Saving Grace, page 1
SAVING GRACE
CRISTINA SLOUGH
Copyright © 2023 Cristina Slough
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The right of Cristina Slough to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8524-3
CONTENTS
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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
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Saving Grace
Amelie
Acknowledgements
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A note from the publisher
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To Adam, Lucas and Mya for completing me.
‘I believe the only way to reform people is to kill them.’
— Carl Panzram
PROLOGUE
The lights are on. You haven’t pulled across those expensive mechanical shutters yet; what are they for? To shut out the world, or shut out me? It doesn’t matter because I see you. I always see you. You’re with me every single day. You move with ease around your habitat, like a ballerina, supple and elegant, dancing a story. Our story. You’ve cut your hair, I imagine the snip of the scissors slicing away parts of your golden strands, like a reptile shedding its skin, becoming anew. The choppy bob ages you, but in a good way. It’s added an exclamation mark to your sophisticated style, emphasising how you want the world to see you. But they don’t know you like I do. All smoke and mirrors. You hold a glass of red wine with those long slender fingers, and you still have that habit of twirling the ends of your hair with your thumb. You are still there. Nobody can erase all of themselves, there are always splintered fragments left behind, built within us like the coding of our DNA. You said you felt sorry for me, but I know who I am. Do you?
You can change who you are on the outside, but you will never change who you are on the inside. Aristotle once said, ‘Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.’ Try to remember that, it will help.
You reach for a book; I can’t see what it is, but I know you have always preferred real books to e-readers. You always said we need to experience the written word, the smell of the paper, the weight of a story in your hands. I love the way you sniff a book before you dive in and read. I wait a couple of seconds and laugh; there you go, your nose pressed up to the pages like clockwork. The crisp white shirt you’re wearing hangs loosely around your slender frame, the memory of what’s beneath it takes my breath away. Your soft silky skin; it’s one of the things I loved most about you. You set the book down and jump up, reaching for the phone. Who is calling you this late? It must be somebody important to you. I watch you throw your head back and laugh. I miss that sound. We had a lot of laughs, didn’t we? Now someone else is firing you up, making your insides light up. You take the phone to another room and slip from view. I let myself imagine I’m on the sofa, waiting while you make us both a drink. I can envision us both in the apartment, it suits the couple we were supposed to be. Your job isn’t enough to pay for all of this, but that’s the way it’s always been for you. Money comes easily. You told me not to worry, that I was enough and money was just a thing, but if that was true then why do you need the leather sofa, the expensive Art Deco bullshit on your walls that could feed a family of four for six months. Why is it so important that your coffee machine has ninety-nine settings? You love to pretend to be humble, and I think you want to be, but you just can’t let go of the good life. I get it, I longed for it too, but I deserved it more than your pretentious, spoiled friend did. I’m glad she’s gone.
You stay on the phone for a while. A hard lump that I cannot swallow forms in my throat like a piece of coal. I’ve been replaced. It’s painful to watch you for this long, but now that I’ve finally found you, I don’t want to let you go.
What would you do if you saw me?
Run?
Scream?
Hide? But you’re already doing that. We’ve been playing this game of hide-and-seek for a while now. I came close to finding you before, but you always changed tactics, my clever girl.
I have so many questions; how this all came to be, how two people so connected, so in love could have yanked it all away. Just like that. Our love was like a mirror, such a beautiful reflection, but it came under strain. It remained intact until it smashed to pieces, and once a mirror is broken, the cracks will forever be visible, impossible to repair, but I could live with the damage if it meant I still had you. If you still wanted me.
My soul hurts.
You fall away from my view again; it’s like I am watching you on the TV and it went to a commercial break. I eagerly wait your return; you’re gone for ten minutes. Now the cold has snaked around my body and I feel the bite of the night air. When you come back you walk to the window, dressed in a linen white two-piece pyjama set, your hair pulled away from your face in a neat headband. You return to the sofa and sink into it, you reach for the book again and sink down lower, the book covers your face and I can only see your long, slender legs. So many of our nights were spent with your legs draped across my lap, you enjoyed the way I stroked them so much you’d close your eyes and drift into a deep sleep. Hours later, I’d wake you and take you to bed in your dozy state, your voice drenched with sleep as you’d ask me to put a glass of water next to the bed. It was my duty to look after you. How could you forget that? How was it not enough? I reach out my hand, longing to touch you, but your eyes are fixed ahead. I don’t want this to end. I am still immersed in your beauty. I want to get inside your apartment. Get inside you.
