-handed, his bottom lip stuck out.
'Where's your ball?'
He pointed to a bushy horse chestnut tree, its leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. 'It's stuck.’
'Well, it's probably lost.' Even the tree's lowest branches were well out of Damian’s reach.
Dylan's face crumpled.
'It's okay, we'll get you a new one.' Damian couldn't bear the thought of those disgusted looks he knew they’d attract from the self-righteous stay-at-home mums chatting around the edge of the playground with their fresh-from-the-salon haircuts and perfect teeth if Dylan had a full meltdown in public.
'I don't want a new one.'
Damian placed a fatherly arm around his shoulder. 'And maybe a new pair of football boots?' Lucia would kill him if she could hear him now. But what the hell, she wasn't here.
Dylan sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his nose. 'The silver ones?'
'Sure,' Damian said, hoping he didn't mean the expensive ones they'd admired in the window of the sports shop in town a few weeks ago. Money had been tight since he'd gone freelance, and Lucia had returned to her marketing job in London. They couldn't afford new football boots this month, especially as it meant they'd have to treat April as well.
'Really?' Dylan's face lit up.
He'd grown up so much in such a short time. It didn't seem long ago that they'd brought him home from the hospital strapped into his car seat, lost inside an enormous sleepsuit, feeling totally bewildered by the experience of bringing a new life into the world. The first few days they'd spent marvelling at his tiny fingers and toes, his wrinkly, pink skin and his minuscule fingernails that left nasty scratches across his face, wondering what they were supposed to do with him. Dylan was older now, but parenthood was still a trial.
'Can we go and buy them now?'
'Let's get an ice cream first.'
'Dad, please?' Dylan dragged out the syllables in a pitiful whine.
'Ice cream first, then we'll see. Have you seen your sister?'
'Nah,' Dylan said, kicking a stone.
'April!’ Damian shouted again, scanning a meandering path that ran through the park adjacent to the kids' playground. It was conceivable that April had gone chasing a squirrel or a dog. She loved animals, maybe more than people. It would have only taken a big pair of round eyes and a furry coat to lure her away.
Damian’s stomach flipped. Oh God, what if she’d been taken? He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Should he call the police? No, they'd think he was over-reacting, although with their family history perhaps they wouldn't be surprised. Come on, lightning doesn't strike twice, he told himself.
When his phone buzzed in his hand, his thumb automatically moved towards the little red symbol planning to dump the call, until he noticed it was Lucia. She always phoned around four; usually the last of several calls during the day checking up on him. He didn't think she e
'Hi, love,' he said, a tremor in his voice. 'How's your afternoon?' He forced a smile, even though she couldn't see his face.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dylan’s ball drop out of the tree and rolled away. At least that would save them a trip into town for new boots.
'We're just at the park,' he continued. 'It's such a nice afternoon I thought I'd get the kids out of the house for a few hours.'
He was gabbling.
When Lucia didn't say anything, he kept talking. 'Dylan lost his ball in a tree, but he's got it back now, and April's been making new friends on the roundabout. I was just about to take them for an ice cream. It's the only way I'm going to get them out of here.' He laughed, but it sounded hollow.
Come on, April.
‘Are you okay?' he asked, sensing something, but not sure what. 'Has Helen said something again?'
Helen Flannerty, one of the senior account managers at Lucia's firm, was always quick with a put-down or sarcastic comment. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d reduced Lucia to tears.
'No.' Lucia's voice was husky with emotion. Had she been crying?
April burst out of a red, plastic tunnel, screaming, her eyes screwed tightly shut, and her face flushed red.
'It's April. She's hurt herself. I'll call you right back,' Damian said, about to hang up.
The three mothers with iced lattes turned to Damian, looking horrified, watching to see what he would do.
‘They've found her.' Lucia's voice was barely a whisper. ‘I’ve just heard from the police.’
Two of the mums trotted towards April. They crouched down to her level as she lifted a leg to show them the blood dripping from a nasty graze to her knee.
‘Found who?' Damian asked, filtering out the shrill noise in the playground to focus on his wife's voice.
'Mara.'
Even though Damian had been anticipating this moment for nearly twenty years, it still caught him off guard.
'Lucia, I'm so sorry,' he said, tripping out his practised platitudes.
It was a miracle she hadn't been found before, and he’d started to wonder if they would ever find her body.
'You don't understand,' Lucia said.
