9781804991695

Can you destroy your best friend’s life in time to save your own?

THE SHAME GAME

L. D. SMITHSON

L. D. Smithson was born in Staffordshire and now lives in Ilkley with her husband and their three children. She is an occupational psychologist and a crime writer.

Also by L. D. Smithson

The Shame Game

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For Kathryn, Nicola and Tom. I promise this isn’t inspired by us.

Prologue

Since that day, when the thing happened, I’ve become something of an expert in shame. I’ve observed it like any good researcher, looking for its origins and its antidotes, and the closest thing I can compare it to is a self-replicating fungus. You see, emotions like anger or fear, when starved of fuel, lessen over time. But shame is an entirely different beast. It starts with the smallest of ideas: that sense of being found wanting. But what happens next is the really clever bit, because shame starts to feed itself. Moments of joy become things of which you are not worthy. Moments of sadness become exactly what you deserve. Setbacks, obstacles, challenges, difficulties all feed the shame: they are evidence of your inadequacy and insignificance. And so the shame grows; feeding, fuelling, and infecting every positive aspect of who you are, what you’ve achieved, and what you hope to be. I honestly believe it is one of life’s most destructive forces.

All I had to do was release the first few spores, then sit back and let shame do its thing.

Friday, 3.30 p.m.

Ryan raced from the air-conditioned coolness of his office into the heavy heat of the midsummer heatwave. He was late, as he knew he would be.

Camille would not be pleased. For the past month, she had spent every waking hour on this party.

‘Thirty is a big deal for a woman, Ryan,’ she insisted. He had wanted to take her away for the weekend, maybe to visit her parents in Monaco, but she was determined to recreate the lateafternoon garden parties her parents used to host during her childhood. Designer-clad members of Monaco’s elite all sipping champagne in the Mediterranean sun. A tall ask in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales, where the threat of a traditionally soggy British summer looms large. But Camille had fortuitously picked a corker of a day.

Ryan had not celebrated his thirtieth at all. Back then, he’d been facing the end of his cycling career and not knowing what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Plus, he was single and his daughter Rosie had just turned ten, making him feel old before his time. He wished he could go back and tell his younger

self not to worry. You’ll be offered TV work, start your own charitable foundation, meet your soulmate and have Ethan, your little man. It turned out that the twists and turns of life were more unexpected and delightful than any mountain pass he’d ever had the pleasure of riding.

The estimated arrival time on the taxi’s sat nav said Ryan would be twenty minutes later than he’d promised, but he was pretty sure the gift in his bag would redeem him. She had pointed it out as they’d walked past Lister Horsefall, the fancy jewellers on the corner of The Grove in their hometown of Ilkley.

‘It must be a wonderful store to have something as gorgeous as that in their window.’

He’d played his part well, paying little attention to the sparkling item then quickly changing the subject to leave her wondering: Has he seen it? Will he remember it?

It was a game they both enjoyed.

‘Any chance you can shave a few minutes off that ETA?’ he said to the driver.

‘I’ll do me best. Not often we get trips like this these days. This cost-of-living crisis is a nightmare for us cabbies.’

‘You have my wife to thank for that. I usually cycle to and from work but I’m under strict instructions to not turn up sweaty to her birthday party.’

‘Clever man. Do what the missus asks.’

‘Yes, well, I don’t look as good in tight Lycra these days. I’ll give her that.’

‘Must be tough growing older when you’re married to a model.’

Ryan met the man’s gaze in the rear-view mirror.

‘My wife is a big fan of the cycling,’ said the cabbie.

‘She’s clearly a woman of taste.’

As the driver went on to complain about some of the more ignorant characters he’d had in his taxi recently, Ryan watched the giant golf balls of RAF Menwith Hill pass them by. It meant

they were nearing Harrogate and Ryan was pleased to see the driver had already shaved four minutes off their ETA.

He listened to his daughter Rosie’s voicemail message for a second time.

‘Hi, Dad. I really wanted to be there for Camille tonight but I’m not sure I can take the drama. Mum is kicking off again and I just want to keep the peace until my exams are done. Sorry. You know I love you. See you on Monday.’

Ryan considered calling her back and trying to convince her to come, but he knew that wasn’t fair. She was the one who would face the flak from her mother if she did. Steph had done her best to try and drive a wedge between them over the years, constantly harping on about how he’d broken up the family. And no matter how many times he stressed, ‘I left you, Steph, not Rosie,’ it fell on deaf ears.

‘If your Dad really wanted you there he wouldn’t have put the party in the middle of your exams,’ she’d said to Rosie, who’d passed the message on to Camille. As though Camille could change the date of her birthday, and forgetting that Rosie only had one more of her GCSEs to sit. She’d decided she was going to work for Ryan instead of studying for her A Levels. For the first time since she was a baby, he’d get to see her every day.

Ryan imagined what might have happened if he’d turned up late to Steph’s birthday party when they were together. It would have resulted in a public showdown where she told him, and anyone in hearing distance, that he was a waste of space. A fuck-up who couldn’t be trusted. At least he was now free of the woman. Well, as free as you could be when you shared a sixteenyear-old daughter.

A notification pinged on his phone. He lifted up the screen, expecting another excited message from friends who were heading to the party, but what he saw expelled all the air from his lungs in one swift rush.

The text contained a link to an article on the BBC News page.

