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PRAISE FOR Her Last Holiday

‘An absolute belter of a novel. Is it possible that Cally is getting better and better? Just when you think you know what’s going on, the rug gets pulled. Cally is the absolute Queen of the page-turner.’

Elizabeth Haynes

‘Clever, twisty and increasingly chilling, Her Last Holiday had me totally gripped. C.L. Taylor is a master storyteller!’

Rosie Walsh

‘A sensational novel, tense, nightmarish, peppered with deep, real characters and shocking twists.’

Gillian McAllister

‘A gripping, intrigue-packed thriller.’

B.A. Paris

‘The intricate plotting, vivid characterisation and the exciting intrigue combined to make a most entertaining read.’

Liz Nugent

‘Another twisty, chilling and unpredictable thriller … I couldn’t put it down. Full of atmosphere and tension and a creeping sense of dread! Excellent from start to finish.’

Claire Douglas

‘Another twisty-turny and unputdownable read from the Queen of psychological thrillers.’

Susi Holliday

‘Another corker! I love all Cally’s books and Her Last Holiday really doesn’t disappoint. Kept me hooked and kept me guessing.’

Jane Fallon

‘She’s done it again. A complex, compelling page-turner set at a wellness retreat, with lots of twists and turns.’

Mark Edwards

‘An addictive page-turner that kept me reading through the night. Her Last Holiday is tightly plotted, with a cast of intriguing characters – none of whom are quite what they seem. Sure to be a huge hit!’

Lucy Clarke

PRAISE FOR C.L. TAYLOR

‘Claustrophobic and compelling.’

Karin Slaughter

‘I was glued from start to finish!’

Shari Lapena

‘She’s done it again … what a brilliant read Strangers is.’

Cass Green

‘Fans … are in for a treat.’

Clare Mackintosh

‘Clever, surprising and nuanced – C.L. Taylor is at the top of her game.’

Gillian McAllister

‘Clever and unsettling, with a brilliant cast of characters, I am sure this is going to be another huge success.’

Rachel Abbott

‘Utterly sinister and compelling.’

Mel Sherratt

‘A real page-turner … creepy, horrifying and twisty. Intriguing, scary and extremely gripping.’

Julie Cohen

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

Louise Douglas

‘Wonderfully devious, clever cliffhangers and utterly addictive.’

John Marrs

‘A masterclass in character. Clear to see why she’s a million-copy seller.’

Sarah Pinborough

‘Twisted, unbearably tense, and a shock ending.’

C.J. Tudor

‘Has a delicious sense of foreboding from the first page, and a final, agonizing twist. Loved it.’

Fiona Barton

See what readers are saying about Her Last Holiday …

‘C.L. Taylor has done it again! An absolutely spellbinding read.’

‘The plot is fantastic and captivating.’

‘Like all her books, I was hooked from the first page.’

‘Exceptionally written.’

‘What a twist! You won’t see it coming!’

‘Her most addictive novel yet!’

‘An enthralling read.’

‘Is it me, or do Cally Taylor’s books just get better and better?’

‘A book that has it all.’

‘Another great read from the Queen of psychological thrillers.’

‘A true rollercoaster thrill ride.’

‘I read Her Last Holiday from cover to cover in 12 hours, stopping only to sleep!’

‘An unpredictable thriller.’

‘A tense and intriguing read, cleverly written with lots of twists and turns.’

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

‘I devoured Strangers. Twisty and clever, utterly compelling characters and a superb edge-of-the-seat finale.’

Liz Barnsley, Liz Loves Books

‘My eyes were simply glued to the page, I couldn’t tear them away!’

The Bookworm’s Fantasy

‘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

‘Imaginative, compelling and shocking – The Fear is a highly engrossing read.’

The Book Review Café

‘The Fear is a dark tale of revenge and just when you think you know where the story’s going, the author takes you by surprise!’

Portobello Book Blog

‘[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

Dedication

To Laura Barclay

Chapter 1

Now – May

FRAN

Fran’s rage has reached boiling point. The stifling heat of the tube carriage, the scrum of warm, sweaty bodies and the woman continually smacking her knees with her oversized shopping bag have pushed her too far. She’s one tut away from combusting.

Her day started with an ominous burning sensation when she went to the toilet. Irritating. A UTI was something she simply didn’t have time for, especially when her Year Elevens were weeks away from taking their ICT GCSE.

When she arrived at St George’s Academy an hour later her mood wasn’t helped by an email from Nigel Flemming, Deputy Head, informing all teachers that, owing to staff shortages, they would have to take it in turns to supervise the seclusion room for disruptive students. And it continued to sour when she lugged an armful of heavy textbooks to the photocopier only to discover an ‘out of order’ notice taped to the top. She sighed. A urinary tract infection, the loss of a free period and a five minute walk across school to find another photocopier would not unhinge her. These were minor irritations, not life-changing events. If I can survive the last two years, she told herself, I can deal with this.

