Into the dark, p.26
Into the Dark, page 26
Piper opened the car door and stepped into the afternoon gloom of the hotel car park. The snow was falling more thickly now and she held out her tongue to catch the flakes.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she unlocked the boot to retrieve her suitcase and the one containing Julianne’s money.
The bloated face of her dead friend stared back, her body curled like a comma in the cramped space.
Piper had believed in their shared dream. But as with everything she’d learned over the years, the only person she could depend on was herself.
Neutral observers might ask themselves why Piper had stuck with Julianne and Gray for all these years when it was apparent they were both a liability, a millstone around her neck. Or how a woman could lock up and abandon her children. But to ask that question was to exhibit a profound lack of understanding about Piper’s motives. It was never about friendship or love, although she had felt both of those things in her way. It was about other base desires: money, bitterness, revenge, obsession.
She closed the boot and locked the car. In a few days, she would get rid of it, the last link to the truth, but for now, she wanted to celebrate.
In the letter she’d left on the table at Seawings, addressed to Detective Inspector Angus O’Neill, she’d explained how Julianne had always coveted her life, and had targeted lonely widowers for money, and how she’d suspected Gray and Julianne were more than just friends, and were planning to kill her and be together.
That if she were to disappear again, Julianne Hillier should be considered his number one suspect. Not a word of it was true. But Piper Holden had thought of everything.
If they believed she was dead, no one would come looking for her.
The receptionist was warm and welcoming. The bedroom was exactly as advertised. Silk sheets and fat pillows, and a bucket of champagne on ice. She would stay here a week or so. Perhaps longer. They would have no idea where she was. No idea at all.
Using Julianne’s phone, she checked her bank account. With the stolen millions from Holden Investments and her friend’s suitcase full of money, Piper was now an extremely wealthy woman.
Her conscience did not prick her. She felt no remorse, except, perhaps, a flicker of guilt for her children. In the end, it had come down to her or Julianne.
And one simple truth.
The only way to keep a secret is to make sure there’s no one alive to tell it.
EPILOGUE
Monday morning
Six days after the Holdens disappeared
The letters arrived on the same morning, four days after Piper and Julianne had absconded.
The first was addressed to Riva and Artie Holden, Seawings, Marine Parade, Midtown-on-Sea. It was thick and rectangular, and it plopped through the mailbox at the edge of the property on the morning of the twins’ sixteenth birthday, when they were officially old enough to live unsupervised.
There was no accompanying note but there were details of a solicitor in London and a copy of the Deed of Trust.
Artie rang the number at the top of the letter.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the man, clearing his throat. ‘A minor cannot legally hold property in their own name but it’s possible for a property to be held in trust for you.’
‘Sorry, what does that mean?’
‘It means the mortgage has been paid off and as soon as you’re both eighteen, ownership of Seawings will formally pass to you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Please accept my condolences. I was sorry to read about your parents. It seems your mother had the extraordinary gift of foresight in arranging this before her untimely . . .’ He tailed off, unable to articulate exactly what had happened to Piper Holden, who had since been declared a Person of Interest by the police.
But the twins, who had been left in a state of bewilderment and shock at the drowning of their father and the second unexplained disappearance of their mother, were at least provided for in a financial sense, if not an emotional one.
A second letter – written in a different hand – landed twenty minutes later on the mat of the Hillier household, addressed to Emelie.
By chance, she’d been at the bottom of the stairs when the postman delivered it. She recognized the writing immediately and snatched it up before her father, who’d spent the last couple of days white-lipped with anger, could read it.
It was from her mother.
Dearest Emelie,
If you’ve got as far as opening this, please don’t tear it into pieces before you read it. There’s a couple of things I’d like to explain. Firstly, I’m so sorry I didn’t say goodbye. When you’re older, I hope you’ll understand, but I had to leave before the police arrested me for things I shouldn’t have done. We all make mistakes, sometimes terrible ones, but having you and your brother was never one of those, and I’d hate you to think I’m abandoning you. I’m leaving because I have no choices left to me now. I love you both so much.