The image was of Ryan crossing the line with his hands aloft as he won his Tour de France stage.

‘Ex-British Cyclist Ryan Fallon Exposed’, read the headline.

Ryan’s hand began to shake as he pressed the link and watched it expand. Now it filled his phone from top to bottom.

‘All right, mate?’ said the driver, his eyes on the rear-view mirror and Ryan’s reaction.

Ryan scrolled quickly down the article, scanning the text before pausing on the picture of his wife. Her hand was raised to shield her face but the grief was still clear to see. She hadn’t called. Why hadn’t she called? Feeling a cold weight settle in his stomach, he carried on scrolling, past a few pictures of himself to a final one showing the logo of the Fallon Foundation, the charity he had founded to encourage children of all abilities to take up cycling.

The car stopped at some lights as Ryan began to re-read the article from the beginning.

‘Everything OK, mate?’ said the driver again.

Ryan’s shirt felt hot and tight around his neck and his hands were sweaty making his finger slip on the screen as he scrolled.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

This would finish him.

His life was imploding in the precise way he had managed to convince himself would never happen. He had gotten away with it for so long. And the further away from the deed he had moved the easier it was to tell himself no one ever knew.

And now they’d all know. His wife, his kids, his friends. Oh God, his parents.

The shame crawled through his body like a living thing.

2 isobel

Friday, 3.30 p.m.

The council’s office provided a quiet, cool escape from the bustling city centre that was baking in the summer sun. The weather really had changed dramatically over recent years. It was quite frightening if she gave herself time to think about it. Was this really a world she wanted to raise a child in? How would she cope with the judgement in the next generation’s eyes when they realized what their predecessors had done to damage the planet?

Isobel suppressed the flutter of nerves that skittered across her stomach whenever she thought about the life-long responsibility she and Annie were hopefully going to be taking on. They had been fostering Joshua for a year, and today they would find out if they were approved for adoption. She couldn’t imagine life without the toddler bouncing around them; she wanted nothing more than to be told she would be his mummy for ever.

The clock above the reception said 3.32. Annie was late.

Chill out, I’m coming, I’ll never let you down, she heard Annie’s voice say in her head. As a freelance journalist, Annie was used to asking for extra time as she realized she wasn’t going to hit a deadline. Isobel was the opposite. She valued timekeeping, seeing

it as the essence of self-management and politeness. It was how she had been raised. Which parent would Joshua take after, she wondered, or would there be some other innate approach inherited from his biological parents?

Isobel rolled her shoulders and moved her head from side to side. Last night’s shift had been long and complicated, she could feel it in the muscles of her back and neck. If she had time she would book a massage, but they were the kind of life luxuries other people enjoyed. She had thought when she made it to consultant, her life would have more balance. As a junior doctor she had watched the consultants above her head home for a weekend of golf and thought how wonderful it must be. But somehow, now she was here, there was always some extra responsibility that demanded her attention and stole her free time. Annie used phrases like pushover and people pleaser to explain it, but Isobel thought the truth was closer to feeling like an imposter. She was a woman in a man’s world. She’d worked hard to become a doctor, a leader, a scientist, and she wanted to hold on to it.

Truth be told, for much of her life, she had been so keen to hide the truth about herself that she’d invested every waking hour in proving to her dad that she was as good as any man.

You say I can’t, I’ll show you I can. You say I’m not good enough, I’ll prove you wrong. But at what cost? Years of repressed emotions, of hiding who she really was and what she really wanted. Not until Annie turned up in her life did she even realize the terrible toll it was all taking on her sanity.

‘Just tell them you fancy girls,’ Annie had said, making it sound far easier than it felt. Fortunately, it hadn’t been as difficult as she thought. When Isobel did finally pluck up the guts to tell her parents a few months later, the moment passed without drama.

3.34.

The receptionist was losing patience with the person on the

other end of the phone. She repeated her instruction to turn left after Waterstones with barely disguised irritation.

Isobel looked hopefully towards the door before checking the text that pinged on her phone. It was a link to a news story: Consultant Neonatologist at Leeds Children’s Hospital Disgraced . . .

Her heart began to beat just a touch faster as she read the headline. There were a total of twelve neonatal consultants within Leeds Children’s Hospital. In the time it took for the link to open out into a Daily Mail news page, she thought about her colleagues, hoping it would be one of them and not her.

Mrs Isobel Walters.

Isobel stared at her own name, unable to read any of the words around it because she knew what they would say, and she knew what they would mean.

She would be suspended, investigated and most likely struck off. It wasn’t so much the error she had made – that awful, regrettable lapse of judgement. It was the lie. The General Medical Council did not take kindly to probity failings; honesty and integrity was foundational to the medical profession. Her father would be proven right. She would be found wanting. And what about Annie? How would she view the wife she had always been so keen to show off about now this was out?

Isobel forced her thumb to scroll down the article even though her brain refused to assimilate what her eyes were seeing.

When she’d received the voicemail asking for Annie and her to come in to see the agency decision-maker, Mrs Howell, today, she had assumed this was to inform them of the adoption panel’s decision. ‘Who wouldn’t think a paediatrician was a perfect parent for a child?’ their social worker had said. The irony of it brought a wave of sickness so strong, Isobel had to swallow back the bile for fear of throwing up on the polished floor.

In the article, Mrs Howell had given a quote. Isobel’s thumb froze a fraction above the screen. No, no, no.

