My Lovely Daughter Read online

  

  Praise for the author

  ‘Gripping, well written and genuinely creepy’ Cass Green, Sunday Times bestselling author

  ‘The Perfect House is a nail-biting deep dive of paranoia and tension that had me rushing to turn the page! A chilling, nerve-racking debut that will leave your heart racing! This novel latches on and refuses to let go’ Karin Nordin, author of Last One Alive

  ‘Wow. All the wows … I couldn’t believe my eyes when I was reading this book. It’s a good novel and I think everyone must read it. It has larger-than-life characters, wow narration and of course a terrifying ending’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘A stunning thrill ride of a novel! Left me speechless and thinking about it long after I’d finished it. A must read!’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘Increasingly tense and creepy’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘There’s a sense of unease that grows as the plot progresses that is magically done and like nothing I’ve read before! A fantastic thriller with intriguing characters, I read it in one sitting. A must read!’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘A thrilling story that keeps you reading until you reach the shocking ending’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘A gripping story that I couldn’t put down’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘Kept me guessing and I read it in 2 days flat! Would recommend!’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

  ‘An engaging and chilling suspense … Tense and compelling’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐

  

  About the Author

  R.P. BOLTON lives in Manchester with her partner, son and three lively rescue dogs. When she’s not reading, writing or walking the dogs, she’ll be at the gym, at a concert or indulging in her passion for nature. The Perfect House was her debut thriller and published in 2021 and My Lovely Daughter is her second novel.

  

  Also by R.P. Bolton

  The Perfect House

  UK

  US

  My Lovely Daughter

  R.P. BOLTON

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road

  Dublin 4, Ireland

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2022

  Copyright © R.P. Bolton 2022

  R.P. Bolton 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.

  E-book Edition © August 2022 ISBN: 9780008503796

  Version: 2022-06-15

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Praise for the author

  About the Author

  Also by R.P. Bolton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note to Readers

  Now, Sunday

  Now, Sunday

  Then

  Now, Sunday

  Then

  Now, Sunday

  Then

  Now, Sunday

  Now, Monday

  Then

  Now, Monday

  Then

  Now, Monday

  Then

  Now, Monday

  Then

  Now, Monday

  Then

  Now, Tuesday

  Now, Tuesday

  Then

  Now, Tuesday

  Then

  Now, Tuesday

  Then

  Now, Tuesday

  Then

  Now, Tuesday

  Then

  Now, Wednesday

  Then

  Now, Wednesday

  Then

  Now, Wednesday

  Then

  Then

  Now, Thursday

  Then

  Now, Thursday

  Then

  Now, Thursday

  Then

  Now, Thursday

  Then

  Now, Thursday

  Then

  Now, Thursday

  Now, Friday

  Now, Friday

  Now, Friday

  Three months later

  A Letter from R.P. Bolton

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  To Bec and Ross, with lots of love.

  

  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

  Change of font

  Change justification

  Text to speech

  Now, Sunday

  Annie stopped and stared at the text.

  The dog stopped too, ears pricked and sensitive nose twitching on high alert. Then a squirrel broke cover up ahead and Smudge sprang forward in an explosion of leaves.

  ‘Leave the poor thing alone!’ Izzy shouted, her jacket a flash of red between the trees. Twigs snapped and popped like tiny gunshots under her thudding trainers.

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ Annie called automatically.

  The muscles in her legs trembled and she steadied herself against the trunk of a huge, fallen tree, a casualty of the fierce storms that had torn through the woods a few weeks earlier. Its exposed roots, ripped from the ground, hung in a confused, tangled clump.

  She picked leafy debris off her sleeve. There had been nothing out of the ordinary about this morning. Nothing. Up at seven to let the dog out in the garden. Headlines on the radio with a mug of tea. A stroll through the woods behind the house with Izzy. Casual conversation about school, dog and what to have for breakfast.

  And then ping.

  A mistake. Had to be. Without her glasses, she had misread the message. That was it.

  She held the screen close to her nose. The stark black letters didn’t change.

  Hello, Annabel.

  Happy Mother’s Day?

  A few metres ahead, the terrified squirrel shinned up a pine tree, and Smudge, yelping wildly, scrabbled her front paws against the trunk.

  ‘Bad girl,’ Izzy admonished affectionately. ‘You’re a bad, bad girl.’

  A cloud drifted over the sun, and the accompanying chill breeze stirred the trees to whispers. But that wasn’t why goose bumps rippled up Annie’s arms.

  ‘Is that from Liam?’ Izzy said, gesturing at the phone. The dog’s lead was slung round her neck like a thin fluorescent scarf. One tug, and it slithered off. There was a click as she clipped it to the collar. ‘Mum?’

