Читать книгу: «Sister Sister: A truly gripping psychological thriller»

Chapter 2

Six weeks earlier …

For a moment I think I don’t have to get up for work. It feels as if it should be a lazy, summery Sunday. The late September sun is still clinging onto warmer days and a small refreshing breeze billows the gauze curtain every now and then. I always like sleeping with the window open; it gives me a sense of being free.

But as I rouse further into the conscious world, the heavy weight of reality wraps itself around me. I’m anything but free. Particularly this time of year, as we move closer each day to my sister’s birthday.

I roll over and cuddle up against a still-sleeping Luke, seeking comfort from just the touch of another human. I check my watch and groan as I realise it’s a Monday. I stretch my arm back and switch off the alarm. I don’t know why I bothered setting it. I haven’t needed it these past few days as sleep has not been a good friend to me.

I think of Mum and how, now we are in the month of September, she looks a little longer at the calendar each day, silently marking time, anxiety levels rising as we stumble towards the twenty-eighth, just another forty-eight hours away. I should be used to this pattern by now. Twenty years on, it’s been practically a lifetime for me and yet I never quite anticipate the level of emotion this date evokes. It’s almost that, as I’ve grown older, the absence of my sister has grown bigger, more profound, hurting harder, cutting deeper. I feel my mother’s pain and my own.

So many times over the years I’ve wished Alice was here, and not just because of my mother’s own heartbreak but, selfishly, because I have always yearned for the black cloud hanging above us to disappear. As a child, I didn’t want to be known as the sister of the girl whose dad took her off to America and never came back or the daughter of the heartbroken mother. I wanted to be Clare Kennedy. I just wanted us to be normal.

I still do.

There’s half an hour before I have to begin the military operation of getting the girls moving for school and nursery. I snuggle a little closer to Luke. Sometimes, it’s as if he can absorb my sadness and anxiety, soaking it up so my feelings can move freely; no longer repressed.

I feel Luke stir and I tighten my arm across him, hugging him gently. After eight years of marriage and two children, we have never grown bored of each other. Luke rolls over and kisses me.

‘Morning, Babe,’ he says, without opening his eyes, then rolls back over. ‘Night, Babe.’

‘Hey, fella, you’re not getting away with that,’ I whisper in his ear as I run my hand down his body and pull him back towards me.

Luke opens one eye and looks at the clock. ‘Jesus, Clare, it’s only five-fucking-thirty.’

‘Never mind all that …’ I kiss away his protests.

I feel his mouth curve into a smile and he opens his other eye. ‘Now, that is cheating.’

He rolls over and swamps me in his arms and for a while I allow myself to forget the challenges of real life.

‘And how are we all this morning?’ says Mum coming into the kitchen as Luke and I are hurtling around getting breakfast ready and taking it in turns to direct the girls on what needs doing next. Okay, Hannah is rather more capable at seven years old and only needs encouraging, Chloe, however, at just three, needs the more hands-on approach.

We live with my mother, Marion, in the house I grew up in. Initially, we had moved in with her when Luke was a struggling artist and I had just taken my first appointment in chambers straight out of uni. Some would say that Luke still carries the struggling artist hashtag. By that, I actually mean my mother. Although, in her defence, she is very tolerant.

Since then the girls have come along and we have expanded to five of us in one house. Just as well The Old Vicarage, in which we live, is large enough to give Mum a separate living room to us and Luke his own studio in the annexe of the house.

‘Seems silly me rattling around in this big house on my own and the house prices around Brighton are ridiculous,’ Mum had said. ‘Besides, I’d like the company. I’ll be close to the girls as they grow up and you two would have a built-in baby sitter.’

And she was right. All these points made perfect sense and were very pragmatic, but we both knew the real reason why I could never move.

Not after what happened.

And, in truth, I wasn’t sure I could, even if my heart wanted to go along with Luke’s preferred choice of buying a place of our own, to make memories of our own, my conscience wouldn’t allow me. I couldn’t leave Mum all alone.

‘You can’t keep yourself hostage to something that happened in your childhood,’ Luke had said one night as we lay in bed, his last-bid attempt to change my mind.

The truth was, though, I could, and I had always known it would be like this. The only way it would change would be if Alice came home.

‘Come on, Chloe,’ I say, picking her up from the play mat. ‘Let’s get you to the table. Morning, Mum.’ I sit Chloe on the booster seat and push her closer to the table. I take the bowl of Weetabix Luke hands me. He is whistling as he makes a pot of tea.

‘Someone’s happy this morning,’ says Mum, helping herself to a slice of toast. The smile might be there, but the flat tone of her voice is a betrayal.

Luke and I exchange a look across the kitchen.

‘It’s a beautiful morning, the sun is shining and I have my lovely family around me. You included,’ Luke says enthusiastically. He gives Mum his best cheery smile in an effort lift her mood. Mum looks away, her eyes automatically seeking out the calendar on the wall and coming to rest on the date two days ahead.

‘I need to go into town today,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to pick something up from the jewellers.’

We all know, without Mum having to spell it out, that it will be Alice’s birthday present. Never a birthday nor a Christmas has gone by without Mum buying a gift for when Alice comes home. Never if, always when.