‘We can’t comment on pending adoption applications, but I assure you safeguarding the children is our priority.’

That said it all.

Joshua wasn’t going to be theirs.

Friday, 3.30 p.m.

It was a straightforward case in many ways. Paul’s client was accused of arriving drunk at his father’s house and beating him to death with a beer bottle after an argument. His defence that ‘It wasn’t me’ was somewhat discredited by the forensic evidence, which included his fingerprints and DNA on the murder weapon. But there was always a story to these things. People don’t simply beat their father to death out of the blue with no instigating factors. The origins of such crimes begin many years earlier and build over time until a final straw breaks the camel’s back. Paul’s job was to uncover that story and set it out to the jury in a manner that built a degree of empathy: under different circumstances this man could be any one of us.

Paul had managed it pretty well in this case. The victim was one of those small-town gangster types who bullied his way through life. The defendant’s sister had given a particularly powerful description of a childhood spent cowering behind furniture hoping that the wrath would not come her way. The prosecution were arguing that no one deserves to die like that,

beaten and broken in the safety of their own home. But sometimes, some people do deserve it.

He read through his closing argument one more time. This was where he could bring it all to life, draw out the emotion and show his client as a man who was driven to the act by a terrible father. The guy was unlikely to get off completely, but a manslaughter conviction would be a significant achievement. It was entirely in Paul’s reach if he played it right.

The room where he sat was cold, cramped and dark, but Paul liked the claustrophobia of it. There were other rooms in the Leeds Crown Court building he could have used, ones with windows and easier access to drinks and snacks, but they didn’t force his brain to fight its way out of a corner quite like this one.

He nearly ignored the alert on his phone. He was on a roll, his neurons firing at pace as he practised and perfected his closing. The problem was that any breaking news story was a possible future job.

A few moments won’t hurt, he told himself. He could stretch his legs, visit the gents’ then return to the job in hand refreshed, or so said the voice of justification in his head.

Paul stood up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. His hands were balled tightly into fists; he could feel the sweat forming down his back and around his neck.

Paul had never heard of the article’s author, Carl Baker. He wasn’t one of the regular court reporters Paul had a good degree of rapport with. So why had he come for him? Had someone tipped him off? Was there another, more culpable person behind all of this?

Was this Kyle Renton’s doing? If Renton had evidence of Paul’s past there was a good chance he could use it to get out of jail, and

what then? Paul’s career and reputation would be left in tatters, but he suspected that might not be revenge enough for the likes of Renton.

A soft knock on the door broke Paul out of his trance.

‘Five minutes, Mr Reece-Johnson.’

‘Thanks,’ he managed to say.

He needed to park this and focus on the job at hand. There were only the closing arguments to be done and then the jury would be sent to deliberate. If the prosecution didn’t mess about, he’d be done in a matter of hours. He just had to hope no other news outlets picked this up before then. If he could stop it in its tracks early, he might just be able to escape this unscathed.

Paul collected his documents and made his way back to the court room. His fists were still tightly balled as he tried to ignore the voice in his head.

It’s all too late.

Friday, 3.30 p.m.

Waiting at the lights on the central reservation of Leeds innercity ring road, Mandy watched her bus depart from the station opposite. Tears welled in her eyes and she took a deep breath to rein in the emotion.

I am not going to cry in the street.

Mandy was only yards away from the new fine-dining restaurant where she had just interviewed for a job as the head chef. She had known within moments of the interview starting that she was out of the running. The owner-manager had opened with a brazen statement about wanting to create the premium dining spot in the city, hence requiring a ‘name chef’: someone to compete with Michael O’Hare at the Man Behind the Curtain or MasterChef’s Chef Jono at V&V. This was not her.

She had no doubt passed the paper sift simply because of her brief stint as a TV chef over fifteen years earlier. Back then, she thought she’d made it. All her friends were still starting out in their first post-university jobs, and she was already on national television once a week. She was the famous friend whom everyone wanted to accompany to the National TV Awards.

Mandy pressed the pedestrian crossing button again even though it was already lit up. Cars passed in a constant stream with no sign of slowing and the air was thick with exhaust fumes. What was the rush anyway? Her bus was gone, and the next wouldn’t be for at least an hour. In years gone by she’d have seen such a setback as a nice opportunity to wander around the shops, but she couldn’t afford the temptation any more. The job wasn’t hers and there were no more interviews on the horizon.

She wiped a stray tear from her cheek and looked over at the new John Lewis building to her right, its silver and black exterior shimmering in the summer sun. The site had once housed Milgarth Police Station, where Greg had worked when they first met. She wondered how he was. She hadn’t spoken to him for nearly a month now, which would have been unthinkable when they were together. Their daily calls would number three or four, never less than two. So entwined were their lives that neither of them could go more than a few hours without checking in and saying hi. When had it all gone so wrong? How?

Recording the TV show had been exciting at first, but she had begun to tire of the strict schedule, not to mention the misogynistic culture that prevailed. Why did she need hours in make-up so she could bake a soufflé? And why did the director think it was OK to move her into position manually, his hands lingering on her waist longer than they should?

Greg had been her greatest joy and her biggest failure. She had left the TV job to move back up to Yorkshire from London after meeting him on one of her train journeys home to visit her parents. He had proposed within a year.

