The Woman on the Pier Read online

  The Woman on the Pier

  B P Walter

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © B P Walter 2021

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  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover photographs: Shutterstock.com

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  B P Walter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  * * *

  Epigraph reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  © Agatha Christie 2014

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  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, down-loaded, 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.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008446109

  Ebook Edition © November 2021 ISBN: 9780008446093

  Version: 2021-09-06

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Also by B P Walter

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  For Emma, Meg, George, Corinne, Pippa, Sam, Virginie, Chris, Andy and all the other amazing people I met whilst studying at university

  A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.

  — The Last Séance, Agatha Christie

  * * *

  You cannot know what it is to fear until you have a child.

  — Mr Woodhouse in Emma (2009), screenplay by Sandy Welch, adapted from the novel by Jane Austen

  Prologue

  December. Two months to go.

  MICHAEL KELLEY: Hey, you there?

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: I’m here. I can’t talk long tonight, though.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: That’s OK. I’m tired too.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: I’m not tired. It’s my mum. She’s pissed me off again.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: How come?

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: Oh, just stuff. But she wants to have a chat about my work. She thinks I’m failing at school.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: You’re not though. Are you?

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: Would it matter if I was?

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: Not to me.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: It does to her apparently. As if she can talk. She dropped out of uni. Likes to tell everyone she went to Oxford but she couldn’t hack it past the second year. Used the excuse of getting a job in TV.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: You’re stronger than her.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: I know. She’s weak. I used to think she was this strong person who always knew best.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: Me too. About my mum. But she’s not strong at all.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: I’m just so tired of getting angry. I just want to talk to you all the time at the moment. I feel like I have so much of this stuff – people’s secrets, things I just would prefer not to know. All of it’s like weighing down on top of me.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: I think I know what you mean.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: Well I’m glad someone does at least.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: I want to talk to you. I wish I could see you.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: You can see me. My photo’s in my profile. Isn’t that enough ;)

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: No, I mean I want to see you in person.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: I want to see you in person too. It’s just difficult right now.

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: OK. Can we talk on the phone again?

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: Just wait until we meet. We can do more than talk ;)

  * * *

  MICHAEL KELLEY: Wow. OK. That wink definitely got me a bit excited.

  * * *

  JESSICA MACLEOD: You just wait.

  Chapter One

  The Mother

  May. Three months after the attack.

  Laini makes that face while she waits for me to answer. That I’m not convinced this is healthy face. She’s made it a lot lately. I think she’s unaware of it. I’ve found that, in the past. People who know a lot about human behaviour tend to know very little about themselves. I glance around the room whilst trying to think of something to say. There’s a strange stain on the floor by the door. It upsets me. Ever since I’ve been coming to see Laini, there’s been that odd-looking patch. Coffee, perhaps. I consider about asking her about it, but she’s sucking her teeth now – never a good sign – and I sense she’s about to pass judgement.

  ‘Well, if you’re not sure about what led you to write a piece of work so violent, can you tell me the emotions it caused within you? How did you feel after you tried to write the murder scene you mentioned?’ She moves her glasses slightly up the bridge of her nose. She’s a bit of a shrink cliché, I think to myself. The sofa, the calm, slightly superior voice, the glasses that she peers over. If this were one of my screenplays, I’d get a r
ed mark in the margins from editorial about ‘tired archetypes’.

  ‘I felt upset,’ I say flatly. I then reach for one of the tissues on the table in front of us and, although I’m neither crying nor close to sneezing, I dab it to my nose. I’m playing for time, and she knows it. I avoid her gaze as I push the tissue deep into my pocket. She takes a slow breath in and waits. We wait. The seconds tick by. Eventually I give in and say, ‘I thought I could just dive straight in. I know it was foolish, not writing for months and then trying to pick up where I left off. You see, the show I was in the middle of developing for ITV was something I was very keen to be part of. It’s based on a terrific series of crime novels; it has a really interesting cop as the main character. Not one of those we’ve-seen-it-all-before types with an alcohol problem, poor diet, and marital issues. He was athletic, kind, did outdoor rock climbing in his spare time. He was a really interesting character for the screen – or would have been. But the first episode, it starts with the torture of someone in a basement, which is strong stuff, of course… then the plot starts to hinge on the disappearance of a teenage girl…’

  I let the silence return and, after a few moments, Laini steps in this time.

  ‘And you felt the subject matter wasn’t helpful.’ She says the sentence matter-of-factly. It isn’t a question, but she’s hoping I’ll want to react.

  ‘It all just… it reminded me of some of the lower moments. The fifth scene in the episode is where the girl’s mum is trying to call her daughter on the phone, then reporting her missing…’ I trail off. She nods understandingly.

  ‘Caroline, I can understand how the idea of returning to your work might seem therapeutic to you. In fact, I don’t think it was a bad decision. You should trust your instincts and it’s good to see you’re making steps in a positive, progressive direction.’

  There’s a but coming. I can sense it.

  ‘But, I would caution you about the intensity of such content. Go easy on yourself. Be kind to yourself. Take it slowly, one step at a time, and be mindful of the impact graphic or highly emotive material might have on you after your experience earlier this year. An experience you are still living through.’

