One Small Mistake Read online

  For Mum and Dad, who always told me I could.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Before

  Chapter One: 31 Days Before

  Chapter Two: 28 Days Before

  Chapter Three: 26 Days Before

  Chapter Four: 26 Days Before

  Chapter Five: 25 Days Before

  Chapter Six: 24 Days Before

  Chapter Seven: 23 Days Before

  Chapter Eight: 16 Days Before

  Chapter Nine: 14 Days Before

  Chapter Ten: 14 Days Before

  Chapter Eleven: 8 Days Before

  Chapter Twelve: The Day Of

  Chapter Thirteen: 1 Day Missing

  Missing

  Chapter Fourteen: 6 Days Missing

  Chapter Fifteen: 7 Days Missing

  Chapter Sixteen: 9 Days Missing

  Chapter Seventeen: 11 Days Missing

  Chapter Eighteen: 13 Days Missing

  Chapter Nineteen: 17 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty: 17 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-One: 18 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Two: 18 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Three: 19 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Four: 20 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Five: 20 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Six: 25 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: 28 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: 31 Days Missing

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: 32 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty: 34 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-One: 35 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Two: 35 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Three: 35 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Four: 36 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Five: 45 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Six: 56 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: 58 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: 63 Days Missing

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: 67 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty: 106 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-One: 112 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Two: 117 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Three: 150 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Four: 154 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Five: 154 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Six: 154 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Seven: 159 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Eight: 160 Days Missing

  Chapter Forty-Nine: 160 Days Missing

  Chapter Fifty: 161 Days Missing

  Chapter Fifty-One: 161 Days Missing

  Chapter Fifty-Two: 161 Days Missing

  After

  Chapter Fifty-Three: 760 Days After

  Acknowledgements

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  About Embla Books

  First published in Great Britain in by

  EMBLA BOOKS

  Bonnier Books UK Limited

  4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA

  Owned by Bonnier Books

  Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden Copyright © Dandy Smith,

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Dandy Smith to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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

  eBook ISBN: 9781471411533

  Audio ISBN: 9781471411557

  This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisher

  Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

  Before

  Chapter One

  31 Days Before

  Elodie Fray

  He’s back. I’m certain he’s following me. He was outside the library late Monday night, then in the park across from my house yesterday morning, and it’s the fourth time he’s come into Mugs coffee shop this week.

  ‘Jesus, Elodie,’ snaps Hannah.

  I look down and realise I’ve overpoured the milk. It pools onto the wooden counter.

  ‘Shit.’ Dumping the carton on the side, I grab a towel to clean up the mess, and while I do, I look at this stranger who’s become a regular eyesore. Whenever I’ve seen him in the street, it’s been a hurried glance before clutching my bag tight to my side and picking up my pace. Now though, safely separated by a counter and a line of customers, I take my time. He’s in his late thirties, broad and solid with close-cut dark hair and black, round-rimmed glasses that make me think of a serial killer. I imagine him standing over a woman’s lifeless body, calmly wiping blood splatter from the lenses.

  He stares up at the boards above the counter, scanning the menu, pretending to consider his options even though he always orders the same thing. Hannah’s served him four black coffees this week and it’s only Wednesday.

  There’s something off about him. He’s so … still. He doesn’t bring in a newspaper or a book or scroll through his phone like most people who come in alone; he usually takes the table in the corner with the best view of the coffee shop, and stares. Mostly at me. I always thought of a gaze as hot, two cigarette ends burning into your skin, but his is icy, the tips of two knife-sharp blades pressing against my spine.

  Looking up now, our eyes meet, just a flash, but it chills me. I turn away from him, wiping the counter even though there isn’t a drop of milk left to clean.

  ‘Elodie,’ calls Hannah briskly, ‘little help.’

  It only takes a couple of minutes to place the fresh order beside the till, but Hannah sighs as though I’ve gone out of my way to be exceptionally slow.

  I glance up and he’s still staring at me like I’m something he can sink his teeth into. Maybe I’m being paranoid … but what if I’m not?

  Before Hannah can stop me, I slip into the back and grab a carton of semi-skimmed from the fridge in case she comes looking for me. She wasn’t very sympathetic when I mentioned my potential stalker last week. She said, ‘Yep, customers only come to catch a glimpse of Elodie Fray, Queen of Hearts, because men just fold before you like undeserving kings.’

  The storage cupboard smells of rich, bitter coffee and even though I don’t love the taste, I do love the smell; it reminds me of cosy winter mornings in the Wisteria Cottage kitchen during the Christmas holidays, where a fresh pot was always waiting to chase away the cold after a walk along the windy seafront.

