The Reunion

by M.J. Arlidge, Steph Broadribb

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

THERE ARE MORE THAN JUST SECRETS BURIED IN THESE WALLS

It's the day of the demolition at White Cross Academy, and a crowd of former pupils and teachers have gathered to watch. But as the final charges are laid in the basement, the crew make a shocking discovery - a human skull.

Former student DI Jennie Whitmore is assigned to the case, her first big murder investigation and one where there can be no room for mistakes. The remains are identified as Hannah Jennings, a popular, but troubled classmate who went missing during her lower Sixth year.

As news of the body's discovery soon leaks, the small town erupts with intrigue, conspiracy and accusation. Jennie now finds herself at the heart of the storm, tasked with making up for the failings of the initial investigation to ensure that justice is finally done. At the centre is Hannah's five closest friends who used the basement as a base for the photography club.

Jennie knows many of the suspects personally and she is convinced that one of this group of five knows the truth about what happened to the wilful, beguiling teenager. As Jennie unearths secrets buried deep, and lies repeatedly told, the assembled friends must reassess their past, before confronting the terrible realisation that one amongst them would rather kill to protect their new life, than pay for the sins of their teenage years.

A twisty thriller for readers who enjoyed Sharon Bolton's THE PACT, Lisa Jewell's THEN SHE WAS GONE and Claire Douglas's THE GIRLS WHO DISAPPEARED.

Release date: September 5, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 304

Sample

It’s almost time.

Jennie Whitmore pulls her rucksack towards her across the faded pink duvet on her single bed. This is her last chance to spot anything important she might have missed. She counts the basics: underwear, T-shirts, leggings. Then goes through her absolute essentials: Nirvana sweatshirt, acid-wash jeans, velvet blazer dress, red Converse, make-up, skin care. There’s only one more item to add.

She takes her most prized possession from the bedside cabinet. The second-hand Nikon SLR camera might be a few years old, and a little battered around the casing, but it’s the last birthday gift her dad gave her before he died, and she can’t leave it behind. Carefully, Jennie places the camera into its padded travel case, and packs it into the top of her rucksack. It’s a tight squeeze, but she manages to make it work and pulls the drawstring cord tight before buckling down the rucksack’s top flap.

Jennie checks her watch; it’s almost ten o’clock and she needs to get going. She hurries to the bookcase and takes a dog-eared hardback of War and Peace from the bottom shelf. She pauses before opening it, looking at the five brightly coloured 18th birthday cards that line the top shelf. There’s one from each of her friends but nothing from Mum. Jennie’s birthday was almost two weeks ago now, but her own mother still hasn’t remembered.

Opening War and Peace reveals a hole cut out from the pages; it’s the only hiding space that’s ever managed to thwart Mum when she’s on the rampage searching for more booze money. The roll of notes totals nearly three hundred pounds; the wages she’s saved from her after-school job washing up at the Cross Keys. Saved for this moment. Jennie removes her money from its hiding place and tucks it into her purse.

Heart in her mouth, Jennie laces up her Doc Martens, pulls on her denim jacket, and swings her rucksack over one shoulder. She moves towards the door, pausing as she reaches it to take a final look around her bedroom. Kurt Cobain, Madonna, and Soundgarden look down from the posters Blu-Tacked to the wall behind her bed. Their cool clothes and enigmatic stares seem to challenge her to be brave. To finally get out of this hellhole. This place has always seemed like a stopgap, never a real home.

I’m ready now.

It’s time.

Jennie creeps down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. Maureen Whitmore is sprawled on the sagging brown sofa, snoring loudly. One arm is draped across her stomach, clutching a nearly finished bottle of cheap gin. The other has flopped off the sofa, her fingers almost touching the two three-litre bottles of White Lightning lying empty on the floor.

Jennie tries not to feel angry that her mum has become like this, that the happy, laughter-filled family she used to be part of is now a distant memory. The news reports had called Frank Whitmore a heroic photojournalist, the man who captured many iconic and harrowing pictures of human conflict. But to her, he was simply Dad: the dad who wore a clown costume and juggled at her seventh birthday party; the dad who made chocolate pancakes with extra sprinkles for breakfast on Sundays; and the dad who taught her how to load a camera and frame a shot. She knows her experience isn’t unique. There have been many casualties on all sides of the Bosnian war and her dad was just one of them. But when the IED detonated beneath the jeep he and his colleague were travelling in, it had torn Jennie’s life apart too.

The cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimes ten times. She needs to go. Pushing away sad thoughts of the past, Jennie moves quickly across the lounge to the front door. She won’t miss this drab house with its ever-present smell of damp and the hideous Seventies décor. She won’t miss the anxiety she’s felt every day on the way home from school, dreading what state she’ll find Mum in. Jennie won’t miss feeling like she’s the parent rather than the child.

Because her life is about to change. After all their planning and saving, she’s running away to London with her best friend, her heart sister – Hannah. Two girls taking on the big city. They’re taking charge of their lives and making their dreams into a reality. The rest of her life starts right now.

Jennie’s heart is racing as adrenaline buzzes through her. She can’t believe she’s actually doing this. It’s really happening.

She takes a deep breath, and whispers, ‘Bye, Mum.’

Then she slips through the front door, closing it softly behind her.

Head down against the rain, Jennie hurries along the lane to the main road. It’s dark and the streetlights are spaced far apart, making it hard to spot the puddles. She squints through the downpour, doing her best to keep away from the kerb and the spray from the cars that whoosh past. The dampness seeps through her jacket and water drips off her hair but she doesn’t care. Any amount of discomfort will be worth it when they get to London.

She checks her watch again; it’s five past ten. The walk would usually take just over half an hour but she needs to do it in twenty. The night bus leaves at twenty to eleven but she promised to get there early.

Picking up her pace, Jennie follows the main road into town. The rain is getting worse and thunder rumbles overhead. She flinches as lightning flashes above the hillside beyond the town, briefly illuminating the ancient 85-foot-high chalk cross carved into it, the white cross that gave the town its name.

Refusing to be deterred, Jennie hurries on. As she passes the Cross Keys pub, laughter from inside leaches out through the open windows. Jennie knows from working in the kitchen that the main bar has sport on the telly every evening – football, boxing, whatever is going on that day. A loud cheer goes up and there’s the sound of pints being clinked together.

Moments later there’s a loud wolf whistle behind her and she hears a bloke shout out the pub window, ‘Hey, wait up, sweetheart, what’s the big hurry?’

Ignoring him, Jennie presses on to the bus stop. Stepping inside the wooden shelter, she shakes the worst of the rain from her jacket and pushes her rain-sodden fringe out of her eyes as she searches for Hannah.

The time they’d arranged to meet comes and goes. Jennie checks her watch but isn’t super worried; Hannah generally has a relaxed approach to timekeeping, so a couple of minutes late is nothing unusual. But as more minutes pass, anxiety starts fluttering in her chest.

She is coming, isn’t she?

The rain becomes torrential. Jennie checks her watch for the second time in less than a minute. She moves from one foot to the other, feeling increasingly agitated.

Where is Hannah? She said she’d be here. She promised me.

Five minutes pass. Then another five.

A roar goes up from inside the pub. Another goal scored, no doubt.

Jennie sees the lights of the night bus approaching. She glances down the street, looking for Hannah, but the pavements are empty.

Has something happened? Did Hannah’s dad ground her? Has she got into an accident on the way here? Please don’t let her be hurt.

The bus is fifty yards away, then twenty.

Jennie feels as if she might be sick.

I can’t go back home. There’s no way. But I can’t leave without Hannah. We made each other a promise – the two of us together, always and forever.

Making a decision, Jennie steps out of the shelter with her hand up. The bus indicates and slows to a stop beside her.

Maybe Hannah got on at an earlier stop because of the rain?

The doors swing open and Jennie steps up into the bus. She scans the seats, looking for her friend. The bus is almost empty; there’s a loved-up couple snogging, a disapproving-looking middle-aged woman with a bedraggled-terrier on her lap, and a couple of blokes who look a bit worse for wear. Jennie’s heart sinks as she takes in the last few vacant seats at the back of the single-decker. Hannah’s not here.

This is wrong. It’s all going wrong. Where is she?

‘You staying or going, love?’ says the bus driver, a kindly-looking man in his fifties.

Jennie tries to swallow down her fear. She tastes bile on her tongue. ‘I … my friend was meant to be getting the bus too but she’s not here yet.’

The driver taps his fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Sorry, love. I’m on a schedule. Can’t wait all night.’

Should I go? Should I stay?

I can’t do this without Hannah. It’s meant to be our adventure.

