MAGPIE
Sophie Draper
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019
Copyright © Sophie Draper 2019
Cover design by Lisa Horton © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Trevillion Images (house and woman); Silas Manhood/Arcangel Images (fence); Shutterstock.com (sky, magpie, water, grass)
Sophie Draper 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: 9780008311315
Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008311322
Version: 2019-10-15
Dedication
For my boys.
Epigraph
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret,
Never to be told.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: Claire – Before
Chapter 2: Claire – Before
Chapter 3: Duncan – Six Weeks After
Chapter 4: Claire – Before
Chapter 5: Claire – After
Chapter 6: Claire – Before
Chapter 7: Claire – After
Chapter 8: Duncan – After
Chapter 9: Claire – Before
Chapter 10: Claire – Before
Chapter 11: Duncan – After
Chapter 12: Duncan – After
Chapter 13: Claire – Before
Chapter 14: Claire – Before
Chapter 15: Claire – After
Chapter 16: Duncan – After
Chapter 17: Claire – Before
Chapter 18: Claire – Before
Chapter 19: Claire – After
Chapter 20: Duncan – After
Chapter 21: Claire – After
Chapter 22: Duncan – After
Chapter 23: Claire – Before
Chapter 24: Claire – Before
Chapter 25: Claire – After
Chapter 26: Claire – After
Chapter 27: Claire – Before
Chapter 28: Claire – After
Chapter 29: Duncan – After
Chapter 30: Claire – After
Chapter 31: Claire – Before
Chapter 32: Claire – After
Chapter 33: Claire – Before
Chapter 34: Claire – Before
Chapter 35: Claire – After
Chapter 36: Duncan – After
Chapter 37: Claire – Before
Chapter 38: Claire – Before
Chapter 39: Claire – After
Chapter 40: Duncan – After
Chapter 41: Claire – Before
Chapter 42: Claire – After
Chapter 43: Claire – Before
Chapter 44: Claire – Before
Chapter 45: Claire – Before
Chapter 46: Duncan – After
Chapter 47: Claire – After
Chapter 48: Claire – After
Chapter 49: Claire – Before
Chapter 50: Duncan – After
Chapter 51: Claire – Before
Chapter 52: Claire – Before
Chapter 53: Claire – After
Chapter 54: Claire – Before
Chapter 55: Duncan – After
Chapter 56: Claire – Before
Chapter 57: Duncan – After
Chapter 58: Claire – After
Chapter 59: Claire – After
Chapter 60: Claire – After
Chapter 61: Duncan – 22 Years Before
Chapter 62: Duncan – After
Chapter 63: Claire – After
Chapter 64: Claire – After
Chapter 65: Duncan – After
Chapter 66: Duncan – After
Chapter 67: Claire – After
Chapter 68: Duncan – After
Chapter 69: Claire – After
Chapter 70: Claire – After
Chapter 71: Claire – After
Chapter 72: Duncan – After
Chapter 73: Claire – After
Chapter 74: Claire – After
Chapter 75: Duncan – After
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
CLAIRE – BEFORE
There’s a dog protesting from one of the cages on the ward. Pain, the animal’s in pain. Its cries cut across my thoughts and I turn away from Duncan’s consulting room, past Sally on reception and through the doors to the back of the building.
Imogen, the animal care assistant, is already there, doing her rounds. Her body is bent as she checks each animal. She reads the clipboards pegged to every cage and tops up food and water.
‘Is it the Great Dane again?’ I ask.
She nods, gesturing to the biggest enclosure. It’s out of sight by the stockroom and I turn the corner. The dog is on its feet, swaying from side to side, one back leg visibly shorter than the other. It lifts its head, jowls wet with saliva, pressing its cheek against the bars. Large brown eyes roll as it recognises a human face and it howls again, a long two-toned cry, setting off another sequence of barks and whimpers in the room.
I unhook the door, dropping to my knees. The Great Dane hobbles cautiously towards me. It easily matches me for height in this position, pushing against my body. I take the animal’s head into my arms.
‘Hey, there, big fella, how’re you doing?’
I shift my feet, holding one hand to the side of the dog’s head, the animal panting. Its eyes are dilated, its tongue hanging out, tasting the very smell of me. The dog tugs away, distrusting even the comfort of my body, yet drawn to me. Its oversized legs are partially splayed, its tail tight and stiff. I run my hands along the underside of its stomach, pausing in the middle before slowly rising up and along the back, approaching one hip. The animal lets out a moan and throws its head like a horse.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart, I know.’
I press with care, eyes watching the dog closely, pressing just enough to determine the exact spot and no more. The dog moans again and I let my hand drop.
