I Know You're There Read online

  I KNOW YOU’RE THERE

  Also by Sarah Simpson

  Her Greatest Mistake

  Who I Am

  I know you’re there

  Sarah Simpson

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Sarah Simpson, 2019

  The moral right of Sarah Simpson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788544849

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For Anth

  Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.

  William Shakespeare

  Truro Cathedral

  FOR FREEDOM AND MERCY AND TRUTH

  ‘For freedom and mercy and truth.’ No freedom, no mercy, just the truth?

  Cold musty air smothers my lungs, warm vapour leaks from dry lips as I recite the statement over and over. How thoughtful, someone leaving this note for me, today. The usual postcard, but what touches me is – the thought, to then also think to carve it here into stone, so imperishable. ‘To gain freedom, to seek mercy, to tell the truth.’

  I’m enclosed by fourteen Victorian archways that point to even higher arcs, where whoever, whatever they point to looks down on me now. Understanding, I am bad. I have failed. I have lost. Or am I? Have I?

  I seek freedom but do I deserve it?

  I seek mercy but am I justified?

  I seek the truth when I already know it, I’ve always known it.

  But the others, they don’t know it. They like me. They think I’m nice. Despite everything.

  Despite me being a killer.

  Contents

  Also by Sarah Simpson

  Welcome Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Truro Cathedral

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Biography

  About Sarah Simpson

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  Natalie

  Here we go again. A horrible, twitchy feeling in my tummy because I’ve forgotten what it is I’m supposed to be worrying about. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of melancholic, self-defeating person who gets a kick out of worrying. But worrying keeps me safe. If I’m worrying, I’ll not be caught off guard, will I? Anyhow, it’s become an integral part of me now; it wouldn’t feel right without it – you could say we’ve become reluctant friends. Despite me hating myself for it, worrying is my comfort blanket and I’m utterly lost when I can’t reach out and touch it.

  With my eyes still tightly closed, I begin to tingle with relief, remembering what it is I need to be worrying about. My father. Thoughts of my father fretting, pacing up, down and around at the back of my mind, are what were missing. And not in the usual, loving daughter to father way – this would be way too simple for me. No, I am terrified that today, or tomorrow or even the day after, I will hear from him again. Or worse, I’ll come face to face with him. Isn’t this so extraordinarily screwed? Jesus, doesn’t this make me some kind of freak? Throwing off my duvet, I crawl to the edge of my bed to pull back one of the ceiling-to-floor curtains, a wonderful online bargain. It’s all gelatinous grey slate shades the other side of the misted glass; summer has bolted without so much as a goodbye. It may still be unseasonably warm during daylight, but the mornings are dark. No one should need to leave their bed in the dark.

  Dragging myself from warm bedclothes, I wander to the door for the light switch. Maybe I suffer with SAD? It’s fairly common, I read somewhere, maybe a move to a warmer, brighter climate is the answer? From the corner of my eye I spot the cashmere cardigan still in its box. Shuffling forward, I lift the cardigan from the Turkish-delight, rose-tinted tissue paper, sliding my arms into sophisticated fibres to tie myself up like a fluffy present with a bow. It’s surprisingly warm for something so ridiculously thin. Mark will not be so impressed – this latest gift most probably cost him a fortune – and here I am doubling it up with faded pyjamas. Slipping feet into snuggly mule slippers I leave the bedroom in search of coffee.

  It’s not like I ask for these gifts, especially the expensive ones; in fact, if anything, they make me feel a touch cringey. Maybe this is just an unhelpful hang-up from my past, but even so I still can’t help but feel a sense of him trying to own me, his giving of gifts being his way of putting a territorial stamp on me. Or maybe just another screwed thought, Natalie. I stop in the narrow hallway dividing my bedroom from the sitting room to glance in the mirror. Do I need to wash my hair today or can I get away with it? The problem with having dark long hair is it doesn’t work well with those dry shampoo things. Making me look as though I’ve either a bad case of dandruff, or that I’m prematurely aging, with a diet so poor my hair has been squeezed of all natural shine.

