11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat

ELISABETH CARPENTER

11 MISSED CALLS

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Elisabeth Carpenter 2018

Cover photographs © Arcangel

Cover photographs © Alamy

Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com 2018

Elisabeth Carpenter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy 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: 9780008223540

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008223557

Version: 2018-04-18

Dedication

In memory of:

Daniel and Dorothy Sweeney

Patricia and Stanley Carpenter

Michael Carpenter

Julia Thorn

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Forty-Nine

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Monday, 28 July 1986

Tenerife, Canary Islands

Debbie

The rock I’m standing on is only twelve inches long – just a foot stopping me falling into the water nearly five hundred feet below. The stone is cool under my bare feet.

It’s quiet; there aren’t many cars going past behind me. It must be late, or early. There’s a lovely warm breeze, one you don’t get in England when it’s dark. If it gets stronger, it might push me over the edge. Hitting water from this height is meant to be like landing on tarmac.

I’ve always been afraid of heights. What a strange time to conquer my fear. Nathan said this part of the cliffs is called La Gran Caída. Perhaps the name will be imprinted on my soul, alongside Bobby’s and Annie’s. I thought that when I had children, I’d become a better person. I think I’ve always had a badness, a sadness, inside me.

Why are my thoughts everywhere? They need to be here. I’m ridiculous, silly; my mother’s right. She’s always right. I’m useless to everyone. Everyone will be happier without me. Especially the children.

Oh God, no.

I can’t think about the children.

They have Peter. I’d only let them down again. What if I were left on my own with Annie again? I might kill her.

They’ll forget me soon enough. They’re young enough to erase me from their memory.

Breathe, breathe.

I’m surprised by how calm I am.

It’s like my mind was coated in tar, but now it’s been wiped clean.

I close my eyes.

So, this is how it ends.

I thought I’d be scared if ever I fell from such a height, but if I jump there’ll be nothing I can do about it.

The warm breeze skims my face again. I should be with my children right now, lying next to them, watching them sleep.

But I can’t. I’m not good enough for them. They’ll end up hating me.

Bobby, Annie, you were the loves of my life.

‘Debbie! For God’s sake, what are you doing?’

Is that the voice inside my head again?

I close my eyes. I don’t want anyone to stop me. I just want darkness.

Don’t look back. I can’t look back.

‘Debbie, come away from there!’

Before I have time to think, I’m turning around.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s you.’

Chapter One

Present Day

Anna

My mother, Debbie, has been missing for thirty years, ten months and twenty-seven days. It’s her birthday the day after tomorrow – two days after mine. I’m three years older than she was when she was last seen. She disappeared so long ago, that my father doesn’t talk about her any more. I have always taken scraps of information from my stepmother, Monica, and my grandfather, who will never give up hope.

But they have run out of new things to say about her. I was just over one month old when she left. I have no memories of my own, but I have a box. Inside it are random objects, music records, and photographs that belonged to her. There’s also a scrapbook with pages and pages of facts I wrote about her: She had dark hair, like mine. She was five foot five (two inches taller than me).She had her ears pierced twice in each ear. (Gran didn’t like it and had no idea where she got the money, at fifteen, to do that.) She liked The Beatles and Blondie. She wasn’t very happy at the end.

I started the list when I was eleven, so my first entries are naive and in the past tense. What I would like to know now is: What made you leave? and Do you ever think of us? But of course, no one can answer those questions but her.

The letterbox rattles, shaking me out of my thoughts. Sophie runs to the front door. The envelopes look huge in her little hands.

‘There are loads more cards for you, Mummy,’ she says.

She hands me the three pastel-coloured envelopes. I examine the handwriting on each one to see if I recognise it. I don’t know why I do it to myself every year. If the writing is unfamiliar, I get butterflies and a feeling of anticipation. What if this is the day she contacts me? What if it is today that I find out that she’s not dead – that she did something so terrible she had to protect us from the truth?

It is wishful thinking. I have made up so many stories in my head over the years. They get more absurd every time: she died the night she disappeared; she’s in prison for drug smuggling; she’s living in a South American village after suffering from amnesia.

I place the birthday cards on the table.

‘Are you not going to open them?’ asks Sophie.

