Joanne Sefton - The Mother’s Lies

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019

First published as 'If They Knew' in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Joanne Sefton 2018

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2019

Cover illustration © Shutterstock

Joanne Sefton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008294441

Version: 2020-01-23

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page The Mother’s Lies Joanne Sefton

Copyright Published by AVON A Division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk This ebook edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019 First published as 'If They Knew' in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018 Copyright © Joanne Sefton 2018 Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2019 Cover illustration © Shutterstock Joanne Sefton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008294441 Version: 2020-01-23

June 1963 June 1963 Katy She wondered if there would still be honeysuckle. From the car window she caught sight of it from time to time – flashes of mottled flowers on the motorway embankment and in the hedgerows – pink and cream against the bright beech and shadowy hawthorn. There had been honeysuckle in flower a year ago; scrambling around the edges of the building site, its tendrils grasping over the broken earth and scattered debris and scenting the afternoon air. It would all be different now. But still, she would like Mary to have honeysuckle. That was why they were coming today, Mr Robertson had said. It might seem more familiar at this time of year; Katy might be able to remember something new. It was also the last chance before the building was due to open to the public. Katy didn’t want to remember at all. Last time they had brought her back, it had been in winter. The windows of Mr Robertson’s stately old Austin had frozen up while he waited for her. Katy remembered that, and she remembered Etta, wrapped in a fur coat with black felt hat and gloves, standing stiff with malice whilst Katy and the police shivered from the cold. It had all been different to that first June day with Mary. In winter, there had been no broken earth and no wire fences, no ramshackle no man’s land where the site met the farms. By January it was all flat tarmac surfaces, white paint and clean lines. Builders’ vans were parked neatly by the entrance, and a pair of window fitters had stopped work to gawp at them, until one of the coppers went over to have a word. ‘This is us, then,’ Mr Robertson called from the front seat, bringing Katy back to June; back to honeysuckle and the present. Miss Silver, sitting next to her, gave her hand a quick squeeze, as if she were embarrassed but felt she had to do it anyway. There was a copper waiting at the bottom of the slip road. Mr Robertson pulled in, past the signs advertising next week’s grand opening of the service station. Moreton Chase it was going to be called – someone had told Katy that last time. The Austin slowed as if to stop, but the young constable waved them on, scurrying to replace the painted wooden traffic cones that were being used to block the slip lane. As the car swung round a wide bend into the car park, Katy felt her heart beat faster. She didn’t want to remember what happened a year ago. She didn’t want to feel Mary’s weight in her arms. She didn’t want to see Mary’s face. Instead, she forced her mind’s eye downwards, remembering only her own feet in their scuffed school shoes, tramping through the grass and clover on a sunny June morning.

July 2017

December 2014

July 2017

June 1963

July 2017

June 2012

August 2017

June 1963

August 2017

May 1990

August 2017

June 1963

August 2017

October 1975

August 2017

June 1963

August 2017

June 1973

August 2017

June 1970

August 2017

March 1968

August 2017

February 1968

August 2017

August 1964

August 2017

October 1962

August 2017

June 1962

August 2017

June 1962

August 2017

June 1962

August 2017

May 1958

August 2017

August 2017

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Katy

She wondered if there would still be honeysuckle.

From the car window she caught sight of it from time to time – flashes of mottled flowers on the motorway embankment and in the hedgerows – pink and cream against the bright beech and shadowy hawthorn. There had been honeysuckle in flower a year ago; scrambling around the edges of the building site, its tendrils grasping over the broken earth and scattered debris and scenting the afternoon air. It would all be different now. But still, she would like Mary to have honeysuckle.

That was why they were coming today, Mr Robertson had said. It might seem more familiar at this time of year; Katy might be able to remember something new. It was also the last chance before the building was due to open to the public.

Katy didn’t want to remember at all.

Last time they had brought her back, it had been in winter. The windows of Mr Robertson’s stately old Austin had frozen up while he waited for her. Katy remembered that, and she remembered Etta, wrapped in a fur coat with black felt hat and gloves, standing stiff with malice whilst Katy and the police shivered from the cold.

It had all been different to that first June day with Mary. In winter, there had been no broken earth and no wire fences, no ramshackle no man’s land where the site met the farms. By January it was all flat tarmac surfaces, white paint and clean lines. Builders’ vans were parked neatly by the entrance, and a pair of window fitters had stopped work to gawp at them, until one of the coppers went over to have a word.