The Blame

by Kerry Wilkinson

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Mystery; Police Procedurals; Private Investigators; Noir; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Paige, Richard and me. We thought we’d be friends forever. But everything changed the day we took the short cut home from school along the old railway line. I wish we’d gone the long way. I wish we hadn’t seen our classmate, pale and still in the undergrowth. And I wish we hadn’t promised to keep one, awful detail a secret just between us… Twenty years later, I have a brand-new life, and try never to think about my old one. But I’m dragged back when Paige calls out of the blue. Richard has been accused of something terrible. Everyone back home is whispering about the body we found years ago, and saying Richard deserves to be locked up… Before I know it, I’ve returned to the small town I thought I’d never see again. Paige is almost the same as I remember – jet-black hair, slender frame – but why does she seem so nervous? Revealing the truth about what we saw that day twenty years ago could clear Richard’s name… but will the blame fall on me? And can I really trust that Paige is on my side – or is she hiding her own dark secret? When we find a strange note in Richard’s flat, only one thing is for certain: someone else knows the truth too. All three of us are in danger… A totally addictive read by bestselling author Kerry Wilkinson about how the secrets from our past will always come back to haunt us. Perfect for fans of Lisa Jewell, I Am Watching You and The Girl on the Train . Read what everyone’s saying about The Blame : ‘ I DID NOT EXPECT THAT ENDING! UTTERLY SHOCKING AND COMPLETELY UNPUTDOWNABLE!... I can't stress hard enough how much I loved it… outstanding… brilliant… an awesome author and he knows how to keep you on the edge of your seat, biting your nails until the last twist… I loved every single page.’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Wow. Just wow!... I was unable to put it down… In the end all I can say is I didn’t see that coming! ’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ I absolutely loved it… twists and turns throughout… I did not see the ending coming at all… kept on the edge of my seat to the final page… I highly recommend The Blam e.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘A totally addictive story… twists and turns, you will be guessing thinking you know the answers only to find out you didn't! A fantastic ending to a very suspenseful book!’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I read most of this is book in one day… gripping… sucked me in… I was glued to my seat… brilliant page-turner… I am extremely impressed.’ Open Book Posts ‘Leads you down one path, and then flips it when you think you’ve worked it out… a brilliant thriller that will have you well and truly hooked.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Wow… brilliant… had to complete in one sitting… a real page-turner.’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Such a gripping read!… everything was happening at a fast pace… the ending was a breath-taking shocker! ’ Nerd on the Loose 'It’s a winner… kept me on the edge of my seat until the last page… characters were mesmerizin g… I highly recommend this one.’ Washington Post Mag, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I was hooked from the beginning… page-turner… Loved it.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Brilliant book… I couldn't put it down… Gripping.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Spectacularly action-packed… Highly recommended! ’ Goodreads reviewer ‘An ending that took me by surprise… completely unexpected… exciting read.’ NetGalley reviewer

Release date: February 19, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

I’m not exactly sure when it happened but it was somewhat recently that I realised I had become a brunch person. I’m one of those people who spends large amounts of my life banging on about how important my time is, and yet I will willingly devote forty-five minutes on a Sunday morning to standing in a line outside Yolkely Dokely.

And why?

Because some underpaid, overworked, sweaty bloke in an apron knows how to poach a couple of eggs and then dump them on an English muffin.

I’ve embraced avocado. I’ve had actual conversations with actual people about sourdough starters.

It’s crystal meth for the middle classes and I have somehow become everything I would’ve hated back in the day.

As I continue to wait in line by myself, it is impossible to avoid overhearing the conversation of the couple behind about how their Little Jessie has a flute exam this week. How their Little Jessie got a gold star from his or her teacher for helping carry some books. How their Little Jessie is already semi-fluent in French. How their Little Jessie is a know-it-all pain in the arse who is likely the most unpopular kid in his or her class who will likely…

Anyway.

It is likely the endless talk of Little Jessie growing up is why my mind drifts to thoughts of Paige… and Richard… and… home.

Aside from when I was a kid, I’ve never believed in premonitions or anything like that. Stories of the supernatural are fairy tales that adults tell themselves to make life a little more understandable, or bearable.

Except… those thoughts of childhood and Macklebury appear from nowhere and then, seconds later, my phone starts to buzz. It’s a WhatsApp call and Paige’s name is on the screen.

