Hidden

by Erin Kinsley

Genres: Thrillers; Domestic Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A MOTHER WALKS INTO THE SEA . . . AND NEVER COMES BACK. WHY? One perfect summer day, mother of two Alice walks into the sea . . . and never comes back. Her daughters - loyal but fragile Lily, and headstrong, long-absent Marietta - are forcibly reunited by her disappearance. Meanwhile, with retirement looming, DI Fox investigates cold cases long since forgotten. And there's one obsession he won't let go: the tragic death of an infant twenty years before. Can Lily and Marietta uncover what happened to their mother? Will Fox solve a mystery that has haunted him for decades? As their stories unexpectedly collide, long-buried secrets will change their lives in unimaginable ways. A gripping and emotional new thriller perfect for fans of Cara Hunter, Heidi Perks, Claire Douglas and Linda Green. Praise for Erin Kinsley's novels, which have been a BBC RADIO 2 BOOK CLUB CHOICE and SUNDAY TIMES CRIME CLUB PICK: 'Brilliant, compelling, heart-wrenching writing.' PETER JAMES 'An unputdownable thriller.' ELLY GRIFFITHS 'Sensitive and moving...but with a core of pure tension' SUNDAY TIMES 'Full of twists and turns to keep you guessing, this is a gripping and compelling read you won't want to put down' HEAT 'One of those rare finds - a page turner that is equally remarkable for the beauty of the writing. It will suck you in and take you on a journey' JO SPAIN 'Gripping...once started, impossible to put down! ' MINETTE WALTERS

Release date: July 22, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

One

Ash grey on white, a herring gull drifts against the clear June sky.

Alice lies back in her deckchair, letting the bird bring to mind music long not thought of, not heard for years: the dreamy, chilled melody of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Albatross’. The guitar rings in her head, the background score to childhood memories of watching Top of the Pops in that cramped, unhappy house, her father oozing disapproval of long hair and loose morals from behind his evening paper, her mother darning his socks, bravely defiant and tapping her foot to the songs she liked.

The gull wheels away, out over the sea, which is, for once, the ultramarine blue of Enid Blyton story-book summers, a once-upon-a-time background for shrimping nets and sandcastles, for jam-sandwich picnics and Thermos flasks of lukewarm tea. A boy runs excitedly up the beach, a plastic bucket full of seawater slopping over his naked legs; a teenage girl throws a ball for an overexcited dog. As his grandkids bury his feet in a hole in the sand, an old man smilingly rolls his trousers up to his knees.

Alice’s own picnic is made up of foods she chose as her favourites, but the thought of the prawn sandwich makes her nauseous, and the pink-and-yellow Battenberg cake is claggy in her mouth. The first cocktail, though, is still well chilled in the cooler bag.

She drinks the whole can down.

When she was the same age as the running boy, she used to come here with her grandpa, holding his hand as he taught her how to read the sea, watching the wave patterns alter as the tide began to turn. Those changes are evident now. She glances at her watch: 3.15 p.m. Twenty minutes past high tide.

God knows there’s no hurry. For a while longer she sits on, feeling the sun on her forearms, pulling up the hem of her sundress to expose her thighs to the heat. The days when she had legs men would drool over are long gone. Now she can’t even imagine how it would feel to be admired, pursued, desired.

The water is retreating, leaving the glistening sand studded with pebbles and pearly shells. As the exposed beach grows wider, Alice watches pools emerge at the base of the groyne. In similar pools she used to paddle after scuttling crabs and – with Grandpa’s guidance – hunt for razor clams. She has a mark in mind. When the sea falls back level with the fourth seaweed-covered post, it will be time.

All that remains is the second cocktail. Pulling it from the cooler bag, she pops the cap and raises the can to the sky. A toast: to everything that’s been, good and bad; to whatever’s to come, to face it with courage; to her blessed, beautiful girls, lights of her life, may they forgive her.

She drinks down the fizzy sweetness, then gets up from the deckchair to pack away her picnic. When the cooler bag is zipped, she removes the watch from her wrist. It was a wedding-day gift from Rob, always treasured and cared for, and she touches its face to her lips before placing it on the chair’s striped fabric. Pulling her black sundress over her head, she folds it and lays it over the watch.