  I pull my phone from my apron and type out a message to my best friend, Jack.

  15.26 Elodie: That creepy guy is here. Again. I’m going to end up on one of those tragic news stories where I go missing and months later my body is dredged up from the bottom of a lake.

  My thumb hovers over the ‘send’ button. The moment Jack reads it, he’ll drop whatever he should be doing and rush over here. Tempting … but, really, other than giving me the heebie-jeebies, this guy hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not a crime to stand outside a library or sit on a park bench; it’s not a crime to be a caffeine addict either. Crosshaven is a small town; not so small you know everyone, but small enough that you often see the same faces.

  I delete the message but linger in the storage cupboard a little longer, sweat gathering in the hollow between my collarbones. It’s mid-July and so hot in Somerset you could fry
an egg on the pavement.

  Briefly, I close my eyes and imagine wading into the Cornish sea, feeling the cool water lapping against my skin, and that familiar longing for Wisteria rolls over me. It’s been years since we visited – Jack talks about going back to his family’s holiday home but there are always other things to do, other things to pay for. After giving up my marketing career for writing, my disposable income is at an all-time low. There’s precious little of my ACH Marketing savings – all spent on rent and bills.

  It’s only been ten minutes since I last looked, but I check my email again to see if I have anything from my agent, Lara. There’s a flare of hope that maybe, just maybe, today is the day – but my inbox is empty. Disappointment stirs.

  I wait for an email that holds a glittering, life-affirming ‘yes’ from a publisher. One specific editor – Darcy Wilmot from Harriers. She’s the only one who hasn’t turned my manuscript down, making her my last shot at publication. She’s sent Lara several gushing emails about how much she loves the book, but she hasn’t offered a deal yet.

  Gripping the carton, I force myself to concentrate on the mundane day job. But the second I step out of the storage room, the tension returns. What if he’s still out here, staring at me through those round-rimmed serial-killer glasses?

  Oblivious to my panic, Hannah glares over her shoulder at me. I hold up the semi-skimmed like a white flag then shove it on the top shelf of the fridge.

  My heart thrums as I turn to look for him.

  Please be gone.

  I scan the room.

  Please, please be gone.

  Relief washes through me like sunlight; he isn’t here.

  ‘If you’re going to disappear, you could at least give me a heads-up first,’ says Hannah with barely contained hostility. ‘It’s been really busy out here.’

  It hasn’t. It never is during the strange limbo that falls between the weekday lunch rush and closing time. There are only a few occupied tables: an older gentleman, George, who always sits by the window doing the crossword; a gaggle of mothers bouncing babies on their knees and gossiping over skinny lattes; a college student plugged into her laptop, fingers flying across her keyboard.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, making a show of scanning the mostly empty coffee shop. ‘Manic.’

  The bell above the door rings. It’s Richard. Great. I busy myself, cleaning out the coffee grinder. He makes his way around the counter and, as usual, he stands too close – I can smell his cheap aftershave – but he’s my boss so it’s awkward to remind him of personal space. I glance up. ‘Everything okay, Richard?’

  ‘You’re switching shifts with Hannah tomorrow. You’re on an early.’

  ‘But I’m on a late tonight, and I’ve opened and closed every day this week.’

  He shrugs. ‘Hannah needs to study for an exam.’

  I glance at Hannah who is de-crumbing the muffin display and pretending not to eavesdrop on this exchange. ‘It’s summer. She doesn’t have any exams.’

  As he helps himself to a lemonade from the fridge, I catch a glimpse of the sweat patches around his armpits. ‘Well, she’s got studying to do and she asked very nicely.’

  I bet she did. Studying? It’s student night at Fleets and I’d put this week’s wages on her wanting to come in late tomorrow so she can go out and drink her body weight in tequila tonight. If Richard realises, he doesn’t care.

  ‘Fine,’ I say because I’m not going to win this – not unless I’m willing to flirt for it, but one look at his lip sweat and I know I can’t.

  The gaggle of mothers depart and I clear their table. God, working here is like being stuck in an unrelenting Groundhog Day of serving coffee, wiping down tables, and loading the dishwasher. If Darcy offers a book deal, it’ll have been worth it.

  As I pass Richard, he says, ‘You’re a stunner, Elodie, you should smile more often.’

  I bite back the ‘I do, just not at you’ and beam because that’s what nice girls who want to keep their jobs have to do.

  He and Hannah flirt back and forth for the next half an hour and only a few minutes after Richard slopes off, Hannah says, ‘I’m going on a break.’