I feel a chill tickle my spine, even though I’m bundled up in a winter coat and hat. I try to remember the last time Paige and I spoke to each other but there’s no specific occasion that springs to mind. It would be at least five years. There have been messages back and forth in that time – but never anything more substantial than a brief ‘happy new year’, or ‘happy birthday’. I doubt there would have even been that if it wasn’t for Facebook’s know-all algorithms spewing out notifications every time someone gets a bit older.

I do the mental arithmetic without thinking: it’s a little after ten in the morning here in a chilly Toronto, which means it’s three in the afternoon back in the UK.

Even seeing her name after all this time somehow lets me know that the reason she’s calling won’t be anything good. I could ignore it and go on with my life… except I don’t.

Paige sounds hesitant when I answer the phone and say her name. She replies with a ‘Harry’ but there’s a croak to her voice and then a second or two of quiet.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

There are a good twenty people waiting in line along the front of the restaurant and it feels as if everyone has fallen silent as my question goes momentarily unanswered.

‘Are you still in Canada?’

‘Yes. Where are you?’

Another pause. I’m a few blocks from the public square of Yonge–Dundas, with its huge billboard on one side and mall entrance on the other. There should be a buzz of traffic and people, even on a Sunday morning, and yet everything is silent. Even the scrapes of cutlery on plate from inside the restaurant have shrunk to nothing.

‘When did you last talk to Richard?’

I puff out a breath and the cold spirals away into nothingness.

‘A few months back? Maybe a year? He texted after they announced the World Cup was going to be over here. We said something about sorting out tickets if England end up playing in the city but left it at that.’

There’s another hesitation, perhaps because football has never been something in which Richard or I was interested. I thought it was a strange message at the time and it was a couple of weeks later when I wondered if he was simply after someone to talk to.

‘He’s been arrested,’ Paige says.

‘Arrested?’

The ‘Little Jessie’ couple behind are definitely listening in now. The guy inclines his head towards me, while the woman leans in a little. I sense it, rather than see it.

‘I know you’re busy and everything…’ Paige says. ‘I probably shouldn’t ask… I suppose I was just wondering if, um… maybe you could come home…?’

I turn away from the eavesdropping couple and lower my voice.

‘What do you mean arrested?’

‘For murder.’

I hear what she says but it’s as if it’s in another language. It makes sense, except that it doesn’t.

I step out of the line and there’s a second where I wonder whether I’ll be able to get back in if the couple move forward to swallow up my spot.

Nobody likes a queue-jumper.

I take a few more steps along the street, past the door to the restaurant and into the alley that runs along the side. There are overflowing wheelie bins here and a scattered pile of plastics from where someone has gone through to fish out the cans for the recycling refund.

Paige hasn’t spoken again but I can hear her gentle breaths through the phone.

‘What do you mean murder?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. It’s just happened.’

‘There has to be a mistake…?’

I want an instant ‘of course’, except it doesn’t come. It’s like there’s a delay on the line with an old-fashioned transatlantic phone call, except there isn’t.

‘I’m kinda busy with work, um…’ I tail off, unwilling to complete the lie.

There’s something about a childhood best friend that never leaves a person. We move on with new relationships, friends, work colleagues, flings, deep conversations, soulmates. We can get married, divorced and remarried. We have kids and pets. We travel the world and see things we’ll never forget.

And yet, beyond that, those connections we make when we’re kids feel fixed and permanent.

‘Murder…’ The word sounds unreal from my mouth. ‘Who do they say he killed?’

Paige doesn’t reply right away, as if she’s weighing up the word too.

Murder…

‘It’s complicated,’ she replies eventually. ‘I didn’t know who else to call…’

There’s another little falter to her voice and I’m a teenager again.

I sigh and look up through the small gap between buildings to the hint of the beautiful blue Canadian sky.

I tell her I’ll see what I can do but, in my mind, I’m already on that plane.

It’s around twenty-three hours later that I clamber out of the taxi and breathe Macklebury’s air for the first time in a decade or so. There are no towers here, no life to be lived in perpetual shadow.

There’s sky.

The buildings are no more than a couple of floors high and the blue from above stretches deep into the distance, offering an openness that I’d somehow forgotten existed.

