The Good Mother: A tense psychological thriller with a shocking twist

‘You mustn’t hate me, Susan,’ he says.

I wait for more. Some explanation. Nothing.

Could I jump him? Could I run past him, out of the door? I must try, mustn’t I? Even if there is no ‘past him’. He fills the whole doorway.

Stop thinking. Act! Forget the shaking legs. Go, go, go! Storm him, surprise him!

But he is too quick. He slips out. The door closes. The lock turns.

‘They’ll come looking!’ I shout, slamming my hands against the door.

Because they will, won’t they? Paul, even now, must be working with the police, following up trails, looking at traffic cameras, talking to witnesses. Find my wife, he’ll be shouting to anyone who’ll listen. Neighbours, dog-walkers, Mrs Smith from number thirty-nine with that blessed curtain twitching. My afternoon clients, they must have raised the alarm, when I wasn’t there. Right? I must be a missing person by now. Please, whoever has lost me, come and find me.

And, please, let Cara be with you. Let my daughter be safe.

Images of Cara frightened, hunched, bound, dying.

No!

Just focus. Look at the room. How to get out of the room.

Look, a window! High up, narrow, darkness beyond it, but possible maybe?

There’s a kind of ledge. I can pull myself up. Hands over the edge, like that, then come on – jump up, then hang on. Manage to stay there for a moment, before my weak arms fail me. Long enough to judge the window isn’t glass. It’s PCV. Unsmashable. And, of course, there is a window lock. And no key. Locked, I bet, but if I just stretch a hand – but no. I fall.

OK, so I need to put something under the window. That chair. Heavy. I push and pull it to under the window. Placing my hands on the back of the chair, I climb up onto the seat. With my new height, I stretch my arm to the window, then to the window latch.

Locked.

Still. A window is a window. People can see in, as well as out. When it’s day again, I can wave, mouth a distress signal.

So do I sit and wait in the dark until morning? Until I can see the light again?

Or does this man, this man out there, have night-time plans for me? Because you don’t just kidnap a woman and leave her in a room. You want to look at her, presumably, your toy, your little caged bird. Maybe he’s looking at me even now. A camera, somewhere? I draw my legs up close to me and hug them. I stare at the ceiling, every corner. No. No. No. No. I can’t see one.

Which means he must have another agenda.

I shudder.

Think of Cara. Be strong. What’s your best memory of Cara? Proudest mummy moment?

Apart from every morning when I see that beautiful face. I will have that moment again. I will. Just as I’ve had that moment every day since I first held you.

Little baby girl wrapped in a blanket. So precious. Be safe, be warm, always.

But apart from that.

The concert!

Yes, the concert.

All the mums and dads and siblings and assorted hangers-on filing into the school hall. The stage set up ready, music stands, empty chairs. Hustle, bustle, glasses of wine. Me chatting to Alice’s mum – Paul working late – about nothing and everything. Then, the gradual hush of anticipation spreads round the room. The lights dim. On comes the orchestra! And there’s Cara. Her beautiful blonde hair hanging loose, masking her face. She’ll tuck it behind her ear in a minute, I think. And she does. Then the whole audience can see that lovely rose tint to her cheeks, the lips so perfectly cherub-bowed to play the flute that she holds. I want to stand up and say, ‘that’s my daughter!’ Instead I just nudge Alice’s mum and we have a grin. Then there’s the customary fuss and flap as the kids take their seats. All trying to look professional, but someone drops their music, and someone else plucks a stray string of a violin. Not Cara, though. She is sitting straight, flicking stray glances out to the crowd, holding the flute tight on her lap. Come on, Cara, I say to her in my head. Just do it like you’ve practised. All those nights at home, performing to me sometimes so that you have an ‘audience’. You’ll be fine.

And she is fine. When the orchestra starts to play, it’s like she has a solo. You can see the musicianship. All nervousness gone. Head bobbing and darting, fingers flying, like a true flautist. No pretention. Just perfection. Then her actual solo. The flute shining out, beautiful, clear. Wonderful phrasing, beautiful passion. Then she’s frowning slightly – was that a wrong note? Just keep on, keep on, no one will notice. And she does, she keeps going, right to the end.

But what makes me proudest, happiest, is, when her solo is over, she has this magnificent pinky-red flush over the whole of her face, and she gives this quick smile of sheer joy at her accomplishment, a brief look into the audience, before she bows her head and gets back to playing with the rest of the orchestra. Oh, my beautiful bold-shy Cara. How I adore you!

And then.

The memory is spent.

I’m just here again.

In silence.

Waiting.

Alone.

Hoping, praying, that my daughter is safe.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_2b36c435-37da-5504-89ca-9235ef19ce9d)

The headmistress of Cara’s school is occupied with a small handful of girls she has brought together in her study. They’re sitting on chairs in a semicircle surrounding her desk, sipping the tea that she’s given them. Patterned china cups usually reserved for the governors are balanced precariously on saucers. The girls are too busy to worry if they are spilling their tea. Their attention is focused on the man next to the headmistress. He’s a rarity in a school that only has two male teachers. And neither of them have beards. Or wear leather jackets and open-necked shirts. It’s clean-shaven and smart suits or the door for Mrs Cavendish’s staff.

‘Who do you think he is?’ whispers one girl, skinny, ginger, to her companion, slightly rounder, brunette.

Her companion shrugs. ‘New teacher? A friend for Mr Adams and Mr Wilson?’

The skinny ginger girl shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s about Cara.’

‘Everything’s about Cara,’ whispers back the brunette, rolling her eyes.

And it is true. The police cordons. The letters home to parents. The visit from a special psychiatrist. The thoughts, the prayers they have been asked to give her and her family in her conspicuous absence. The anxiety they have shared.

The headmistress clears her throat.

‘Girls, thank you for coming,’ she says, as though there is a choice to disobey the headmistress’s edict. ‘As you will have guessed, this is about Cara.’

The brunette shoots a ‘see what I mean?’ glance at her ginger friend.

‘I’ve asked you bunch here in particular because of your friendship with Cara. I know you must be very upset right now. You’re doing really well. I’m proud of you.’

There’s a sniff from a blonde girl at the outer reaches of the semicircle. The headmistress advances to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

‘I don’t want to upset you by going through the details again. We’ve all heard what the police had to say, and of course it’s been all over the news. But we’ve been asked to help a little more.’

The headmistress resumes her seat at the head of the semicircle.