Sunday Times Bestselling Author
Casey Watson
Crying For Help
Dedication
To my wonderful and supportive family
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
8.15am, Wednesday 15 October
Transcript of a call to emergency services, [location given] Response Centre
999 OPERATOR – ‘Police emergency. Can I help you?’
YOUNG GIRL – ‘It’s my mum. I think she’s dead.’
OPERATOR – ‘Can I have your name and address, lovey?’
YOUNG GIRL – ‘Yes, I’m Sophia, I live at [address given].’
OPERATOR – ‘Okay, sweetheart. That’s great. Now, how old are you?’
SOPHIA – ‘I’m almost eleven.’
OPERATOR – ‘Thank you, Sophia. Now, listen – there are some police officers on their way to your house now, so you just stay on the phone talking to me until they get to you, okay? Then you must let them come in. Okay, lovey? You understand that?’
SOPHIA – ‘Yes, okay. But she’s dead. I think she must be. [Pauses.] She’s fallen down the stairs, I think, and there’s blood. She’s very cold.’
OPERATOR – ‘Okay sweetheart. I understand. You just keep talking to me, okay? Stay on the phone. The officers will be there in just a minute or two, all right? Is there anybody else with you?’
SOPHIA – ‘Yes, there is. My friend, Caitlyn. We had a sleepover. I don’t know what to do. Oh, hang on, Caitlyn’s gone to the door. I think it’s the police. Yes, they’re here.’
OPERATOR – ‘They’re there? All right sweetheart, I’ll let you go and speak to them, you’ve done really well. Could you put one of them on the line for me so I can–’
[PHONE DISCONNECTS]
Chapter 1
Sometimes, I think it pays to trust your instincts. My own, like many women’s, are sound in most respects, particularly that little voice that you hear from time to time which tells you something’s not quite right; something isn’t as it seems. You know, that hairs-on-the-back-of-the-neck prickle you sometimes get?
I had that, right away, when John Fulshaw got in touch. It was early January, and one of those really gloomy days, freezing cold, when, even though it was already two in the afternoon, it felt as if it had never really got light. I’d been standing by the window, looking out into the street, and thinking how dreary everybody looked as they plodded by. All dressed in black or grey or brown, hunched over, looking at the ground, collars up, shielding their necks and hands and faces from the bitter winter cold. I loved December, but I really hated January.
‘What’s up, Mum?’ said my grown-up son, Kieron, who was with me, along with the family dog, Bob, and helping to take down the last of the Christmas decorations. I say ‘said’ but he actually had to raise his voice a bit, due to the music channel he and his sister insisted on having blaring out on the TV.
‘Oh, don’t set her off again,’ chipped in Riley, my daughter. She was 22 to Kieron’s 20, and had come over to help too. She paused to shake her head and to roll her eyes at the sight of my long face. ‘It can’t be Christmas every day, Mum,’ she said, pulling a face at me. ‘Despite what the song says, okay?’
I pulled a face back but they were both probably right. I needed reminding of that, often. I loved everything glittery and sparkly, always have, and hated the rest of the winter’s dark days and dull colours. And this January already seemed particularly colourless. Not only Christmas had gone, but Justin had too, the 12-year-old boy who’d we’d fostered for the whole of the last year and whose leaving had left such a big hole in our lives. Sure, he still came to see us, and promised he’d keep doing so, but it wasn’t the same. How could it be? For all the challenges he’d brought with him – and there had definitely been challenges – I really missed having him around. What I needed right now was a new challenge. Something to shake me out of my post-festive blues and get me all fired up once again.
And when the phone rang, it seemed John was going to supply one. John was our link worker at the specialist fostering agency we worked for. He’d also trained both me and my husband, Mike, for the job. It had been John who’d placed Justin with us, and once Justin had left us, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, it was John who had warned us that we’d both better recharge our batteries, because there would soon be another child who needed our help.
The recharging that had taken place, in true Watson style, had naturally involved plenty of parties and fairy lights, and, this year, since Riley and her partner, David, had blessed us in the autumn with our very first grandson, Levi, even more exuberance and cuddly toys than usual. Perhaps it was just the contrast, I mused as I went to pick up the receiver, that was making January seem so drab and dull.
It wasn’t John on the phone, though; it was Mike, calling from work. John had phoned him there because he hadn’t been able to get an answer from me.
‘The kids and their racket, I expect,’ I explained. ‘They’re both helping me get the decorations down and part of the deal seems to be MTV on full blast.’ I pulled the living-room door closed to shut out the noise, so I could hear. ‘So what’s the news?’
‘He’s got a child he wants to talk to us about. But I couldn’t talk, of course, because I’m working.’ I smiled to myself. Mike was such a stickler for doing things by the book. He worked as a warehouse manager and he had his own office, but he’d never dream of taking time out for a personal call.
‘How exciting! What did he say? Did he tell you anything