Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Susan Lewis 2019

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photograph © Alison Archinuk / Trevillion Images

Susan Lewis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008286781

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008286804

Version: 2019-07-09

Dedication

To Rachel Parfitt

and to everyone who gives

so selflessly of their time and expertise

to help those in need

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

‘Don’t go! Please …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Susan Lewis

About the Publisher

‘Don’t go! Please … Oh God, no, please don’t …’

‘I can’t take any more, Angie. I swear … If you’d seen what I just have …’

‘Whatever it is …’

‘Our five-year-old son had a syringe in his hand,’ he raged, almost choking on the words.

‘Oh my God. Oh Steve …’

‘I need to find Liam, and when I do I’m turning him in to the police along with every other one of those lowlife bastards …’

‘No! No!’

He could still hear his wife screaming down the phone, begging him to stop as he tossed his mobile on to the passenger seat and steered the van, almost on two wheels, out of the street.

He’d had enough. He didn’t care about the danger he was putting himself in, or what might happen after, he was too enraged for that. You bastard! How dare you … He’s a child, for God’s sake … The words circled endlessly through his head.

It took a while to get across town. He barely even saw the traffic, or the red lights that tried to delay him, as though giving him some time to think. He didn’t want it. He was past thinking, past caring about anything other than the need to make this stop.

When he reached the hellish streets, the sore at the heart of the sprawling estate, he screeched to a halt on the infamous Colemead Lane and leapt out. He was so pumped with fury that his fists were already clenched, his muscles tensed for attack. His rationale had fled, along with his temper and sense of self-preservation.

He looked around, his eyes fierce. The mostly destitute houses with boarded-up windows and padlocked doors were as silent as graves. The tower blocks at the end with graffitied walls and urine-soaked stairwells rose drearily towards a patched grey sky. Even the pub looked deserted, its sign dangling from one hinge, its barred windows telling their own story.

‘I know you’re here,’ he roared at the top of his lungs. ‘Liam Watts! Get out here now!’

His rage echoed around the silence like useless gunshot scattering over a ghost town.

‘Liam Watts! Show your face.’

Everything remained still.

Seconds ticked by as though the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next. He sensed he wasn’t alone, that he was being watched, that this was a charged hiatus before the storm broke.

He was ready for it. His whole body was primed to take it.

There was a scuffling behind him, sharp yet muffled, and he spun round, heart thudding thickly with fury and fear, eyes blazing.

‘Go home,’ a wretched young woman hissed from a nearby doorway. She was thin, shaking, her eyes seeming to bleed in their sockets. She waved feebly in no particular direction before stumbling into a side alley and disappearing.

He didn’t see them coming at first, he only heard them: faint, deliberate footsteps crunching, pounding, almost military in their pace. He peered around, trying to get a sense of where they were. How many they were.

‘Liam Watts!’ he roared again.

The sun slipped its cover of cloud, dazzling him, throwing a rich golden glow over the street, as though to paint this purgatory into something glorious.

He listened, hearing his heartbeat, hectic, scared; the sound of a dog barking, a scream cut suddenly short.

Then he saw them emerging from the shadows like ghouls, closing on him from each end of the street, slowly, purposefully, faces wrapped in black balaclavas, baseball bats and iron bars slapping into palms, chains rattling through brutal fingers.

As his survival instinct kicked in he turned to run. He couldn’t take on this many. He’d be a fool to try. ‘Liam,’ he shouted, more panicked than angry now.

He reached the van, tore open the door, but it was too late. A flying brick hit his back, sending him sprawling into the dust.

He tried to scramble up.

A crippling blow to the backs of his knees buckled his legs under him.

‘Liam,’ he cried raggedly as he hit the ground.

A steel toe-capped boot slammed into his head.

He rolled on to his back, dazed, blood in his eyes. He could make out the faces gathered over him in a blur, laughing, as blind to his humanity as to their own.

He crossed his arms over his head to protect it. He tried in the chaos to spot Liam, to beg him to put a stop to this.

Time, reality, slipped to another dimension as his hearing faded and vicious blows continued pummelling his body. He thought of his other children, Grace and Zac, as more blood swilled around his eyes and his teeth were crunched from their roots.

He thought of his wife, his beautiful wife whom he loved with all his heart.

The thudding of boots and weapons grew worse, more frenzied, unstoppable; pain exploded through his body with a thousand jagged edges as bloodied vomit choked from his mouth. Darkness loomed, shrank away then tried to swallow him again. Dimly he heard screaming, a distant siren, and somewhere inside the mayhem he was murmuring his son’s name, ‘Liam, Liam,’ until he could murmur no more.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Come along in, no need to be shy.’ Angie’s smile was encouraging and jolly, and reflected all the natural kindness in her big, soft heart. She was a petite woman in her early forties with a fiery mop of disorderly curls, sky-blue eyes, a naturally pink mouth and freckles all over her creamy round cheeks. It was impossible to look at her without seeing sunshine and colour and all sorts of good things, even on the greyest of days.

Everyone loved Angie, and she loved them right back. Or most of them anyway; there were always exceptions.

Today’s newcomer was Mark Fields, a wiry man in his late twenties with buckets of attitude (she’d been warned) and not much hair. He was apparently showing his timid side now, since his demeanour was quite guarded, and the little flecks of paper blotting up the shaving nicks in his cheeks made him seem vulnerable, or clumsy, probably both. In Angie’s view it was easy to love beautiful people who washed regularly, ate healthily and lived under proper roofs with smart windows and secure front doors. It took an extra effort to empathize with those on the other side of the divide.

‘Everyone!’ she announced to the room at large. It was a big square kitchen that boasted a series of old-fashioned melamine units, a five-ring gas stove, a tall steamy casement window currently speckled with raindrops and old paint, and a grungy sitting area off to one side with a monster TV and a four-bar gas fire. For all its shabbiness and lack of feminine touch it was actually very cosy, she’d always thought. ‘This is Mark,’ she said, indicating the man she’d brought in with her, ‘he’s going to be taking over Austin’s place here at Hill Lodge. Can we have a lovely welcome for him, please?’

The three men seated at a central Formica table, two in their twenties, the other past sixty, rose to their feet, stainless steel chair legs scraping over the lino floor. Their card game had been abandoned as soon as Angie had entered, for she was always the most welcome of visitors, notwithstanding that she was the only one. The eldest resident, Hamish, was showing the kind of smile that was rare for a man in his position, in that it was almost white with no missing teeth. He reached for Mark’s scarred and bony hand, eager to welcome the stranger and get him off on the right foot. Hamish was the unofficial head of house, partly due to age, but mostly because of his avuncular manner and the fact that his chronic lung condition had earned him permanent residency.

His greeting, along with that of the two younger residents, Lennie and Alexei, both in their late twenties, was everything Angie could have hoped for, and indeed what she’d expected. This little family of misfits was nothing if not generous of spirit (when they weren’t fighting for the remote control or whose turn it was in the bathroom), and she couldn’t have felt prouder of them today if she were their mum. Given her age, she accepted that her maternal feelings were slightly off-kilter, but everything about this place was out of whack one way or another, so she wasn’t going to waste any time worrying about the tenderness she felt for people who didn’t get much of it elsewhere.

Hamish plonked the new housemate down at the table, asking if he played poker, and offering him a pile of the ring pulls they used for currency.

Lennie said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Lennie had recently been taken on as an apprentice to a car mechanic and had been so thrilled by this that he’d hardly stopped grinning for a week. He’d tried to give Angie credit for finding him the job, his first in over five years with the best part of them spent on the streets, but she was having none of it. He’d gone through the proper channels at the jobcentre and won it on his own merits. And that, she’d told him, was how he was going to keep it.

Alexei, whose pugnacious face and lispy stammer were touchingly at odds with each other, had recently found employment too. He’d been taken on by John Lewis as a delivery driver, and he was so proud of being selected by such an upmarket store that Angie had to laugh at the little touch of snobbery from someone who’d not so long ago been sleeping in a bus shelter most nights of the week.

Fingers crossed he’d make a success of it, and never forget to take the medication intended to control his psychotic episodes. Thank God for the individuals and companies who gave second chances to those who were trying to turn their lives around. This little family all bore the scars of misfortune, whether drug addiction, alcohol abuse, homelessness, redundancy, marriage break-up, mental burnout, or prison, but they wouldn’t have been at Hill Lodge if they hadn’t already undergone a period of rehabilitation. Even so, they were at risk of falling back into old habits, as many did if they felt unable to cope with life or their new responsibilities, or became scared of people too ready to judge them harshly.

The fifth resident of Hill Lodge was young Craig, a slender, almost skeletal lad of twenty-three, with a riot of inky dark curls that tumbled around his beautiful face in a way that, in another existence, might have made him a male model, or even the pop star he longed to be. He was standing in front of the large kitchen fireplace – empty apart from an overflowing waste-paper basket and a well-worn trainer – watching proceedings with curious, hazel eyes. Angie smiled to beckon him forward. His gaze remained on the newcomer, studying him with frank intensity. It was hard for Angie to look at him without feeling an extra wave of affection, or a tug back into her past that was never welcome.

Cups of tea were soon being handed around, no sugar for Angie, two for everyone else, no biscuits – who half-inched the last digestives? Alexei, you toerag – when Craig finally stepped forward and went to stand in front of Mark. His expression was solemn, his stance stiff and awkward as he looked the older man up and down.

Clearly thrown by this scrutiny, Mark glanced at Angie, but before she could make the introduction Craig said, abruptly, ‘You are welcome here.’

Mark blinked and the others grinned.

Craig’s eyes remained on Mark as he rose hesitantly to his feet, holding out a hand to shake. ‘Thanks mate,’ he mumbled.

Craig took a step back and watched in alarm as one of Mark’s shaving papers floated like a petal down to the table.

‘Don’t take offence,’ Hamish advised. ‘It’s just his way. Isn’t it, Craig?’

Seeming not to hear, Craig turned around and reached for the guitar propped against the fireplace. After a few introductory chords that filled the kitchen with reasonably tuned sound he began to sing, ‘Welcome to Wherever You Are’.

‘Bon Jovi,’ Lennie mouthed to Angie, in case she didn’t recognize the number. Craig’s renditions didn’t always bear close resemblance to the originals; nevertheless, it was astonishing and touching the way he could come up with a song for most occasions.

When he finished, mid-chorus, mid-word even, he put the guitar down, bowed to his applauding audience and took the cuppa Lennie had poured for him. ‘I’m getting together with some people later,’ he informed everyone. ‘We’re going to form a band and make some videos.’

Angie glanced at Hamish, whose expression was saying, I’ve no idea if it’s real or imagined, but I’ll plump for the latter.

Craig said, ‘One of them reckons he can get us some gigs at a pub on Moorside.’

It would be good to know that Craig was making friends provided she could be certain they were genuine, and not out to steal his guitar, or rough him up just for the fun of it.

Finishing her tea, Angie picked up her bag and rose to her feet. ‘OK, I have to be going, guys, but tell me first, Alexei, are you remembering to take your medication?’ He’d told her himself that he’d served four years for grievous bodily harm, and she’d been warned that he’d present a danger to society, and to himself, if he forgot, or decided to stop taking his drugs.

‘Definitely,’ he assured her, tapping a finger to his forehead in an odd sort of salute.

Hamish nodded confirmation, letting her know that he was keeping a close eye on it.

Hamish was a hero in the way he looked out for the residents as if they really were his family, watching them come and go, succeed and fail, struggle with everything from computers to cravings to job searches and even personal hygiene, always ready to lend a hand. She knew he was ex-forces and had served in the first Iraq war, but it was a time of his life he never wanted to discuss, although he had once admitted that he’d come back in a terrible state and had been turfed out by his wife. These days he’d probably be diagnosed as suffering with PTSD, she realized, although it still wasn’t certain how much help he’d receive. He was as gently spoken and courteous as he was smartly turned out – always in a collar and tie when he left the house, frayed though it might be, shoes shining and trousers neatly pressed. And he was so grateful to have been made a permanent resident that he not only took care of this house and its small garden, but also the one next door that Angie’s sister, Emma, managed for their organisation Bridging the Gap.

It was Angie and Emma’s job to help the residents progress from all the difficulties they’d fought to overcome on the streets, in prison, in various shelters or rehab centres, back into a society where they could function as worthy and hard-working individuals.

As usual a barrage of questions followed her to the door as she left, mixed in with some teasing, and the merry tune of her mobile ringing. Seeing it was a resident from Hope House, presumably unable to get hold of Emma, she let it go to messages. She needed to get a move on now or a parking warden would start salivating over her little van like he’d just found a tasty sandwich still in its wrapper, and didn’t want be late for her afternoon stint at the food bank.

As she closed the front door behind her, satisfied that all was well inside for now, she started along the front path and with each step she felt herself becoming aware of her thoughts moving ahead of her across the street, and over the rooftops to a terraced house on the avenue behind. It was where she and Steve had lived when they’d first come to Kesterly, almost fourteen years ago, in a cramped and draughty second-floor flat that Steve, with his wonderful enthusiasm and decorator’s skills, had transformed into a warm and welcoming home.

She could hear Liam, aged five, calling out for his dad to come and read him a story. ‘Daddy! Giraffe, monkey, pelly,’ and minutes later Steve would be rolling up laughing at his favourite Roald Dahl story. Liam always chose it because of how much it made his daddy laugh, and Angie would stand outside the door listening, loving them with all her heart and wishing Liam was able to read it himself.

‘He’ll get there,’ Steve’s mother always assured them, ‘he’s just a late learner, that’s all. You wait, before you know it he’ll be streets ahead of everyone else and you won’t be able to keep up with him.’

Due to her role as a teaching assistant at the local school, Angie was able to monitor his progress, and it definitely wasn’t happening at the same rate as other kids his age. On the other hand he was always so happy and eager to try new things, and even when he was teased or left out of a game he never seemed to get upset. He’d just laugh along with the others, not caring that he was the butt of the joke, and if anyone ever appeared sad he’d quickly invite them home to play trains or do some colouring with him and his dad.

‘He’s a special boy,’ Hari Shalik, Steve’s boss, would often say, ruffling Liam’s hair and smiling down at the small upturned face in a grandfatherly way.

‘Can I come and work for you when I’m grown up?’ Liam would sometimes ask.

Hari’s chuckle rang with notes of surprise and delight. ‘Of course, if it’s what you still want when the time comes, but you might have other ideas by then.’

‘He’s going to fly to the moon, aren’t you, Liam?’ Steve would prompt.

Liam’s nod was earnest and slow until he broke into a grin and wrapped his arms around his daddy’s legs. ‘Only if you come with me,’ he whispered.

‘Well, I wouldn’t let you go on your own.’

‘Can we take Mummy?’

‘I think we should.’

To Hari Liam said, ‘Mummy’s going to have a baby.’

Hari’s golden-brown eyes widened with interest. ‘So you’ll have a brother or a sister? Will you take them to the moon as well?’

Liam thought about it. ‘They might be too small, so they’ll have to stay with Granny Watts until we come back.’

‘Good idea, and don’t forget to let me know when you’re going so I can come and give you a good send-off.’

Recalling that conversation now as she drove away from Hill Lodge, Angie was smiling at how precious and pure those memories were, like long hot summer days before autumn came to shadow the sunlight, and rain began falling like tears from gathering clouds.

CHAPTER TWO

Emma was Angie’s younger sister by a year and several months. She was also plumper and louder, happily divorced and a hard-working mother of two small boys. She had a similar abundance of fiery red hair to Angie’s, and the same arresting blue eyes that changed shade according to her mood.

The two of them had taken over at Bridging the Gap about a year ago after Angie had lost her job as a teaching assistant (cuts to the education budget), and Emma had no longer been required as a receptionist at a local dentist’s after it was absorbed into the Kesterly Health Centre. It was pure luck that the husband-and-wife team who’d been running Bridging the Gap since its inception had decided to retire at that time, and Ivan, the parish manager of St Mary’s, the local church, had decided to give the sisters a chance.

‘Why not?’ he’d agreed, in the slow, doleful tones that had unnerved Angie and Emma at first. ‘You’ve excellent references, the pair of you, and we could do with some younger and livelier input around here. Yes, you’ll suit us very well, and I hope we’ll suit you too. Just make sure there’s no dossing in the church, or anywhere else on the site.’