‘I …’ Tears prick at Jennie’s eyes as she steps back down onto the pavement.

Why isn’t Hannah here?

Why didn’t she come like she promised?

The bus pulls away, leaving Jennie standing at the side of the road in the pouring rain.

Alone.

This is a bad idea.

As she climbs the steep woodland trail towards the top of White Cross Hill, Jennie trips over a rogue tree root and curses her decision to come here. Dusk is morphing into night and the beam of her phone’s torch is doing a poor job of lighting the dirt path beneath the ancient oak, pine and silver birch trees. Their gnarled and twisted trunks loom up out of the darkness like woody spectres.

A dry branch snaps beneath her trainers and Jennie leaps forward, her heart pounding.

Get a grip. It’s just a twig.

Thirty years ago, she’d known this route like the back of her hand. These woods were once her favourite place to photograph, and the top of the hill, marked by the 85-foot-high white chalk cross, was party central for all the kids who went to White Cross Academy. Jennie shakes her head. It’s been thirty years since she took a proper photograph and it feels almost as long since she went to a party.

The summit’s not far and as she gets closer, Jennie hears Duran Duran’s ‘Ordinary World’ playing somewhere up ahead. Slowing her pace, she pushes the fringe of her shoulder-length black hair out of her eyes and smooths her T-shirt down over the waistband of her jeans. She hopes she looks at least half decent.

Reaching the edge of the treeline Jennie flinches as a sudden blast of laughter cuts through the darkness, causing the birds roosting in the tree above her to take flight. She can hear the sound of people talking now as well as the music. Her stomach flips and she wonders if it’s too late to back out.

She hates parties. Why the hell did she say yes to this one?

Nostalgia. Betrayal. Regret.

When she’d first seen Lottie Varney’s post on the Class of ’94 Facebook group she’d scrolled past, not wanting the memories of that time in her life to come flooding back. But something about learning that her old school was going to be demolished and a shiny new apartment block erected in its place stayed in her mind, even though she’d only attended the school for the last year of sixth form. After thirty-six hours, she’d searched for Lottie’s post – an invitation to an impromptu reunion up here where they’d partied as schoolkids – and marked herself as attending.

She regrets it now, of course.

As she reaches the summit, the ground levels out and Jennie gets her first glimpse of the party. It’s far grander than she’d envisaged. Huge flaming torches are staked into the ground every few metres forming a large square party space. Groundsheets, blankets and cushions are spread artfully across the grass. Two trestle tables have been joined to form a makeshift bar laden with bottles nestling in enormous buckets of ice.

The party is already in full swing, with people silhouetted in the torchlight chatting and drinking. Jennie smells the unmistakable scent of weed and hears the braying laughter of Lorraine Chester, the ringleader of the mean girls.

This is definitely a bad idea.

Joining the sixth form for the final year hadn’t been easy. Jennie had been wrenched from Solihull High School in Birmingham and inserted into White Cross Academy. There might have only been seventy-nine miles separating the two places, but from the way Lorraine Chester and her bitchy friends treated Jennie, she might as well have been an alien. They laughed at her Brummie accent, mocked her fashion sense and, when she tried to ignore their taunts and jibes, upped their bullying game and got physical.

Jennie grimaces. Why the hell would she ever want to see people like Lorraine Chester again? She’s lived here in White Cross for the past thirty years and has managed to avoid them. There’s no sense in changing that now.

As her nerve fails her, Jennie turns away.

‘Jennie? Jennie Whitmore? Is that you?’

Jennie freezes. The woman’s voice is both a blast from the past and unfamiliar. Turning back towards the party, Jennie sees Lottie Varney hurrying across the grass towards her. She looks older than when they last met, but that was years ago, and her blonde hair is poker-straight and parted in the middle, rather than permed as it was back in sixth form. She’s still petite with a ballerina’s poise, and she looks expensive in the black Dior cocktail dress and spike-heeled sandals. Jennie has no idea how she’s able to walk on grass in them, or how she’s managed to hike up the hill for that matter.

‘Hi.’

‘Oh my God, it is you!’ says Lottie, reaching Jennie and pulling her into a hug. ‘It’s been forever. I’m so glad you made it.’

