After She Fell: A haunting psychological thriller with a shocking twist

AFTER SHE FELL

MARY-JANE RILEY

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

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London SE1 9GF

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Mary-Jane Riley 2016

Mary-Jane Riley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Ebook Edition © APRIL 2016 ISBN: 9780008181093

Version 2017-12-08

For my brothers: Patrick, Robert and Francis.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

December

Five Months Later: Daily Courier

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Elena

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8: Elena

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13: Elena

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17: Elena

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21: Elena

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24: Elena

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27: Elena

Chapter 28: Elena

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31: Elena

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34: Elena

Chapter 35

Chapter 36: Elena

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39: Elena

Chapter 40: Catriona

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Mary-Jane Riley

About the Publisher

DECEMBER

Hunched against the wind that knifed through him, and trying to avoid the spray stinging his weathered cheeks even more, he didn’t see the body at first.

He had pulled his battered old overcoat tightly around himself, shifted his carrier bag of belongings from one hand to the other, watching as his feet sank into the sand, each footprint filling with water then draining away. He raised his head and, in the early grey half-light, saw what looked like seaweed in the ebb and flow of the sea on the shore. He squinted. Not seaweed, but hair, floating in the water. He moved closer. A girl, and a young one at that, pale face pummelled beyond all recognition and part of her scalp missing. Her body was at an awkward angle to her head – one eye gazing sightlessly up to the dark sky – lying like a broken puppet. Poor lass, he thought, poor, poor lass. He looked up and thought he could see a figure on top of the cliff where the end of the road had fallen into the sea. He thought he could see someone, but he wasn’t sure. A seagull wheeled and mewled above him.

FIVE MONTHS LATER

Daily Courier

The daughter of a top politician took her own life after a history of depression and eating disorders, an inquest has heard.

The body of Elena Devonshire, the 17-year-old daughter of MEP Catriona Devonshire, was found in December at the foot of cliffs in Hallow’s Edge, North Norfolk, close to the school where she was a pupil.

A post-mortem examination revealed Elena died from multiple injuries consistent with a fall. Toxicology tests also showed a small quantity of cannabis in her system.

Yesterday’s inquest was told that, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, Elena had suffered from depression, coupled with an eating disorder.

PC Vic Spring from Norfolk Police said a text from the teenager to her mother had been discovered on the teenager’s phone, found in her bedroom at The Drift – the private boarding school she attended – which ‘strongly indicated’ she had intended taking her own life. ‘There was no suspicious evidence leading to her death and no neglect of care exhibited by the staff at her school,’ he said.

Norfolk coroner, Sarah Knight, recorded a verdict of suicide.

After the inquest Mrs Devonshire said, although her daughter had been treated for depression and an eating disorder in the past, she had since made a full recovery. ‘My daughter was looking forward to getting home for Christmas,’ she said.

Ingrid Farrar, one of two head teachers at the co-educational school, said, ‘Our hearts go out to Mrs Devonshire and Elena’s stepfather, Mark Munro, at this difficult time. The school has a robust pastoral care policy and we are more than satisfied we helped Elena all we could.’

Catriona Devonshire was elected to the European Parliament for the South and East on an independent ticket eighteen months ago. She has already proved an able campaigner in the area of human rights.

CHAPTER 1

May

Despite the heat of the day, the window of the room was closed tight. Alex Devlin’s sister sat in her chair, staring through the glass. Outside, trusted patients were standing around smoking or sitting on the benches at the edges of the grass. One woman was talking animatedly to her nurse, who nodded, looking into the middle distance. The garden was lovely at this time of year – the lawn lush and green, roses blooming in the sunshine, the silver birches coming into full leaf, and Alex could almost smell the honeysuckle that climbed through the hedge of bamboo at one end of the garden. Birds chattered and hopped from branch to bird table and back to branch again. She badly wanted to be out there, away from the stifling air and atmosphere of Sasha’s room.

‘Sash? Would you like me to take you into the garden? It’s a beautiful day.’

Alex had been in the room for fifteen minutes and so far her sister hadn’t said a word. She damped down a sigh. It was really hard going to keep on chatting when the person you were talking to didn’t respond in any way at all. Not a sign she’d heard anything Alex had said. Not a flicker of expression.

