THE MURDER OF GRAHAM CATTON
Katie Lowe

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Katie Lowe 2021

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Katie Lowe 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: 9780008289027

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008289041

Version: 2021-04-20

Dedication

For my family,

for whom I’ll never have the words.

Epigraph

‘I will take this opportunity of cautioning you against all imprudent curiosity; let no incentive from it ever tempt you to seek an explanation of former occurrences; be assured your happiness depends entirely on your ignorance of them’

Regina Maria Roche, Clermont

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Before

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Episode One

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Episode Two

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Episode Three

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Episode Four

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Episode Five

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Episode Six

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

After

Chapter 66

Resources

Acknowledgements

Also by Katie Lowe

About the Publisher

BEFORE

1
London, 2008

It’s the sound of my husband’s blood on the floorboards that wakes me.

Like a dripping faucet.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Soft little splashes on the bedroom floor.

I stand over our bed, and I look at him, looking at me, and I think of the day we moved in.

I don’t know why it comes to me, then, but it does: the two of us aching and dripping with sweat.

We christened this bed. We made it ours. And when I peeled my body from his, he stared at me, dazed and gasping – stunned by the force of my love.

He’s looking at me in the same way, now.

Later, I will be asked about this moment: if I saw the body, if I looked. I’ll tell them I couldn’t, of course. That I shielded my eyes, and ran to find help.

But I don’t. I stand over him, watching. The only sound is the tapping, and my – only my – breath.

He’s quite clearly dead: perfectly still, his lips cracked and grey. And in his throat, the knife – my knife, a wedding gift – is angled sharply, like a conquering flag.

I stand over him, and try to piece together a story that makes sense. An explanation.

I remember words exchanged in the kitchen. A woman’s perfume on his skin. The bloody slick of wine around a glass, sediment clinging to the base. His footsteps, leaving me behind.

And after that: nothing.

Only an absence, a blur.

Now, I look at the face of the man I once loved, his pale body cooling in the pre-dawn light.

And I do not feel a thing.

2

‘I don’t remember,’ I say, in a voice that’s hoarse from screaming – another thing I can’t recall.

‘I heard a tapping noise. Like this.’ I tap-tap-tap on the metal desk. The strip light flickers overhead. ‘More of … More of a drip. And then I opened my eyes.’

The officers questioning me – a man and a woman, both fresh-faced and focused – nod.

They don’t believe me. And I can’t say I blame them. I’m not sure I’d believe me, if our roles were reversed.

‘I was on the floor,’ I go on. Evie, our daughter – my daughter – shivers in her sleep, her head resting on my lap, body stretched across the bed I’ve built with empty chairs. I run a finger through her curls, the way he used to do with mine. ‘I must’ve hit my head. I was dizzy. But I got up, and …’ I close my eyes, hoping they’ll take the hint.

He was dead, I want to say. You know that part.

But I can’t. Not in front of Evie. I need to protect her from that, for the moment at least.

When I’m asked to sign my statement, they’ve typed it in, on my behalf. I found the victim to be clearly deceased, via a single stab wound to his carotid artery. There’s something soothing about the medical wording – the bare facts of it. Still, I correct it. ‘I didn’t know it was … the artery. Won’t that be for the coroner to … You know?’

The male officer smiles. ‘My fault. I thought you were a doctor, so …’ I know what he’s saying. So you’d know where to stick the knife.

‘I’m a psychiatrist,’ I say. Not that it makes a difference: I still went to medical school; still know the basics of anatomy. But I’m not sure he knows that.

He nods, eyebrow raised. ‘Noted. Sign here.’

After eleven hours, they let me go. They don’t say it, but I know: this is conditional. A one-way flight to Barbados, right now, would all but confirm my guilt.

I check us into a nearby hotel, where I see myself for the first time in the greenish bathroom light.

I’m surprised at my own expression – the blankness of it. As though I’m expecting to find myself mid-scream, rigid as a Halloween mask. But aside from the faint sheen of filth on my skin, the clot of dried blood at the back of my head, I’m still very much myself. This is not something I expect to work in my favour.

I imagine conversations taking place at the police station. Not exactly a looker, I think they’ll say. A bit mismatched, weren’t they?

Or: She’s not very friendly. Closed-off. Like she’s hiding something.

I can’t dispute any of this. They’ll think it, because it’s true.

Still, I shower off the day, and crawl into bed with Evie. I smell home on her skin, and pull her close.

People say motherhood brings it out in you: a need to protect your child that verges on madness.

Only now do I realize it’s true.

3

The Friday eleven days later is my daughter’s sixth birthday. And for the first time since the murder, I don’t turn on the news.

It’s a day off for us both – from Graham’s face, and the home we shared, flashing across the screen. From the lurid details of the scene, referred to euphemistically – though I realize (in a way I hadn’t before) that there’s no such thing as an acceptable euphemism when the victim – or suspect – is you.

Instead, we order ice cream on room service, and use a lighter to make her wish. She’s so focused when she blows it out that I flinch at the knock that follows. I unlock the door, and open it slowly, almost expecting him.