‘Don’t worry, we promise to go home at night,’ Emma had assured him with mock sincerity.

Ivan blinked, taking a moment to understand, but he didn’t seem to find it funny. ‘I was referring to the men you’ll be taking care of,’ he explained. ‘Or, more accurately, to their associates from the streets. There are shelters for them to go to at night and this church isn’t one of them. Nor are the residences we are fortunate to have use of.’

Both of Bridging the Gap’s properties belonged to an octogenarian recluse, Carlene Masters, who had apparently handed the rundown Victorian villas to St Mary’s to use as the vicar and parish committee saw fit while she went to live in Spain. All she required in return was a small rental income. Angie and Emma had never met her, but they did know that she’d waived the rent for two months during the introduction of universal credit. Since housing allowances were what paid the rent and contributed to BtG’s running costs, the change of system could have proved disastrous for the organization and residents alike when payments had dried up for weeks on end.

Now, as Angie went to update the whiteboard that dominated one wall of the shed-like office she and Emma worked from, she spotted a couple of parish outreach workers crossing the small courtyard outside and gave them a wave. From the large plastic sacks the two women were carrying it was clear they were on their way to the storeroom next door, where charity-shop rejects were kept before being sent to those in need overseas. They were the only people Angie and Emma ever saw at this end of the rambling church complex, apart from Ivan who occasionally dropped by to make sure everything was running as it should.

Their little enclave was tucked in behind the church hall and sheltered by a magnificent copper beech tree, and contained only their bunker of an office with its en suite loo, tiny kitchenette and semi-efficient heating, and the adjacent storeroom. Their window looked out over the courtyard where a sealed-up wishing-well served as a bird table and a high, thorny hedge separated them from the main road beyond. To get to the church they had to follow a stone pathway through a wilderness of old fruit trees and long-forgotten shrubs to connect up with the car park next to St Mary’s offices, where the vicar’s wife and parish manager carried out God’s admin work.

The rectory was the other side of the centuries-old church, looking out over a sprawl of suburban rooftops that ended way off in the distance where the sea could be glimpsed sparkling away like a feast of temptation on crystal clear days. The old graveyard meandered gently down the south-facing hillside for at least a quarter of a mile to the busy residential street below. This was where Hill Lodge and Hope House were situated, in amongst a number of similar formerly grand villas, most of which had now been converted to flats. Angie and Emma never took the route through the tombstones and neglected shrines; no one did, it was too creepy and far too overgrown. Whoever needed burying these days was ferried to the newer, more desirable cemetery in the nearby semi-rural suburb of Morton Leigh.

‘So what’s your new bloke like?’ Emma asked as Angie added Mark Fields’s name to the Hill Lodge section of the whiteboard.

Raising her eyebrows as a fierce gust of wind whistled around their red-tiled roof Angie said, ‘He seems OK. Early days though. If he doesn’t settle in, Hamish will be sure to let us know.’

‘What’s his story?’

Spotting the outreach ladies leaving, heads down as they battled the wind, Angie said, ‘Apparently he broke up with his wife after he was laid off work, and ended up with nowhere to stay when she got the house. Booze played a part in it somewhere, but Shawn, who referred him from the rehab clinic, says he’s been a regular at AA for over six months and is ready to start again.’

‘No history of violence?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Emma looked both dubious and cautious. ‘He knows he’ll be out on his ear if he starts drinking again?’ she pressed.

‘He does, but let’s assume that he won’t. Did Douglas get hold of you?’

‘Douglas from Hope House? Yes, he did. Apparently he’s lost weight so his belt’s too big and his trousers are falling down. He wants to know how to make a new hole.’

Angie’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘So what did you tell him?’ she asked, able to gauge from Emma’s expression that some sort of irreverence was afoot.

‘I said that if he took himself to Timpson’s in town someone there would be able to help him. He, of course, wanted to do it himself with a hammer and nail, but I reminded him that the last time he’d had those objects in his hands someone had ended up attached to the wall.’

Angie had to laugh. It wasn’t funny really, but the way Emma told it made it sound like a comedy sketch rather than a crime that had ended with his victim in hospital and him behind bars. ‘Do you think the belt story was real?’ she probed.

‘No idea, but it might be worth asking Hamish to pop in later to make sure there’s no live art hanging over the fireplace.’

Choking on another laugh, Angie checked her mobile as it rang. Seeing it was Tamsin, a support worker from the main homeless shelter in town, she clicked on. ‘Hi Tams,’ she said, returning to her desk, ‘If you’ve got any referrals I’m afraid we’re all booked up at the moment.’

‘I wish it were so simple,’ Tamsin responded with a sigh. ‘I’m hoping you or Emma could collect my kids from school when you go for your own.’

Angie said, ‘It’s OK, I’ll take them back to mine.’

‘You’re an angel.’

‘So they keep telling me. What I say is, you just haven’t met my demons yet.’ The instant the words were out she wanted to take them back, return them to the dark and awful place they’d come from, but it was too late. They’d already spilled along the connection, doing their damnedest, and as she looked at her sister she could imagine only too well what both Emma and Tamsin were thinking. Oh, but we have, Angie, we know what you did to your own son, but we won’t talk about it, and we won’t mention what happened to his father either.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I hope you’re not peeping,’ Steve warned, glancing at Angie who was next to him in the car, hands over her eyes, as instructed. ‘Or you,’ he added, checking six-year-old Liam in the rear-view mirror.

‘Can’t see anything,’ Liam promised.

Satisfied they weren’t cheating, Steve signalled to turn into a cul-de-sac of twenty mock-Tudor new builds, each with leaded windows and its own small plot of land, front and back. He drew up outside number fourteen, just behind a skip and a few plaster-caked wheelbarrows – though the work was at an end the clearing up was still under way.

Opposite the smart detached residences with their red brick façades and artfully placed wooden beams was a freshly laid green with a stony brook babbling along on the far side sheltered by a couple of magnificent weeping willows and an ironwork footbridge that linked this street to the next.

‘Can we look yet?’ Liam urged from the back. His auburn curls were still damp from a quick swim in the sea and his round cheeks were flushed with excitement. Liam loved surprises, especially when they were a secret from his mother as well.

Steve grinned as Angie parted her fingers, pretending to take a peek. ‘OK, you can look now,’ he announced.

As Angie lowered her hands she gazed around the street of brand spanking new houses, not quite understanding.

‘Oh Dad! There’s a bridge,’ Liam exclaimed in awe, and as though his father had just given him the best thing ever he leapt out of the back to go and investigate.

As they watched him, Angie said, ‘Are we on the Fairweather estate?’

‘We are,’ Steve confirmed.

‘And you,’ she continued to guess, ‘worked on these houses so you’ve brought us to see them before their new owners move in?’

‘Kind of,’ he smiled, and getting out of the compact Peugeot they’d bought for her a couple of years back, he came round to open her door.

‘Dad! Dad! Look at me,’ Liam cried from the bridge, and making certain Steve was watching he raced across it and back again, looking so pleased with himself that Steve wanted to go and swing him up so high he’d scream with delight. He still wasn’t learning as quickly as other children, but it didn’t make him stupid, it was simply that his progress was happening at a different speed. In every other way he was an adorable, playful, and happy young boy who wanted no more than to be everyone’s friend.

Steve and Angie sometimes wondered if Liam’s shortcomings were what made him even more special. Certainly they brought out his father’s protective instincts in a way nothing else ever had. However, they were careful not to smother or overindulge him. They just wanted him to feel like any other child of his age and to know that even when the new baby came, which would be any day now, he would still be their number one.

After almost six years and four heart-breaking miscarriages, Liam was at last going to have a little sister.

‘OK, I give up, what are we supposed to be looking at?’ Angie demanded as Steve tugged her out of the car.

‘It’s the bridge,’ Liam insisted as he ran back to join them.

‘Not quite,’ Steve replied, ‘although it’s a part of it,’ and stooping so Liam could jump on his back, he turned towards the double-fronted house in front of them. ‘This, my darling,’ he said to Angie, feeling so much pride and happiness welling up in him it was hard to keep his voice steady, ‘is our new home.’

Angie blinked, looked at it and then at him. ‘But we can’t afford anything like this,’ she protested.

It was true, they couldn’t, although Steve certainly earned well. His skills as a painter and decorator and all-round Mr Fix-It were always in high demand, but he was so keen for them all to have everything they wanted – her car, Liam’s extra classes, his own sports gear, great holidays – that they’d never managed to save very much. However, now their family was growing they needed somewhere bigger than the small flat they’d been squashed into for the past couple of years. ‘We don’t have to buy it,’ he explained. ‘Hari is going to let us rent it from him at a price we can afford.’

Angie’s mouth fell open as her eyes lit with disbelief and the first hint of excitement.

Apart from being Steve’s boss, Hari Shalik had become like a father figure to them since they’d arrived in Kesterly. In fact, he was the reason they’d moved to this coastal town in the first place. Someone had told him about the high quality of Steve’s work, so Hari had tried him out on a six-month contract and after three months he’d offered to put Steve in charge of all his development projects if he would agree to move his family to the area. So Steve and Angie had come here with Liam and although Steve effectively remained his own boss, meaning he was free to take on other jobs when Hari had no need of him, most of his work came either from, or through his mentor. Hari was a good man, wise and patient, always fair, and he made it plain that if they ever hit any difficulties they must always come to him. Since Steve’s father had died when he was very young, this had meant a lot to him.

‘So let me get this straight,’ Angie said, ‘after building all these beautiful houses …’

‘Hari didn’t build them,’ Steve came in, ‘he invested in the project and gave me the job of painting, decorating and finishing off the ones he’d earmarked for himself. There are two on this street – he’s already sold the other, no doubt at an enormous profit – and half a dozen semis just over the bridge. He’s going to be renting them out too, so I’ve already put Emma and Ben forward as prospective tenants.’

Angie was still staring at him in amazement.

Knowing she was absorbing the idea of having her beloved sister nearby, Steve marked himself up another point and said with a grin, ‘I’ve got the keys.’

‘But …’ Words were still clearly failing her, until she broke into helpless laughter. ‘Why on earth would Hari give us something like this?’ she cried.

‘He told me it’s his way of saying thanks for all the deadlines I’ve helped him keep, and holes I’ve dug him out of.’

‘But an entire house …’

‘We’re renting it,’ he reminded her, ‘and he’s promised it’ll always be at a price we can afford.’

‘Does Roland know about it?’ she asked, referring to Hari’s son who was a few years older than Steve, and openly resentful of Steve’s closeness to his father.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Steve replied. ‘Now, come on, let’s go inside and take a look.’

It was a dream home for them, with more space than they were able to imagine filling, and it exuded such a welcoming air that it seemed to embrace them the minute they walked in. To the right of the hall with its wide wooden staircase and built-in cupboards was a huge family-cum-play-room that went all the way from the front to the back of the house, where floor-to-ceiling French doors – still criss-crossed with manufacturers’ tape – opened on to a newly laid patio.

‘I thought I could put my piano here,’ Steve indicated a dusty space just inside the doors, ‘that way you can hear me playing when you’re outside drinking wine in the garden.’ The piano had been in storage since his mother’s death three years ago because they’d had nowhere to put it, and he missed it more than he’d expected to.

‘You can have the piano wherever you like,’ Angie told him, looking misty-eyed, ‘just as long as you promise to sing Nat King Cole songs whenever I ask.’

‘It’s a deal,’ he laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. ‘Now what’s going on with you up there?’ he asked Liam, who was still riding on his father’s back. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

In a worried voice Liam said, ‘Will I be moving in too?’

Swinging him round into his arms, Steve said, ‘We’d never go anywhere without you, my boy. This is going to be your home from now on, and because you’re the oldest you get to choose your room first.’

Lighting up at that, Liam said, ‘Can I have this one?’

‘For playing and entertaining,’ Steve promised, ‘but you need a bedroom, so why don’t you run upstairs and decide which one you want?’

As Liam zoomed off Steve put an arm round Angie and led her across the hall to the sitting room that felt as though it was waiting for them. He explained how he envisaged fitting in two large sofas and an armchair, a good-sized TV and an eight-seater dining table and chairs at the far end for when they had guests. Next came the kitchen, not huge, but at least four times the size of the one they had now, with pale oak veneer cabinets, a double sink, and mock-granite worktops. There was space for a small table and chairs, also for one of the big American-style fridge-freezers they’d always promised themselves they’d get one day. There was even a separate alcove for the washing machine and tumble dryer.

‘Obviously everything’s brand new,’ Steve announced like a salesman, ‘from the heating, to the electrics, to the plumbing, all the kitchen units … We’ve even got a dishwasher.’

As he laughed, Angie slid her arms around him. ‘You might have to pinch me,’ she said, ‘because I’m still trying to take it in.’

Holding her face between his hands, he said, ‘Just tell me you think we can be happy here.’

‘Of course we can,’ she murmured. ‘I can be happy anywhere as long as I’m with you.’

Although it was the answer he’d expected, it still made his heart soar to the stars. He loved his wife a thousand times more than he’d ever be able to put into words. ‘I’m getting carried away with everything,’ he said, ‘but you know all the decisions will be yours. All I want is a small space for the piano.’

‘And a barbecue built into the terrace,’ she teased, ‘and swings, slides, sandpits for the children, and a shed somewhere to keep your surfing gear.’

Smiling at the way she read him so easily, he kissed her tenderly, hoping to feel the baby fluttering against him, but she – Grace they were going to call her – was so close to arriving now that there wasn’t much room for her to move.

‘Found it!’ Liam yelled from the top of the stairs. ‘Can I have a bed like an aeroplane? Preston Andrews has got one and it’s really cool.’

‘Do you feel up to climbing the stairs?’ Steve asked.

Angie shook her head. ‘Not right at this moment, but tell me what’s up there.’

‘Not three, but four bedrooms,’ he declared as if even he was still trying to believe it, ‘the master has room for an en suite if we want one, but there’s a really big bathroom with a walk-in shower that I know you’re going to love. I did it myself, using the tiles you picked out when I told you Hari was trying to make up his mind which way to go.’

Eyebrows raised, she said, ‘So how long have you known he was going to let us rent this place?’

‘Only a couple of days. When I worked on it I had no idea.’

Turning at the sound of Liam thundering down the stairs, Steve shouted, ‘We’re through here.’

Finding them, Liam cried, ‘I can’t wait to bring all my friends here. They’re going to love it.’

‘And they’ll all be very welcome,’ Steve assured him, knowing how much it meant to his son to have friends, even those who didn’t always treat him well.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was early on Sunday morning. Angie was in the bathroom staring through specks of water on the mirror’s surface at her tired blue eyes as they assessed her reflection. It was as though it belonged to someone else, someone who looked vaguely like her; a kind of clone living another life over there in an alternative world.

Angie through the looking glass.

Maybe, in that elusive back-to-front place, things were actually as they should be, continuing unassumingly, happily, along the path she’d been on since she and Steve had moved to Kesterly fourteen years ago. OK, she’d understood that the odd curve ball could be lobbed in from out of the blue now and again, meaning tears had to be dried and hurdles overcome. Sometimes, Liam was picked on at school, and three miscarriages had followed Grace’s birth, making a total of seven altogether. In spite of the challenges they’d loved being parents right from the start; holding Liam in their arms knowing he belonged to them, that he was them, had made them feel as though they’d found the right way in the world. They were meant to create a family full of love and laughter, understanding and adventure, and for the most part that was how it had been. Now their youngest, Zac, was soon to be seven, making six years between each of the children, though somehow it had never seemed to matter – until one day they’d realized that it did.

The first time Liam had been brought home by the police he was only eleven – eleven. His PE teacher had found a stash of drugs in his school bag and instead of contacting them he’d reported it. It was all a big mistake, of course, Liam didn’t even know what drugs were, much less how to get hold of them – or so they’d believed at the time. It was only later that they’d discovered how wrong they were, how life had already started slow-rolling the worst curve ball of all.

