Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Extract
1. DC Clements
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PROLOGUE
The body was pinned up against the tree. Dead. Obviously dead. No RIP here. The detective didn’t see many RIPs in his line of work. He saw tortured souls; people who had endured violence – brought down by their own hand or the hand of others – disaster or just plain old bad luck. With disaster and bad luck there wasn’t even anyone to blame. It was nuanced, and the fifty-plus, portly copper who had seen it all continued to wrestle with the question of which was more brutal, more devastating: not having anyone to blame or having a poker-hot focus of fury.
The body was mangled from the waist downwards. The glassy eyes had seen everything they were ever going to. All that was going to happen in this life, had. For good or bad, it was done. The DC imagined he could hear the screech of tyres, the crunch as metal twisted, the sound of glass shattering. Nonsense, of course. All that had occurred hours before he arrived on the scene. If there had been frantic honking, horrified realisation, determined destruction, that was finished now. Now, it was a matter of first responders, flashing lights, debris scattered, a stunned silence.
As they slowly rolled the car back, the body slumped forward over the bonnet. Something flickered on the face, just the hint of early-morning light. No life, or afterlife. The detective did not believe in ghosts. He knew people could be haunted, though. He saw plenty of that. People tormented by their past, the mistakes they’d made, the opportunities they’d missed, the people they’d hurt. And maybe worse still, the DC knew that some people lived their entire lives haunted by their future. Fearful of the mistakes they might make, the opportunities they might miss.
1
February
Emma
I believe in routine. Discipline. Hard work. It makes me unfashionable but successful. So I say, forget the haters. I have rules and routines for a reason. When they are abandoned, things start to fall apart. Children of alcoholics know this better than most.
I get up at 5.08 a.m. every day of the working week, and it takes me nine minutes to dress, get downstairs, turn off the alarms, swallow a vitamin, fill my Hydro Flask with water and unlock the front door before my feet hit the path. I run for the remaining forty-three minutes of the hour, which means I normally run five miles. The average woman runs at a rate of 6.5 miles per hour. Do the maths. I run faster than average.
I run in all weathers, all seasons. I live in woodlands, so a treadmill can’t compete. Fresh air in my lungs; the slap, sting or spike of the elements makes me feel alive. Obviously, running in the summer months is a delight – who doesn’t love a sunrise? – but I run in the dark months too, when the sun seems never to rise, but instead, at best, only manages to resentfully loll somewhere behind the clouds of a gunmetal sky. My friends say that running through a forest in the pitch black alone on a February morning is stupid. I like to think of it as an opportunity. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
Once back at my house, I check the headlines, then spend twelve minutes practising sun salutations because cardio is vital for the heart but I don’t want my bones to crumble and yoga helps with strength. People think I’m extreme. I’m not, I’m balanced. I shower, perform all the ablutions necessary to try to keep the ageing process at bay, and check the social feeds for mentions of AirBright, the wind harvesting company of which I am chief executive officer. I dress, then prepare a kale, celery and parsley smoothie. It tastes awful but it’s full of vitamins. I scan my emails but don’t open them unless it’s something from my chief financial officer or public relations director. Maybe, if there’s time, while drinking my disgusting green gloop at the breakfast bar, I’ll read any private texts or messages. My friends, Heidi and Gina, often send me one-liners letting me know what their kids – my godchildren – are up to. That always brings a smile to my face. On days when I need to go to the London office, I’m out the door by 6.32 a.m. I drive to the station – it’s on average a nine-minute journey, but I allow some flex for tractors on the narrow lanes – and catch the 6.49 train. I aim to be at my desk in London by 7.45. Seventy-five minutes before I’m contractually obliged to be there, ninety minutes before any of my exec team show up.
This has been my routine for as long as I can remember. There has been some variation on the length of the commute and the flavour of the smoothie. The seniority of my position in the companies I’ve worked for has evolved, but in essence – the runs, the arrival at work before other employees – those things have been a constant. I stick to this routine even on my birthday. I am forty-seven.
This statement apparently surprises people. They gasp and say I don’t look forty-seven. Really they are thinking, ‘Shit, all that effort, all those years, is it worth it?’ because most people are a bit lazy and incredibly undisciplined and like to get by doing as little as possible; my routine horrifies them. They don’t say what they are thinking out loud, though, maybe because people are generally quite polite or maybe because most of the individuals I mix with work for me; everyone wants to stay on my good side. They don’t have to say that they think I put too much energy into everything; I see it on their embarrassed faces: a complicated mix of pity that I try so hard and resentment that it works. The thing is, I’m very realistic about the hand I was dealt and I play. I’m not special, I’m not exceptionally clever or good-looking. I don’t have an amazing talent like painting, or writing, or dancing, or singing that might make me stand out from the masses. My talent is my discipline. I’m rational, thorough, careful. I earn a healthy six-figure salary as a result. Lucky me.
As I’m never openly challenged about whether the relentless effort and focus is worthwhile, I haven’t really had to consider what my answer might be. It is a lot of effort for thin thighs, I admit, but I’m also investing in my future: notably a longer, healthier one. Not being a mother or a wife, I can’t assume (or even hope) that there will be someone to look after me when I age. I will have to pay for care, and so being as healthy as possible is just a wise choice.
But. Well. Last night.
