My grandfather liked to take me fishing. After my parents got divorced, my mum liked to get me out of the house. There wasn’t much to do around our town when you were fourteen. The bar staff at the pub were always asking for ID and we used to get busted by the local vicar whenever we took our cider and cigarettes to the park.
Fishing was never going to be the ideal sport for a teenage girl and I wasn’t particularly patient, could never sit around for longer than an hour as I waited for something to bite. But I loved my grandfather’s box of bait feathers, those tiny plumes of red, turquoise and green he would attach to his hook with his tough, nicotine-stained fingers. They were little bursts of colour in my otherwise drab world.
I hadn’t thought about those afternoons by the river for a very long time, but suddenly they were all I could think of. Safe memories, ones I could trust …
I grabbed my coat, and closed the door of my room behind me. I took a tides timetable as I left the pub, throwing a pound coin into the honesty box as I went. Out on the high street, I zipped up my coat and let the salty, iodine smell of the sea lead me to the coastal path. There was a parade of fishermen’s huts to my right, and a strip of shale beach peppered with moored boats to my left as I walked quickly away from the pub, letting the sounds of nature soothe me. The scraping of the sea against the pebbles and the wind through the coarse grass that lined the tarmac path. My eyes drifted out to sea and I watched the dots of light move slowly across the water; container ships taking their loads to Europe, Africa and beyond.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets and decided that I would look into taking a cruise when all this was over. I imagined myself dressing for dinner, and drinking Martinis in a walnut-panelled Art Deco-inspired bar. I’d talk to interesting retired couples, and play shuffleball on the deck like a heroine in an Agatha Christie novel.
I’d never been on a cruise before and suddenly I was desperate to do it, along with all the other things I had wanted to try but never got round to because work had got in the way. Cookery courses in Tuscany, horse-rides in the Andalusian mountains and long train journeys from St Petersburg to Siberia or a road trip from New York to LA. Pottery classes and playwriting courses, learning Italian and taking up the saxophone. All of them were on my wish-list, all of them I resolved to do if I could make it through the week.
Dorsea House loomed ahead, imprinted black against the navy-and-mauve-striped sky. The clouds holding the earlier rain had cleared and stars were beginning to twinkle, like sugar sprinkles on blue velvet, the full moon a dandelion clock suspended in the heavens.
I followed the string of lights along the coastal path all the way back to the house and went in through the unlocked door of the conservatory.
It was dark and silent inside, except for the soft coo of the pigeons I knew had made their nest somewhere in the rafters. I used the light of my phone to look for a light switch, even though I had no idea if power was still connected. When I located one by the door of the conservatory, I sighed with relief when an overhead bulb flickered on.
I moved from room to room, turning on lamps and light switches until the place felt more inviting. I pulled dust sheets off furniture, coughing as powdery grey clouds mushroomed off the fabric.
I felt possessed. The wheels were in motion now, and although I knew I could stop them by returning to London, I also realized that playing it safe would not help my position.
I’d made many poor decisions over the past couple of months. I might be arrested or expelled from chambers. I had no chance of making silk and had two men proclaiming to be in love with me. On the face of it, that was one bright spot, considering I had been single for so long, but when you considered that one was a potential murderer and the other a rapist, you could safely say that things could be better.
Not returning to London, telling Alex Cole and Martin Joy where I was – alone in an old house by the sea – also seemed one of my most stupid ideas. Being here alone made me vulnerable. Disposable. But that was precisely the point. On the edge, I was back in control and fighting back.
I reminded myself of a recent divorce case I’d handled, hoping it would help me rationalize what I was doing. The law had always been my comfort blanket, my safety net, and I needed it to help me now. My client had been a well-known footballer, and although I didn’t know very much about soccer, I knew enough to know that he was considered one of our greatest-ever players – as it turned out, both on and off the pitch. His wife Candace had filed for divorce when the news of her husband’s affair with his physiotherapist had made week-long headlines in the Sun. Things turned ugly, with accusations of infidelity flying from both sides and my client unwilling to let go of fifty per cent of his fortune to someone he now claimed was a gold-digger.
It was not my job to judge who deserved what. I was under instructions from my client to salvage as much of his fortune as I could, and so when our case came to court, I devoted ninety per cent of our energy to trying to prove that my client was a genius. That his talent was so unique, so special that it accounted for a special contribution to the marriage, so he deserved more of the marital assets than she did.
Even my client’s solicitor didn’t agree with my strategy; and as fees racked up, neither did the client. It was too high a risk, too few men had convinced a judge of their exceptional ability to overturn the usual ruling of an equitable financial split.
But the gamble paid off. As I explained to my jubilant client outside court, if you wanted the big win, you had to take the bigger risk.