In the weeks and months that followed, the problems increased in ways they’d never have imagined possible for their sweet-natured little boy who’d always been desperate to be noticed, to feel he belonged, to impress those he considered friends. They seemed to lose all connection with him as he was sucked deeper and deeper into the worst kind of crowd. He all but stopped going to school, and began spending his days hanging around street corners and municipal parks with kids from the notorious Temple Fields estate, thinking he was as cool and smart as them when he was anything but. They used him, abused him, had fun at his expense and he never saw them as anything but heroes. When he was expelled from school he wore his disgrace like a badge of honour and reviled his parents for trying to punish him. He began disappearing for days on end, and after the first few occasions the police simply told them that he’d come back when he was ready. His known involvement with the Satan Squad, as the biggest gang on the estate had ingloriously named itself, made him of far less interest to the overstretched authorities than any normal child of his age would be.

No one had ever told his parents about the county line gangs that infiltrated small communities, priming local gangs to prey on vulnerable children and turning them into couriers or addicts, or both. They’d had no idea until it was already too late just how cruelly Liam was being exploited, manipulated and brainwashed by forces so evil that neither Angie nor Steve knew how to combat them. Even the police seemed to struggle. By the time he was fourteen they’d lost all contact with the sweet, innocent boy he’d been. He behaved as though he despised them.

Steve became gaunt with worry, so stressed and fearful that it began affecting his health. Each time the police knocked at the door they expected the worst, that Liam had been stabbed, or he’d overdosed, he was in prison or he’d killed someone. Usually the police came because he was thought to be a witness to a crime, but they never found him at home.

It was the day Steve spotted five-year-old Zac with an old syringe, making to jab it into his arm, that he’d finally lost it.

Angie hadn’t been at home; if she had maybe she could have stopped him. As it was she’d been at the end of the phone when he’d said, ‘I’ve had enough, Ange. He’s no longer a son of mine.’

‘Don’t say that, Steve. Just tell me what’s happened. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find him and when I do …’

‘Steve,’ she cried in a panic. ‘‘Don’t go! Please … Oh God, no, please don’t …’

‘I can’t take any more, Angie. I swear … If you’d seen what I just have …’

‘Whatever it is …’

‘Our five-year-old son had a syringe in his hand.’

She’d all but choked on the horror. ‘Oh my God. Oh Steve …’

‘I’ve got to go,’ he told her. ‘I need to find Liam, and when I do I’m turning him in to the police along with every other one of those lowlife bastards …’

‘No! No!’ but the line had already gone dead.

She’d arrived home fifteen minutes later to find the house with its front door wide open, and no sign of Steve or his van. She tried telling herself that he wouldn’t actually go to that terrible estate, that he’d turn off and stop somewhere to calm down. But he wasn’t answering his phone and a sickening, terrifying intuition was taking hold of her.

It was around five in the evening when a female detective came to tell her what had happened on the estate. Angie would never forget the earth-shattering moment when her world had spun out of control. They’d beaten Steve to death. With iron bars, clubs, chains and heavy boots they’d laid into him with so much savagery that they hadn’t been able to stop, this was how a lawyer later described it in court.

Five of the attackers were arrested and charged the same day; Liam had also been taken in, but Angie received a call twenty-four hours later to tell her he’d been released on police bail.

‘Where is he now?’ she asked the officer who’d rung to let her know, her throat raw and tight with grief, her head gripped in a throbbing vice. Grace sat with her, holding her hand, dabbing away their tears, while Emma took charge of Zac and her own two boys. Angie felt almost as horrified by the thought of Liam coming home as she did by the fact that Steve never would.

It turned out no one knew where Liam had gone. He didn’t show up that day, or the next. Apparently he’d been present during the attack on his father. He’d told the police that he’d tried to stop it, and realizing he wasn’t the entire full shilling, as one insensitive officer had described him, they’d held back on charges for the time being.

He came home eventually, three days after his release, so foul-smelling and spaced out that he could barely speak. Angie didn’t even let him in the door.

‘Get out!’ she’d yelled into his stupefied face. ‘Get out of this house and don’t ever come back. You’re dead to me, do you hear that? Dead, dead, dead.’

What she hadn’t spared a thought for that day, or many days after, was what it must have been like for Liam to watch his father die in such a horrific attack. How had he felt when he’d realized he had no power to stop it, for she didn’t want to believe he’d been a part of it. No! No matter what else he was capable of, he surely to God didn’t have it in him to murder the father he’d once loved so much. Afterwards, he just hadn’t been able to cope with what had happened, and then his mother had lost her mind and told him he was dead to her.

During the months following Steve’s funeral, Angie had thought so much about Hari, their dear friend and landlord who she knew would have done anything to help her had he not lost his battle with leukaemia the year before. Having no other stabilizing or fatherly influence to guide her she’d acted alone, doing everything she could to find Liam, even venturing into the dreaded zone of Temple Fields when everyone had warned her to stay away. The streets, tower blocks, shops, pubs, were not so very different to any other housing estate on that side of town, at least on the outside. On the inside … things were different. Every other window was boarded up, burned-out cars lurked like decaying teeth between shinier new ones, the stench of urine, cooking and vomit soured stairwells, and a chilling sense of menace filled the air. The families and fellow gang members of those in custody for Steve’s murder were all in this area, and she was sure she could feel them watching her. No one wanted to talk to her; a pub landlord told her to go home if she knew what was good for her, and aware of the hostility and resentment her intrusion had triggered, she remembered her other children and took his advice.

The police hadn’t been interested when she’d tried to report Liam missing. Given his age and who he’d hung out with they didn’t even bother filing a report. As far as they were concerned the London gang that controlled him had reeled him in and no doubt set him loose on some other undeserving community a long way from here. Though Angie knew how likely that was, she’d still tried the homeless shelters, rehab centres, helplines, missing person charities, Salvation Army and even the government’s prisoners location services in her efforts to find him. If she’d had the money she’d have hired a private detective, but with Steve’s income gone and her own barely covering the rent that she now paid to Roland Shalik, Hari’s son, she’d already had to apply for benefits to help keep her reduced family going. Then, due to cutbacks in the local education budget, she’d lost her job as a teaching assistant. It had been the last straw. Grace had come home that day to find her mother scratching herself frenziedly, tearing her clothes, sobbing and begging God to tell her what to do.

Summoned by Grace, Emma had rushed straight over, rung the doctor, and eventually, between them they’d managed to calm Angie down. The sedative knocked her out until the following morning, and when she’d woken she’d been too groggy to remember much of what had happened. It had come back to her during the day and realizing how much she’d frightened her daughter, and her sister, she’d vowed to herself and to them that it would never happen again. She needed to get herself back in control, and to find another job before someone turned up from social services to take her children into care.

Two weeks later, after a soul-crushing interview at the jobcentre, Emma had called, all excitement, to tell her about the opening at Bridging the Gap.

Exactly why their predecessors had decided to recommend her and Emma as their replacements to run the organization’s two transition houses, Angie had no idea. What she did know was that it had been a lifesaver for her in so many ways, not least of all because it allowed her to focus on those in a far more vulnerable state than she was, and to take heart from their courage. It was as though helping them back to a better world was helping her too, and though she’d never admitted this to anyone, Craig at Hill Lodge had soon come to represent Liam. They even looked vaguely alike for her, with the same ragged mop of curly hair and lazy gait. Craig was older, but his learning difficulties made him seem younger, and Angie had it fixed in her head that as long as she took care of this boy, someone else somewhere would take care of Liam.

Liam was turning nineteen today and she still had no idea where he was.

He could be dead.

This was her biggest fear, the one that kept her awake at nights, that tore at her conscience so savagely that she wanted to scream as though noise could somehow drown the pain and madness of it all. Even after everything that had happened, the mother in her continued to see past all the horror and heartache to the small boy who’d never even thought about harming anyone. He hadn’t had it in him before the gangs had got hold of him, and she’d asked herself many times why they’d picked on him, what – or who – had really been behind the grooming and corruption of her and Steve’s innocent boy.

Steve. Oh God, Steve.

She missed him more than she could ever have imagined possible, and it wasn’t getting any easier. If anything it was becoming worse.

‘Mum?’

Angie was still at the bathroom mirror rigidly trapped in the worst time of her life, but as her eyes moved to the other face reflected behind hers, a smaller, younger image of her own, and yet like her father too, she felt her limbs start to relax.

‘Grace,’ she said, and bringing up a smile she was aware of her anxiety retreating into a small, contained ball, as love for her thirteen-year-old daughter eclipsed it. ‘What are you doing up so early?’

Grace’s normally bright eyes were circled with shadows of worry, and grief – Angie must never forget that the children were suffering too. Two years had passed, and she wasn’t sure any of them were close to getting over what had happened to Steve. Grace and Zac had loved their father every bit as much as she had, and the last thing they needed was to feel afraid that she couldn’t cope. It was how she often felt, but she must never let it be true.

Except it was already true.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ Grace responded. ‘It’s Sunday. I thought we were having a lie-in.’

Relieved that Grace hadn’t come into the bathroom to find her mother filling the luxury shampoo bottle with the same colour washing-up liquid, a regular occurrence, Angie said, ‘And so we are. Come on, let’s go and snuggle up under the blankets.’

It was still only seven o’clock; the heating was due to kick in at eight – always later at weekends, even if they had to get up early for one reason or another. Every little saving helped, or it was supposed to anyway. She wasn’t sure that the smart meter she’d had installed was really onside, for it wasn’t making anything less expensive, it just kept going round and round like a horror ride at the fairground, showing her how much it was all costing.

She wouldn’t have minded a cup of tea, something warm to help soothe her gently into the day, but it took electricity to heat the kettle and they were going to need what was left on her key card for showers in a while. She just hoped the remaining credit would be enough to cover all bases, since the post office was closed on Sundays and so were the nearest PayPoints.

She should have sorted it out yesterday while everything was open, and she would have had she not needed to put petrol in Steve’s van, now hers – five pounds’ worth instead of ten, so there was enough left over to give Grace some spending money for bus fare and a coffee in town with her friends. The other twenty in her purse had gone to Lidl, so at least there was food in the cupboard – for now.

It was the roll-out of universal credit fourteen months ago that had tipped her from the precarious edge of just about managing into the terrifying downward spiral she was now caught in. Nine entire weeks had passed without any benefits at all, so she’d simply been unable to pay her bills. True, she’d still had her widow’s pension – something they hadn’t taken into the universal system for some reason – but thirty-four pounds a week was an impossible sum for a single person to live on, never mind a family. The only way she’d managed to survive was by running up her credit cards, going overdrawn at the bank and selling her car. Her rent, council tax and utility bills had gone into arrears and that was how they remained, with the outstanding amounts getting bigger all the time. She could no longer bear to open the envelopes when they dropped ominously through the letterbox like voices with only doom to deliver.

She was receiving her benefits again now, but she was two hundred crucial pounds a month worse off than before, over three hundred if she counted the loss of her widow’s pension. That was only paid for the first year following a death so it had run out eleven months ago, and she supposed she had to feel thankful that Steve had been forty-five by the time he died, any younger and she’d have got nothing.

Her head began hurting as she ran through everything she had to pay out this coming week. By the time she’d topped up her electricity key, retrieved Grace’s boots from the repairer’s, put a fiver aside for Zac’s upcoming birthday party, paid a token amount towards the water bill and covered their school lunches, there might be enough left over to pay a little bit more than the interest on her credit card.

There would be nothing at all for the rent, or the council tax.

The breath was so tight in her chest that it felt like a solid mass of fear. She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but things were moving out of her reach so fast that she was terrified of where they were heading.

A cuddle with Grace might help to relieve some tension and even somehow set her up for the day.

Feeling her teenager’s slender body folding into hers, those smooth, gangly limbs and the sleepy morning smell of her opened Angie’s heart to how blessed she was to have her. She was a beautiful girl, full of life and fun, but thoughtful and patient with an understanding of situations and people that sometimes made her seem twice her age. She worked hard at school, was a favourite amongst the teachers and other students, and possessed not a mean bone in her body. She was, in fact, just like her father, always seeing the positive side of a situation; the first to help in a time of need, and able to summon a sense of humour when the rest of the world was losing theirs.

Angie guessed Grace didn’t find it so funny losing her beloved Lush cruelty-free cosmetics, Boux Avenue undies and weekly pop magazines – or the subs she had to pay to belong to the Fairweather Players. Her great passion was acting, and she was good at it. She’d been cast in many parts for the local am dram society since the age of eight and always received great reviews. She sang too, and danced, but for the time being she’d had to give up those lessons along with her Players membership – although her best friend Lois had bought her three months’ worth of dance classes for Christmas. What a blessing that had been, and how guilty it had made Angie feel knowing she was unable to do it herself.

‘It’s all right, Mum,’ Grace had whispered when she’d realized this. ‘I know things are difficult now, but it’ll all come good in the end. Promise.’

How like her father she’d sounded, and for one heady moment Angie had felt as though Steve was trying to communicate through their daughter. Whether he was or wasn’t hardly mattered now, for the debts were still piling up and only two weeks after Christmas she’d been forced to sell Steve’s beloved piano. She’d cried as hard that day as she had on the day they’d cremated him, for it had felt as though a special and intrinsic part of their marriage had been carried out of the door by strangers, who’d given her fifty quid less than she’d asked for it.

‘You and the children matter way more than a dumb old piano,’ she’d heard Steve telling her, and of course he was right, but it hadn’t made her feel any better. If only he were here now to tell her how to handle Roland Shalik, who’d taken over his father’s businesses when Hari died, and had, if the rumours were true, incorporated them into various far shadier dealings of his own. He liked to portray himself as a tough guy, someone of influence, not to be messed with, and on the whole he succeeded, though Steve had never really been taken in by his bluster. In fact Steve had mostly kept out of his way and for the most part they’d seen or heard little of him, probably because they’d never been short of money to pay the rent then, nor had they complained when Roland had increased it. He’d only done it once, and not by a huge amount, but since Steve had gone and Angie had fallen into arrears things had changed. Roland had none of his father’s softly spoken, courteous manner, nor, it turned out, did he feel any sense of loyalty or duty of care to the many tenants around Kesterly who’d been fortunate enough to have Hari for a landlord.

‘Mum, you’re squeezing too tight,’ Grace murmured in protest.

Realizing she was, Angie slackened her hold and stroked her daughter’s tangled red hair, careful not to catch any knots. She felt a glow of love, remembering how proud Steve had been of his precious girl.

Hearing a thud in the next room, followed by the hurried patter of feet and needless cry of ‘I’m awake,’ she felt rather than heard Grace laugh, and broke into a smile of her own. She wasn’t going to think any more this morning about what had gone before, or how desperately she still missed Steve, or how much she hated herself for throwing Liam out. She was going to give all her time and attention to the two children who’d never caused her a moment’s concern, apart from how to keep a roof over their heads, food in their mouths, clothes on their backs, vital gadgets in their pockets and ears … She could go on, and on, but her boisterous, fearless, head-first-into-the-bed six-year-old had just landed, and simply had to be tucked in tightly with them, or tickled.

It turned into a tickle, which she ran away from when they decided she was next. She loved them so much she could eat them, but they always won at tickling so she needed a refuge. Too bad the bolt inside the bathroom door was hanging off, she’d have got away if she’d remembered to fix it, but she wasn’t sure how to – and no sooner had she shut herself in than they were there with her, putting their arms around her, telling her not to be scared.

‘Scared!’ she cried. ‘Who’s scared?’ and putting on her most ferocious monster growl she ran after them.

Who needed heating when there were two children to play with?

OK, they did when the excitement was over and they finally settled down to breakfast, but a few minutes later the radiators clicked and rumbled into action and by the time the Lidl cornflakes had been devoured and Grace had finished her porridge the water was hot enough for showers. It might be Sunday, but they had a busy day ahead, and any minute now Angie would remember what they were supposed to be doing. For the moment her mind was filling up with figures that she couldn’t make add up anywhere close to where they needed to be.

Don’t stress. Just don’t. It’ll be all right. You’ll find a way out of this.

Her own breakfast was the mouthful of porridge Grace left. Never mind that she was hungry enough to down half an elephant, a cup of instant coffee should deal with the pangs, and to save on hot water she’d treat herself to a damned good wash instead of a shower. They’d be OK at the end of the month when her salary was due to be paid into the one bank account she had that wasn’t overdrawn. Well, not OK, exactly, but better than today, for her quick calculations were already warning her that by the end of tomorrow she’d have no more than sixteen pounds fifty in her account at Santander. The account at HSBC was already overdrawn by six hundred pounds with monstrous interest accruing by the day, so she couldn’t go there for anything at all.