Greg was already a sergeant and on the accelerated promotion track so he could provide a good life for them. He was a breath of fresh air, a man of principle who wanted to make the world a better place. She had fallen hard for his good heart,

intelligent eyes and mop of blonde curls. They were supposed to have lived their whole lives together. They wanted a family who they could spend their summer weekends camping and cooking outdoors with, who would fill the cold winter nights with the sound of sibling rivalry and laughter. Their house should have been busy, loud and full of love. But that was not to be.

Years of IVF had taken their toll. Greg was a detective chief superintendent now, passionately focused on his job and, it would transpire, his detective inspector.

Mandy felt the all too familiar weight of hopelessness settling upon her once more. She needed to do something constructive. The counsellor she had been referred to by the GP had told her to concentrate on taking control in such moments: ‘Do something productive to stave off the darkness.’ But what?

She stared at the little red man and willed him to turn green so she could at least move from her trapped position between two carriageways. He seemed to stare back with an air of obstinance. Whatcha gonna do, make me?

Paul. She could go to see Paul. He had said he was running a big trial this month so couldn’t make it to Camille’s fancy party. Mandy had blamed the interview even though she knew it would be over in plenty of time for her to still make it. But she couldn’t cope with all that joy right now. The Crown Court was on the other side of town, but she had nowhere else to be so why not walk up and see if he’s there? Paul would make her feel better. He always made her feel better.

The buzz of her phone in her hand made her jump a little. She had forgotten she was still holding it after checking the bus timetable. Needing something to distract her from the indignant stare of the little red man, she looked at the screen.

Former TV Chef Mandy Coulters Suspected . . .

She knew what was coming even before her shaking finger touched the link and she watched the Yorkshire Post page open up, revealing a photograph she had managed to make herself forget over the years.

Only two things of note had occurred in her past: the brief stint on TV and the other thing.

Underneath the photograph, the paper had printed a quote from Mandy’s seventy-one-year-old dad: ‘I will stand by my Mandy no matter what.’ Her dad was old. She knew he would defend her until his dying day, but she couldn’t put him through this.

Mandy looked up and saw her life disintegrating. She had told herself that being broke and alone was the worst thing life could throw at her, but somewhere deep in her psyche she had known it was not the worst. This was. This thing that the world now knew. She looked to her right. There was a break in the traffic after the little white Mazda and before the Amazon Prime van. The van must be doing at least forty. It would have decent brakes but not such a great stopping distance. She knew the stories and the statistics from Greg’s time working on traffic. Mandy looked at the little red man for the last time, but now she willed him to remain stubborn.

‘Help me out, you little bastard,’ she said under her breath as she waited a few more seconds and then took two determined steps into the road.

THE SHAME GAME: A TRUE CRIME DOCUMENTARY

Episode 1 of 3 – The Players

EXT - WHITE WELLS, ILKLEY - DAYTIME

A large white cottage fills the screen. The lush green moorland surrounding it is bathed in sunlight, but the front of the building is cast in shadow. A teenage girl walks across the cobbled courtyard. She wears cream shorts with a black hoody, and blackand-white checked Vans. Her fair hair is tied in a ponytail, and it swings a little as she moves across the screen.

TEXT on the screen: ROSIE FALLON, DAUGHTER OF RYAN FALLON.

Rosie passes a small stone porch that extends from the front of the building. The wooden door on the front of the stone porch

is white and windowless. Next to the porch, attached to the building, is a triangle of stone steps, four high on each side, that go nowhere. Next to this is another white, windowless door. The camera zooms out to show the breadth of the cottage. It is made up of four conjoined blocks of whitewashed stone, each rising to a different height. The whole thing stretches out wide, and as the camera pulls back further to reveal its position high up on a hill, it is possible to see that these man-made cubes of white are overshadowed by an impressive stone crag that rises up at its rear.

TEXT on the screen: WHITE WELLS BATH HOUSE, ILKLEY, WEST YORKSHIRE.

ROSIE FALLON

This is where it happened.

Rosie sits on the weathered picnic table in front of the Bath House. She pushes a stray hair that has escaped from her ponytail behind her ear as she speaks.

ROSIE

It’s funny now, to look back and think of all those plans I had. I thought my life was predictable. I thought I knew what was coming next. I’d decided to leave school and work with my dad so I could focus on cycling. I had this dream

of getting to the Mountain Bike World Championships. But in the space of one week, everything changed.

Rosie looks over at the building and the camera zooms in on a sign above the second white door. It has an arrow pointing to the porch that reads, ‘BATHS’.

Without looking back at the camera, Rosie continues to speak.

ROSIE

This is the first time I’ve been back since. It used to have so many great memories. Dad and I would come up here every New Year’s Day and take the plunge. Loads of people do it. My friends say I should come again and jump in, as if all the freezing water will change what happened.

Rosie looks back at the camera.

ROSIE

But if I’ve learned anything from all of this, it’s that you can’t erase the past, especially the bad stuff.

Friday, 4.10 p.m.

The taxi drove slowly along the sweeping driveway of Rudding Park. Ryan looked up from his phone. The luxury hotel’s car park was about half full and he wondered how many of Camille’s guests would have seen the article by now.

Where was Camille and why hadn’t she called? He checked his phone to be sure, but there were no missed calls or messages. ‘Thanks, mate,’ Ryan said to the driver, wishing he could go somewhere and hide.