She looked around the room. It was, considering the circumstances, a homely place, decorated in soft pastels. The bed had her sister’s own patchwork bedspread thrown over it. There were two pictures on the walls, both with the glass removed, of course: the first, a scene of beach huts and seagulls; the second, a small photograph of Sasha’s twins forever caught in a time of sunshine and ice creams. The shelves were full of Sasha’s favourite books, from Enid Blyton to Kate Atkinson. Did her sister need anything? The soap she’d bought last time was still in its wrapping. Not that, anyway.

She tried again. ‘Love, it’s gorgeous out there and really, really warm, even for late May. You remember how you love the summer?’

‘Harry and Millie loved the summer.’ A tear trickled down Sasha’s face.

Alex’s heart twisted, pain blooming in her chest. Words, at last, but words that contained so much hurt. She went to hug her sister, but Sasha pushed her away.

‘I want you to go now,’ she snarled.

She had to try. ‘Sasha, please, let’s go outside. Have a walk. Feel the sun on our faces. Enjoy being together, if only for a few minutes.’

‘Enjoy?’ Sasha’s voice was low; she didn’t move from her position at the window. ‘I can’t enjoy anything, Alex. You know that. I’ve got nothing left. Millie. Harry. Jez. Nothing.’ She gave a sigh that shook her whole body. ‘Please go.’ Her voice was the merest whisper.

‘Haven’t you punished yourself enough, Sasha?’ pleaded Alex. ‘Let’s go outside. Just this once.’

Silence. Sasha kept staring through the window, her shoulders tense. Alex knew there would be nothing more from her today. She bent down and kissed her sister’s cold cheek. ‘Bye, Sash. I’ll come again as soon as I can.’

Nothing.

Alex shut the door quietly and leaned against it. Was this a better visit than last time? At least, Sasha had spoken to her. Most of the time when she came to see her, Sasha didn’t say anything, so she supposed even a few bitter words were progress of a sort. But she could hardly bear the pain that was almost tattooed on Sasha’s eyes. Alex couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live inside her sister’s head, to know that you had killed your own children. She thought of her own boy – eighteen years old but still her boy – and how he had coped with the last few years. She was proud of him. She couldn’t even contemplate life without him.

‘Ah, Alex, I wanted to catch you before you left.’ Heather McNulty, the matron of the unit, bustled along the corridor towards her. A well-groomed woman a little older than Alex, Heather always had a cheerful expression on her face even though she was surrounded by unresponsive or troublesome patients. She didn’t wear a uniform, and today had a long skirt made of some sort of floaty material festooned with printed roses, teamed with a crisp white shirt. Alex liked the fact the staff wore their own clothes; it made it less of an institution, and made her feel better about Sasha being incarcerated there on the orders of the judge. Two years before, the judge, old and wrinkled but with a kind-looking face, had decreed that Sasha had suffered enough: for more than fifteen years she had lived with the knowledge that she had been responsible for drowning her own 4-year-old twins. But she would have to have treatment in a secure unit. Jez, Sasha’s police officer husband, hadn’t been so lucky to escape the wrath of the judge. He was jailed for weaving a tissue of lies and misinformation about what had happened on the fateful night, and for being responsible for the imprisonment of two people who had been wrongly convicted of murder. So, yes, Alex was grateful for Leacher’s House. A secure unit it might be, but it could have been such a lot worse.

Alex frowned and rubbed her forehead. ‘Is everything all right with Sasha? She hasn’t started to self-harm again has she?’

‘Not exactly. I only need to have a chat. Come with me to the office.’

Alex followed Heather down the corridor, transported back more than a quarter of a century to when she was a schoolgirl following the straight back and sharp shoulders of her head teacher to the office for a telling-off. She felt that same degree of apprehension now: stomach knotted, wanting to drag her feet, wanting to get it over with.

‘So, sit down, Alex.’

Alex sat.

Heather went round to the other side of her desk and neatly lowered herself into the chair, folding her hands in front of her. She took a deep breath. Fear rose in Alex’s throat.

‘Is Sasha ill?’ She laughed nervously. Shut up Alex. ‘I mean, more ill than normal?’

Heather clasped her hands together. ‘Sasha has not been responding to treatment as well as we would like.’

‘What do you mean?’

A small frown crossed Heather’s face before the sympathetic smile was in place once more. ‘Sasha has been suffering from, um, delusions, lately.’