What utter fools she and Steve had been not to take out life insurance. They’d meant to, had even sent for some forms, but they’d never quite got round to filling them in. Angie had found them days after the funeral, exactly where she’d put them when they’d arrived, in a tray on Steve’s desk with a prepaid and ready-addressed envelope attached. She’d stared at them, dumb with misery, rigid with the worst kind of understanding. She was holding a lifeline with nothing and no one attached to the other end, a limp rope in the water, an illusion of safety that would disappear in the cold light of day. She could do nothing to save herself or her family; these papers meant they were going to drown.

She’d told herself right away that she wouldn’t let it happen. As though using up fierce and determined last gasps of air, she’d silently promised herself that Grace and Zac would never, for a single moment, feel any less special than they had while their father was alive. She’d quickly let it be known amongst her friends and neighbours that she could fill in people’s shifts if they needed cover, whether cleaning, waitressing, delivering, babysitting: whatever was in her gift she would give it to make sure her children didn’t go without.

She’d been in no doubt then that she could make everything work, and right up until she’d been made to wait for universal credit, she’d somehow managed to keep their heads above water. Now, in spite of still taking on all the extra jobs she could, it was impossible to make ends meet.

Grace, because she was Grace, had lately begun challenging her mother and brother to find the best bargains online or in charity shops, and they’d had some stunning successes: a pair of brand-new Nikes at Oxfam for Zac, price tag still taped to the bottom and half a size too big so he could grow into them, how perfect was that? A last-season white Zara blazer for Grace that would have cost fifty quid in the shop, and was just two pounds at Blue Cross (only a button missing, which was easily fixed). They’d even found a padded winter coat for Angie and wrapped it up for her birthday – what a memorable moment it had been when she’d opened it – it fitted, and they’d told her it had only cost a tenner (five quid contributed by Auntie Em). They’d jumped up and down with triumph, thinking themselves the smartest (in every sense) people alive, and how stupid was everyone else to pay full price?

It had also been Grace’s idea to try and sell their old toys and clothes on eBay or Depop, while Angie began visiting a pawnshop in the old town, a place she hadn’t even known existed while Steve was alive. By now she’d forfeited the white-gold watch he’d given her for her thirtieth; an emerald-studded bracelet he’d once accepted from an old lady in lieu of payment for decorating her kitchen; a pair of binoculars that had belonged to his father; his paintbrushes, best toolkit and protective gear; the rocking horse he’d carved for Liam; his surfboards; just about everything she could raise a few pounds for, right down to the electric heaters for when it was especially cold. Each time she went she felt as though she was giving away more pieces of her heart. All she had left to pawn now was her wedding ring, and the nine-carat gold locket Steve’s mother had worn on her wedding day, and Angie had so proudly worn on hers.

She wasn’t going to think any more about all that now, though. Instead, she was going to try to make herself believe that all would come good, maybe even by this time tomorrow. God only knew how, unless she caved in and took out one of those lethal payday loans … The fact that she was actually considering it made her feel sick inside, but what choice did she have when Roland Shalik had already begun the eviction process?

CHAPTER FIVE

An hour later, with Zac down at the beach flying kites with his friends, and Grace watching the Fairweather Players rehearsing at the community centre – there was no part for her this year, on account of being unable to pay her membership fees – Angie spent a moment imagining how wonderful it would be to waltz into the centre and slip Grace enough cash to rejoin the company. The thought of it felt so good that she was almost annoyed when her mobile jolted her back to reality with a text. It was Emma letting her know that there was an offer at the Seafront Café today, provided they got there before twelve. Two coffees for the price of one. Boys with their father this morning (he didn’t forget today) so how about it? I’ll drive.

Angie didn’t hesitate. She might have a ton of chores on her plate, but they’d still be waiting when she got back, so why not indulge in this little treat? Pick me up in fifteen, she messaged back.

Though Emma and her husband Ben had moved into one of Hari’s semis, just over the footbridge, around the same time as Angie and Steve had moved into 14 Willow Close, Ben had taken off just over five years ago. He’d found someone else, an older uglier version of Emma was how Steve had described the new woman, and he hadn’t been far wrong. Ben now had two other children with his second wife, and had been promoted to manager at a Tesco Express over in the old town, so he was reasonably reliable with the maintenance for his and Emma’s boys. Certainly the rent was always paid, and so far Roland Shalik hadn’t attempted to increase it.

Trying not to think about bacon, sausages and eggs – her usual breakfast at the Seafront when she was feeling flush – Angie fixated on a lovely creamy latte instead. Later she’d have a proper meal, as they always did on Sundays, when she and Emma took it in turns to cook a delicious roast for them all with a surprise pudding to follow. It was at her place this week, so she’d bought everything in Lidl yesterday, and had even added a tub of ice cream for a pound to go with the apple pie. The kids would like that, and so would she, although she and Emma would probably have preferred a bottle of Pinot Grigio to help it all down.

Wine was a luxury they really couldn’t afford these days.

Glancing at her mobile as it jingled with another text, she saw it was from Hamish at Hill Lodge with a photo attached showing a close-up of what looked like … She wasn’t sure what it was. Then she realized he must have tracked down some more original tiles to continue his restoration of the cracked Victorian flooring in the hallway of the Lodge.

She texted back right away: Genius. Going to end up on Grand Designs.

He sent her a happy smiley back with the words, Craig didn’t come home last night.

Since none of them knew where Craig spent the nights he didn’t return to the residence she replied, Let me know when he shows up.

He would show up, she felt sure of that because he always did, eventually, and if she rang him right now he’d probably answer his phone. She didn’t put it to the test because Emma had just tooted her car horn, and with the prospect of a latte at the Seafront Café pulling her like a magnet towards town, she pocketed her phone and all but ran out of the house.

‘You’re looking lovely,’ she told Emma as she got into the passenger seat. ‘Must be all that wonderful sex you’re not getting.’

‘I see it’s working wonders for you too,’ Emma quipped, checking the rear-view mirror as she pulled away from the kerb. She was wearing a purple wool coat they’d found at a new boutique in town before Christmas, very stylish, by a designer they’d never heard of, and a dusky pink scarf that Grace had knitted to go with it. In her black padded parka and equally black scarf Angie couldn’t help feeling drab next to those lovely colours, but that was OK, the brightness of her red hair kind of made up for it.

‘Who was that bloke rubbernecking the van?’ Emma asked, as they headed out of the cul-de-sac. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re selling it? You can’t. You’d never manage without it.’

The mere thought of letting Steve’s van go was enough to make Angie’s heart lurch with dread. Selling the piano had been bad enough, beyond terrible in fact, but there had been no practical justification for keeping it. The van was her only means of transport, and God knew how painful it had been having his business insignia removed from the sides and back doors.

‘No I’m not selling it, and I didn’t see anyone,’ Angie said, trying to hide her anxiety. It could have been a bailiff nosing around, carrying out a quick assessment for someone she owed money to. Emma didn’t know how bad things really were so she wouldn’t have guessed at that. ‘Are you sure it was my van he was looking at?’ she asked.

Emma shrugged. ‘Hard to say for certain. Sorry, didn’t mean to worry you.’ She glanced at Angie and said, ‘It’s his birthday today.’

Angie’s heart twisted as she nodded.

‘I know you haven’t heard anything, because you’d have told me. That wasn’t him, by the way, who I saw scoping the van.’

‘No, I guessed not.’

After a while Emma said, ‘Does it make you feel afraid, when you think he might be around?’

Angie swallowed the concern that tightened her throat. Emma had never asked that before, so was it her way of saying that she was afraid? It hurt Angie deeply to think of her sister being fearful of her son, but she couldn’t deny that on some levels she was too. Or she was scared of the people he could still be hanging out with. She pushed a hand through her hair and caught a whiff of the soap she’d used under her arms. It wasn’t good enough because it didn’t manage to cover the faint trace of body odour she’d been trying to wash away. Why was that? She was clean, for heaven’s sake, so it didn’t seem right that she couldn’t make herself smell good, or at least have no smell at all.

She’d never smelled bad in her entire life.

‘Angie?’ Emma said gently, her tone questioning and concerned.

‘There’s something about me that smells,’ Angie stated loudly. ‘I’m obviously using the wrong deodorant.’

Emma looked at her sideways. ‘What sort of an answer is that?’ she demanded.

Angie started to smile. ‘It’s my way of saying I’d rather think about that than Liam, or birthdays or …’ She could have said how fast I seem to be going under, but instead she said, ‘or anything else that might come between us and our lattes.’

Half an hour later they were seated at a corner table in their favourite café, close to the window and next to a rowdy group of teens apparently just back from a ski trip. As the youngsters relived seemingly every minute of their amazing time away they kept exploding with hilarity, and their laughter was so infectious it was making Angie and Emma laugh too. Others were becoming tetchy and disapproving, but the skiers seemed not to notice; they were in a world full of nothing but black runs, snowboards and vin chaud, and why not when it was clearly a great place to be?

‘I don’t suppose they live on the Temple Fields estate,’ Emma remarked drily as the group finally piled out of the door, leaving a very generous twenty-quid tip on the table.

‘They probably don’t even know where it is,’ Angie smiled, hardly able to tear her eyes from the cash or her thoughts from what she could do with it. ‘I’ve seen one of the girls before. She used to be in Grace’s class in primary, but she went on to private school somewhere in Somerset.’

‘You must let me help to send Grace to private school,’ Hari had said a year before he died. ‘After your experiences with Liam, I think it would be wise to find her somewhere safer, even out of the area.’

Angie and Steve had discussed it, and decided they were in favour of it even if it meant she’d have to board during the week. Steve had foreseen a great future for their daughter among the kind of people he and Angie only worked for and occasionally mixed with. He’d made Angie laugh so much putting on a posh accent – the same accent he affected, without quite realizing it, when he took her to openings of hotels or restaurants he’d decorated – that she’d ended up hitting him to make him stop.

He wouldn’t. ‘Oh dahling, can’t you imagine how proud one will be to see our girl doing so well?’

‘Let’s talk some more with Hari first, find out exactly how much help he’s comfortable giving. We can’t expect him to pay for it all.’

Before they’d had a chance to do that Hari’s illness had taken hold, and the subject was quietly forgotten.

‘What’s that look about?’ Emma asked curiously.

Realizing she’d drifted, Angie said, ‘Sorry, where were we?’

Emma grimaced. ‘Actually, I’m just getting to the point where I have a favour to ask. Is there any chance you could lend me twenty quid until the end of the week?’

Angie groaned in dismay. ‘I’m really sorry. You know I would if I could.’

Emma sighed sadly, because of course she knew that. She didn’t wonder aloud how she and Angie had got to this place in their lives where they were almost always broke, because they knew only too well how it had happened. They’d never been high earners, even before they’d turned into single mothers through no fault of their own, nor would they ever be. At least in her case she got something from her ex; for Angie there was no Child Maintenance Service to help squeeze blood out of a slippery stone.

‘Actually,’ Emma said, suddenly brightening, ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea that should get us both sorted out.’

Angie was all ears.

Emma said, ‘We’re two intelligent, attractive women …’

‘In our forties, with more bags under our eyes …’

‘Listen to what I’m saying. We’re good people. We do the right thing, we’ve never been in trouble with the law – don’t let’s include Liam in this – we’re terrific mothers …’

‘Do you want to come to the point?’

‘What I’m saying is …’ She broke off as Fliss, the café’s owner, came to collect their mugs.

‘Two more, ladies?’ she offered.

As Angie’s longing flared up, Emma said, ‘We’ve already used our voucher, Fliss, but thanks anyway.’

Fliss looked surprised. ‘Oh, I think we forgot to put it through,’ she declared, ‘so we’ll treat the next ones as though they’re your first.’

Angie could have kissed her, although realizing that Fliss had guessed at their straitened circumstances made her feel she was paying with a small piece of her pride.

With a wink Fliss scooped up the twenty-pound note the youngsters had left, and instructed a baffled-looking server to clean the table ready for a couple of newcomers to sit down.

‘Bugger, I was going to pocket that,’ Emma muttered.

‘Not if I’d beaten you to it,’ Angie retorted, knowing that neither of them were serious. Or not very, anyway. Stealing from Fliss, a good friend for many years, would never be an option, no matter how desperate they were. ‘So,’ she said wryly, ‘I’m guessing your brilliant idea is to do away with good reputations, such as they are, and rob a bank?’

Emma’s jaw dropped in amazement. ‘Oh my God, you read my mind. So, do you think we could do it?’

‘No. So what’s next?’

Emma broke into one of her more mischievous grins. ‘You are so going to love it,’ she announced. ‘I’ve thought it all through and I reckon we can pull it off, no problem at all.’

Angie said, ‘Are we still talking about the bank?’

‘No, no. I’m talking about finding ourselves a couple of rich blokes whose lives would be complete with someone like us. Don’t get me wrong, I think we should carry on working, it’s important what we do, but you’ve got to admit we’re never going to meet anyone with more than a couple of halfpennies to scratch their bits with the way we’re going now. So, we’ve got to get with the dating programme. As you know, it all happens on the Internet these days. People twice our age are going on dates. They’re even having sex – OK, don’t go there – but they’re finding new lives, even getting married again, so if they can do it, why can’t we?’

Knowing she was nowhere near to wanting a relationship with anyone who wasn’t Steve, Angie said, ‘Don’t you have to pay to be a member of those websites?’

Emma grimaced. ‘Probably, if you find someone you want to meet, but initially you can just go on and have a look, see if there’s anyone suitable. Of course they’re all going to say they’re rich, and half of them are probably psychos, but what do we have to lose?’

Angie’s expression was one of pure irony.

Emma laughed. ‘OK, I get that it could all go horribly wrong, but there’s a chance it won’t …’

‘What if you end up with some creep who pretends to like kids, but doesn’t?’ Angie interrupted. ‘Or does, but in the wrong way? No, I’m sorry, you’re on your own with this one. I’ll come along as back-up if you go on a date … What is it?’ she asked, following Emma’s gaze to the window.

‘Not what, who?’ Emma responded curiously. ‘Isn’t that Craig over there? Your Craig, from Hill Lodge?’

Spotting him on the opposite corner, holding tightly to his guitar as a couple of youths in hoodies and combat gear crowded him up against a wall, Angie’s heart sank. ‘Yes, that’s him. Oh God, please don’t let them be trying to recruit him. I’m going over there,’ she declared, getting to her feet.

Emma’s hand shot out to stop her. ‘Don’t mess with them, Angie. You of all people know what they’re capable of, and you have two kids to think about.’

Angie desperately wanted to argue, but knowing her sister was right, she watched with growing dismay as Craig took something from the hoodies, put it into an inside pocket and walked away – with his guitar.

The best she could hope for was that he was delivering, not selling or using. Whatever, he needed to be much more careful than this, because the last thing he’d want was to find himself back in prison after the hellish experience he’d had there before. The other inmates had bullied and abused him so badly that the poor lad lived in mortal terror of the police and his probation officer now, certain their only purpose in life was to send him back inside.

Her phone rang, and concern for Craig vanished as a stranger’s voice said, ‘Am I speaking to Mrs Watts?’

She was immediately tense. It was someone after money. Or maybe someone had found Liam and with a wave of sadness she realised that hope was no longer first to her mind. ‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously, looking at Emma who was raising her eyebrows. ‘Who’s this please?’

‘It’s DC Leo Johnson, from Kesterly CID. We’d like to talk to you, Mrs Watts. Could you come to the station today?’

Today? Sunday? Her head was suddenly spinning, her heart thudding thickly. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked, trying to stay calm.

‘We can discuss it when you get here,’ came the reply. ‘Shall we say in an hour?’

‘Yes. No! Wait. Is it about my son, Liam? Have you found him?’

‘It would help if you could bring something of his when you come,’ the detective told her, and before she could say any more he’d rung off.

CHAPTER SIX

‘It’ll be about DNA,’ Emma said decisively, as they drove along the seafront heading back to the house. ‘I can’t think why else they’d want something of his.’

Knowing that had to be true, Angie tried desperately not to connect with what it could mean. ‘But they already have it from when … From when he was arrested. Don’t they automatically take it these days?’

‘But he wasn’t charged, so I think by law they have to delete it.’

Angie’s nails were digging into her palms as she gazed out at the heaving grey mass of waves in the bay. They were doing what they always did, swelling and dipping, hurling on to rocks and drowning the beach. Why did they seem so ominous?