Now all Fran wants to do is escape from the hell that is the London Underground, get home, use the toilet, change into her pyjamas and crawl into bed, but the carriage is packed and every time they stop at a station it takes at least three attempts to close the doors. As the train slows into Kilburn station, the woman with the enormous bag stops tormenting Fran and squeezes her way through the mass of bodies to the door. Simultaneously, the people either side of her shuffle to fill the space she left behind. Someone stands on Fran’s foot, making her wince. She looks up sharply but if the grey-haired man in a suit registers her annoyance, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he continues to gaze over the heads of the other passengers, wearing the weary, blank expression of a London commuter. Fran sucks in the warm, fusty carriage air, an objection forming on her lips. There’s no excuse for a lack of manners and—

The thought evaporates.

One second ago, the grey-haired man had his right hand wrapped around a pole for balance and his left hand hanging loosely at his side. Now, that same left hand is gently stroking the bottom of the woman in front of him. Fran’s heart gives a little jolt as she clocks the woman’s dark hair and slim figure, but it’s not Jenna – it never is. This woman is much younger, mid-twenties at a push. Her hair is held up in a pony tail and she’s dressed casually in leggings, trainers and a T-shirt.

The young woman shifts her weight, a little wiggle of irritation at the waist to show her dislike at being touched, but she doesn’t turn around. Did she assume a bag or a coat was brushing against her? It is a packed carriage after all. Or maybe she was too scared to glance over her shoulder and look into the eyes of a pervert. She’s got nowhere to run, no means of escape.

Fran glares at the man as he casually drops his hand back to his side. He hasn’t spoken to the woman the whole journey, nor she to him. They’re no couple.

Nothing happens for a few seconds, and then the man inches forward, his face expressionless as he closes the gap between him and his victim. His hand slides away from his side, his fingers inches from the cleft of her bottom. Fran’s spine straightens.

Don’t you dare, she thinks as the train slows, approaching the next station. Don’t you bloody dare.

The man dares.

The young woman gasps in shock and tries to escape the probing fingers, but there’s nowhere to go. She is pinned on all sides by armpits, knees and hips. A smirk settles on the man’s lips and Fran’s rage erupts. She reaches out, thumb and forefinger extended, and grabs as much of his backside as she can. Then she twists. Hard.

The man jolts, rising up on the toes of his shiny black shoes, then he snaps round and glares accusingly down at her.

‘I believe this is your stop,’ Fran says as the doors open.

The man grimaces. He’s torn between leaving the carriage and responding to Fran. The young woman he groped is no longer in the aisle; she’s moved into the belly of the train. Her eyes meet Fran’s. Other than a woman in a hijab and a couple of teenage boys they are now alone in the carriage with the grey-haired pervert. An urgent beeping fills the space. The doors are about to close.

‘Ugly Bull Dyke!’ the man shouts at Fran. Seconds later, he’s gone.

There’s confusion as Fran moves down the carriage towards the young woman, and the young woman heads towards her.

‘Did you see—’

‘Are you okay?’

‘What happened?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘What did you say to him to—’

‘I’m so sorry—’

There’s an awkward pause as they wait for each other to finish.

‘Stella.’ The younger woman holds out her hand. ‘Whatever you just said or did, thank you.’

There’s a Northern tinge to her accent that Fran can’t quite place. Leeds or Sheffield, maybe.

‘Fran Fitzgerald.’ She returns the handshake. Now the adrenaline’s worn off she is desperate for the toilet again.

‘It’s a hate crime you know,’ Stella says, ‘what he called you.’

Fran tuts. ‘To men like that we’re either sluts or lesbians. Limited vocabulary. Tiny brains that match their tiny penises. And as he didn’t want to ram his hand between my legs that makes me a …’ She pauses as she registers the expression on the other woman’s face. ‘I’m not saying you’re the slut. Not in any way, shape or form. You’re no more a slut than I am a lesbian and’ – she takes a deep breath – ‘I’m sorry. I’m not expressing myself very well. It’s been a long day and—’

‘No, no. I get what you’re saying. He’s the dick.’

‘Good. Because …’ Fran shrugs off the rest of her sentence. Stella doesn’t need to know that she’s been reprimanded several times at work for saying something tactless to another member of staff. She doesn’t mean the words to come out the way they do but she can’t always stop herself. She does try though.

Yes Frances. She hears her mother’s voice in her head. You are very trying.

