The Escape Read online

  Copyright

  Published by Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London, SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

  Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2017

  Cover photographs © Silas Manhood Photography

  Cover design © HarperCollins 2017

  C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008118075

  Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008118082

  Version 2017-02-13

  Praise for C.L. Taylor

  ‘The Missing has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, luring us into the heart of a family with terrible secrets and making us wait, with pounding hearts for the final, agonising twist. Loved it.’

  Fiona Barton

  ‘Black Narcissus for the Facebook generation, a clever exploration of how petty jealousies and misunderstandings can unravel even the tightest of friendships. Claustrophobic, tense and thrilling, a thrill-ride of a novel that keeps you guessing.’

  Elizabeth Haynes

  ‘A gripping and disturbing psychological thriller.’

  Clare Mackintosh

  ‘As with all her books, C.L. Taylor delivers real pace, and it’s a story that keeps calling the reader back – so much so that I read it from cover to cover in one day.’

  Rachel Abbott

  ‘A dark and gripping read that engrossed me from start to finish.’

  Mel Sherratt

  ‘Kept me guessing till the end.’

  Sun

  ‘Haunting and heart-stoppingly creepy, The Lie is a gripping roller coaster of suspense.’

  Sunday Express

  ‘5/5 stars – Spine-chilling!’

  Woman

  ‘An excellent psychological thriller.’

  Heat

  ‘Packed with twists and turns, this brilliantly tense thriller will get your blood pumping.’

  Fabulous

  ‘Fast-paced, tense and atmospheric, a guaranteed bestseller.’

  Mark Edwards

  ‘A real page-turner … creepy, horrifying and twisty. You have no idea which characters you can trust, and the result is intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.’

  Julie Cohen

  ‘A compelling, addictive and wonderfully written tale. Can’t recommend it enough.’

  Louise Douglas

  See what bloggers are saying about C.L. Taylor …

  ‘An intriguing and stirring tale, overflowing with family drama.’

  Lovereading.co.uk

  ‘Astoundingly written, The Missing pulls you in from the very first page and doesn’t let you go until the final full stop.’

  Bibliophile Book Club

  ‘[The Missing] inspired such a mixture of emotions in me and made me realise how truly talented you have to be to even attempt a psychological suspense of this calibre.’

  My Chestnut Reading Tree

  ‘Tense and gripping with a dark, ominous feeling that seeps through the very clever writing … all praise to C.L. Taylor.’

  Anne Cater, Random Things Through My Letterbox

  ‘C.L. Taylor has done it again, with another compelling masterpiece.’

  Rachel’s Random Reads

  ‘In a crowded landscape of so-called domestic noir thrillers, most of which rely on clever twists and big reveals, [The Missing] stands out for its subtle and thoughtful analysis of the fallout from a loss in the family.’

  Crime Fiction Lover

  ‘When I had finished, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and wrung it out like a dish cloth.’

  By the Letter Book Reviews

  ‘The Missing has such a big, juicy storyline and is a dream read if you like books that will keep you guessing and take on plenty of twists and turns.’

  Bookaholic Confessions

  ‘Incredibly thrilling and utterly unpredictable! A must read!’

  Aggie’s Books

  ‘A gripping story.’

  Bibliomaniac

  ‘It’s the first time I have cried whilst reading. The last chapter [of The Missing] was heart-breaking and uplifting at the same time.’

  The Coffee and Kindle

  ‘Another hit from C.L. Taylor … so cleverly written and so absorbing that I completely forgot about everything else while reading it. Unmissable.’

  Alba in Book Land

  Dedication

  For my son, Seth Hall

  ‘Love you forever’

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for C.L. Taylor

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  PART TWO

  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

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  EPILOGUE

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the author

  By the same author

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Someone is walking direct
ly behind me, matching me pace for pace. Her perfume catches in the back of my throat: a strong, heady mix of musk and something floral. Jasmine maybe, or lily. She’s so close she’d smack into me if I stopped abruptly. Why doesn’t she just overtake? It’s a quiet street, tucked round the back of the university, with space for half a dozen cars to park but the pavement is easily wide enough for two people to walk abreast of each other.