Was Steve watching? Did he know what was going on?

When they got home she waited in the kitchen while Emma went up to Liam’s room. It wasn’t that Angie never went in there, if anything she spent far too much time sitting amongst his things trying to work out what more she could do to find him, even trying telepathically to reach him. It was simply that Emma had decided she ought to be the one to go up there today.

She came back with a light-blue Donald Duck toothbrush that made Angie want to cry. All his life he’d had the same one, changing it every few months for a newer model of the same. Right up until he died Steve had also owned a Donald Duck toothbrush to match Liam’s, in spite of using an electric one for the actual job.

Angie took it, doing her best not to engage with the role it was about to play, and after insisting she was all right to drive, she left Emma in the house trying to find someone to be there for the kids when they got back so she could follow Angie to the police station.

By the time Angie was left to wait in a room that was soulless and smelled of sweat and cheap polish she was somehow managing to breathe normally, though only just. So many terrible and terrifying scenarios had been racing through her mind this past hour that she’d lost sight of any good that might be about to unfold. Did anything good ever unfold in this awful space with no windows, just a roof vent that seemed clogged by leaves and a small, thick glass panel in the door?

‘Mrs Watts?’

She looked up from the table where her hands were clasped tightly together and her eyes, until then, had been on the ring stains that formed random patterns over the chipped surface.

‘Leo Johnson.’ A young, red-haired man with boyish freckles and a skewed sky-blue tie introduced himself with a friendly smile.

Angie started to get up, but Johnson insisted she stay seated. ‘Has someone offered you tea or coffee?’ he asked, taking a chair opposite her at the table.

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she told him hoarsely. ‘I’d just like to know what this is about.’

‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch and seemed relieved when the door opened again and a middle-aged woman with a pale complexion and deep frown lines between her close-set eyes came in. ‘Sorry to have kept you,’ she said to Angie, seeming to mean it. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Anthea Ellis. Please call me Anthea, and may I call you Angela?’

‘Angie. Everyone calls me Angie.’ Why were they being so friendly? The only reason she could think of was that they were about to break bad news.

Anthea Ellis smiled, her plain features softening into a less stressed expression that did little to put Angie at ease. ‘Thanks very much for coming,’ the detective said. ‘I’m sorry to drag you in here on a Sunday, but we’ve been contacted by our Avon and Somerset colleagues who are investigating a murder that took place in Bristol the day before yesterday.’

Angie’s heart stopped beating. She could feel her breath shortening, her mind racing with the horror of what this could mean. They think it’s him. It’s why they want his DNA. He’s dead and they’re trying to identify him. Oh God, oh God, oh God, how was she going to handle this?

Anthea Ellis was saying, ‘… the girl’s body was found beside a canal. She’s been identified as …’

‘What?’ Angie interrupted, not understanding. ‘A girl … Who …? Why are you …?’

Leo Johnson said, ‘We’re told that the main suspects in the case are individuals who might be known to your son. Have you heard from him at all lately?’

Still trying to get a handle on things, Angie said, ‘No. Not since his father …’ She stopped; they’d know what she meant.

With an understanding expression Anthea Ellis said, ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I’ve tried to find him, but I’ve never got anywhere. Who are these people, the ones they think killed the girl?’

‘I guess we can assume,’ Ellis replied, ‘that they’re members of the gang Liam was – or still is – involved with. As you know, only five members are behind bars.’

Angie searched around for what she wanted to say, or needed to know. It was like trying to catch something invisible and turn it into something real. ‘Where – where did they find the girl?’ she finally managed. ‘You said a canal …’

‘It’s in the Lawrence Hill area of Bristol,’ Johnson told her. ‘Is that anywhere you know? Somewhere your son might have visited?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I’ve never been there, but I’m not sure about Liam. Please tell me you don’t think he did this. You know he’s not like other boys his age; he has difficulties … If he did do it they’ll have put him up to it.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Ellis said kindly.

‘But why else would they want his DNA?’

Johnson said, ‘They’re checking on everyone known to have had some involvement with this particular gang, either directly or indirectly.’

Wild-eyed now, Angie’s voice shook as she said, ‘You know what those thugs do to people who turn them in, don’t you? I’ve seen a programme about it, they call them snitches and if they’re found they’re stabbed to death. So you have to stop looking for Liam. Please. Because even if he doesn’t tell you anything, if someone’s arrested they’ll think he talked and blame him.’

Quietly, almost regretfully, Ellis said, ‘Did you bring something of his with you?’

Angie stiffened and would have denied it if she could. She reached into her bag and handed over the ludicrous toothbrush.

As Johnson took it he regarded it with something that seemed like sadness.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Anthea Ellis said again. As she got up to leave, Angie suddenly cried, ‘Is that it? Aren’t you at least going to say that you’ll let me know when you find out that this has nothing to do with my son?’

‘Of course,’ Ellis assured her. ‘We have your number. As soon as there’s any news, one way or the other, DC Johnson will be in touch.’

Getting to her feet, Angie said angrily, ‘So now he’s a suspect in a murder case you’ll go out of your way to find him. You didn’t want to know when I came in here almost two years ago. Maybe if you’d listened to me then that girl would still be …’ She stopped abruptly, horrified by what she’d been about to say.

‘I made it sound as though I think he’s as guilty as they do,’ she ranted to Emma when she got back. ‘How could I have said that? What the hell is the matter with me? I know he didn’t do it …’ She choked on a sob. ‘He’d never kill anyone. He just wouldn’t – unless someone put him up to it. They might have forced him to do it.’

‘They don’t know yet if it was him,’ Emma reminded her softly.

Angie nodded, seizing the doubt to try and still herself. ‘So does this mean he’s in Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I know there are connections between the gangs here and there.’

Once again Emma said, ‘They don’t know yet if it’s him.’

Angie turned to look out of the kitchen window, seeing shadowy figures over a girl next to a canal, knives, fists, blood … She couldn’t make out any faces, but surely none belonged to Liam.

Her hand tightened around a mug of tea as she focused on Zac in the garden with Emma’s boys, Harry aged almost seven and Jack aged nine. They were crawling over the climbing ropes Steve had hung between the shed and an end post for the washing line. Once they reached the top they tumbled over on to the trampoline below, roaring like warriors, fearless and mighty. Liam had loved to play on those ropes when he was small, shouting out for his dad to watch as he threw himself on to the deadly enemy below.

‘How many have you slain so far?’ Steve would cry out, waving his plastic sword with a madman’s intent.

‘Millions,’ Liam would reply. ‘Look out! There’s one behind you.’

Steve whipped round, saw off an invisible attacker and shouted, ‘Thanks Liam, you saved me there.’

‘That’s all right Dad. You’re safe now.’

Grace came into the kitchen, her laptop held open in both hands. ‘Nightmare,’ she declared. ‘I’ve found some stories about the murdered girl and they’re not good.’

There had been no point trying to hide anything from her daughter when she’d come back from the station; Grace had been there and had known right away that something was wrong. Lying, or trying to skirt the issue was never the way to go with Grace. She’d somehow get to the truth in the end, and would be hurt and disappointed in her mother for not trusting her.

As she put the computer down in front of Emma, Angie saw how pale she was, and wondered whether she already believed her brother was a killer, or if she was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. What was it going to mean to her future if it turned out he’d killed that girl? She’d always be the sister of a murderer, the daughter of a man who’d been beaten to death in a frenzy of gang violence; someone whose family wasn’t like other families, whose bad luck might be contagious. That was how the world viewed people who’d had dealings with the very worst elements of society, even through no fault of their own; the stigma, the shame, rubbed off on the innocent.

‘She’s called Khrystyna Kolisnyk,’ Grace was saying. ‘She was twenty-four and came from Ukraine, but she’d been in the St Paul’s area of Bristol flat-sharing with other girls for the past couple of years. No one reported her missing. The police only knew about her when a jogger nearly fell over her body while he was out for a morning run. Apparently the police want to speak to her boyfriend, Darren Milligan, and others.’ She looked up. ‘The main thing is there’s no mention of Liam.’

Hating the fact that Grace even knew about anything like this, Angie went to close the laptop down. ‘That’s enough for now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll put the chicken in the oven and start peeling the potatoes before we get a bunch of hangry boys on our hands.’

Later, after they’d eaten every last mouthful of the roast, followed by a golden crust apple pie and vanilla ice cream, they settled down to play their usual game of Monopoly. It was a Sunday evening tradition, dating back to happier times when Steve and Liam had played too – always loudly, and Angie was sure they’d both cheated for they never seemed to spend any time in jail. These past few months it had returned to being a noisy and highly competitive couple of hours at the close of the weekend and this evening’s were no exception, with whoops of triumph over big property purchases, followed by groans of outrage at extortionate rents, and shouts of protest when someone was declared bankrupt. Angie was aware of Grace’s eyes flicking to her from time to time, wanting to be sure that her mother was genuinely enjoying herself and not secretly worrying herself into a state of panic.

Angie wasn’t, at least not tonight. She was doing her best to think only of how blessed she was to be sitting here with her family, warmth coming from the fire, a solid roof to keep them dry, food to eat and no illnesses to scare them. There would be time enough later to think about Liam, when she knew for certain whether or not he was a person of real interest to the police. And as for everything else … There was no point thinking about that tonight either, so she winked at Grace to make her smile, the way Steve always used to, and was relieved when Grace winked back.

Later, Grace was in her room that her dad had made look like an actor’s dressing room, with famous theatre and movie posters in an artful montage all over the walls, a mirror with big globe lights around it, a little seating area of bean bags and coffee table for when she had visitors, and there was even an old-fashioned modesty screen that he’d bought at an antiques fair and restored for her. It was draped with various movie props and costumes that they’d tracked down on eBay; she even had a pair of dancing shoes that had been worn by one of the stars of a Broadway show. He’d made her fancy bed frame with a canopy overhead smothered in muslins and lace that cascaded all the way down to the floor.

She no longer had the computer desk he’d refashioned from an old escritoire for her to work at; after she’d uploaded photos of it to Depop it had sold right away for fifty pounds. The small collection of perfume bottles that her mum had started her off with when she was six had sold for eighty-five pounds, and the vintage-style doll’s pram Granny Watts had given her when she was four had sold for thirty-two pounds. It was amazing what people would buy, for most of her jewellery had gone – not the silver christening bangle, or her nine-carat-gold watch or the tiny diamond chip set in a signet ring that was supposed to be a family heirloom, her mum would have had a meltdown if she tried to sell any of that. It was the ordinary stuff from Zara and Next and Topshop that had gone, along with at least half of her old dolls and teddies, most of her books, her play shop, her Micro Sprite scooter and the bike she’d long since outgrown but had been planning to keep along with the vintage pram, in case she had a little girl one day who might like them.

Now, as she uploaded yet more photos of clothes that had hardly been worn and even still fitted, along with a well-thumbed set of Winnie the Pooh books Auntie Em had bought her one Christmas, she was thinking about the way her mum had winked at her earlier, and how much it had reminded her of her dad. She loved it when her mum did that, but at the same time it seemed to dig right down in her chest to remind her of how much she missed him. Sometimes, to get herself past the worst parts of it, she’d talk to him, inside her head, as if he was still there and able to answer. She asked him to tell her what to do to help Mum, or if he was upset that she’d sold the desk, or what she should upload next; she even asked if he knew where Liam was.

Do you blame Liam, Dad? Can you see him now? What is he doing? Do you want us to find him?

She didn’t always hear him as well as she’d like to, and even when she did she thought she might be making it up, but occasionally she found herself slipping back in time to one of the chats they’d had when she was small, some that she actually remembered, others that she didn’t, but they’d made him laugh so much when he’d told her about them later that she’d wanted to hear about them again and again, just because he seemed to love them – and her – so much.

‘Daddy?’ she said.

‘Mmm?’ he replied.

She gave a small sigh to let him know that she required his full attention.

Getting the message, he put down the screwdriver he was using to assemble her new wardrobe and turned to sit cross-legged on the floor facing her.

‘You know I’m five tomorrow?’ she said earnestly.

‘I do,’ he replied, matching her tone.

‘Well, when I have my party on Saturday, I hope you’re going to behave yourself. Only you don’t always, do you?’

He crumpled in shame. ‘I promise I’ll do my best,’ he said.

She frowned, not certain that was good enough. ‘I know,’ she declared, hitting on the answer. ‘I’ll ask Mummy to keep an eye on you.’

His mouth twitched like he was going to laugh, but he sounded serious as he said, ‘I think that’s a very good idea.’

She continued to sit where she was, hands folded together in her lap as she worked herself up to what else she needed to say. To her surprise he started to turn back to what he was doing. ‘I haven’t finished, Daddy,’ she told him bossily.

‘Oh, sorry. What else is it?’

‘Will Liam be coming to the party?’ she asked worriedly.

The light in his eyes seemed to dull as he sighed and pushed a hand through his dusty hair. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart,’ he replied. ‘Do you want him to?’

She didn’t want to say no, but she didn’t want to say yes either. ‘He might not be here,’ she said hopefully. ‘He goes out with his friends all the time.’

Grimly, Steve said, ‘I wouldn’t call them friends, exactly, but you’re right, he does go out a lot.’

‘Where does he go?’

With another sigh he gathered her on to his lap and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Things are a bit difficult for Liam at the moment,’ he said softly, ‘so we have to try and be patient and find ways to help him.’

‘Will it help him to come to my party?’

Squeezing her, he said, ‘I’m not sure, honey. It’s hard to know what to do, but we’ll find a way to make everything all right, don’t you worry.’

He wasn’t here to make things right any more, and it was horrible, so bad sometimes that she felt she was drowning in the need for him to pick her up in his strong arms and tell her it was all a bad dream. But he wasn’t going to do that, so she must try her best to help her mum the way she knew he’d want her to. The trouble was she would soon run out of things to sell online, so she needed to find another way to earn some money.

Any ideas yet? she messaged to her best friend Lois, who was helping her to find out what kind of jobs were possible for girls of thirteen. She was already doing some of her fellow students’ homework for two pounds a time, but apart from the fact that she was helping them to cheat, it wasn’t nearly enough to make a difference for her mum.

Lois’s reply came quickly. Still working on it, but will have info to share by tomorrow. #SAVINGGRACE.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Angie was sitting in the driver’s seat of her van, hands clutching the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the frosty green across the street where, back when they were a normal family, the children had played cricket against the adults in summer and roasted chestnuts and marshmallows over bonfires in winter.

She should start the engine, head off into the day, but she was having trouble making herself go through even the most familiar of motions this morning.

Grace and Zac had already left for school; Emma had taken them, and she, Angie, needed to get to work. She had to clean a restaurant in town for one of her neighbours first – she must text to say that she needed the cash asap – and then she had a meeting with one of Bridging the Gap’s main sponsors. Later she was planning to carry out a job search for a couple of the residents – any success she achieved on their behalf always gave her a lift, so she was actually looking forward to that. Then she’d go to the office to answer emails and make phone calls. All this would happen as it should if she could make herself go any further from the house than this.

It was the email she’d opened only minutes ago that was holding her in a paralysis of dread. It had been sent yesterday, but she hadn’t read it until after the children had left this morning, with Zac’s chirpy voice telling her he wanted a unicorn cake for his birthday.

Came by the house earlier today. Your van was there, but reckon you slipped out while I was looking for you round the back.

Mr Shalik wants to help you, Angie, so call me tomorrow.

It was from Agi, the thug, goon, muscle, whatever anyone wanted to call him that Roland Shalik used as his right-hand man.

A tap on the van window made her jump, breaking her so abruptly from the turmoil in her head that she almost gasped. She looked up at the face staring in, trying to process the reality of it. For a moment fear tricked her eyes into seeing a stranger, until she realized it was her neighbour, Melvin, who lived two doors down with his wife, Mandy, and their twin girls who were Zac’s age. He was clearly concerned, perplexed, as he circled a finger for her to lower the window.

She did so and as cold morning air swept into the van her lungs grasped it as though she’d been suffocating them. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was miles away.’ Melvin and his family hadn’t lived in Willow Close for long, and hadn’t gone out of their way to be friendly, just nodding good morning when they came out with the bins, or to get in the car. She understood that some people preferred to keep themselves to themselves, but she’d been surprised when they hadn’t joined in the carol-singing party that Grace and her friends had organized at the community centre before Christmas. Everyone else had taken part, bringing flasks of hot chocolate, mince pies and handmade ornaments to decorate the tree. Bob, from across the street, had asked Angie if she’d mind him being Santa this year, a role Steve had always played, and she’d told him she thought it was a lovely idea.