I shake my head. What am I thinking? One swallow does not make a summer, and equally one shag does not make a future. Although technically it was not one shag, it was three. And he did talk about our future. And it was not simply a shag, it was …
I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
If I say special, I am unrecognisable even to myself.
The fact is that this morning there was something new that interrupted my routine. Before I slipped out the door, I popped back into my bedroom and looked at the man sleeping in my bed. He was lying on his stomach, clutching a pillow, which sounds more effeminate than the reality. He’s a big, hairy, muscular man and his masculinity – which is almost brutish, certainly exotic, in my bedroom – caused me to silently gasp with surprise. Is it ludicrous to think there might be someone who will look after me in the future? Someone I can look after? I watched him breathe in, out, in, out. My air. His. He’s a miracle. He’s a big, sweaty, sometimes brilliant, sometimes stupid, agreeable, argumentative, sexy, stubborn miracle.
And now he’s mine.
2
January
I became the CEO of Britain’s biggest wind harvesting company, AirBright, seven years ago. When I was awarded this position, some people in my industry muttered that hiring a woman to run the company was not much more than a PR stunt, a cynical move by the executives to look modern by ticking a diversity-hire box. Fifty-one per cent of the UK population are female; despite this fact, women are considered to be diversity hires in positions of power. I trained as an accountant but still struggle with that maths.
Whatever. People can say what they like. In childhood, having an alcoholic dad and then after everything that happened, I learnt that people talk about me regardless of my behaviour, actions or even the truth, so I decided long ago to do what works for me. It’s the only way to stay sane. What works for me right now is getting on with doing my little bit to save the planet. I like to think I was the best candidate for the job and I do it well. End of. I’m a hands-on boss but I’m also respectful of the expertise of my heads of department. It was the director of marketing who suggested my face ought to be seen more, which is how I find myself, on this cold January day, standing in an enormous, echoey conference centre in Edinburgh, shaking hands with numerous climate-concerned delegates, underneath a branded sign that reads: Wind Energy is Big Clean Energy.
I notice him at a molecular level immediately. That in itself is interesting.
He’s tall, over six foot, and has great teeth and a mop of dark curly hair. He’s unequivocally attractive: symmetrical, a strong chin. Some people find that off-putting; I’m not as subtle. Obviously handsome works for me. He’s wearing faded jeans that suggest they are faded through wear, not bought that way as a fashion statement, and a thick-knit navy jumper. He is carrying a battered leather rucksack, good quality but aged. There’s a hole in the shoulder of his jumper. I can see his flesh peeking through and I have to fight the urge to lace my finger into the hole, to touch his skin. This is weird, and especially weird from me; I’m not a tactile person. Despite his height and good looks, there is something about him that doesn’t quite fill the space in the way he is surely entitled to. He has a level of reluctance, an air that suggests he leans away from life. That sense of reservation is as interesting as his good looks. His eyes whip above my head; he reads the ill-considered marketing slogan and smirks involuntarily.
‘Don’t bother with the flatulence jokes. I’ve heard every possible one already. You’re better than that,’ I say, before he has the chance to offer a word.
I know my comment is ballsy. Flirty. I am always the former, but finding myself being the latter is a surprise to me. You’re better than that. A blatant seal of approval. An invitation. To what? He’s at least a decade younger than I am, possibly more. What am I thinking? Yet there is something vibrant between us. At least, I hope it is between us. Surely this can’t be a one-way thing. I can almost touch it, taste it.
These are nebulous thoughts for rational, sensible me to have. I’m normally a fan of the quantifiable; however, there is something here that I’d forgotten existed. I gave up dating two years ago. I was too busy with work, and besides, I was exhausted with shoddy encounters that generated nothing other than a confirmation of the fact that people lie. I became bored by the countless, endless disappointments: men who turned out to be shorter, balder, fatter or – worse – duller than advertised, so I turned off that part of my life, that part of me. Even before that, this sort of raw animal attraction was as rare as hen’s teeth. I think I can count on one hand how many times I’ve experienced it. Yet here it is. Loud and clear. A warm swell of interest, attraction. Lust.
‘I won’t make jokes about your marketing if you don’t make jokes about this.’ He points to the Access All Areas pass that he is wearing on a lanyard around his neck.
I don’t smile, although I want to. It’s a good retort. And yes, I think he is flirting with me, but the AAA pass means he is press. I have shareholders and board members to answer to, employees that I need to offer a role model to; I must watch my step. A man as attractive as this one will know how to turn on the charm to get a story. Most likely he’s angling for an exclusive profile piece; he’s probably writing something about women in power. I’ll look like a prize fool if I’m too friendly and something I say is taken out of context. I’ve seen peers make shamefaced trips to HR, forced to make abject public apologies, being trolled or cancelled, not because they did something illegal or malicious but because of a careless word. Joking that I’d like to access all his areas would be momentarily amusing but professionally suicidal. I’m always very careful about what I say and how I behave. I’m considered by nature and cautious by necessity. Suddenly this outlook seems an inconvenience, a shame. I want to flirt with him.
I don’t. I keep my face impassive.
If he is disappointed by my cool demeanour or concerned that he has crossed a line and his joke has landed badly, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He smiles pleasantly, shoots out his hand for me to shake. I want to feel the weight and warmth of him. I want to know if his grip is firm; will he linger a fraction of a second longer than he ought?