I will stay in touch when I can, even though Piper would kill me if she knew. But I know you’re good at keeping secrets, my beautiful girl. You’ve kept mine and I’ve kept yours. So here’s another one: a new number so you can contact me if you’d like to. I know I’ve upset you and I will never stop regretting that, but I hope one day you’ll forgive me for everything that’s gone wrong.
Piper is different now. She’s not the woman I used to know. I’m not sure I trust her anymore. She frightens me, but I don’t know what else to do or where to go. Sometimes I catch her looking at me with an expression of anger or regret, I’m not sure which. Piper says we shouldn’t tell anyone where we’re going. That we’ll stay at our destination for a week or so before moving on to another city. We’ll keep moving, I suppose, until we’re caught or we die, whichever comes first.
If you decide to reply (I hope you do – please do) but don’t hear back from me within a day or two, alert the authorities and don’t share this information with anyone except the police.
We’ll be staying at this hotel, my love: Hotel Navarra, Sint-Jakobsstraat 41, 8000 Bruges, Belgium
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is a novel written in lockdown. Yes, during that pandemic, in which we were confined to our homes and there were food shortages and far too many deaths, but also during a personal lockdown in which the shadow of a virus we didn’t understand, fear for loved ones and strangers, a near-constant anxiety, insomnia and the complexities of home-schooling drained me of creative focus.
But as I write this, death rates are dropping, millions have been vaccinated and spring promises, at least, a ray of hope. To misquote Charles Dickens, the last year has been like one of those April days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it’s summer in the light, and winter in the shade.
During the last months, I’ve finally been able to write again.
Thanks to my agent Sophie Lambert and my editor Trisha Jackson for gentle encouragement but absence of pressure: I could not have asked for a more considerate pairing and these wonder women make publishing a warmer place. Gratitude, as always, to the Pan Macmillan team of Rosie Wilson, Elle Gibbons, Stuart Dwyer, Lucy Hale, Jayne Osborne, Claire Gatzen, Samantha Fletcher, Neil Lang and Rebecca Lloyd for their continued hard work and faith, and to my literary agency C&W, especially the foreign rights team.
Thanks also to Fiona Sharp, Waterstones bookseller extraordinaire and champion of authors, who planted the seed of ‘Detective’ Saul Anguish. The character Marisa Sharp is for her.
A shout-out too, to my friend Emma Chong, who bought me Wordcrime by John Olsson, which inspired forensic linguist Dr Clover March, aka Blue; to Stuart Gibbon for all his help with police procedure and new recruits; and to Elizabeth Dodd for allowing me to borrow Miss Meow and the urinating-in-the-toaster story.
And thanks to all booksellers, librarians, reviewers, bloggers and readers. We couldn’t do it without you.
This book is dedicated to my brother Steven, a port in any storm; my sister-in-law Ceinwen, a warrior in the true sense; and my favourite niece Meredith. Shine Cancer Support, the charity mentioned at Anoushka Thornton’s funeral, was co-founded by Ceinwen after she was diagnosed with stage IV Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma eleven years ago.
During the toughest of times this year, my family – especially my children – have provided unstinting love and support: they’ve given me plenty of time and space to write while knowing the door to the Writing Shed – built by my husband Jason so I had a room of one’s own when everyone was home – is always open.
This time, though, it’s my fellow authors who’ve pulled me through the writing of this book, word by reluctant word. I couldn’t have done it without my friends in the crime community, who make me laugh every day and are always on hand to lift me up, offer words of encouragement, a shoulder to cry on and advice on how best to dispose of a body. You know who you are.
And lastly, a reminder at the end as well as the beginning, especially to my daughter Alice and my niece Meri, that women – all of them – are equal to everything.
April 2021
INTO
THE DARK
Fiona Cummins is an award-winning former Daily Mirror showbusiness journalist and a graduate of the Faber Academy Writing a Novel course. She lives in Essex with her family. Into The Dark is her fifth novel.
Also by Fiona Cummins
Rattle
The Collector
The Neighbour
When I Was Ten
First published 2022 by Macmillan
This electronic edition first published 2022 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-5290-4018-0
Copyright © Fiona Cummins 2022
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Fiona Cummins, Into the Dark