Alex blinked. ‘Delusions?’

‘Sasha believes she murdered Jackie Wood.’ Heather’s voice was kind.

Alex caught her breath. Jackie Wood was the woman who had been imprisoned for fifteen years for what was then thought to have been her involvement in the murder of Sasha’s children. It was only after she was let out on a technicality that the truth about the children’s deaths began to unfold, and Sasha finally confessed. But before Jackie Wood could be exonerated she was murdered, and the murderer had never been found. There had been a time when Alex had wondered whether her sister had killed Jackie Wood, but now she refused to entertain that thought.

Heather was still talking. ‘And obviously, we don’t want her to regress further, so we feel – that is, her team feel – she needs a different regime.’

‘Regime? What does that mean? And what sort of treatment? She can stay here in Leacher’s House, can’t she?’ Alex heard her voice rise. Oh God, oh God. She had visions of her sister being force-fed drugs by a Nurse Ratched figure or being forced to undergo ECT and Sasha becoming a shell, losing her personality, any sense of identity and—

‘Alex.’ Heather’s voice was firm. ‘I can see the panic in your face. Sasha is in good hands.’

‘But she will get better, won’t she?’

‘As I say, she is in good hands. The best possible. Please don’t worry; this sort of review is part of an ongoing process, and this is the twenty-first century, you know.’ Her face was kind. ‘Things are very different now.’ Heather stood. The meeting was clearly over. ‘You will be kept informed every step of the way.’

Alex stood. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Though for what, she wasn’t quite sure.

Review. Ongoing process. Regime. Jackie Wood. The words went round and round in Alex’s head as she pushed open the door and went out into the fresh, warm air, trying to shake off the chemical floral smell of Leacher’s House. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, like a children’s painting. A perfect day. It was at times like these Alex found herself thinking of Harry: drowned by Sasha, brought to the shore by Jez. She thought of Millie who’d been taken away by the North Sea, and wondered if her body would ever be found. She still looked for Millie in crowds of young people, just in case.

Walking to the car park, she glanced back to see Sasha still sitting, still in the same position, still looking. She had always known her sister was not right and had needed proper help, but over the years she had been so blinded by her grief over the twins and the guilt she carried around at having an affair with the man who was imprisoned for killing Harry and Millie that she hadn’t been able to see beyond her own feelings. She had let Sasha down. Now she was trying to make up for it.

Alex raised her hand and waved, and was rewarded by the tiniest of finger movements. The nearest she had come to a wave for a very long time. Love for her poor broken sister swelled in her chest. She couldn’t let Sasha down again.

CHAPTER 2

The small mews house was a stone’s throw away from Harrods and the moneyed part of Knightsbridge. Alex could smell the cash as she found the right address. Blood-red door flanked by two rose trees in square pots. The petals were a blush pink and when Alex bent to smell them they gave off a cloying scent. The woodwork of the windows was in the same blood-red, as were the garage doors. The other houses in the row had either the red or dark green wood. Three storeys of perfection. Not bad for a set of buildings that was once a line of stables.

She knocked on the door.

The woman who answered looked as though she hadn’t slept for days. Heavy make-up couldn’t disguise her grey skin and sunken eyes, the black shadows underneath. She was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, diamond studs in her ears. Her perfume was expensive though overlaid with the smell of cigarette smoke.

‘Alex. Thank you for coming.’ The woman held onto the door as if by letting go she would fall down.

‘Cat,’ Alex said, reaching out to hug the woman who had once been her closest friend. ‘Of course I came.’

There had been no question about her going to Grosvenor Place Mews, even though she should have been hunting for stories, chasing commissions, chasing the cash.

She’d been in her news editor’s office pitching an idea for looking into a story about people being trafficked for illegal organ removal when he’d leaned back in his chair and looked at her from under unruly eyebrows. ‘I had a call this morning.’

‘Right,’ said Alex, not sure what that had to do with her.

‘Someone looking for you.’

‘Right.’ Typical Bud, he liked to think he was being mysterious, building up the tension – all it succeeded in doing was to make her impatient. Even so, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of winning the game. ‘Anyway, Bud, about the organ removal story. It’s early days, but I heard from a reasonably reliable source—’

‘Don’t you want to know who it was?’

