The Other Daughter: An addictive psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Read online

  ‘Come on, Rachel. Let’s go.’

  The pain in my fingers is intense. But it fades into irrelevance as I realise I’m no longer gripping the stair railings. His rap on the knuckles worked. The two police officers are leading me out of my house and into the street; into their car. I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t feel well at all. I don’t feel at all like myself. Why isn’t Matt coming with me? He hasn’t even stepped out of the house.

  And then I realise…

  Before he answered the door Matt apologised to me. He said he was sorry and that he didn’t want to do this. And now it’s so blindingly obvious what has happened – it wasn’t Kate Morris at all; it was Matt who called the police.

  It was Matt who betrayed me.

  34

  Then

  Catriona turns the key and opens the door to her new flat. To her new life. She’s just driven down from London and was hoping to get here in the light, but she was late leaving, and then Grace had a little accident, so she had to change all her clothes, by which time Catriona was so stressed that she needed to sit in the car and try to calm herself down for half an hour. Now she’s finally here, but it’s dark, and everything looks really different to how she imagined it would be. She’s not sure she can do this.

  Online, the flat looked so bright and airy, so welcoming and fresh. But right now, it all feels strange and wrong, the overhead lights casting a too-bright yellow glow edged with deep shadows. It smells of paint and the air inside feels damp. She mustn’t cry. It will all seem better after a night’s sleep – isn’t that what everyone always says?

  She hadn’t realised how awkward it was going to be to manage a young child on her own while trying to move into a new place. Luckily, the flat is fully furnished, but even so, she still has to negotiate the stairs with Grace while bringing up all her stuff. She works out the best way to do it is to balance Grace on one hip while carrying a bag or case with her free hand and wedging another one under her arm. At least the weather isn’t too bad for December – dull but not raining and not too cold either. It could have been a lot worse going from the car to the flat, laden down with her possessions in the pouring rain. She should try to count her blessings.

  Grace is snoozy after the car journey, so she’s resting her head on Catriona’s shoulders, her thumb firmly planted in her mouth. After several tricky trips up and down the stairs, carting up the essentials like bedding and food, Catriona decides to call it a day. She’ll bring the rest of her gear up tomorrow. It should all be okay left overnight in the boot. There’s nothing of worth in there anyway. Just some clothes and knick-knacks.

  Once Grace is ensconced on the grey sofa with a bag of apple rice cakes and a beaker of water, Catriona goes into their bedroom. She could only afford a one-bedroom flat, so Grace will be sleeping in with her, but that’s okay. She prefers it that way. At least the beds look decent – two singles with brand new mattresses, still in their plastic. After manoeuvring the mattresses out of their packaging, she makes up both beds with her own duvets and pillows.

  Hot and tired after her exertions, Catriona surveys the room. It’s actually starting to look a little better in here now the beds are made up. Tomorrow she can really get to work on the rest of the flat – open some windows, let the air in, check out the neighbourhood. She might even treat herself to some fresh flowers.

  She pops back into the lounge to check on Grace. She’s fallen asleep on the sofa, the empty packet of rice cakes rising and falling on her chest as she breathes. Poor lamb is tired out. Catriona moves the packet aside and carries Grace into the bedroom. She gently lays her on her bed, changes her into her pyjamas and covers her over with the duvet.

  Now that Grace is asleep, Catriona is tempted to do what she always does in the evenings now – go on her phone and see if there are any updated news stories about the missing girl and her parents. It’s become a bit of an obsession – finding out everything she can about them. The parents’ names are Rachel and Andrew and the daughter’s name is Holly.

  Back in London, the mother was on the local news several times putting out appeals for the return of her daughter. She was very vocal and very visibly upset. The father was quieter. Less emotional. The couple didn’t seem close at all. Their body language was stiff. Almost hostile. Or maybe Catriona imagined that part.

