While You Were Sleeping

A Gripping Psychological Thriller

Kathryn Croft

For Dad, never forgotten

Contents

Prologue

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part II

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part III

Chapter 33

The Girl You Lost

Kathryn’s Email Sign Up

Also by Kathryn Croft

A Letter from Kathryn

Silent Lies

The Girl With No Past

Acknowledgements

Prologue

I open my eyes and know immediately something is wrong. Nothing is familiar. The dark blinds, shutting out all but a tiny sliver of sunlight, are not mine, and neither is the black silk sheet covering my body, nor the too-soft pillow beneath my head.

This is not my bedroom.

With eyes still groggy from sleep, I rely on all my other senses to comprehend where I am, but I have no idea.

Something else is wrong.

I should be warmer than this – it was over eighty degrees yesterday evening, yet now I feel cold. And as I become more alert, it only takes a few seconds to work out why this is.

I am naked.

Forcing my eyes to focus, I squint into the darkness, and try to take in the rest of the bedroom. Everything is white and neat, deliberately minimal. Furniture I would not have chosen. Furniture that is both strange and familiar.

Someone is next to me.

‘Noah?’ I whisper. But I already know it’s not him. The shape under the sheet is not my husband’s.

Now I begin to panic because none of this makes sense. Slowly I lift the sheet, and take in the familiar dark hair and suntanned skin of his back.

I know this man.

Gently I nudge him, wait for the awkward response, as I start to remember brief flashes of his face last night. The smile as he invited me inside.

‘Lee?’ Another gentle nudge, but harder this time.

Nothing.

On rare occasions I have seen Noah like this. Too intoxicated from celebrating something or other to wake up, unless I shout directly in his ear.

Flinging my legs over the side of the bed, I search for my clothes. My black skirt hangs over the radiator, my underwear scattered on the floor. I can’t remember what else I was wearing. I can’t remember anything other than turning up here.

I retrieve what I can and hastily dress. I don’t want him to see me undressed. But he already has. He must have. And when I walk to his side of the bed I know immediately something is wrong. Something else. Something worse than waking up naked in my neighbour’s bed.

He is dead. I know this already. No one with life in them can lie so motionless.

With heavy robotic movements, I pull back the sheet, preparing myself to call an ambulance. He is young, but he could still have had a heart attack or something similar. I have heard of this happening when people exert themselves. But no, I cannot allow myself to believe I slept with him. I wouldn’t do that to Noah. To Rosie and Spencer.

This I am prepared for. It is the large pool of blood which is the shock. The gash in his chest. The way his mouth forms an ‘o’ shape. The accusation in his wide-open eyes.

I scream into the silence.

Part I

Chapter One

24 Hours Earlier

I lie in bed and watch Noah pack. He is methodical and precise, ticking off items on the ‘To Pack’ list he created days ago on his phone. Everything is placed neatly inside his immaculate suitcase, every inch of space utilised to its full potential. I smile to myself. This is Noah all over. The complete contrast to me.

‘Are you looking forward to having the house to yourself?’ he asks. ‘A bit of peace for a change.’

Yes, I am. I love the kids, and I love Noah, but I need to get back to me, if only for the weekend. The chance is a rarity I must make the most of. ‘I’m just worried about Rosie,’ I tell him. ‘She’s. . . well. . .’

‘Has something else happened?’ He stops folding a T-shirt and searches my face. He always thinks I’m not telling him everything as far as our seventeen-year-old daughter is concerned. But if I’ve kept anything from him, it’s to preserve her trust in me. Not that it makes any difference to Rosie. We are both against her.

I sit up and draw my knees to my chin. ‘Nothing new. But she’s still talking about Anthony.’ I wait for the fallout.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! Does she want the police here again? Why doesn’t she just leave the poor guy alone? He’s not interested. End of story.’

But in Rosie’s world it isn’t. Anthony chased her for weeks, an affirmation of the beauty we can all clearly see, but then after only a kiss he lost interest. It happens. Most of us can move on from this rejection, but not Rosie. It wasn’t the first of her meltdowns and it won’t be the last. It’s just the one we’re currently dealing with.

‘It will be fine,’ I say. ‘She just mentioned him, that’s all. I think she’d seen him at school and it. . . well, it must have triggered something.’ Because there is always a trigger with Rosie. It doesn’t even have to relate to her current trauma.

With a heavy sigh, Noah resumes folding. ‘We need to get her to Dr Marshall again. He helped last time, didn’t he?’

