Sister Sister: A gripping psychological thriller

A few minutes later I pull up into the car park of Carr, Tennison & Eggar, Solicitors, without any further incident and take a moment to check my make-up in the rear-view mirror. It wouldn’t do to go into work with black streaks of sodden mascara down my face.

Feeling composed, I grab my stuff and push open the door to the converted 1930s detached house that are our offices.

‘Morning, Nina,’ I say to our receptionist as I hold open the door with my hip and yank the sack trolley through.

‘Good morning, Clare,’ she replies, giving me a second look, which tells me I wasn’t successful in disguising the tears. However, she doesn’t pass comment. ‘Tom and Leonard are already in the conference room,’ Nina informs, nodding towards the frosted double doors across the hallway.

I check my watch. It’s eight-fifty. They can wait while I lug the files down to my office and repair my make-up.

Sandy, my secretary, is at her desk in a small reception area that leads to my office. ‘Morning, Sandy. Nice weekend?’

‘Morning, Clare. Yes, very nice, thanks. You?’

‘Good, thanks,’ I say avoiding eye contact, hoping she won’t notice the remains of my make-up. I have a mirror fixed to the inside of the tall filing cupboard and hastily wipe the patches of mascara with a tissue.

‘Ah, there you are.’ From the mirror, I see Leonard bustling into the office. He pauses and his astute eyes quickly assess me. ‘You okay?’

‘Yes. Well, I am now.’ I wave the mascara wand over my eye lashes.

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. Was on the receiving end of a bit of Monday-morning road rage.’

‘Your fault?’

My hesitation gives me away as I consider whether to be honest or not. Leonard pushes the door behind him and comes over to me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? I am aware of the significance of this week.’

I dip my head, feeling embarrassed at not just my lack of concentration but that my feelings are closer to the surface than I care to admit. I look back in the mirror at him with what I hope is confidence as I brush my eyelashes one final time. ‘I’m fine. Honest. But thank you,’ I smile and Leonard pats my arm in a fatherly gesture.

‘Now, come along, we’re waiting for you,’ he says reverting to his brisk businesslike manner. ‘I can’t be long. I have that blasted Mrs Freeman coming in.’

‘Mrs Freeman?’ I try to recall the name from our last Monday rumble as I shove the mascara into my jacket pocket and track Leonard out of the office.

‘Yes. Sour-faced old moo she is. Can’t believe her husband put up with her for so long. Must have been bloody good in the sack, that’s all I can say. Mind you, you’d want a bag over her head – and one over your own, just in case hers fell off.’

‘Leonard, you can’t say things like that.’ I can’t help smiling at Leonard’s comment despite my attempt at a reprimand. Leonard is terribly honest, to the point of being rude, but it has provided no end of amusing anecdotes over the years.

In the conference room, Tom is standing at the French doors that open onto the private gardens. He turns as he hears us come in.

‘Ah, excellent, you found her.’ He smiles over at me and takes his place at the table. ‘I’ve already got you a coffee,’ he says. ‘Good weekend?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ I say sitting down. Really I want to say no; it was pretty shit and Mum seems to be struggling more than ever as another birthday looms but I refrain. Tom knows the score. He’s been through the whole range of emotions with me over the years. I divert the conversation. ‘We missed you at the barbecue. Everything sort itself out in the end?’

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ says Tom. ‘Isabella decided that she needed Lottie back for some party or something for her gran.’

‘Isabella still playing up?’ says Leonard, taking his seat at the head of the table.

‘From time to time. Usual thing. Money. The latest is a skiing trip to New York she wants to take Lottie on. It’s going to cost a bloody fortune and I’m the one having to stump up the cash for it. What happened to a week at the seaside?’

‘That’s what you get for no prenup,’ says Leonard, opening his notebook in front of him and taking his Mont Blanc fountain pen from his inside pocket. ‘How do you think I survived three divorces?’

I exchange an empathetic smile with Tom. Leonard is always banging on about the importance of a prenuptial agreement.

‘Lesson learned,’ says Tom.

‘And you can still get a postnup agreement yourself,’ says Leonard, not looking up from his notebook but tapping his pen on the desk in front of me.

‘Well, Luke and I have done great so far. I think we’ll manage just fine,’ I say, feeling slightly prickled at his remark.

‘Hmm. Pride before a fall and all that.’

I don’t answer Leonard. It is a pointless conversation and one we will never agree on.

Tom looks up and throws me an are you okay? look, to which I give a brief nod. Then it’s down to business.

Our weekly Monday-morning rumbles, as they are fondly referred to, is the opportunity for each of us to bring the other two up to date with cases we are working on. Leonard is pedantic in his approach to work and sees this exercise as a crucial element to running a tight ship. That way, if any one of us is off work, the other two can easily step in to take up our cases. It’s also a nice way to start the week and maintain the family feel of the firm, something that all three of us cherish.