But it’s the officers who questioned me before: Stevens, tall and bulky, clean-shaven; and O’Hare, slight, with a TV smile.

It’s over, I realize. They know.

‘Come in,’ I say. Too brightly. I hear myself, sounding unhinged.

Stevens is poker-faced. ‘This won’t take long.’

I glance at O’Hare, who smiles. It seems automatic; the good cop by default, because she’s a girl.

I sense movement in the corridor beyond, and I wonder who’s watching. Who’ll be there when they lead me away.

But then, O’Hare begins to speak.

The words themselves escape me, but their meaning is perfectly clear.

‘A burglary gone wrong,’ she says. ‘Suspect in custody. Yes, we’re absolutely sure.’

Stevens doesn’t take his eyes off me throughout. I can feel it in his stare: he doesn’t believe it – doesn’t believe me. He has doubts, but the evidence is clear. His instinct, in this case, is outweighed by the facts.

I understand his surprise.

But I keep this to myself. I say nothing.

I nod. I close the door, and lock it shut.

For a week, I turn housekeeping away. I stack room-service trays in teetering piles by our door. I settle Evie in front of cartoons for hours on end, much to her delight (never allowed, when Graham was alive). I don’t shower. I can’t eat. I watch myself from above, circling the room like a caged animal.

Like a woman going mad.

I see my husband, there, on the bed, newspaper slung over his lap. He taps his pen on the page and fixes me with a smile. Five-letter word, starting with ‘g’, an ‘i’ in the middle, he says. Appropriate response to the death of a loved one.

I blink, and he disappears.

So like him to make a joke at a time like this.

So like him to always have the last word.

EPISODE ONE

4
Derbyshire, 2018

‘For God’s sake, Hannah. You can’t spend your whole life obsessing over the past. Eventually, you’re going to have to move on.’ Sarah leans back in her black leather throne and smiles. ‘Sorry, but it’s true. You and Dan have been together for – how many years now?’

I clear my throat. The dregs of a tasteless herbal tea cling to my tongue. ‘Seven.’

‘And Evie adores him, doesn’t she?’

‘Yeah. I think she prefers him to me, which is—’

‘And he’s sweet, in a Bear in the Big Blue House kind of way.’ She downs the last of her tea, and grimaces. ‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t do it. This is like warmed-up pond water. I need coffee.’

I stand and click the kettle on again. ‘At least we can say we tried.’

It’s a luxury not to have to sit in the bleak staff room, on the edge of the unit, constantly interrupted by nurses with urgent questions, or patients requesting a ‘quick’ chat.

Unlike the rest of us, in the age of ‘austerity’, Sarah has her own office, filled with beaming photos of her husband and children (two boys, both gap-toothed and luminous), expensive-looking sculptures and paintings – and her own working kettle and cafetière.

Our weekly catch-ups are supposed to be essential meetings about what’s happening ‘on the ground’ in the department she runs. More often than not, however, they turn out more like this.

‘I used to think about fucking him when the kids were little, you know. Like, extremely detailed fantasies?’

I blink. The kettle hits the boil. ‘Dan?’

‘Oh, God, no. The bear.’ A pause. ‘Just me then?’

‘… Yeah.’

Her laugh is an open-mouthed cackle – the same one I’d been stunned by when we’d first met. Sarah, at eighteen: smudged eyeliner and white-blonde, unbrushed hair, making cadavers mime to Madonna, while coming first in the class in everything. For all her gestures towards professionalism, a terrifying twenty-something years later, she’s still the same. Still outrageous. And still the one to beat.

‘I’m surprised,’ she says. ‘I thought you and I always shared a type.’

‘Do I need to remind you about the string of moony Jon Bon Jovi types that passed through your sheets, way back when? Not my type, at all.’

‘In my defence, that just proves consistency in mine. Jon Bon Jovi and that bear had the same hair for most of the nineties, didn’t they?’

‘My God.’ I stir the muddy coffee and put the cafetière on the desk between us. ‘Did someone just have a breakthrough?’

‘I knew I was paying you for something.’

A barb, there – though I barely feel it. I’m used to it by now. She was always top of the class, and I was – always – right beneath her, in second place. That hasn’t changed, no matter what else may have, since.

‘Seriously, though.’ She reaches for a sachet of sweetener, and shakes it out with a flick of her wrist. ‘What is stopping you? Dan’s clearly not going anywhere – and neither are you.’ Another jab, delivered with the ruthless whip-speed of a rattlesnake. She moves on before I can respond – though not so quickly that it doesn’t land. ‘So why wouldn’t you make it official?’

‘Ugh. I don’t know.’ I twist Graham’s ring around my finger, and squeeze the diamond in my palm. ‘I just wish he hadn’t bought that ring. He knows I don’t want to get married again.’

‘Are you sure it’s for you?’ She grins. ‘I mean, just because you found it in your house doesn’t mean it’s yours.’

‘That would almost be a relief.’

‘And you say I’m a cold-hearted old cow.’

‘You are.’

