The Woman in the Woods Read online

  Praise for Lisa Hall

  ‘Chillingly believable and utterly compelling’

  Lucy Foley, No. 1 bestselling author of The Guest List

  ‘A classic twisting mystery from the Queen of Suspense, Lisa Hall’

  Woman’s Own

  ‘Brilliantly plotted … a gripping read’

  Alice Feeney, bestselling author of Rock Paper Scissors

  ‘A classy thriller … stylish, twisty and full of suspense’

  Sarah Pinborough, No. 1 bestselling author of Behind Her Eyes

  ‘Relentlessly pacy and brilliantly written … A tense, believable nightmare that you won’t be able to put down’

  Phoebe Morgan, author of The Wild Girls

  ‘An unrelenting and scarily plausible story weaved expertly around some very real characters. Good luck putting it down…’

  Heat

  ‘Compelling, addictive … brilliant!’

  B A Paris, internationally bestselling author of The Therapist

  ‘Darkly addictive and impossible to predict’

  Chris Whitaker, award-winning author of We Begin at the End

  ‘A sharp game of cat and mouse with a brilliant, twisty plot. Unputdownable!’

  Candis

  ‘Chock-full of menace, red herrings, and well-drawn characters who pull you one way, then hurl you in the opposite direction’

  Caz Frear, No. 1 bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies

  LISA HALL loves words, reading and everything there is to love about books. She has dreamed of being a writer since she was a little girl and, after years of talking about it, was finally brave enough to put pen to paper (and let people actually read it). Lisa lives in a small village in Kent, surrounded by her towering TBR pile, a rather large brood of children, dogs, chickens and ponies and her long-suffering husband. She is also rather partial to eating cheese and drinking wine.

  Readers can follow Lisa Hall on Twitter @LisaHallAuthor.

  Also by Lisa Hall

  Between You And Me

  Tell Me No Lies

  The Party

  Have You Seen Her

  The Perfect Couple

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Lisa Hall 2021

  Lisa Hall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.

  Ebook Edition © October 2021 ISBN: 9780008356491

  Version 2021-09-16

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

  Change of background and font colours

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  Text to speech

  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008356484

  To my girls: Izzy, Ruby, Olivia, Ivy, Pearl,

  Lyra, Winnie, and Juno, with love

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About the Publisher

  Smothering. The heavy press of a pillow against nose and mouth. That’s the thought that swoops and swirls across my mind as I pause, one hand against the wall. My heart hammers in my chest, so hard that I can barely breathe as I glance up at the landing, the stairs a mountain to climb before me. I fight against the tightness in my chest, against the nausea that makes saliva flood my mouth and I step forward onto the first step, teetering on the edge. It’s as if there is a voice whispering in my ear, telling me there’s still time. I can take my foot off the step, lay it back on the solid floor and then turn and run. Or I can raise the other foot, take another step towards the inevitable. There is a roaring sound in my ears, similar to the noise you hear when you raise a shell to your ear to hear the crashing of the ocean. I can still feel the creak of the stairs underfoot even if I can’t hear it, as I raise first one foot, then the other, climbing towards the top. By allowing myself to climb those stairs I have made my decision. There can be no going back, not now. Reaching the landing, a cold puddle of moonlight pools across the threadbare carpet and I feel the chill of it beneath my bare feet, feel the scratchiness of the worn carpet fibres against my skin. I take a moment, glancing out of the window to the darkness outside, my head feeling light and swimmy. My vision blurs slightly and blinking rapidly I try to clear my sight, letting my gaze be drawn to the white of the moon. I need to be able to see clearly, to do what must be done. My pulse skitters under my skin and I have to let out a long breath as I peer into the room ahead, seeing her tiny body in the bed in front of me, a frayed blue blanket laid across the foot of the bed as unfamiliar shadows dance across the ceiling. There is a breeze coming from somewhere, stirring the thick, heavy air; a window left open in another room perhaps. The cold brushes over my nose, my cheeks, my fingers and the frayed cuffs of my linen shirt hang limply over my wrists, tickling my sweaty palms. There is a thudding at my temples, a low-level nausea starting to swirl in my stomach, and I have to swallow, my throat painfully dry. Everything has already come undone, and there is only one way I can put things right. I can’t stop now. There is no alternative. If they had just left me alone, none of this would be happening.

  Chapter One

  What did I do? The question is on my lips as I struggle my way into consciousness, my heart hammering in my chest, my nightshirt stuck to m
y damp body. The baby snuffles in the cot next to the bed, a faint intake of breath that turns into a squeak. I know cries will follow, and as soon as they do, my body reacts accordingly. Air hisses out from between my teeth as there is a sharp, almost painful tingle in my breasts, and the baby squawks in response, as if he knows.