‘We’ll wait till Grandad arrives. He’ll be here in a minute.’

Birthdays make me think of her even more. I often wonder what my mother would look like now if she were alive. I try not to look out for her any more. Not after it got me into so much trouble last time.

A few months ago, I told Sophie she was dead. It was the worst thing I could have said, but I didn’t want her thinking she had a grandmother out there in the world that wasn’t interested in her. I hadn’t meant to say it.

‘When are you going to leave me, Mummy?’ Sophie had said.

‘Never,’ I said.

‘But Granny Debbie left you and Uncle Robert.’

‘Not on purpose.’

‘Did you lose her?’

‘I suppose we did,’ I said, stroking her hair to take the sting out of it.

‘Is she in heaven, then? That’s what my friend Lila said about her nana. She had to go to church and then after the singing and the crying, they went outside and the wooden box she was in went into the ground. At least three metres under the grass, she said. But she wasn’t allowed to watch that bit – it was what her cousin told her. He’s twelve so he saw everything. Is that what happened to Granny?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about your friend Lila.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘She’s okay. She’s on the gold step now. But we all don’t mind. It was her first time. She might be naughty again next week.’

‘Everyone’s naughty sometimes, Sophie. But be kind to her, will you?’

‘Yeah.’

She’s sitting at the kitchen table now, making her own birthday card for me.

Sometimes I worry I might have the same thoughts as Debbie – that I will abandon everyone, leave in the middle of the night without being able to stop myself.

I hear Dad’s car pull up outside.

‘Grandad!’ shouts Sophie, as the car door slams shut.

Just the one door: Monica’s not with him.

They usually do everything together now they’re both retired.

I open the front door, and Sophie squeezes between me and the door frame as we watch Dad walk down the front path. He’s tall, but he always keeps his head down, like he wants to blend in with the background.

He looks up before the step.

‘I didn’t realise there’d be a welcoming committee!’ he says, bowing slightly.

He’s trying to look happy for Sophie and me, but the smile is only present on his lips. It’s a manner so familiar to me that it’s almost normal.

‘Happy Birthday, love,’ he says, before kissing my cheek, and stepping inside.

He ties a silver balloon to the end of the bannister and places a gift bag on the floor.

‘Am I allowed to play with it?’ Sophie says, standing on the bottom stair, and blowing the balloon sideways.

‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Dad and Sophie follow me into the kitchen.

‘But it’s your birthday,’ says Dad, ‘and it’s a Saturday. Let’s have a drop of fizz.’

Sophie sits back at the table.

‘Why’s Grandad talking posh?’

‘I don’t know.’

Dad pulls out a bottle of champagne from my gift bag and hands it to me. It’s already chilled. He nudges me aside and reaches into the cupboard for three wine glasses. It’s like he can’t stop moving.

‘You know how I feel about birthdays, Dad. I don’t want a fuss.’

‘Course you do – it’s your thirtieth! We had champagne on your twenty-first, remember? I take it Jack’s at work … on a Saturday? I’ve never known a conveyancing solicitor work a weekend in my entire life.’ Dad glances at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, your brother should be here any minute.’

I don’t say that Robert probably won’t drink either. Robert would think that ordering a taxi so he can enjoy a few glasses of champagne during the day is one step towards anarchy, lack of self-control, and being on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

He has always been the same. Robert was six when Debbie disappeared. Everyone says it’s harder for him, because he remembers. When I was little, Robert told me that Dad was arrested after we came back to England – that, for a few days, it was like he had lost two parents. He probably doesn’t remember telling me; he’s barely mentioned it since. He hates talking about her now. He couldn’t understand why, until only a few years ago, I had pictures of her everywhere. Most of those photographs are in the loft now.

‘Where’s Monica?’ I say. ‘Is she ill again?’

He fills the glasses halfway, waiting for the bubbles to melt before he tops them up. We’re not usually the champagne kind of family.

‘No – well, not physically – it’s just … we’ve had an email. I can’t tell you what was in it until Robert gets here. He won’t be long.’

‘An email? Why didn’t you just forward it to me, or tell me over the phone? Does Leo know?’