‘Imogen.’ I raise my voice. ‘Can you come and help me here a moment?’
‘Coming!’
I hear the clatter of a metal bowl being set on the floor and Imogen appears, slightly out of breath.
‘What is it?’
‘How long has she been like this?’
‘Since I came in this morning.’
I frown. My hand reaches up to turn a page on the clipboard.
‘Has she eaten at all?’ I nod to the full bowl of dried food pellets.
‘She had some of the wet food last night, but none of the dried.’
‘But she’s drinking?’
The water bowl is full too, I note.
‘Claire – I’m not sure …’ Imogen looks at me uncertainly. Then: ‘Yes – I filled it only a few moments ago.’
‘Okay. It’s happened again – she’s dislocated her hip …’
‘Claire!’ It’s Duncan, my husband, striding round the corner.
He stops in front of us, lifting one hand to his smooth round head. He towers over me as I crouch on the floor and glares at me with barely concealed annoyance.
‘Claire. Sally said you were looking for me.’
His voice is clipped and professional. He smiles at Imogen.
‘Would you give us a moment?’
She throws me an anxious glance.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Lovely to see you, Claire.’
Duncan’s arms are toned, his neck bare against his dark blue tunic. His name is embroidered on the front pocket: Duncan Henderson, Clinical Director. He waits until Imogen has gone, then turns on me.
‘What are you doing, Claire? I really don’t appreciate you coming onto the ward like this. It confuses the hell out of the staff and undermines my authority. We’ve talked about this before.’
He steps between me and the Great Dane, gently pushing the dog back into its crate.
‘Come on, now,’ he says to the dog. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But you’re next, I promise.’ He pats the dog.
I feel the heat rising up my neck. The Great Dane moves slowly around in the confined space, claws tangling in the blanket at its feet. Water spills from the bowl. I feel clumsy and embarrassed as Duncan slips the door catch back into position. He turns to me, but I speak before he does.
‘She’s got a dislocated hip and I noticed the femoral head on the x-ray—’
‘Have you been going through my notes?’ He’s openly angry now.
‘You left them on the kitchen table,’ I say. ‘It’s the second time this month, isn’t it? Dislocation. Manipulation isn’t going to work this time, there’s a—’
‘You need to go, Claire. And leave me to do my job. Why did you come here?’
‘I …’
I don’t know what to say. I came to say hello? He’s not going to believe that. I thought … I don’t know what I thought – that there was still a way for us to connect? When we were newly married, we always discussed difficult cases. As I look at his face now, I know he doesn’t even remember that, or doesn’t want to. And he certainly doesn’t want to hear what I have to say about the Great Dane. Well, screw you, Duncan, you can work it out for yourself, then.
‘Nothing. I was in town and I was dropping off the notes you left behind.’
I rummage in my bag and produce a folder. He takes it, our fingers not even touching.
But that’s a lie. The file is just an excuse. I know there’s no point in trying anymore.
I came for a look, to check out the staff. To work out if … which one of them, this time, it might be.
CHAPTER 2
CLAIRE – BEFORE
I was never quite sure about this house. It’s not a house, it’s a barn. A great, vast tomb of a place, all gleaming sleek lines and huge panes of glass. Very beautiful, very impressive, but not a home. Not at first, not to me.
Duncan said I’d get used to it. All that space, the mod cons, the view – that amazing aspect over the valley. It’s Derbyshire at its best, lush and verdant with the reservoir glittering at the bottom of the fields. And the privacy. There’s not another house for at least a mile in each direction, who wouldn’t want that? And even I had to admit, I did appreciate the privacy.
But home to me is smaller. Shoes by the back door, coffee stains on the table, dog hairs on the sofa, knick-knacks, photographs and postcards cluttering the mantelpiece. A proper mantelpiece, not one of those engineered slabs of wood buried in the wall.
If he clears my stuff away, I discreetly put it back. And if Joe, our son, or Arthur, the dog, leave muddy footprints on the tiles, I cheer. That first scratch on the polished work surface in the kitchen was uniquely satisfying. Always striving for perfection is not much fun.
The front door glides shut with a soft clunk. Duncan has gone to work. I hear the smooth hum of his car and the measured crunch of wheels on gravel. I stretch out the fingers of my hand and roll my shoulders. Then I gather my long hair at the back of my head and twist it into a loose bun. Strands of brown hair fall on either side of my face; I never was much good at grooming.
The wind gusts across the walls of the house and a sweep of rain splatters against the full-height window in the sitting room. I see my own shape reflected back; it makes me look taller, larger than I am, at least that’s what I tell myself. Strong. The sky is green, not grey, coloured by the triple-layered tinted glass so that even the view is tainted by Duncan’s choice of architecture.