‘I’ll give you a lift in, if you like,’ says Luke. ‘We can drop Chloe at nursery and go on straight from there.’

‘Oh, would you? That would be kind,’ says Mum. This time her smile is warmer.

I like that Luke and Mum have a good relationship. It makes living together so much easier. Most families we know sit down in the evening for their quality time. In the Tennison household, breakfast is our family meal. I quite often don’t get home from work until early evening and it’s too late for the girls to eat. I appreciate it isn’t Luke’s ideal arrangement, but he always makes an effort for us all.

‘So, Hannah, you have recorder today,’ I say in between guiding cereal-laden spoonfuls into Chloe’s mouth. ‘Luke, you won’t forget, will you? I think the music book is still on top of the piano in the sitting room.’

‘Er … yes, all under control,’ says Luke. He leans over to Hannah and whispers theatrically, ‘Have you got the music book?’

Hannah flicks a glance in my direction and whispers back to Luke. ‘No. I thought you had it.’

I pretend not to notice Luke put his finger to his lips and then mutter, ‘Leave it with me. I’m on the case.’ Hannah gives a giggle and when I look at Luke, he winks at me and then makes a big show of being engrossed in pouring the tea.

‘Oh, God, would you look at the time?’ I hurriedly shovel another spoon of Weetabix into Chloe’s mouth. ‘I have the Monday rumble at nine with Tom and Leonard. Come on, Chloe, eat up.’

Luke reaches over and takes the spoon from me. ‘Off you go,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.’

‘He’s not my boss any more,’ I say, gulping down the cup of tea Luke has poured, wincing as it burns my throat. ‘I’m an equal partner now, remember.’

‘Hmm, well, you still act as if Leonard’s your boss. And Tom, come to mention it. Make them wait for you for a change.’

Ignoring the comment, I kiss the girls goodbye. ‘Have a lovely day, my darlings. Hannah, don’t forget to hand in the swimming gala permission form to your teacher. Chloe, be a good girl at nursery. Mummy loves you both very much.’

‘Love you too,’ says Hannah, blowing kisses as I manoeuvre around the table.

‘Uv you too,’ repeats Chloe through a mouthful of soggy wheat and milk.

‘Don’t forget, you’re going home with Daisy after school,’ I remind Hannah and then to confirm Luke has remembered the details, add, ‘Pippa’s picking Hannah up and giving her tea. She’ll drop her back later.’ Pippa is one of the few friends I have in the village. If our daughters hadn’t become friends themselves at school, then I probably wouldn’t have got to know Pippa. I give Mum a peck on the cheek. ‘See you later, Mum.’ Then I bend down to kiss Luke. His hand slips around my waist and he holds the kiss for a moment longer than necessary.

‘Go get ‘em, Babe, at your rumble in the jungle.’ He lets me go and shadow boxes Ali style. ‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’

I feel a surge of love for this man. He is my best friend, my lover, my husband, my everything. I give Luke a high-five before I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head out of the kitchen and down the hall, where my briefcase and sack trolley are waiting, the latter loaded with a pile of files I had brought home for weekend reading. I pause at the door and call back over my shoulder. ‘Don’t forget …’

‘The recorder!’ chorus Hannah and Luke before I can finish.

The drive into Brighton from the village where we live takes about thirty minutes on a good day and today is one of those days. The radio is on and I push thoughts of Alice to one side, singing along to the song currently playing. It fades out and the DJ announces the next song up is their retro record of the week. Within the first few bars, I recognise the song: ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ by Abba. In an instant, my heart twists and tears spring to my eyes with such ferocity that for a couple of seconds the road ahead of me is a blur. This song always reminds both Mum and me of the Alice-shaped hole in our lives. The blast of a horn from another car jolts my mind back to the road. My heart lurches again, but this time fuelled by adrenalin as I realise I’ve run a red light.

‘Shit!’ I stamp on the brakes to avoid hitting an oncoming car. If my car had tiptoes it would be on them and I’m grateful for my BMW’s reliable ABS. I hold my hand up in an apology to the other driver, who thankfully had the foresight to stop too.

I’m no lip-reader but I’m pretty sure he’s used every uncomplimentary noun in the urban dictionary to describe me and my driving. I mouth ‘sorry’ before he puts his car into gear and tears off, squealing his wheels as a final gesture of anger.

A few minutes later I pull up into the car park of Carr, Tennison & Eggar, Solicitors, without any further incident and take a moment to check my make-up in the rear-view mirror. It wouldn’t do to go into work with black streaks of sodden mascara down my face.

Feeling composed, I grab my stuff and push open the door to the converted 1930s detached house that are our offices.

‘Morning, Nina,’ I say to our receptionist as I hold open the door with my hip and yank the sack trolley through.

‘Good morning, Clare,’ she replies, giving me a second look, which tells me I wasn’t successful in disguising the tears. However, she doesn’t pass comment. ‘Tom and Leonard are already in the conference room,’ Nina informs, nodding towards the frosted double doors across the hallway.

