Sister Sister: A gripping psychological thriller
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017
Copyright © Sue Fortin 2017
HeikeCover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photograph © Wojciech Zwolinski/ Arcangel Images
Sue Fortin 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.
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Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008238087
Version 2018-10-26
I couldn’t possibly write a book about sisters without dedicating it to my own sister, Jacqueline.
Although, I feel I must make it clear, this story is nothing like our sisterhood!
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Acknowledgements
Also by Sue Fortin
About the Author
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Sometimes the coldest places are not in the midst of winter, when your breath puffs white, your feet are numb from the cold and your fingers stiff and frozen. Sometimes the coldest places are in the warmth of your own home, surrounded by your family.
I’m lying in a bed that isn’t mine; that much I know. The mattress is firmer for a start; there is no familiar softness that I’m used to. I tentatively stretch out my fingers and can hear the faint rustle of cotton against plastic. A waterproof mattress, I decide.
I can feel the weight of the bedding on top of me. Again, the comforting softness of the fibre-filled duvet is absent. A heavier weight, one less supple, rests over me. I raise my finger and move it against the fabric. More starched cotton. The extra weight, I assume, will be a blanket on top of the sheet. I make a little bet with myself that it is blue. Then, on second thoughts, I hedge my bets. It’s blue or green … possibly white. I have been hedging my bets a lot lately. It will definitely be cellular, though. That, I am certain.
So far I have made a conscious effort not to open my eyes.
On the other side of a closed door I can hear indistinguishable voices of people as they walk by, the sounds growing softer and louder like a lapping tide against the shore.
The faint smell of antiseptic loiters in the air, mixed with the odour of a sweet, sterile environment, confirming my thoughts as to where I am – in hospital.
There’s another smell. One I’m very familiar with. It’s the scent of his aftershave, which has a fresh aqua zest to it. I bought it for him for our anniversary last year, eight years married. It’s an expensive designer one but I didn’t mind the cost. I never minded spending money on Luke. It’s called Forever. Turned out it was a rather ironic name. I’m not sure if I’ll be buying him an anniversary present this year. Or any year, now.
‘Clare? Clare, can you hear me?’ It’s Luke’s soft voice, close to my ear. ‘Are you awake, Clare?’
I don’t want to speak to him. I’m not ready. I don’t know why, but some inner sense is telling me not to respond. His fingers curl around mine and I feel the pressure of his squeeze. I have a strange urge to snatch my hand away. But I don’t. Instead, I lie perfectly still.
I hear the swoosh of the door and cork-soled shoes squeak and squelch across the linoleum floor. ‘Mr Tennison?’ a quiet voice asks. ‘There’s a police officer outside. He’d like to speak to you.’
‘What, now?’
‘He wants to speak to Mrs Tennison too, but I’ve told him that’s not possible just yet.’
Luke’s hand slips from mine and I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor. ‘Thank you,’ says Luke.
I listen as he and the nurse leave the room. Luke can’t have closed the door properly as I can hear quite clearly the conversation now taking place.
‘DC Phillips,’ announces the police officer. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Tennison. We were hoping to interview your wife, but the nurse said she’s not regained full consciousness yet.’
‘No, that’s right,’ replies Luke. I can hear the protectiveness in his tone and imagine him standing taller, squaring his shoulders. The way he does when he is asserting his authority. The way he does when we argue.
‘Maybe you could help us.’
‘I’ll try.’ A hint of irritation accompanies his words now. If you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t notice it. I’ve heard it a lot recently; more than I care for.
‘How would you describe your wife’s disposition leading up to yesterday’s … er … incident?’ says Phillips.
Incident? What incident? I try to recall what the detective can be talking about, but draw a blank and am distracted as Luke answers.
‘Disposition?’ he says.
‘Her mood. Was she happy? Sad? Preoccupied? Anxious?’
‘Yes, I know what disposition means,’ cuts in Luke. This time the irritation in his voice is clear and I imagine him frowning at the detective as if to say what sort of idiot do you think I am?
I dredge through my mind to recall just how I have been feeling recently. Sad, angry and frightened all wash up on the shore of my consciousness but I can’t pinpoint why.
Luke doesn’t answer the detective straight away. He is probably mulling this question over. He will no doubt want to give the right response. If the small ripples of my memory are to be relied upon, a response that I feel I will probably have to counter later.
