The Mother Read online

  Praise for

  ‘Smart, intense and with a humdinger of a mid-point twist. I loved it’

  GILLIAN MCALLISTER

  ‘Taut, tense and compelling. Thriller writing at its finest’

  SIMON LELIC

  ‘T.M. Logan’s best yet. Unsettling and so, so entertaining.

  The perfect thriller’

  CAZ FREAR

  ‘A tense and gripping thriller’

  B.A. PARIS

  ‘Assured, compelling, and hypnotically readable – with a twist at the end I guarantee you won’t see coming’

  LEE CHILD

  ‘A compelling, twisty page-turner, and that’s the truth’

  JAMES SWALLOW

  ‘Outstanding and very well-written . . . so gripping I genuinely found it hard to put down’

  K.L. SLATER

  ‘A terrific page-turner, didn’t see that twist!

  A thoroughly enjoyable thriller’

  MEL SHERRATT

  ‘Another blistering page-turner from psych-thriller god

  T.M. Logan’

  CHRIS WHITAKER

  ‘Even the cleverest second-guesser is unlikely to arrive at the truth until it’s much, much too late’

  THE TIMES

  For my mother, Vera, with love

  I have longed for death in the darkness and risen alive out of hell.

  Amelia Josephine Burr, ‘A Song of Living’

  Children are the anchors that hold a mother to life.

  Sophocles

  Contents

  Friday, 22 September, 2023

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part II

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Sunday, 30 June, 2013

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, 13 July, 2013

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Saturday, 13 July, 2013

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Saturday, 13 July, 2013

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Sunday, 14 July, 2013

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Sunday, 14 July, 2013

  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

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Part III

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  One Month Later

  Chapter 72

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Reader’s Club

  Letter from Author

  Copyright

  Friday, 22 September, 2023

  I watch from the shadows at the back of the church.

  Here on the balcony, where I can observe without being seen.

  Beneath a dark woollen cap my hair is cut barber-short, shaved close at the sides and dyed almost black. A heavy jacket broadens my shoulders, collar pulled up against the unseasonable chill that seems to seep from the thick stone walls. The dark-framed glasses have no lenses, only clear plastic. I hold myself still and quiet, all but invisible in the shadows where I have hidden since last night.

  I can see the two boys on the front row, handsome in their dark suits and white shirts, soft cheeks and smartly combed hair.

  I make my heart into a stone.

  I have become good at this: I imagine it not as flesh and blood but instead a solid mass of granite or marble, a fist-sized piece of stone in my chest that nothing can touch. It is the only way I have been able to survive.

  I tear my eyes away from the boys and study my surroundings instead. Dark-varnished pews worn smooth with time, the oak as hard and unyielding as a prison bed. Black-bound hymn books and dusty kneeling cushions hanging from hooks. Wooden signs on each of the pillars carry hymn numbers for the last Sunday service.

  A plain coffin on a stand in the nave, undecorated with flowers.

  There are media here, of course. Not as many as for my husband’s funeral – that had been standing room only, from what I’d heard – but still a handful set back from the small scattering of friends and family. Typing on their phones, making notes, recording, taking surreptitious pictures. I don’t recognise many of the faces; I’m confident none of them would recognise me. Not now. And especially not here.

  The vicar begins a short eulogy, such as it is. His quavering voice echoes against the vaulted stone ceiling of the church, rolling away from the chancel, his words filling the silence.

  ‘We are gathered here to mark the life of Heather Elizabeth Vernon.’ He glances down at his notes. ‘We seek to remember Heather not for what she did, not for a single act, but for the person she was. We ask the Lord to forgive whatever sins she committed through human weakness and to remember her as a mother, a daughter, a friend and colleague. We offer her sons, Theo and Finn, our deepest condolences and we ask the Lord to give them the strength to honour the best of her memory.’

  He seems regretful, almost tentative, as if braced for an angry rebuke from a member of the congregation.

  I tune him out.

  With small movements of my head, I study the other mourners for anyone I recognise, anyone from the time before. Any of my friends, former neighbours, what little of my family remains. There are a few familiar faces, but most are strangers.

  The brief eulogy is already winding its way towards a conclusion. I return my gaze to the two boys in the front row. Surrounded by people and yet seeming – to me – to be totally alone. The younger boy, Finn, sits with his head down, shoulders shaking with sobs, and I feel that old familiar ache in my chest. The stone softening, thawing. The urge to go to him, comfort him, sit next to him and hold his hand in mine. He has just had his thirteenth birthday: he was a late summer baby, born a week after his due date with a full head of dark hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Theo is a head taller, the resemblance to his father already so striking it almost takes my breath away. He sits like a statue, eyes front, unmoving, as if staring at a fixed point above the altar. Determined not to crack, not to cry, right arm resting across his younger brother’s shoulders.