Her new swimsuit is in bright shades of scarlet and fuchsia, an uplifting fabric that causes a pang of regret for her wardrobe full of dark, downbeat clothes. Other paths could have been taken. Different choices might have been made.

But in the long run, different wouldn’t necessarily have turned out better.

Down the beach, the water has receded further. Soon it will reach a stretch of mudflats, which must be avoided.

Removing her glasses, she folds them and lies them on top of her sundress. The gold ring on her left hand has grown too tight; before today, she can’t remember when she last wore it. The girls might like to have it, and yet she’s reluctant to leave it behind. She decides to take it with her, wherever she’s going.

Over and over, a voice in her head whispers, Why not go home? But home has become a nest of insoluble problems. Home is no haven, but a snare.

The alcohol is going to her head, but bringing melancholy rather than the careless euphoria she intended. As she heads down to the sea, the loose sand is warm under her bare feet, though her legs feel heavy. Weaving between family groups surrounded by their paraphernalia, a lump rises in her throat. Frisbees, racquets and crabbing lines, damp towels, wet dogs and suncream: all were part of her life, once. She remembers Marietta, four years old and skinny, skipping prettily down to the sea, pursued by toddling Lily, plump and naked, always anxious not to be left behind.

Those were good times.

At the waterline, the sand is hard, and the cold water runs up over her feet, turning them blue-white, like Arctic ice.

Alice turns her back on the sea, and sees through the flattering blur of her myopia the familiar view of the town: to the west and east the cliffs, the harbour with its boats between, and the gift shops, pubs and cafés along the quay. On the rising land behind is a spread of traditional Cornish cottages, white-walled and slate-roofed, matted together along the narrow lanes. And somewhere among them, close to where a church tower rises, is Alice’s house.

Think of the girls. Just go home.

She turns back to the sea and wades in, pushing through the breakers. A big wave – a seventh wave – rolls towards her, already curved and foaming as it prepares to break, just about where she is. A woman paddling with a small child is watching, and to her, Alice doesn’t seem afraid as she summons the guts to dive through the wave, reappearing moments later further out.

She’s out of her depth. Treading water, bobbing over rollers that break inshore from her, she runs her hands over her face to wipe the stinging salt water from her eyes. Then she faces another wave, which will certainly break before it reaches her.

The woman watching is concerned now, but Alice takes the dousing and surfaces again, beginning to swim out away from the beach until she reaches the undulating swell beyond the breaking waves. She’s in a place where no casual swimmer should be, lonely territory haunted by precocious currents and riptides.

Still she keeps swimming out, making for the line where the sea meets the sky.

The woman watching takes out her phone.

 

Alice has changed her mind. Too tired to swim further, she spits out another mouthful of salt water and turns onto her back. The water cradles her, but she’s afraid of where she finds herself, suspended over an expanse she daren’t imagine, disturbed by the thought of what might be swimming in the depths. Turning her head to the left, she sees nothing but the sea’s vastness, so for comfort she looks instead to the right, where the world she’s abandoned is a dwindling smudge. Carried like driftwood over the curves of the swell, she knows she’s at the whim of the ebb tide, riding it with hours left to run.

If she were younger, fitter, stronger, she might attempt the swim back to shore, but that became impossible for her some minutes ago. Though she doesn’t know its name, cold shock has set in, rendering her leg muscles weak and useless and her arms too heavy to lift. All her limbs will do for her is eventually drag her down.

Relax, rest and wait for help. Telling herself the sea’s benign and that she’s safe being flotsam at its whim, she stares up to marvel at the clearness of the sky. Drowsiness is creeping over her. She blames it on alcohol, and seeing no reason to resist, lets her eyelids flicker and close, picturing in her mind a white bird wheeling overhead, hearing the guitars of that long-forgotten song, playing only for her.

Even though the sun’s hot on her face, Alice begins to shiver.

 

Part of Selmouth’s lifeboat crew were already gathered for a training exercise, so when the coastguard’s call comes in, the dinghy launch is fast.

The casualty’s been reported as close inshore. Speeding away from the beach, they know they don’t have far to go, but single swimmers are hard to spot.