The hotel reception was out of sight, around the perimeter of the building. He had visited here with Camille the previous weekend and they’d walked through how the whole party would be laid out on the terrace area outside the Clocktower, the hotel’s restaurant. People would be greeted with glasses of champagne and French-style canapés as they circulated and soaked up the sun while a young guitar player serenaded them with an acoustic set of Camille’s favourite songs. She had been so animated as they talked it all through with the events manager. Ryan wondered if he would ever see her smile at him again the way she had that day. Laughter floated in his direction and his heart sank. Most of

those here awaiting the celebration wouldn’t have seen the news yet. He really was going to have to say it all out loud. He paused for a moment to steel himself.

Focus. Don’t think about the past. Don’t worry about the future. Concentrate and take control.

It was a mantra he’d been coached to repeat as a cyclist to manage his nerves.

‘Baby, you made it!’

The sight of Camille stopped him in his tracks. She looked stunning. Her blonde hair shone in the sun and her model’s body was draped in a blue silk dress.

‘Hi,’ he managed to say as he braced himself for what was to come.

‘Ryan, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Aren’t you going to wish your wife a happy birthday?’ His mother’s words sounded light and humorous on the surface but there was a steely undertone that he recognized well. It was the same tone she had used since he was a child whenever she thought he was showing her up.

‘Sorry, yes, wow . . . erm, happy birthday . . . honey.’ He added the last word a little nervously, expecting an admonishing look from his wife as he leaned in to kiss her. But she simply kissed him back and giggled.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen you look at me like that since the first night we met. When you were too scared to say hello.’ Camille grinned at Ryan’s mum. ‘You were right. This dress was a great choice.’

The women chinked their champagne flutes as they shared a conspiratorial look.

Ryan felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Camille and his mother didn’t know. He was going to have to tell them himself. He looked at the handful of guests milling around the entrance. How long before one of them saw the article and said something? How much time did he have to find the right words?

Camille took his hand. ‘Come see, it all looks wonderful.’ She pulled him into the hotel and towards the terrace at the rear.

‘Camille, honey,’ he said, forcing her to stop and look at him.

‘What is it?’ She looked down and saw the small bag he was carrying and her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh! Baby. You didn’t?’ Her wide eyes looked joyful but not at all surprised. The reaction caused him to smile on instinct. She had known he would do as he was instructed.

‘Yes, of course. I love you.’ He took hold of her wrists. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

Her eyes questioned him for a second and then she shook the expression away. ‘Of course I do. Especially now.’ She made a grab for the bag and he let her take it, watching her place it on a side table and remove the wrapped box as he decided how to handle this.

Behind his wife, Ryan saw the vice president of the American bicycle brand he had ridden when he won his Tour de France stage. The company had recently agreed to lend their support to the Fallon Foundation. When Camille had invited the VP to attend today, he’d said he’d be delighted to experience a traditional European drinks party.

But in the article, the VP had been quoted saying the brand had no desire to be associated with someone like Ryan, no matter how well-meaning his charity might be. The man continued to walk purposefully towards them and, to add salt to the wound, he was accompanied by Ryan’s father.

Steven Fallon was Ryan’s hero. He had been a professional footballer in his youth, playing for Sheffield Wednesday and Blackburn Rovers before being forced to retire due to a knee injury. Ryan had grown up watching men greet his dad with genuine awe, shaking his hand vigorously and asking for an autograph, even if they were in the supermarket doing a weekly shop. His dad’s success had inspired Ryan to achieve his own in cycling, and he had wanted to inspire his kids in the same way.

Camille threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips.

‘It is magnifique,’ she said, holding up her hand to show him how the bracelet sparkled on her elegant wrist.

‘Well, I would say that gift was something of a success. I may need to know your secret, Ryan.’ The VP’s booming Texan accent filled the hotel lobby.

Ryan nodded as he braced himself for the criticism that was to follow. This was going to be his life now –  bracing himself for people’s low opinions of him. He may as well start practising how to take it.

‘Oh my gosh, I forgot to ask if you’d heard from Isobel?’ said Camille. ‘Ryan did you hear? Isobel and Annie are getting to keep Josh.’

Ryan was staring at the VP, who was smiling widely at him. It struck Ryan as particularly cruel to take pleasure in someone else’s downfall.

‘That’s brilliant,’ Ryan said.

‘Lift it off the page, son. Your best friend just became a mummy.’ His dad slapped him on the back and it was enough to jar Ryan back to reality.

He looked at his dad, Camille and the VP. None of these people were angry with him, which was especially weird for the VP. There was no disappointment or disgust in anyone’s eyes.

‘Sorry, can you give me a minute. I’ll be back in a sec.’

Ryan hurried to the toilet where he entered the first cubicle and locked the door. He took his phone from his pocket and opened the BBC News app, scrolling through all the day’s stories. There was no mention of him. Closing the app, he opened Google and typed his name into the search bar. The results included his Wikipedia page, a few old cycling stories and his company website. Finally, he viewed the open pages on his phone, knowing he hadn’t closed the article when the taxi pulled in.

The sight of it miniaturized on his screen brought back the dread. It was real. He pressed to enlarge it, and the image flickered a couple of times before the page refreshed and defaulted to a white screen. Website Unavailable.

Ryan looked back at the text which had sent the link. It came from an email address rather than a number: Shame@pm.me.