Steve would have wanted her to say that, and Bob would hopefully never know that it had almost broken her to go and watch someone else in her husband’s place.

‘Are you OK?’ Melvin asked. He looked awkward, apparently not wanting to get involved if there was a problem, but here he was anyway. ‘You’ve been sitting there for a while,’ he explained. ‘Are you having engine trouble? I’m about to go into town so I can give you a lift …?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ she assured him. ‘I was just … I …’ Her hand tightened around her phone. ‘I was waiting for someone to call, and didn’t want to drive …’ She stopped, the fear of a call silencing her. It hadn’t happened yet, but she knew it would, just as she knew she’d have to take it.

Melvin was watching her through the thick lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses, seeming to see past her excuse, all the way to … To what? Even she didn’t know the real reason she was sitting here like someone who had no idea how to drive, so there was no way he could.

‘OK, if you’re sure …’ He gestured behind him to his own car.

‘Sure,’ she insisted. She hadn’t realized until now that he was quite good-looking. She and Emma often likened men to movie stars, and she guessed Melvin-from-down-the-street could qualify, on a dark night at a good distance, as a bit of a Matt Damon. Smaller, thinner, kind of gaunt, but still managing to be attractive. He was more Emma’s type than hers.

‘I should be going,’ she said, starting the engine. ‘Hope you have a good day.’

As she drove away she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that he was walking back down the street. She wondered what his story was, why he and his family were so aloof, although he’d seemed fairly neighbourly just then.

By the time she’d cleaned the restaurant, and met with the sponsor who’d willingly committed for another year, she’d forgotten all about Melvin, had even managed to push Liam out of her mind for the time being. Now, having completed an hour at the office, she was picking her way through the ruts and puddles of a building site on the outer edge of town, heading for the portacabins tucked in against the hillside like metal mushrooms.

She hadn’t received the dreaded phone call yet, nor had she responded to Agi’s email, although she was ready to admit that she couldn’t go on avoiding him. The trouble was she still didn’t know how to deal with the mess she was in, what her next step should be to avoid sinking her and her family completely.

A burning prickle of fear coasted down her spine.

As she approached the first portacabin a tall, muscular man in a hard hat and hi-vis jacket came out in a hurry, and almost collided with her at the foot of the steps.

‘Christ, I’m sorry,’ he apologized, reaching out to steady her. ‘I didn’t see you. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, dimly aware that this was the second time today that she’d had this start to a conversation. He really did look concerned, and then his frown deepened as he peered at her more closely.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked. ‘You look familiar.’

She shook her head, certain their paths hadn’t crossed, but it wasn’t rare for people to think they recognized her, since her face had been all over the press at the time of Steve’s death. Anyway, this man was a bit of a Daniel Craig, so she’d surely remember if they’d met.

Two handsome men, and it wasn’t even noon. Maybe the day wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

‘I know,’ he suddenly cried, ‘you’re Wattie’s wife. Steve Watts, the decorator?’

As the pain of hearing her husband’s name tightened her heart, Angie said, ‘That’s right.’ It wasn’t a surprise that this man had known Steve, for just about everyone who worked on the buildings in this town had. ‘Don’t tell me, he did some work for you?’ she ventured. As everything about Daniel Craig – he wasn’t so much like him really, maybe better – suggested he was some sort of boss, it was a reasonable guess that he’d employed Steve at some stage.

The man smiled. ‘When we could get him,’ he replied. Then his eyes softened in an almost tender way as he said, ‘I’m so sorry about what happened. It must have been very difficult for you and your family.’

Angie didn’t deny it, why would she, but she didn’t want to get into it, so using words to cut off the swell of emotion she said, ‘I’m here to find out if you’d be willing to give a second chance to one or more of my residents. My sister and I run Bridging the Gap, you might have heard of it. Well, you might not have, but we help people, men mostly, to find their way back from difficult times.’

‘Actually, I have heard of it,’ he told her, going with the change of subject, though she could tell he was still thinking about Steve and no doubt remembering now the full detail of just how terrible his death had been, ‘but it’s not me you need to speak to, it’s Cliff, the site manager.’ He turned back up the steps. ‘He’s inside,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ll introduce you and make sure he understands that this is a construction company that believes in second chances.’

Appreciating his readiness to help, she stepped through the door he was holding open for her and felt the welcoming warmth of the interior embrace her. As expected, the place was a dumping ground for everything: boots, jackets, paperwork, plans, hard hats and every other kind of builder paraphernalia. Seated at an enormous desk in one corner was a gruff-looking man in his fifties with flattened grey hair, no doubt from the wearing of a hat, a bulbous nose, flinty eyes and a ragged white beard.

No chance of making it a hat trick of handsome blokes with this one, she couldn’t help reflecting wryly to herself.

‘Cliff, this is Steve Watts’s wife,’ Daniel Craig said. ‘Mrs Watts …’

‘Angie,’ she interjected.

‘Angie,’ he repeated with a smile that made her smile too, ‘wants to talk to you about taking on a couple of her residents. They’re blokes who haven’t had the easiest of times and need someone to give them a bit of a leg-up. I said we’d be happy to do that.’

Cliff’s whiskery eyebrows rose in a way that told her he might not be quite as ready to throw out lifelines, were the decision his. Apparently it wasn’t, since he didn’t argue, simply said, ‘What skills do your residents have, Mrs Watts?’

Prepared for the question, Angie said, ‘Most of them don’t have a skill, but they could be labourers, or maybe apprentices to some of the tradesmen …’

‘The tradesmen take on their own people,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s nothing to do with us.’

‘But you can put in a word,’ the man who was apparently his boss interrupted. ‘And you were telling me only minutes ago that you’re short of a gofer.’ He smiled roguishly in Angie’s direction, and checking his watch said, ‘Sorry, I have to go, but Cliff will take your details and sort something out for you.’ As pleasantly as it was said, it was clearly an instruction, but before Angie could thank him he’d gone.

She looked at the older man, and tried to tease out a smile with one of her own.

It didn’t work. ‘Write everything down,’ he said brusquely, and pushing a tea-stained A4 pad towards her he tossed a pen after it. ‘If you haven’t heard from me in a couple of days, you can give me a call, but don’t expect miracles.’

Sensing this was the best she could hope for from this curmudgeon she wrote down her details, followed by the reminder of why she was there, and pushed the pad back to him.

‘Incidentally,’ she said, turning round as she reached the door, ‘I’d like to thank the man who brought me in here, but I don’t know his name or how to get hold of him.’

The site manager smirked in a way that made her hackles rise.

She stared at him hard. Surely he didn’t think she was trying to make a move on his boss, for that was what his manner seemed to suggest. The very idea made her want to slap the grin right off his smug face. Instead, she opened the door and stepped back into the hectic cacophony of the site.

It was at the bottom of the steps where she’d almost collided with the boss and now paused to let a transit van pass that she saw the words Stone Construction emblazoned on the side, and could have kicked herself.

Of course she’d known the name of the company before coming, but she’d been too distracted to make the connection. Now, as she did, it felt strangely as though sunbeams were breaking free of the dull grey sky to carry her back to when she’d first met the owner of Stone Construction.

Steve was laughing in that annoyingly teasing way of his that made her laugh too when she really didn’t want to.

‘You should have seen your face when I introduced you,’ he told her, eyes twinkling wickedly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush like that before.’

‘I did not blush,’ she protested.

‘Oh but you did. So come on, admit it, you fancied him.’

‘You’re delusional, and may I remind you we were at his father’s funeral, so you need to show more respect.’

Suitably chastened, he tugged off his tie and threw his suit jacket over the end of the bed as he said, ‘Everyone’s going to miss Dougie Stone. He was the best mayor this town’s ever had, and a great businessman. Now what everyone wants to know is whether or not his son, who’s apparently going to inherit everything, the construction company, the properties, all the other businesses, will keep it all going.’

‘What was his name again?’ Angie asked casually, stepping out of her formal grey dress and reaching for a hanger. Wasn’t it just typical of her husband to notice when she found another man attractive? She couldn’t get anything past him.

Steve was grinning. ‘Martin,’ he replied, and coming up behind her he drew her against him. ‘They say he’s minted in his own right,’ he murmured against her neck, ‘even before he cleans up from his father.’

‘Oh well, in that case,’ she said, turning in his arms, ‘perhaps I did fancy him.’

Laughing, he touched his mouth to hers.

‘Are you jealous?’ she teased.

‘Madly,’ he declared, not sounding it at all. ‘Now get the rest of that kit off, woman, and let me have my way with you before Coronation Street starts.’

Coronation Street, she was smiling to herself as she returned to the van. He’d never watched an episode in his life. However he had worked for Martin Stone a few times since Martin had taken over the company, but today was the only other time she’d met the man. She felt pleased that he’d remembered Steve so fondly, and touched by his willingness to help her small charity – and sorry that she hadn’t made more of an effort with her appearance this morning, as if he’d have noticed, which of course he wouldn’t have.

It would be quite something though to attract someone like him, a real boost to her spirits and her confidence, to her outlook on everything, so she might play with the fantasy for a while. Better that than make an immediate return to the grimness of her actual life.

Half an hour later, Angie was leaving Hill Lodge, and focussing on her next meeting, which was with an independent-living agency for those with mental health issues. They didn’t have any apartments free at the moment, but it did no harm to keep in touch with these people, to make sure Bridging the Gap’s residents weren’t forgotten when something did come up.

On reaching the front gate of the Lodge she looked up and had to fight the sudden impulse to run back inside. A man was slouching against her van, clearly waiting for her, and she knew exactly who he was.

Suddenly damned if she was going to let him see her fear, she raised her chin as she approached him, eyes blazing contempt, hands clenched in fists in her pockets.

‘Hello, Angie,’ he drawled, straightening up in an absurdly awkward way, as if he were pulling up his trousers, or shaking them out to dry. He was short and bald-headed with a prizefighter’s physique, multiple piercings in his ears and nose and a smile that, in spite of his attempts to appear friendly, made him look like an untrained pit bull.

This was Agi, the charmer Roland Shalik sent to carry out his dirty work.

‘Get out of my way,’ she said tightly.

‘Angie, Angie,’ he drawled, putting his hands together as though in prayer. ‘You know you have to pay your rent. It’s the law, and yet you don’t pay yours. So how can you expect to stay where you are?’

She regarded him fiercely, teeth gritted, sweat prickling the back of her neck as her heart thudded with dread.

‘Mr Shalik has asked me to inform you,’ he said smoothly, ‘of the steps he has taken to remove you from the house. Do you know of them? Are you opening your mail?’

Temper flashed in her eyes. ‘Yes, I know, and you can tell him from me …’ She broke off as he closed the short distance between them.

‘If you need help,’ he said quietly, ‘Mr Shalik is still willing to arrange a loan …’

She stepped back, shaking her head in disgust. Taking a loan from that shark would end her up in ten times more debt than she was in already, more even, and she wasn’t going to do it. Not even to save her home. There would be no point, for she’d end up losing it anyway.

Agi’s smile was one of sad understanding, even benevolence, as he murmured, ‘Of course there are other possibilities …’

She stared at him, not sure she wanted to know where this was going.

His eyes took on a mocking gleam. ‘You have a very beautiful daughter,’ he reminded her, ‘it would be …’ He broke off as her hand slammed across his face.

‘Don’t you bring my daughter into this,’ she hissed at him. ‘Do you hear me? If you try it again I’ll have the immigration people on you so fast your feet won’t hit the ground as they throw you back to the sewer you came from,’ and pushing past him she ran to get in the van.

As she drove away she heard him call after her. ‘Don’t forget you have choices, Angie. We always have choices,’ and for one blinding moment she almost turned the van around to drive straight at him.

‘How dare he threaten me like that?’ Angie raged, pacing up and down the office in a frenzy of fury that was likely to erupt at any moment into an explosion of panic. The door was tightly closed so no chance passer-by could hear if she swore, and Emma had switched the phones to voicemail as soon as she’d seen Angie coming in the door.

‘Why the hell are you only telling me about him now?’ Emma demanded angrily. ‘How many times has he threatened you before?’

‘Once, twice, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Shalik knows very well there’s no way I can get the money, so what’s he going to do, send more heavies round to scare it out of me? Well, good luck with that.’

‘There are laws to protect people in your position,’ Emma reminded her fiercely. ‘He has to give proper notice and he knows it.’

‘He already has. It’s going through the courts as we speak.’

Emma regarded her aghast. ‘For God’s sake, Angie. How could you have kept this from me? I mean, I knew it was bad, but …’ Words failed her as she tried to grasp the enormity of Angie’s plight. ‘We have to get a lawyer,’ she stated. ‘We know plenty, thanks to what we do here …’

‘They’re not going to do it for free,’ Angie interrupted, ‘and there’s just no way I can pay them. I can’t even afford a bloody birthday cake for Zac next week. Christ, what am I saying? We’ll be lucky to have a damned kitchen next week the way things are going, never mind a cake.’ She stared at Emma, so horrified by this possibility that she felt herself starting to shake. ‘I need to speak to Roland Shalik,’ she declared, grabbing her phone. ‘I know he won’t take my call, snivelling coward that he is, hiding behind his ludicrous army of thugs and bullies, but I have to try.’

Emma watched uneasily as Angie connected to the number. ‘What are you going to say?’ she asked.

Angie put up a hand as a female voice answered with the name of Shalik’s company. ‘Put me through to Mr Shalik,’ she said abruptly.

‘Who’s calling please?’

‘Angela Watts from Willow Close.’ Immediately the words were out she realized her mistake.

‘You need to speak to the tenancy manager,’ she was told. ‘I’ll give you the number …’

‘Thanks, I have it,’ and she cut the call dead.

Her eyes went to Emma, and she saw a reflection of her own outrage and helplessness. She knew her sister would do anything in her power to help if she could, but her finances weren’t in a healthy state either – the only reason she wasn’t being hounded out of her house was because she had an ex-husband to pay the rent.

Emma said, ‘Whatever happens, he won’t get away with throwing you out. You’re a single mother with two children …’

Angie regarded her incredulously. ‘Are you serious? You know very well that’s no insurance. Women are losing their homes all the time, and in some cases their kids end up in care.’ The chance of that nightmare scenario struck her another horrific blow; it was one she simply couldn’t let happen.

‘No one’s going to take Grace and Zac away,’ Emma said forcefully, ‘and you’ve got to stop telling yourself they will. We need to fight this rationally, make a plan …’

‘Don’t you think I’ve been trying to come up with one? I’ve got no idea how to get the money, unless I take one of their crooked doorstep loans so I’ll be in hock to them for evermore. Well, that’s not going to happen. I’d rather be on the streets than let Roland Shalik control my life any more than he does already.’ She faltered for a moment, knowing she didn’t mean that about the streets – or did she?

‘I know, why don’t I try to get a loan?’ Emma suggested. ‘I mean a legit one, from the bank. You can pay me back …’

‘No, I can’t let you do that, and besides they’d never lend you as much as I need.’

Emma’s anxiety visibly grew. ‘So how much rent do you owe?’ she asked carefully.

Angie looked away, unable to speak the figure even to her sister.

‘Five, six thousand?’ Emma ventured.

Angie shook her head. ‘Try doubling it,’ she said, thinking of the council tax and how much more that was adding to it, along with the utilities, credit cards, overdraft …

Emma said gravely, ‘Well, if the worst comes to the worst you’ll come and stay with me. It’ll be tight with all of us, but we’ll …’

‘You know that won’t work,’ Angie reminded her despairingly. ‘Remember how hard Shalik came down on you for overcrowding when you let Cherie Burrows and her kids stay after they lost their flat? He threatened to evict you and he could have done it, because your house is a single-family residence.’ They were both afraid that he might seek to get rid of Emma anyway, although for the moment he’d made no move to.

‘He’d never have known about Cherie if it weren’t for Amy effing Cutler,’ Emma snarled, referring to her next-door neighbour who’d once made a move on Steve and had been firmly rebuffed. She’d detested them all ever since, as if they were responsible for her knickerless attempt to straddle the man under her kitchen sink trying to clear the U-bend.

