The price, p.1
The Price, page 1
Praise for Darren O’Sullivan
‘A clever concept thriller that leaves you breathless. Darren O’Sullivan’s best work yet’
John Marrs
‘An outstandingly taut story which grabbed me and then spat me out breathless at the end’
Angela Marsons
‘Saw meets I See You in this dark, twisted and deadly game of kill or be killed. I held my breath from beginning to end’
C.L. Taylor
‘I was engrossed in this from the very first page – high concept, thrilling and very, very dark. I couldn’t put it down’
Lisa Hall
‘Taut, terrifying and wonderfully original. I devoured The Players in one heart-stopping sitting’
Chris Whitaker
‘I was gripped by this taut and emotional thriller’
Louise Jensen
‘Engrossing, compelling and twisty from the first page to the shocking ending. This book grabbed me and didn’t let go’
Michele Campbell
‘Exquisitely written … a ripping good read’
Suzy K. Quinn
‘A stellar and original concept, brilliantly executed. The final chapters had my heart in my throat! O’Sullivan is certainly one to watch’
Phoebe Morgan
DARREN O’SULLIVAN is the author of five psychological thrillers. He is a graduate of the Faber Academy and his debut novel, Our Little Secret, was a bestseller in four countries. When Darren isn’t writing, he is found directing theatre or with his eight-year-old son, which is his happy place.
You can follow Darren on Twitter and Instagram @Darrensully or on Facebook/DarrenO’Sullivan-author.
Also by Darren O’Sullivan
Our Little Secret
Close Your Eyes
Closer Than You Think
Dark Corners
The Players
COPYRIGHT
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper,
Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland
This edition 2023
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023
Copyright © Darren O’Sullivan 2023
Darren O’Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008342074
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2023 ISBN: 9780008342081
Version 2023-05-19
NOTE TO READERS
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008342074
This book is for my Nan, Francis Mullis,
who was always a believer …
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue – 26th July 2023
16th July 2023
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
21st July 2023
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
22nd July 2023
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
23rd July 2023
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
24th July 2023
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
25th July 2023
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
26th July 2023
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
27th July 2023
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
28th July 2023
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
29th July 2023
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
30th July 2023
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract
Red Coat Experiment #3
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE – 26TH JULY 2023
George
The high-pitched alarm screeched above the sound of falling rain. Its shrill piercing noise made it difficult to hear any movement coming from inside the building, but I knew he was there, somewhere. The side door to the garage was smashed open and the shards of glass scattered over the floor shimmered in the reflection of the streetlights. He was there. He was inside, and he would have to come out through the broken door I was standing next to; I just had to be patient and wait for him to make a run for it. He would come to me, and I would use the cover of night to surprise him. However, even knowing I had the advantage, I was nervous. He was proving to be slippery, resourceful. If I screwed this up, I knew I’d likely not get another chance. If I fucked this up, I might get hurt, or worse.
Forcing myself to steady my breathing in the hope it would lower my heart rate, calm me, and stop me from acting on impulse, I stepped back against a wall ten or so feet from the door and pressed myself against it, feeling safe in the knowledge that no one could sneak up on me.
I looked into the building, trying to make out any movement in the darkness, hoping I wasn’t mistaken in the belief he was still inside. For too long I had wanted this man – he represented the keystone to bringing down Henry Mantel, the man who had caused so much pain and suffering, the man I had fought to bring to justice for over a year. Right now, Mantel’s associate didn’t know I was here, waiting. Finally, I had the upper hand.
Just as I began to doubt myself, I heard a noise coming from inside the garage. It was nothing more than a shuffle, but it was enough. Moments later I saw movement and the surge of adrenaline flooded from my stomach, into my arms, legs, head, readying my muscles for a fight. For so long I had wanted to find a way to Mantel, and the person who was the crucial link to enable an arrest was about to step out of a crime scene in front of me. As a police officer I didn’t often feel on edge, but as I waited, I struggled to contain my nerves. The man, the thief, climbed through the broken door and out into the rain. I sprang out of my concealed spot and tried to grab him, though he twisted out of my grip and began to run.
I had to stop him escaping.
‘Stop! Police!’ I shouted, stepping out into the light, blocking his way. The man looked back, his face obscured by a baseball cap and a shroud of mist from the pouring rain.
‘I said stop!’ I shouted, giving chase.
But the man
Although the wall behind the building did form a dead end, I knew the man would likely be able to scale it, but to do so, he would have to slow down. I’d gain a crucial few seconds to close the gap, grab him, and drag him to the ground. This man, this thief, was the key to it all, every single crime, every single death.
Soon I would finally have my answers.
Soon, it would all be over.
16TH JULY 2023
10 days earlier.
CHAPTER ONE
Clara
Every morning, just as I woke, for the briefest of moments I would forget that my daughter had cancer. Then, as I remembered the sickness and tests and treatments, the pain would hit me, and break my heart all over again, like it was the very first time.
Today was no different. As the pain settled into the continuous gnaw in my gut that I had become accustomed to, I focused on taking deep measured breaths and remembering all the things I was doing to help her. These were the things I could control, I reminded myself. When she felt sick, I comforted her, when it was time for treatment, I took her to appointments and held her hand. I showed her only positivity, even when I was struggling to find it myself. I wouldn’t say I was coping, but I was hanging in there, determined to get through it so she would ring the bell that meant she was cancer-free. And once this ordeal was over, hopefully, in time, I would recover too.