Despite being inside, I shivered in the cold. Or maybe it was fear. If either Alex or Martin came to the house tonight, it would undoubtedly be with the purpose of silencing me. I had no idea how far they were prepared to go.
I sat in an armchair under the soft glow of a reading lamp and tried to decipher the tide tables. According to the chart, the high tide at 1.25 a.m. would bring waters of 4.94 metres. From what Martin had told me during our last visit, that was on the cusp of what was needed to flood the causeway. I reminded myself that it was only a prediction, and that it was entirely possible that no one would cross to Dorsea tonight. I was using myself as bait, but perhaps there were no fish in the river. Perhaps neither Alex nor Martin had anything to do with Donna’s disappearance. Perhaps, perhaps …
Sitting alone in the dark, I found my thoughts drifting back to that night. What else had I seen? What had I been doing in those two hours between seeing Martin leave the house and getting in the taxi? I still didn’t know.
I checked my phone. The battery level was down to 8 per cent. I dimmed the stark-blue brightness of my screen to save power, but before I put the phone back in my pocket, I texted Clare.
I’m sorry about yesterday. I miss you. I’m in Essex tonight but let’s please speak tomorrow.
As I pressed send, somehow it felt like a goodbye.
I was getting sleepy. That would never do.
There was no coffee or even a kettle in the kitchen, so I had to make do with splashing cold water that glugged out of the tap on to my face.
There was a small library at the house that I guessed had been used as an activities room when the property had been a care home. Board games were still stacked up on the bookshelves: backgammon, draughts and Scrabble, the boxes bleached from age and the sun. There were piles of magazines too: The Field, Boating and Country Life, with cover dates that stretched back almost a decade.
I picked up a couple of issues and went upstairs. I chose a bedroom at the back of the house. It had a window seat and a huge bay window that overlooked the darkness of the sea.
It was also one of the few rooms that still contained a bed, which was made up with blankets and a pillow. I patted it down and brushed the dust off the bed-linen, then I hung my coat on a peg behind the door.
Ten o’clock. Ten thirty. Waiting, watching.
Phone battery 6 per cent.
I squeezed out some internet access. There was a fire station on the island and the police were based in Colchester, a few miles down the road. Even with an emergency call, the police might take fifteen minutes to get to Dorsea, but the fire services could be here within minutes.
‘Come on, Tom, where are you?’ I muttered out loud. I thought Tom might be the first to come. He was coming from North London, so by rights, he was the closest. But what was taking so long? It had been ninety minutes since I called him, surely he should be here soon.
The air smelt damp and musty. I opened a window to let in the breeze and I could hear the distant foghorn of one of the ships I had seen earlier disappearing into the darkness.
I sat on the bed and listened to the quiet, straining my ears for the thrum of a car engine growling up the drive.
I widened my eyes to stay alert. My plan depended on me staying awake. It could be disastrous if I fell asleep. I flicked through one magazine and then another, learning all about boxing the compass, and salmon fishing seasons. I tried to absorb every word of text, every picture, hoping it would distract me from the hammering of my heart.
When my phone rang, I scrambled to answer it.
I fumbled with the screen when it told me it was Tom. ‘Fran, you have to leave the house.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got a bloody flat tyre.’
Ice-cold energy fired to my fingertips.
‘I’m only in Chelmsford, so it shouldn’t take too long to fix it and reach Dorsea, but I don’t want to take any chances. Get out of the house. You shouldn’t be there alone. Find somewhere to stay. There are two pubs on the island. Both of them have rooms. Just go there and I’ll come and get you.’
‘OK,’ was all I managed to say back.
I hesitated as I took my coat off the hook. Stick or twist. Stay or leave.
It felt as if I had come too far to turn back now, but Tom was right, it would be safer at the pub.
I touched Donna’s necklace around my neck, willing her to help me, woman to woman.
The weather was fierce outside now and I could hear the rush of water streaming down the broken gutters. But then I heard it, a noise through the rhythmic beats of the rain.
I went out on to the dark landing and could hear it more clearly out there. The low growl of a car engine, then pale pinpricks of light coming towards the house. I was glad the drive was long and the car was moving slowly in the weather.
There was no time to get out, but I knew I had to think quickly. It was impossible for Tom to have got here from Chelmsford so quickly, so it was someone else approaching the house.
The phone was shaking in my hand. I clicked on to contacts but I was trembling so much I could barely make the call.
I didn’t have Inspector Doyle’s direct number but I did have one for Sergeant Collins.
I connected to his number and waited for the ringing sound to kick in. But Sergeant Collins didn’t pick up. Instead it went straight to voicemail.
I forced out my words. I hadn’t anticipated feeling so helpless, so paralysed.