The driver grimaces when I tell him I’ll have to pay on a card. I show him the inside of my wallet, which contains the rainbow of Canadian dollar notes, and say I have no English cash. His frown deepens as he bashes the card machine with the side of his hand and mutters something under his breath. I push in my card and enter my PIN, before waiting for a sputtered receipt. Then I turn and take in the nearly deserted High Street.

It’s the same but different.

The buildings are all in the place I remember but there’s something off. The Lloyds Bank, where I opened my first account when I was sixteen, is now a betting shop. Green’s Newsagent, where I used to eye the top-shelf magazines while pretending to look at comics, has been replaced by a juice bar.

I stare along the street, before spotting the cash machine that’s attached to the nearest Co-Op supermarket. A homeless man is sitting against the wall, with a sleeping bag tucked under his chin. I almost leave my suitcase abandoned on the street before remembering it when I’m already a step away. As I near the machine, he smiles up to me with glazed, unfocused eyes and I do the thing that I think everyone does. I acknowledge him with the merest of nods before ignoring his silent plea as I feed the machine my card. There’s a message about fees and exchange rates but there’s little alternative as I use my credit card to withdraw a wad of notes that I try to hide from the homeless man when I fold them into my wallet.

There are no messages or calls on my phone and it’s only when I look closer that I realise roaming is turned off. It will cost half a house deposit to switch it on but it doesn’t feel as if I have much choice as I toggle the option and then wait for the data bars to appear.

When I call, Paige answers before the phone even rings at my end. She asks where I am and, when I say I’m outside the Co-Op, she says she’ll find me.

I’ve barely been waiting a couple of minutes when there’s the sound of scuffing feet and then I turn to see Paige bustling towards me. She’s in tight jeans and a thin, short jacket, with her hands jammed into the pockets. I blink and we could be teenagers once more. There are a few more lines in the face, perhaps – but she wouldn’t be the only one.

‘You’re going grey,’ she says, as a whisper of a smile flitters across her face.

‘We can’t all dye our hair black.’

The smirk spreads into a grin. ‘I forgot how annoying you are.’ She takes a breath, the smile fading as she adds: ‘I didn’t know if you’d come…’

‘You caught me at a good time with work and everything...’

She waits a beat, wondering if there’s more to come.

‘How was the flight?’ she adds.

A shrug: ‘Long. I can’t sleep on planes; then it was either three trains and a bus to get here, or a taxi. I took the taxi.’

She nods but there’s a part of me that wonders if she’s ever flown that far before. Whenever I think of Paige, I think of this town. It’s hard to picture her anywhere else. Thinking of someone as a small-town guy or girl sounds overbearingly patronising and yet…

We watch one another for a moment before she spins and starts walking along the street. I slot in at her side, the wheels of my suitcase making a steady doof-doof-doof as it bumps across the divots in the pavement.

‘Who are they saying he killed?’ I ask.

‘Mr Wilson.’

It takes me a few seconds to process. It’s a name I’ve not heard, or thought about, for fifteen years or more.

‘Our old head of year?’

‘It was outside The Pines on Saturday night. It was all so messy at first. It’s why I said I’d tell you properly when you got here. I didn’t know at the time.’

It’s a lot of information in one go. I’ve heard of The Pines but it’s misty and distant, a disjointed name, and then the fuzz clears. ‘The hotel?’

‘Right.’

We keep walking for a few more steps and the only sound is my suitcase.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. I saw on Facebook that someone had been killed outside the hotel. You know what it’s like around here – nothing ever happens, so everyone was going crazy. Then people started naming names. Someone said Richard had been arrested. I texted him and didn’t get a reply. I messaged Ollie and he said it was true. That’s when I called you.’

She speaks so quickly and there’s a lot to take in. Meanings within meanings.

When I lived in Macklebury, Facebook wasn’t a thing. Rumours would get around but it was all in hushed tones, with a you’ll never guess what? snidey-ness. Nothing was ever in the open. I’d never considered the clash of twenty-first-century communication with a small-town mentality, but I can feel it in Paige’s clenched-teeth tone. This was no way for her to find out.

The other thing is that Paige messaged Richard’s brother Oliver. Not asked him, she messaged him.