‘Because …’ Fran repeats, distracted by her reflection in the mirrored doors. She looks small, and round, and old. How did that happen? ‘Because what happened wasn’t your fault. As I said, the man’s a deviant and I would be more than happy to get off at your stop and report what happened to a member of the TfL staff. Or the police.’

As she looks back at Stella she is surprised to discover she’s grinning.

‘What?’ Fran asks. ‘What did I say?’

‘Nothing. I just … it’s refreshing. You’re refreshing.’

Fran’s not entirely sure she wants to know what that means so she doesn’t question her further. Instead, she asks Stella where she’s getting off and offers to accompany her to the nearest police station.

‘West Hampstead.’ Stella glances at the huge bag of books that Fran has left on her seat. ‘And that’s really kind of you but I think you can report this sort of thing online. Can I take your number anyway, just in case the police need to speak to you?’

‘Of course.’ Fran rummages in her bag for a piece of paper and a pen and scribbles down her mobile number and full name. ‘Do you have family? At home. Can you get there safely?’ Her throat tightens as she imagines Stella stepping out of the tube station and vanishing, never to be seen again. It happens; she knows that well enough.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Stella says. ‘I’ve got flatmates. I’m angry more than anything. If the tube hadn’t been so packed, I’d—’ She breaks off as the train crawls out of the tunnel and pulls to a stop at West Hampstead station. ‘Shit, this is me. Thanks for this.’ She plucks the piece of paper from Fran’s fingers. ‘And for doing what you did.’

Fran shrugs. ‘Not a problem.’

As the train doors open Stella moves to get off then turns back. ‘Hug?’

Fran stares at her in horror. What’s the polite way of saying no? Is there one when the girl’s just been sexually assaulted and is in need of physical reassurance? Should she just say yes and grin and bear it? A dozen different responses run through her head but the one that comes out of her mouth is, ‘I’d rather we didn’t.’

Stella laughs. ‘Bye Fran, thanks again.’

As Stella bounds off the train, Fran’s mobile vibrates in her handbag. She fishes it out and taps in the password. Her mum has sent her a WhatsApp message. Fran clicks on it and squints at the black and white image. It looks like a newspaper article. She digs around for her reading glasses and puts them on.

She recognises the face in the photograph – the dark hair, the strong jawline, the piercing grey eyes.

It’s Tom Wade, the last man to see her sister Jenna alive. And tomorrow they’re setting him free.

Chapter 2

Then – two years earlier

JENNA

Jenna sits back in her seat, fastens the belt around her waist and rests her arms on the armrests. She looks dispassionately at her hands, hanging loosely over the ends. Normally they’d be in her lap, fiddling with a ring or a bracelet. She mentally examines the rest of her body: her heart is beating steadily, her face isn’t flushed and her feet aren’t tapping out a frantic rhythm on the floor of the plane. It is as though someone else – Jenna Fitzgerald’s unafraid clone – is sitting in seat 10A. She searches inside herself for the fear that accompanied her on previous flights. It’s not there. She fires up her imagination and pictures the plane lurching in turbulence, exploding at 30,000 feet or hitting the ground nose first. She waits for her pulse to begin racing and her temples to dampen. Nothing happens. Her phobia of flying has vanished but not because she took a course or visited a hypnotist. She simply no longer cares.

She looks out of the window, the back of her head vibrating against the headrest as the plane accelerates. Erica, beside her, makes a soft whining sound as the plane lifts into the air. She’s twenty-five, one of the ‘babies’ of the group.

‘Are you okay?’ Jenna asks.

‘Could you … could I hold your hand? I hate flying.’

‘Of course.’

The words have barely left Jenna’s mouth when Erica grips her hand, squeezing it so tightly her knuckles knock together. Erica’s eyes are screwed shut, her lips pressed into a hard, thin line, her brow tightly knotted. She looks like one of the Cabbage Patch dolls Fran kept on a shelf in her room. She wouldn’t let Jenna play with it even though she must have been fifteen, while Jenna was only three.

Jenna pushes the memory away and places her free hand over Erica’s. ‘Breathe. Remember what Tom taught us. You are in control of your anxiety. Not the other way round.’

Instinctively, she glances in Tom’s direction. He’s on the other side of the plane and several rows ahead so she can’t actually see him, but she knows he’s there. He flashed a smile at her as she made her way onto the plane. As their eyes met, she felt something inside her twist. It was still there, the attraction she’d felt on the first day they met, the attraction she was certain was mutual.

‘I … can’t.’ Erica forces out the words on short puffs of breath.

‘Let go of your fear,’ Jenna says. ‘You’re living a story you have created. It’s not reality. Tell it no and push it out of your mind.’