It’s coming back to me now, not exact memories but sensations and not in drips, but in waves. I can feel the anger resurfacing. I wonder if Luke is thinking of how angry I have been; how stubborn I’ve become? What was it he’d called me during our last argument? Oh yeah, that’s it, fucking nuts. Will he tell the detective that? And if he does, will he tell the detective what has driven me ‘fucking nuts’?
‘Clare, she’s been under a lot of pressure lately,’ he says at last. ‘She’s had a lot on her plate.’
‘In what way?’ probes the detective.
‘She’s had a difficult time adjusting to some changes in her personal life.’ Or, as I guess Luke is thinking, none of your fucking business.
My mind is racing. What does Luke mean by ‘changes in my personal life’? What the hell has happened that has caused me to end up in hospital?
The answer doesn’t come immediately, but in those few moments a feeling of foreboding seeps into the room, creeps towards me and wraps itself around my body. I feel cold and goose bumps prick the skin on my arms. I know something bad has happened. I have done something so terrible my mind is trying to block it out. Something that goes against everything I am.
I, Clare Tennison, am a good woman. I am a successful career woman; a partner in Carr, Tennison & Eggar Solicitors. I am a caring daughter to my mother, Marion. I am a devoted mother to Chloe and Hannah. I am a loving and supportive wife to Luke. I am a school governor, for God’s sake. Clare Tennison doesn’t do bad things.
So why this fear, coated with guilt? What have I done?
I don’t want the next second to come. I try to fight it off, to suspend time, to be ignorant of this knowledge. Living in dread, however awful, is preferable to the alternative – living with the knowledge of what I have done.
Bang!
It’s back. I know, with the clarity of looking through highly polished glass, exactly what I have done.
I can see my hands on the wheel, steering the car, as I navigate the lanes back to the house. The pointer on the speedometer darting up and down, the rev-counter needle rising and falling as I change gear and manipulate the vehicle around the narrow lanes. Hedges blur in my peripheral vision and trees whoosh by in a haze, reminding me of a smudged watercolour painting.
It takes a moment before I register her there. Right in front of my path, as over a tonne of metal bears down on her. How have I not seen her? It’s broad daylight. It’s a clear day. There is no sun ahead to blind me, no rain to fuzz my vision. I have a totally clear view. She appears from nowhere. Stepping right out in front of me. I scream. I hit the brakes. I can hear the squeal of the rubber on tarmac as the tyres bite into the ground. I yank the steering wheel to the left, trying to miss her. It is all too late.
The clear and undeniable memory of the thud makes me feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit. Instead, I let out a sound from deep within me. It comes up from the pit of my stomach, wrenching my heart out along the way. By the time it escapes my throat, it is a roar of undiluted pain. Too vicious for tears. My body involuntarily curls into the foetal position. The plaster cast prevents me from moving my left arm but my other hand covers my bandaged head, as if I am bracing for an emergency landing on a doomed flight. I feel a line tug at my arm and something rip from my hand.
The next thing I am aware of is the scurrying of people around me. Nurses. The first with soothing, but firm, words telling me to calm down; everything will be all right. A second one with sterner words telling me not to struggle. That I am pulling out the drip. That I will hurt myself. And there is Luke’s voice too. Strong yet gentle.
‘Hey, hey, Babe,’ he is saying, using the pet name I haven’t heard him say recently. His tone is like the one he uses with the girls when they are upset, when Chloe has fallen over and cut her knee or like the time when Hannah discovered the tooth fairy wasn’t real. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay. I promise you.’
I want to believe him. I really do, but how can I when I am responsible for such a terrible crime? My body heaves and another sob erupts.
The last thing I remember is the cool sensation of liquid oozing into the back of my hand, smarting as it travels up my arm. I feel my body relax and then everything around me fades away as my mind drifts back to where this nightmare began.
Chapter 2
Six weeks earlier …
For a moment I think I don’t have to get up for work. It feels as if it should be a lazy, summery Sunday. The late September sun is still clinging onto warmer days and a small refreshing breeze billows the gauze curtain every now and then. I always like sleeping with the window open; it gives me a sense of being free.
But as I rouse further into the conscious world, the heavy weight of reality wraps itself around me. I’m anything but free. Particularly this time of year, as we move closer each day to my sister’s birthday.
I roll over and cuddle up against a still-sleeping Luke, seeking comfort from just the touch of another human. I check my watch and groan as I realise it’s a Monday. I stretch my arm back and switch off the alarm. I don’t know why I bothered setting it. I haven’t needed it these past few days as sleep has not been a good friend to me.