She looked at him: sitting in his cubbyhole in a dark corner of the office ‘so the bean counters can’t find me’; overweight, paunch almost resting on the desk. Computer pushed right to the back; the front of the desk piled high with editions of The Post going back years. And a higgledy-piggledy heap of press releases, cuttings, jottings, and God knows what. Coffee mugs littered the desk too, dark slime at the bottom of some. All Bud Evans needed to complete the ‘I’m an old-fashioned editor and I don’t take any nonsense’ look was a green eyeshade. Bloody rogue. But he’d been good to her: employing her when nobody else would after it had all come out about Sasha and she felt she needed to leave Sole Bay and lose herself in the anonymity of London. Having taken her under his wing once in her life – when she was a raw recruit – Bud had come to her rescue again. She owed him.

She grinned. ‘What if I said no?’

He made a gruff noise, somewhere between a snort and a cough. ‘You want to know. Of course you do.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Go on then.’

‘A Member of the European Parliament,’ he said with a flourish. ‘Asking for you personally. Said she was an old friend of yours. Didn’t know you moved in such illustrious circles. Or have you gone native on me? Hobnobbing with the enemy?’

‘An MEP?’ Her heart began to beat faster. There was only one such person who could be asking for her personally: Catriona Devonshire.

She and Cat Devonshire had been inseparable through primary school and on into high school. Cat had been the sister to her that Sasha hadn’t been. They had shared secrets, problems, worries. They swore to look out for each other forever. They went their separate ways to uni, but they still kept in touch. When Gus came along, Cat made no judgements, but left her new husband, Patrick, at home, put her fledgling political career on hold and came to stay. Her presence had been a soothing balm on Alex’s soul.

And then the twins had been murdered and Alex’s life had been consumed by guilt and the need to look after Sasha. Her world began to narrow; she had no time, no room in her head for anyone but Sasha, so she excluded everything and everyone else from her life, including Cat. And when Cat’s daughter, Elena, had been born, a few short weeks later, Alex had broken off all contact.

‘But I want you here,’ Cat had pleaded. ‘I want you to be Elena’s godmother.’

‘Cat,’ Alex kept her tone deliberately without emotion, ‘you have your family. Your career. Any association with me would spoil both those things. We need to put distance between us.’

‘But Al—’

‘No, Cat. I have to be with my family.’ And then the sentence that had sounded the death knell on their friendship: ‘I don’t need you any more, Cat. I’ve got Sasha to look after. Gus. They are my family. They are the ones I need to look after now.’ It had almost killed her to say the words, to know that she was losing Cat’s friendship, but she didn’t want the events of her life to taint Cat’s. It had to be done.

And Cat had removed herself from Alex’s life.

But Alex had followed Cat’s career. Had felt proud of her friend as her political star rose and rose. Had grieved for her when Patrick died suddenly, and grieved even more when Elena was found dead at the bottom of the cliff. She’d wanted to go to Elena’s funeral, but had been in Spain chasing a story.

Now Cat was getting in touch with her again. Alex felt something shift inside her. Perhaps here was a chance for her to mend their relationship, for Cat to forgive her for pushing her away. Whatever the reason, Alex knew she’d been given a second chance.

‘Alex? Alex? Did you hear what I said?’

Alex blinked. ‘Sorry Bud. What were you saying?’

‘MEP? Wants to talk to you? Hasn’t got your number? Said she might have a story?’

‘Of course, the MEP—?’

‘Catriona Devonshire. Is she a friend of yours, then?’

‘She was.’

‘She was talking about an exclusive. For the paper. The paper you work for.’

Clever.

‘So you’ve got her number?’ Alex asked, as casually as she could.

‘Yep. Personal number, she said. Though God knows why she trusted me with it.’ He gave his bark of a laugh. ‘She must be desperate to talk to you.’ He picked up his e-cigarette, beginning to suck hard on it. ‘Bloody hell I hate these things,’ he said gloomily, vapours of steam curling up into the air. ‘Why does the sodding government have to spoil it for the rest of us?’ He took it out of his mouth and looked at it soulfully. ‘Nothing like the real thing.’ He put it back between his lips.

‘But we’re a lot healthier in this office, aren’t we?’ Alex said sweetly. ‘Now, Cat’s number?’

‘Cat is it now? Hang on. I wrote it down here somewhere.’ He began to sift through the papers on his desk. Not a chance, she thought. Her shoulders sagged.