Falling Suns Read online

  Table of Contents

  Falling Suns

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Epilogue

  FALLING SUNS

  A Psychological Thriller

  J.A. Corrigan

  A psychological thriller for fans of Belinda Bauer, Mark Edwards, Clare Mackintosh – a dark and brooding tale about the horrors that can lurk within a family.

  Ex-DI Rachel Dune’s small son is missing. Then his body is discovered. Her cousin Michael is found guilty of his murder and incarcerated in a secure psychiatric unit.

  Four years later, now divorced and back in the police force, Rachel discovers that Michael is being released to a less secure step-down unit, with his freedom a likely eventuality. Unable to cope with this, she decides upon revenge, assuming a new identity to hunt him down and kill him. However, as she closes in on her target, her friend Jonathan, a journalist, uncovers some unnerving information about her mother and others in her family and begins to suspect that Rachel’s perception of the truth might not be as accurate as she thinks – that she might be about to murder the wrong man...

  To Steve and Rhiannon, my little clan

  There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

  Aeschylus

  CHAPTER ONE

  March 11th 2000

  Sutton Coldfield, UK

  From the kitchen window I watched blond hair and a sliver of petrol-blue fabric move inside the garden studio. ‘Joe,’ I whispered.

  The distinctive colour shifted again and I strained to see the Doctor Who motif embroidered on both of its ends.

  But it wasn’t Joe; it was Liam wearing our son’s scarf.

  ‘Big seller with the young’uns,’ the shop assistant had said as she placed it in a bag. I knew Joe would use the scarf only occasionally, to please me. He hated things wrapped around his neck. It had become a joke between the three of us that Liam took to wearing the Doctor’s scarf, ‘waiting for Joe to get over his phobia’. I’d purchased it on a whim, and only because the colour perfectly matched the jumper I’d bought Joe three months before. For his seventh birthday.

  The same jumper my son wore the last day I saw him.

  And then the deluge of emptiness swallowed me again. Was Joe scared? Was he lonely? Missing his mum? And the other question, clawing its way to the surface, despite all my efforts to keep it buried: was he still alive? For long seconds paralysis settled and only noise from the landline brought me back. The caller was persistent, and, stirring myself, I picked up.

  ‘Rachel?’

  I recognised the voice and relaxed. ‘Hello, Charlotte.’

  ‘How are you, lovely? And Liam?’

  ‘We’re not good.’

  ‘I know – is he there?’

  ‘In the den ... studio. Avoiding me.’

  Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Some news. We’ll know later today, hopefully. I’ll call you when we find out.’

  ‘You two need to carry on talking. I know what you’re like, known you long enough. You have to open up. You can’t hold it all in.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure it’s not you avoiding Liam?’

  I remained silent. I was avoiding him as much as I could.

  ‘Is there something else?’ she probed, anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Christ, what else could there be?’

  ‘Sorry. Nothing else.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ I circled the kitchen three times with the phone lodged between my chin and neck, ending up back next to the sink and gazing into the garden. ‘He thinks we’ll find Joe.’

  ‘You will find Joe.’

  ‘I know the scenario. It was my job, remember?’

  ‘Look, I’ll come over tomorrow. Sort you both out.’ Her laugh was brittle.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’

  Charlotte didn’t answer immediately. And I knew, or I thought I knew, what she was thinking. You are so not fine. I would tell her about Liam when I saw her. I had to tell someone.

  ‘Get out of the house, if only for a few hours,’ she said finally.

  Looking through the window, I watched him closing the door of the den. ‘I’ve got to go, Liam’s on his way up the garden.’

  ‘Good. Talk to each other.’

  I watched Liam’s careful movements as he negotiated the slippery decking. We hadn’t spoken properly for weeks, since long before Joe had gone missing: only argued. Rather than come inside he began sweeping the wooden floor of the patio. Staring past him I watched the Judas tree sway in the wind, its buds ready to open.

  Liam went about his task vigorously. It was the way he was dealing with this. Keeping busy.

  Many times in my former job I saw how people reacted so differently in tragic situations. Liam’s grief manifested itself in putting rubbish out for the refuse collectors, opening blinds to welcome another horrendous morning, sweeping the decking. In a few terrible days we’d managed a complete role reversal. To deal with Joe’s disappearance, my husband became tormented with the details of a domestic life in which previously he’d been utterly uninterested. My suspicions about him seeing another woman had become inconsequential.

  Waiting for Liam to come inside I sat down and pretended to read a magazine, rubbing the inflamed skin on my hand. It always bothered me more when agitated. Old scald scars were the worst; the GP had said long ago. Today mine were scarlet, and painful.