Ryan leaned back against the cistern. Was it a prank or a threat? He should feel relieved, but he didn’t. The article was out there. Someone somewhere had it. He would have to tell everyone it was coming.

He had thought that being exposed out of the blue in the press was as bad as it could get, but this would be so much worse.

isobel

Friday, 3.35 p.m.

Isobel watched as Annie carried Joshua into the building. His arms were outstretched towards Isobel as he called out, ‘Bye, Mama!’

He muddled hi and bye all the time, but this occasion struck Isobel as particularly poignant. Tears welled in her eyes as she tried in vain to think of what she could say to explain or apologize. Joshua would eventually forget them both, she knew. He was too young to form any real lasting memories, but Annie would have the next few moments seared into her mind for the rest of her life.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Isobel said as the two most important people in her universe reached her.

‘I’m the one who’s late,’ said Annie, wiping some crumbs off Joshua’s chin with the side of her index finger. ‘It’s “Hi, Mama,” Joshy. Say “Hi, Mama”.’

‘Hi, Mama,’ Joshua repeated, rubbing one eye with his podgy fist.

‘Is he tired?’

‘Oh, I expect so, he flat out refused to nap. I nearly lost my

sh—’ Annie stopped then said, ‘rag. It’s like the little monkey knew something big was going on today.’

You can say that again, thought Isobel.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’ Mrs Howell approached them from the end of the corridor. Her sensible low-heeled black court shoes made a click-clack sound against the tiled floor.

‘Annie—’

‘Here’s the lady who’s going to make our dreams come true, Joshy,’ Annie said, her attention focused entirely on the agency decision-maker.

‘Annie?’ Isobel touched her wife’s arm.

Annie looked at her properly for the first time. ‘You look awful. Are you sick? Did something happen at work?’

Isobel caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror behind reception. She had inherited dark caramel-coloured skin from her Syrian mother, but right now her complexion looked waxen and grey.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Now then, young man, can I have a quick cuddle?’ Mrs Howell held both hands out.

You can’t take him, Isobel shouted in her head, but no words came out as she helplessly watched her wife hand Joshua over for the final time. There would be no elongated goodbyes. That would only upset Joshua. It would be professional and quick, just like in the hospital when a child needed to be taken away from its panicking parents for surgery.

‘OK then, shall we go through to my office?’ Mrs Howell said.

‘Are you OK?’ Annie mouthed, taking Isobel’s hand and giving it a squeeze as they followed.

‘No. I’m sorry. I’ll make it all right. I promise.’

‘What do you mean? What’s going on?’

Isobel didn’t respond as, ahead of them, she heard Mrs Howell say to Joshua, ‘Today you all get to become a for ever

family. You are going to have a wonderful life with your mummies, little man.’

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Isobel was aware of hands being shaken, forms being signed and many kind words being shared from Mrs Howell. The voice in her head told her to stop the whole thing and come clean about the article, but her gut said no. Once these papers were signed it would be so much harder for them to take Joshua back. They would have to wait out the inquiry and that would give Isobel time. She tried to smile and look normal but she could feel Annie’s eyes on her.

On the way out of the building, Isobel excused herself and went to the ladies’ room to throw up.

‘Spill,’ said Annie after she had fastened Joshua into his car seat and climbed into the driver’s side of their Volvo.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Why were you so quiet? You barely cracked a smile when she told us Joshua was going to be ours. Are you feeling OK?’

‘I was nervous.’

‘Why?’

Isobel returned Annie’s inquisitive stare. Most people would accept ‘I was nervous’ as an explanation for looking and acting out of sorts, but not her journalist wife. Oh no, she smelled a story and like a bloodhound she would chase it down.

‘There are rumours of an inquiry at Harrogate paediatric unit, suggestions that some misconduct might have occurred back when I worked there.’ Isobel had to give Annie something and this was as close to the truth as she could bring herself to get because the article had disappeared. She couldn’t make sense of it. When she had visited the ladies’ room, Isobel had looked for it again on her phone. She had been certain that they’d quoted Mrs Howell but she must have been mistaken and she wanted to see for sure. But it was gone. And when she searched the Daily Mail website, it was not listed.

‘On any of your patients?’

‘It’s yet to be confirmed.’

Isobel could feel the weight of Annie’s silence. The article must have been sent to her as an advance warning. She knew Annie would be able to tell her how these things worked and what rights she had to stop such a story, but no matter how hard she willed herself to ask, she simply couldn’t make the words come out.

Annie began to talk about all her plans for their life with Josh as she drove them to Camille’s party at Rudding Park. Meanwhile, Joshua sang ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ over and over from his car seat. Isobel reached through the gap in between the front seats so she could hold her son’s hand. Her son. He was really theirs, and Isobel would do everything in her power to keep it that way.

8 paul

Friday, 5.45 p.m.

He half expected a handful of reporters to be waiting for him as he left court and he was relieved to find there were none. For the past few hours, he had pushed his own concerns aside and done his best for his client, but now he had handed the baton to the jury it was time to focus. He reached his car, a Porsche Panamera, and carefully hung his jacket on the hanger in the rear. He had looked up the number on his walk to the car, so he could call as soon as he set off for his drive through the city.

‘Mira Hussain,’ said the plummy editor of the Guardian ’s law desk.

‘Mira, it’s Paul Reece-Johnson KC here. I’m calling to request the immediate retraction of Carl Baker’s article.’