‘Mr Collins. Sergeant. This is Francine Day. This is an urgent call in connection with the disappearance of Donna Joy. I am at Dorsea House on Dorsea Island in Essex. Repeat, Dorsea House on Dorsea Island. It belongs to my client, Martin Joy. I’ve told him I’ve got evidence against him and he’s come to find me. Please call me back. I am frightened. I have reason to believe he might hurt me.’
I knew I sounded a nutter. I couldn’t help thinking it as the words tumbled out of my mouth. The words of a paranoid woman. I had no idea if Sergeant Collins would believe me. Speaking to a messaging machine did not fill me with any confidence that anyone would be able to help me.
I tried Belgravia police station but another machine informed me that 24/7 front-desk counters were available at alternative locations.
My heart was hammering so hard I thought it would fall out of my chest on to the floor.
Who else – 999? Fire or police or ambulance?
I just wanted to see someone. Anyone. Whoever could get here the quickest.
I dialled emergency services and a calm voice asked me what service I required. I tried to picture Dorsea Island’s high street and its pocket-sized fire station.
‘Fire,’ I replied, knowing it was my only chance.
‘I’m at Dorsea House on Dorsea Island and there’s smoke. I need someone to come as quickly as possible.’
The calm voice asked me to talk through what had happened.
‘I’m upstairs in the bedroom. I can smell burning.’
‘Can you see fire?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I can see flames downstairs from my bedroom window. I am in a dangerous situation. Please come quickly.’
I peered out into the gloom and made out the shape of the sports car. A black Audi.
Sadness swamped me. Martin had come. I’d been so wrong, so wrong about everything.
I’d wanted to trust that he would never do anything to hurt me. That’s what had really brought me to Dorsea Island. It was a test. A test to see whether he loved me, and he’d failed. I’d failed.
I found some strength from somewhere and texted Clare and Phil Robertson.
Martin Joy killed Donna Joy. I am at Dorsea House on Dorsea Island. I have evidence and he has come to find me.
I watched the dial spin round and round indicating that the texts had not yet sent. ‘Come on,’ I moaned in frustration.
I heard a car door slam. I ran back into the bedroom and shut the door, leaning against it as I tried to regulate my breath.
I knew I could hide or I could confront him and tell him that it was useless to try and silence me. I had told everybody about the necklace: Doyle, Collins, Tom Briscoe, Phil Robertson. Donna Joy had been here. I knew it and so did everyone else.
Or I could fight. The knife from the pub was still in my coat pocket. I fished it out and squeezed my fingers around the black wooden handle.
Climbing into bed, I pulled the blankets up to my chin, my fist still closed around the knife, ready to strike.
I heard the stairs creak and then footsteps pause outside the door.
The moon disappeared behind a cloud and the room became even darker, my eyes straining to see anything except a series of shadows.
The door opened with a groan. I expected him to at least call out my name, but instead there was a silence that felt as if the world had stopped turning.
I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. The knife was sweaty in my trembling palm. I didn’t believe that he would hurt me. I couldn’t believe it.
I could feel his presence in the room now. I opened my eyes and looked at the shape at the bottom of the bed.
‘Martin, don’t,’ I said softly.
The figure came towards me. Through the darkness I noticed that he was wearing clothes as dark as the night sky and a black ski-mask that covered almost all his face.
‘Martin, please,’ I said, feeling a tear run down my cold cheek. ‘I knew you would come. I’ve called the police. And the emergency services. Someone will be here any minute—’
His hand went over my face and I started to struggle. He was strong.
I gulped for air but the palm pressed over my nose and mouth meant I could take nothing in. Images flashed in front of my eyes. The hotel room. Martin kissing me, holding my wrists, pinning me down. The pub in Chelsea, the noise of the quiz upstairs, loud, loud like a football match. Everyone leaving, people laughing. Alone on the street. Watching, waiting. An unlocked gate to a basement flat. Black spikes. Cold step. Sitting down, waiting, watching.
The hand was pressing down. I still couldn’t breathe and my whole body was screaming out for oxygen. An open door. Martin on the street. Donna at the window. Foggy, sleepy. Too much to drink. Head spinning. Donna on the street. A dark saloon car. A blonde cap of hair. Exhaust fumes. A taxi. Searing pain. Blood on my tights. It was all coming back to me in a torrent.
I willed myself to stay strong but I was fading fast. ‘Francine.’
Someone shouted my name. The pressure eased from my face and body as I registered that the intruder was being hauled away from me. I scrambled to a sitting position, the knife ready in my fist, and I could see two people locked in combat, hands grappling and taking violent swings at each other.
It took a second for me to recognize Martin, a further moment for my brain to connect the dots, to realize that he was fighting the intruder, which meant the man in the ski-mask was someone else.
My heart pumped furiously as my sweaty palm gripped the knife.
‘Alex, stop!’ I screamed, my mind already piecing it together.