  ‘Al?’ Rav nudges me gently, but I close my eyes, pretending I don’t hear him. ‘Allie, the baby. He’s crying.’

  I don’t need to put the lamp on. A shaft of moonlight slices through the gap in the curtains and I see the soft curve of the baby’s head, the tiny fists that pump the air as he prepares for a full-on wail. I should get to him before then, it’s not fair for him to cry that hard. I lean over the cot and scoop him up, smelling that already familiar baby scent. I know that if the light were better in here, I would see his dark, almond-shaped eyes screwed tightly shut as he latches on, pain making me bite my lip. He’s only four weeks old but I am cracked and bleeding, something I don’t remember from when I had Mina. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten. I would see the dark, dark hair that covers his tiny skull, hair that no one apart from me was surprised to see. His sallow, olive skin, darker than me, lighter than Rav, a legacy of his Indian grandparents. I am the opposite. So white, so fair you could mistake me for a Viking. Or a milk bottle. There is nothing of me in the baby, he is all Rav.

  I pull up my nightshirt and place him carefully at my breast, wincing as he latches on. Squashing down the faint whiff of resentment that rises as Rav lets out a sigh and rolls over, burrowing down under the duvet against the chilly draft that wafts in through the ill-fitting antique windows, I focus on the baby’s head, the dark tufts of hair, the movement of his mouth as he squeaks and sighs contentedly against my skin. He takes his time, drinking greedily and by the time he is finished I am wide awake, my eyes gritty and dry. The baby unlatches and he lolls in my arms drunkenly, not even stirring as I reach over and lay him gently in the cot. Glancing at Rav, who slumbers on oblivious, I slide carefully out of bed, wincing as something inside tugs as I stand. Mina’s birth had been easy, quick, a delightful first labour I was told by my midwife. This time, it wasn’t so easy.

  I slide my feet into slippers, big, cosy, fluffy monstrosities that Rav had laughed at when he saw them, but now I am grateful for them as the floorboards beneath my feet are icy cold, the chill wafting up around my bare legs. A cup of tea, I think. That’s all I need and then I’ll go back to bed.

  Silently I move around the kitchen, tiredness tugging at my bones but feeling too unsettled to sleep. I pause as I pour boiling water over a teabag, a creak above me stopping me in my tracks as I wait for Mina or Rav to appear in the doorway. No one does, and I realize it must just be the house settling, the old beams and boards sighing as they move. Letting out my breath, I step over to the battered oak table, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. The kitchen is always slightly chilly, as is the landing at the top of the stairs. Rav says it’s because the sash windows are old, that the house is old and we shouldn’t expect it to be as snug as a new build, but I’m not quite so convinced. Surely then the whole house should be cold? I blow on the steaming hot tea and give myself a mental shake. I’m just feeling off kilter because of the dream. It was so vivid, so real. I could feel the creak of the stairs under my feet, the carpet under my toes as I walked across the landing, the cold spot in the moonlight as I paused and peered into the room, to where Mina was sleeping. The headache that thumped at my temples in the dream pulses there now, and I reach for the packet of Co-codamol that was sent home with me from the hospital, swallowing two down with gulps of hot tea that scald my throat. I watch the hands on the kitchen clock tick round towards four o’clock, the dark outside the kitchen window beginning to lighten now from velvety black to a deep purple. In the dream, it was dark, but with bright moonlight pouring in. Now, the moonlight that sliced through the bedroom curtains is gone and I can’t see anything out of the window, just my own reflection staring dark-eyed back at me, my hair a tumbled mass of bright blonde, almost white at the tips where it has been bleached by the sun. I think again of the dream, the way my heart had hammered in my chest making it difficult to breathe, and I shiver, pulling the soft wool of my cardigan up high around my neck. It doesn’t feel like a dream. It was too real, too intense to be just a dream. It feels more like a memory.

  ‘Mama?’ Tiny hands tug at me, and I pull myself up from the kitchen table, blinking in the bright light. My spine cries out as I stretch, muscles and bone untwisting from the slumped position I must have fallen into as I slept, and for one horrible moment I feel groggy and disorientated, my mouth patchy and dry from the painkillers I took.

