The Life Sentence, page 1
THE LIFE SENTENCE
JACKIE KABLER
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2024
Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2024
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024
Cover photograph: Shutterstock.com
Jackie Kabler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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.
Source ISBN: 9780008544577
Ebook Edition © May 2024 ISBN: 9780008544560
Version: 2024-03-01
Contents
1. Heather
2. Heather
3. Heather
4. Amber
5. Heather
6. Heather
7. Heather
8. Heather
9. Amber
10. Heather
11. Heather
12. Heather
13. Heather
14. Heather
15. Amber
16. Heather
17. Jack
18. Heather
19. Heather
20. Heather
21. Heather
22. Jack
23. Heather
24. Heather
25. Heather
26. Heather
27. Amber
28. Heather
29. Jack
30. Heather
31. Heather
32. Heather
33. Amber
34. Heather
35. Heather
36. Jack
37. Heather
38. Heather
39. Heather
40. Heather
41. Heather
42. Jack
43. Heather
44. Heather
45. Heather
46. Yiannis
47. Heather
48. Amber
49. Heather
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
About the Author
Also by Jackie Kabler
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About the Publisher
For Míceál Murphy
(Buff!)
ONE
Heather
You don’t expect your life to change in a bookshop. Books may be among the best things in the world, and maybe reading can change your life, but that’s a whole other conversation. What I mean is that when you’re in a bookshop listening to a talk by one of your favourite authors, you don’t expect the stranger sitting beside you to effectively throw a bomb into your safe little world and blow it all to smithereens. You don’t expect her to steal your handbag, either. But I’m jumping ahead now, so let’s start from the beginning.
My name is Heather Harris and I’m a bookseller at a gorgeous shop in Chiswick, west London. But today is Wednesday, one of my days off, so I hop on a Tube to Richmond upon Thames, just a few miles away. I’ve been a fan of crime writer Lydia Cornish for years, and when I heard she was doing a talk and a signing at Words on the Street, the big high-street bookstore, I knew I couldn’t miss it. It’s the sort of thing I often do on a day off, the sort of thing that makes my friends roll their eyes and mutter words like ‘obsessed’ under their breath, although it’s all done with affection, or at least I hope so. Sometimes, they follow the muttering with the ‘helpful’ suggestion that I should try signing up to a dating app because I’ve been on my own too long now, and I need to ‘live a little’. I nod and grin and make vague gestures that imply I might take up the suggestion, one day soon. I won’t though. Not yet. My last proper relationship ended nearly two years ago and… well, let’s just say it put me off a bit. Dating doesn’t interest me right now. My life is full; I’m content just the way I am. But I digress, again.
So, the Lydia Cornish event. I love this bookstore; Words on the Street is probably five times bigger than the shop I work in, but somehow they manage to keep the atmosphere cosy, like an old library. There are squishy armchairs and a coffee bar at the back, the smell of cinnamon and caramel mingling with the scent of ink and paper so deliciously that sometimes I wonder if they actually pump it in through the air conditioning, just to create the perfect ambience. I’ve spent many a happy afternoon here, browsing the shelves and sipping cappuccinos, squirrelling away ideas to take back to my boss, Kwee, for our little place.
Anyway, today I queue up to get my book signed – Lydia is lovely, as I’d hoped she’d be – and now it’s time for the talk. I’m sitting in the third row from the back, my handbag tucked under my chair, my phone still in my hand so I can take some photos for Instagram. When the woman sits down next to me, I don’t pay her much attention at first; I turn to look at her as she stoops to put her own bag on the floor, and she gives me a shy smile, so I smile back. But then I see Lydia making her way across the shop floor and get distracted, snapping some pictures and then listening, fascinated, as she describes her writing process and the inspiration behind some of her bestselling novels. Engrossed as I am though, every now and again I find myself glancing at the woman sitting beside me because, well, there’s just something… odd about her; something off, about the way she’s behaving. For a start, she doesn’t seem to be listening to Lydia at all. And, even more maddeningly, she doesn’t seem to be able to keep still, constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs, picking at her nails, and pulling jerkily at a loose thread on the side seam of her jeans. There’s a big clock on the wall in the children’s book section over to the right, a clock with a cat in the number 12 position and white mice at 3, 6, and 9, and every few minutes she stares at it, frowning, as if willing the hands to move faster.