I think of Mum and how, now we are in the month of September, she looks a little longer at the calendar each day, silently marking time, anxiety levels rising as we stumble towards the twenty-eighth, just another forty-eight hours away. I should be used to this pattern by now. Twenty years on, it’s been practically a lifetime for me and yet I never quite anticipate the level of emotion this date evokes. It’s almost that, as I’ve grown older, the absence of my sister has grown bigger, more profound, hurting harder, cutting deeper. I feel my mother’s pain and my own.
So many times over the years I’ve wished Alice was here, and not just because of my mother’s own heartbreak but, selfishly, because I have always yearned for the black cloud hanging above us to disappear. As a child, I didn’t want to be known as the sister of the girl whose dad took her off to America and never came back or the daughter of the heartbroken mother. I wanted to be Clare Kennedy. I just wanted us to be normal.
I still do.
There’s half an hour before I have to begin the military operation of getting the girls moving for school and nursery. I snuggle a little closer to Luke. Sometimes, it’s as if he can absorb my sadness and anxiety, soaking it up so my feelings can move freely; no longer repressed.
I feel Luke stir and I tighten my arm across him, hugging him gently. After eight years of marriage and two children, we have never grown bored of each other. Luke rolls over and kisses me.
‘Morning, Babe,’ he says, without opening his eyes, then rolls back over. ‘Night, Babe.’
‘Hey, fella, you’re not getting away with that,’ I whisper in his ear as I run my hand down his body and pull him back towards me.
Luke opens one eye and looks at the clock. ‘Jesus, Clare, it’s only five-fucking-thirty.’
‘Never mind all that …’ I kiss away his protests.
I feel his mouth curve into a smile and he opens his other eye. ‘Now, that is cheating.’
He rolls over and swamps me in his arms and for a while I allow myself to forget the challenges of real life.
‘And how are we all this morning?’ says Mum coming into the kitchen as Luke and I are hurtling around getting breakfast ready and taking it in turns to direct the girls on what needs doing next. Okay, Hannah is rather more capable at seven years old and only needs encouraging, Chloe, however, at just three, needs the more hands-on approach.
We live with my mother, Marion, in the house I grew up in. Initially, we had moved in with her when Luke was a struggling artist and I had just taken my first appointment in chambers straight out of uni. Some would say that Luke still carries the struggling artist hashtag. By that, I actually mean my mother. Although, in her defence, she is very tolerant.
Since then the girls have come along and we have expanded to five of us in one house. Just as well The Old Vicarage, in which we live, is large enough to give Mum a separate living room to us and Luke his own studio in the annexe of the house.
‘Seems silly me rattling around in this big house on my own and the house prices around Brighton are ridiculous,’ Mum had said. ‘Besides, I’d like the company. I’ll be close to the girls as they grow up and you two would have a built-in baby sitter.’
And she was right. All these points made perfect sense and were very pragmatic, but we both knew the real reason why I could never move.
Not after what happened.
And, in truth, I wasn’t sure I could, even if my heart wanted to go along with Luke’s preferred choice of buying a place of our own, to make memories of our own, my conscience wouldn’t allow me. I couldn’t leave Mum all alone.
‘You can’t keep yourself hostage to something that happened in your childhood,’ Luke had said one night as we lay in bed, his last-bid attempt to change my mind.
The truth was, though, I could, and I had always known it would be like this. The only way it would change would be if Alice came home.
‘Come on, Chloe,’ I say, picking her up from the play mat. ‘Let’s get you to the table. Morning, Mum.’ I sit Chloe on the booster seat and push her closer to the table. I take the bowl of Weetabix Luke hands me. He is whistling as he makes a pot of tea.
‘Someone’s happy this morning,’ says Mum, helping herself to a slice of toast. The smile might be there, but the flat tone of her voice is a betrayal.
Luke and I exchange a look across the kitchen.
‘It’s a beautiful morning, the sun is shining and I have my lovely family around me. You included,’ Luke says enthusiastically. He gives Mum his best cheery smile in an effort lift her mood. Mum looks away, her eyes automatically seeking out the calendar on the wall and coming to rest on the date two days ahead.
‘I need to go into town today,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to pick something up from the jewellers.’
We all know, without Mum having to spell it out, that it will be Alice’s birthday present. Never a birthday nor a Christmas has gone by without Mum buying a gift for when Alice comes home. Never if, always when.