I knew I had to help Martin but what would happen if the blade sliced through the wrong limb? My eyes glanced right to an old vase on the bedside table. I dropped the knife and slid off the bed, lifting the vase with uncertain hands. Everything seemed to blur. Noise, motion, shadow. Martin grabbed at his attacker’s ski-mask, pulling it off as I prepared to swing. There was a shattering of glass, a cry and scream, and then I could see Martin framed at the broken window. He turned around and took me in his arms. I could smell sweat and fear but I stayed still there for a few moments, just grateful to be alive, before turning back to the window. And then I peered through the broken shards of glass down on to the patio below and I could see nothing but Sophie Cole’s white face staring up at the sky.
The fire services came first and then the paramedics, who had to come from Colchester.
I could barely speak to any of them and let Martin take control, not even wanting to watch or listen. Instead I found a quiet corner of the house and hugged my knees close to my chest, the sound of the sirens and their blue lights melting away into the darkness, as Sophie was taken off to hospital and the fire team realized that they had nothing left to do.
A voice on the breeze reached me, yelling that the causeway was flooded and it would be another hour before traffic could get through, although Inspector Doyle from Belgravia police station had been notified and was already on his way.
‘How are you doing, love?’ A female police officer came into the room and put a blanket over my shoulders. ‘Is there a kettle anywhere?’
‘No. You won’t find one here,’ I said.
She looked at me, as if she was wondering what sort of life I lived here in Dorsea House. No doubt she imagined me as a mad Miss Havisham, and certainly I felt a mental fragility in common with one of Dickens’s most famous characters.
‘By the way, I think a friend of yours is here to see you.’ When I looked up, Tom was hovering in the doorframe.
I struggled to my feet and let him wrap his arms around me.
‘You made it,’ I said into his shoulder.
‘Just made it over the causeway. Better late than never.’
‘Well, you missed all the action.’
He didn’t find it funny.
‘I’m so sorry, Fran.’
‘I didn’t need you,’ I replied.
‘No, you never did.’
He meant it as a compliment, and I allowed myself to smile back gratefully.
‘I heard people talking,’ he said. ‘Apparently Sophie Cole is alive. They’re amazed she survived the fall.’
I nodded, not sure I would ever be able to forget the sight of her lying on the concrete, like a puppet with its strings cut.
‘Sophie is one of life’s survivors. She’s fit, strong. I’m sure she’ll live.’
‘I should go. I think Martin wants to talk to you.’
‘Just stay for a bit longer,’ I said, not sure how I felt about being alone with Martin.
‘I was wrong about him,’ said Tom after a second. ‘I was sure he was the one who killed Donna. I apologize. I should have trusted your judgement.’
‘No, I was wrong about him too,’ I said, more to myself than to my friend.
‘Tell him I’ll meet him outside,’ I said after a moment.
I was ignored by everyone as I shuffled on to the drive, the blanket around my shoulders trailing along the gravel. I knew that someone would want to interview me eventually, but I was a bit-part player now. There was a bench on the front lawn under a beech tree and I perched on its edge as I watched Martin follow me outside.
‘Thank you,’ I said as he sat down beside me. ‘Thank you for being there.’
He didn’t reply, just reached out a hand and squeezed my shoulder.
‘How did you know to follow Sophie?’ I asked. I was trying to piece it together, but my head felt too foggy.
‘Because I know how smart you are. When you called me and told me that you were at Dorsea and you had the necklace, I knew that you were testing me, goading me to come to the house. But I thought, I hoped, you’d have done it to Alex too. And I was right. My only surprise was that it was Sophie who left the house to come and find you, not Alex.’
‘So they were in this together?’ I said slowly.
Martin put his cold hand over mine. ‘I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’
He paused before he spoke again.
‘I can’t believe Sophie would do this. You think you know people …’ he said quietly.
I looked up and saw that he was crying.
‘Don’t, it’s over,’ I said softly.
‘I just wonder what they did with her. What they did to Donna,’ he said, blinking away his tears.
I slipped my arm through his awkwardly.
I felt as if I was sitting next to a stranger, but I didn’t want to see him like this.
‘We need to find her body,’ said Martin, composing himself. ‘She’d like a big funeral. Donna loved people. We’ll get everybody there. She’d like that.’
I felt tears well in my own eyes. So much so that it was difficult to focus on what was in front of me. I wiped my face with the back of my hand as I heard the sound of feet crunching across the pea-shingle. I looked up and saw a uniformed policeman, one with an air of command about him.
‘Mr Joy?’ he said, looking unsure.
Martin nodded.
‘Inspector Bannister, Colchester force. Inspector Doyle from the Met is on the way, but I thought you should know this before he comes … One of my colleagues is with Sophie Cole at the hospital. They’ve managed to have a short conversation with her … Obviously, we’ve not been able to confirm this yet, but she’s telling us that your wife, Donna Joy, is still alive.’