Is she just killing time, maybe, because she’s early for an appointment or something? I’m puzzled and slightly irritated. Why come to something like this if you’ve no interest in it, and then just sit there, fidgeting?
She’s a thin woman, probably about my age – early thirties – fine blonde hair pulled into a tight little bun at the back of her head. Her face is pretty, with high cheekbones and pale, freckled skin, but her expression is tight and anxious, and just sitting next to her is starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I look around, scanning the rows of seats for an empty chair, wondering if I should move, but the talk seems to be wrapping up, Lydia asking if anyone has any questions before she has to head off to another event in central London. And so I sit there, trying to concentrate, trying to focus on the conversation and not on my growing feeling of resentment towards this stranger, who’s definitely somewhat spoiled what should have been a very pleasant hour.
She’s probably just having a bad day, I tell myself, as the room erupts into applause, and Lydia stands up to leave.
Remember, you never know what people are going through…
Be kind…
I turn, intending to swallow my annoyance and ask her if she enjoyed the talk, but she’s bending down, reaching for her bag, and then standing up abruptly. Without looking at me again, she marches away, camel trench coat swinging, black leather handbag clutched under her arm. Moments later, she’s disappeared into the throng of customers. I stare after her, still perplexed by her peculiar behaviour, then sigh and pick up my own bag. It’s nearly four o’clock, and if I hang around too much longer I’ll get caught up in the evening rush hour, so I leave the store and hurry to the Tube station, the sky a stony grey on this early March afternoon, the threat of rain hanging in the damp air. As I approach the entrance, I reach into my bag for my wallet, and…
‘What the—?’
I splutter the words out loud as I slip the black leather strap from my shoulder and stare at my bag. It looks like my bag… it is my bag. Or is it? It’s the same make, the same colour, the same style, but this bag looks newer than mine, somehow. And the contents… the contents are definitely not mine. My precious signed copy of Lydia Cornish’s new book isn’t there, for a start. Nor is my wallet, or my house keys, or my make-up bag. Instead, there’s a wodge of crumpled tissue paper, two apples – apples? – and a piece of white card, with something written on it. I pull it out and stare at it.
There are thirteen words, followed by a mobile phone number.
IF YOU WANT YOUR BAG AND ALL YOUR STUFF BACK, CALL ME.
NOW.
TWO
Heather
Thankfully, my phone is still in my coat pocket, where I’d shoved it as I left Words on the Street. I move away from the Tube station entrance as a man pushing a buggy containing a small crying child rushes past me, glaring and tutting at me for daring to block his path. I realise my heart is pounding and the hand clutching the phone trembles a little, although my predominant emotion is anger.
What the hell is going on?
It’s that bloody woman who sat next to me! It must be, I think furiously, as I tap in the phone number from the card and wait for the call to connect. Who else could have taken my bag – swopped my bag – for an almost identical one? It was with me the whole time until I put it under my seat for the talk. But why on earth…? And now I have to call her to get my own bag back? This is ridiculous!
‘Hello?’
The voice is female, quiet, nervous.
‘What’s going on? Have you stolen my bag? What’s wrong with you?’
I spit the words into the phone, more loudly than I intended, and an elderly woman who’s just emerged from the station looks at me with a startled expression and walks away with impressive speed, leaving a trail of lavender perfume in her wake.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t steal it, not really. I’m going to return it. I just needed to get your attention, and I couldn’t speak to you in such a public place. I know this all sounds very weird but… can you come and meet me, now? I’m in the little café at the far end of Lake Street. It’s just around the corner from the Tube station—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I interrupt her, infuriated. This isn’t just weird, it’s outrageous.
‘It’s you who was sitting next to me just now, isn’t it? Who are you?’
There’s a pause, and then she speaks again, a quiver in her voice.
‘My name’s Felicity. Felicity Dixon. Please, Heather. Please, come and meet me. I’ll explain everything, and I’ll give you all your stuff back. I’m so sorry, but it’ll make sense when we speak, I promise. I’m here now, in a booth at the back. Please.’
‘How do you know my name? Oh shit. Fine. I think I know the place you mean. I’ll be there in two minutes, OK? But this had better be good.’
This is fast becoming one of the most bizarre events of my life, I think, as I stomp down the road, barely apologising as I barge into people on the busy pavement, my thoughts tumbling over each other in my head.
She called me Heather, so she clearly knows who I am. But how? I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before. What could she possibly want to talk to me about? And why do something so crazy?
