My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller (28 page)

I held my hands under the tap, cooling my skin for the pastry. The temperature outside was below freezing and soon the water ran so icy that my fingers burned with the cold. I forced myself to wait until they were numb and then I pulled away.

As soon as the blood began to return, hot and needling, to my fingertips, I set about flattening the shortcrust mixture with a rolling pin. Once it was the right thickness, I got a cutter and pressed it down into the soft, floured dough. I lifted the cutter back up and it brought the circle of dough with it. I let the shape fall into my hand and placed it in one of the dipped spaces in the baking tray, ready to be filled with mincemeat.

Baking mince pies from scratch hadn’t been strictly necessary (I had two shop-bought boxes in the cupboard), but I’d wanted to give the boys some time alone together and this had seemed like the perfect excuse. He’d spent the morning at Vicky’s house before coming over to see Jason and, although things between them were still difficult, they were definitely making progress.

I put the last of the lids on the mince pies and popped the tray in the oven. The small TV I kept on the side was showing
The Snowman
and so I settled on one of the breakfast-bar stools and sat back to watch the final ten minutes. It had just reached the point where the snowman and the boy were holding hands, flying across the fields together. As I hummed along to Aled Jones, the pies filling the house with their sweet spicy smell, I patted my stomach and smiled. I’d done a pregnancy test a few days ago and it had been positive. I’d decided to hold onto the news until tomorrow, Christmas Day.

Though I had yet to find a new job, the build up to Christmas had been busy. Jason had taken on a short welding contract and, as a consequence, he’d spent the past month trying to juggle Barney stuff with the rigour of twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. He hadn’t been terribly keen on the prospect of dusting off his toe-capped boots, not least because it meant he’d had to miss his first-aid exam, but without my salary coming in, the money had been too good to turn down.

It soon came to the part in the film where the boy cries because the snowman has melted. This bit never failed to upset me and so I looked away from the screen. My eye caught on the Advent calendar pinned to the noticeboard. Like my diary before it, the neat line of numbered days seemed to mock me and the magic blue line that had appeared on the pregnancy-test stick. Jason and I had hardly been at it like rabbits and that time with Tommy aside, I’d struggled to marry up possible conception dates.

I turned off the TV and began attacking the washing up. I was halfway through when the timer on the cooker beeped. I grabbed my oven gloves, pulled out the tray and then, with the help of a palette knife, fished each of the steaming pies onto a cooling rack.

All done, I leant forward for the final touch – a sprinkle of icing sugar – and, as I pressed against the cupboard, my apron pocket rustled. This morning’s post. Wanting to look over the letter one more time, I got it out as soon as I had finished with the pies. A brown envelope with a green double helix logo printed near the stamp, it was from the DNA test lab.

Since that day at the shopping centre, the two hair samples had stayed lodged in their padded envelope at the bottom of my bag. I knew the results were now nothing more than a formality. Still, I hadn’t wanted to be left with any vestige of doubt and so last week I’d decided to send them off for testing. Here was the verdict.

I scanned the second page for the millionth time. It confirmed Jason as a paternal match. I rolled the letter into a tube. There was no reason to keep the thing lying around. Going over to the sink, I turned on the waste disposal and, in one simple motion, fed the letter into its roar.

I wanted the boys to be able to enjoy the mince pies while they were still warm and so I arranged a couple on a plate and took them through to the living room. The weak afternoon sun had already started to disappear and the fairy lights we’d hung on the tree gave the room a twinkly, comforting glow.
The Muppet Christmas Carol
was playing on the TV, but the volume was too low for them to be watching it properly.

‘Heidi,’ said Jason, not even trying to hide his relief at the fact he would no longer have to be alone in the same room as him. ‘Come and put your feet up.’ He patted a space on the sofa.

Once more I found myself thrown off-kilter by his new hairstyle. He’d had it shorn a few days after being back on the welding site and even now, weeks later, I found the effect surprisingly harsh. Cut so near the scalp you could see the curve of bone pressing up through the skin, it reminded me of those tiny bird skulls you see on display in natural history museum cabinets.