The skipper on this shout has thirty years’ service under his belt. He’s learned to look for guidance and take whatever help he can get, and when he scans the shoreline he sees a woman with a child, waving to indicate a line directly ahead of her.

‘Somewhere here,’ shouts the skipper, and the helmsman slows the boat.

One of the men grabs the binoculars and scans the water further out. These outgoing tides run fast, and will carry a body a long way.

The newest crew member is keen, and his young eyes are sharp.

‘There!’ He points to their eleven o’clock. ‘Something red.’

The boat rises, falls, and as she rises again, all four of the crew see a flicker of scarlet in a dip in the swell.

Mercifully, Alice is still afloat.

 

The music in her head stopped when the shivering took hold, and since then she’s heard nothing but the lapping of waves, interspersed with the dense silence of underwater. Now, she hears a new sound.

Somewhere in her failing consciousness, she understands that it’s an engine. Forcing open her eyes, she sees the hull of a boat, brilliant orange, and a crew all in yellow.

A man is shouting, ‘Get her inboard, get her inboard, fast as you can!’

Someone’s bending down to the water, grabbing her hand.

‘Keep hold of her! Don’t let her go!’

But the boat rises, and her hand pulls free. Alice’s face slips under, and unthinking, she swallows the salt water flooding her mouth. When she surfaces again, she’s drifting away from the boat, barely floating now as her legs sink lower.

‘Come on, boys, Chrisssakes, get alongside! Grab hold, one of you, grab hold!’

Her hand is gripped again, then her arm, and she’s being hauled out of the water.

‘Keep hold of her this time! Bring her in, bring her in.’

She’s tumbled into the boat, falling heavily on the boards.

Maybe she’ll have bruises.

Alice doesn’t care. She only wants to sleep, and closes her eyes.

 

The skipper radios back to the station to report one casualty on board. He’s told an ambulance is already on its way.

One of the men puts two fingers to Alice’s neck, and finds a faint pulse.

The newest crew member is cheerful as he hands across a survival blanket, but the other men are sombre. This isn’t over yet.

As they motor back to shore, the blue lights of the ambulance flash alongside the lifeboat station. Drawn by the drama, a crowd is gathering.

They wrap Alice in the blanket, and check again for vital signs.

The pulse has stopped.

‘CPR!’

The skipper claps a crew member on the shoulder, letting him know he’s the man. Kneeling down beside her, the crewman begins to pump, counting as he’s been trained, determined to do his part until the paramedics take charge.

But when they reach the beach, there’s still been no response.

For Alice, their help came too late.

 

The PCSO is in only her second week on the job, and she’s been given this straightforward task as being suitable for a probationer. She’s to be a visible presence for anyone who’s lost a relative or friend; failing any approach, her instructions are to try and locate the deceased’s personal effects to help make an identification.

As the afternoon wears on, she watches from the top of the beach. Families pack their bags and dry and dress their children before leading them across the soft sand, up the steps onto the promenade.

As the stragglers return their deckchairs, the attendant’s chaining up his stock. The afternoon’s growing cooler as the breeze picks up, and the breakers begin to look tempting to the surfers, who run down to the water in their wetsuits, keen for action.

The PCSO’s legs begin to ache, but by 6 p.m. she’s got a target: a lone deckchair, unvisited since she arrived two hours before.

Overdressed in her boots and black trousers, she crosses the sand. When she reaches the deckchair, she finds everything left tidy, and picking up the black sundress, she knows she’s in the right place. She gathers up Alice’s spectacles and her wedding-day watch. There is, the PCSO notices, no form of ID.

As she carries away Alice’s belongings, she pauses to have a quick word with the deckchair attendant.

‘There’s one of yours still down there,’ she says, pointing with her thumb. ‘I think you’re going to be keeping the deposit.’

Two

There are those who will never forget.

Across the Devon border and forty-seven miles from Selmouth, the church of St Just’s squats dour among the tombstones of its own graveyard, the only building of note in the backwater hamlet bearing its name.

On Mondays, the underemployed women of the locality gather there as caretakers. Breaking the church’s sullen silence with their chatter, they sweep the cold stone floors, rub beeswax into the oak pews and polish the candlesticks and brasses, mixing the stink of Brasso with the breath of mildew rising from the crypt. They beat the dust from the hassocks and arrange fresh flowers, before retiring to the vestry to enjoy coffee and home-made shortbread, and finish off their conversations about their children and their grandchildren.

