I See You

  Praise for I Let You Go

  ‘[A] sensational debut … an astonishing intensity that drags you in and never – ever – lets you go’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Chilling, compelling and compassionate, I Let You Go is a finely-crafted novel with a killer twist’

  Paula Hawkins

  ‘So utterly convincing, as Mackintosh is a former CID officer. With a debut as good as this, the force’s loss is crime writing’s gain. More please’

  Sunday Mirror

  ‘A terrific, compelling read with an astonishing twist that floored me. I loved it and did not want it to end’

  Peter James

  ‘A taut psychological thriller with a startling twist’

  Daily Express

  ‘The twist takes your breath away … surpasses Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train’

  Jane Moore (Loose Women)

  ‘A hugely assured and gripping debut and a twist that made me green with envy’

  Mark Billingham

  ‘The superbly realised characters were the icing on the top of the deft, plot-twisting and emotional debut’

  Woman and Home

  ‘Extraordinarily atmospheric, Mackintosh’s emotional debut doesn’t miss a beat’

  Alex Marwood

  Also by Clare Mackintosh

  I Let You Go

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-7515-5413-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Clare Mackintosh

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Praise for I See You

  Also by Clare Mackintosh

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  For my parents, who taught me so much.

  Acknowledgements

  It is an accepted fact that second books can be tricky beasts, and this one would not have happened without the support, guidance and practical help of many generous people. My sincere thanks to Guy Mayhew, David Shipperlee, Sam Blackburn, Gary Ferguson, Darren Woods and Joanna Harvey for their help with researching this book. All errors are mine, and artistic licence is liberally used. Special gratitude to Andrew Robinson, who gave up so much of his time to help that I put him in the book.

  Thank you to Charlotte Beresford, Merilyn Davies and Shane Kirk, for plot discussions and beta reading, and to Sally Boorman, Rachel Lovelock and Paul Powell for bidding generously in charity auctions for the right to name a character.

  The life of a writer is frequently a solitary one. Mine is greatly enriched by the communities on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, the members of which are always ready with encouraging words, virtual glasses of champagne, and suggestions for guinea pig names. In both my online and my real life I continue to be astounded by the generosity of the crime scene, which could not be more supportive. Authors are a great bunch of people.

  I am lucky to be represented by the best agent in the business, Sheila Crowley, and I am enormously proud to be a Curtis Brown author. Special thanks to Rebecca Ritchie and Abbie Greaves for their support.

  I wouldn’t be half the writer I am without the talent and insight of my editor, Lucy Malagoni, who is a joy to work with. The Little, Brown team is exceptional, and my thanks goes to Kirsteen Astor, Rachel Wilkie, Emma Williams, Thalia Proctor, Anne O’Brien, Andy Hine, Kate Hibbert and Helena Doree for their enthusiasm and dedication.

  There should be some kind of award for the families of writers, who put up with the mood swings, the deadlines, the burnt suppers and the late school runs. In the absence of medals, my love and thanks go to Rob, Josh, Evie and George, who light up my life and make my books possible.

  Finally, thank you from the bottom of my heart to the booksellers, libraries and readers who loved I Let You Go enough to make it a success. I am so very grateful, and hope you enjoy I See You just as much.

  You do the same thing every day.

  You know exactly where you’re going.

  You’re not alone.

  1

  The man behind me is standing close enough to moisten the skin on my neck with his breath. I move my feet forward an inch and press myself into a grey overcoat that smells of wet dog. It feels as if it hasn’t stopped raining since the start of November, and a light steam rises from the hot bodies jammed against each other. A briefcase jabs into my thigh. As the train judders around a corner I’m held upright by the weight of people surrounding me, one unwilling hand against the grey overcoat for temporary support. At Tower Hill the carriage spits out a dozen commuters and swallows two dozen more, all hell-bent on getting home for the weekend.

  ‘Use the whole carriage!’ comes the announcement.

  Nobody moves.

  The grey overcoat has gone, and I’ve shuffled into its place, preferable because I can now reach the handrail, and because I no longer have a stranger’s DNA on my neck. My handbag has swung round behind my body, and I tug it in front of me. Two Japanese tourists are wearing gigantic rucksacks on their chests, taking up the space of another two people. A woman across the carriage sees me looking at them; she catches my eye and grimaces in solidarity. I accept the eye contact fleetingly, then look down at my feet. The shoes around me vary: the men’s are large and shiny, beneath pinstriped hems; the women’s heeled and colourful, toes crammed into impossible points. Amongst the legs I see a pair of sleek stockings; opaque black nylon ending in stark white trainers. The owner is hidden but I imagine her to be in her twenties, a pair of vertiginous office heels stashed in a capacious handbag, or in a drawer at work.