The rumble over and my morning appointment finished, I go down the hallway to see if Tom is free. His secretary is hammering away at the keyboard. She looks up and gives me a brief smile but continues her work. Tom’s door is open; an indication he’s free. None of us is so pretentious that we need announcing.

‘Knock, knock,’ I say, as I go in. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ I raise the two coffee cups I’m holding.

‘My favourite words,’ says Tom.

Tom and I had gone through university together, graduating at the same time. We had a brief relationship during our student days, but once we graduated we decided it was best left behind the doors of Oxford. We were ambitious, with careers to pursue, but, even so, after parting company we kept in touch and it was me who gave Tom the heads up to the job at the firm a year after I had joined. Both Tom and I were offered partnership at the same time.

I back-heel the door closed behind me and take a cup over to Tom, placing it on his desk. ‘So, now we’re alone, do you want to tell me what really happened yesterday?’ I sit down in the chair opposite him.

‘That’s what I like about you,’ says Tom. ‘No preamble. No small talk building up to point of your visit. It’s straight for the jugular.’

‘And if I did beat around the bush, you’d only say “get to the point”.’

‘True,’ says Tom, nodding. ‘Really, though, there’s nothing to tell. Isabella going into full jealous-bitch mode once she realised I was taking Lottie to yours. You know … the usual.’

I frown. ‘It’s pretty pathetic she’s still behaving like that. You’ve been divorced, what, three years now?’

‘You know Isabella,’ says Tom.

Sadly, I do. Secretly, Tom always blames her Italian blood for her hot head and jealous streak. I’m always grateful for Luke’s more laid-back approach to the past between Tom and me.

‘Anyway, enough of me. What about you?’ says Tom.

I pause, considering for a moment if I should feign innocence and claim I don’t know what he’s talking about. I dismiss the notion. Tom is all too aware of the significance of the date looming like a black cloud on the horizon. I give a sigh and blow out a breath.

‘Tricky week. Mum’s mood is dipping by the day. I was hoping the get-together at the weekend would perk her up a bit. She did try, bless her, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Leonard was very good, he spent most of the afternoon fussing around her and she seemed to appreciate it.’

‘I meant you. I know what your mum’s like; it doesn’t get any easier for her.’ He takes a sip of his coffee before speaking again. ‘You, Clare, how are you? Are you sleeping okay? You look pretty tired.’

I give a half-hearted laugh. ‘Is that your way of saying I look like shit?’

‘Your words, not mine.’

‘If you must know, I’m not sleeping that great. This time of year always unsettles me. I’m never sure how I feel or how I should feel. Am I upset for Mum? For Alice? Or for me? Last night I was thinking, do I miss Alice or is she just missing? She’s been gone for so long now, her not being here is part of my life.’ I look out of the window, pausing for a moment. ‘You know we hired another detective firm earlier this year to try to trace her but, as usual, nothing.’

‘You wouldn’t think it would be so difficult to find someone today,’ says Tom. ‘A bit different when we were trying to find her.’

‘I suppose she could have a different surname. I mean, she’s in her early twenties, she could even be married. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found.’

‘There is always that. Have you said as much to your mum?’

‘It’s been mentioned. Mum’s not stupid, but she doesn’t feel she can let it go until she knows one way or another. It’s just so hard to deal with the level of emotion swirling around at this time of year, it frightens me. I don’t know how to channel it.’

Tom’s phone rings. It’s an internal call.

‘Hello, Nina. Yes, she’s here,’ he glances up at me while he listens to the receptionist. I watch his face grow serious. ‘Okay, thanks … Hi, Luke, it’s Tom. I’ll just pass you over.’

He holds out the receiver to me. Luke never rings me at work. The rule is only in case of an emergency.

I snatch the phone from Tom’s hand. ‘Luke. What’s wrong? Is it the girls?’

‘No. The girls are fine,’ says Luke, but I can detect the unease in his voice. I brace myself. ‘Your mum is okay too,’ he says, as if anticipating my unspoken question. ‘Nothing bad has happened …’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Your mum’s had a bit of a shock. You need to come home.’

‘A shock? What do you mean?’ I look across the desk at Tom, as if he can somehow help.

He gestures to the phone. ‘Want me to speak to him?’

I shake my head. Luke is talking again. ‘Listen, Babe. Your mum’s received a letter.’ He pauses and I imagine him shifting uncomfortably on his feet. I can feel the tension through the phone line. ‘A letter … from Alice.’

‘Alice?’ I gulp for air.

‘Yep, Alice.’

‘Alice, as in my sister Alice?’

‘So it seems.’

‘Shit.’ I’m already rising to my feet; my legs feel like jelly and I reach out a hand to steady myself against the back of the chair. ‘I’ll be right there.’

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