The Secrets of Strangers Read online

  CHARITY NORMAN was born in Uganda and brought up in successive draughty vicarages in Yorkshire and Birmingham. After several years’ travel she became a barrister, specialising in crime and family law in the northeast of England. Also a mediator and telephone crisis line listener, she’s passionate about the power of communication to slice through the knots. In 2002, realising that her three children had barely met her, she took a break from the law and moved with her family to New Zealand. Her first novel, Freeing Grace, was published in 2010. Second Chances (After the Fall) was a Richard and Judy Book Club choice and World Book Night title. See You in September, her last book, was shortlisted for Best Crime Novel in the 2018 Ngaio Marsh Awards for Crime Fiction. The Secrets of Strangers is her sixth book.

  Also by Charity Norman

  Freeing Grace

  Second Chances

  The Son-in-Law

  The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone

  See You in September

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

  First published in 2020

  Copyright © Charity Norman 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76087 671 5

  eISBN 978 1 76087 365 3

  Set by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  Cover design: Lisa White

  Cover photo: Karina Vegas/Arcangel

  For Barnaby Norman

  (Pluffy)

  1998–2018

  ‘I shall not look upon his like again.’

  William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ONE

  Neil

  It’s the rattle of coins dropping into his cup that wakes him. That, and his friend the one-legged pigeon with his happy-bird crooning. That, and the stream of arctic air invading his sleeping bag. That, and the whole bench shuddering as a bus wheezes down the High Road.

  Thirty seconds ago he was comfy in his old bed, his arms around Heather, his nose in her hair. Shampoo and laundry powder. But there must have been a door open somewhere because ice was seeping in. He’d have to get up and shut that bloody thing. Anyway—dammit—he needed a pee.

  Then the clatter in his tin mug. Heather’s beautiful warmth is going, going, gone as reality pours back in all its disastrous glory. Mind you, it’s a relief to wake up at all. Always good to know you’ve made it through another night. He opens his eyes just in time to register the squeak of rubber soles and glimpse a sturdy silhouette marching off across the church car park. Buddy pokes his head out from his blanket, ears pricked, sniffing.

  There’s four quid in the cup: a lucky birthday present from someone who doesn’t even know it’s his birthday. Many happy returns, you useless sod. He mouths it, not quite aloud. Tries not to talk to himself. Losing battle. Soon he’ll be one of those shambolic wrecks who mutter and curse under their breaths, the kind he used to feel sorry for. To be honest, he doesn’t want many returns of this kind of day.

  Buddy heaves a sigh, and his greying muzzle sinks back onto his paws. He’s old. He just wants to sleep. Neil watches the one-legged pigeon pecking at a hefty crust of bread. His bladder’s becoming insistent but he’s putting off the moment when he has to face the cold and find out the hard way which bit of him aches the most. His dodgy knee. Maybe his creaking hip. Maybe his back.

  He lowers his feet to the ground just as a pair of fire engines come bellowing past, sirens dropping and slowing. Doppler effect. He used to teach kids about that. He even had a video clip of a passing ambulance he used to play in the classroom, once upon a time when he was a clean-shaven know-all with a family and friends and a home and a sofa to sit on at night to watch telly.

  His daily routines are different these days: rolling the sleeping bag and Buddy’s blanket with raw fingers, folding the cardboard box he uses as a mattress, shoving everything into his trusty backpack. It’s been on Duke of Edinburgh tramps, this pack. He’s carried it all over Exmoor with sixth-formers hanging on his every word. Mr Cunningham, the fount of all knowledge—how are the mighty fallen! The pack’s decrepit now, straps broken, open-mouthed tears all along the seams, more hole than it is nylon. He’s done his best to plug the gaps with plastic bags but the end is surely nigh for his old friend.

  Jeepers, this wind. Might as well be in bloody Siberia. He’s wearing the warmest clothes he’s ever owned: gloves, anorak and what’s left of his blue-and-red bobble cap. He never takes it off in winter. Sleeps in his boots too. It’s safer. He keeps everything else he owns in three plastic shopping bags. These, along with the backpack, he stashes under the hedge at the church’s boundary, getting down on hands and knees to push them out of sight. His worldly goods blend in. They look like all the other rubbish.

  Foxes live under this hedge. It’s one of the few joys of rough sleeping, watching those wild creatures up close and personal under the sickly streetlights. He feeds them when he can. Buddy’s stopped growling at them, and one of the vixens is getting bold. He’s almost touched her.

  He has a pitch selling the Big Issue outside Sainsbury’s but his slot doesn’t start until the afternoon rush hour. Sometimes he whiles away a few hours in the bookie, or sneaks into the library to read newspapers. Often he has to beg if he wants to eat. Not today. Four pounds in his cup, another three-and-a-bit in his pocket. Seven quid. Luxury. By rights he ought to put the whole lot on Westerly Boy in the first race at Haydock. He’s got a very good feeling about Westerly Boy.