‘I’ll give you a lift in, if you like,’ says Luke. ‘We can drop Chloe at nursery and go on straight from there.’
‘Oh, would you? That would be kind,’ says Mum. This time her smile is warmer.
I like that Luke and Mum have a good relationship. It makes living together so much easier. Most families we know sit down in the evening for their quality time. In the Tennison household, breakfast is our family meal. I quite often don’t get home from work until early evening and it’s too late for the girls to eat. I appreciate it isn’t Luke’s ideal arrangement, but he always makes an effort for us all.
‘So, Hannah, you have recorder today,’ I say in between guiding cereal-laden spoonfuls into Chloe’s mouth. ‘Luke, you won’t forget, will you? I think the music book is still on top of the piano in the sitting room.’
‘Er … yes, all under control,’ says Luke. He leans over to Hannah and whispers theatrically, ‘Have you got the music book?’
Hannah flicks a glance in my direction and whispers back to Luke. ‘No. I thought you had it.’
I pretend not to notice Luke put his finger to his lips and then mutter, ‘Leave it with me. I’m on the case.’ Hannah gives a giggle and when I look at Luke, he winks at me and then makes a big show of being engrossed in pouring the tea.
‘Oh, God, would you look at the time?’ I hurriedly shovel another spoon of Weetabix into Chloe’s mouth. ‘I have the Monday rumble at nine with Tom and Leonard. Come on, Chloe, eat up.’
Luke reaches over and takes the spoon from me. ‘Off you go,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.’
‘He’s not my boss any more,’ I say, gulping down the cup of tea Luke has poured, wincing as it burns my throat. ‘I’m an equal partner now, remember.’
‘Hmm, well, you still act as if Leonard’s your boss. And Tom, come to mention it. Make them wait for you for a change.’
Ignoring the comment, I kiss the girls goodbye. ‘Have a lovely day, my darlings. Hannah, don’t forget to hand in the swimming gala permission form to your teacher. Chloe, be a good girl at nursery. Mummy loves you both very much.’
‘Love you too,’ says Hannah, blowing kisses as I manoeuvre around the table.
‘Uv you too,’ repeats Chloe through a mouthful of soggy wheat and milk.
‘Don’t forget, you’re going home with Daisy after school,’ I remind Hannah and then to confirm Luke has remembered the details, add, ‘Pippa’s picking Hannah up and giving her tea. She’ll drop her back later.’ Pippa is one of the few friends I have in the village. If our daughters hadn’t become friends themselves at school, then I probably wouldn’t have got to know Pippa. I give Mum a peck on the cheek. ‘See you later, Mum.’ Then I bend down to kiss Luke. His hand slips around my waist and he holds the kiss for a moment longer than necessary.
‘Go get ‘em, Babe, at your rumble in the jungle.’ He lets me go and shadow boxes Ali style. ‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’
I feel a surge of love for this man. He is my best friend, my lover, my husband, my everything. I give Luke a high-five before I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head out of the kitchen and down the hall, where my briefcase and sack trolley are waiting, the latter loaded with a pile of files I had brought home for weekend reading. I pause at the door and call back over my shoulder. ‘Don’t forget …’
‘The recorder!’ chorus Hannah and Luke before I can finish.
The drive into Brighton from the village where we live takes about thirty minutes on a good day and today is one of those days. The radio is on and I push thoughts of Alice to one side, singing along to the song currently playing. It fades out and the DJ announces the next song up is their retro record of the week. Within the first few bars, I recognise the song: ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ by Abba. In an instant, my heart twists and tears spring to my eyes with such ferocity that for a couple of seconds the road ahead of me is a blur. This song always reminds both Mum and me of the Alice-shaped hole in our lives. The blast of a horn from another car jolts my mind back to the road. My heart lurches again, but this time fuelled by adrenalin as I realise I’ve run a red light.
‘Shit!’ I stamp on the brakes to avoid hitting an oncoming car. If my car had tiptoes it would be on them and I’m grateful for my BMW’s reliable ABS. I hold my hand up in an apology to the other driver, who thankfully had the foresight to stop too.
I’m no lip-reader but I’m pretty sure he’s used every uncomplimentary noun in the urban dictionary to describe me and my driving. I mouth ‘sorry’ before he puts his car into gear and tears off, squealing his wheels as a final gesture of anger.