‘She’ll go to Shalik again,’ Angie warned, ‘and think about how bad you felt when you had to make Cherie and her kids leave; it’ll be a hundred times worse if you have to do it to me.’

Having to accept that was true, Emma slapped a hand on the desk. ‘That’s why we have to get a lawyer,’ she insisted. ‘If we can find someone who’ll give us the first hour for free, it might be all we need.’

This time Angie didn’t argue; however, an hour later, having called every solicitor on their contact list, they still weren’t able to get an appointment before the middle of next week.

Angie forced back tears and picked up the tea Emma had put in front of her. She felt sick, terrified, unable to think straight as everything seemed to close in on her. ‘Oh God, how has this become my life?’ she cried wretchedly. ‘What did I do to make it happen? Isn’t it enough that I’ve lost my husband and son, do I really have to lose my home as well?’

Without explaining anything, Emma picked up Angie’s mobile and made a call. When it was answered, she said, ‘Hello, I have Miles Granger on the line for Mr Shalik.’ Granger was their local MP.

Angie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she almost managed a smile as she caught on to Emma’s ruse.

‘What’s it about?’ Emma cried, indignantly echoing the voice at the other end of the line. ‘I’ve just told you, it’s Miles Granger calling. He’ll discuss his business with Mr Shalik, when you put us through.’ She glanced at Angie and winked. A moment later, she said, ‘Mr Shalik? Thank you, I’ll put Mr Granger on.’

As she held out the receiver Angie stared at it, so thrown she couldn’t get a single thought through the chaos in her head. A brief reminder of her children, a birthday cake, the threat of eviction brought her to her senses, and taking the phone she said, quickly, ‘Mr Shalik, it’s Angie Watts. I’m sure you know that your father …’

‘Mrs Watts,’ came the dark, drawling tones of her landlord, ‘I don’t appreciate being tricked into taking phone calls. I believe Agi offered you a loan to help with your difficulties …’

‘You know very well I can’t take it.’

‘That’s your choice. My position is clear. I wish to sell that house and you presumably know by now that you have until the end of this month to make alternative arrangements.’

Angie was so unprepared for his last words that she thought for a moment she’d imagined them. But she hadn’t, he really had said the end of this month, which must mean things had progressed through the courts even faster than she’d realized.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was a free period after lunch, and Grace and her best friend Lois were in an empty art room getting down to business. #SAVINGGRACE.

Lois, with her short brown hair and big tawny eyes, was bright, loyal and shared Grace’s passion for film and theatre. Unlike Grace, who longed to act, her ambition was to direct or produce, so it wasn’t unusual for her to select monologues or songs, sometimes dances, for Grace to perform and her to assess before they uploaded them to YouTube and shared them with their friends on social media. They’d been doing a lot more of that since Grace had been relegated to the wings of the Fairweather Players, but they kind of enjoyed being their own little production company with a slowly growing band of followers.

Today, however, their artistic endeavours weren’t receiving their usual attention. They were concerned with more pressing matters such as how Grace could earn some money.

‘OK,’ Lois said, glancing up from her phone as Grace worked on her laptop, ‘before we get on to jobs for you, here’s an app I found that you can download for your mum. It checks what she’s spending in the supermarket as she shops. Very useful, I’d say, stroke of genius on my part in finding it.’

Grace glanced at it, not sure how much use it was going to be, but maybe she could suggest it.

Lois continued, ‘Have you worked out yet what you’re going to do about your phone? I mean, you can’t not have a phone.’

Grace looked crestfallen. The contract was due to end in just over a month and Lois was right, she couldn’t not have a phone. ‘Mum’s getting me a sim so I’ll still be able to make calls and send texts,’ she said dolefully.

Lois regarded her with heartfelt sympathy. ‘Well, we’re almost always together,’ she said brightly, ‘so you can use my phone if you need to for Instagram and stuff.’

With a small but grateful smile, Grace pressed send on the latest homework assignment she’d carried out for a boy in her environmental studies class – an essay on the purpose of zoos in the twenty-first century – for which she’d already been paid two pounds, with two more to come after it had been read and approved by him.

‘You need to charge more,’ Lois told her sagely.

‘No one our age can afford it. So, tell me what you found out about me being able to get a job.’

Clicking through to the results of a Google search, Lois read from her phone. ‘OK, by law you can’t work during school hours, obvs, or before 7 a.m. or after 7 p.m., or for more than four hours without taking a break.’

‘Which leaves like no time at all. Does it say what kind of jobs I can do?’

Lois pulled a face as she scrolled on down. ‘You could clear tables at a café or restaurant after school, provided you can fit it in around all the other stuff we’ve got going on. Or you could wash up in the same sort of places, same hours, or you could help out with old people – actually that might be voluntary. Yes, it is.’ She looked defeated, but only for a moment. ‘I nearly forgot,’ she cried excitedly, ‘you could design websites. There’s no age restriction on that.’

‘Yeah, if I knew how.’

‘All right. So invent a video game …’

‘Lois!’

‘OK, OK! Let’s check to see how many views you’ve had for the video we posted on YouTube last night.’

‘I did, just now, and it’s still only twelve – I told you, not everyone gets Shakespeare – and I don’t see how it’s going to make us any money even if we got a thousand views.’ Grace sighed and picked up the ‘Glass is Greener’ water bottle Lois had given her for Christmas along with the dance classes. She drank, put the bottle down and watched Lois changing the screen on her phone. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘It’s time,’ Lois replied confidently, ‘to ask our Instagram and Facebook followers for any bright ideas on how to earn decent money at our age.’

Grace looked worried. This was something she knew neither of her parents would approve of, for it was too random, too likely to attract the wrong sort of suggestions. However, her dad was never going to know and nor would her mum, provided no one told her and it all worked out. So maybe Lois was right, they should cast the net wider, see if someone out there could come up with something brilliant that they hadn’t thought of. And if any creepy or gross responses came back, all they had to do was delete them.

Angie was in the office alone when she received an unexpected email from Martin Stone.

Hope Cliff was able to help this morning. Let me know if any problems, or anything more we can do. Martin.

In spite of being touched by the kindness Angie almost laughed to think of all the help she needed, and of how shocked he’d be if she sent him a list. Of course she never would, not only because she still had some pride in spite of not being able to afford it, but because he wasn’t actually offering to help her.

She messaged back: That’s really kind of you. A couple of residents have been in touch with Cliff, and were told he’ll get back to them in a couple of days. Angie. PS: I’ll let you know how it goes.

Wondering if her subconscious had added the last words in order to keep the door open for her to contact him again, she didn’t bother to try and analyse it further. She simply put it, and the pleasing lift his message had brought, out of her mind. She had far more serious and pressing issues to deal with right now than being in touch with a man who’d be even more embarrassed than she was if he thought she was in any way interested in him.

She wasn’t. All that mattered to her was how she was going to protect herself and her children from what was coming their way.

She’d opened the court letters now, having popped home an hour ago, so she knew that Roland Shalik hadn’t been making an idle threat. Notice had been served for her to be out of the house in less than four weeks. It wouldn’t even matter if she could pay the arrears, he wanted the house back and he wasn’t prepared to waste any more time in getting it.

Somewhere deep in her gut she felt nauseous, twisted up with anxiety, burning with a need to scream, but above it all, in a weirdly subdued sort of state, she was stunned and ashamed and so lost for answers that she wasn’t even capable of feeling a need to act. How could she, when she had no idea at this moment what to do?

She jumped at the sound of a thud in the next door storeroom, and relaxed again when she remembered Emma was in there sorting through a recent delivery of second-hand clothes to see if there was anything suitable for their residents. It was surplus from one of the charity shops on the seafront, brought here before the refugee crisis team came to scoop it up in the morning.

Angie dropped her head into her hands. She’d been worse than a fool – completely insane would be putting it mildly – to ignore the official-looking mail when it had come, but for the last few weeks she simply hadn’t been able to face any more bad news. There was no escaping it now, and as she pictured the children’s bedrooms, Liam’s zoo with all sorts of wild animals on the walls, Grace’s artiste’s dressing room, Zac’s soccer changing room, and all the treasured possessions they hadn’t yet sold, she had to fight back a bitter onslaught of tears. There was so much packing to be done, all kinds of painful decisions to make …

Taking a quick breath she forced herself back into the moment, and focused on what they were going to eat this evening. Thanks to the booty of freshly baked loaves from one of the resident’s overnight shift at the bakery they weren’t short of bread, and she was sure there were three cans of beans in the cupboard and two eggs in the fridge. There was more than that, such as a bottle of sunflower oil, a bag of flour, a jar of tomato purée, all kinds of things she couldn’t do much with unless she was able to combine them with ingredients they didn’t have.

A quick check at the ATM had told her that she still had six pounds in her account, so if she gave the children egg on toast tonight, they could have jacket potatoes and beans tomorrow. She’d have just toast. However, she might get the cash from the cleaning shift she’d covered at the restaurant this morning. They could have something far more wholesome then, maybe a big leafy salad with avocado dressing, one of Grace’s favourites, or chicken burgers and sweet potato mash, always a hit with Zac.

Her mouth watered almost painfully as she sent another text to her neighbour reminding her that she needed to be paid. The trouble was, Kirsty probably wouldn’t be able to manage it until she’d been paid herself.

Sending a silent message of thanks for the bread, she set about updating her files following the day’s meetings. The irony of having spent time trying to sort out long-term accommodation for her residents when she was about to lose her own home wasn’t lost on her, but what else could she do? Just because she was in trouble didn’t make their needs any the less, and she’d be certifiably crazy if she didn’t focus on her job. Without it she’d never exist on her reduced benefits, unless some miracle position with double the salary and the same semi-flexible hours cropped up, and she wasn’t holding her breath for that. Maybe she could talk to Ivan, see if he could arrange a loan from the church funds, but no sooner had the thought entered her head than she dismissed it. The amount she needed was too large, and anyway he’d just channel the vicar and start spouting passages from the Bible, as if holy words were some sort of universal panacea that held the answer to everything. In her experience they had the answer to just about nothing, but maybe she simply wasn’t clever enough to understand the clues.

‘Are you OK?’ Emma asked as she came into the office with a coat and two pairs of boots.

Angie sighed and would have said no, of course not, but that wasn’t going to help either of them, so she simply shrugged and tried for a smile.

‘I thought this might fit Douglas,’ Emma said, holding up the coat. ‘If it’s too big he can always use his belt to keep it together. It’ll make him look a bit of a dick, of course, but as I don’t think he ever looks in the mirror that shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’

Angie had to laugh.

‘Oh, wow,’ Emma murmured, glancing at her computer screen. ‘I’ve got a wave,’ and dropping the coat and boots on the floor she sat down, reaching for her mouse.

‘A what?’ Angie asked, frowning.

Emma’s eyes remained fixed on the screen. ‘A wave, from an admirer,’ she explained. A moment later she let go of the mouse and turned guilty eyes to Angie. ‘Sorry, bad timing, I …’

Angie shook her head. ‘Don’t be sorry. There’s no reason for your life to go on hold just because mine is falling apart.’

Emma flushed unhappily.

‘That came out badly,’ Angie sighed. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and check him out?’

Emma watched her sister as Angie made a pretence of carrying on with some work.

Though Angie could feel the scrutiny she didn’t acknowledge it, for she wasn’t yet ready to admit that she’d opened the court letters. She realized this meant she was in some form of denial, but better there for the moment than in the clutch of terrifying reality.

They couldn’t leave Willow Close, they just couldn’t. It was their home where Grace and Zac had always lived, where all their memories had been made, where Steve’s spirit still kept them going.

‘Angie,’ Emma probed gently.

Angie bit her lip and tried to smile. ‘So tell me about this dating site,’ she encouraged. ‘What’s he like, the guy who gave you a wave?’

Emma pulled a face. ‘A bit of a jerk,’ she admitted. She let a few moments pass and said chattily, ‘What if there’s someone out there who’s right for you, but he doesn’t know any other way to meet you?’

Angie’s eyes widened with as much surprise as annoyance as she said, ‘I’m hardly what you’d call a good catch right now, and anyway, don’t you find it a bit galling, or maybe demeaning, to think that a man has to be the answer to everything?’

Emma bristled. ‘That’s not what I think. Not even close, but what’s wrong with someone who makes you laugh, who thinks about you and how to make you happy?’

‘You’ve been watching too many rom-coms.’

Ignoring the put-down, Emma said, ‘Do you really think Steve would want you to carry on like this?’

Wishing with all her heart that Emma hadn’t mentioned Steve, Angie forced herself to remain silent as a ravaging, desperate grief rose up to swamp her.

‘What if,’ Emma persisted, ‘the answer to all your …’

‘Em, stop,’ Angie broke in raggedly. ‘Even if I wanted to meet someone, which I don’t, and even if he happens to be on that website, which I doubt, you have to admit that now really isn’t the time. So you go ahead and wave, use your bloody knickers if you want to, just please get off my case.’

Emma fell silent, so did Angie, but as the minutes ticked by Angie’s struggle to hold back her emotions started to fail. She was afraid to take a breath in case it turned into a sob, could barely move, aching with dread, guilt, grief, and despair.

Emma got up from her desk, but realizing her sister was about to hug her, Angie put up a hand to stop her. She couldn’t handle sympathy or tenderness right now; it would be the end of her. ‘I’m fine,’ she managed to say, and to try and prove it she quickly typed a search into Google. When the results came up she clicked a profile on the home page and turned the screen so Emma could see it. ‘How about him?’ she said recklessly.

Emma blinked first in surprise, then in confusion.

‘It’s Martin Stone,’ Angie told her. ‘I ran into him this morning at the retirement village building site. He knew Steve.’

‘Well he would, being who he is,’ Emma said carefully. ‘So why are you …? What are you saying?’

‘Nothing.’ Angie shrugged, feeling stupid now. ‘It’s possible we can get Dougie and Mark Fields a job on the site,’ she explained. ‘We’re waiting to hear.’

‘That’s good.’ Emma still seemed puzzled. ‘His dad’s name was Dougie,’ she stated, making an absurd connection. ‘Remember he was the mayor who did so much for this town like revamping the old cinema, and bringing in one-pound bus fares for every journey. He got the planning department to …’

Angie closed the screen down.

Emma frowned. ‘Why did you do that?’

Angie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘I’m all over the place at the moment,’ she confessed. ‘I can’t seem to get my head straight.’

Realizing it was time to let the subject of Martin Stone go, Emma returned to her desk and another silence fell as they got on with their work.

Half an hour later, as she and Emma locked up and started through to the car park, Angie noticed the misty rain settling over her sister’s hair turning the stray strands into a sparkling cobwebby net. It reminded her of when they were young, walking to school in winter, or making dens at the end of the garden. She thought of how much they’d meant to their mother, how safe they’d always felt with her, and how she’d done her best to take care of Emma after their mother had gone. She loved Emma so much, and was so glad, relieved to have her it was close to making her cry, for without her she’d be totally alone. She just didn’t want to be a burden on her, making her worry about things she couldn’t change, or feel she had somehow to come up with the answers that were beyond them both.

‘I wonder if he’s married,’ Emma said as she unlocked her car.

Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Angie’s eyes flashed, but she had to laugh. ‘Of course he is,’ she replied, ‘and anyway, the way my luck’s going right now the only match I’m likely to get in the next few days is Liam’s DNA to that murder in Bristol.’ Even as she said it, she felt herself spinning off into a realm of madness. How could she even begin to joke about something like that; how could she even think of it without completely falling apart?

Twenty quid for topless shot. #SAVINGGRACE

Fifty quid to get your kit off. #SAVINGGRACE

You’re mad asking for suggestions. Look what you’re getting. #SAVINGGRACE

Run away and join circus. #SAVINGGRACE

They’re looking for dancers in Vegas. You’d be brilliant. #SAVINGGRACE

How many creeps does it take to change a lightbulb? Let us know when they’ve screwed you. #SAVING GRACE

‘That’s not even a joke,’ Lois muttered angrily.

‘But what we’re doing is,’ Grace responded. ‘We need to take it down.’

Lois nodded glumly, but as Grace started to delete all the nonsense suggestions, she said, ‘Tell you what, once you’ve got rid of all that crap let’s add something to our message like, Idiots and perverts don’t bother wasting our time.’