  ‘Allie? Al?’ Rav appears in the kitchen doorway, awkward as the baby begins squirming and squawking in his arms. The sight of him, his dear, familiar face, his black hair tousled with sleep, and the fading six pack of his youth that has merged into the tiniest of paunches that peeps over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms is enough for me to shake the last vestiges of unease left by the dream. He watches me pull Mina up onto my lap, her chubby two-year-old fingers reaching up to pat my face as I try to blink away the exhaustion. ‘I woke up and you weren’t there. Leo needs feeding … I changed him but …’ he gives a tiny apologetic shrug and I think I see a hint of irritation flit across his features. I kiss Mina on the top of her head before sliding her back down onto the floor and holding my arms out for the baby.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Rav’s face creases slightly in concern and I wonder if I imagined that shadow of annoyance. I turn my face away and concentrate on latching the baby on properly. ‘I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t there.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I say, reluctant to expand on anything in front of Mina, who tugs at Rav’s pyjama leg as he switches on the kettle. ‘Mina, leave Daddy. Hang on a sec and I’ll get you some breakfast.’

  ‘I would do it, Al, but I’m late already. The traffic will be a nightmare.’ I feel a twinge of guilt at not being there when Leo woke, and I smile up at Rav as he pours himself a mug of coffee.

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Mina can hang on until Leo finishes. I can manage. You’d better go and get ready – are you in court today?’ Envy pierces my breast for a single fleeting moment, at the thought of Rav, in his gown and wig, striding into court to deal with another hardened criminal. It’s not the criminals so much that I’m envious of, rather the idea of spending time with other adults. The idea of busyness, that doesn’t revolve around nappies and nap time.

  ‘Not today. We’re still preparing.’ Rav gives me a long look before checking his watch. ‘Shit, I need a shower.’ He thuds out of the kitchen, ruffling Mina’s hair as he goes. I close my eyes, grateful for the early morning May sunshine that streams in through the window creating a puddle of warmth, and let the baby feed and feed, trying to ignore the gnawing thirst that has started up at the back of my throat. Rav didn’t think to make me a cup of tea as well, his mind already on the difficult case that has crowded out everything else around him for weeks now. When Leo is finished, I lay him in the Moses basket and cut up some toast and fruit for Mina, tidy away the mug that Rav has left on the side, wipe up the sugar he has spilled across the worktop, and chug down a glass of water to ease the parched feeling in my throat.

  When Rav comes back down, he looks gleaming and fresh, as if just unwrapped from cellophane. Feeling tired and faded, I watch as he bustles around, shoving papers into his briefcase, checking his pockets for his phone, his wallet, his keys, all while Mina dances around his feet, desperate for him to notice her.

  Rav scoops her up for a quick kiss, his eyes on the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Hey, Mina, why don’t you go and find the new dolly Avó brought for you?’ He turns to me as she runs off into the hallway. ‘Mum brought her a traditional doll, it’s got a sari and everything.’ He does a little eye roll and I push a smile on to my face. Rav’s mother is lovely most of the time – I don’t think she’ll ever be entirely convinced I am the right woman for h
er precious son – but despite moving to Britain years ago with Rav’s dad, she still loves to tell us stories about her old life in Goa and is keen to make sure that Mina knows about her heritage. Rav picks up his briefcase and then pauses, his eyes on mine. ‘Al, are you really OK? You look tired.’ He touches the back of my hand lightly with one finger, stroking along the strong blue line of my veins.

  ‘I just couldn’t sleep,’ I say quietly. ‘I had …’ I had what? A bad dream? I sound like a five-year-old. That thick unsettling feeling comes over me again and I have to swallow hard. ‘A nightmare. I had a nightmare and then I couldn’t go back to sleep once I’d fed the baby. I thought I would make a cup of tea and I must have fallen asleep down here.’

  ‘Oh, Al.’ Rav lifts my hand and kisses it. ‘You’ve not long had a baby; you need to make sure you get your rest. You can’t be sleeping down here, it’s freezing once the sun goes down. Your hands are cold.’ He rubs my hand briskly between his palms.

  ‘I didn’t do it intentionally.’ The thought crosses my mind that he could have got up with Leo, and I push it away.

  ‘No, I know.’ He looks at me oddly and drops my hand, moving past me to reach for his jacket that hangs on the back of the chair.

  I feel horrid for snapping, but tiredness and that strange sensation of a dream that isn’t a dream makes me feel on edge. ‘Rav, I don’t know …’ I pause for a moment, my heart beating double time in my chest and reminding me of that feeling, standing on the stairs, peering into a room that felt both familiar and not, with my daughter sleeping soundly in the bed there. ‘I thought it was a dream, but now I’ve thought about it, I’m not sure that it was.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He is fussing with his cuffs, not meeting my eyes. Not listening, I think.

  ‘I don’t know.’ My throat closes over, and I suddenly feel as though I might cry. ‘Just not like a dream.’