Everything about this place was his choice, not mine.
I turn back to the sink. The deep-set window behind it was the only thing left unsullied by the builders. At my insistence. One last remnant of the building that was before, the old cottage that stood beside the barn. I would have kept it whole, perhaps linked by a glass atrium, but Duncan wanted it gone, to focus on the barn itself, stripped and open to the roof. There’s not much sense that this was all once a busy working farm.
As I plunge the mug into the hot water, I see my son, Joe, crossing the lawn from the top field. His head is bent against the weather, his dark hair damp and curling against his neck.
Moments later, the utility room door flies open and dead leaves bluster across the floor. Arthur, our black Labrador, scampers inside. His jaws are slack, drooling with saliva, and he shakes the rain from his coat so that water sprays on to the cupboard doors. He heads for his metal drinking bowl and I hear the sound of his tongue pushing it across the floor.
Joe hops on one foot and then the other, slinging each boot into the corner by the ironing board.
‘For heaven’s sake, Joe, take some care!’
He ignores me. He doesn’t even look up as his awkward frame passes into the kitchen.
‘Where have you been?’
It’s a stupid question, I know the answer. It’s almost eight o’clock in the morning and he’s been out all night. Not clubbing or drinking like most teenagers – I should be so lucky – but out there, in the fields.
Joe doesn’t reply and I see that ‘thing’ he always takes with him, the metal detector. He’s left it against the wall, looping the headphones and cable over the handle. He crosses the kitchen to find the biscuit tin, fishing out a handful of digest-ives. He shoves one in his mouth and the rest stick out from between his fingers like the roof of the Sydney Opera House.
‘Joe!’
I raise my voice, trying to break into his thoughts, but he simply gestures to his full mouth with his biscuit knuckle-duster and leaves the room. I swear I love my son very much, but his lack of eye contact cuts right through me sometimes, even now after all these years.
Today, he seems more than usually distracted.
He takes the stairs two at a time. A door bangs and the music starts. Thump, thump. Rude and raucous and irreverent. Very satisfying. The volume blasts up a notch, a heavy tuneless beat that reverberates through the ceiling. There’s the surge of hot water from the shower in the bathroom. The sound carries across the open roof spaces in the barn. You can hear everything, despite the distance. I let it wash over me. It’s the silence of the house that gets to me, when he isn’t here. Like a cathedral with no worshippers, a grand theatrical production that no one comes to watch. But when he is here, the noise of him annoys me, too. Eventually. There’s no pleasing me. My mouth twists into a smile.
At least he’s looking after himself. Not like before.
I dry my hands, leaving the towel dumped untidily on the kitchen island. I pour hot water from the kettle into a new mug. My fingers reach around to comfort myself and I breathe in the warm steam. The familiar smell of coffee tickles my throat. Familiar is good: a hot drink, a slab of bread thick with butter. It grounds me.
At least this time my son has come home.
‘There was this man ten years ago who discovered a hoard in Somerset.’
I’m prepping tea and Joe is sat at the kitchen island with a long glass of milk in his hand. He fidgets on his seat, as if he can’t stop himself from moving.
‘It was in a field next to an old Roman road. He’d found a couple of coins and ended up discovering a clay pot of some kind, sunk into the ground. It was crammed full of coins – can you imagine that?’
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
‘And so heavy you couldn’t possibly lift the whole thing out. The sides of the pot were broken and he had to leave it in place, carefully removing the coins under cover of night. He did that so that no one else knew what he’d found.’
I have an image in my head of an old man in his cardigan pulling out green coins with his bare fingers by the light of the moon. I have to smile.
‘Layer by layer, coin by coin, over several nights, until the whole thing was extracted. He didn’t report the find till after that. There were more than fifty thousand coins in total!’
Joe loves telling me these stories, when he finds his voice. It’s his dream, finding a hoard. When Duncan’s not around he talks about it endlessly, the different coin types, how to date them, how to clean them, the different patterns on each side.
‘The rules are complicated,’ he says. ‘And the coroner has to be told.’
Joe’s told me this so many times. I’d always thought coroners only dealt with the dead, but they deal with treasure too, apparently.
‘They have to estimate the level of precious metal content – that’s important when it comes to what happens next and how much the find is worth … Mum, are you listening?’
‘Course I am, Joe. You were telling me about the coroner.’
‘No, I was telling you about metal content.’
He flashes a look of frustration at me. Then he’s off again, detailing different measurements, his hands animated, his body leaning over the kitchen island, gulping down his milk in between long, rambling fact-filled sentences.
