Elisabeth Carpenter - 11 Missed Calls - A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Elisabeth Carpenter 2018

Cover photographs © Arcangel

Cover photographs © Alamy

Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com2018

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: 9780008223540

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008223557

Version: 2018-04-18

In memory of:

Daniel and Dorothy Sweeney

Patricia and Stanley Carpenter

Michael Carpenter

Julia Thorn

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Acknowledgements

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About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Debbie

The rock I’m standing on is only twelve inches long – just a foot stopping me falling into the water nearly five hundred feet below. The stone is cool under my bare feet.

It’s quiet; there aren’t many cars going past behind me. It must be late, or early. There’s a lovely warm breeze, one you don’t get in England when it’s dark. If it gets stronger, it might push me over the edge. Hitting water from this height is meant to be like landing on tarmac.

I’ve always been afraid of heights. What a strange time to conquer my fear. Nathan said this part of the cliffs is called La Gran Caída. Perhaps the name will be imprinted on my soul, alongside Bobby’s and Annie’s. I thought that when I had children, I’d become a better person. I think I’ve always had a badness, a sadness, inside me.

Why are my thoughts everywhere? They need to be here. I’m ridiculous, silly; my mother’s right. She’s always right. I’m useless to everyone. Everyone will be happier without me. Especially the children.

Oh God, no.

I can’t think about the children.

They have Peter. I’d only let them down again. What if I were left on my own with Annie again? I might kill her.

They’ll forget me soon enough. They’re young enough to erase me from their memory.

Breathe, breathe.

I’m surprised by how calm I am.

It’s like my mind was coated in tar, but now it’s been wiped clean.

I close my eyes.

So, this is how it ends.

I thought I’d be scared if ever I fell from such a height, but if I jump there’ll be nothing I can do about it.

The warm breeze skims my face again. I should be with my children right now, lying next to them, watching them sleep.

But I can’t. I’m not good enough for them. They’ll end up hating me.

Bobby, Annie, you were the loves of my life.

‘Debbie! For God’s sake, what are you doing?’

Is that the voice inside my head again?

I close my eyes. I don’t want anyone to stop me. I just want darkness.

Don’t look back. I can’t look back.

‘Debbie, come away from there!’

Before I have time to think, I’m turning around.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘It’s you.’

Anna

My mother, Debbie, has been missing for thirty years, ten months and twenty-seven days. It’s her birthday the day after tomorrow – two days after mine. I’m three years older than she was when she was last seen. She disappeared so long ago, that my father doesn’t talk about her any more. I have always taken scraps of information from my stepmother, Monica, and my grandfather, who will never give up hope .

But they have run out of new things to say about her. I was just over one month old when she left. I have no memories of my own, but I have a box. Inside it are random objects, music records, and photographs that belonged to her. There’s also a scrapbook with pages and pages of facts I wrote about her: She had dark hair, like mine. She was five foot five (two inches taller than me).She had her ears pierced twice in each ear. (Gran didn’t like it and had no idea where she got the money, at fifteen, to do that.) She liked The Beatles and Blondie. She wasn’t very happy at the end.

I started the list when I was eleven, so my first entries are naive and in the past tense. What I would like to know now is: What made you leave? and Do you ever think of us? But of course, no one can answer those questions but her.

The letterbox rattles, shaking me out of my thoughts. Sophie runs to the front door. The envelopes look huge in her little hands.

‘There are loads more cards for you, Mummy,’ she says.

She hands me the three pastel-coloured envelopes. I examine the handwriting on each one to see if I recognise it. I don’t know why I do it to myself every year. If the writing is unfamiliar, I get butterflies and a feeling of anticipation. What if this is the day she contacts me? What if it is today that I find out that she’s not dead – that she did something so terrible she had to protect us from the truth?

It is wishful thinking. I have made up so many stories in my head over the years. They get more absurd every time: she died the night she disappeared; she’s in prison for drug smuggling; she’s living in a South American village after suffering from amnesia.

I place the birthday cards on the table.

‘Are you not going to open them?’ asks Sophie.