By their tradition, Miss Hopper always has charge of the key, along with the responsibility for returning it to the vicar. She says her goodbyes in the porch as the women disperse, then locks the studded door, turning the iron handle to check it’s secure.

Sometimes she brings a posy of wild flowers, leaving them on the porch bench until everyone’s gone, when she carries them between the tombs to the farthest wall of the churchyard.

There, sinking year by year into the turf, is a small headstone, simply engraved Baby Michael, 17th June 1993. In front of the headstone, a jam jar holds the remains of Miss Hopper’s last offering. She disposes of the dead stems on the compost heap where the groundsman dumps the grass clippings, and rinses the jar at an outside tap, refilling it with clean water.

She likes to take her time arranging the flowers she brings, placing pink willowherb behind white meadow daisies, with cornflowers or borage – if she can find them – always to the front, since they are two of her favourites, and blue for a boy. In seasons where there are no flowers, she cuts evergreens and red-berried hawthorn.

At Christmas, she brings a teddy bear and a chocolate Santa Claus, and at Easter she leaves an egg, though when the season is past, the disposal of these more permanent objects is difficult. Even though she wraps them in polythene against the weather, and the chocolate and toys are in perfect condition, it seems inappropriate to pass on what are grave goods to other, living, children. She can’t help feeling they might carry the taint of Baby Michael’s fate, and so the teddies and the eggs and the Santa Clauses all end up – with deep regret – in the dustbin.

But he should know he’s not forgotten, and Miss Hopper remembers all too well.

 

On this Monday, the other women have already walked away down the path towards the lychgate, and she’s locked the door and slipped the key into the pocket of her skirt. But as she turns the corner at the side of the church, someone is already there at Baby Michael’s grave.

Miss Hopper is so surprised, she stops. Very rarely has she seen anyone else here, though of course others have a perfect right to pay their respects, and she considers going to wait in her car, or returning to the porch until this other visitor is gone. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she continues forward. As she crosses the buttercup-strewn grass, she notices the nettles are becoming unruly around the oldest tombs, and ivy is choking the stone cherub who weeps over little Marcus Wright, a victim of influenza aged only three. In the tragic brevity of his life, Baby Michael is not alone.

The visitor has his back to her. Tall and broad-shouldered, he has his hands in the trouser pockets of a navy suit that’s a shade too big, as if he might have lost weight since he bought it, and his haircut’s vaguely dated, what her father would have called a short back and sides. Not wanting to startle him, she gives a light cough as she draws close.

He turns round, and she sees he’s older than she thought, but his face is lean, with none of the sagging jowls mature women are prone to. She finds herself wishing she’d run a comb through her hair and put on lipstick.

‘Good morning,’ he says.

‘You’ve come to see our poor orphan.’ She holds up her flowers. ‘I like to let him know he’s not forgotten.’

‘Never that.’

She holds out her hand. ‘Jayne Hopper.’

His eyebrows rise, and he shakes her hand. His own is warm, almost overheated, although the day is mild. Cold hands, warm heart, she thinks. So what’s the opposite?

‘Russell Fox,’ he says. ‘Hopper . . .’ He scrutinises her again. His eyes, she notices, are blue. ‘Any relation to . . .’ Trailing off, he points to the small, forlorn headstone.

‘It was my brother Daniel who found him,’ says Miss Hopper.

Fox nods. ‘That must have been a terrible thing for him.’

‘They’ve never got anybody for it, have they?’ She’s not asking a question but making a statement, a criticism of lax and inefficient authorities. ‘I don’t suppose they ever will. Not after all this time.’

‘Never say never,’ says Fox. ‘You and your brother still live locally, then?’

‘My brother passed away. Two years ago now.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I’m still up at the old place, though it’s a farm in name only these days. You remind me a little of Daniel. He was a big chap too. Are you ex-army, by any chance?’

‘Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away,’ smiles Fox. ‘It’s the way they make you stand. It never leaves you.’

‘I expect that’s it.’