  My eyes drifted away towards the fridge, and, like every other family’s fridge in the western world, it was covered in a child’s paintings. Joe’s paintings. The last one he’d brought home took centre stage. It was a bright red and orange sunset. Or, I should say, ‘sunsets’. Three suns of differing sizes were painted cleverly, seeping into Joe’s horizon. Liam had said it was a mini masterpiece, proud that his son was showing the same artistic leanings as himself. Joe’s teacher had given him three house points for the ‘unusual’ picture. I’d given Joe a big cuddle and a promise to visit the nearest theme park. I bought the tickets the same day. My eyes settled on the calendar hooked onto the right side of the same fridge. Today was supposed to be our day at the theme park, and the disbelief at what was happening pooled around me like uncontained mercury.

  Would I ever go to a
theme park again? Would we add more paintings to the fridge? I searched for hope, for understanding, for an answer.

  Last night my old boss, Tom Gillespie, who was leading Joe’s case, had attempted to skew the statistics. As if giving a different slant on a list of numbers could give me hope. He’d tried hard to say something positive, as he would have done easily with any other victim’s mother, but I wasn’t convinced, and neither was he. I saw it in his eyes.

  ‘Are you staying home today?’ Liam’s voice was tight and weary.

  I hadn’t heard him come through the patio door. His honey-coloured hair was uncharacteristically unkempt and tufts jutted out from the top his head. His deep blue eyes seemed sunken and the skin taut over high, triangular cheekbones. He’d been nowhere the past week, only to see Tom. I knew he hadn’t seen her, whoever she was. Now, I didn’t care about her and I suspected Liam didn’t either.

  ‘I guess so,’ I said, noticing the stubble that was growing into a beard. It had taken six days to transform him. He wasn’t wearing Joe’s scarf, and had probably left it in the den. ‘Still reporters camped out at the bottom of the street. Tom managed to move them from the front of the house.’

  ‘I know. That’s good,’ Liam said.

  ‘I wish they’d piss off.’

  He stood behind me and rubbed what felt like tangled metal wires in my shoulder muscles. ‘They’re just doing a job.’

  I pushed his hand away. ‘I know.’ Turning my head, I looked up at him. ‘How’s the new painting going?’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be working.’ I said it automatically; Liam would work and paint through a nuclear holocaust.

  ‘We have to talk,’ Liam said.

  ‘About Joe?’ I watched the face of a man I’d loved since my twentieth birthday and forgot, for a moment, the other woman inside our marriage.

  ‘Of course about Joe. We’ll find our son. You have to believe it.’

  He pulled me towards him and I resisted.

  ‘I know that’s what you want to believe. But we have to face the truth,’ I said.

  He let go of me. ‘You deal with it your way, and I have to deal with it in mine.’

  ‘Liam ...’ We did have to talk, and not about Joe.

  He was already heading towards the patio door. I wanted to tell him I still loved him, but could not. It would help him. But not me.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  Liam returned to his den.

  As I spooned coffee into the filter machine, my breathing became shallow and too quick. I listened to the grumbling of my empty stomach. How could I be hungry? My son was God knows where and my body told me it needed food. I pushed my fist into the flesh beneath my protruding ribs, pressing hard until it hurt. I stood doing nothing for long minutes, not wanting to feel the sickening hunger. I wanted to feel nothing.

  I picked up the jug of freshly brewed coffee and threw it onto the floor. Liquid and shards of glass covered the kitchen and, as a strong smell of Arabica diffused through the room, I finally felt some sort of relief. But it was short-lived. I sank onto the cold tiles, into the pool of coffee, and watched as Joe’s picture fell downwards, like a leaf floating from an autumn tree. I wanted to catch it, save it, save Joe, but I could do nothing.

  Only watch the falling suns.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’d finally moved from the floor, cleaned up and carefully attached the picture back from where it had fallen. I’d even managed to sleep for a couple of hours on the sofa.

  My eyes moved towards the calendar, noticing the 5 p.m. slot I’d ringed in red to remind me of Jonathan’s visit.

  Liam had gone out, but must have checked on me before leaving: he’d placed a blanket over my legs, knowing they got cold when I slept, no matter what the temperature was. It wasn’t something he would normally think of doing, although Joe would, and had done often, when I nodded off while watching CBeebies with him.

  A pain that was never far away crept back into my body masquerading as hunger. It was hunger. Hunger for my son. I got up, and hoped movement would stop the grotesque pain. My stomach continued to rumble. I went into the kitchen and pulled out a packet of Doritos from the cupboard. I never ate them; they were Joe’s weekend treat. I put them back. For when he came home.

  The jovial-sounding doorbell chimed and my heart wavered. I ran to the lounge and looked through the window, dreading the sight of Tom Gillespie with a female officer. Tom alone was safe. It meant I could still hope for Joe’s case to be different, for him to be alive somewhere.