  Apparently, the father was in Spain working at the time of the abduction. The local media hinted that he might have been behind the whole thing – especially as he just flew back there this week. But he hasn’t been arrested or named as a suspect. They also said that he’s got another woman over there. That he abandoned Rachel to be with this Spanish woman. Of course, it’s all speculation.

  Other news stories have implied that it could have been the mother, Rachel, who arranged the whole abduction. People can be so cruel. So vicious. So uncaring. The truth is, the public don’t have a clue what really happened – they just go by what the papers tell them, titillating stories made up to cause outrage or pity. Catriona can’t help wondering what it must be like for Rachel. How she’s coping. She has a baby daughter called Jessica, so that must keep her going. Catriona doesn’t know what she would do if anything happened to Grace. It doesn’t bear thinking about. She pushes away the image of the bathwater… of the churchyard back in London with its freshly turned earth. She swallows down bile.

  ‘Mummy?’ Grace has opened her eyes and is staring around in panic at her unfamiliar surroundings.

  ‘It’s okay, Grace. Close your eyes. It’s sleepy time now.’ Catriona strokes her daughter’s hair until she falls asleep once more. Then she chides herself – all this time she’s still been thinking of herself as Catriona and her daughter as Grace. But she can’t afford to make those kinds of slip ups. She shakes her head and mutters, ‘I’m not Catriona. She’s not Grace.’

  Catriona has already changed both their names by deed poll to give them a fresh start. She signed her new name on the rental agreement too. It means they can both live without fear of being tracked down by friends and family from their former lives. It means they’ll be almost impossible to trace. But in order for that to hold true, she has to get used to thinking of herself and her daughter by their new names. Catriona and Grace are gone. No more. She mustn’t even think the names. She decides the only way to truly get used to their new names is to keep saying them aloud. Maybe a bit of role playing will help them sink into her brain.

  Catriona goes back out into the lounge, stands to face an imaginary person and pretends to shake their hand. She feels faintly ridiculous, but this is too important for her to make any mistakes. She also decides to try to soften her London accent. That way, hopefully, she won’t stand out as much in this unfamiliar Dorset town.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Nice to meet you. Yes, this is my daughter. Her name’s Jess. And I’m Rachel. Rachel Farnborough.’

  35

  Now

  There are 136 tile squares in the ceiling of my room. I’ve counted them all. As I lie on my bed, I’m looking up at them, trying to work out some kind of game I could play in my head using them as a board. Like sudoku or something. Anything to stop the rush of jumbled thoughts cascading through my mind.

  Everything has finally come out into the open. What I did. Who I really am. I know it’s probably hard for other people to believe, but the truth shocked me more than anyone. I honestly didn’t know who I was or what I’d done. I couldn’t believe I had somehow blocked out my past and become this whole other person. But through all the shock and trauma, that’s exactly what I’d done.

  When the police arrested me five months ago, I went into a kind of shut-down mode. I entered a semi-catatonic state and had to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital – which is where I am now. Which is where I’ll probably be for the foreseeable future. It’s taken the doctors weeks to get me to accept who I really am. To make me understand that I never actually had a child who was abducted. That my name isn’t even Rachel Farnborough.

 
It’s Catriona Devon.

  I still get muddled from time to time. Flipping between Rachel and Catriona. They say I may have dissociative identity disorder – the medical term for a split personality – but my doctor hasn’t formally diagnosed me. He still says it’s too early to say for certain.

  I sit up in bed and start counting the tiles again. I’m pretty sure there are 136 of them. I can’t remember if that’s right, or if I imagined it. I’d better count them again; just to make doubly sure.

  Once I’ve finished counting, I stand and walk around the small room to stretch my legs. It’s almost time for my morning walk outside in the grounds. I feel edgy in anticipation of it. I can’t sit still. Whenever my brain is unoccupied it returns to all the memories. It’s like a lucky dip – sometimes they’re good memories of me and Darren and Grace, or perhaps of Matt, Jess and Charlie. But more often than not they’re bad memories… of scented water and dark earth and blank expressions that make me want to scratch my brain cells out.