She looks at me with a kind of tenderness, and I bristle. I know what’s coming next. ‘Hannah, I know you think I’m a broken record with this, but … wouldn’t a fresh start do you good? You drive, what? An hour and a half every day to get here – and Evie’s about to move to sixth form, so it’s as good a time as any. And I can’t imagine there’s much news for Dan to report on in the middle of nowhere. Why not change things up a bit?’

‘Because I like it there.’

She runs her tongue along her teeth. She’s waiting for me to go on. For Sarah – a resolute city-dweller – the idea of living in a remote, rural village seems like the worst of all punishments. I see the same look in the eyes of our inpatients when we ask them to hand over their phones: as though we’ve asked them to sever their connection with life itself.

What Sarah doesn’t see, though, is that Hawkwood, for me, is a kind of connection. I put myself back together there. It’s where I found security, made new memories; it’s where I watched Evie grow up. The idea of losing that – again – is destabilizing. I can’t do it. And I don’t want to.

‘Anyway, I don’t see what moving has to do with it,’ I say, after a pause. ‘We don’t have to move to get married.’

‘I know. But if you moved, I wouldn’t have to drive so far to do the whole Matron of Honour bit. We could use it as an excuse to get drunk all the time.’

‘You could, you mean.’

‘Exactly. My boring sober friend, finally useful for something.’ She winks. ‘The thing is, I’m really not saying you should settle for Dan, if that’s what you feel like you’re doing. You’re smart, and you’re pretty, and you’re a catch, and if you want to get back on the market, I’m more than happy to live vicariously through you while you do so. I hear Tinder is a hoot.’

I brace myself for what’s coming next. Compliments from Sarah are almost always followed by some suggestion or advice that would otherwise be too callous to say outright. The ‘shit sandwich’, one of the nurses called it, once – a description that’s horribly apt.

She leans back in her chair, brow arched, eyes fixed on me over the rim of her cup. ‘I don’t think that’s it, though – is it? You actually do want to be with him.’

‘Yeah. I do.’

‘There you go, look. All you have to do is say that to him. In those exact words. At the end of an aisle. While wearing a big white dress.’

I sigh. ‘You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.’

‘Oh, sweetie. I already do.’ Her smile is wicked, and knowing. She’d looked at me in the same way when she offered me the job – though not before calling me a ‘daft cow’ for doubting myself, and her. At that point, though, we hadn’t spoken in years. My personnel file, sent over by my former employer – no doubt detailing my negative outcomes in forensic detail – sat on the desk between us. I suppose she must’ve looked at it. But she didn’t bring it up that day, and she hasn’t mentioned it since. ‘Go on,’ she says, now. ‘Spit it out.’

‘I guess I just thought there’d be … I don’t know. More of a …’

‘Oh, no. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.’

‘What?’

She grimaces. ‘A spark.’

‘… Yeah.’

She places her coffee on the file in front of her, and leans forward, her hands folded under her chin. ‘Hannah,’ she says, gently. ‘I need you to listen to me carefully when I say this.’

‘What?’

‘And I need you to not be offended by it.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘… You’re old now.’

‘You’re older.’

‘By two months. And the difference between you and me is, I’m at peace with it. I buy three different creams for my face. I use them in a specific order, on the advice of some ten-year-old self-proclaimed beauty expert on YouTube. And—’ She cuts off my interruption with a raised palm – ‘I’m not deluding myself by thinking that love at our age is going to feel the same as love at eighteen.’

I lean back in my chair. I know she’s right – not that I plan to concede. ‘We’re not that old, you know. Fifty’s still a fair way off.’

‘I know. But what I’m trying to say is … he’s a nice guy. He loves you. And maybe comparing falling in love with him to whatever you felt when you were falling for Graham at eighteen isn’t all that healthy. Or fair. On any of you.’

‘Wow, Sarah – why don’t you tell me how you really feel?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, after a rare pause. ‘You know I’m not trying to make you feel bad, don’t you? I just want you to—’

‘Yeah, I know. And you’re right.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’d better get going. You know Amy Barker’s being readmitted this week, don’t you?’

‘I saw. I’m already dreading our inevitable call from her lovely mother. I still hear those awful nails of hers clicking in my sleep.’

‘Well, when you do speak to her – ask her where she gets her Botox done, will you? Since I’m so old, and all. I could do with a referral.’

‘You know,’ she says, ‘I’ll still love you when you’re really old. Colostomy bag and all.’

‘I can see it. The two of us, being wheeled over to the nursing home TV, just in time for Bear in the Big Blue House.’

She winks, and lays a sheaf of papers across her desk. ‘The boys are out camping all weekend if you want to start sooner.’

‘You’re disgusting,’ I call as the door closes with a muffled click behind.

5

Dan leans over the arm of the sofa, book spread-eagled on the floor. ‘There she is.’ He makes a face as I kick off my shoes. ‘Oh dear. Long day?’

It’s like he sees straight through me, the moment I walk through the door. After a long drive home, replaying my conversation with Sarah in my mind, I’m exhausted, and he knows it.

But I can’t tell him why. Not this time. He still doesn’t know I found the ring.