Can you feel me?
I’m right here.
CHAPTER ONE
JENNIFER MACK
I stare at the headline:
Police Name Body Found in Briar Bay
But the reporting name isn’t mine. Hayley Woolley’s name shows up big and bold, and it gives me a headache just looking at it. I imagine her smug little face sharing her delight with her family and friends, even happier her name is taking up the space where mine should have been. The writing certainly isn’t riveting; a trained chimp could have churned out that rubbish.
Hoping that they misspelled her name in the byline (something that happens all too often with me) I read on, cringing at each line. The body had been pulled from the water and now awaits examination from the coroner to determine the exact cause of death. The words carved into the victim’s back with a sharp instrument tell us this was no accident; it’s a message. Whoever did this wants us to know it was deliberate. Terrance Harding, a local fisherman, discovered the body while out on his boat. I guess he didn’t expect his early morning catch to be a corpse. Hayley got to Terrance first and that’s why Hayley got the headline.
The yellow police tape has now snapped and frayed at the ends, blowing in the wind, disarranged along the coastal path and there’s a small team of weary-looking forensic examiners on the beach. The sound of police speedboats hum as they cut through the water, looking for further clues. Someone’s phone is ringing, a malapropos jolly litt
Steve from the camera crew comes toward me, his pale belly spilling out over the top of his jeans forcing me to turn my head. ‘Jen, can you hold this?’
‘Jennifer,’ I correct him.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Jennifer. Hold. Please.’ He places a Nikon D3500 in my palms, not the most impressive camera, but one that’ll do the job.
My name back in my uni days was Jennifer, not Jen or Jenny or Jan, as I’d been known in Cornwall. Jennifer, the Cornish derivation of Guinevere (fair lady). I always typed Jennifer at the end of my emails. Calling me Jen indicated endearment, but I’m not here to be endeared by anybody. Jen-nif-er. Not that hard, is it?
The sea breeze whips through my hair, making it a tangled mess. Cornwall has been home to me all my life, although I had a brief break when I attended Oxford. Back then I had big plans, huge plans to work for the BBC reporting news from all over the world, making a difference. I believed Oxford would be the skeleton key to open any door, believing I had hundreds of possibilities neatly set out before me. Maybe I was arrogant, maybe naïve, but I believed I would dip directly into the waters of the fast-paced news scene. When offers didn’t come my way, I worked for free, even sweeping the floor at newsroom offices. After endless applications, I was given one offer: The Cornwall Chronicle. Head hung low, shame pulsing through my veins, I swallowed my pride and came back to my home town to work for the local rag. The more I think about the first days of being back in Cornwall, the more my ambitions slip away. Within months of moving back, Mum got sick and then she was gone, just like that. And now, there was a murder.
It had been twenty-four hours since the body was discovered and the breaking news sent a ripple of fear amongst the local community, because things like this didn’t happen in Cornwall. Newsflash: bad things happen everywhere because bad people are everywhere.
The sun disappearing behind the hills and the darkness setting in makes the crime scene feel even more ominous, as though the sea could whisper its secrets from beneath its surface.
Finally, the news crew starts to pack up. There’s nothing more to see, nothing more to do. They head away from the beach, their faces flushed, carrying heavy equipment with wires dangling round their bodies. The forensic team remain, the scene now illuminated in sterile white floodlights. It reminds me of a film set, it feels insurmountable. I sit down and take my trainers off, shaking the sand out of them. It’s been a long, pointless day and I cannot help but feel defeated. I should have been here first; timing is everything. I reach into my backpack and take out my blue flask which would most likely hold tea, coffee, water… gin. I bring it to my mouth and sip. The burn reminds me of cramming for my finals. I’d take a swig just before my exam, and it would quiet my mind and set the mood I needed to be in. Power. I think that’s the best word to use; it gave me power… until it didn’t. I reach for yesterday’s paper again, the one with Hayley’s headline, and smooth out the crumples with my hand. I read her name and take another sip, then another. I don’t need to drink, I want to; there’s a difference and that’s why I am not an alcoholic. It’s been a bad week, so I, like many other proud Brits, am entitled to reset and reflect.