  My pacing becomes more frantic. I don’t have a watch or a clock in here so I can’t tell if the nurse is late today. What if they forget to come? Or if they’ve decided I can’t go out for some reason? I don’t have to stay in this room – it’s not like they’ve locked me in or anything. But it makes me nervous, going into the common areas by myself with all the other patients and staff and visitors. I feel as though I’m on display. So I like to wait until I can walk out with a member of staff. It makes me feel more secure.

  If they do forget me, I might just have to be brave, because I really do need to get out of this room. I miss going out, walking down by the river. I miss working with Dee, and the school run. I miss London and its big, anonymous parks.

  I remember now, how my little Gracie used to love going to the park. She used to be fascinated with the squirrels and the birds. We’d feed the ducks and go to the play park, sometimes taking a picnic and making a day of it. It was lovely when Darren would come with us too. I was so proud of our lovely little family. That’s all I ever wanted… a little family of my own. It wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Or maybe it was. Every time I think of her, I get this whooshing in my ears and a pressure on my chest. I spoke to Dr Medway about it, and he told me those sensations are all part of my grief. I never really mourned Grace when she died. So getting my memories back has been painful. It’s as though I’ve lost my daughter all over again.

  That’s why, when I saw Bella with her distinctive colouring, I had such a physical reaction – she reminded me of my Grace. The real Grace. But, at that time, I was so entrenched in my Rachel persona, the person I’d convinced myself I was for years, that I couldn’t make the connection to my daughter Grace. Instead I believed she was Holly, the missing daughter I’d invented. Rachel’s missing daughter, who never really existed. And Jess… well, I believed she really was my daughter.

  I know the truth now. Seven years ago, my daughter Grace died. She drowned in the bath. It was an accident. I’m starting to understand that. But it doesn’t stop me feeling like I was to blame. Like I was an unfit mother.

  I carry on pacing in my room, my anxiety levels rising. I really do need to get out of here. I can’t even settle to counting the tiles again.

  Those false memories I had of Holly were in fact real memories of my dead daughter Grace. Because it was Grace who had the same heart-shaped face and freckled snub nose as Bella. The same dark hair and green eyes. That’s why it hit me so hard when I saw Bella. It was as though Bella was my poor little Gracie returned from the dead. Living the life she was supposed to live, instead of drowning in a few inches of water and lying forgotten in a London churchyard. The truth was trying to surface in my mind.

  I put my fist into my mouth to stop the tears. Although Dr Medway says it’s good to cry. It’s healthy. But if I break down again then I might not get my morning walk outside. And I really do need that walk. I should try to think about something else. Something less upsetting. My mind scrolls through for something else to latch onto. Something other than Grace…

  It lands on Kate and Shaun – two innocent bystanders who got drawn into my dark and complicated web. Poor Kate had already been through so much with her husband’s spell in prison, their bankruptcy and then having to move away from all their friends. She must have thought she’d landed in crazy town after she met me.

  A knock on the door heralds the arrival of one of the nurses. Thank goodness. They’ve come just in time to save me from my dark anxieties. The nurses are generally nice, but I can’t help feeling self-conscious around them. After all, they know exactly what I did. They know my whole sordid story. I wonder if they gossip about us – us being the inmates, or patients, or whatever we’re called. They must. They must have their opinions. Or maybe they’re bound by patient–clinician confidentiality. Some of the nurses are quite friendly. Others are more detached, efficient, brisk. I squirm at the thought of other people looking at me, judging me, pitying, fearing, loathing. Or maybe that’s all in my head, and they don’t have an opinion one way or the other.

  ‘Morning, Catriona.’

  Oh good; it’s Jenny, one of the friendlier psychiatric nurses. Though she can be quite intimidating to look at, with her broad shoulders, meaty arms and ruddy face, I think she’s quite a gentle soul.

