In Her Shadow Read online

  ALSO BY MARK EDWARDS

  The Magpies

  Kissing Games

  What You Wish For

  Because She Loves Me

  Follow You Home

  The Devil’s Work

  The Lucky Ones

  The Retreat

  A Murder of Magpies

  WITH LOUISE VOSS

  Forward Slash

  Killing Cupid

  Catch Your Death

  All Fall Down

  From the Cradle

  The Blissfully Dead

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Mark Edwards

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503948082

  ISBN-10: 1503948080

  Cover design by Ghost Design

  Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PART TWO

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Free Short Sharp Shockers Box Set

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  The moment Jessica reached her daughter’s classroom door, Mrs Rose leaned out and said the phrase Jessica dreaded more than any other.

  ‘Can I have a word, please?’

  They were only six weeks into the school year – the all-important reception year – and Olivia had turned four at the end of August, making her one of the youngest children in the class. For the first few weeks she had clung to her mother every morning, refused to speak to the teachers, cried when she was picked up and generally made Jessica feel like she was evil for leaving her in this place five days a week. But then Olivia had suddenly settled down, appeared even to enjoy going to school. It had been such a relief.

  But the tone of Mrs Rose’s voice, the slightly nervous look in her eye, suggested something had changed.

  Jessica entered the classroom and waved at Olivia, who was sitting on the carpet with the other kids, wide-eyed and pretty, with all that red hair that she had inherited from Jessica. While she waited for the last few kids to be collected, Jessica looked around at the paintings on the wall, the collage of all the children in the class – Olivia smiling angelically – and the ‘behaviour balloons’. Green, yellow and red, like traffic lights. Name labels were attached to the balloons, a great cluster on green, none on red and one on yellow, which signified a warning.

  Olivia’s name.

  What had she done?

  The classroom assistant, Mr Cameron, a lanky guy who was around Jessica’s age, gave Jessica a sympathetic smile that made her worry even more.

  ‘Why don’t you take Olivia over to the reading corner?’ Mrs Rose suggested when all the other children were gone, and Mr Cameron took Olivia’s hand and led her to an area filled with beanbags and books. Jessica watched her daughter settle down with Mog on Fox Night, the classroom assistant pointing at the pictures and immediately drawing Olivia into the story.

  ‘She loves books,’ Jessica said as Mrs Rose took a seat on a tiny chair that made her look like Alice after she’d consumed the ‘Eat Me’ cake. Jessica sat down too. Nichola Rose, who was fast approaching retirement, had been a teacher in Beckenham for forty years, most of that time spent here at Foxgrove Primary. She had taught both Jessica and her sister, Isabel, when they were at infant school back in the eighties. And though Mrs Rose looked a lot different these days, facing her across the little table threw Jessica back in time to her own childhood. She had been Jessica Brooks then. Jessica and Isabel Brooks, briefly and excruciatingly famous.

  ‘We had a little bit of an incident with Olivia today,’ Mrs Rose said, pulling Jessica – now Jessica Gardner – back to the present.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m afraid Olivia got into a fight with another girl.’

  Jessica thought she must have misheard. ‘A fight?’

  Mrs Rose held up a hand. ‘Okay, perhaps “fight” is the wrong word. A quarrel. It was at break time. Olivia was playing on the bikes . . .’ She nodded in the direction of the playground. Jessica had seen the bikes – actually, trikes – in question. Small and yellow with no pedals, the children scooted them along the ground. ‘We encourage the children to take turns and Olivia had been on one for a while. This other little girl asked Olivia if she could have a go and Olivia refused. Mr Cameron was supervising them and when he told Olivia that it was someone else’s turn, Olivia got very cross.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She kicked the bike over and told the other girl she was a poohead.’

  Jessica just about managed to suppress a laugh. Mrs Rose, though, wasn’t amused.

  ‘The other little girl was very upset.’

  ‘I can imagine. But it sounds like pretty normal four-year-old behaviour,’ Jessica said. ‘Squabbling over toys. Calling each other silly names. It’s not like she punched her and told her to eff off.’

  Mrs Rose pursed her lips.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll have a word with her,’ Jessica said, cringing. ‘Tell her it’s unacceptable.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, the problem is, this is just the latest in a series of incidents.’

  Jessica had been about to haul herself off the tiny chair. Now her attention snapped back to Mrs Rose. ‘Really?’

  Mrs Rose nodded. ‘None of them serious. Just little things. Refusing to share. Not doing what she’s asked to do first time.’

  ‘Why did nobody speak to me about this?’

  ‘I assumed your husband would. I had a word with him a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jessica felt her cheeks colour. Will hadn’t said anything but, rather than admit this, she said, ‘Actually, he did mention it. Sorry, I forgot. But . . . maybe you could remind me?’

  Mrs Rose gave her a tight smile. ‘Just little thing
s. Not listening or cooperating. Being reluctant to put her coat on at the end of the day. Snatching toys from other children.’