  There again, the bookie won’t be open until eight o’clock, and Neil’s shivering now. His stomach is gnawing itself. Hunger hurts. Cold hurts. Everything hurts. He’d murder for a cup of tea and a bit of human company, and Tuckbox do giant mugs for one pound eighty. They’ve got big radiators, a toilet with fluffy towels, even
a bowl of water outside for dogs. Last week the barista gave him some leftover pies. Buddy and he and the foxes shared them.

  ‘Tuckbox it is, then,’ he says, passing a frayed piece of string under the dog’s collar. ‘C’mon, Buddy.’

  The streetlights are still glowing along Balham High Road, orange halos in the murk. A rind of ice coats the gutters. Skeins of hurrying commuters flow around him as though he’s a slow-moving branch in their river. Some are smoking, some talking nonsense into phones, their shiny shoes crunching in the grit. Buddy’s a good scavenger. He finds half a burger by the side of the road and scoffs the lot without changing pace.

  Neil begins to whistle quietly. He’s picturing himself jammed right up close to one of those heavy old radiators in Tuckbox, a mug between his hands, tea with lots of sugar. Newspaper to read. Marvellous. And when the bookie’s shop opens he’ll get himself straight in there and keep his fingers crossed for birthday luck.

  Today’s the day! The tide is on the turn, and his ship is coming in.

  TWO

  Abi

  She felt his kiss as he crept out at six, heard his hopeful whisper—Let me know, won’t you? Even if it’s not good news?—and nodded without opening her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him. Better to wait for the phone call to make her latest failure official.

  Sleep’s overrated. After all, you’re a long time dead. Charlie left a mug of coffee for her on the bedside cabinet, and it’s still hot when she hauls herself into the shower. By seven-fifteen she’s dressed, blow-dried, has sent off several urgent emails and is slamming the front door closed behind her. Turn left at the gate, head for the station, double-quick. So much to do, so little time.

  Monday. Results day. That all-important piece of paper will already be on someone’s desk. For some reason, Charlie’s been extra optimistic about this round. He keeps rubbing his hands, muttering, Fifth time lucky, eh? It’s our turn, isn’t it, Abi? Poor guy. He’s going to be crushed again.

  She’s due at St Albans Crown Court this morning to defend a woman accused of shaking her nine-week-old baby, causing catastrophic brain injury. The brief only arrived in Abi’s pigeonhole on Friday, after her fraud trial was adjourned. She met the mother an hour later. Kelly Bradshaw: young, gaunt, dissolving. I love Carla. I know you never ever shake a baby. It all hangs on the timing of the injury, but there’s a glimmer of hope there, because the prosecution expert doesn’t seem quite sure.

  Abi speeds up, towing her case on its wheels. The next train is due in twelve minutes and she intends to be on it. She’s mentally running through the week: lists, decisions, things-to-remember—organised, compartmentalised and flagged for action. She’s planning her cross-examination of the prosecution’s neurologist. She’s conjuring excuses to avoid Christmas lunch at her parents’ place: Dad being Dad in all his dickish glory; her sister Lottie like the Madonna, beatifically breastfeeding. She’s thinking about results day.

  Heartburn is raging in her solar plexus. Without breaking her stride she checks her bag, looking for antacids. Bugger, she’s out. Better get some more.

  The judge in Bradshaw has zero empathy. He’s going to be a total bastard when Abi starts making last-minute applications—which she fully intends to do because the defence case is a shambles. She needs social services records, and she plans to challenge the admissibility of Kelly’s disastrous police interviews. Abi is going to be public enemy number one this morning.

  She’s nipping into Boots when her phone rings. It’s early for the clinic to be calling, and it’s not from their usual number, but she feels a lurch of anxiety as she answers.

  Not the clinic. It’s Henry, her instructing solicitor in today’s trial. He’s losing his cool.

  ‘Slight problem,’ he says. ‘The prosecution served an addendum report from their neurologist.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It plugs the gap. He puts the time of injury squarely during the hours when Mum was alone with the baby.’

  ‘When did they serve this?’

  Henry sounds mortified, and well he might. ‘Actually, two weeks ago. It got misfiled at our end. Luckily I came in early, I was checking the file. An intern …’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Abi’s thinking fast as she grabs a packet of antacids from the shelf. ‘Look, can you get in touch with our expert, email him that report, try to get his response immediately? Email it to me too. I’ll read it on the train.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I should be with you by nine.’

  The self-service tills aren’t working. She and two other customers have to wait for a guy to amble across, chewing the cud. Bloody hell, would he hurry up? Seconds tick by and are lost forever—time, the most valuable commodity in her life. She can feel drips of acid burning her oesophagus as she finds Tuckbox Café on her phone and texts in her order. They don’t faff about. That’s why she’s so loyal to the place. It takes Sofia, the barista, an average of ninety seconds to exchange staccato pleasantries and produce an espresso-to-go.

