Title Page

Contents

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Caroline Mitchell

Also by Caroline Mitchell

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About Caroline Mitchell

About Embla Books

Copyright

First published in Great Britain in 2021 by

EMBLA BOOKS

Bonnier Books UK Limited

4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA

Owned by Bonnier Books

Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden Copyright © Caroline Mitchell, 2021

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The right of Caroline Mitchell to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-4714-1146-5

Audio ISBN: 978-1-4714-1110-6

This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisher.

Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK.

Praise for Caroline Mitchell

‘Whenever I pick up a Caroline Mitchell book I always feel safe in the knowledge that she is going to take me on a tense, thrilling, twisty ride’

Angela Marsons

‘Caroline Mitchell is one of my favourite authors … she takes the reader on a journey to a dark place where monsters hide in plain sight’

The Book Review Café

‘With her police officer experience, Caroline Mitchell knows how to deliver on plot, character and most importantly, emotion, in any book she writes’

My Weekly

Also by Caroline Mitchell

The DI Amy Winter series

Truth and Lies

The Secret Child

Left for Dead

Flesh and Blood

The DC Jennifer Knight series

Don’t Turn Around

Time to Die

The Silent Twin

The Ruby Preston series

Death Note

Sleep Tight

Murder Game

Other works

Witness

Silent Victim

The Perfect Mother

Dedication

To Jane Snelgrove, for bringing magic to my words

Epigraph

If you open your door to the Midnight Man,

Hide with a candle wherever you can.

Try not to scream as he draws near,

Because one of you won’t be leaving here …

Prologue

Monday, 31st October 1994

Blackhall Manor

I remember the day I died quite clearly. It began as a nothing day, just like many nothing days before it. Back then, I didn’t understand the important things in life. It wasn’t about pop stars, or clothes, or boys, or any of that stuff I thought I couldn’t live without. It was about family. But you don’t appreciate the people who matter until they’re gone.

I didn’t know what dread was until we moved into Blackhall Manor. Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night, my sheets damp from sweat as apprehension swallowed me whole. What frightened me the most was not being able to put a name to these feelings, or explain them away. I think my grandmother sensed something was wrong because she took my brother and me out as much as she could. It was her idea to take us trick-or-treating, and I remember being jolted in my seat that night as she swerved to avoid a pothole in the road. I hated that pothole because it meant we were almost home.

The comforting glow of the street lights was behind us, and I winced at the sound of the brambles clawing the side of the car as we drove down the winding dirt track. Dead fingernails clawing for attention. I was nothing if not imaginative. I glanced back at my younger brother as we passed through the wrought iron gates, wondering if he, too, was consumed by a similar sense of dread. But Robin was too busy calling out ‘Black Jacks! Fruit salads!’ and ‘Flying saucers!’ like some sweet-obsessed four-year-old with Tourette’s. ‘Swap you a white mouse for a cola bottle,’ he said, extending his chubby hand.

I peered through the gloom at the blob of white chocolate melting on his palm. ‘No thanks,’ I said, turning back to draw a sad face on the condensation-streaked glass with my finger.

There were ten years between my brother and I, who had been deemed a ‘happy accident’ when he arrived in the world. I adored everything about him, but since hitting my teenage years I preferred to spend time with my friends.

Trick-or-treating was for babies, I decided, and this would be the last year Robin and I would go. I was far too grown up to suffer the indignities of traipsing from house to house with a less than spooky grandmother and a mini Batman in tow. I remembered when we lived in town, Mummy and Daddy had a party and invited the whole street. Daddy dressed up as Dracula, and everyone said how brilliant he was.

My spirits sank as Blackhall Manor came into view. The dilapidated building was perched in solitude on its hilltop, surrounded by a thick white mist which rolled in off the fields. It wasn’t the lifeless trees standing sentry that gave me the creeps as we navigated the winding path. Nor was it the ravens perched on the barbed wire fence. It wasn’t the sound of the wind howling through the galvanised outbuildings, or the creatures scurrying in the thick undergrowth. All those things would have frightened me once, but they paled in comparison to the tall brick building looming ahead. It came with a history fit for any ghost story. None of my friends visited. Neither would I, given a choice. In Blackhall Manor, it was Halloween all year long. Daddy said that living with Granny and Grandad would be fun. But after five long years of helping them with the farm, even he didn’t believe that anymore.