April had stopped crying, seemingly revelling in the attention of the women who'd run to her aid.
'Mara's not dead. They've found her alive.'
2
Damian had so many questions racing through his head as he pulled up outside the station opposite a snake of queuing taxis, but most of all, he wondered what Mara looked like after all these years. He thought he had a vague recollection of her from school, but couldn't be sure he'd not superimposed phantom memories from Lucia's photos onto fragments of his own.
He remembered her as a goofy-looking kid with blonde bunches and a crooked smile. Nothing extraordinary. But he was only fourteen when he'd last seen her alive, just another face among the new intake of year sevens. He hardly even knew Lucia at the time, and she was in his class. That was until the day Mara went missing, and the whole town went crazy.
All the photos of Mara had given him the mistaken impression he knew her better than he did. He’d seen her as a baby and as a snotty-nosed toddler, playing on the beach on holiday and dressed in a frumpy-looking grey pinafore dress on her first day at school. He'd seen pictures of her at Christmas and at birthday parties, wearing fancy dress costumes and blowing out candles.
But it was an image taken at school in front of a mottled screen, where Mara's tie was slightly askew, and her over-sized blazer swamped her like a hand-me-down, that was most familiar to him. It had been the poster image in the 'Find Mara' campaign in the weeks and months after she went missing, and the one used widely in the press, even though it wasn't the most flattering picture of her. Her attention seemed to have been caught by something going on behind the photographer. You could see her fixed grin starting to slide and her eyes shifting away from the camera.
She would be thirty by now. Damian had no idea how she'd changed, whether she was tall, short, fat, thin, with long hair or short. The only clue to how her appearance might have altered had come nine years ago.
On the tenth anniversary of Mara's disappearance, they'd commissioned a specialist company to age her image using advanced computer software in the hope it might throw up some new clues about her whereabouts. They’d elongated her face, thinned her nose and added some creases around her eyes. With a few mouse clicks, they’d transformed her from a girl into a young woman. The effect was startling. It was like looking at a stranger and reminded them both that the old Mara was lost forever. And although the enhanced image had been featured by several news outlets and shared widely on social media, it yielded no fresh leads, only a handful of crank calls and messages.
Lucia emerged from the station into the late afternoon sunshine among a herd of weary-looking passengers. She spotted Damian parked on double yellows and skittered across the road with the Gucci handbag he'd bought her for Christmas slung over her shoulder.
He snatched a kiss as she slid into the car. Her hands were clammy. 'Are you okay?'
'Yeah.’ A lump rose and fell in her throat as she swallowed. A single tear rolled down her cheek. 'I'm sorry,' she said.
'You should be happy.'
'They're happy tears,' she sobbed, flapping a hand in front of her face as if she was trying to fan them away. 'I'm just worried I'm going to wake up and none of this is real.'
'What did the police say?'
'Only that a woman found her wandering lost in the woods. They're going to tell me more at the station. They want me to make a formal identification.'
Damian hadn't considered the possibility that the woman who’d been found might not be Mara, that it could be a cruel hoax or even a case of mistaken identity.
'Maybe you shouldn't get your hopes up until we're certain it's her,' he said. ‘I don't want you to be disappointed.'
‘Just drive, will you.'
Damian put the car into gear and pulled out into the rush hour traffic, crawling slowly through the town until they hit the dual carriageway.
'Where are the kids?'
'I've left them with Rose.’
Lucia relaxed a little. 'What did you tell them?'
‘That we had to go and sort out something important.'
'Were they upset?'
April had thrown a minor tantrum when Damian told her he was leaving them with Rose, but there was no point upsetting Lucia. She'd felt enough guilt about returning to work and leaving the childcare to Damian. 'No, they were fine,' he lied.
'I'd better call them.' Lucia reached into her bag.
'Leave them. Rose'll think you're checking up on her.'
'I am.'
'Lucia, don't.'
'Oh my God, Damian, did you leave an Epipen?'
'Of course, I did,' he said, trying to recall if he'd remembered to tell Rose about the two auto-injectors in the drawer in the kitchen.
'Did you show her how to use them?'
'I've shown her before. Relax, nothing's going to happen. And besides, April knows what to do. She's been practising on her dolls.'
'April's five years old. You can't trust Dylan's life to his younger sister.' She sighed and cupped her forehead in her hand.
'Stop worrying. Everything's going to be fine.'