‘That’ll really put them off,’ Grace said wryly.

Lois laughed. ‘OK, but let’s give it a couple more days. You never know who might get in touch, and we don’t want to miss out if the best opportunity of all hasn’t quite got to us yet, do we?’

CHAPTER NINE

Two days later, having fitted in a lunchtime shift at the Bear Street chippie, Angie was at the food bank on Wesley Street, two roads back from the Promenade, in what used to be a betting shop. Balloons and bunting were pinned around the door to try and make people feel welcome, and tea and biscuits were in plentiful supply for those who’d been referred from doctors, the local authority, and various churches.

At her reception table just inside the entrance, one of eight spread out around the wood-panelled room, Angie had spent the last two hours listening sympathetically, fearfully and even in shared anger to the stories of why today’s hungry and largely blameless were there. In most of their stressed and often embarrassed faces, she kept seeing herself in the near future. She imagined coming here in some ludicrous disguise as some of them did, hoping no one would recognize her. How crazy was that when all the volunteers knew her and she could already see the shock on their faces when they realized her predicament, and feel their eagerness to help her in any way they could.

‘You’re only two pay cheques away from the streets,’ one of them would undoubtedly comment soulfully, using a phrase – a truism – that was often heard in this place. It obviously wasn’t a certainty for all, but it was for those who came here. They weren’t homeless – an address was required for a referral to the food bank – but many were known as the working poor, for they had jobs, in some cases more than one. Their earnings were so low and outgoings so high, however, that they were no longer able to put food on the table. So, as one dear old soul had put it in a husky, tearful voice today, they had to come here and beg.

‘You’re not begging,’ Angie had told him softly. ‘You’re just accepting a little help to get yourself through this difficult time. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

The old man was in his eighties, well dressed, hair neatly combed, he even smelled of aftershave. He’d clearly gone to some effort to make himself presentable today, probably hoping no one would think the worst of him. He was even wearing his service medals; a reminder to others that he’d mattered once. Those medals had made Angie’s heart ache. Apparently his wife had died a few months ago. She’d always been in charge of the money; she sorted their pensions, did the shopping, paid all the bills and since her passing he’d fallen into a depression. They had no family, just each other and a kind neighbour who popped in now and again to check up on him. He might be lonely and crushed by sadness, but at least he had money, it just needed to be sorted out so he could access it. (Why did banks make these things so difficult?) In the meantime his doctor had referred him here to make sure he had enough food in his cupboard to see him through the coming week.

There were so many stories, tragedies, involving people of all ages and backgrounds, some with mental health issues, and those who were so riddled with shame to be in this position that they couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Then there were the druggies and alcoholics who’d all but stopped caring about themselves so they were missing teeth, had sores on their faces and piercings that were going septic. Each time she came in for a shift Angie could feel the web of hardship tightening around them all. Their needs, their sadness, anger and bewilderment, combined with the unfairness, even hostility of a system that relied on food banks and charities to provide for vulnerable citizens were becoming increasingly hard to take. She wanted to help them, she really did, and she would, it was why she was here, but today she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit sorrier for herself than she did for them.

After making sure that a middle-aged, disabled woman with speech difficulties and a sad, sallow face was being taken care of by one of the helpers who filled the grocery bags in the back room, Angie quickly checked her phone.

No messages.

Her heart contracted with a painful stab of panic. She was waiting for so many callbacks, mostly from job agencies for some night shifts or anything else she could add to her hours at BtG, but apparently nothing had come up yet for which she was suitable.

‘Angie? Hello? Are you with us?’

Angie looked up into the kindly grey eyes of Brenda Crompton, a fellow volunteer. The ex-Salvation Army major was regarding her curiously, seeming to sense something was amiss and trying to decide whether or not to ask. Apparently concluding she should, she settled herself into the chair that the disabled woman had just vacated.

Angie smiled at her. She saw that there were only a couple of clients left at the other tables, and noticing the time she realized no more were likely to come now.

Brenda signalled to someone in the kitchenette and a moment later Bill, an elderly man with a cheery demeanour, put a fresh cup of tea in front of Angie. At the same time Brenda pushed a half-empty plate of biscuits towards her.

Angie’s mouth watered almost as stingingly as it had earlier in the afternoon when the snacks had first come out. But the jammy dodgers and Hobnobs, donated by Brenda and her husband, were for the clients, not those who were supposed to be helping them.

Brenda winked and taking a biscuit herself she bit into it, cupping a hand beneath her chin to catch the crumbs.

Though Angie understood this was Brenda’s way of telling her it was all right to have a little treat, she still couldn’t allow herself to take one. If she did she might never be able to stop and she couldn’t bear anyone to know just how hungry she was. ‘Watching my waistline,’ she joked, and suddenly, out of nowhere, she felt her spirits lift a little, for she’d been paid cash in hand at the chippie. This meant she should be able to dish up a decent meal tonight.

Brenda watched fondly as Angie’s conscience allowed her to crunch into a Hobnob. It appeared she was about to say something, but there was a sudden crash in the back room so she got up to go and investigate. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised Angie, and added with a nod at the plate, ‘why not finish them off before they go stale?’

Wondering how Brenda had realized she was so hungry, Angie watched the older woman go, hips swaying like a saucy tambourine, and felt grateful and embarrassed and so ready for another biscuit that she crammed a whole one in her mouth at once just as her mobile started to vibrate.

She should have let the call go to messages instead of blowing crumbs on to the table and down her front as she tried to say hello, but she didn’t.

‘Mrs Watts?’ Luckily the caller didn’t wait for her to confirm it. ‘It’s DC Leo Johnson here from Kesterly CID. I have some news regarding Liam’s DNA.’

Angie stopped chewing, every crumb turning to dust in her mouth as her heart dropped to a dull, heavy beat of dread. Realizing she was unable to swallow, she grabbed a tissue and emptied the half-chewed biscuit into it.

‘Are you there, Mrs Watts?’

‘Yes,’ she replied thinly. ‘I’m here.’ Oh God, please don’t let this be … She couldn’t even put her fear into words, it was too awful.

Leo Johnson was saying, ‘… so I thought you’d like to know that Liam’s DNA wasn’t a match to the DNA taken from the victim …’

Angie didn’t hear what else he was telling her. She could hardly bring her own voice past her throat as she said, ‘Did you say that it wasn’t a match?’

‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘They got the results back this morning. I called as soon as we heard. I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she mumbled, feeling oddly light-headed and something else she couldn’t understand, for it was too far out of reach. ‘Do they still want to talk to him?’ she asked dully.

‘Given that his name’s on a list linked to the main suspect, that’s likely. On the other hand, if there’s nothing to say he’s in the area, or still in touch with his former cronies they’ll probably let it go.’

Did that make him safer? It should if no one was going to try and force him to talk, but it still didn’t mean he was no longer being controlled by the London gangs. He could be anywhere, in any city, working for them in any capacity …

Or maybe he’d managed to break with them.

Whichever way, it still didn’t tell her where or how he was.

What she did know though, was that he was no longer a suspected killer.

An hour later, with her chip-shop earnings in her purse, Angie was in Asda searching out as many two-for-one and half-price deals as she could find up to twenty-five pounds – the most she could allow herself to spend. Pizzas, chicken nuggets, three lasagnes for six quid, a bag of white potatoes, a day-old French loaf, a round lettuce for forty p … Grace preferred fresh food and if it could be kind of vegan that would be good, because she loved animals and fish and she didn’t want plants to die for her either, but she understood that she had to live. (She also understood that more often than not it was easier – cheaper – if she could just go with the flow and if that meant eating eggs, cheese, and a portion of chicken with her Sunday roast, she’d do it.)

In a rush of recklessness Angie added a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon to her trolley – special offer, reduced from seven quid to three ninety-nine – and realized how utterly insane it was to be celebrating the fact that her absent son was no longer a suspected killer.

In her world, today, given what she was going through, that had to be worth celebrating, though.

After making sure she had all the ingredients for Zac’s unicorn cake she wheeled her trolley to the checkout to wait in line. Grace was determined to bake the cake for her brother, and knowing it was her daughter’s way of trying to cut down on costs made Angie’s heart ache. It was true, novelty cakes at the bakery were far too expensive for them to afford, but Grace shouldn’t have to be worrying about things like that. She shouldn’t have to be giving up her smartphone either, when the contract ran out in the next few weeks, but Angie was afraid it was inevitable. Zac’s gym club membership would now have to go the way of his rowing club and archery fees. The SkySports package Steve had signed them up for when Zac was four – a birthday treat for their sports-mad youngest – had already been cancelled. Zac didn’t know that yet, for it didn’t run out until the end of the month, nor was he aware that the Adidas X16.1 football boots he had his heart set on for his birthday would have to be downgraded to a cheaper pair, probably second-hand from Depop. He wasn’t going to like it, Angie was certain of that, in fact he would probably have a serious rant about it, until Grace took him aside to explain why he had to understand that things were different now.

Though their finances had held together for a while after Steve had gone, everything was collapsing so fast now that Angie couldn’t even see what might fall next.

They were going to lose the house at the end of the month.

It wasn’t until after she’d paid the bill that she realized with a pang of shame that she couldn’t possibly justify a bottle of wine for herself and Emma when she was depriving Grace and Zac of so much. So, wheeling her trolley from the checkout, she joined a queue at the information desk in the hope of receiving a cash credit for her crazy idea of a celebration. She eyed her trolley for more items she ought to put back, and realized she’d been rash, unthinking, acting as though the twenty-five quid she’d earned at the chippie was going to magically replace itself like some fairy-tale egg …

Deciding to ask for credit on her entire trolley so she could start again, she fought back a wave of misery and frustration and after inching forward a few feet she found herself tuning into a conversation behind her.

‘Oh, that’s really generous of you, that is. Really generous.’

Angie turned and saw an elderly lady watching an obviously well-off woman of around forty emptying a full bag of groceries into a foodbank box.

Since this was where the donations started Angie decided to take more notice of the generous woman, and came to the conclusion that not only was she a caring citizen, but she was really quite beautiful in a very classy way. Her hair was a mass of thick dark curls styled in a loose bob, her skin was creamy and shone with health, and the effortless elegance of her movements made Angie wonder if she was a dancer.

‘Look at all that,’ the older lady chuntered on admiringly. ‘You’re a very kind person is all I can say. Makes me wonder what this bloody country’s coming to that we have to do things like this. Shame on them is what I say. Bloody shame on them.’

The dark-haired woman’s eyes sparkled with humour but Angie couldn’t hear what she said, could only tell that she wasn’t trying to brush the old lady off.

‘There ain’t many would do what you just did,’ the old lady declared, picking up a large box of Kellogg’s cornflakes and looking as though she’d like to make off with it.

‘Well,’ the dark-haired woman replied, ‘if the day comes when I need this sort of help, perhaps someone will fill up the box for me.’

As Angie watched her walk away, upright and slender, the very epitome of someone who’d never need a food bank, she felt an odd sort of longing stirring inside her. She’d love to be that woman, or like her; or maybe she just wanted to know her. It was people like that who made the world feel like a good place to be, which was a very weird assessment of someone she’d only seen for a few minutes and would probably never see again.

Nevertheless, as though the woman had sprinkled some sort of hope over her, Angie turned her trolley to the door and headed out into the car park. She’d take this lot home, have her little celebration – or drown her sorrows – then she’d work things out.

As she approached her van a Mercedes saloon reversed out of the space next to it, and she didn’t feel surprised to see the dark-haired woman at the wheel. Their eyes didn’t meet, Angie was certain the woman hadn’t clocked her at all, nevertheless she continued to feel affected by her as she watched the car drive away. She wondered what life was like for her, and where she lived. What kind of job did she have, if she even had one? Her husband was probably loaded, judging by the car, and her kids, if she had any, were no doubt at private schools and completely brilliant at everything they did.

With a small, wry smile to herself Angie finished stacking her groceries into the van and got into the driver’s seat. If her work with people who’d hit hard times had taught her anything at all, it was never to assume something about a person based on the way things looked. Even rich people had bad experiences; they bled, they hurt, they lost their money and they even lost their homes. Some of them had sons who went off the rails, and husbands who died when their children were still small and before they’d taken out any life insurance.

No one was immune to the vagaries of fate, any more than they were incapable of making mistakes. Everyone, no matter who they were, or how dire their straits, had to find a way of dealing with the worst-case scenarios life threw at them. She wasn’t alone in that, plenty of people were struggling and many were in even worse situations than her. True, she couldn’t think of anyone right now, but she knew they existed, and she knew too that somehow she’d get herself and her children through these dark times. She was someone who coped, who rose to challenges and overcame them, and one way or another she was going to keep them together as a family with a roof over their heads and hope in their hearts.

CHAPTER TEN

Just when Angie thought she didn’t have a single laugh left in her, that even if she did it’d never make it past all the stress and anxiety corked up in her soul, it erupted in a great choking guffaw. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, it really wasn’t. In fact, it was the biggest disaster to come out of Angie’s oven since the day Steve had set fire to his mother’s boots while trying to dry them.

Grace’s unicorn cake was … Well, it was different, that was for sure, unique even, and so explicitly something it wasn’t supposed to be that even she gave a snort of laughter when she realized why her mother and aunt were beside themselves.

Zac had been boasting to his mates for days that he was going to have the biggest, most amazing unicorn cake ever, and that was certainly true.

‘It’s definitely got the biggest, most amazing …’ Emma gestured to the horn as she gasped and dabbed her eyes with a party napkin. ‘I’ve never seen one like it. Were those cake balls part of the recipe, or did you … was it …?’

Falling against her mother as they all exploded again, Grace managed to say, ‘There were supposed to be three of them – there were three, I swear it, I just don’t know how it’s come out as two.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, my darling,’ Emma said, putting an arm around her niece. ‘It might be the best cake we’ve ever tasted, but no way can we serve it like that. It’s … It’s …’

‘Obscene, I know,’ Grace declared, and transporting it to the table she waited for her mother and aunt to pull themselves together, saying, ‘Stop. He’ll be in any minute.’

Angie glanced down the hall towards the front door. Since it was closed it wasn’t possible to see beyond it, but they could hear the shouts of Zac and his friends playing footie over on the green. They’d already stuffed themselves with jelly and egg sandwiches since coming in from school, and now they were working up an appetite for the cake while Grace iced it.

This wasn’t going well.

‘We’ve got to do something,’ Grace hissed, searching for ideas. ‘I know! Shall I drop it?’

Emma burst into more hilarity, while Angie, still choking with mirth, decided that before they did anything at all they needed a photograph.

In the end, after crushing the two cake balls into one spongy mess that they then coated in lashings of crimson buttermilk icing, and remoulding the horn into a suitably slimmer and less excited version of its former self, Grace added a pair of spidery eyes in a place that seemed to work and carried the unique creation to the bomb site of a dining table.

Angie could only look on as Zac and his cousins came tumbling back through the front door, with four equally muddy friends on their heels, kicking off their boots first and then descending on the ‘most awesome cake ever’.

‘That’s what I love about boys,’ Emma murmured in her ear, ‘so easy to please.’

This was certainly true of Zac. Most other boys his age had birthday parties at Pizza Express or a Game Wagon Video event or even a ride in a hot-air balloon, all so way beyond her means that she hadn’t even bothered Googling for ideas. One day, though, when she was back on her feet, he was going to have the best birthday party money could buy.

‘No, I’m not going to make one for you,’ Grace told Harry, Emma’s youngest, who was soon due to be seven himself. ‘No, not for you either,’ she said to several other boys who were waving grubby hands in the air, because their mouths were too full to shout. ‘This is a one-off, I mean, like real art, so make the most of it.’

‘Mum, did you see what Freddie gave me for my birthday?’ Zac shouted, ‘It’s only a Liverpool training shirt. Liverpool’s my favourite team,’ he informed his friend Freddie, as if Freddie had pulled off a mega mind-reading trick.

‘When Zac comes to our house,’ Jack piped up, ‘we watch football in our room so we don’t get on Mum’s nerves with all our shouting. We get on Mum’s nerves quite a lot, but she doesn’t mind really.’

‘I do, I do,’ Emma assured him, knocking back another mouthful of tepid lemonade.

‘It’s only you who gets on her nerves,’ Harry told his brother, and reached for more cake before the last bit went.

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