The pain subsided and Tabatha stirred beside me. As I sat up to reach for her in the cot that I kept beside my bed, I looked at the time. It was just before four; she had slept only a handful of hours, which wasn’t enough. I wondered if she knew today was a big day for her. First we had the support group, and then the hospital appointment I had been both dreading and desperate for. It was going to be tough on so little sleep, for us both.
‘Hey baby, did you sleep well?’ I said, picking her up and giving her a cuddle. She cooed and I nuzzled her closer, speaking to her in a sing-song tone. I fought back the tears forming at the sight of how ill she looked. She was clearly exhausted; the dark patches under her eyes were like those of an adult, one with the stresses only adults should have. She was too small, too young, too innocent for this, but I continued to sing, to chat, to smile, all for her. From my position on the edge of the bed, I looked across the hallway into the spare room. George still wasn’t back from his late shift. When he came home late from work, he often slept in there, but, the covers of the single bed lay undisturbed. My first instinct was to worry something had happened to him because, after all, in our line of work, there were risks. But I stopped myself. I had enough to worry about with Tabatha. George was fine. I would know otherwise. He was likely just working a double shift, which he’d been doing a lot recently. We all had to find a way to cope, I supposed.
During her illness and treatment, I’d noticed that Tabatha’s appetite suffered, but it was usually best when she first woke, when she was a little refreshed by a brief sleep. So despite it being before dawn, I took her across the hallway into the kitchen, sat her in her highchair, and spoon-fed her some Weetabix. We’d started weaning only a few weeks before, so as I tried to get the spoon into her mouth, food ended up on her chin, her nose, her cheeks. And as I was tired, I didn’t have the energy to stop her when she grabbed a handful of the mushed-up food and threw it on the floor. She smiled, delighted with herself and I smiled back. For a brief moment it almost felt like nothing was wrong. Despite the mess we made, she’d managed to eat a little, and some food was better than nothing. Once she finished, I cleaned her up, put her in her favourite bouncy chair and made myself a much-needed cup of coffee. As I flicked on the kettle, I saw a Post-it note with George’s scrawl stuck to the kitchen side.
Morning my girls,
I love you,
Daddy x
It made me smile. It was something so small and yet so thoughtful; it made me feel like he still cared in the way he once did before the diagnosis had changed everything. The note didn’t say when he would be home, or if he was coming to the support group – as he had promised for the last three meetings and yet still hadn’t turned up – but he still cared. I had no doubt he loved Tabatha; the pained expression he carried since finding out our daughter was unwell showed as much. But at times I wondered if he still loved me. Having a baby should have brought George and I even closer together, made us even tighter as a couple. We had become a nuclear family. Yet the distance between us was wider than ever before.
After I poured my coffee, I put on some early morning TV and mentally prepared myself for the day ahead. Tabatha dozed at around six, and sitting beside her, Netflix quietly playing in the background, I did too. When we both woke just before eight, George still wasn’t back.
Where are you? I wondered.
Even though it was still early, hours before the support group I had found comfort in started, I began to get myself and Tabs ready. Soon Mum would arrive at the bookshop below our flat, the bookshop that belonged to her, and I needed her in the absence of my husband. I needed an adult who understood how hard this was.
Once she was dressed, I looked at my daughter. If you didn’t know she had cancer, it was almost impossible to tell. At just over six months old, she was young enough that her bald head wasn’t automatically associated with cancer treatments. Her skin was a little paler than usual, her eyes a little darker, however, she smiled, played, and looked pretty much like any baby of that age. It’s funny, most parents want their children to be special, to shine, but I was desperate for my child to go unnoticed, to blend in, and for the most part, she did. But I knew that time was borrowed. They’d warned us that before she started getting better, she would likely get worse, and soon people would start to question why she was so thin, and so pale. Strangers we passed on the street would know my baby was ill.
With Tabs settled, I quickly showered and dressed myself, then carried her down the flats’ internal stairs that lead directly into the bookshop.
I walked through the small stockroom-cum-staffroom and opened the keypad-secured door between the stock room and the shop floor.
‘Mum? Are you here yet?’ I called out, but the shop was quiet.
Placing Tabatha in a highchair at one of the new tables in the café area, I switched on the coffee machine to make myself another drink. I’d need all the caffeine I could stomach.
A few years back, when things were rough and the lockdown seemed never-ending, I suggested that she used a part of the government bounce-back loan to turn the rear of the shop into a café, with a small play area for little ones. In recent years, the high street book trade had been hit hard – thanks in no small part to online shopping – but in Buxton, coffee shops seemed to be doing better than ever. So by dedicating a space for coffee lovers in the hope they’d also buy books and up the profit seemed like a perfect solution, and we all jumped at the opportunity to help Mum who had worked tirelessly in her business for years. George and I helped renovate the space, and when we found out we were expecting Tabatha, we pictured our baby there, playing in the children’s corner. We imagined Mum reading books to her, and Tabatha happy and laughing and clapping – a delight for customers. We had planned it all out; once I had finished my maternity leave, I would go back to being a police officer, working the opposite shift to George, and Tabatha would become a regular in the bookshop, with either mum or one of us by her side. The three of us making it work. I dreamt of a version of life where we were all happy in this café, in this shop. It was bright, it was hopeful, though as I looked at the barely-used children’s area, it hurt. I had pictured this beautiful future. Now I understood how naive I had been; seldom do plans play out as we hope.
I made myself an Americano and sat down with Tabatha, playing, singing and tickling her little feet until I heard the familiar bell as the shop door opened, and Mum walked in.