I hang up my jacket and bag, and smile. ‘The longest. Where’s Evie?’

‘Upstairs. Revising. Or sleeping. Possibly both.’ He rolls up to standing. ‘Have you heard about this thing they’re doing now? Listening to revision tapes when they’re sleeping?’

‘I doubt it’s tapes, somehow,’ I say. ‘And I’m pretty sure that method was doing the rounds in the eighties. Didn’t work then, either.’

He wraps his arms around me. The smell of him is, as always, a balm. ‘All right, doc. Don’t tell her that, though. She’s convinced it’s going to change her life. And anyway, it can’t hurt, can it?’

It could, I think, if it replaces ‘real’ revision. But then, I know Evie. Her grades are impeccable. She’s almost too conscientious, approaching her schoolwork with a focus that manages to skirt outright anxiety – most of the time.

‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re probably right.’

He laughs, and lets go. ‘Even broken clocks are right twice a day. Dinner’s in the oven, so if you want to …’

My phone vibrates in my palm, and I glance at it.

I turn cold.

The distinctive logo: white handcuffs, a ‘C’ on a blood-red square.

The words, pixel-sharp: Conviction, Season Four: Trailer – The Murder of Graham Catton.

I’ve known, for months, that this might be coming. But denial’s a powerful thing, and I thought – ridiculously, I know – that if I refused to talk, they might not have enough to go on.

I look up at Dan, who’s still talking, though I can’t make sense of the words.

I follow him into the kitchen, and cut him off mid-sentence. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

He looks over his shoulder, searches my face – and smiles. ‘All right. Sit. I’ll put the kettle on.’

As he pours the tea, I sit at the table. I don’t know quite how to position myself. Hands resting on the surface: too formal. On my lap, it looks as though I have something to hide. When he turns around, I’m somewhere in between.

‘OK.’ He takes a seat beside me, fumbling with a packet of biscuits. ‘What’s up?’

I hold out an open palm. ‘Give me those.’

‘You hate these. They’re junk food.’

‘I need junk food, right now.’

‘Wow. This must be bad.’

‘Not funny.’ I tear open the packet, and take a bite. The sugar dissolves on my tongue. I feel something light up in my brain, a synapse twitching in response. It’s one of the many things I’ve given up, over the years, along with alcohol, smoking (of course), red meat, bread … Dan, thanks to some (admittedly helpful) cultural conditioning, seems to think all women go through this: the gradual removal of pleasures from their lives, a slow self-sacrifice; a futile battle against ageing. All I know is this: I crave clarity more than I crave those pleasures.

Most of the time.

He reaches for a biscuit. ‘Is this about Conviction?’

I freeze. ‘How did you know?’

‘They called me. A couple of months ago. I told them where to stick it, but—’

‘They called here?’

‘No, no – they caught me at work. Tried the whole “one hack to another” spiel, though it didn’t get them far. Obviously.’ He shifts heavily in his seat. ‘I was going to bring it up at the time, but I thought … well, since you hadn’t said anything, I figured they’d decided against it. Plumped for another story instead.’

A shadow brushes the window outside, crossing the table between us. A bird, I suppose, or a bat. ‘Apparently not.’

‘Did you talk to them?’

‘No. I … I thought the same as you, I guess. That if they couldn’t talk to me, they’d let it drop. I didn’t expect them to go ahead anyhow.’

‘I could’ve told you all journalists are untrustworthy bastards. Not that these guys are. Journalists, I mean.’ There’s an itch of scorn in his voice. Professional jealousy, perhaps. He’s spent his life reporting news, and had some success, until the financial crisis and the internet pulled the floor out of the market. He moved back to Hawkwood – his home town – the year before I did, to edit the county Gazette.

Conviction, on the other hand – real journalists or otherwise – boasts a following in the millions. I know the numbers almost by heart. I’ve been refreshing their website every day since they called.

‘Look,’ he says, finally. He leans forward – tentatively, like he’s expecting me to recoil. He winds his fingers through mine. ‘Hey. I mean it. Look at me.’ I meet his eyes, briefly; then look away. ‘I know you don’t like talking about what happened to him. And I get that. You want to move on. But …’

‘Dan—’

‘I’m just saying … Would it be worth thinking about it? Talking about it, I mean?’

‘I don’t need to talk about it.’ I stare into my cup, watching the lazy curl of steam rising. ‘The thing is … I went to the trial. I heard all the evidence. And that gave me closure. Because they proved it was him.’ There’s confidence in my voice as I say this, though it feels empty. Like a lie. Still, I go on. ‘Going back over it all, now … It’s been too long. I don’t know that I’d be able to do it without—’

I’m silenced by movement overhead. Evie’s footsteps creak on the beams above, and she emerges at the top of the stairs. More than ever, she’s her father’s ghost, her head tilted, an eyebrow raised in confusion. ‘Is something burning?’

Dan’s chair screeches on the tile. ‘Shit. I forgot to …’

‘How did you not smell it?’ She laughs. ‘You want to know what he said to me earlier? That I needed to concentrate on “the task at hand”. Good advice, huh?’