  I’ve never worn heels during the day. I was barely out of my Clark’s lace-ups when I fell pregnant with Justin, and there was no place for heels on a Tesco checkout, or coaxing a toddler up the high street. Now I’m old enough to know better. An hour on the train on the way into work: another hour on the way home. Tripping up broken escalators. Run over by b
uggies and bikes. And for what? For eight hours behind a desk. I’ll save my heels for high days and holidays. I wear a self-imposed uniform of black trousers and an array of stretchy tops that don’t need ironing, and are just smart enough to pass as office-wear; with a cardigan kept in my bottom drawer for busy days when the door’s forever opening and the heat disappears with every prospective client.

  The train stops and I push my way on to the platform. I take the Overground from here, and although it’s often as busy, I prefer it. Being underground makes me feel uneasy; unable to breathe, even though I know it’s all in my head. I dream of working somewhere close enough to walk to, but it’s never going to happen: the only jobs worth taking are in zone one; the only affordable mortgages in zone four.

  I have to wait for my train and at the rack by the ticket machine I pick up a copy of the London Gazette, its headlines appropriately grim for today’s date: Friday 13 November. The police have foiled another terrorism plot: the front three pages are rammed with images of explosives they’ve seized from a flat in North London. I flick through photos of bearded men, and move to find the crack in the tarmac beneath the platform sign, where the carriage door will open. My careful positioning means I can slide into my favourite spot before the carriage fills up; on the end of the row, where I can lean against the glass barrier. The rest of the carriage fills quickly, and I glance at the people still standing, guiltily relieved to see no one old, or obviously pregnant. Despite the flat shoes, my feet ache, thanks to standing by the filing cabinets for most of the day. I’m not supposed to do the filing. There’s a girl who comes in to photocopy property details and keep the cabinets in order, but she’s in Mallorca for a fortnight and from what I saw today she can’t have done any filing for weeks. I found residential mixed up with commercial, and lettings muddled up with sales, and I made the mistake of saying so.

  ‘You’d better sort it out, then, Zoe,’ Graham said. So instead of booking viewings I stood in the draughty corridor outside Graham’s office, wishing I hadn’t opened my mouth. Hallow & Reed isn’t a bad place to work. I used to do one day a week doing the books, then the office manager went on maternity leave and Graham asked me to fill in. I was a bookkeeper, not a PA, but the money was decent and I’d lost a couple of clients, so I jumped at the chance. Three years later, I’m still there.

  By the time we reach Canada Water the carriage has thinned out and the only people standing are there by choice. The man sitting next to me has his legs so wide apart I have to angle mine away, and when I look at the row of passengers opposite I see two other men doing the same. Is it a conscious thing? Or some innate need to make themselves bigger than everyone else? The woman immediately in front of me moves her shopping bag and I hear the unmistakable clink of a wine bottle. I hope Simon has thought to put one in the fridge: it’s been a long week and right now all I want to do is curl up on the sofa and watch telly.

  A few pages into the London Gazette some former X Factor finalist is complaining about the ‘pressures of fame’, and there’s a debate on privacy laws that covers the best part of a page. I’m reading without taking in the words: looking at the pictures and scanning the headlines so I don’t feel completely out of the loop. I can’t remember the last time I actually read a whole newspaper, or sat down to watch the news from start to finish. It’s always snatches of Sky News while I’m eating breakfast, or the headlines read over someone’s shoulder on the way in to work.

  The train stops between Sydenham and Crystal Palace. I hear a frustrated sigh from further up the carriage but don’t bother looking to see who it’s from. It’s already dark and when I glance at the windows all I see is my own face looking back at me; even paler than it is in real life, and distorted by rain. I take off my glasses and rub at the dents they leave either side of my nose. We hear the crackle of an announcement but it’s so muffled and heavily accented there’s no telling what it was about. It could have been anything from signal failure to a body on the line.

  I hope it’s not a body. I think of my glass of wine, and Simon rubbing my feet on the sofa, then feel guilty that my first thought is about my own comfort, not the desperation of some poor suicidal soul. I’m sure it’s not a body. Bodies are for Monday mornings, not Friday evenings, when work is a blissful three days away.

  There’s a creaking noise and then silence. Whatever the delay is, it’s going to be a while.

  ‘That’s not a good sign,’ the man next to me says.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say non-committally. I carry on turning the pages of my newspaper, but I’m not interested in sport and now it’s mostly adverts and theatre reviews. I won’t be home till after seven at this rate: we’ll have to have something easy for tea, rather than the baked chicken I’d planned. Simon cooks during the week, and I do Friday evening and the weekend. He’d do that too, if I asked him, but I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t have him cooking for us – for my children – every night. Maybe I’ll pick up a takeaway.