Not really. But, at a loss as to what else to do, I’ve attempted to take her back to him, only to be met with huge resistance. Screaming. Shouting. Smashing of fragile objects. Silence as she withdraws into herself and won’t speak to anyone. And then, finally, the other Rosie. The Rosie who convinces us she’s fine, makes us believe it, so that we cancel the appointment for fear of wasting the doctor’s time.

He couldn’t give us an answer either. His voice said depression, but his eyes told a different story. She’ll grow out of it. She just wants attention. Now get on and deal with it.

‘I’ve got it under control,’ I say, ‘you just focus on New York. Get that account.’ And my silent thoughts say: don’t come back and tell me it’s happened again, that after everything you’re in the wrong place here with us.

Noah zips up his case and pulls it down from the bed, placing it in the corner of the room, out of the way. He crosses to me and plants a soft kiss on my forehead.

‘Make sure you get your painting finished. I know you artistic types need to get in the zone, or whatever you call it, but we’ll all be back on Sunday night.’

I have already counted how many hours I will have: fifty-six. Fifty-six hours to finish my submission for the London Art Gallery competition. The chances of winning are slim, but the prize is representation in the gallery so I will give it my best shot. And having the house to myself will aid me tremendously. It will also give me a break from thinking about school, disciplining students and, most of all, my colleague, Mikey.

Noah interrupts my thoughts. ‘So Spencer’s staying with your parents, and Rosie’s going to Libby’s? I’d feel better if they were both staying with your mum and dad.’

He’s already gone through this with me three times since yesterday. And each time I’ve told him that, yes, I’ve double-checked with Libby’s parents that they’re having Rosie for the whole weekend. It’s all covered. And Bernadette is aware of Rosie’s troubles. She will keep an eye on our daughter.

‘Remember what happened last time?’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to put my parents under any more stress.’

He curls his mouth and I know he’s recalling the events of two months ago. Remembering the pain it caused my parents to have to report to the police that their granddaughter had gone missing. ‘Hmmm. True,’ he says. Then he delivers that sigh again: the one that only Rosie can inspire.

From out in the hallway I hear a door opening, and floorboards creaking. It is only ten minutes to seven so I know it will be Spencer, creeping along the corridor so he doesn’t wake his sister. I’ve told him many times that Rosie could sleep through a hurricane, but he tells me it’s best to be careful. Spencer wakes early so that he can enjoy the calm before the storm. I forgot to tell him yesterday that Rosie has no classes today, so the likelihood of her emerging from her room before one p.m. is zero.

‘Oh, good, Spencer’s up,’ Noah says. ‘I’ll get to see him before I leave. Cab’s coming in half an hour, so I need to jump in the shower.’

I wonder if Noah said goodbye to Rosie yesterday, but don’t ask him. It will spark another long conversation, and I need this time to be for Spencer.

Downstairs I watch our son pour cornflakes into a bowl, and marvel at how different he is to Rosie. How easy. I don’t play favourites, and even in the private recesses of my heart and mind, I love them both equally. But Spencer makes it so much easier.

‘Mum, will Grandma and Grandad let me watch a DVD this evening?’

His face flushes with excitement. It is very rare not to see him happy, and even when Rosie is kicking off about something, he puts on a brave face, tries to see the best in the situation, and his sister.

‘That depends what DVD it is,’ I say, taking a sip of my coffee to wake myself up.

‘Well, um, it’s actually a 15, but everyone at school’s seen it.’

‘Spencer, you’re eleven. So pick another one.’

He doesn’t protest at this, just resigns himself to it, and it’s not long before he’s content again, filling me in on the new English teacher who’s just started at his school. I can’t help but smile when he tells me nobody’s giving her a chance, but he was nice to her because she’s done nothing wrong.

It is confirmation that I must be doing something right.

‘Dad!’ Spencer calls, when Noah walks in, his hair still damp from his shower.

Noah hurtles over to him and ruffles his hair, pulling him into a bear hug. And behind my cup of coffee I smile at this scene. But we are missing Rosie. The Rosie I know is there somewhere.

Later, once I’m showered and dressed, I get ready to paint in the sunroom. The whole day stretches before me, and I’m excited to see what I can produce. I have decided on a lake – the branches of a large tree reaching out to it, trying to touch the scattered floating leaves – which exists only in my imagination.

I don’t hear Rosie appear until she’s standing right behind me. It is only ten a.m. but she’s already dressed in skinny jeans and a loose V-neck T-shirt. Her shoes are the same coral colour as her top, and her glossy dark hair fans around her shoulders. She always looks lovely.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she says, peering at the easel. ‘What are you going to paint?’

When I tell her what I’ve decided she nods, a thin smile forming on her face.

‘A landscape. That’s a good idea.’