‘Very.’ As she sits, I resist the urge to reach for her hair, or to make one of the comments I know she’ll parrot back, mockingly. Still, I miss being able to run a comb through her curls. To squeeze them between finger and thumb, and watch them spring back. ‘How’s the studying going?’

‘Fine. All on track.’ She glances at Dan. Then at me. ‘What was so interesting that you nearly set the house on fire talking about it?’

My perceptive little girl. I could throttle her sometimes.

Dan doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Over to you, he’s saying. Play this however you think is best.

I sigh. ‘We were … We were talking about what happened to your dad.’

If there’s a reaction I’m expecting, it doesn’t show. Her face is blank, detached. Calm.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of a podcast called Conviction—’

A blink. ‘The one about Barry Gibbons?’

I nod. Gibbons, the subject of Conviction’s second season, was exonerated after serving twenty years in prison for the rape and murder of a teenage girl. The podcast’s army of fans – every one of them, it seemed, a kind of armchair detective – went on to uncover evidence that not only proved that he hadn’t committed the crime, but that the real killer had gone on to repeat his attacks for almost a decade after Gibbons had been locked away, seemingly without the authorities making the link. It was enough to turn Conviction from a poor imitation of better-known true-crime podcasts to a global sensation in its own right.

Evie gnaws at the cuff of her hoodie. It’s a habit I’ve warned her against, but today I let it go. She puts the pieces together with awful quickness. ‘They’re doing a series on him – on the guy who killed Dad?’

‘Yeah.’ I glance at Dan, who offers an encouraging smile. ‘I don’t know why—’ I begin. ‘I mean … I don’t know what they’ve found to make them think there’s something wrong there, but—’

‘Wow.’ She’s thinking. Processing. ‘Do you think …’ She pauses, choosing her words. ‘Do you think it’s possible? That it wasn’t him?’

I feel Dan’s attention sharpen at the question. He couldn’t ask it outright. But she can.

‘Honestly, Evie, I don’t know. I didn’t, until this happened. I thought the case against him was pretty clear-cut, but it was a long time ago, and I was … I was a bit of a mess. And I have to think, rationally, that if they’ve decided to devote a season to looking into the case, then … they must think there’s something there to find.’

She glances at the blank face of her phone. She isn’t reading anything. She’s just buying time to think.

When she puts it down, she’s resolute. ‘I guess that’s good, then. If he’s innocent. If he’s been in prison all this time and he didn’t do it, then it’s a good thing someone’s looking into it.’

Her faith takes me aback – both in vague notions of innocence and justice, and in me. The possibility that I might have something to do with it – that I might have anything to hide, at all – doesn’t appear to have occurred to either of them.

She sees something in my face, and her expression changes. The look in her eyes breaks my heart. ‘Mum. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

‘I know.’ Another lie. ‘I’m just … I’m nervous about what they’re going to dig up.’

Dan laughs. ‘Come on, Hannah. What do you think they’re going to find? That you got a B in one of your GCSEs? That it took you three attempts to pass your driving test?’ He gasps. ‘I just remembered that time when you called in sick with the “flu”. You’re screwed if that comes out.’

Evie groans. ‘Oh my God, Dan. Never talk about that stuff in front of me. Ever.’

I laugh, in spite of everything. Being with them – watching them joke together, cosy and familiar – warms me.

‘Seriously, Hannah. I get why you’d be concerned. It’s going to dredge up a lot of stuff from the past – and you won’t be able to stay out of it. You were married to the guy. But you’re as strait-laced as they come. Aside from the fact you leave wet towels on the bed, and you never use a coaster, you’re almost perfect.’

Evie rolls her eyes. ‘Look at him, trying to be romantic.’

He grins. ‘A for effort, right?’

I do my best to force a smile. ‘You’re probably right.’ It’s another lie. Once the series begins, I know there’ll be no escaping the past. The things I might have done. The things I know I’ve done. This story I’ve spent ten years wrangling, in my own mind: now, it’s someone else’s to tell.

‘Thank you,’ I add. ‘Really. For being so …’

He waves a hand, batting the thought away, before I have to say it.

Thank you for believing in me, I want to say, though I can’t. Thank you for thinking the best of me. I’m sorry it isn’t true.

‘You’re all right,’ he says. ‘And trust me. Whatever happens, with all this … we’ll get through it. You, me, and Evie. As long as we’re together, we’ll be OK.’ There’s a brief pause, just long enough for the words to settle. And then, he does me another kindness. He moves on. ‘So … what are we going to do about dinner?’

Evie peers at the blackened tray. ‘What even is that?’

‘It’s what the French call flambé,’ Dan says, pointedly. ‘But I think we might have to write it off. Not sure you two are developed enough in the palate.’

‘How about pizza?’ My tone is too bright, too sharp. Both stare at me blankly.

Evie’s the first to react. ‘You want pizza?’