I placed the mince pies on the coffee-table and then did as Jason said, tucking my feet up under me so that I could snuggle all the way back into the cushions.

The three of us sat there for a few moments, watching Michael Caine and the Muppets on screen, before Jason broke the silence.

‘These look amazing,’ he said, reaching for the mince pie nearest to him.

‘Thanks, Heidi. Very festive,’ said Martin from his spot in the armchair.

I nodded vaguely in acknowledgement and then we were back to pretending to watch the movie.

It had just got to the bit where the Ghost of Christmas Future makes his entrance, when the detective cleared his throat and sat up straight. For the first time since I’d entered the room, I let myself look directly at him.

It had been a while and I saw that he’d gained some much-needed weight. It suited him. Anchored by the new girth of his waist and chest, his limbs seemed to have finally realised that they were all part of the same body. Gone was the marionette dangle of his arms and legs, and in its place was a slow, controlled, almost robotic way of moving that was calming to watch.

‘I should be going soon but, before I do, I wanted to say thanks for letting me come round, especially on Christmas Eve.’ He focused his gaze on Jason. ‘I know that, after what happened, you’re well within your rights to say you don’t want anything more to do with me.’

Jason nodded, unable to make eye contact.

‘I’m sorry about the way you found out,’ he continued. ‘I never meant for it to happen like that. I realise I should have told you as soon as I knew things between me and Vicky were getting serious.’

‘Apology accepted,’ said Jason, clearly wanting to bring the subject to a close.

We sat there in the silence, each of us nursing a different set of secrets. We were like safety deposit boxes, locked next to each other in the bank, oblivious to what our neighbours actually contained.

Martin shuffled himself to the edge of the armchair. It seemed he wasn’t quite done.

‘Also, I wanted to come by because I know that this is always a hard time of year for you both.’

At this I felt Jason tense and, as I didn’t want there to be a scene, I decided to be the one to respond.

‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘But we struggle with it together.’ I took hold of Jason’s hand and kissed it. ‘That’s what makes us strong.’

I thought back to the last image I had of Barney. Shivering in the early-morning sun, he’d pressed himself flat against the small brick wall that bordered Carla’s front garden. As soon as he’d seen Tommy’s jeep approach, he’d leapt forward, his face opening into a smile. Tommy had got out along with a woman. She’d changed her hair and had aged somewhat in the last five years, but it was definitely her: the woman from the photofit. Jenny.

Barney had run to her with blind abandon and Jenny had hugged him tight, her kisses lost in his hair. They’d stood like that for a while, eyes closed, taking in each other’s smell. And in that moment I saw it. She loved him, truly, and he loved her. After helping him into the back seat, she gave me a quick nod of gratitude and then they were gone.

‘I’ve obviously not been allowed any further access to the case,’ said Martin, his cheeks pinking at the allusion to his ongoing suspension. ‘You’ll be assigned a new family liaison officer soon but, until then, I wanted to make sure you know that, despite the disappointments of this year, I’ve got it on good authority the team are still one hundred per cent committed to the investigation.’

I squeezed Jason’s hand and kept my face fixed firm. The last three nights I’d woken at dawn to discover him on the old nursing chair next to our bedroom window, his face bathed in the blue glow from the laptop. He was scouring missing persons forums. Then, this morning, I’d found him sat cross-legged on the living room floor with Barney’s fire engine. I’d watched as he repeatedly extended and retracted the ladder attached to the vehicle’s roof. Each time he’d let the ladder collapse back into its metal casing, it had made a loud aluminium crash and each time I’d felt my heart catch in my throat.

But life is a series of trade-offs, of choices considered and choices made.

I have made my choice.

The detective fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, pushing his watch under and then over it.

‘Actually, Jason,’ he said, his voice now swollen with emotion. ‘That was the main reason I wanted to come and talk to you. I wanted to promise in person that they won’t stop looking.’ His eyes were wide and unblinking. ‘I swear to you, as long as I’m still living and breathing, Barney’s case will be kept open.’ He held his hand to his heart. ‘I wanted to tell you, they won’t ever give up searching for your boy. I wanted to promise you that.’