  I skip over the business section and look at the crossword, but I don’t have a pen with me. So I read the adverts, thinking I might see a job for Katie – or me, come to that, although I know I’ll never leave Hallow & Reed. It pays well and I know what I’m doing, now, and if it wasn’t for my boss it would be perfect. The customers are nice, for the most part. They’re generally start-ups, looking for office space; or businesses that have done well, ready for a bigger place. We don’t do much residential, but the flats above the shops work for the first-time buyers and the downsizers. I meet a fair number of recently separateds. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I tell them I know what they’re going through.

  ‘Did it all turn out okay?’ the women always ask.

  ‘Best thing I ever did,’ I say confidently. It’s what they want to hear.

  I don’t find any jobs for a nineteen-year-old wannabe actress, but I turn down the corner on a page with an advert for an office manager. It doesn’t hurt to know what’s out there. For a second I imagine walking into Graham Hallow’s office and handing in my notice, telling him I won’t put up with being spoken to like I’m dirt on the sole of his shoe. Then I look at the salary printed under the office manager position, and remember how long it’s taken me to claw my way up to something I can actually live on. Better the devil you know, isn’t that what they say?

  The final pages of the Gazette are all compensation claims and finances. I studiously avoid the ads for loans – at those interest rates you’d have to be mad or desperate – and glance at the bottom of the page, where the chatlines are advertised.

  Married woman looking for discreet casual action. Txt ANGEL to 69998 for pics.

  I wrinkle my nose more at the exorbitant price per text than the services offered. Who am I to judge what other people do? I’m about to turn the page, resigned to reading about last night’s footie, when I see the advert below ‘Angel’s’.

  For a second I think my eyes must be tired: I blink hard but it doesn’t change anything.

  I’m so absorbed in what I’m looking at that I don’t notice the train start up again. It sets off suddenly and I jerk to one side, putting my hand out automatically and making contact with my neighbour’s thigh.

  ‘Sorry!’

  ‘It’s fine – don’t worry.’ He smiles and I make myself return it. But my heart is thumping and I stare at the advert. It bears the same warning about call charges as the other boxed adverts, and a 0809 number at the top of the ad. A web address reads www.findtheone.com. But it’s the photo I’m looking at. It’s cropped close to the face, but you can clearly see blonde hair and a glimpse of a black strappy top. Older than the other women pimping their wares, but such a grainy photo it would be hard to give a precise age.

  Except I know how old she is. I know she’s forty.

  Because the woman in the advert is me.

  2

  Kelly Swift stood in the middle of the Central line carriage, shifting to one side to keep her balance as the train took a bend. A couple of kids – no
more than fourteen or fifteen years old – jostled on to the train at Bond Street, engaged in competitive swearing that jarred with their middle-class vowels. Too late for after-school clubs, and it was already dark outside; Kelly hoped they were on their way home, not heading out for the evening. Not at their age.

  ‘Fucking mental!’ The boy looked up, his swagger giving way to self-consciousness as he saw Kelly standing there. Kelly assumed the sort of expression she remembered her mother sporting on many an occasion, and the teenagers fell silent, blushing furiously and turning away to examine the inside of the closing doors. She probably was old enough to be their mother, she thought ruefully, counting backwards from thirty and imagining herself with a fourteen-year-old. Several of her old school friends had children almost that age; Kelly’s Facebook page regularly filled up with proud family photos, and she’d even had a couple of friend requests from the kids themselves. Now there was a way to make you feel old.

  Kelly caught the eye of a woman in a red coat on the opposite side of the carriage, who gave a nod of approval at the effect she’d had on the lads.

  Kelly returned her look with a smile. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Better now it’s over,’ the woman said. ‘Roll on the weekend, eh?’

  ‘I’m working. Not off till Tuesday.’ And even then only one day off before another six on the trot, she thought, inwardly groaning at the thought. The woman looked aghast. Kelly shrugged. ‘Someone’s got to, right?’

  ‘I guess so.’ As the train slowed down for Oxford Circus, the woman began moving towards the doors. ‘I hope it’s a quiet one for you.’

  That’s jinxed it, Kelly thought. She glanced at her watch. Nine stops to Stratford: ditch her stuff, then head back. Home by eight, maybe eight thirty. In again for 7 a.m. She yawned hard, not bothering to cover her mouth, and wondered if there was any food at home. She shared a house near Elephant and Castle with three others, whose full names she knew only from the rent cheques pinned neatly to the board in the hall, ready for collection each month. The sitting room had been converted to a bedroom by a landlord keen to maximise his income, leaving the small kitchen the one communal area. There was only room for two chairs, but her housemates’ shift patterns and erratic hours meant Kelly could go days without seeing anyone at all. The woman in the biggest bedroom, Dawn, was a nurse. Younger than Kelly, but far more domesticated, Dawn occasionally left a portion for Kelly on the side by the microwave, with one of her bright pink Post-It notes telling Kelly to help yourself! Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and she glanced at her watch. The afternoon had been busier than she’d thought; she was going to have to put in some extra hours next week, or she’d never get through it all.