‘Well, it’s my fault dinner’s ruined. The least I can do is suggest something hideously unhealthy to make up for it.’ I wince. I’m a psychiatrist at an eating disorders clinic. I know better than to demonize food in front of a teenage girl. ‘It’s not so bad once in a while, anyway.’

Evie brings up the menu on her phone. ‘It says they can deliver in an hour.’

I see my opportunity, and grab it. ‘Order it for collection. You guys order whatever you want and I’ll go fetch it.’

Dan mimes an expression of shock, one hand clutching his chest.

‘Not a word, mister. Or you’re going to get it. On foot.’

I leave them on the sofa, some laugh-tracked American sitcom blaring on the TV. Evie seems thrilled at the way the night’s unfolded, our usual rules relaxed to accommodate my ‘news’. Dan, too, appears to be enjoying himself – though I’m sure later he’ll want to ‘check in’ and ‘make sure everything’s OK’.

I love him for it. I do. But right now, I need to be alone. Just for a minute.

Just while I work this out.

I pull off the main road, down an old dirt track, gravel crackling under the wheels. I drive on through the trees until they part, and I stop. The old limestone quarry opens up beyond, the water still an eerie blue in the darkness. Either side of me are warning signs: Think! Would you swim in ammonia or bleach? And, This water is known to contain: Car wrecks. Dead animals. Excrement. Rubbish. Swimming may result in death.

In the distance, I see the shadow of Hawkwood House, moonlight illuminating the broken windows, the gaping holes in the roofs and walls. Looking out at it soothes me, as it always does: it’s an anchor, a tether to the past. Coming here feels like coming home.

With the engine off, I can hear the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the faint scratch and call of creatures overhead. I think I see something moving, there, between the trees. My pulse quickens in response, though I know it’s silly. I’ve lived here long enough by now to know that the woods have a life of their own. There’s always something moving in there.

I glance at my screen, and click play.

‘In our next season of Conviction …’ the host, Anna Byers says, her voice roused with theatrical flourish. The music swells, staccato strings straight out of a Hitchcock noir.

I recognize the first voice instantly. He’s older now – the tell-tale smoker’s rattle in his throat. But it’s him. Stevens. The officer who questioned me for hours on that first night, and watched me, every day, in court. ‘There was something about the crime scene that just wasn’t right. It was like something out of a film. I’ve seen a lot of homicides in the years since, but … That’s the one that keeps me up at night.’

A click. A whirr of rolling tape. I hear my own voice, playing back. ‘I told you. I don’t remember anything. I don’t know.’ I feel, bone-deep, the exhaustion; the frustration I’d felt, after hours of answering the same questions, of repeating my answers again and again. I feel the press of Evie’s head on my lap. The steel desk under my bare, cold arms.

But none of that comes through in these words. All I hear is callousness. The voice of a woman who doesn’t care that her husband is dead.

Another voice. Another spark of recognition. ‘They went to incredible lengths to make themselves look like the perfect couple.’ I can see him now: those small, sunken eyes in ashen skin, always a little slick with sweat. Darren. The best man at our wedding. My husband’s closest friend. ‘But I always knew something was off. After they charged that kid … It never seemed right to me. I just thought she had everybody fooled.’

And another. A woman. Someone I don’t know. ‘I thought my son would get a fair trial. That’s what they tell you: trust the process, the system works, and all that … But the system doesn’t work. My son isn’t a murderer. He’s a victim.’

I close my eyes. Grip my hands tight around the steering wheel, the ridges carving knots into my palms.

‘That’s all to come,’ Anna Byers says now. ‘This season, on Conviction.’

6

There are worse things to be haunted by than ghosts.

My husband wrote that, I’m sure of it. It was one of those lines he was a little too proud of. The kind he’d say out loud, proudly, for me to groan at.

I’d smile, pretending to be teasing – but we both knew I wasn’t.

Now, though, as I run through the woods, the wet earth sucking at my feet … I think he might be right.

Today, the first episode of Conviction goes live. The past seems to catch at my ankles and tug at my hair; the voices of strangers and people I used to know whip through my mind, pulling the breath from my throat.

Dan told me not to google it. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said, meeting my eye in the bathroom mirror. ‘You won’t find anything on there that makes you feel any better. About anything.’

So I didn’t.

Until last night.

Late last night.

Now, I run faster, the branches reaching for me as I pass.

She had everybody fooled, Darren had said, in the trailer. And he’s right. It’s a skill of mine, to be able to make everyone think I’m something that I’m not.

Everyone. Including myself. But I can’t outrun the things I read. The rabid delight of strangers, all calling for justice – for my husband’s death, and for the boy convicted of his murder – without knowing either man at all.

The thought makes me run faster still, though my lungs, my calves, all ache in protest. But still, I run – towards my destination. Towards the place that never fails to soothe me. The place I need to be.

I’ve never told anyone why I really moved here. As far as Sarah, Dan, and Evie are concerned, it was a pin-in-a-map decision. I saw a patch of green earth, a mass of water I thought was a lake, a few rolling hills – and after all that had happened in the city, it was enough. As soon as Graham’s life insurance paid out, I bought a cottage plucked straight from a picture book, and I started over again. A clean break – this, as good a place as any.