  ‘She has only just turned four,’ Jessica pointed out.

  ‘I know. And I realise children are expected to do a lot these days. I just wanted you to be aware, so we can all work together.’

  Jessica had to stop herself from saying, ‘Yes, Mrs Rose.’ Instead she said, ‘I’ll talk to Olivia and remind her about the importance of sharing and how we shouldn’t call each other names. And I’ll also remind her that she needs to do as she’s told at school.’

  Jessica went to get up, but the teacher cleared her throat.

  ‘There’s one more thing.’

  Oh God, now what? Jessica sat back down. She glanced over at Olivia, who was still happily listening to Mr Cameron read the Mog book.

  ‘I’m not sure if I should mention it,’ Mrs Rose said.

  ‘Well, you have to tell me now.’

  The teacher flicked her gaze towards Olivia, just for a second. ‘This morning, I asked Olivia to sit with me to practise her numeracy and she completely ignored me. When I asked her again, she looked me in the eye and said, “Izzy doesn’t want me to.”’

  Jessica stared at her.

  ‘I asked her if she was playing a game and she gave me this look, as if I was crazy. Then she said, “Izzy thinks numeracy is boring.” I told her that it isn’t boring, that it’s a lot of fun.’

  ‘Izzy thinks?’

  Mrs Rose nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. We’ve had a lot of imaginary friends visit the classroom over the years. But I wondered if Izzy was on her mind for any reason?’

  Jessica thought about it. ‘No. I mean, we talk about Isabel at home. Olivia knows who she is. Was.’ She swallowed, then a memory came back to her. ‘I think I know what it is. My mum was saying last week how much Olivia reminds her of Isabel. Olivia must have overheard.’

  ‘That must be it,’ said Mrs Rose, pushing herself to a standing position. She looked sad and Jessica wondered if she was remembering when Izzy was a little girl. ‘Your mum has said the same thing to me, in fact.’

  Jessica sometimes forgot that Mrs Rose had known her mum for a long time and that they often chatted at the school gates when Mum picked up Olivia.

  ‘I’ll talk to her about her behaviour,’ Jessica said as Olivia ran over to her, avoiding Mrs Rose’s eye and frowning. It was funny – when Olivia pursed her lips like that, she really did look like the aunt she’d never known. If behaviour balloons had been around in Izzy’s day, she’d have spent a lot of time on yellow. Even red, occasionally – unlike Jessica, who would always have remained on green.

  But being a handful at primary school hadn’t done Izzy any harm, had it? She was the successful sister, the businesswoman, the one Mum was most proud of.

  The star who had burned brightly – but all too briefly.

  Olivia was silent all the way home, resisting Jessica’s efforts to draw her into a conversation. The poor thing was undoubtedly distressed by what had happened at school. But Jessica couldn’t stop thinking about what Mrs Rose had said.

  Looking at her daughter in the rear-view mirror, Jessica said, in her gentlest voice, ‘Why did you say numeracy was boring, sweetheart?’

  No response.

  ‘Livvy?’

  Olivia shut her eyes and appeared to nod off. Was she faking it? Jessica would have to remember that trick herself next time her own mother started going on about whatever bee was in her bonnet.

  She decided not to tell Mum about what Olivia had said. She didn’t want to put any crazy ideas into her head. For Mum, almost five years after Izzy’s death, the pain was as acute as ever, while for Jessica what had once been a sharp agony had dimmed to a dull ache: a chronic condition that she had learned to live with.

  Her thoughts stayed on Mum, remembering a couple of errands she’d promised to run for her, and that led her mind back to the list that lived in her head, the Ever-Expanding To-Do List, all the tedious responsibilities that went along with being a mother, wife and daughter. All the things she had to do for other people, never for herself. Sometimes she fantasised about ripping the list up and replacing it with a single selfish action point: Fuck off to Greece.

  It was raining, and she sighed as the windscreen wipers mocked her dreams, squeaking against the glass. Olivia was genuinely asleep now, head lolling forward. Great – she wouldn’t be tired at bedtime.

  Jessica passed the Crystal Palace training ground and the vast soft-play centre that Olivia loved. Familiar streets, and not just because she was raising a family here. She had grown up in Beckenham and, apart from her years at Manchester University and a short stint in central London, she had always lived here. When they were teenagers, she and Izzy had sworn that the moment they were old enough they would escape this ‘boring dump’. They were going to move to New York and live in an apartment just like the one in Friends. But here she was, back in Beckenham.

  Jessica turned on to the new-build estate where she lived with Will, Olivia and Felix. They’d moved here four years ago, almost as soon as the development was finished. At the time, the prospect of living somewhere brand new, a place with no history or damp patches, was highly appealing. Now, though, as she pulled up on the driveway, her internal critic chided her for living somewhere so characterless. It wasn’t what she’d dreamed of all those years ago: a house with a perfectly square garden and a purpose-built utility room.