We parked up next to Uncle John’s BMW, which was facing out on the gravel drive. Ready for a quick getaway, I thought. Mummy once described him as a mediator, and by the look on his face as he exited the house, his visit had not gone well. Clutching my bag of sweets, I took slow, reluctant steps through the open front door, leaving Granny to exchange words with Uncle John.

A cold wind chased me as I walked inside. The air was thick with negativity and it was clear by the look on Mum’s face that an argument had taken place. Grandad stood at the base of the wide stairwell; his bushy brows knitted in a frown as he helped Robin with his wellington boots. ‘Look, Mummy!’ Robin squeaked, showing off his bag of sweets as she approached. ‘I got loads!’ Robin did not notice that Mummy’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but I did, and my heart sank even more. I followed them into the kitchen. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ I asked, undoing the button of my witch’s cloak. At least it was warm in the kitchen. Grandad kept the Aga fed with timber cut from our private woodlands, and the sweet smell of moss-covered cedar hung in the air.

‘Come along, young man,’ Grandad said as Robin downed a glass of milk. ‘Up to bed with you.’

I always found it strange how Grandad idolised my little brother, yet fought with Daddy all the time.

‘Brush your teeth,’ Mummy said. ‘I’ll be up in a minute to read you a story.’ But her words were hollow, her smile forced.

I walked towards the doorway, lingering as Mummy and Granny spoke. ‘Did you sort anything out?’ Granny said, her voice low.

But Mummy shook her head.

‘Give it time,’ Granny replied with a sigh.

Rarely a day passed without an argument of some kind. There were kids in my school whose parents were divorced. I didn’t want that happening to us.

‘Where is he now?’ Granny said.

‘In his study.’

I straightened as Mummy caught me standing at the door. ‘What are you doing there? Up to bed.’ The sadness I sensed in her took my breath away. I ran towards her like a little child, inhaling the scent of lavender as I wrapped my arms around her.

‘Love you,’ I said, feeling her relax in my embrace.

‘And we love you too,’ she said, too swept up in her own concerns to see mine. ‘Now go on, bed.’

I turned left on the landing, to Daddy’s study, instead. Peeping through the crack in the door, I watched him clean his shotgun. Methodically, he inspected each piece, a throwback to his army days before he gave it all up to help Grandad with the farm. His face was vacant, his eyes flicking towards the door as a floorboard creaked beneath my foot. Tentatively, I pushed it open, gauging his reaction as I stepped inside.

‘Hey wicked witch, what are you doing up?’ He lay the barrel of the gun on the mahogany desk before turning to face me. He looked tired but raised his arm to draw me in for a hug. ‘It’s late; you should be in bed,’ he said, his short beard tickling my forehead as he kissed me goodnight.

The sparse light of the moon only added to the coldness of my bedroom as I lay awake in bed that night. No number of posters or fairy lights could cheer the space up. Pulling my blanket to my chin, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for sleep.

At first, I thought the sudden boom was thunder. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus as I sat up in bed. What time is it? I flicked on my bedside light, but the room remained in darkness. The electricity had gone again. But why hadn’t the generator kicked in? I squinted at the digital clock as it ticked the seconds past midnight on my dresser. The air was too chilled for thunder tonight. Fireworks? I wondered, half asleep as I slid out of bed. The floorboards felt like ice beneath my feet as I tiptoed towards my bedroom door. I froze as I heard my mother’s footsteps rapidly hitting each stair. I wanted to call out for her, but the words locked in my throat as she screamed Robin’s name. My hands rushed to my mouth as I heard my mother’s guttural howls. Grandad called out from downstairs. Where was Daddy? Nothing made sense. Heavy footsteps thumped across the landing towards my bedroom door.

‘Nigel!’ Mummy’s voice echoed throughout the house, but no response came. ‘Not her. Please, not my little girl!’

Why was she calling Daddy? I thought, feeling weak and confused. Jumping into bed, I pulled the blanket to my chest as a struggle took place outside my door. As Mummy’s screams evolved into bargaining, my thoughts went to my brother. Where’s Robin? I watched in horror as my door-knob twisted, left, then right, before finally engaging in the mechanism. It opened with a click. I drew my knees to my chest. My heart was hammering hard, a rush of blood pulsating in my ears.