Leo is our stepbrother – Monica’s son – but he lives in America with his father.

‘No, no. We wouldn’t tell him without you two knowing first.’ He paces along the small space between the sink and the kitchen table. ‘I did wonder whether it was the right day to do this, but I couldn’t face you today without telling you.’

‘What does it say?’

He narrows his eyes and purses his lips.

‘Is it about Debbie?’ I say.

He nods slowly.

My legs start to shake. It feels like the blood has run cold in my face. I lean against the back of a chair.

What could an email say about her? If her remains had been found, or if she were still alive – it wouldn’t be in a casual email. Maybe this is how it’s done these days – especially if she were found in Tenerife. Has a dog found her while searching for a bone? Or has she been discovered in a hospital somewhere – her memory wiped by an accident?

I must stop thinking.

Dad wouldn’t open champagne if it were bad news, would he?

I open my mouth; I almost don’t want to say it out loud.

‘Is she dead?’ I whisper, so Sophie doesn’t hear.

‘Anna, love, just be patient. Please. He’ll be here soon.’

Why did he not just say no – put me out of my misery?

My stomach is churning. Deep breath. Breathe, breathe.

He looks at his watch and we stand wordlessly, with only the sound of the wine bubbling, losing its fizz. Briefly, the mask slips from his face when he thinks I’m not looking – I have seen it often over the years: the sadness of remembering something lost.

‘Sophie,’ I say. ‘I’ll put a film on for you while we wait for Uncle Robert. Then we can have some cake.’

‘Cake?’

‘Yes, love.’

She takes my hand, and we go into the living room. I flick on the television, but it takes too long to find a film – my hands are shaking.

‘Just put the kids’ channel on,’ she says, her head tilted to the side as she looks at me.

‘Good plan. Thanks, sweetheart.’

She’s only six, but she can be so perceptive at times. I pull the living-room door closed as much as I can without her panicking that I am going to abandon her.

Dad’s looking at the clock when I walk back into the kitchen.

‘It’s not like Robert to be ten minutes late,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you open your present? Monica’s so excited about it.’

‘Why isn’t she here then?’

‘She thought she’d give us some space while I tell you the news.’

‘That’s very understanding of her.’

Dad narrows his eyes for a second. Perhaps I was too sarcastic. Monica has been married to my father since I was eleven, but she has always been in my life. My mother is presumed dead in the eyes of the law.

‘She hasn’t taken it well,’ he says. ‘She didn’t even want me to read it.’

‘What? Wasn’t it addressed to you?’

I follow him as he walks out of the kitchen and into the hall. He peers through the window next to the front door.

‘Dad?’

He is saved by the bell. I open the door to Robert.

‘Happy Birthday, Anna,’ he says, unwrapping his scarf – he’s never without one. ‘Hotter than I thought it’d be today. Should’ve gone with the cotton.’

Robert hands me a birthday card, which will contain fifteen pounds.

‘Come on through to the kitchen, you two,’ says Dad, walking straight there.

‘What’s going on?’ says Robert, draping his jacket along the stairs. He glances at the balloon on the end of the bannister. ‘You really should get a coat stand or something.’

‘He’s got an email,’ I say, ‘about Debbie.’

Robert’s shoulders slump; he lowers his head, his eyes scanning the wooden floor of the hall.

‘Is it good news or bad?’ he says, finally looking up at me.

‘I don’t know. But he opened champagne.’

‘That could mean anything.’

He links his arm through mine and guides me through to the kitchen.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I hiss.

Dad’s leaning against the kitchen cupboards – he’s already pulled out two chairs.

‘Ssh,’ Robert says to me, sitting on the chair nearest Dad.

‘Okay.’ Dad clasps his hands together. ‘Sorry about this, Anna – it being on your birthday and all.’

‘She hates birthdays anyway,’ says Robert.

‘This came through yesterday.’ He picks up a brown envelope from the kitchen counter behind him, and takes out two sheets of A4. ‘Well, Monica received it a few days ago – I only saw it yesterday. I’ve done a copy for both of you.’

‘Why didn’t she show it to you straight away?’ I say to Dad.

He just shrugs.

My brother snatches one of the sheets from Dad’s hand.