‘Sorry, Paul. I’m not sure I understand. Who is Carl Baker?’

Paul pulled up at the lights next to two young men in a red Golf GTI. The driver pumped his accelerator a few times when he saw Paul’s car, the growl of the engine accompanying an inane grin from the young lad in the passenger seat. Paul ignored them.

‘Is Carl Baker not one of your journalists?’

‘No. What was the article?’

Paul realized he needed to get off this call quickly. ‘Does he work on a different desk?’

‘Never heard of him. Let me check here.’

Paul could hear Mira tapping on her keyboard.

‘So, not a freelancer either?’ He wanted to be sure of what she was saying. The article he had been sent had opened on to the Guardian website and been fully branded.

‘No. We have no one of that name. What is this about Paul? You sound annoyed.’

Paul apologized, saying he must have been misinformed, and hung up before Mira could quiz him any further.

The last thing he needed was a journalist of Mira Hussain’s calibre digging around in his past.

Vanessa was upstairs on a Teams call with her managing partner when Paul arrived home. He was used to hearing their conversations about billing hours and staffing issues. As a partner in a corporate law firm, his wife earned almost double his salary, such was the difference between commercial law and criminal law. He flicked on the kettle and placed his laptop on the kitchen island. He had checked his phone in the car and found no trace of the Guardian report so now he needed to dig deeper. Who was Carl Baker, why was he pretending to work for the Guardian, and why was he threatening to expose Paul?

He had concluded that the article he’d been sent was a threat of some kind. The email address attached to the text message said it all: Shame@pm.me. This was someone’s attempt to scare him. And it had worked. He’d been so thrown by the thing he hadn’t paid any attention to the sender of the article. He had since sent a text back asking ‘Who is this?’ and ‘What do you want?’, but thus far he’d had no reply.

Though the article may be fake, one thing was true: someone had uncovered the truth about Paul’s past. He could only

think of one person with a reason to go digging on him: Kyle Renton.

If that was what was going on here, the baiting nature of the article made more sense. Renton hated Paul for putting him away and would revel in the idea that he was guilty of something.

Vanessa came into the kitchen. ‘Seb says hello. He asked if you were doing that charity golf tournament next month.’ Vanessa wore a silk blouse and pencil skirt even though she had been working from home today. She poured away his untouched mug of now-cold tea and reached for two wine glasses.

‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll have to see what’s happening.’

She poured them each a generous glass of Viognier and took a sip. ‘You’re back earlier than you said. We could have made Camille’s big do after all.’

Paul reached for the glass and took a long slug of the crisp wine. ‘You said you didn’t want to go.’

‘No. I said I didn’t fancy spending hours discussing the merits of shirt dresses versus wrap dresses with a room full of fashionista darlings.’

‘Or in other words, you don’t want to go.’

‘You are twisting my words, darling. I would never stop you from playing out with your friends.’

‘They are your friends too, Ness. Or at least they’re supposed to be.’

‘Who poked your cage?’ Vanessa leaned back against the range cooker. ‘Did Larry the Lamb get the better of you?’ She referred to Larry Lonegan, the prosecuting KC in his current case.

‘What do you know about imposter news sites?’ Paul said, changing the subject.

‘Those fake news vehicles? I know one of our clients got stung by incorrect market information that had been posted about a competitor by a fake newspaper. I think it was called the Financial Tribune or something along those lines.’

‘No, more like mimicking a legit news source like The Times or the Independent.’

‘Anything’s possible, I expect. Think of those financial phishing emails that take you to a site that looks like Barclays then pump you for your account details. Is this about a case?’

‘Mmmm, not sure yet. It’s disturbing what people can do and how real they can make it look.’

‘You need to check the hyperlinks and the adverts. If they don’t go anywhere, then reader beware.’

Paul studied his wife as he downed the rest of his wine. Would she stick by him if this came out? He knew she loved their large house in the small hamlet beyond Ilkley Moor, and their biannual holidays – one luxurious, one adventurous – not to mention their expensive clothes, fast cars and well stocked wine cellar. Even with a salary like hers, that lifestyle would take a hit without his income . . . But did she love him ? He was pretty certain she was still attracted to him, given the healthiness of their sex life, and that she still enjoyed his company. But did she love him and, if so, did she love him enough to stick by him? Of that, he wasn’t entirely certain.

Friday, 5.45 p.m.

The sight of Isobel carrying little Josh provided Ryan with a touch of light relief. He was struggling to tune in to the party vibe despite finding no trace of the story about him each time he checked –  which was regularly. Fortunately, people were either too engrossed in what they were saying or too tipsy to pay attention to him. Camille would probably spot something was off if she wasn’t so busy being the centre of attention.

‘You three are a sight for sore eyes.’

‘Struggling to hold your own with the great and good, hey, Ry?’ Annie kissed his cheek. She was never one to miss the chance of a friendly slap-down.

‘I expect he’s been charming everyone he meets and throwing around his dad jokes,’ said Izzy.

‘Er, you’re supposed to be my bestie.’

‘Hi, hon.’ Isobel passed Josh to Annie so she could give Ryan a hug. It felt a little tighter than normal. Maybe he wasn’t masking his mood as well as he thought.

‘So, did it all go OK today?’ Ryan asked before Isobel could quiz him.

An odd look crossed Isobel’s face before Annie replied.