‘I’m surprised to find anyone here. I come here occasionally if I’m in the neighbourhood, but I’ve never seen anyone else.’

Miss Hopper gives him a wry smile. ‘You must have your reasons. We’re three miles from the nearest shop and ten miles from the nearest town, down lanes not wide enough for two cars to pass without one of them tipping into a ditch. No one’s ever in this neighbourhood except with very deliberate intent.’

Fox laughs. ‘My definition of neighbourhood is quite broad.’

‘Well, I’m pleased,’ she says. ‘He deserves to know people still care.’

‘And it’s good to know someone’s keeping an eye on him,’ says Fox. ‘I expect I’ll be seeing you again. If you’re still in the same place, we’ll no doubt have your details on file.’

‘Oh,’ says Miss Hopper. ‘So you’re . . .’

‘Like I said,’ says Fox, beginning to walk away, ‘Michael is far from forgotten.’

Three

Lily’s had one hell of a morning at the nursery; the kids have all been hyper after the weekend, unable to settle, misbehaving and tantrumming, and Violet even threw up. Happily, Monday’s a half-day for Lily, so as the tables are cleared for lunch, she grabs her bag, saying her goodbyes to her frazzled colleagues as she leaves.

She has fifteen minutes left on her parking ticket. The pharmacy isn’t far, and she can make it if she’s quick.

Knowing the shop’s layout, she goes straight to the shelf and finds the product she wants, the 6 Days Sooner test. The price has gone up again, to almost ten pounds. Their budget’s tight, and this isn’t in it, so she’ll be going without lunch for a couple of days. She’ll still have to be careful; if Connor finds out she’s bought it, he’ll sulk for days.

The queue to pay is short, but there’s only one girl serving, and she’s helping a young mum find cough medicine for a feverish-looking toddler grizzling in a buggy. This isn’t going to be quick. Lily thinks about the parking ticket and wonders if she should wait until tomorrow, but the nagging need to know compels her to stay.

As she joins the checkout queue, her phone rings, embarrassingly loud. People turn to look at her, disapproving. She pulls the phone from her bag, intending to turn it off and return the call later, but she glances at the screen and sees a number she doesn’t know.

A Selmouth number. That makes her uneasy.

Leaving the blue box behind her on a shelf, she walks out onto the street and swipes right to answer. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Lily?’ A woman’s voice, but older and far less in-your-face than any cold caller.

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Ivy, Ivy Dunmore, your mum’s friend.’

The uneasiness ratchets up a notch. ‘Oh, hi, Ivy. Is Mum OK?’

In the moment’s silence following her question, Lily realises she should know. She called her mother a couple of times yesterday, but Mum didn’t answer. Lily thought nothing of it, assuming she’d be down at the beach, or shopping somewhere, or doing an extra shift at work. In the end, she left a message, but Mum hasn’t called back. That’s out of character – usually she’s only too keen to chat – and Lily feels a stab of guilt, knowing she should have followed up. As her mother’s closed in on her sixties, the unwelcome spectre of health emergencies has crept into clearer focus.

‘I was going to ask you. I thought you would know,’ says Ivy.

‘Know what?’

‘Where she’s gone. I said I would look after Josie – I don’t mind sometimes, she’s a good dog and no trouble – but she never said it would be for this long, not overnight. It’s after lunch now, and still no sign of her. I thought she must be staying with you.’

Lily’s unease is becoming full-on worry. ‘She hasn’t been here, no. Where did she say she was going?’

‘Running errands, she said. But that was yesterday morning. I’ve been to the house, and knocked, but I didn’t get any answer.’ There’s a silence while she considers. ‘Her car’s there, though. Maybe she took a taxi somewhere.’

‘Why would she take a taxi?’

‘It’s not my business to ask questions like that. And I didn’t like to go inside the house either, not without her permission. I do have a key so I can water the plants when she’s away for longer, but then she has a place where she sends Josie. They have a bit of land and outside kennels. My little cottage isn’t suited to dogs, not longer term, so I can’t be keeping her. I thought you’d know where your mum is and when she’ll be back.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ says Lily. She glances at her watch, and begins to walk towards the car park. ‘I hope she hasn’t had some kind of accident.’