‘What’s going on up there?’ Grandad’s voice rose from downstairs for a second time. The movement behind my door stilled and the door was pressed shut. It was followed by the thump, thump, thump of a steady descent down the stairs.

‘He’s got a gun!’ Mummy screamed, and I pinched my arm hard. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. But this wasn’t a nightmare I woke up from. It was a nightmare I woke up to.

The rational part of my mind remembered that Daddy had been cleaning his shotgun. Maybe Mummy was upset because it went off by accident. But where? In Robin’s room? Not my little girl, she had screamed. My teeth were chattering now, a sudden sob erupting in my throat as realisation dawned. Daddy didn’t have accidents when it came to his gun. Climbing out of bed, I forced one foot in front of the other as I returned to the door and pressed my ear against the wood. I recoiled as another crack of gunfire shook the walls of the house. Downstairs, Granny screamed something about calling the police. Her words were killed by another deafening crack. Thunder. It was relentless. My legs weakened as my world collapsed around me. Then silence.

No, I squeaked. My eyes were blurry with tears, every instinct telling me to hide. But I needed to get to Robin before Daddy did. My hands felt like jelly as I twisted the door-knob. The door opened a crack, and I shrieked as I was met with Mummy’s tear-stained face.

‘Shhh.’ Her breath trembled as she placed a hand on my mouth. Her skin was cold, her face ashen. I nodded in understanding and she released her grip. ‘Hurry,’ she whispered, guiding me by the elbow. I craned my neck as we padded past Robin’s room. His door was open an inch, but I couldn’t see all the way in. Part of me didn’t want to.

‘Here,’ Mummy whispered, leading me to the antique wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom. ‘Hide in here and don’t make a sound, do you hear me? No matter who calls.’ Her hands trembled as she pushed my hair off my face. ‘Wait for the police. They’re on their way.’

‘I can’t do it,’ I cried. ‘I can’t … Please. Mummy … don’t leave me.’

‘Listen to me, you can, and you will. You’re my special girl.’ Gently, Mummy steered me inside, her quick, panicked breath against my face as she kissed my cheek. The stairwell creaked.

‘Not a sound,’ Mummy reiterated, her face ravaged by fear. As I stood at the back of the wardrobe, she gently closed the door. I peered through a crack in the wood as the key turned in the lock. There was a soft click as the key was extracted, and in the dark, I made out my mother’s outline as she left the room. But what about Robin? I bit on my knuckles to stop the scream erupting from my throat. I already knew the answer. Robin was dead.

Leaden feet climbed the stairs. My mother’s screams were cut dead as another shot ripped through the night. As each door on the landing was flung open, I counted the shots so far. The first shot had been for Robin. Then Grandad. Then Granny. Then Mummy … and now he was coming for me. The thought was too horrific for my young mind to contemplate. The light left the room as the moon dipped behind a cloud, and I struggled to make out my father’s form as he entered. His footsteps were steady and methodical. Every instinct told me to call out to him. Daddy wouldn’t hurt me. He would keep me safe. But my mother’s warning lingered. The gun hanging from his arm, he grunted as he checked beneath the bed. The metal hangers jingled above me as I recoiled from his presence. It seemed like the loudest sound in the world as Daddy’s footsteps stilled.

His voice seemed different as he called my name; robotic, void of emotion. A sob escaped my throat, betraying my presence in the room. I flattened myself against the sides of the wardrobe as a strong hand rattled the door. I held my breath. Silence. Police sirens screamed in the distance. A tiny flicker of hope. But as I peered through the crack in the wardrobe, all hope died. My view was consumed by the barrel of his gun. I remember the floorboard creaking. There was a sudden, blinding flash. I was swallowed by the dark.

That was the day I died, and I haven’t left Blackhall Manor since.

1

Thursday, 31st October 2019

Sarah chased her peas around her plate with her fork, wondering if fish fingers and chips were more nutritious than the ready meals she had been eating all week. The air fryer was marginally better than the microwave – wasn’t it? She prodded the limp fish finger. To think, some poor creature gave up its life to end up like this.