It’s a boy thing, I tell myself, all that data and statistics, the kind of information overload that makes me want to walk away but sets Joe on fire. All I can think is, at least he’s doing something constructive, active, and he’s communicating with me. I feel the guilt of my disinterest wash over me. It’s nice to see him on fire.
‘Come on, Joe, that’s enough for now, tea’s ready. If you drink too much of that milk you won’t be hungry. Help me take this through to the table.’
I shouldn’t begrudge him the milk. As a teenager, he guzzles the stuff. Listen to me, I sound so much like the mother that I am. Joe goes to the fridge for more milk and I text Duncan upstairs to say that tea is ready.
We eat in silence. Duncan pushes the pasta into neat piles before scooping it into his mouth and Joe shovels it like a farmhand clearing out the stables. I glance between the two of them, the one with too little hair, the other with too much, and then Duncan’s mobile beeps.
His fingers tap twice and inch towards the phone, then he pulls back.
It beeps again. He looks at me. I refuse to look at him and Joe keeps on eating. After a few minutes, I push my plate away, all pretence at hunger gone.
Then the stupid thing beeps again.
‘Can’t you switch it off?’ I say.
My voice is quiet but sharp and the pulse at my neck is racing. Duncan’s eyes meet mine then slide away. He carries on eating as if I haven’t spoken.
Lo and behold, the phone beeps again. I feel my cheeks suck in and taste the blood on my tongue. I reach for his phone and he grabs it just in time.
‘No phones at the table, we said. Remember?’ I let my voice twist into a sneer.
‘I’m on call,’ he says.
‘Like hell.’
Joe stops in mid-forkful.
‘It’s only work, Claire. You know that.’ Duncan’s tone is smooth and appeasing.
I hate him when he’s like this. As if I’m a child, playing up, or a fool, easily deluded.
‘No, it’s not,’ I say. ‘We both know it’s not.’
‘That’s nonsense, Claire, you’re being paranoid.’
He arranges another pile of pasta.
‘Oh, really?’
Joe is watching us both, eyes wide and unblinking. It reminds me of when he was little, still trying to make sense of the world. Like when we shared a bedtime story, his gaze glued to me as I read, not the book. He’d follow the cadence of each word on my face. I drop my eyes, curling my fingers and breathing long and slow, trying hard to keep it in. But my eyes are drawn back to the phone and then Duncan. He’s actually smiling, like it’s a game.
‘How can you sit there and pretend?’ I say. ‘Day in, day out. How can you do this?’
He doesn’t answer. His fingers tap again and he stands. He picks up his plate and turns round, his back stiff and unyielding. He moves into the kitchen. I hear the click of the automatic bin and the clunk of the dishwasher. A few minutes later there’s the swoosh of the front door. He’s gone. And Joe goes back to eating.
I think of the papers hidden in the folds of the magazine by my bed. The appointment I’ve made for tomorrow. Duncan thinks that nothing’s changed. That I’ll stay, like I always have. But our son is eighteen now; he left school months ago. He’s all grown up, a legally independent, responsible adult.
And I’m the one in control here, not Duncan.
CHAPTER 3
DUNCAN – SIX WEEKS AFTER
Duncan’s gloved hands were stained with blood. The dog’s skin was peeled back, revealing the bloodied bone and yellow subcutaneous fat. The radio played softly in the background and the monitors beeped with a reassuring regularity as he dabbed at the opening with a swab.
There were three of them: Duncan and Paula, the newest vet at the practice, and Frances, the senior nurse. Their legs and hips were pressed against the operating table and the light blazed a harsh white over their heads, picking up a glint of red hair from beneath Paula’s surgical cap.
‘Okay,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s get this little chap put together again.’
He tugged gently on the flaps of skin, pulling them towards each other. It was a struggle; the dog was barely a year old and the metal pins holding the leg bones left little space for the original skin to meet. Duncan shifted the skin a little higher.
‘Frances – can you hold it there?’
She took the clamps into her hands.
‘Left a bit. Hold it … wait …’
Duncan pursed his lips and pulled again, reaching in with a suture needle, feeding the thread between his gloved fingers to make the first stitch.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘And another. Paula, can you clean around here?’
They worked together in silence. Ten minutes later, the opening had been closed. Frances gave a relieved smile and Duncan took a step back.
‘That’s it. Thank you, both. I’m glad to see that one done.’
‘She’s looking good,’ Frances replied. ‘You should go and ring the owner. You’ve earned that. We’ll finish off and resuscitate. I’ll see this one to the ward.’