‘Robert!’ I say, taking the other.

I glance down quickly. There are only a few lines.

I read it properly.

Dear Monica,

It’s time to tell the truth.

Debbie x

The memories of shells and sweet things are sometimes all we have left.

‘Is this it?’ says Robert, standing up. ‘It’s a crank letter. You’ve had them before, haven’t you, Dad?’

‘What?’ I say. ‘No one said anything to me.’

‘I suppose they didn’t want to upset you,’ Robert says.

I frown at him, making a note in my mind to ask Monica about it next time I see her.

‘But what if it’s not?’ I say quietly. ‘My memory box is covered in shells.’

Robert tuts. ‘That could mean anything. You’re just making it significant because it means something to you. It’s like these charlatan psychics. If Debbie were alive, why would she make contact now after so long?’

‘Something might’ve happened,’ I say to Dad. ‘It says it’s time. Why did she address it to Monica and not you?’

Dad shakes his head.

‘I’ve no idea what it means,’ he says. ‘Neither does Monica. We’ll just have to wait and see if she sends something else.’

‘If it’s even a she who wrote it,’ says Robert. ‘It could be anyone.’

‘Did you reply?’ I say.

We both look up at Dad.

‘I … I think Monica might have. I’ve been a bit shaken by it all, to be honest.’

‘It sounds a bit sinister,’ I say. ‘What does Monica think it means?’

Dad takes one of the glasses of champagne and takes a large sip.

‘Like I said, she doesn’t know.’

Robert looks at me and shrugs.

‘That’s because it’s a load of crap.’

‘Uncle Robert!’ Sophie runs into the kitchen and jumps onto Robert’s lap. ‘Did you just say crap?’

‘Of course not!’ says Robert. ‘I said slap.’

‘Which isn’t much better,’ says Dad, rubbing the top of Sophie’s head.

I walk into the living room and switch off the television. I look down at the email again. Monica received it days ago, yet didn’t show Dad. I look out of the window, leaning against the glass. I don’t know what I expect to see outside. But a thought strikes me.

Monica knows more than she is letting on.

Chapter Two

3 a.m. Thursday, 26 June 1986

Debbie

I’ve been looking at the same page of this stupid magazine for over an hour, trying to read the words under the crappy night-light above my head, but I keep daydreaming. The article’s about making the perfect chocolate roulade, and getting the timings right for all the ‘trimmings’ on Christmas day. It’s from one of the women’s magazines Mum has been saving for months – or maybe years, judging by the state of them. She’s still trying to convince me that Good Housekeeping will make me a more fulfilled person and a better mum. But there’s nothing more depressing than reading about Christmas in June. I don’t know why she thinks I’d be interested in things like this – she’s not the best cook herself. I’m nearly twenty-seven, not forty-seven. I should be reading about George Michael or the G spot.

I throw it onto the bed tray, but it slips off. The sound is amplified by a rare moment of silence on the maternity ward. I hold my breath in the hope that it cancels out the splat of the magazine onto the floor. Please, no one wake up. This peace is mine right now, and I don’t want anyone else to ruin it. My normal life is far from peaceful.

Annie looks like a little doll; she’s been so quiet. It must be the pethidine. She’s got the same podgy fingers that Bobby had – they’re like tiny tree trunks. I didn’t think she’d suit the name. I’d suggested Gemma or Rebecca, but Peter wanted to call her Anna after his late mother. It’s just right for her.

I’ve lost track of time and I’ve only been here for one night. The sky is purple; is it nearly morning or is it still dusk?

It’s hardly ever quiet in here, but they’re all asleep now. The new mothers try to feed as quietly as possible, but they’re amateurs, all three of them. And it’s never completely dark. They like to keep the light on above their heads. Perhaps they’re afraid that if it goes out, their babies will disappear.

I pick up the magazine, as quickly as I can with damn painful stitches, and place it on my cabinet. There are seven birthday cards, still in their envelopes, ready for me to open tomorrow, or is it today? Is it terrible that I’m glad I’m not sharing my birthday – to be relieved that Annie arrived two days earlier than her due date? It probably is, but I’ll keep that selfish thought in my head. It’s one of many, anyway.