Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons - A chillingly clever psychological thriller with a stomach-flipping twist

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017

Copyright © Elisabeth Carpenter 2017

Elisabeth Carpenter 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008223519

Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008264024

Version: 2017-07-25

For Dad

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two: Stephanie

Chapter Three: Maggie

Chapter Four: Stephanie

Chapter Five

Chapter Six: Maggie

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight: Stephanie

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten: Maggie

Chapter Eleven: Stephanie

Chapter Twelve: Maggie

Chapter Thirteen: Stephanie

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen: Stephanie

Chapter Sixteen: Maggie

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen: Maggie

Chapter Nineteen: Stephanie

Chapter Twenty: Maggie

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two: Maggie

Chapter Twenty-Three: Stephanie

Chapter Twenty-Four: Maggie

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six: Stephanie

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Stephanie

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty: Stephanie

Chapter Thirty-One: Stephanie

Chapter Thirty-Two: Maggie

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four: Maggie

Chapter Thirty-Five: Stephanie

Chapter Thirty-Six: Maggie

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Stephanie

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty: Stephanie

Chapter Forty-One: Maggie

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three: Maggie

Chapter Forty-Four: Stephanie

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six: Maggie

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight: Stephanie

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty: Maggie

Chapter Fifty-One: Stephanie

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three: Stephanie

Chapter Fifty-Four: Maggie

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six: Maggie

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Stephanie

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Maggie

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Stephanie

Chapter Sixty: Maggie

Chapter Sixty-One: Stephanie

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading…

About the Author

About the Publisher

I squint at him. The sun’s in my eyes and he looks like a shadow monster.

‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got to get home. I’m only meant to be getting sweets from the paper shop, then straight back .’

He crouches in front of me. He’s wearing a woolly hat, which is funny as it’s really warm today.

‘But your mum asked me to fetch you.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

I fold my arms. When I tilt my head, his face blocks out the sun.

‘You might be lying,’ I say. ‘Mummy warned me about men with sweets and puppies.’

The man laughs, like Gramps does when he’s Father Christmas.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘What’s she like? She’s such a worrywart.’

He’s right: she is. I drop my arms to my sides.

‘Anyway,’ he says, holding out both of his hands, ‘I’ve no sweets and I’ve no puppies. My name’s George – she’s always talking about me, isn’t she? She’s waiting at the bus station, says she’s got a surprise for you, for being a good girl at school.’ He taps his nose. ‘And we all know what you’ve been asking for.’

‘Really?’ I try not to jump up and down. ‘They’ve got me a horse?’

He winks and puts his finger on his lips. I try to wink too, but it turns into a messy blink. He holds out his hand, and I take it.

I’m allowed to sit on the front seat, but I’m not allowed to tell Mummy. On the radio, a song plays that I know: ‘Ninety-Nine Red Balloons’. I’m warm inside because Mummy sings it a lot. She sings it in German sometimes: Noin and noinsick or something. It’s an old one, but I like it.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

He’s looking at me as though I’ve got spots all over my face.

‘I think so.’

Mummy’s always worrying about me. When I had a bad cough in the middle of the night three weeks ago, she ran a hot bath and called the ambulance, but it was a false alarm .

He stops the car at a mini car park on the side of the road, just as the song is ending. Without his hat on, he looks older than he did before. He puts his hand on my forehead.

‘You do feel a bit hot.’

As soon as he says it, I feel it. I’m burning up.

He turns to the back seat and grabs a plastic carrier bag. I can’t read the supermarket’s name, but I recognise the red and green. He gets out a flask and pours a drink.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Your mum gave me this in case you got car sick.’

After I’ve drunk it, I give the plastic cup-lid back to him. I’m really tired. There are things I have to say to him, like, Mummy’s never mentioned anyone called George , and, I never get car sick , but I can’t because my mouth doesn’t work any more. I try to smile at him. I wouldn’t say those things to him anyway ’cos I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Has he turned the radio off? Everything’s quiet. I can’t stop my eyelids from shutting.

Emma’s running up and down the street. Angie, her next-door neighbour, is standing at her gate in her dressing gown.

‘What’s happening, Mum?’ asks Jamie, sitting beside me in the passenger seat. ‘Why’s Aunt Emma outside shouting? I thought we were coming for tea.’

‘I don’t know, love. Wait in the car.’

I get out. Angie pulls her dressing gown tight around her middle, shivering, even though it’s not that cold yet.

‘She can’t find Grace,’ she says.

‘What do you mean she can’t find her? Where’s she left her?’

‘Nowhere. She hasn’t come home from school yet.’

It’s nearly half past four.

‘Shit.’

I run after Emma, following her into the newsagent’s a few doors down. She’s showing Mr Anderson a picture of Grace on her phone, even though he already knows what she looks like. He shakes his head.