  I wonder if they ever talk about their mother, already lost to them for so many years before today. If there are pictures anywhere of the four of us together, or if they have all been taken down and put away in a box, sealed with tape and consigned forever to a dusty attic or perhaps burned in the fireplace of the big house in Bath. I wonder if they believe what they have been told; if they believed it from the start or if there has always been a whisper of doubt, a glimmer of hope that I can’t have done the thing of which I was accused.

  I wonder if they will ever forgive me.

  In the shadows at the back of the church, I repeat my silent mantra, my prayer, my promise. Six words that have pulled me back from the brink more times than I can remember.

  I am coming back for you.

  I am coming back for you.

  Even if the ceremony, the church, the coffin, all conspire to tell a different story.

  It is not a large church; I am perhaps twenty-five metres from where they sit, but they may as well be on the other side of the world. Even so, the urge is almost overwhelming. I imagine standing up, descending the narrow stone staircase and walking up the aisle, taking off the cap and the glasses and the coat to show them my face. I imagine sweeping them both into my arms and pulling them close. Telling them that they are not alone in the world, not orphans, and that their mother will never, ever, leave them again.

  But that is not possible. Not yet.

  Not while they’re attending my funeral.

  PART I

  THEN

  Friday, 12 July, 2013

  1

  Theo didn’t want to go to sleep.

  He was going through a phase of wanting to stay awake as long as he possibly could, of inventing one reason after another for why he couldn’t drift off: too hot or too cold, hungry or thirsty or scared or insisting he needed the toilet again. When he finally gave in, he would be fast off for the night – but until then he was determined to play the game.

  I had read him a second story, and kissed him for a second time, and turned his light out for a second time, checked
his pillow was turned over and his duvet was tucked in and his nightlight was working. It was a game we had been playing since well before his fourth birthday; a game my eldest son seemed to evolve new strategies for every night.

  I was trying to draw a line at two stories because I knew the theory well enough from the books: when a child does this it’s best not to engage directly, not to talk, not to turn on lights or start the bedtime routine all over again.

  But the parenting books were one thing. Reality was another. And if Theo kept shouting the way he was, he would wake his little brother and then both of them would be crying out and awake for the next few hours and then all three of us – me included – would be cranky and grouchy and even more exhausted in the morning. Because no matter how late either of the boys stayed up, it didn’t make any difference to morning wake-up time: two-year-old Finn would bounce out of bed before 7 a.m. and he would go to wake his big brother. I was so tired already, but it was that wired, anxious exhaustion that meant I wouldn’t be able to actually drop off to sleep without one of my pills. And I just really needed to make a start on dinner for me and Liam, and get another load of washing on and make some headway with that work report I had to get done this weekend.

  There was never enough time.

  And there would be barely any time tomorrow because I would have the boys from late morning onwards, they both had swimming then Theo had his football and Finn was invited to a birthday party of one of his little friends from nursery, I’d promised I would take them both to the playground and we would need to take the puppy for his walk too. Liam had his constituency surgery from midday and then a media thing at the local food bank and—

  Where the hell was my husband, anyway?

  I checked my watch again. Ten to eight. I had never wanted to be one of those wives who harried their husbands and tracked their every move. But Liam had promised to be back an hour ago. Then again, he’d been working late a lot recently. Almost constantly. I got that, I understood it was a part of the job, of what he’d signed up for. But all the time? A Friday night?

  My phone was charging on the kitchen island. I unlocked it and checked for any new messages from Liam. There were some on a few of the email groups I was a member of – the babysitting circle that had grown out of my NCT group, my Monday choir, and a neighbourhood group made up of a few of the local streets in our corner of Bath – but I would read them later. There was nothing new from Liam, not since this afternoon. I read his last messages again, sent at 2.59 p.m.

  Probably going to be late again, sorry. Committee overrunning and then got drinks thing on the terrace pavilion at 4, back 7ish?

  I had replied as I hurried from one meeting to the next earlier that afternoon.

  OK see you later.

  A single thumbs-up emoji from my husband in response.

  He’d sent nothing since then. There was no kiss at the end of his message either. When had he stopped doing that? When had I stopped doing it, come to think of it? Months ago? Years? When we were first married we’d done it all the time. Now it just seemed to be one of those things that had fallen by the wayside in the daily battle to keep a handle on family life with small children. To keep all the plates spinning and catch any that dropped before they hit the floor.

  I put the phone down and took a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter. I’d had a couple of glasses with a (very) late dinner last night but it was still two-thirds full. I uncorked it and poured a generous glass, sipping it as I leaned against the counter, savouring the dark heavy fruit of the French red and the tiny release of tension I felt with the first mouthful. I stood very still in the kitchen, listening for any sound from upstairs.