  I speed up. Elise will be the last child left at nursery, all alone and wondering where I am. I was ready to leave work at 5 p.m. on the dot, but then a student walked into the office and burst into tears. She hadn’t got her assignment in on time and she was terrified she was going to get kicked off her course. I couldn’t walk away when she was in that state. I had to talk her down. By the time she walked out of the office she was smiling again but sweat was pricking at my armpits. 5.15 p.m. I never leave work that late. Never.

  My car is only a hundred metres away. In less than a minute I’ll be inside with the door shut, the engine running and the music on. I’ll be safe. Everything will be OK.

  Fifty metres away.

  The woman behind me is breathing heavily. She’s sped up too.

  Twenty metres away.

  I feel a light dragging sensation on the back of my coat; a hand, trying and failing to grab hold of the material.

  Ten metres away.

  High heels clip-clop behind me as I step into the road and approach the driver’s side of my car. I reach into my coat pocket for my keys but all I find is a balled tissue, a small packet of raisins and some sweet wrappers. I reach into my other pocket and my fingers close around the car keys. As I do, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

  My heart lurches in my chest as I twist round, raising my arms in self-defence.

  ‘Woah!’ A blonde woman my age jumps away from me, her eyes wide. She’s dressed in a thick, padded jacket, skinny jeans and heels. ‘I was only going to ask for directions.’

  All the fear in my body leaves in one raggedy breath. She just wants directions.

  The woman’s eyes, heavily ringed with black kohl, don’t leave my face. ‘Do you know where I can get a bus to Brecknock Road?’

  I feel a jolt of surprise. ‘Brecknock? That’s where I live.’

  ‘Is it?’ she says. ‘What a coincidence.’

  I thought she was in her forties like me but her line-free forehead and arched eyebrows are betrayed by a sagginess to her jaw and a crinkling to her neck that suggest she’s at least ten years older.

  She glances at my hand, resting on the window of the car. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going there now?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Brecknock Road. Could I have a lift?’

  I don’t know how to react. I don’t want her in my car. Not when I’m feeling like this. I need to calm myself down before I get to the nursery. I don’t want Elise to see me in a state.

  The blonde’s eyes flick towards the pavement as a young bloke in a heavy overcoat strolls past. He’s on his phone and doesn’t give either of us a second glance.

  ‘My son and daughter are exactly the same. Always got their noses in their phones,’ she says convivially as the man disappears around the corner and we are alone again. Either she’s completely unaware of how awkward and uncomfortable I feel as a result of her request or she just doesn’t care.

  ‘I … um …’ I put my keys in the lock. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not going straight home. I need to collect my daughter from nursery and—’

  ‘Elise, isn’t it?’

  My breath catches in my throat. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Lovely name. Quite old-fashioned but that’s all the rage these days, isn’t it? My daughter-in-law wanted to call my granddaughter Ethel. Ethel, for God’s sake.’

  ‘How do you …’ I study her face again but there’s no spark of recognition in the back of my brain. I don’t remember ever seeing this woman before. ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’

  She cackles, a low sound that gurgles in the base of her throat, and holds out a hand. ‘I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m John’s mum, Paula. He lives just down the street from you. I’ve seen you and your little girl getting into your car in the mornings when I take my granddaughter to the park. I look after her sometimes. I’m from Taunton. I don’t get into Bristol often.’ She glances meaningfully at my car.

  ‘So am I OK for a lift? Now you know I’m not a serial killer?’

  I am frozen with indecision. I don’t know anyone called John but it’s a long street. To say no to a lift would be rude, and I don’t want to make an enemy of any of our neighbours, not when it’s such a lovely street, but this isn’t something I do. This isn’t part of my routine.