  It wasn’t Tom with a female PC, or Tom alone. It was Jonathan. I glanced at the clock; it was later than I’d thought. Exactly five. Always on time. Always reliable. He was one of the journalists covering our story, but I trusted him. He’d shown his loyalty and integrity on many occasions, including with the ‘Asian Bride’ story: a case that seemed a lifetime ago. My feelings for Jonathan went further than merely professional, and I found myself wanting to talk to him in a way I knew I couldn’t talk to Liam.

  Liam: how long could we remain living under the same roof? Unable to speak to each other; unable to look each other in the eye. Our unspoken dialogue found its roots in the unspeakable future I saw but Liam denied.

  I ran fingers through my greasy ponytail and answered the door.

  ‘Hello, Rachel.’ I watched Jonathan scrutinising my hair, my face. His concern travelled much deeper than that of a colleague. ‘Is it OK for today? I can leave, come back tomorrow – if that suits you better?’

  His look of disquiet made the hunger worse. He was a natural optimist, and any sign of his muted pessimism would send me hurtling to the place I was trying to avoid. I continued looking at his features, attempting to read them. Did I see pity? Worse than pessimism was pity.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ve just woken up.’

  He nodded. ‘Sleep’s good.’

  ‘Come in.’ I stepped away from the door, but not before peering down the street.

  ‘They won’t bother you,’ he said.

  ‘I know. It’s too fucking sad, isn’t it? Even for hardened journos.’

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’ He touched the hotness on my scarred hand.

  ‘You’re my friend.’

  ‘Shall we go and sit down?’ he said, raising one thick eyebrow, a gesture I’d come to know as his preamble to journalistic questioning.

  ‘Let’s go in the garden. Leave your coat on. It’s chilly.’

  I observed as he buttoned up his insubstantial jacket then pulled at its hem to straighten it up. A coat totally unsuitable for the temperature, but it was ‘designer’.

  ‘Coat looks good.’ I nearly smiled.

  He half-grinned.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked. ‘I only have instant though: I dropped the cafetière.’

  ‘Be good.’

  We picked up the drinks and made our way outside through the kitchen. I gave Jonathan my mug and mopped up the film of last night’s rain from two chairs.

  Jonathan looked towards the bottom of the garden. ‘Is Liam here?’

  ‘No, he’s gone out.’ I moved closer and took one of the mugs from him. ‘How’s Michelle?’

  He put his mug down and pulled his jacket tighter around his body, raking a hand through thick, wavy black hair. ‘She’s OK. Our relationship’s not that great, but that’s another story.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Marriages have ups and they have downs.’

  He touched my arm, his eyes expressive, kind and enquiring. ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘About Joe?’

  ‘I’ve come to see you as a friend.’

  ‘I know you have.’

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘I know that, too.’

  ‘Are you and Liam OK?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Does Gillespie have any real leads?’

  ‘No, not really.’ For a moment I allowed something to give. ‘What am I
going to do?’

  What was I going to do? I couldn’t live without Joe, couldn’t function without him. I wanted to smell my son. I wanted to put my nose in his hair and smell his cleanness, the toffee popcorn.

  ‘They’ll find Joe,’ Jonathan said quietly. ‘I know they will. Not all cases end badly.’ He looked at me hard. ‘Not all yours ended the way you were anticipating. What’s happened to positive Rachel, the woman who doesn’t give up? You shouldn’t be here, alone. What about your family ... your mum, your dad?’

  I laughed at that one. My mother, my dad had told me –as gently as he could – wasn’t coping very well. She wasn’t coping very well walled up in her pristinely clean semi-detached house.

  I could see her. Hair coiffured and backcombed into a high bun. Lipstick perfectly pencilled onto thinning lips. One of her regulation plain white blouses buttoned high towards her ageing neck, getting ready to go to church. Not worrying about me, or indeed her grandson, but about how all this would affect her standing in a community that she shunned as not being good enough for her.

  My mother, even now, resented what I’d chosen to do as a career, and she was ashamed that an ex-police officer could be stupid enough to ‘lose’ her child. She was disconnected from the reality of life, and this detachment had always been left unchecked by my father’s emotional weakness.

  Joe’s disappearance was an inconvenience for my mother. She blamed me. And it was the only time in my entire life that I admitted she was right.

  I thought back to a conversation I’d had with my dad, just before Joe’s disappearance. It had been after I’d left Joe with my parents for the day, which, in itself, was an unusual occurrence. I’d never leave Joe alone with my mother, and so it had to be a weekend when Dad wasn’t working. I’d left Joe on a Saturday. When I’d picked him up, later that evening, Dad had mumbled something about a visitor who’d upset my mother. I was only vaguely interested in who the visitor had been, and cross that my dad was still worried about how the world, and people in the world, might upset Margaret. He’d tried to tell me more, and I’d cut him short.

  But it was always like that in conversations about my mother with Dad. Things half said; things never said. Secrets hiding in every corner of our house. The three of us talking but not really talking; all of us pretending we were a normal family. But we weren’t a normal family; I knew that when I visited my friends. I knew there was something wrong.