  As I curl up, flicking through Instagram, only filling a small part of my sofa, n
iggling thoughts keep me drifting back to my conversation with Mark last night. He felt it may be time to formalise our relationship and maybe I should consider moving into his flat, full-time. His flat, not mine. What with him being my landlord and therefore, also, everyone else’s landlord in this one building, it would be highly inappropriate for him to live here, he emphasised. He hoped I understood and would see the sense. Which, of course, I do, I get it; anyway, it would be equally uncomfortable for them, my neighbours in the remaining three flats, Mo, Daniel and Nigel, for Mark to shack up here. But the problem is, and this is the point, what Mark didn’t and doesn’t appreciate is I don’t want to move in with him, full stop. End of. In fact, I can’t imagine ever wanting to move in with anyone. When I relayed this to him, hoping he too would appreciate my reasoning, the hour’s sulk that ensued indicated he didn’t and doesn’t. I cast my eyes over the kitten-soft cardigan – maybe he’ll ask for it back now? And here I am dribbling coffee and shedding toast crumbs over it.

  The thing is, it wasn’t until this silly thought of moving out, however fleeting it was, probably not even for an entire second, that I appreciated how fond I’ve become of my neighbours. What with me and Mo having the two top-floor flats and Nigel and Daniel occupying the ground-floor flats, we’ve become quite the little family. Admittedly, a quirky, odd – okay, peculiar – type of family, but then aren’t all families like this? By far, Mo and I have the best flats with far-reaching views over the bay of St Ives, the old Victorian fishing harbour and its golden sands. I can even see the block stone wall of Smeatons Pier from this rear window, especially so in my heels. In between the house and the sea are many interlocked, cosy cottages and adorable terraces lining the coiling cobblestoned steps down to the centre of town. Most of which are whitewashed with pretty leaded-window eyes and vibrantly painted door lips. The others, scattered amongst, simply blend and connect the more fancy with the more conservative homes with flurries of greys and creams of traditional Cornish slate. Either side of the wide lingering steps are trails of pots, pans, artefacts and wellington boots, crammed with seasonal vegetation. It’s all so beautifully perfect, why would I choose to leave?

  Of all my neighbours, I guess I’m closest of all to Mo. She’s become a good friend, if not my best, despite our age difference. With a deliciously dry sense of humour and, though I wouldn’t tell her this, with her silly thing about age, she’s also the mum I sadly lost and still desperately long for. After Mo, there’s sweet, sweet Daniel, who’s one of these people the entire town and their dogs know and love. I can’t imagine anyone ever disliking him. He’s everyone’s buddy. Some people are friends and others are buddies; Daniel is definitely a buddy. Why is this? His lovable puppy-dog eyes? His immediate acceptance and incapability of seeing bad in anyone? Maybe this is why I feel slightly protective over him. I mean, despite his obvious higher level of intelligence – he went to Cambridge, for God’s sake – there’s also something so vulnerable and childlike about him. An air of someone who is so incredibly, creatively intelligent they completely lack any form of structured logic.

  Which leads me on to Tommy, who is employed by Daniel’s father to keep an eye on his son. Tommy once told me, Daniel has been through bad times and this has damaged his perspective and judgment. Whatever you want to take from that. Personally, I think it’s more that Daniel’s father lacks faith in his son or he’s too full of his own self-importance to care, so makes excuses for his own shortcomings. If you listen to Daniel he’ll tell you, he failed his father, especially when he was forced to forgo his graduate studies in Cambridge. I’ve not pressed Daniel about the Cambridge stuff as he’s obviously still upset about it all, and anyway, as I see it bad shit happens to us all. And if he wants to keep his bad shit to himself, so be it. Look at me, I can talk. Aren’t I the queen of dark horses? Mover of bad shit?

  Then, there’s Nigel. Now, he’s a funny one but also completely harmless. All upright, straight-faced and bound up by his own rules and guidelines. He also reeks of intelligence, in the best kind of way, and is a partner in his own practice of solicitors. Likes to keep himself to himself. Tucks his trouser legs into Pringle plaid socks as he cycles to the railway station the other side of town each weekday. Refuses to have Sky television and only ever really watches the BBC and listens to BBC Radio 3, not at the same time, obviously. But, for all his idiosyncrasies, I know any one of us could knock on his door in times of need, which is what matters, isn’t it? As for his age, he’s in his forties but considers himself in his sixties. When I think of it, from time to time, he’s quite attractive in a moody, orthodox kind of way. If you’re into that kind of thing.

  So its Mo the mother figure, Daniel the puppy dog and Nigel the upright solicitor. I wonder what they think of me? Natalie, the worrywart, the closed-door enigma, or so I’ve been called. And for this I have my reasons, as does everyone. Don’t they?