Jennie feels awkward. What do you say to someone you used to be friends with but haven’t seen in nearly thirty years? There’s no rulebook for this, not given their history. ‘I just—’

‘Come and get a drink,’ says Lottie, taking Jennie’s arm and leading her into the torchlit area. ‘And then I want to know everything that’s going on with you.’

Jennie realises resistance is futile. Resolving to have one drink and then leave, she follows Lottie across to the makeshift bar. Duran Duran’s slow-tempo song transitions into Corona’s ‘The Rhythm of the Night’ dance track and Jennie feels her mood lift a little. She recognises a few people as they pass them. Johnny Mackenzie, the top scorer in the school football team, who looks greyer but as athletic as ever. Polly Bisley, the maths genius, who barely looks a day older than she did in sixth form. And the Winkleman twins, Carl and Daisy, who Jennie’s shocked to see are still wearing colour co-ordinated outfits.

‘Here we go,’ says Lottie as they reach the bar. ‘What’s your poison?’

Jennie looks at what’s on offer in the buckets of ice. There’s Smirnoff Ice, Hooper’s Hooch, pre-mixed Archers and lemonade, and several buckets overflowing with Bud Light. She hesitates. There don’t seem to be any soft drinks and she’s never been a big drinker. ‘I—’

‘Fun, aren’t they?’ says Lottie, her overzealous expression only rivalled by the whiteness of her teeth. ‘I thought it would be nice to have retro drinks, you know, like we had back in the day?’

Jennie nods. She feels dull, lethargic even, standing next to Lottie and her megawatt smile. If she’s going to survive this party, she’s going to need some help. Forcing a smile, Jennie reaches into the closest bucket and takes a bottle.

‘Smirnoff, great choice,’ says Lottie. She grabs a bottle for herself, removes the cap and then passes the bottle opener to Jennie. Lottie clinks her bottle against Jennie’s. ‘To friends reunited.’

Jennie forces another smile. ‘To friends.’

‘So tell me, what have you been up to all these years?’ says Lottie. ‘You know I married Nathan? When we met at Exeter in freshers’ week I just knew he was the one straight away. And I was so right. He’s a sweetheart and he’s doing brilliantly in his career. I mean, I know people don’t like bankers very much, but the perks are just phenomenal and the quality of life we have makes it all so worth it.’

Jennie nods along. It’s clear she’d have no hope of getting a word in even if she wanted to. Instead, she drinks the Smirnoff as quickly as she can without seeming rude. Once the bottle’s empty she’ll make her excuses and leave.

‘So, we’re out in Upper Heydon now,’ continues Lottie. ‘It’s only four miles from here, but so much easier for the school run to Stockley House. Octavia, our eldest, started there last autumn, and Anthony and Katelyn are down for places when they leave Bassington Prep. They’re supposed to take the entrance exam too, of course, but the bursar says it’s really just a formality.’

‘Sounds great,’ says Jennie, taking another swig of Smirnoff and taking a quick glance over Lottie’s shoulder to see if there’s anyone else here she recognises. She’s hoping, and yet also fearing, that Hannah might have come, that this reunion might have lured her closest friend back to White Cross. That this might be the day Jennie finds out why Hannah abandoned her all those years ago.

Lottie doesn’t seem to notice as she continues her monologue. ‘Oh, and we have ponies now. Ponies! Of course everyone does really, these days, so it’s no big thing, but Octavia is a such a keen horsewoman and her trainer tells us she has the most wonderful natural talent for it. It’s so important to encourage your kids to follow their passions, don’t you think?’

Jennie doesn’t have kids and she’s never wanted them. She’s not sure how to answer. After all, it’s not as if her own mum ever encouraged her in anything. ‘I—’

‘Oh look, there’s Elliott,’ says Lottie, waving frantically. ‘Elliott, over here!’

Jennie turns to see Elliott Naylor walking towards them from the other side of the torchlit area. She hasn’t seen him in years but aside from a few fine lines around his eyes and a smattering of grey in his otherwise black hair, he looks just as she remembers. She’s relieved he’s dressed as casually as she is, rather than in full glam mode like Lottie. His dark blue jeans, checked Superdry shirt and Converse trainers don’t look that different from what he used to wear, but his glasses are stylish black Gucci frames rather than the round John Lennons he wore at school.

‘Hey,’ says Elliott. He air kisses Lottie on both cheeks and then grins at Jennie, his voice sounding as if he can’t quite believe she’s there. ‘Jennie Whitmore? Wow. It’s great to see you.’