‘Could be her heart,’ says Ivy. ‘She’s been having palpitations.’

‘Has she? How long has she been having those?’

‘On and off, two or three months.’

‘She never said anything to me.’

‘She doesn’t like to worry you.’

‘She’s worrying me now. Could she be at work?’

‘I went there to get dog food, but she wasn’t there. They said she wasn’t on the rota for this weekend.’

It’ll be nothing, Lily tells herself. She’ll be back home by now.

‘Did you try her mobile?’

‘I did. It just rang and rang.’

‘I’m sorry to ask, Ivy, but would you mind checking again at the house? I’ll look a real fool if I start a missing persons search and she’s at home in bed nursing a cold or something.’

‘She could answer the phone with a cold, couldn’t she?’

‘I’m just reluctant to do anything without being sure she isn’t there. You know how she sometimes is, she gets lost in a world of her own.’

Lily hears the lightest of sighs before Ivy says, ‘It’s a fair walk. But I don’t suppose Josie will mind going out again. I don’t like leaving her at my house by herself in case she barks.’

‘Will you ring me and let me know what you find? If she’s actually there, please tell her to ring me immediately.’

‘And if she isn’t there?’

‘One bridge at a time,’ says Lily.

‘I’ll ring you back, then,’ says Ivy, and hangs up.

Back inside the pharmacy, the blue box is still where Lily left it and the queue’s diminished. She pays cash, and hurries out. When she reaches the car, there are two minutes left on the ticket. She gets in, but doesn’t immediately start the engine. Instead, she finds her phone again and dials her mother’s landline, which rings a while and goes to answerphone. As Ivy’s said, the mobile does the same.

This time, she leaves no message. Setting the phone up for hands-free, she sets off for home.

She’s only a mile from their estate when Ivy calls back.

‘I’m at the house,’ she says. ‘No sign of your mum here. There was post on the mat. I didn’t go upstairs, mind. It’s not my business to go poking round up there. I shouted plenty loud enough, though. If she was up there, she’d have heard.’

‘I think I’d better come down there,’ says Lily.

‘I’ll leave Josie here, then, shall I? If you’re not going to be too long. Save me the walk back up the hill when you arrive.’

 

At home, Lily hastily eats a sandwich and downs a mug of tea. The blue box from the pharmacy is still in her handbag. Carrying it upstairs, she takes it into the bathroom, and even though there’s no one there to see, locks herself in. Extracting the plastic stick, she stares at it for long moments before sitting down to pee on it.

The wait is a long five minutes.

Negative. No pregnancy.

 

The hour-and-a-half drive to Selmouth is made stressful by hold-ups and the persistent strange knocking sound the car’s been making recently, which Connor hasn’t yet found time to investigate. Ten minutes from her destination, an orange light appears below the speedometer, and Lily prays it’s nothing serious, promising herself she’ll look it up in the handbook before she heads back home. The last couple of miles especially are grindingly slow, the narrow access roads clogged with tourists, the park-and-ride car park already full. Before she makes the turn into the back streets, she catches a view of glittering sea, and the air con draws in seaweed and salt water, candyfloss and doughnuts. To Lily, it’s the smell of home.

She parks in a residents-only space behind her mother’s old Renault, not caring as she gets out that her rear bumper is only borderline passable on the lane. Glancing through the Renault’s driver’s window as she passes, all appears normal: the leather loafers Mum wears to drive are in the footwell, the ridiculous fake flower in a vase she bought on a trip to London is stuck to the dashboard.

At the end of the path the gate stands open, lopsided on its one good hinge. Connor’s often offered to fix it, but for some reason Mum likes it the way it is. The lavender bushes along the path are in purple bloom, spreading so wide they almost cover the front terrace, where there’s a bistro table Mum never uses, and a bird feeder the birds rarely find.

Trelonie House is no more than a grandly named terraced cottage, with a frontage – two sash windows on the ground floor but only one upstairs – as quirkily asymmetric as the lopsided gate. Lily knows there should be a key on a window ledge round the back. Despite the brightness of the day, the passage leading there is dank and gloomy, and she shivers in her summery top and skirt. The key’s in its usual place, not very well hidden under a pebble. Inside, Josie’s barking, running from room to room to ge. . .