I check my watch. It’s eight-fifty. They can wait while I lug the files down to my office and repair my make-up.

Sandy, my secretary, is at her desk in a small reception area that leads to my office. ‘Morning, Sandy. Nice weekend?’

‘Morning, Clare. Yes, very nice, thanks. You?’

‘Good, thanks,’ I say avoiding eye contact, hoping she won’t notice the remains of my make-up. I have a mirror fixed to the inside of the tall filing cupboard and hastily wipe the patches of mascara with a tissue.

‘Ah, there you are.’ From the mirror, I see Leonard bustling into the office. He pauses and his astute eyes quickly assess me. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes. Well, I am now.’ I wave the mascara wand over my eye lashes.

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. Was on the receiving end of a bit of Monday-morning road rage.’

‘Your fault?’

My hesitation gives me away as I consider whether to be honest or not. Leonard pushes the door behind him and comes over to me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? I am aware of the significance of this week.’

I dip my head, feeling embarrassed at not just my lack of concentration but that my feelings are closer to the surface than I care to admit. I look back in the mirror at him with what I hope is confidence as I brush my eyelashes one final time. ‘I’m fine. Honest. But thank you,’ I smile and Leonard pats my arm in a fatherly gesture.

‘Now, come along, we’re waiting for you,’ he says reverting to his brisk businesslike manner. ‘I can’t be long. I have that blasted Mrs Freeman coming in.’

‘Mrs Freeman?’ I try to recall the name from our last Monday rumble as I shove the mascara into my jacket pocket and track Leonard out of the office.

‘Yes. Sour-faced old moo she is. Can’t believe her husband put up with her for so long. Must have been bloody good in the sack, that’s all I can say. Mind you, you’d want a bag over her head – and one over your own, just in case hers fell off.’

‘Leonard, you can’t say things like that.’ I can’t help smiling at Leonard’s comment despite my attempt at a reprimand. Leonard is terribly honest, to the point of being rude, but it has provided no end of amusing anecdotes over the years.

In the conference room, Tom is standing at the French doors that open onto the private gardens. He turns as he hears us come in.

‘Ah, excellent, you found her.’ He smiles over at me and takes his place at the table. ‘I’ve already got you a coffee,’ he says. ‘Good weekend?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ I say sitting down. Really I want to say no; it was pretty shit and Mum seems to be struggling more than ever as another birthday looms but I refrain. Tom knows the score. He’s been through the whole range of emotions with me over the years. I divert the conversation. ‘We missed you at the barbecue. Everything sort itself out in the end?’

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ says Tom. ‘Isabella decided that she needed Lottie back for some party or something for her gran.’

‘Isabella still playing up?’ says Leonard, taking his seat at the head of the table.

‘From time to time. Usual thing. Money. The latest is a skiing trip to New York she wants to take Lottie on. It’s going to cost a bloody fortune and I’m the one having to stump up the cash for it. What happened to a week at the seaside?’

‘That’s what you get for no prenup,’ says Leonard, opening his notebook in front of him and taking his Mont Blanc fountain pen from his inside pocket. ‘How do you think I survived three divorces?’

I exchange an empathetic smile with Tom. Leonard is always banging on about the importance of a prenuptial agreement.

‘Lesson learned,’ says Tom.

‘And you can still get a postnup agreement yourself,’ says Leonard, not looking up from his notebook but tapping his pen on the desk in front of me.

‘Well, Luke and I have done great so far. I think we’ll manage just fine,’ I say, feeling slightly prickled at his remark.

‘Hmm. Pride before a fall and all that.’

I don’t answer Leonard. It is a pointless conversation and one we will never agree on.

Tom looks up and throws me an are you okay? look, to which I give a brief nod. Then it’s down to business.

Our weekly Monday-morning rumbles, as they are fondly referred to, is the opportunity for each of us to bring the other two up to date with cases we are working on. Leonard is pedantic in his approach to work and sees this exercise as a crucial element to running a tight ship. That way, if any one of us is off work, the other two can easily step in to take up our cases. It’s also a nice way to start the week and maintain the family feel of the firm, something that all three of us cherish.

The rumble over and my morning appointment finished, I go down the hallway to see if Tom is free. His secretary is hammering away at the keyboard. She looks up and gives me a brief smile but continues her work. Tom’s door is open; an indication he’s free. None of us is so pretentious that we need announcing.

‘Knock, knock,’ I say, as I go in. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ I raise the two coffee cups I’m holding.

‘My favourite words,’ says Tom.

Tom and I had gone through university together, graduating at the same time. We had a brief relationship during our student days, but once we graduated we decided it was best left behind the doors of Oxford. We were ambitious, with careers to pursue, but, even so, after parting company we kept in touch and it was me who gave Tom the heads up to the job at the firm a year after I had joined. Both Tom and I were offered partnership at the same time.

I back-heel the door closed behind me and take a cup over to Tom, placing it on his desk. ‘So, now we’re alone, do you want to tell me what really happened yesterday?’ I sit down in the chair opposite him.

‘That’s what I like about you,’ says Tom. ‘No preamble. No small talk building up to point of your visit. It’s straight for the jugular.’