This book’s journey to publication has been long and complicated and certain people along the way have helped and supported me immeasurably.

Nicola Barr. Finding the right agent is like finding the right husband. You need someone who gets you totally, who always tells you the truth, who is tough when they need to be and who believes in you no matter what the rest of the world may say. Nicola is in my corner. For that I am and always will be grateful.

Kate Rizzo and the team at Greene & Heaton.

Joel Richardson. I like clever people and Joel is really, really clever. He makes me a better writer. I’m lucky to have him as my editor.

Kate Parkin and the team at Twenty7.

Emily Burns and Carmen Jimenez. Publicists extraordinaire.

Detective Inspector Steve Roche. For lending me his expertise and for reality-checking my various early drafts.

Chris Sussman, who is as smart and brilliant as he is kind. Chris was one of the first people I told I wanted to be a writer. His friendship and critical feedback helped me become that writer.

Tom McDonald. I mentioned I like clever people. Tom is next-level clever. Not only does he continue to give me early gold-dust-like editorial feedback but he was also pivotal in helping me get this book out into the world. Thank you for stepping in at just the right moment and for telling me to give myself a fair fight.

Naomi Kelt and Sam Gardiner. For your first readings, friendship and unfailing support.

Team Twenty7. The most unexpected and wonderful part of being published by my imprint are the other debut writers. I now have this whole new set of friends. They make me laugh almost every day (reader, we have a secret twitter group) and whenever I have a question or a crisis they are the literary equivalent of calling 999. Team Twenty7 you are a sheer bloody delight.

Louise Doughty and The Faber Academy.

Kate Norbury, for her rigorous editorial eye and careful, intuitive notes.

CPL Productions. Barry, Charlie, Luke, Quincy, Amanda, Arabella, Danielle, Murray, Janet, Heather, Alex, Charles and Jess. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful home these last three years. I basically get to go to work every day and hang out with my friends.

Daisy Goodwin. For her generosity in everything.

My English teachers: David Litchfield, Les Robinson and Ray Honeybourne. My Director of Studies at Newnham, Jean Gooder. For fundamentally changing the course of my life.

Barbara Johnson, my mother. Who, against all odds, raised me so well. She’s also a top-notch first reader and stepped in whenever I needed help brainstorming a tricky plot point or character.

Danny O’Connor, my brother. For being there with me every step of the way and for the best pep talk emails known to man.

But most of all thank you to my husband and best friend, Alan Wray. For the time, for the absolute belief.

Heidi states that, ‘What happened to my daughter now defines who I am.’ Is this true? Does a single event have the power to shape and define a person?

Why is Heidi attracted to Tommy? What does he seem able to give her that Jason cannot?

When Heidi suggests that Jason may no longer be able to recognise his son, Jason tells her a story about when the midwife first handed him Barney. He describes a primal, unbreakable bond with his newborn son. What does this book have to say about the parent-child connection?

Heidi was overweight for most of her adult life, until Lauren went missing. She compares losing the weight to losing control – what do you think she means by this?

When Heidi and Jason first meet they discover they have lots in common, especially the fact that they now feel ‘their dreams had the power to sustain and frighten them.’ What do you think this means?

Does Heidi want Jason to be reunited with his son? How do her feelings change throughout the novel?

Heidi believes that the reason the media were so quick to blame Vicky for Barney’s disappearance was because they (and the general public) can’t cope with the idea that a child can be randomly stolen. How much do you think this is true of the world we live in today?

At the end of the novel, Heidi realises that Jason has survived the last five years by clinging onto an ‘idea of parenthood’ – which idea is she referring to?

Heidi does something extraordinary at the end of the book. Why do you think she does this? Is there ever an instance where it is right to do the ‘wrong’ thing?

Why do you think Heidi chooses to stay with Jason?

Join the conversation online

#MyHusbandsSon
@BonnierZaffre
@deboc77