‘Are you ready to go to Libby’s? Shall I give you a lift?’

‘It’s okay, we’re meeting in Putney. I’ll get the bus.’

Even though Putney is not far from Richmond, I can’t help feeling anxious. But today Rosie seems in a good mood, calm, and I know she’s been looking forward to this weekend.

‘Okay, if you’re sure.’

‘Stop worrying about me, Mum. I’m fine. Okay?’

So I relax a little, because this is the Rosie who inspires confidence. The girl I wish she always could be. I squeeze her hand and dare to believe that she’s through the worst of it. That she’s forgotten all about Anthony.

‘Bye then,’ she says, floating through the door like a butterfly.

She will be okay today. I know she will.

I’m so engrossed in my painting that it’s past two p.m. when I finally remember to eat. I am making progress, so taking a break won’t do any harm.

When my mobile rings while I’m eating my sandwich, I’m pleased to see Lisa’s name on the screen. My sister is always travelling, or doing something adventurous I can only dream of, so it’s rare that we get a moment to speak.

‘Everything okay?’ she asks, once she’s told me about her latest trip to Thailand.

I fill her in on Rosie’s latest escapades, and she whistles into the phone.

‘That girl needs to come away with me somewhere,’ she says. ‘That will sort her out. But at least she’ll be having fun with her friend this weekend.’

Rosie travelling with Lisa is an interesting idea, and one I will consider when she’s finished her A-levels. Perhaps she needs to be aware that there is a whole world out there – not just the tiny one which revolves solely around Rosie.

‘How’s Harvey?’ I ask.

Lisa hesitates. ‘He’s great. Planning our next trip as we speak. He’s thinking of Australia.’ She lowers her voice to a soft whisper. ‘To tell you the truth, Tara, I’m getting a bit tired of it. It would be nice to be in the country for longer than a few weeks.’

I have often wondered how Lisa has the energy for all this jet-setting, but then, at thirty-six, she is three years younger than me, and not yet having children probably helps. Is that enough to make a difference? I’m exhausted just contemplating a trip to the West End. But I love that she lives her life to the full. She always has.

‘Is everything okay between you two?’ I sense something is not quite right, but Lisa doesn’t like to share details of her relationships. And, after only six months, theirs is a fairly new one.

‘It’s going fine, actually. We’ve got a lot in common.’

But does he excite you? I want to say. Does he make you feel as though you can do anything, be anyone? Because that’s the way it should be. I think of Noah. He still makes me feel like that, but somehow I doubt I do the same for him.

‘I miss you,’ Lisa says, forcing me to focus. ‘Hey, if you’re going to be alone, shall I come over this evening? I’ll bring a bottle of wine and you can tell me everything that’s been going on.’

Her offer tempts me – it would be nice to catch up with her – but the competition deadline looms before me and I need to use every moment I can.

The calm before the storm.

She falls silent when I tell her this, but tells me she understands. ‘It’s been so long,’ she says. ‘When was the last time? It was months ago when we went out for drinks at that piano bar.’

Yes, she is right. But I don’t remind her how drunk she got, or how Noah had to drive her home early.

We say goodbye as we usually do: with hope-filled promises to meet up soon.

Despite my good intentions to paint all day, somehow I fall asleep while I’m taking a break on the sofa. I am roused by the ping of my phone: a text from Noah, and am shocked to notice it’s nearly seven p.m. He writes that he’s just landed at JFK, and is on his way to the hotel to meet his client.

Nearly twenty years with Noah has taught me a little about the advertising industry, and the main thing I’ve learned is that it’s a dog-eat-dog world, one in which Noah has to battle hard for every account he gets.

I reply to his text, wishing him luck. The two kisses I add I wish I could give him in person. I will never be possessive or stop him doing anything he wants to do. I only need to know that he wants to come home.

His reply is immediate. ‘I love you.’

Closing his text, I see that I have another, unanswered, one, this time from our neighbour, Serena. I flit between labelling her and her husband friends and neighbours, because really they are both. But at different times they seem to mould into each individual label, so perhaps they are truly neither. But, whatever they are to us, and we are to them, they are a decent couple and we’re lucky to live across the road.

‘Can you come over ASAP?’ Serena asks.‘Need a shoulder to cry on!’

Her exclamation mark tells me this is tongue-in-cheek, but you never know with Serena. She’s a strong woman, but I know she’s going through a lot at the moment.

I’m about to type back that I’m on my way, but am distracted when Rosie texts to ask if Libby’s mum can take them to the West End for dinner. This is fine as long as they are being accompanied, and by the time I’ve confirmed this with Bernadette, I don’t bother replying to Serena. I will just get over there, but I need to change first. I may only be heading across the road, but I can’t leave the house in paint-splattered joggers.

