That Night

Gillian McAllister

THAT NIGHT

Contents

About the Author

Gillian McAllister has been writing for as long as she can remember. She graduated with an English degree before working as a lawyer. She lives in Birmingham, where she now writes full-time. She is the Sunday Times bestselling author of Everything but the Truth, Anything You Do Say, No Further Questions, The Evidence Against You and How to Disappear.

By the same author

Everything but the Truth

Anything You Do Say

No Further Questions

The Evidence Against You

How to Disappear

For Holly, who I would absolutely bury a body for

Prologue

‘Help me, please help me,’ I say into the phone.

‘What?’ My sister has panic in her voice, her usually muted tone immediately alert. ‘What?’ The second what? is resigned, a full, heartbroken glob of a word, like syrup falling off a spoon.

The line crackles as if paper is being brushed across the mouthpiece, the signal poor. ‘Please help,’ I say.

It’s night-time, but there’s still just a hint of lightness at the edge of the horizon where the sun set hours ago, like somebody has torn a seam in the sky, just at the edge there. Otherwise, it’s completely black, the air scented with summer hay and the final embers of barbecues. ‘Please come,’ I add, though I know she will. This is what family means. This is what our family means anyway.

She doesn’t say anything back, but that silence contains her agreement, I know it does.

I move my gaze away from the sky and stare downwards, lighting up the ground with a torch which illuminates dust motes dancing in the air.

I slowly run the torch over it. Over the body.

1.

Cathy

Cathy only answers the phone call that comes in the middle of the night because she is awake, working. Chasing up bloods for a Labrador that she’s concerned about. The results are already late, and the unreliable holiday Wi-Fi keeps cutting off just as she tries to send the email.

Frannie. Slide to answer. Cathy’s eyes flick to the top of the screen to check the time. It’s 1.25 a.m. The room is completely dark around the blue bubble of light the phone creates. All she can see is her sister, calling her in the small hours. Calling Cathy because she knows Cathy will be alone, because Cathy is always alone, whether on holiday or at home.

She sits up in the bed and swipes to answer. The sheet falls away from her. She’s wearing pyjamas even in the Italian heat. It seems somehow wrong to sleep naked. That particular luxury, for Cathy, is reserved for the future, she hopes, with some as yet unknown man.

‘Help me, please help me,’ Frannie shouts as soon as Cathy answers. Electricity shoots across Cathy’s chest and down her arms.