‘We are officially Josh’s mummies. Our fab family of three.’

‘It’s a huge relief,’ Isobel said, and Ryan sensed that she really meant it.

‘Surely there wasn’t any doubt? You guys are meant to be,’ Ryan said, reaching out his arms. ‘Can I have a cuddle?’

The little boy curled into Annie’s neck and pushed his thumb into his mouth.

‘Sorry, he’s knackered. No nap today.’

‘I hear you. Ethan’s still a nightmare without a nap.’ Ryan ruffled Joshua’s hair. He loved kids at this age; all podgy and cuddly. He remembered when Rosie was that small and every time he picked her up or put her down he would plant a big kiss on her head. At sixteen, she would only entertain a kiss from her dad under strict pre-agreed circumstances, such was the threat of social suicide.

‘This is quite the do,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll freshen up our little monster here, then we can go and find Aunt Camille.’

‘The perfect wife,’ said Ryan to Isobel as Annie walked away. ‘Thanks for coming. Camille was upset when Mandy and Paul said they couldn’t make it.’

Ryan, Isobel, Mandy and Paul had been close since high school. Back then, there had been a lot of laughter and some good parties before they had all headed off in different directions for university. The fact they had all ended up back in Yorkshire and in each other’s lives again was a source of great joy for Ryan. These were his people, and they kept him young.

‘I’m not surprised it was a stretch for Paul if he’s got a trial on,’ Isobel replied. ‘I hoped Mandy might change her mind. It must be hard going to things without Greg, but it’s us, you know? She’s our friend. Anyway, at least the real A-listers are here.’

She smiled and nodded over Ryan’s shoulder, and when he turned around, he had to blink a couple of times to confirm to himself that it really was Rosie walking towards him.

‘Surprise!’ she said with the largest grin on her face.

‘You look beautiful,’ said Isobel, admiring Rosie’s figurehugging black dress that, in Ryan’s opinion, made her look a few years too old.

‘Nanna bought it for me,’ she said, giving a twirl and then smiling at Felicity, the woman in question, who was hanging back as Rosie greeted them. ‘She said as Mum was working tonight, she’d bring me down and come back to collect me later.’

‘What Stephanie doesn’t know won’t hurt her,’ said Felicity. The mother of Ryan’s ex looked a little out of place in her casual clothes. ‘We’ll need to have you back before midnight, mind,’ she said to Rosie. ‘So I’ll ring you when I’m on my way.’

‘Like Cinderella,’ said Isobel to Rosie, and the two of them giggled.

‘You’re welcome to stay and have a drink,’ Ryan said, but knew this would not go down well with Camille. There was no love lost between his new wife and his ex’s family. But he felt it was only polite to offer.

‘No, no. I’m a simple taxi service tonight.’

‘Thanks, Nanna, love you,’ Rosie said, giving her a kiss. ‘I’m going to find Camille. I have a gift for her.’

Ryan felt a burst of pride for his girl as he watched her rush away to find her stepmum. He knew every parent probably thought their child was the best, but his really was.

‘Stephanie tells me you’re adopting your little one, Isobel,’ Felicity said.

‘They signed on the dotted line today,’ Ryan said and watched Isobel fill with pride.

‘The hard work starts here, then.’

‘Best work there is. He’s a little star.’

‘Long may that continue.’ Felicity smiled but it looked a little forced and Ryan wasn’t sure what to say next. He had no doubt

Steph had been hard work as a child. He caught Isobel’s eye and she raised her eyebrows a touch.

‘Well, that was awkward,’ said Isobel once Felicity had headed off.

‘Kind of her to bring Rosie, though.’

Isobel rubbed his arm. She knew better than most how hard he’d had to work to keep the peace for Rosie’s sake.

‘So is it all confirmed with Greg?’ he said to change the subject. ‘Has he really moved in with the woman from work?’

‘Oh, yeah. I feel so sorry for Mandy. They were the one couple I always thought would be together for ever.’

‘Isn’t that what they always say? I figured it would be Paul and Vanessa who’d split. You know, when she finally realized she was too good for him.’

‘Don’t be mean.’ Isobel gently slapped his arm. There was a long-standing joke in their group of friends that Ness would someday see the light and find a real man to marry. Paul went along with the joke but it was obvious he hated it, which only made it funnier.

‘I’m gonna miss Greg.’ It struck Ryan that if the truth about his past had come out while Mandy and Greg were still together, the police officer might have insisted they cut contact. Greg could be quite judgemental about those who didn’t toe the line. Then again, he was an adulterer, so his stance might’ve surprised them.

‘I know. It makes you wonder if we can ever have one of our dinner parties again. How Mandy will feel alone at the table. It’s really sad.’

‘She’ll be OK. If we take care of her as well as you guys took care of me after Steph, she’ll soon be back on her feet.’

Isobel stared past him and didn’t respond.

‘Earth to Izzy.’

‘Huh?’

‘I lost you for a minute there.’

‘Sorry, I just had a feeling . . .’ She scanned the gardens and tree-lined borders around them. ‘Ignore me. I’m sleep-deprived. Josh has been teething.’

Ryan watched her walk inside and then scanned the gardens himself before following her. He’d been having a weird feeling too. Was someone out there, hiding in the trees and watching him? He dismissed the idea. The article was making him paranoid. Whoever was coming for him didn’t need to spy on him; they had everything they needed already.