Lee answers the door, dressed only in shorts. But being a landscape gardener, I am used to seeing him like this.

‘Oh, hey, Tara, how are you? Come in, come in.’ He holds open the door, standing aside to let me in. ‘Excuse my state of undress; I’ll just throw a T-shirt on. It’s so bloody hot, though, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry about that, I’m, um, sorry. I just got Serena’s text. Is she okay? Are you okay?’

His forehead creases. ‘We’re fine. But Serena’s not here. She just left actually. Her friend’s hen weekend.’

This is a puzzle to me. ‘But she just texted to ask if I could come over. At least I’m sure she did.’ I have never misread a text before, but start to doubt myself.

To prove to Lee I’m not losing the plot, I pull out my phone and scroll to Serena’s message. It is there, the words exactly as I remember them.

‘Oh,’ Lee says, when I show it to him, the frown back on his forehead. ‘Hang on a minute.’ He swipes the screen and then smiles. ‘I see what’s happened. She sent this text in the morning.’

He shows me the screen, and there it is: ten fifteen a.m. Hours ago.

Feeling foolish, I apologise profusely for my mistake, and turn to go back home.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Lee says, ‘you’re here now. Why don’t you stay and have a drink? I’ve literally just opened a bottle of red.’

I hesitate, pulled in two directions. Across the road my unfinished painting waits, but it would be nice to have company. And Lee is a good laugh.

As soon as I sit down on their cream leather sofa this feels like a mistake. There is something wrong about being here without Serena; as much as I like Lee, she is the one I have bonded with. But I am here now.

Lee pulls on a T-shirt then hands me a glass of wine, and I sip it slowly, wondering how wise it is when I’ve barely eaten today.

‘So, Tara, how are things? We haven’t seen you for a while.’

My mind searches for a memory but I only draw a blank. Surely it hasn’t been that long? It’s funny how you can live so close to someone yet not bump into them on a regular basis. Our cul-de-sac has only ten detached houses, surrounding a large green, which only makes it stranger.

I tell him about my painting, pleased to notice he is listening intently.

‘So, you’ve given up teaching?’ he asks. ‘Don’t blame you. Must be the hardest job in the world.’

I don’t bother correcting him. I haven’t taught art for over a year now. ‘Well, I’m still the Year 9 head of pastoral care, but, yes, I’m hoping that, eventually, I’ll be able to make a living from my painting.’ This is usually when people’s eyes glaze over, when their silent thoughts scream at me. Most artists are penniless. There is too much competition. Perhaps you should just stick to your real job. But their doubt only fuels my determination.

But not Lee. He asks me what genre I paint, and explains how much he admires creativity of any kind. ‘I love your passion,’ he says, and I flush at his compliment.

‘What about you and Serena?’ I ask, hoping I’m not crossing a line. I have only ever spoken to Serena about their problems, and can’t be sure Lee knows his wife has shared so much with me.

He does seem taken aback for a moment, and perhaps he is trying to determine how open he can be with me, but it doesn’t take him long to speak freely. ‘We’ve been trying for years, and I have to be honest – it’s exhausting. Sometimes I just want. . .’

‘A break?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly right. A break. I want to forget we’re having trouble, and just focus on living.’ He smiles, and takes a long sip of wine. ‘I just want Serena and me to be. . . us again.’

As always happens when I speak to Serena, I am shrouded in a veil of guilt. Getting pregnant with Rosie happened without us even trying, and Spencer only took a few months to conceive. But everything comes at a cost.

There is no advice I can offer Lee, so instead I tell him what I firmly believe. ‘You’ll both be okay.’ Because we have no choice. Whatever afflictions we are dealt, unless it’s a terminal illness, we find a way to survive.

‘To be honest, Tara, I’m not even sure I want a baby any more. At least not yet. We’re still pretty young: I don’t think life should be this. . . heavy.’

I know Serena is thirty-three, so Lee must be close to that. He is right: they have time on their side. But, of course, that is not how Serena feels.

‘Another one?’ Lee asks, gesturing to my now-empty glass.

‘No. . . thanks, but I should get back.’ To my painting, and the empty house I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.

But Lee starts filling my glass. ‘It’s still early. You can have one more while you tell me more about this art competition.’

But I don’t just have one more, and after another two glasses, I’m enjoying myself too much to go home. It is too late to paint now, the sun withdrew long ago, so there is no harm staying here chatting to Lee.

And this thought is the last thing I remember.