  She’s out. Six minutes to the train. Three dogs are waiting on the pavement outside Tuckbox, their leads attached to bike racks. A rangy old boy sits a little apart from the others with his ears pressed forwards, gaze fixed on the door, obviously determined not to move until his human reappears. His lead consists of a piece of blue twine. The other two know Abi and are tail-waggingly delighted to see her.

  ‘Hi, gals,’ she mutters, patting them as she passes by. Dixie and Bella: an anorexic greyhound and a creamy teddy bear, both dolled up in twee tartan coats. Abi’s got a soft spot for these two, although she avoids their owners like the plague. Renata, Rory and their twin baby boys live next door, at number 96. Their smugness knows no bounds.

  Fifty per cent chance, the quacks say. Fifty per cent. Seemed like reasonable odds the first time, even the second. Don’t seem so good now that she and Charlie are enduring their fifth round, rapidly using up their precious frozen embryos, their savings, their hope. It’s an endless marathon: running and running, hearts and lungs screaming while the finishing line keeps moving further away. Yet all this time they’ve been brazening it out. They commute, they work, they laugh, they go to other people’s children’s christenings, they redecorate their home, they radiate success and control, they feverishly pretend their childlessness is a lifestyle choice. They watch one another grieve.

  The clinic will be calling this morning, probably at about eight. She knows the drill. She also knows exactly what they’re going to tell her and she doesn’t want to hear it.

  She reaches for the door of Tuckbox Café. Five minutes to the train.

  THREE

  Mutesi

  Mrs Dulcie Brown died in the early hours of the morning. She drifted over the bar from sleep to death, no fuss or fanfare, her heart finally still after almost a hundred years of life. Three in the morning is a popular departure time from the Prince Albert wing: the peaceful hour, when night staff move quietly through their routines and the cooks haven’t yet begun to clatter.

  Her family began to arrive just after the doctor who certified the death. Mutesi brought them a tray with tea and biscuits. She found them chuckling over their memories, making up for all those years when memory was lost. Mrs Brown had been absent for a decade, wandering through that homesick hinterland where all faces look alike and nowhere is home, clinging to a stubborn straw of dignity. Mutesi had pinned photos up in her bedroom as a reminder of who this shadow really was: Dulcie Agnes Brown. Mother, grandmother, great-grandmother. A Land Girl in the war, a magistrate. A tiny girl in a white dress and socks, staring solemnly out at her descendants.

  Mutesi’s shift ends at six, though she lingers to write up her notes before stepping out of the tropical heat of the nursing home into an icy pre-dawn. She catches the bus to Balham, lumbering across the frosty savannah of Tooting Common before hopping off at the stop beside St Jude’s church. It’s still dark—at least, the air glows in that constant twilight that passes for dark in London—but t
he city is already awake. You can hear it; you can feel it. Mutesi loves the sense that a giant is stirring and opening its eyes.

  The homeless man is sleeping on the bench again. She can just make out his bobble cap and his dog’s white-speckled muzzle peeking out from under a ragged blanket, both of them looking far too old for this kind of life. A tin mug sits on the ground nearby. Perhaps he’s left it there in hope of donations, or maybe it’s his bedside cup of water. After all, why wouldn’t homeless people have bedside cups of water like everyone else?

  The bench is a popular spot for rough sleepers. It’s set into an alcove in the church wall, sheltered from the worst of the weather. There was a fuss about it at the last parish council meeting. It’s true that some of the sleepers leave bottles, cigarette butts and a pervading smell of urine behind them, but not this one. The curate offered to contact an emergency shelter for him but he’d politely refused, saying it was a revolving door and, anyway, he needed to keep his dog. Mutesi fears they’ll find the pair of them dead one day, frozen stiff in the church grounds. It can’t be right.

  St Jude’s is locked up like Fort Knox, but she’s on the cleaning rota and has keys to the side door. She flicks on a minimum of lights, strolling peaceably among the frozen shadows of the nave, her footsteps startling saints in their stained-glass windows. The echoing space smells of polish and dust and plasticine from Sunday school, and now the pine of the enormous Christmas tree. Some people won’t venture in alone at night—spooky, they say, shivering. Mutesi likes it. She can certainly feel the spirits all around, but they’re kindly. Well, most of them are.

  She stops under the ornate carving of the pulpit, beside the tea-light stand with its wooden box for donations, and lights a candle for Mrs Brown. This is her private ritual whenever a resident dies. After a minute has passed she lights another for all the beloved souls she lost long ago, back home. Just one small flame must represent them all: it would take all the tea-lights in the basket if she were to light one for each. She leaves the candles burning, two tiny tongues of fire in the darkness.