Erica shakes her head minutely then squeals as the plane dips to the left.

‘Look at me,’ Jenna says. ‘Open your eyes.’

Erica shakes her head again. Jenna waits. One second passes, two, three, then Erica opens her eyes and turns to look at her.

Jenna smiles. ‘Good. Well done. Do I look scared?’

The younger woman’s eyes rove her face. ‘No.’

‘That’s because there’s nothing to be scared of.’

It’s a lie. But only a little one. There’s plenty to be fearful of but dying in a plane crash is no longer on her list.

She gives Erica’s hand a little squeeze as the plane levels off. ‘That’s the worst bit over. Now you get to relax for three hours.’

‘Relax?’

‘Read, watch a film. You can borrow my iPad, if you want?’

‘Could I?’ Relief floods Erica’s face. ‘Have you got anything funny? I don’t think my heart could cope with anything scary.’

‘Sure. It’s in my bag.’ She checks that the seat belt signs have been switched off then unbuckles her belt and shuffles past Erica and the man sitting in the aisle seat.

She hands Erica the iPad then glances across to seat 4C, where Tom was sitting. It’s empty. Her gaze flits towards the front of the plane. The toilet engaged sign is lit up. Abandoning her bag, she moves down the aisle and hovers outside the toilet. One of the flight attendants, preparing a trolley with snacks, catches her eye and smiles. Jenna returns the smile then turns to look out of the window. Clouds. Miles and miles of white, fluffy, picture-book clouds. As a child, she told her mum that one day she was going to jump out of a plane just so she could lie on one. She was going to float around the world, she told her. She couldn’t imagine anything more restful and—

‘You’re not planning on opening that, are you? I’d quite like to get to Malta in one piece.’

Jenna twists sharply. Tom is standing beside her, a smile playing on his lips.

‘The door.’ He looks meaningfully at her hand, gripping the handle of the exit door.

‘I … I didn’t even realise I was …’ She snatches her hand away.

‘It’s okay, I was joking.’ He strokes her arm from the shoulder to the elbow and back again. The warmth of his fingers on her skin pulls her back from the clouds and into her body. ‘I’m sorry I startled you.’ He drops his hand but his gaze lingers. He looked at her in the same way the first time they met – his head slightly tilted to one side, his body relaxed, his pupils wide and dark, his attention so completely focused on her it was as though the rest of the room didn’t exist.

She edges away from him, to break the tension, then shifts the conversation to the reason she signed up for the retreat. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the advice you gave me. I talked to my mum, as you suggested, but it really didn’t—’

‘Tom. Jenna. Everything okay?’ Kate strolls towards them, her dark hair twisted into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, a notebook clutched in her right hand. She doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘Tom, we need to go over the itinerary again. I’m not sure whether the timings of the activities on day two quite work with—’

‘We were talking,’ Jenna says, irritated by the interruption.

Kate places a territorial hand on Tom’s arm. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that during the week. You have a one-to-one scheduled for …’ She opens her notebook and runs a red fingernail down the page. ‘For Wednesday.’ She smiles brightly. ‘We have lots of wonderful things planned between now and then. It’s going to be a transformative experience, Jenna. Okay, Tom?’ She pulls on his arm. ‘Shall we?’

He turns back to Jenna and leans in, his breath warm in her ear. ‘When we get to the hotel meet me at the entrance at seven o’clock, wear a swimsuit under your clothes and bring a dressing gown.’

Before she can reply he’s gone, marched back to his seat by Kate. Sighing, she makes her way back down the aisle, forcing herself not to glance at Tom as she passes his row. She’s two rows away from her seat when she stops abruptly. Someone just touched her on the leg.

‘You okay, Jenna?’ A man around her age with black hair, shaved around the sides with the top pulled back into a walnut sized bun on the back of his head, smiles up at her. On the tray in front of him is an open can of beer and several empties.

‘Fine.’ She smiles apprehensively. She only met a handful of people during the one day seminar in London and she’s forgotten almost all of the names of the people she shook hands with in the airport. Kate had collected the group into a corner of the departure lounge and suggested they introduce themselves to each other.

‘Damian.’

She shakes his hand and is about to tell him her name when she realises he’s already said it.

‘Flight okay?’ he asks, and she catches a slight slur to his soft Scottish burr. ‘Who are you sitting next to?’

‘Erica.’

He frowns, not recognising the name.

‘Blonde, beautiful, thin,’ she prompts.

Damian shrugs, unperturbed. ‘Do you think she’d swap?’

Jenna laughs. ‘I doubt it. I’m her emotional support person. I had to hold her hand on take-off.’

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