  Annie fiddled with the metal tag on her zip, careful not to let her voice give her away.

  ‘Yes. Liam. Remind
ing me about dinner on Tuesday. Anyway, come on. I want that breakfast you promised me.’

  What she actually wanted was to rewind to the minute before the message pinged. Or to hurl the mobile into the tangled undergrowth and pretend it didn’t exist. But what she did was jam the phone deep in her jeans pocket and steady her legs enough to walk.

  And while her body dodged grasping branches and hazardous tree roots, her mind split in two. One half dealt appropriately with Izzy chatting about overfishing or the evils of hunting or some pet topic while the other scrabbled to make sense of the text.

  Ask anyone and they would say she was Annie Smith. Mother of Isabel. Late forties. Resident of Uppermoss. Veterinary nurse. Excellent mother.

  And she was Annie Smith.

  She hadn’t been Annabel for years.

  Back at the cottage, Izzy cracked an egg into a pan of boiling water and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. Annie cut the top off a dog food pouch and Smudge, alerted by the snip of scissors, skittered across the tiles.

  ‘Watch you don’t knock that handle, Iz,’ Annie said, squeezing the jellied chunks into the dog’s bowl.

  When she bent to put the food on the floor, the phone jabbed through her jeans. She shoved it behind the fruit bowl on the worktop, half hidden from view.

  Warm toast smells filled the kitchen. Their kitchen. Its walls decorated with photos of various stages in Izzy’s life. A wonky clay bowl made in Year Six on the windowsill. A sack of dog biscuits by the back door. It would never grace the pages of an interior design magazine, but this space overflowing with the flotsam of everyday life was their fortress.

  Izzy opened the fridge door, careful not to dislodge the layer of coupons, receipts, photos that covered its surface. Above her, strands of cobweb hung like grey bunting, and a thin crack in the plaster ran down to the worktop where two discarded eggshells glistened in a viscous pool.

  Annie nibbled the skin around her thumb, teasing a tattered strip with her teeth. Could the text be a marketing thing? A scam?

  No.

  She had been Annie Smith for years. The deed poll certificate tucked safely away from prying eyes proved it. And anyway, the only person who had ever called her by her full name was Oliver, and she hadn’t heard a peep from him since the divorce.

  One last tug, a sharp sting and the paper-thin strip of skin tore away.

  The toast popped up. Izzy fished about in the pan with a slotted spoon, pinched a sprig of parsley from the pot on the windowsill and set the plate down with a flourish.

  ‘Mother’s Day brunch is served!’

  White liquid dribbled from the egg, spilling over the toast in a slobbery trail. Her appetite withered.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ she managed to say as she pulled out a chair. ‘Looks delicious.’

  ‘And that’s not all.’ Izzy beamed, oblivious to the tremble in her mum’s voice. She held out a shiny silver gift bag that didn’t quite contain the square canvas inside. ‘Happy Mother’s Day!’

  The picture instantly transported her back to last summer. Even blown up to A4, the sliver of Norfolk sky retained that improbably perfect blue and, just out of shot, was the crabbing bucket and net that smelled of low tide. More memories crowded in: the slap of water on fibreglass hulls. Salty air. Gulls circling in a cloudless sky.

  People had milled around the Wells seafront, clutching ice creams or eating fish and chips, but in the photo it was just the two of them. Mother and daughter, cheeks squashed together. Her arm wrapped around Izzy like a shield. Those beautiful hazel eyes crinkled against the glare while her own were hidden behind huge sunglasses. Their identical dark shiny curls intertwined, blurring where Annie ended and Izzy began.

  Just the two of them. Safe.

  She’d always been so, so careful. Her expression must have betrayed her unease because the smile dropped from Izzy’s face.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  At thirteen, she was already a head taller (how did that happen?) but she could never be too big for a hug. Annie squeezed her tightly, burying her nose in familiar coconut-scented curls.

  ‘I love it,’ she said fiercely. ‘I love you. God, so, so much.’

  Gasping, Izzy extricated herself. ‘Mum, I can’t breathe. Eat it up before Smudge steals it.’

  Annie busied herself straightening the faded cushion pad. ‘Have you switched the hob off?’

  In reply, Izzy pointed at the dial set to zero on the cooker then propped the smiling picture of the two of them next to the fruit bowl, next to the phone. She selected a tangerine, leaned her elbows against the sink and, with extreme concentration, dug her thumbnail into the thick orange peel.

  The dog slunk past, side-eyeing Annie as she pierced the poached egg with her fork, and the yolk swelled then bled out in a slow-moving ooze. She swallowed a surge of acid.