  I want to leave now. I can feel myself getting prickly, feeling defensive. This is the part of therapy I really don’t enjoy: knowing that they’re right and having no option but to accept it.

  ‘Honestly, it really wasn’t that strong. I’ve done a lot harder stuff than that before. Did you see that three-part drama last year about the child finger murders? Based on the real case of the man who sent mothers the fingers of their dead children through the post? I wrote that. I handled it without even blinking. I mean, I understood it was upsetting stuff, of course, but I just got on with it and did the job.’

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ Laini says, staring calmly at me. ‘But I think you need to be more aware of your own emotional bandwidth.’

  Emotional bandwidth. The phrase irritates me, but I don’t interrupt her.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s the most helpful way to work through your grief, dealing with the darker aspects of human behaviour.’

  I nod. ‘I just feel frustrated. It’s been four months now.’

  Laini offers a sad smile. ‘I’m not trying to hold you back, Caroline. I’m just advising you against pouring salt on your wounds.’

  I sigh. ‘OK.’ I look away from her, then, when she doesn’t say anything immediately, switch my gaze back to her. She’s still smiling.

  ‘Good,’ she says, laying her palms flat on her knees.

  I like Laini, I do, but there’s only so much of her I can take. I keep paying her. Paying her a fortune. I could have got therapy on the NHS – only a limited number of sessions, and I did go along to the first, but I didn’t like the woman they gave me. She reminded me of Barbara Hershey – not nice, Beaches-style Barbara Hershey, more Black Swan Barbara Hershey. Any moment I thought she might flip and start clipping my fingernails in a violent rage. Laini isn’t like that, though. I don’t think she’s ever done anything violent in her life. She probably doesn’t even swat flies; she’d just brush them gently away with a glide of her ringed hands.

  ‘I took your advice, from last time,’ I say now, trying to avoid another lengthy silence. ‘I’ve avoided disturbing content on TV. Alec still watches stuff, though. I caught him watching a rerun of Spooks in the lounge the other night.’

  She raises her eyebrows a little.

  ‘Have you seen Spooks?’

  She indicates with a tilt of her head that she has.

  ‘The Matthew McFadyen years or the Rupert Penry-Jones years? Or the later series after that when they chop and change the main character?’

  Her smile is tinged with slight impatience now. She’d deny it, but I know it’s there. ‘I don’t recall, I’m afraid.’ Unspoken meaning: We’re not here to talk about TV shows.

  ‘I preferred Matthew McFadyen,’ I say, and the image of him that swims into my mind pleases me.

  ‘And did you speak to Alec about how some of the themes in the programme may upset you?’ Laini is obviously keen to bring me back on track.

  ‘Yes. We had a row.’

  Laini glances at her notes. ‘Do you feel your relationship with your husband is still, using your words from last week, “tense and taut”?’

  I nod, keeping my eyes to the floor.

  ‘You mentioned before that you’ve been able to talk to a couple of other people. A friend…’

  ‘Yes, a friend I made at the support group. Friend is probably a bit too strong a word. But she lost… She was a mother too. And at least that means I’m able to speak to someone who knows what it’s like. To lose that status, you know?’

  ‘Status?’ Laini asks, gently.

  ‘Yes. The status as a mum. It’s like this thing that you are. And then suddenly you’re not. Suddenly you’re just… just you again. It’s like going back in time. Although you don’t feel like you. You just feel empty. I’m not saying I was some amazing example of motherhood. But growing up, let’s just say my own mother didn’t exactly shine in that department, so I was determined to do better… determined to shine in a way she never did. And then, suddenly, all that just… disappears.’

  Laini waits for a bit, as if allowing the room as a whole to digest what I’ve just said. Then she says, ‘Your husband’s brother…’ She pauses to look down, her eyes scanning her notepad once again, apparently for a name, ‘Robert, was it? Have you found talking to him helpful? You said how he’d helped you, especially in the first weeks.’

  ‘Rob,’ I said, ‘Yes. Well, I was able. To talk to him, I mean. Like I said a few weeks ago, he was great just after Jessica died. I would phone and he would just listen. It helped that he was someone outside of the house. Of course, he knew and loved Jessica – he was a great uncle. But of course it’s not the same as it is for Alec. And if I talk to Alec, I have to take into account his grief and everything that goes with it.’

  A look up to see a slightly more engaged expression on Laini’s face, as if she’s more than a little impressed. ‘I think it would be helpful to focus on this next time – how Alec’s grief and the way he shows it can make it hard for you to talk to him.’

  I don’t reply, but I don’t really need to. She’ll get me to talk. It’s part of her strange witchcraft and to be honest, it’s the only reason I keep coming back. In spite of everything, I usually do end up talking.

  I leave her room feeling that now familiar sensation of tired vulnerability. It wears you out, talking about your innermost fears and hopes and regrets and dreams. I’m fairly sure Laini sometimes lets her opinion shine through more than is professional. Alec would suggest reporting her to whatever monitoring body one reports bad therapists to, but at this point I’m not sure I could deal with another change to my weekly routine.