I look down at my bag – or the bag that isn’t actually my bag at all – still feeling astonished. I bought it at Marks & Spencer, from their leather essentials collection, so it wouldn’t be too hard for someone to find the same one, but it seems like such an extreme length to go to, just to speak to someone. Why didn’t she just message me on social media if she wanted to speak to me privately? How did she know where I’d be today? How did she know what my bag looks like, in order to buy herself the same one? And how did she know I’d be carrying it with me today? It’s not the only bag I have, although I have been using it almost daily for weeks now. But still… And why has it got apples in it?
Unexpectedly, I find myself grinning. This is so surreal it’s becoming almost funny.
This Felicity, whoever she is, had better have a good explanation, that’s all I can say.
I push open the café door. I’ve been here once before, and it’s nice; a small, always busy deli and coffee shop, with a selection of mismatched tables and chairs and a row of booths, upholstered in blue leather, along one wall. I see Felicity immediately, leaning out of the booth at the very back and raising a hand briefly in greeting before sliding back into her seat. I weave my way between the tables, dodging a waiter carrying a tray laden with teacups and what look like slabs of carrot cake, and plonk myself down opposite her. I wriggle out of my coat and dump it on the seat beside me.
‘Right. Who are you, what do you want, and can I please have my bag back now?’ I say loudly, and she visibly flinches.
‘Please, please be quiet,’ she hisses. ‘I think we’re OK in here, but I’m just trying to be so careful…’
She glances furtively around the café and then turns back to face me, as I stare at her, feeling more confused and exasperated than ever.
‘For goodness’ sake, are you going to tell me what’s going on here or not?’ I snap, but I make an effort to lower my voice. She looks scared, I suddenly realise.
‘And I’ll have my bag now, too,’ I add. It’s sitting on the table, and I grab it and rummage through the contents. Everything’s still there – my signed book, my wallet, my make-up bag. Everything.
I look up.
‘Well?’ I say. ‘Here’s yours by the way. Why the heck has it got apples in it?’
I push the other bag across the polished wood of the tabletop and see a tiny smile lift the corners of her mouth.
‘For weight,’ she says. ‘Look – let me try to explain. I needed to speak to you, OK? I’ll explain why in a minute. I’ve been following you on Instagram for a while, your bookseller account. But I didn’t want to just message you, because I don’t trust social media, you know? It can be hacked, and I didn’t want any written proof of any communication between us. Anyway, I was going to come and visit you in Meadow Bookshop, where you work? But again, I thought that might be too risky, too close to home. So I thought no, wait ’til she’s out somewhere, on neutral ground. Then you posted about the Lydia Cornish event, and it seemed perfect—’
‘OK. So why not just talk to me there, about whatever it is?’
I can’t help myself interrupting her – this is all getting madder by the minute. Is this woman suffering from some sort of paranoia?
‘You sat next to me. We could easily have chatted. Why do all the mad bag swopping?’
She sighs.
‘I know it seems a bit extreme, but I knew there’d be loads of people around, and they have CCTV cameras in that bookstore – the big places always do – and I just didn’t want…’
She hesitates.
‘This just feels safer. They don’t have any cameras here – I’ve checked. I came in last week and told them I thought I’d had my purse stolen here the day before, and asked if they had any security camera footage I could look at, and they said they don’t have CCTV. I just didn’t want any record of… of this conversation. And if I’d sat down next to you at the talk, and suddenly asked you if you’d go for coffee with me, a total stranger, you wouldn’t have come, would you?’
I shrug.
‘Probably not,’ I admit.
She nods.
‘So, the bag thing, well, it was a bit of a risk, but you post lots of pictures of yourself, and for the past couple of months that’s the only bag you seem to have used. I spotted it in M&S when I was out shopping, and thought it might just work. I mean, we all panic when we lose our handbag, don’t we? I guessed you’d come and meet me here if you thought I had yours. The paper’s just the stuffing that was in it when I bought it and, as I said, the apples were for… well, weight. They were the first heavy-ish thing that came to hand this morning. I thought if you picked it up and it felt suspiciously light you’d realise it wasn’t yours too soon, before I’d left the shop, and you’d cause a fuss and… well, it could easily have gone horribly wrong. And luckily, you still had your phone in your hand when I picked up your bag and left. Otherwise you’d have had to borrow one to call me…’