  She lifted Olivia out of the booster seat and laid her over her shoulder, stroking her soft hair and carrying her inside. The house was silent, just as she’d left it, their eight-year-old golden retriever, Caspar, snoozing in his bed in the kitchen. She stood in the hallway and enjoyed it: a moment of peace. Felix was at football practice. Will would collect him after work and, as was traditional for a Thursday, they’d get a takeaway from the chip shop on the way home. Jessica laid her zonked-out daughter on the sofa and went through to the kitchen, where she stopped in front of a framed photograph. Her favourite photograph, even though she didn’t look great in it. Her auburn hair was messy and she was carrying a few extra pounds. Isabel looked perfect as always, fresh from the salon with her blonde pixie cut and big eyes, looking a lot like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.

  In the picture, Jessica and Isabel held champagne flutes aloft. Jessica had only just discovered she was pregnant with Olivia and had rushed round to tell her sister. Izzy’s husband, Darpak, was there too and he insisted on opening a bottle of bubbly – one last drink before a long period of abstinence. Izzy was beaming and Jessica remembered how relieved she’d been, seeing that smile. For a couple of months before the photo was taken, Izzy had seemed distracted, troubled by something, but she wouldn’t talk about it. She wouldn’t even admit anything was wrong. But that day she had been serene and happy. Delighted for her little sister. Her old self again.

  Six weeks later, she was dead.

  Chapter 2

  Jessica was helping clear up after lunch when Felix said, ‘Have you told Uncle Darpak what Olivia said?’

  She stood up from the dishwasher, wishing she’d told Felix not to mention anything. It was her own fault, she supposed. She and Will shouldn’t have talked about it in front of their ten-year-old son. The thing was, he was so sensible and mature – an old head on young shoulders, according to Mum – that she sometimes forgot he was a child.

  It was Sunday, and they were at Izzy and Darpak’s house. Actually, it was just Darpak’s place now, wasn’t it? She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that, although she was grateful, in what she knew was a selfish way, that he hadn’t remarried and moved someone else in. His sister, Nina, was usually here for Sunday lunch and Will had started to refer to it as Darpak and Nina’s house. But to Jessica it would always be Isabel’s.

  The house was, like hers and Will’s, modern, built just a decade ago. But that was where the similarity ended. Because The Heights was the kind of house that got featured in property maga
zines. In fact, it had appeared in one a few months before Izzy died, gleaming between its pages: all those clean white spaces, the twisting staircase, walls of shining glass. Flat surfaces, no clutter. The balcony was pictured too: wrought black iron with art deco flourishes, overlooking the natural-granite patio. Jessica found it hard to look at the patio now, even though the blood had long since been washed away. Mum couldn’t even come here, said it was like visiting a haunted house. ‘He should sell it,’ Mum insisted. ‘I don’t know how he can bear to live there.’

  But Darpak didn’t even consider moving out. It had been their home, he said, and he found it comforting, imagining her in its empty spaces, feeling her presence between its walls.

  ‘What did Olivia say?’ Darpak asked, closing the dishwasher.

  Jessica stalled. ‘Where is she? I don’t want her to overhear us talking about her.’

  Nina came into the room, running a hand through her glossy black hair. Nina was ‘dressed down’ in a Bella Freud sweater, jeans and sneakers, but that didn’t stop her from looking like what she was: a fashion model. Not a supermodel – she wasn’t a household name – but she made a good living on catwalks and in magazines. She’d been in a couple of TV commercials too, advertising shampoo. She was twenty-six and although Jessica was only eight years older, she felt like there was a generation’s gap between them. Jessica had already had a two-year-old when she was twenty-six, and some days she yearned for the freedom that had disappeared when she was still so young.

  ‘Olivia?’ Nina said. ‘She’s in the snug, watching Trolls. It’s really good – have you seen it?’ She sang a snatch of the movie’s theme song and smiled, but the smile vanished when it was met by frowns from Jessica and Will. ‘Oh. What’s up?’

  Jessica crossed the kitchen and pushed the door to, just in case.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just something silly Olivia said at school.’

  ‘Come on, you have to tell us now.’ Darpak emptied the dregs of a bottle of white into his glass. Since Izzy’s death, he only drank alcohol once a week, at Sunday lunchtime, with the roast dinner he and his sister had prepared. They were obsessed with these roasts. Their dad had been Indian, their mum white British, and although they had mostly eaten Indian food at home, every Sunday their mum would prepare an enormous, traditional English dinner. Chicken or lamb, roast potatoes, stuffing, Yorkshire puddings, home-made gravy, runner beans and mashed swede. After their parents died – too young, within months of each other – the Shah siblings kept the tradition alive and, apart from a hiatus following Izzy’s death, it continued to this day.