The Breakdown: The gripping thriller from the bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors. B Paris A

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СКАЧАТЬ a sigh of exasperation. ‘Come on, Cass, just tell me! It can’t be that bad!’ Her impatience makes me even more nervous so I look for something to tell her, something she’ll believe.

      ‘I forgot about Susie,’ I blurt out, hating myself for using what is just a mundane issue compared to the woman’s death. ‘I forgot that I was meant to have bought her something.’

      A frown appears on her face. ‘What do you mean, forgot?’

      ‘I can’t remember, that’s all. I can’t remember what we decided to buy her.’

      She looks at me in astonishment. ‘But it was your idea. You said that as Stephen is taking her to Venice for her birthday, we should buy her some lightweight luggage. We were in the bar near my office at the time,’ she adds helpfully.

      I let relief show on my face, although the words mean nothing to me. ‘Of course! I remember now – God, I’m so stupid! I thought it must be perfume or something.’

      ‘Not when there’s so much money. We all put in twenty pounds, remember, so you should have a hundred and sixty altogether. Have you got it with you?’

      A hundred and sixty pounds? How could I forget being given that much money? I want to admit everything but instead I carry on the pretence, no longer sure of myself. ‘I thought I’d pay by card.’

      She smiles reassuringly at me. ‘Well, now that that little drama’s over, drink your coffee before it gets cold.’

      ‘It probably already is – shall I get us a fresh cup?’

      ‘I’ll go, you sit here and relax.’

      I watch her as she joins the queue at the counter, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. Although I managed not to tell her about seeing the woman in the car, I wish I hadn’t had to admit that I’d forgotten about the luggage. Rachel isn’t stupid. She’d witnessed Mum’s deterioration on a weekly basis and I don’t want her to worry, or to start thinking that I’m heading down the same road. The worst thing is, I have no memory of suggesting that we buy luggage, or of where I put the hundred and sixty pounds, unless it’s in the little drawer in my old writing desk. I’m not worried about the money itself; if I can’t find it, it doesn’t really matter. But it’s frightening to think I’ve forgotten everything to do with Susie’s present.

      Rachel comes back with the coffees.

      ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ she says, sitting down.

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘It’s just that it’s not like you to get so upset over something as mundane as forgetting what present you’re meant to have bought. Is there something else troubling you? Is everything all right with Matthew?’

      For the hundredth time, I find myself wishing that Rachel and Matthew liked each other more. They try not to show it but there’s always an undercurrent of mistrust between them. To be fair to Matthew, he doesn’t like Rachel simply because he knows she disapproves of him. With Rachel, it’s more complicated. She has no reason to dislike Matthew so sometimes a little voice in my head wonders if she’s jealous that I now have someone in my life. But then I hate myself for the thought, because I know she’s happy for me.

      ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ I reassure her, trying to push last night from my mind. ‘It really was just the present.’ Even those words seem like a betrayal of the woman in the car.

      ‘Well, you were a little worse for wear that night,’ she says, smiling at the memory. ‘You didn’t have to worry about driving home as Matthew was picking you up, so you had quite a few glasses of wine. Maybe that’s why you forgot.’

      ‘You’re probably right.’

      ‘Well, drink up and we’ll go and choose something.’

      We finish our coffees and go down to the fourth floor. It doesn’t take us long to choose a couple of powder-blue suitcases, and as we make our way out of the shop, I sense Rachel’s eyes on me.

      ‘Are you sure you want to go for lunch? If you don’t, it doesn’t matter.’

      The thought of lunch, of having to talk about anything and everything to avoid speaking about the woman in the car, suddenly seems too much. ‘Actually, I’ve got a splitting headache – a bit too much celebrating last night, I think. Can I take you to lunch next week instead? I can come into town any day now that I’m not working.’

      ‘Sure. You’ll be all right to come to Susie’s party tonight, won’t you?’

      ‘Of course. But could you take the cases, just in case?’

      ‘No problem. Where are you parked?’

      ‘At the bottom of the High Street.’

      She nods. ‘I’m in the multi-storey, so I’ll say goodbye to you here.’

      I point to the two suitcases. ‘Can you manage?’

      ‘They’re lightweight, remember? And if I can’t, I’m sure I’ll be able to find a nice young man to help me!’

      I give her a quick hug and make my way to the car. As I turn on the ignition, the time comes up and I see that it’s a minute past one. A part of me – quite a large part – doesn’t want to listen to the local news, but I find myself turning on the radio anyway.

      ‘Last night, the body of a woman was found in a car in Blackwater Lane, between Browbury and Castle Wells. She had been brutally murdered. If you travelled that road between eleven-twenty last night and one-fifteen this morning, or know anyone who did, please contact us as soon as possible.’

      I reach out and turn the radio off, my hand shaking with stress. Brutally murdered. The words hang in the air, and I feel so sick, so hot, that I have to open the window, just to be able to breathe. Why couldn’t they just have said ‘murdered’? Wasn’t ‘murdered’ already bad enough? A car pulls up alongside me and the driver makes signs, wanting to know if I’m leaving. I shake my head and he drives off, then a minute or so later another car comes along, wanting to know the same thing, and then another. But I don’t want to leave, all I want is to stay where I am until the murder is no longer news, until everybody has moved on and forgotten about the woman who was brutally murdered.

      I know it’s stupid but I feel as if it’s my fault she’s dead. Tears prick my eyes. I can’t imagine the guilt ever going away and the thought of carrying it around with me for the rest of my life seems too high a price to pay for a moment’s selfishness. But the truth is, if I’d bothered to get out of my car, she might still be alive.

      I drive home slowly, prolonging the moment when I have to leave the protective bubble of my car. Once I get home, the murder will be everywhere, on the television, in the newspapers, on everyone’s lips, a constant reminder of my failure to help the woman in the woods.

      As I get out of the car, the smell of a bonfire burning in the garden transports me instantly back to my childhood. I close my eyes and, for a few blissful seconds, it’s no longer a hot, sunny day in July, it’s a crisp, cold November evening and Mum and I are eating sausages speared onto forks, while Dad sets off fireworks at the bottom of the garden. I open my eyes to find that the sun has disappeared behind a cloud, mirroring my mood. Normally, СКАЧАТЬ