  Now the initial shock of the text had sunk in, a knot of fear gathered behind her breastbone. The slippery egg sliding down nearly made her gag, but she chewed and swallowed, forcing her body to accept food it didn’t want.

  How could this have happened?

  Well, that was obvious: she hadn’t been as careful as she thought.

  The vigilance chromosome was deeply embedded in her maternal DNA. Sharp things, hot things … these everyday hazards were easy to control. What weapons did parents have against dangers that lurked a click away? Izzy was growing up fast and already chafing at the armoury of parental controls, the Family Safe app, the social media restrictions. And yet, despite all that pre-emptive worrying, the push-and-pull of tested boundaries, it was her own phone that had let danger enter their home. She tore off a piece of kitchen roll, folded it and quickly pressed it to her eyes.

  The phone buzzed against the worktop and Izzy, who was dropping bits of peel in the pedal bin, reached for it.

  Annie shoved her chair back. The cutlery clattered to the plate. ‘Don’t touch that!’

  ‘Er, okaaay.’ Izzy held both palms in the air and slid her back along the worktop edge, eyebrows raised.

  But thank god, it was only Samara Khan that pulsed on the screen.

  An out-of-hours call from her boss usually made Annie’s heart sink. Not today.

  ‘Hi, what’s up?’

  The relief was short-lived. Stress permeated Samara’s voice. ‘I’m really sorry: I know it’s Mother’s Day, but can you get the black bag from the office and bring it to the Frasers’ farm?’

  ‘Will do,’ she said, lowering the volume even though Izzy had stalked into the lounge out of earshot. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Pony caught his foot in a loose drain in the yard. Hope it won’t come to that, but it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Shit. On my way,’ she said.

  After over a decade as office manager and vet nurse, she knew ‘bring the black bag’ meant the euthanasia kit, which was a nightmare under any circumstances, but Lucy Fraser was Izzy’s best friend. And Lucy’s pony, Caspar, occupied almost as much space in Izzy’s heart as Smudge.

  There was a voicemail from one of their farming clients, trying to get hold of Sam. And then another straight after, saying it was okay, he’d spoken to her. Her number doubled as the surgery’s second emergency contact, but it was rare to have two call-outs on the same day. Small animals tended to be bundled into their owners’ cars and taken to the animal hospital.

  Another message icon appeared, triggering a palpitating thump of her heart, but this time the text really was from Liam.

  Hope you’re being spoilt rotten for Mother’s Day. Looking forward to Tuesday.

  Despite everything, her lip twitched upwards as she replied en route to the lounge.

  Me too.

  Izzy reclined on their ancient saggy sofa, balancing her laptop across her thighs. On-screen, a swan built a plastic nest. Scraps of carrier bags woven with faded food wrappers into the sad facsimile of a home.

  ‘Sorry,’ Annie said. ‘Sam has an emergency. Will you be okay on your own?’

  Keeping
one eye on YouTube, Izzy half-turned towards her. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Any problems, ring me straightaway.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Smudge curled like a soft black cushion, not even stirring when Izzy fussed her velvety ears. Beautiful girl and four-legged friend in an Instagram-worthy moment. She hesitated. She should tell Samara she couldn’t make it after all …

  ‘No, not fair,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’ Izzy said, re-glued to the screen.

  Annie hooked her fingers under Izzy’s headphones and slid them to the back of her neck.

  ‘Nothing. I meant don’t answer the door while I’m out. And if you let the dog in the garden, remember to lock up straight after.’

  The swan disappeared, replaced by a pack of hounds cornering a fox cub.

  ‘And definitely do not leave the house no matter what.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Happy Mother’s Day?

  That question mark scratched at her brain. Was it a typo?

  She lightly touched Izzy’s head. ‘Say “I promise.”’

  Izzy twisted around, draping her arms over the back of the tired sofa. Narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Why are you acting so weird? I mean, more weird than usual.’

  ‘I just don’t know how long I’ll be. Actually, why don’t you …’

  Forget it. She couldn’t take her, not to the Frasers’. Not if Caspar was in a bad way. She’d be traumatised.

  ‘Why don’t you keep the volume down so you can hear if I ring?’ she finished. ‘Any issues, call me.’

  The response combined exaggerated patience with rising irritation.

  ‘There won’t be any issues, Mum, because I am a. nearly fourteen and b. not stupid. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Smudge?’

  The dog’s pink tongue flopped out in reply.

  ‘Well, I’ll activate the door chimes,’ Annie said, opening the security app. ‘That way you can hear if anyone comes in.’

  The risk assessment followed a well-worn route, honed by daily practice. Window locks. Check. Bolts on back door. Check. Security camera on. Check. Done. And the pinging alert that sounded every time the door opened or closed, because there was nothing ‘weird’ about home security.