  When I’m sure she’s gone, I sneak a biscotti from the display and wander over to George. He’s nursing a cup of coffee and working on his crossword. Before he retired, he was a cobbler, but now he spends his afternoons at the same window table, pencil in hand. Deftly, I slide the liberated biscotti beside his mug. He looks up, blue eyes twinkling. ‘You’ll get in trouble,’ he warns.

  I grin. ‘Only if you tell.’

  George is our kindest, most loyal customer, and, despite being a pensioner fast approaching eighty, he always leaves a tip. He glances down at his puzzle. ‘Do you know a ten-letter word for a sense of impending misfortune?’

  I pause, seeing the letters take shape in my mind. ‘Foreboding.’

  He nods slowly, exchanging his pencil for his biro and carefully writing the letters in his shaky script.

  ‘George,’ I coo, ‘you’re being bold – you know you can’t erase biro.’

  He smiles, unwrapping the biscotti and breaking it in half. ‘You’re my partner in crime.’ He hands me a piece. ‘I trust you implicitly.’

  I lock up by myself. It’s still light out, but I do it quickly anyway, wanting to go for a run around the park before dark. As I turn to leave, I get the feeling I’m being watched; despite the heat, icy prickles drip down my spine. When I turn around, my stomach drops. It’s him. He’s barely fifty yards away, wearing the same dark jacket and jeans. The sun reflects off his glasses, making him look inhuman.

  We’re the last coffee shop to close and the street is empty. My heart hammers. He starts walking towards me and for a second, I’m frozen, rooted to the pavement as though I were built into it. His stride is determined, purposeful, and the reality that I’m alone with a man who weighs twice as much as me propels me into action. I start walking in the opposite direction, glad I changed into my trainers before leaving.

  I live a fifteen-minute walk from town. Usually I cut through Memorial Gardens, but I veer off, taking the long way back across residential streets. He’s still behind me. I can feel it.

  Up ahead, a group of people wander slowly down the street on the opposite side. I cross the road, hoping if I stay close to other pedestrians, he’ll back off. Once I’m through the group, I do a quick check over my shoulder and it’s worked – he’s dropped back a little. I dig around in my bag and pull out my phone and house keys. Pinching my key between two fingers, I’m poised to use it as a weapon if needed. My phone is gripped tightly in my other hand. Maybe I should call someone. Like Jack. Or the police. But what would I say? This man hasn’t hurt me. Can I get in trouble for wasting police time? I won’t call. Once I get home, once I reach my front door, I’ll be fine.

  I’ll be fine.

  I falter; maybe leading him right to my front door is a mistake. But then, he probably already knows where I live; several times, I’ve seen him in the park across from my house. I could turn around, go to a public place, a bar, ask Jack to meet me there. As soon as he sets eyes on me, he’ll know something is wrong and then I’ll either have to explain or lie. Besides, I’m closer to home now than I am to town.

  I look back, just a flash – the man’s still behind me. He’s speeding up now. Not quite jogging but too fast to call it a walk. I rush out to cross the road, not wanting to stop in case he catches up. A car blares its horn as it swerves to avoid me. My pulse kicks and blood rushes through my ears. I stumble onto the pavement and round the corner into my street. I’ll be safer inside than I will out here, pounding the pavement. So, I jog up the stone steps, unlock the door with shaking hands and slam it shut behind me, pressing my back against the sun-warmed wood.

  Safe.

  Chapter Two

  28 Days Before

  Elodie Fray

  My sister lives in a two-storey Georgian house with feature fireplaces, detailed cornicing and eggshell-painted s
hutters. It’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. It reeks of grandeur and money. Ada’s home is in a part of town that beguiled us as children. We used to walk slowly down Peach Avenue after school, watching girls our age step out of expensive cars in their private school uniforms, their slick ponytails swishing as they glided down the winding drive and into their big houses, followed by parents dressed in diamonds and pearls and thick, gold watches. Ada would point to the men with their crisp shirts and polished shoes and broad, white smiles and say, ‘That’s the kind of guy I’m going to marry when I grow up.’ And she did. For my sister, her accountant husband, Ethan, has a bank balance big enough that it’s a better lubricant than anything Durex could ever make.

  Weaving between the many cars parked on the driveway, I hear laughter and music and taste the smokiness of the BBQ drifting over the fence. I didn’t bring anything to Ada’s last gathering and she made a snide comment about party etiquette, so I stayed up last night to make a summer fruit crumble. Balancing the glass dish on my hip, I use the big brass knocker. Nervously, I wait. It’s silly, there’s not going to be anyone here I don’t already know, but seeing my family is painful. My parents don’t agree with my decision to give up a marketing career. They think chasing my dream of being a writer is irresponsible folly. They don’t understand that securing an agent, especially one as talented as Lara, is like taming a mystical beast.