  She smiles. ‘It’s lovely out there today. You ready to come out for your walk?’ Her voice is soft and kind, her smile genuine and sweet. In another life I might have thought she was patronising in the way she talks to me like I’m a child. But in this life, here and now, her warm tone calms me. ‘Are you okay?’ She frowns. ‘Have you been crying?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible, although that’s not too difficult – the medication they’ve given me has taken the sharp edge off my emotions. Even though I can still feel them, they’ve become cushioned and soft.

  ‘All right,’ Jenny says brightly. ‘Come on then.’ We walk out of my room together and along the pale-blue corridor that leads out to the garden. I do get bored of being inside for so many hours at a time, but it doesn’t stop me feeling light-headed when I leave the building. Being outside reminds me of a life beyond these walls. It’s a life that I yearn for. It’s also a life that terrifies me.

  ‘You’re quiet today, Catriona.’

  I nod, unable to make small talk. ‘Lots on my mind.’ The air is fragrant with the scent of sunshine and cut grass. I inhale and enjoy a brief two-second beat of pleasure.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’ Jenny asks.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I know it’s hard to bring up the past,’ Jenny says, ‘but it’s better to get it all out in the open than have it swimming around in your head all day. Shall we walk down by the tennis courts?’

  ‘Okay.’

  It sounds posh – a hospital with tennis courts, but the truth is, they’re a couple of tatty concrete courts with ripped nets and faded white lines. The hospital building used to be a hotel, so there are remnants of it, like the swimming pool and the balconies – which they’ve had to box in for obvious reasons. We walk side by side, slowly, as though I’m an invalid.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the Morrises and about Holly,’ I begin.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  I can detect some apprehension in Jenny’s voice. She’s waiting to see if I know who Holly is. Whether I think she’s my daughter or whether I remember the truth. Although the fact I answered to ‘Catriona’ must have given her a heads up that I’m not ‘Rachel’ today.

  ‘Holly Faisal,’ I clarify. ‘The child I took from the shopping mall.’

  She nods and smiles, realising that this is probably going to be a good session. A session where I understand who I am and what I’ve done. ‘You’ve been thinking about her?’

  ‘Yes.’ I exhale. ‘I actually can’t get her out of my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the day of Grace’s accident. After… after it happened, I visited that shopping centre and I took that little girl home with m
e. Someone else’s child. I took her!’ Some days – like today – it astounds me that I could have done such a thing.

  ‘I watched the news afterwards and I found out who she was. They said her name was Holly Faisal, and I saw her parents – Rachel and Andrew Faisal. They put out an appeal on TV. The mother, Rachel, she was crying. It was terrible. But I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t call the police and own up to what I’d done. On some level I knew who she was, and I knew that what I’d done was wrong, but I ignored it. I kept on going with my fantasy that Holly was Grace. How could I have done that? How could I?’ I clasp my hands in front of me to stop the trembling that’s started up.

  Jenny doesn’t reply. We keep on walking, past the buddleia bushes, which have blossomed pink and purple since I last came down this way. Like shooting fireworks.

  ‘Darren was so upset when he got home that night and realised what I’d done. He was devastated. He tried to get me to see sense, but I just wouldn’t listen to him… It’s my fault he’s dead. I as good as killed him.’ My voice is wavering now too. Perhaps I should have stayed in my room. Coming out here and talking about it all feels almost as bad as keeping it in my head. Makes it feel more real.

  ‘You were in shock.’ Jenny pats my arm. ‘Your daughter had just died. Neither you nor Darren were thinking straight.’

  ‘I still can’t understand why I did it! Why I took Holly. It was like I was on autopilot. Like I had no control over myself. I know that sounds like a pathetic excuse… And then after Darren’s accident, I completely lost it.’ As hot tears start to fall down my cheeks, I stop walking for a moment, transported back to that nightmarish evening. Darren’s death pushed me over the edge of reason. That’s when I began to descend past the point of sanity into a perfectly created delusion.