  2

  Morwenna

  ‘Fifty-four, fifty-bleeding-four.’ She doesn’t feel it, despite life throwing everything but the proverbial kitchen sink at her. Morwenna sighs, stirring hot frothy milk into coffee. There should be a law condemning the counting of birthdays beyond the age of fifty. With a china mug in hand, she wanders to the sitting area by the window, pulling back the soft taupe drapes to reveal yet another light-starved morning. She folds herself into the deep plum sofa, from where she can see the sweep of fine sand, sandwiched between racing-green shrubbery and glimmering waters, the closest she’ll come to the Caribbean, she thinks.

  Nat popped by earlier in the week – nothing unusual, she pops by most days – this time to invite Morwenna for an impromptu quick drink later, followed by more drinks and a surprise party Morwenna’s supposed to know nothing about. She didn’t let on this small matter to Nat; she nearly believed her: Oh, and I’ve just remembered it’s your birthday isn’t it? Great, that’s convenient, we can kill two birds with one stone. Daniel. Bless him. You can’t be giving Daniel secrets, not if you want them to remain as such. Still, she’d managed to act surprised. Poor old Daniel, a proper sweetheart and probably the only twenty-eight-year-old who listens to Radio 4 for fun and enjoys hanging around with his elder neighbours.

  Daniel moved in a month before Natalie, just after Christmas. His father, who made a one-off appearance, told Morwenna it was to be a fresh start for him, and with this arrangement came the housekeeper, Tommy. It all feels a little too ‘Big Brother’ watching for her liking or, more, big father is always watching. His father was quite the formidable, upright kind of character, with no mention of his wife, the mother.

  Daniel is from somewhere upcountry, Bournemouth; she can remember thinking it nice to have some fresh blood in the county, just as she was once. Though, it’s been over twenty years since she did the switch from north to south. How things have changed; at the time she had family to speak of, now she only has the ever-present ache. Losing her husband in a car accident at the young age of thirty-eight was not part of the deal. Her son became the only reason for her to leave the bed each morning. Then he met the now daughter-in-law, who took it upon herself to bit by bit fragment the relationship. Now it’s little more than awkward conversation. She shakes her head from the thoughts and the all too familiar damp, heavy feeling gripping her stomach, like a wet towel scrunched inside her gut.

  In her bedroom, she hears the dull thud of the front door to the building and leans forward to peer down onto the street, catching a glimpse of Nigel mounting his bike before setting off up the hill. A man bag piece bobbing on his back. Glancing at the radio clock, she smiles to herself. Good old regular Nigel.

  He moved in the same week as she did, pleasant kind of guy, private but amicable. She called by his flat not long after they’d moved in; she’d taken in a delivery for him, the parcel being too large to fit in the allotted pigeonholes. He opened the front door to her, shifting from foot to foot, neither inviting her in or shooing her away. ‘Just a moment,’ he said before hot-footing it back towards the bedroo
m, so she wandered on in. Nosey? Yes, probably, a little. She wasn’t surprised to find a most immaculate abode, seriously, nothing out of place. Coordinated everything. Every conceivable beige. He found her in the kitchen, gazing in awe at the orderly nature of the room, utensils, pots and pans lined up like soldiers.

  Now sitting at her small kitchen table, she flicks through the local newspaper, bracing herself to open the remaining card, which arrived in the post yesterday, a birthday card. Obviously from her son, his writing unchanged – is he so changed? Or does he share the throttling sadness, the distance, the coldness of his words, written out of duty rather than love? After a few moments of staring at the pale pink envelope she puts it to one side; maybe take it to the gallery with her, open it when not alone. Mark, the owner, who is not only her employer but also her landlord, has before now opened the occasional card with her. He owns several buildings in St Ives, amongst others scattered around Cornwall. With two fine art galleries in town, a bistro bar, now managed by Nat, this shared house and his plush bachelor pad with the 180-degree sea view.

  Morwenna has a lot of time for Mark. He’s always been good to her; yes, he’s made mistakes, as have the best of people, and at times he can be difficult but even so. The first Christmas she joined his work team, he found out she was to spend it alone and on Christmas morning he turned up at her previous flat, told her to fetch her coat as he had prepared a Christmas lunch for them both, he would not accept any excuses, she would spend Christmas with him. Since then, birthdays and any other anniversary challenges, he has always taken time to be with her. No matter what. She’s shared her darkest thoughts with Mark; funny, but he probably knows her better than anyone. Nat has more recently fallen for his quirky charms and Morwenna can’t help but wonder if he’s told her everything. What a couple – they’ve both successfully built a protective wall to divide them and others from their pasts. But then, so has she, so she’s not in a fit position to judge.