It’s not that I told anyone that was the reason. It’s a story they wrote themselves, built out of clues accidentally dropped – reading meaning where there was none. I simply didn’t correct them.

Because psychiatrists, as a rule, avoid words like ‘crazy’, or ‘nuts’. Our job is to remove the stigma around mental health.

But it’s these words I hear, in my mind, when I think about the real reason; when I see it, looming up ahead, turrets and chimneys spiralling up behind the wall around the grounds. Hawkwood House – or rather, its ruins – seems almost to glow against the grey sky and loamy green hills, the black woods and cliffs behind.

It is nuts. It is crazy. But it’s a place that’s fascinated me since before Evie was born. And when Graham died – in that strange and eerie after – it seemed like the only place I could go.

I like to imagine it alive, still a working hospital – a home – for women who needed respite from their lives. It had music rooms, chapels, an aviary – even a spa, of sorts, a pool set under a coloured glass dome – all of which, its founders seemed to think, would help its patients to find joy in their lives again. That intention spoke to me. It still does now, when I’d do anything for a break from this life that I’ve built, and from the one I lived before.

It gives me something like peace, even though it’s derelict, long abandoned. If anything, I’m grateful for that. Because with no one else around, it feels like mine.

My heart pounds faster as I reach the gate – and stop. A clumsy stop that’s almost slapstick, like a cartoon character hitting a pane of glass.

In the shadow of the open door, I see her. A woman dressed all in white, long black hair spilling down her back in loose curls. In the early-morning light, she’s a blink away from a ghost. As she walks the building’s perimeter, I see the car parked behind the moss-covered fountain: a black Mercedes, low-slung and glossy as a beetle.

The realization makes my cheeks burn hot. From the way she looks at the building, the frank, businesslike assessment of its flaws and scale; the way she chatters into her phone, hands gesturing, as though giving instructions, I know: she’s a property developer. A vulture, come to pick over the bones of Hawkwood House. In a year, more than likely, it’ll be no more than another block of soulless luxury flats.

She turns towards the gate, squints at me, and smiles. She waves and takes a step in my direction.

I turn around, and I run.

‘You can’t spend the rest of your life obsessing over the past,’ Sarah said. Has said, over and over again, in the ten years since I moved here. Now, for the first time, I start to think she might be right.

7

I swipe my card through the scanner. The unit doors heave open with a pneumatic whoosh.

My favourite nurse, Joanna – everyone’s favourite nurse, beloved by patients and staff alike – emerges from behind the reception desk and beckons me over. ‘Borrow you a sec?’

My stomach drops. She disappears again, before I can read anything in her face.

‘What’s up?’

She hands me the department’s tattered iPad. ‘I thought you should probably see this.’

The screen blinks, threateningly, as it always does when unplugged. She reattaches the charging cable, and the words The Ten Commandments glow at the top of the screen.

I glance at Joanna. ‘What am I looking at?’

She blushes. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t, but … I’ve been keeping an eye on Amy online since she left, last time. Now she’s back … I thought you should know what she’s been writing. On her blog.’

I’m not entirely sure how to react, as far as my professional obligations go. Monitoring patient activity online – especially after they’ve been discharged – has always been a bit of a grey area. Officially, it isn’t something we do. And most of our patients have private accounts – with aliases neither we, nor their parents, could ever reasonably be expected to guess.

Still, that doesn’t stop us trying, sometimes.

Call it curiosity. Call it an invasion of privacy. Or call it extended patient care.

I look down at the screen. Number 1: You will do whatever it takes to achieve your goals. Number 2: Willpower is EVERYTHING – do not lose it.

I wince. Warning signs, for a patient like Amy, whose anorexia turns supposed self-control into slow death, self-destruction. ‘Oh dear.’

Joanna nods. ‘I just thought you should know. Because she’s saying she’s fine. I’m not sure if she’s in denial, or what, but …’

‘I’ll let you know. We’ve got her phone, right?’

‘Yeah. She’s checked in and ready for you.’

‘Great.’ My own phone vibrates in my pocket. I hand the tablet back. ‘Let me know if anything else comes up.’

I glance at the notification as I walk towards the day-room, calves still aching from my morning run.

@ConvictionPod tweeted: Four hours to go. Episode One goes live at 1 p.m. GMT. Get ready for our most twisted season yet.

The floor seems to give way beneath me.

I regain my balance and walk on, as though everything’s fine. But it isn’t. And I’m not sure it ever will be again.

‘Amy.’

She tips her head back over the rim of the tattered day-room sofa. ‘Doc.’

It’s an affectation that reminds me of another patient, on another ward. A girl I couldn’t save. The thought of Amy ending up the same way sends a chill through me. I force a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s have a chat.’

She rolls up and shuffles towards me. As she passes, I touch her shoulder lightly with my palm. Through the layers, I feel the nub of her shoulder, all sinew and bone. She’d been doing so well, before. Automatically, I wonder what’s caused her to relapse – although deep down, I know better. Illnesses like hers fight with claws and teeth. Sometimes, they just come back.