Jennie feels her face flush. Elliott’s always had this effect on her, even though she knows he’s gay. ‘It’s good to see you too.’

Elliott gestures towards her bottle of Smirnoff. ‘Another?’

‘Please,’ says Jennie. Anything to stop feeling so awkward.

‘Good idea,’ says Lottie, putting her hand on Elliott’s arm and giving it a squeeze. ‘Thanks, darling.’

As Elliott heads to the bar, Jennie manages to get a question in. ‘There are so many people from school here. You must be in touch with loads of our year group?’

Lottie gives a little smile, clearly pleased with the compliment. ‘I’m only in contact with them through the Class of ’94 Facebook group really, although I catch up with Elliott and Rob from time to time.’

Rob Marwood was another of their friendship group. Super intelligent, but under a lot of pressure from his parents to get the best grades at every subject, Rob could be funny, moody, and rather off-the-wall. He was obsessed with Flatliners and wore a big grey coat like the one Kiefer Sutherland had in the film, even in the height of summer. When he’d told them he was applying to study medicine at uni, Jennie had been pretty sure he’d made his career choice based on that film.

‘Is Rob coming?’ asks Jennie, although what she really wants to ask is whether Hannah’s coming tonight and whether Lottie has had any contact with her.

Lottie shakes her head. ‘No, he’s on another one of his luxury holidays. Jammy git, he’s always off somewhere exotic or other. I suppose that’s one of the perks being a super successful anaesthesiologist.’

‘Here you go,’ says Elliott, returning from the bar and handing both Jennie and Lottie a cold Smirnoff. ‘You talking about Rob?’

‘Of course,’ Lottie replies, rolling her eyes, but smiling with it. ‘It must be tough having all that money to spend.’

Elliott shrugs. ‘We’re not doing so bad ourselves, and money isn’t everything, is it, Jennie?’

She opens her mouth to agree, but Lottie cuts her off.

‘So says the man who just finished renovating an old chapel into a home. I drove past it the other day on the way to hot yoga. That place must have cost you a fortune.’

‘Not a fortune, but it was a bit of a stretch.’ Elliott looks bashful. ‘We felt it was important that the restoration was done as sympathetically as possible. It’s our home now, and we wanted the community to be happy with what we’d done.’

‘Where is it?’ asks Jennie, taking a sip of her drink.

‘In Whitchurch,’ says Elliott. ‘The station is just a couple of minutes’ walk away, so it’s handy for travelling to work. And Luke, my husband, works from home, so he can live anywhere.’

‘Nice,’ says Jennie. Whitchurch, a small town about fifteen miles away, is one of the most sought-after and expensive places in the area.

‘And how’s baby?’ says Lottie. ‘How long is it now?’

Elliott grins. ‘Just over a month. We’re so excited, but nervous too. There seems so much to prepare. Every time I come home from the lab Luke has ordered a whole load more baby stuff.’

‘Congratulations,’ says Jennie. She imagines Elliott will be an amazing dad. ‘I’m really happy for you.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ He holds her gaze and reaches out to give her hand a squeeze. ‘It really is great to see you, Jennie.’

‘It is,’ says Lottie, the over-brightness of her voice seemingly at odds with the rictus smile on her face. ‘It’s been so long. What happened to you, Jennie? It seemed like you just vanished after we got our A level results.’

Jennie drops her eyes to hide her anger and discomfort. That’s not how she remembers it at all. At first, after Hannah had disappeared, she’d joined forces with Lottie and they’d spent hours together designing and photocopying ‘missing’ posters. They’d gone around town putting them up in shops and on community noticeboards and lampposts. They’d even spent a couple of weeks posting them through as many letterboxes as they could. But nothing had worked. And when, almost a month later, an eyewitness came forward saying they’d seen Hannah at the train station the night she disappeared, the police decided that Hannah was just another teenage runaway fleeing a troubled home.

The news had broken Jennie. She’d been certain Hannah had been taken against her will, that she had been on the way to meet her at the bus stop as they’d planned. That she’d never leave her without saying goodbye. When the evidence disproved that, Jennie’s world imploded. She started to believe that maybe Hannah had chosen to leave without her, and she couldn’t cope. The rest of the summer passed in a daze of grief and self-imposed isolation. She barely got out of bed and she listened to Metallica’s Black Album, especial. . .