‘Fancy it?’ she dangled the soggy offering before her ginger cat. His eyes narrowed in silent protest of her presence on the sofa. Most evenings, Sherlock preferred to watch Pointless re-runs on his own. ‘Alaska,’ Sarah blurted, as the quiz show host asked for US states ending with an ‘a’. She plopped her fish finger back onto her plate before rising to empty the remnants into the recycling caddy in the kitchen.

‘How about a nice juicy chicken leg?’ she shouted, her head in her fridge.

‘Don’t give him that, he’ll choke on it.’

Sarah’s lips thinned at the sound of David, her husband. He shouldn’t even be here. She told herself not to respond.

‘There you go, Sher, knock yourself out,’ she said, as the chicken landed with a bump on the living-room rug. She sensed her husband’s disapproval and she liked it. Sherlock’s tail gave a couple of thumps against the sofa cushion before he pounced on the chicken leg. The soft swish of the cat flap followed as he disappeared with it into the night. One day he’d find somewhere more deserving of his nobility and never come back.

Sarah glanced around her drab bungalow, wishing she had the energy to clean the place up. It wasn’t as if she’d been busy this last twelve months. Busy eating, maybe. The sofa made a scrunching noise when you sat on it, because of all the sweet wrappers shoved down the sides. Biscuit crumbs littered the creases of the cushions, and she dare not look behind it for fear of the cobwebs lurking there. There was a wine stain in the shape of Italy on her carpet, and the kitchen floor was only clean because she’d used Fairy liquid after she ran out of dishwashing tablets and suds had spilt onto the lino. At least she’d had the presence of mind to get her suit dry-cleaned for tomorrow. The sharp ring of her landline almost made her jump out of her skin. It was so seldom that anyone called that it took her a second to figure out what it was. Even the cold callers didn’t bother because she kept them on the line so long. She reckoned they had put her on a blacklist of some sort.

‘Hello?’ she said, into the heavy, old-fashioned handset.

‘It’s Gabby,’ a voice replied in a no-nonsense tone. Sarah straightened at the sound of her voice, her hand automatically going to her forehead and tugging on her fringe. It was a nervous tic that she was barely aware of anymore.

‘Oh … h … hello, Sarge,’ Sarah stuttered, wishing she’d been pre-warned about the call. Then she could have given herself a pep talk, worked out what she was going to say.

‘Just checking you’re still up for tomorrow, everything OK?’

‘Yes,’ Sarah said, still fiddling with her fringe. ‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Good. Don’t let me down.’

A dead ringtone followed before Sarah could reply.

‘Are you sure about this?’

Sarah glowered as her husband spoke. She should bill him for Botox because he had aged her horrendously – she felt a hell of a lot older than her forty years.

‘I mean … are you sure you’re ready?’ he continued. ‘Look what happened last time.’

‘That was down to you.’ Sarah ground her teeth as she broke her vow of silence. David knew how to push her buttons when it came to work. Heading back into the living room, she almost tripped over an empty pizza box. She really should clean this place up.

‘It’s long hours,’ David continued in a patronising tone. ‘You’ll get no thanks for it.’

‘I’m on restricted duties,’ Sarah snapped. ‘I won’t be doing much.’ It was a shitty way to resume her new role. But it did mean regular hours and not taking on more than she could handle until she was cleared. Her husband knew all of this, given his years of experience in the police. Such jobs were fine for the boys, not for the little missus at home. She sighed. Perhaps he was right.

‘The world’s a dangerous place,’ he continued, determined to drive his point home.

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Exasperated, Sarah threw her hands in the air. ‘I know what the world is, and I know what you are. You made this happen and now I’m paying the price. So, do me a favour and keep your bloody opinions to yourself.’

It was true. She’d lost the respect of her colleagues before she’d even begun. Marching down the hall, she walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. This was the one space in the house where David left her alone. Their marriage had long since broken down, but he still popped in on occasion to tell her what to do. Despite her best efforts, she let him. What was wrong with her?

The bed bounced as she sat, making a rusty ew-aw noise. Its springs were the old-fashioned sort, which groaned loudly when she turned in the night. Buying a new bed was also on her checklist of things to do. She slid open the top drawer of her bedside table and fetched a deep sigh. Picking up her ID card, she rubbed her thumb against the picture that had been taken when she was a recruit. She was the oldest person in her intake, and right now, she felt like the least confident. David was simply vocalising what had been in her head all along.

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