This is her fourth admission under section, though she’s been a patient, on and off, for almost nine years. As I follow her to the consulting room, I pause to let her make cheery conversation with one of the cleaning staff. I smile and nod along, realizing uneasily that she – a patient – is on first-name terms with a staff member I couldn’t pick out of a line-up.

I wonder if this is the sort of thing that will be held up as evidence of my bad character, once people realize this season of Conviction is about me.

I commit his name to memory.

Just in case.

Finally, we’re alone. ‘So. Ames.’ She sits, instantly picking at the fraying threads of the old armchair. I take a seat opposite, my elbows on my knees, eyes level with hers. ‘I’d say it’s good to see you, but … well, you know we were all hoping this time it’d stick.’

‘I’d say I’m glad to be back, but … yeah.’

I smile. She smiles back, a toothy grin. I wonder, sometimes, whether we’re supposed to like our patients. During my training, it seemed as though clinical detachment was the goal – the defining characteristic of the good doctor. But I can’t help but feel a kind of attachment to Amy, and the other girls who pass through the unit.

I want them to get better – of course I do. But I also understand what makes them the way they are. It’s not the desire to die that makes them choose hunger; compulsive, relentless exercise; or both. It’s a need to control the way they live.

‘So, tell me. What’s been going on since we last caught up?’ Her eyes flit to my hands. I show my palms. She won’t talk as freely if I’m taking notes, so – today, at least – I don’t. ‘No pen. The floor is yours.’

She laughs. It’s brittle, a snicker at the gallows. ‘I thought I was doing OK. Which, I know it doesn’t look like it, but … I was, for a while. You can look at my weight chart. I maintained for seven weeks.’

‘I saw. That was really, really good. The longest stretch you’ve had as an outpatient – right?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Did anything happen, that week, that made things start to take a turn? Anything that you can pinpoint as a trigger, perhaps?’

She purses her lips. One of the advantages of having worked with her for so long: I know whatever’s coming next will be a lie. ‘No. I kept wondering what it was, even when it was happening. I just … I couldn’t control it. It just came back.’

‘Well, you’ve done the right thing. And you’ll be thrilled to hear you’ve made it back just in time to catch movie night tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yay.’ She clicks her tongue. No one rails against the department’s poor choice of films with quite as much heart as Amy. I’m glad to see she’s still as ferocious as ever. ‘What classic 1980s B-movie do we have to look forward to, this time? Tell me it’s Back to the Future again, please.’

‘Back to the Future isn’t a B-movie. It’s a classic. And you’re always welcome to suggest alternatives.’

‘Pfft. Remember how much trouble I got into when I asked for The Hunger Games?’ She raises her palms. ‘A genuine mistake. It’s not my fault if they’re going to give these things triggering names.’

I laugh. I can’t help myself. ‘You know I can’t condone that kind of thing.’

‘Yeah, well … I watched it while I was out, and it was fine. You’d like it.’

I wonder what I’ve done, or said, that’s given her this impression; what hint of personal information I’ve given, accidentally, over the years we’ve worked together. ‘Would I?’

‘Yeah.’ She doesn’t elaborate, and a silence falls. Already, I know this will bother me for the rest of the day. It’s almost certainly nothing, but it feels like a slip: evidence of a mistake I’ve made, some vital piece of personal information I’ve handed over without thinking.

It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. But I promised myself I’d be better. I promised I wouldn’t let it happen again.

I reach for my notebook and pen, and change the subject. ‘How’s your mum?’

She rolls her neck around, the bones a sharp ‘V’ in the centre. I feel my own throat tighten in response. When she looks back at me, her expression has cooled. I’m not the only one, it turns out, who can pull up the barriers. ‘She’s fine. I mean, given her only daughter’s mental, she’s doing OK.’

‘You’re not “mental”, Amy. You know that. You have an illness. That’s all.’

‘That’s not how she sees it.’

I say nothing for a moment. I wait for her to go on. But she doesn’t.

‘Do you think it’d be helpful to share some of these feelings with her in our next review?’ I say, finally. She looks at me doubtfully, as though she’s waiting for the punchline to the joke. ‘If we can open up the lines of communication a little, you might find she’s able to take a step back. It’s possible that she’s just saying all these things because she just doesn’t know what else to do. She might just be trying to express her concern.’

‘Concern, yeah. She’s expressing plenty of that. But trust me, it’s not about my health.’ She looks down at her hands, the bitten-down nails bluish underneath. ‘I’ll talk to her, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think it’s going to help.’

With her face covered by her hair, for a moment she’s the echo of Evie: the same unbrushed tangle of curls, the same angular pose. It makes something ache in me. An instinct for protection.

‘She loves you, Amy. She’s your mum.’

Don’t be so hard on her, I want to say. But I don’t.

She looks up. For a split second, I think I’ve managed to get through.

And then it’s gone.

‘Are we done?’ she says flatly.

‘Amy—’

‘Can I go now? Please?’

I sigh. ‘If you want to.’

She stands and leaves. The door slams, heavily, behind.