We pass the pub at the end of the High Street and take the corner. It used to be called the Duke of York but is now the Prince of Wales. The scratched window frames have been replaced by shiny, new double-glazing and there’s a board outside advertising that tonight is curry night. We’re past the pub as I remember this is where I bought my first underage drink. I ordered a cider and black because, in my mind, it was more of a grown-up drink than straight cider. Richard got served directly before me and went for a lager-top, because it’s what his dad drank. If our squeaky voices didn’t give our age away, then the fact the landlord knew Richard’s parents should have done. Either that, or the fact we ordered individual drinks and paid with coins.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t know what time you were getting to town,’ Paige replies. ‘Ollie said he’d tell me what happened in person. I was hoping you’d get here before then – and here you are.’

I bite my lip to stop myself from asking the obvious question and we walk for five minutes or so until we reach the gates to Albert Park. A man is leaning against the fence, thumbing his phone before he looks up and notices us. He cranes his neck a fraction when he spots me, then his eyes narrow into a squint.

Some older brothers fit the role almost too well – and Richard’s sibling is definitely one of those. Back at school, Oliver was taller, fitter and stronger than either Richard or me. He was the type who would delight in having more knowledge about almost everything compared to us. Regardless of anything we might have ever experienced, he either did it first, or did it better.

He’s in a big puffy coat, with a navy beanie that’s pulled down over his ears. Despite the padding of his jacket, the way he’s standing tall makes it feel as if he’s still that same athletic know-it-all that he always was.

Oliver looks down, glancing between Paige and me – then he takes in my suitcase – before silently asking for an explanation that sort of comes from Paige.

‘Harry’s back for a bit,’ she says, as if that clarifies everything.

Oliver chews the corner of his mouth, sucking in his cheek, and I can’t read what he’s thinking. Either way, it’s a welcome that befits the bristling, crisp wind.

‘Is it true?’ Paige asks.

‘Mum’s at the police station,’ Oliver replies, looking only at her. ‘Richard’s got some solicitor that Dad knows and they’re trying to straighten it all out.’

‘I don’t understand any of this. Have you seen what people are saying on Facebook?’

Oliver’s features harden. When he speaks, his lips barely move. ‘I told you to stay off that nonsense.’

‘I was only trying to find out what was going on.’

He pauses a second, still not happy. ‘The police got permission to keep Rich for longer, so they can hold him for up to four days now. We thought he might’ve been released tonight without that.’

‘What actually happened?’

‘I only know what Mum says. Apparently, Wilson was stabbed in that alley at the side of The Pines. It was a single wound to the heart and he died instantly.’

‘But why do they think it’s Richard?’

‘I don’t know. Mum said the police arrested him at his flat yesterday. He let them in to do a search, which she reckons will look good because he was cooperating. She thinks they might have to go back again.’

‘What did the police take?’

‘No idea. I’ve never been in his flat. You know what he’s like: I don’t think even Mum has a key for the place.’

Paige opens her mouth but then closes it, before glancing away. It’s only a moment – but it’s more than enough.

When we were young, Paige would say that her best clothes were in the wash to explain the rips in her school tights. The bruises on her arms would be countertops she walked into. That glance away would always tell its own story.

Oliver sees it, too. He leans in, lowering himself slightly so that he’s closer to our height.

‘You have a key…?’

Paige shrugs. ‘It was for emergencies.’

Creases carve their way into Oliver’s forehead, which says more than his words. Paige seems emboldened.

‘You don’t have to make that face,’ she adds forcefully.

‘What face?’

‘Just because we broke up, it doesn’t mean I’m shagging your brother.’

Oliver’s eyes dart towards me and then away again. He steps backwards, the conversation seemingly over.

‘You’re still my wife,’ he says firmly.

Paige doesn’t hesitate before firing back. ‘Not for much longer.’

Paige quickens her pace as we walk away from the park and head towards the outskirts of Macklebury. If a faster speed means a darker mood, then she’s furious.

I keep close, unsure where we’re going until I see the sign for The Pines. When it was built, the hotel would have been majestic and luxurious. I can’t say for sure but it’s likely it would have been the grandest building in the town. There are wide, stone pillars, with a long bank of windows that stretch across the front of the stone walls. At its best, it would have been a sandy-coloured version of the White House.