  ‘Please,’ she says, ‘I’m babysitting tonight and John will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  I make a split-second decision. It will be quicker to give her a lift than say no and risk wasting more time with a discussion about it. ‘OK. But I’ll have to drop you at the nursery. It’s not far from Brecknock.’

  ‘Cheers, love. Really appreciate it.’

  She waits for me to unlock the driver’s side door then rounds the car and gets in beside me. I put on my seat belt and put the keys in the ignition. Paula, in the passenger seat, doesn’t reach for her seat belt. Instead she runs a hand over the dashboard then squeezes the latch on the glove compartment so it drops open. She rummages around inside, pulling out CDs, receipts and manuals, then reaches down and runs a hand underneath her seat.

  I stare at her in disbelief as she twists round in her seat and looks into the footwells in the back seat. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  She ignores me and clambers into the back seat and feels behind and beneath Elise’s car seat, then lifts the parcel shelf and peers into the boot.

  ‘Paula.’ I unclip my seat belt. ‘Could you stop doing that, please?’

  She snaps back round to face me, her lips tight and her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Jo.’

  The transformation is shocking, all trace of her cheerful, friendly demeanour gone. She lied to me. She doesn’t have a son called John who lives on our street. She’s never strolled down to Perrett’s Park with her granddaughter. And I never told her my name.

  ‘I want you to get out of my car,’ I say as steadily as I can.

  The smallest of smiles creeps onto her lips as she straightens her jacket and settles herself into the back seat. She reaches out her left arm and drapes it over Elise’s car seat.

  ‘Pretty girl, your daughter,’ she says under her breath but loud enough so I can hear it. ‘Isn’t she, Jo?’

  The malevolence in her eyes makes me catch my breath.

  ‘Get out,’ I say again. A man has appeared at the end of the street. If I open the door and shout he’ll hear me. Paula sees me looking.

  ‘Now, now. No need to be rude. I’ve lost something. That’s all. And I think your husband might know where it is.’

  I stiffen. ‘Max? What’s this got to do with Max?’

  Paula glances over her shoulder again – the man has reached the car behind mine – and pulls on the door catch. ‘He’ll know what it’s about. Just tell him to get in touch. Oh, and, there’s something else.’

  She digs into her pocket with her free hand.

  ‘You should keep an eye on your daughter’s things,’ she says as she places a small, soft, multicoloured glove on Elise’s car seat.

  ‘And your daughter,’ she adds as she gets out.

  Chapter 2

  Max Blackmore sighs as his mobile phone judders to life, vibrating on the smooth wooden desk that separates him from his editor. He snatches it up and looks at the screen. Jo, again. It’s the third time his wife has called him since he left for work at 8 a.m. and he’s already had to reassure her that yes, he does think it’s OK for Elise to go to nursery with a bit of a cough and yes, he will stop by at the chemist to get more Calpol before he gets home. He’s been ignoring his home mobile for the last half an hour a
nd now she’s ringing his work mobile instead.

  His editor Fiona Spelling leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. She’s doing ‘the face’, the one that signifies that her genial mood is on the cusp of switching to irritable. ‘Do you need to get that?’

  He tucks the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘It can keep.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because you know she’ll ring me if she can’t get through to you.’

  Max grimaces. He should never have given Jo Fiona’s direct line. It was meant to calm her – so she could check he was OK if he couldn’t answer his mobile – but she rings the number so often she now has it on speed dial. Literally speed dial, programmed into her chunky, ancient Nokia. One for him, two for her mother, three for nursery, four for her boss and five for Fiona. He’s begged her to delete Fiona’s number but she won’t have it.

  ‘It’s her agoraphobia,’ he says. ‘It makes her overly anxious.’

  ‘But she works at the university as a student support officer, doesn’t she? How bad can it be if she can hold down a job?’

  Max smiles ruefully. He thought the same as Fiona once: that you’re basically housebound if you suffer from agoraphobia, but it’s not as ‘simple’ as that – something Jo has explained to him countless times. She isn’t afraid of going outside, she’s afraid of situations where she can’t escape or get help.