  Please go to sleep, lovely boy. Please go to sleep. Please don’t wake your brother up. Just this once, just for me. Just tonight.

  A silence, blissful silence, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. The uplighters were on low, the black granite island finally cleared of the boys’ toys and colouring books and dirty dishes from their tea, my laptop open in their place. The kitchen was the thing that had sold me on the house – that and the school catchment area, of course – and I still liked the space, the feel of it, clean lines and Italian marble.

  The wall-mounted TV was muted into silence, switched over to a rolling news channel now the boys were finally in bed. I watched the images on the screen for a moment, sipping my wine, bathing in this first moment of peace in the day. The story was a round-up on the day’s events in Brussels, David Cameron grinning and shaking hands with various other suited EU leaders. I stood like that for a quiet moment, basking in the silence as the prime minister was replaced by a shot of Andy Murray with his first Wimbledon trophy, surrounded by a crowd of fans. I turned away from the TV and began to gather ingredients from the fridge for carbonara.

  Our puppy, Jet, snuffled contentedly in his sleep, curled up in his basket next to the radiator. A smart sixth-month-old collie presented to us by Liam a few months ago after much pleading from the boys: a gift for our sons and a little extra peace of mind for him, he’d said, now he had a job in the public eye and spent so much time away from home. An extra pair of eyes to look after my family, he’d said – Jet was already fiercely protective of the boys and amazingly tolerant of their enthusiastic affection. I loved the black-and-white puppy too but Liam’s frequent absences meant Jet had become another responsibility for me. His paws twitched as he slept, in pursuit of some dreamed-of flock.

  The cry came again from upstairs.

  Two syllables, always the same high note, always the same Pavlovian reaction that made my head turn towards the sound like a terrier catching a scent.

  ‘Mummy?’

  I sighed, setting the heavy crystal wine glass down and walking slowly out to the entrance hall, past twin ranks of the boys’ little shoes lined up beneath the coat hooks by the front door. My legs felt heavy, almost leaden, as I climbed the stairs again. I pushed the door of my older son’s room open, the frame shushing against the thick, soft carpet. Theo was sitting up in bed, duvet bunched around his waist, his outline reflected in the dim glow of a nightlight on the floor.

  ‘Can’t sleep,’ he said in a small, sad voice. ‘Can I have an Auntie Amy story?’

  ‘She’s gone back to her house, Theo. She always goes home before your bedtime, you know that.’

  We had established a routine where my sister-in-law would do an early pickup from nursery on Mondays and Fridays, bringing the boys home and making their tea, holding the fort until I got in from work. It was one part of a complicated patchwork of childcare that made up the working week. Amy would stay longer if she was asked – she took great pride in her status of favourite auntie – but I didn’t want to ask too much of her.

  ‘I drew you a picture at nursery, Mummy.’ From under his pillow he produced a folded sheet of paper, a large crayon butterfly carefully coloured in yellow and purple. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s lovely, Theo.’ I smiled, took the paper from him and put it on his little bedside table. ‘Now it’s time to go to sleep.’

  ‘I want to see Jet.’

  ‘Jet’s asleep, Theo. Just like you should be asleep.’

  ‘Can’t sleep. Want a Daddy story.’

  I sighed. This was turning into one of the endless circular conversations in which my son was becoming an expert.

  ‘Daddy’s at work, Theo.’

  ‘FaceTime?’ he whispered hopefully.

  ‘He’ll be home soon and he’ll come up to see you then. But he’ll only come up to see you if you’re really quiet, as quiet as a mouse, and you try really hard to get to sleep now. OK?’ I kissed him on the forehead and settled him back against his pillow, pulling the duvet up around his shoulders. ‘Now close your eyes.’

  Out on the landing, I pulled his door almost closed and dimmed the light. I paused for a moment outside the next bedroom, which bore a wooden doorplate of a steam train, my younger son’s name spelled out in colourful letters beneath it. I listened for any sound, any hint that Finn had been woken by his brother’s voice.

  Back in the kitchen, I began preparing dinner, grating parmesan and boiling a pan of water, one ear tuned to the sound of Theo’s voice in case he still refused to go to sleep.

  I checked my phone again. Nothing from Liam. I called him but his phone rang out, before going to voicemail.

  There had been a certain novelty to his new job at first, an excitement about the boys seeing their dad on TV and in the news, the snippets of Westminster gossip that he would bring home. But it hadn’t been long before the buzz had worn off. In theory we shared everything – childcare, housework, bills, responsibilities – and in theory my career was just as important as his. But in practice, I was the one who worked a couple of miles from the nursery, I was the one who did most of the drop-offs and pickups, the one who had to drop everything when something happened. There were so many people who wanted a piece of my husband now, and less and less of him available to me and the boys. Which meant I had to pick up all the slack at home.