Now, after years of neglect, the bricks have turned a grimy grey and there’s a string of unkempt ivy eating at one of the corners. A section of guttering has slipped from the roof and is hanging diagonally. Perhaps worse than any of that, the lettering on the sign has been scratched away, meaning we’re now standing in front of The Pies.

‘What are we doing here?’ I ask. They’re the first words I’ve said since Oliver climbed into his car and Paige set off at speed.

Paige puffs a deep breath, which is when I realise I’m gasping, too. The air is stiff and my face is tingling.

‘Thinking,’ she says, cryptically. She stands on the spot near the sign for a few seconds before turning in a full circle and then heading back the way we came.

I follow her around towards the alley at the side, where there is blue and white police tape stretched across the entrance. There is no one else in sight and, for a moment, I think Paige is going to duck under. Instead, she retraces our steps for a little longer and then follows a network of cut-throughs until we end up in a crumbling car park at the back of the hotel. Spindly, bare tree branches sway low to the ground, with a dusting of frost clinging to the shadows as Paige walks with purpose towards the side of the hotel that’s closest to the taped-off alley.

The wheels on my suitcase bump angrily across the potholes, making so much of a rumble that I feel certain everyone within a half-mile radius must be aware of my presence.

Paige stops to wait for me as she nears a small pagoda that sits near a back door to the hotel. There’s a sense that she’s been here before as she folds her arms, before nodding across to a guy in an apron who’s smoking underneath the cover. He’s flicking ash with one hand, while scrolling on his phone with the other. Smokers have always been the ultimate multi-taskers.

‘Minimum-wage smokers are always the people who know what’s going on,’ she says, making it sound so obvious that it’s as if this fact is something we learned in school.

‘Do you know him?’ I ask.

Paige shakes her head with a disdain I’d forgotten she could have. The sort of expression that could – and seemingly can – make me feel as if I’m a raging idiot of Piers Morgan proportions.

I hadn’t realised it was such a silly question but, as they start talking, I quickly remember the difference between living in a big city and living in a small town. There’s a paradox in that cities are crammed with people – and yet anonymity is the default. Nobody particularly wants to be bothered by anyone else, even though there’s a constant parade of people who could do the bothering.

In a place like Macklebury, there’s more space and much fewer people – but there’s a shared life. Everyone went to the same school. Everyone takes the same buses and shops in the same places. We were taught by the same people, got drunk in the same pubs, and grew up hanging around the same market square in town.

A person doesn’t have to be known to be known.

Paige is already in the process of lighting a bummed cigarette as I sidle up and hang around like a husband standing outside a shoe shop.

‘…should’ve seen the state of them,’ the guy in the apron says. He can’t be much older than his early twenties. At least ten years younger than Paige or me.

‘The teachers?’ Paige replies.

‘Aye. I’d rather be dead than that embarrassing. Imagine getting that pissed when you’re that old.’

Paige angles the cigarette across to me. ‘This is Harry,’ she says, before nodding to the guy in the apron. ‘Luke says there was a teachers’ reunion party at the hotel on Saturday night.’

Luke gives the merest of head bobs and then continues. ‘They were doing karaoke pretty much all night. Old farts getting up and singing these songs you’ve never heard of before. Really ancient stuff.’

‘Like what?’

A puff of smoke swirls into the air. ‘I dunno. Someone said it was stuff from the eighties.’

I see the smile appear and disappear from Paige’s face with such speed that it’s as if it was never there. Luke sees it too. He coughs a laugh and then has another puff on the cigarette. He knows what he’s doing.

‘What happened with the guy who died?’ she asks.

Luke takes a couple of seconds, eyeing up the pair of us before apparently deciding he has nothing to lose.

‘Some sort of barney,’ he says. ‘I was carrying trays and this teacher guy – the one who was killed – was arguing with this other bloke. It’s the one they arrested. The teacher guy was laughing in the other one’s face – and then the younger one threw a punch that missed. A whole bunch of people rushed in to separate them after that. The younger guy was shouting threats, saying he was gonna kill him – and then the manager threw him out.’ Luke takes a breath and then adds: ‘Big bloke, my boss. If he throws you out, you stay thrown.’

Paige nods along, taking it in as she has a couple of puffs on the cigarette. There’s a moment when I think she might offer it to me but, instead, she simply switches it from one hand to the other. I might as well not be he. . .