Elliot Young, the intern with greasy hair, acne, and sardine breath offers me a lift home, but I wave him off and tell him I’m going to stay a while longer. I used to come here as a child and watch the boats come into dock. The swell begins propagating away as faster waves race in and out. I see something wash up on the sand. I get up and find I’m unsteady on my feet and feel light-headed; I should’ve eaten lunch. I cross the beach and see a forlorn flip-flop with a glittery pink strap that has snapped. It could belong to just about anybody, but this is a crime scene, so I make my way to the forensic team feeling quite triumphant in my find.
CHAPTER TWO
NORTH LONDON
It was cold for mid-August. The steel-grey sky opened up to let a gentle rain fall before gradually becoming heavier. Wet and shivering, Grant found a shopfront, dirty and neglected, with a To Let sign plastered on the glass with an out-of-date area code and graffiti. The place had the stench of stale urine, but it was a place out of the way, where nobody would ask him to move along and he would be sheltered from the rain. People wouldn’t notice him under his ragged coat; not that they would care if they did. He used to sleep in the bus station, but now it was manned by security, all glass and steel, alarm systems and a coffee shop selling overpriced lattes in fancy recycled cups that promote veganism. It made him mad. He’d be grateful for any decent food in his belly, not excluding a thousand different things from his diet because of this New Age kindness bullshit and caring about the fair treatment of animals. All the while he walked the streets hungry and alone, not a single caring vegan so much as offered him a hot cup of tea.
The streets were empty because of the weather. It was the afternoon; rush hour wouldn’t start until five o’clock. Then the trains would come in thick and fast with hundreds of commuters spilling out onto the pavement and rushing home like their lives depended on it. As he went to make up his bed, he leaned up against the door, and to his surprise, it creaked open. He looked behind him, making sure nobody was watching and slipped in. He felt like he’d won the lottery with walls all around him to shelter him from the rain. He even had reading material; old posters littered the floor, with pictures of films and promotional material promising no late fees, free popcorn, and a soft drink with any two rentals. He laughed at the irony, the old video shop was just like him – discarded, redundant, useless, with the best days long behind it. He looked down at his hands, dry and calloused, worn from the days he worked tirelessly with them. He’d never owned a house. He lived in rented flats, usually above shops, and changed his address often. He was an urban nomad. Wherever there was work, he followed. Marriage and children were for other people, not him. He savoured his independence, never having to answer to anybody. He enjoyed the brief company of women with no strings attached, which meant he’d pay for it mostly; but he felt no shame, he never had to be tied up in pointless chit-chat, pretending to care what they did for a living or whatever bullshit problems they had. Keeping to a simple business transaction was better for all parties involved: he got what he needed, she got paid. But things were different now, and he had nothing but regret and bitterness. Maybe if he had let himself fall in love, found someone to settle down with, then he’d have somebody to share the burden with and he’d still have a roof over his head and food in his belly. Pulling himself from his thoughts, he looked around the shop. The shop looked like it was left in a hurry, nothing carefully packed or thrown away; he thought about how this would have once been such a happy place – families picking out a film on a Saturday night, friends and couples coming in, hoping their favourite video wasn’t already rented out. In the front of the shop was an old drop-box now covered in thick black tape. The air was thick from where there had been no ventilation for years. He pulled out some old cardboard boxes and placed them flat on the floor. It wasn’t a mattress, but it beat sleeping on cold pavement. The hours passed and he fell into a deep sleep, it had been so long since he found a place to sleep that was so private. His exhausted body welcomed the reprieve away from the elements.
