A Mother Always Knows

Chapter 1 Carla

Carla

At first, the locals assume he has run away.

With the exception of his mother, who has rung round everyone she knows, including me, no one seems overly concerned he has gone missing.

His disappearance has been given only a fleeting mention in an online article for the North Devon Echo Live and has had no coverage at all, as far as I’m aware, on television.

Even the police seem to be making only a token effort to determine his whereabouts.

He’s an adult, after all, having turned eighteen last October.

Plus, he went AWOL only a few days ago. And locals never really expect anything sensational to happen in the small, remote town of Brayworthy, nestling on the edge of Exmoor, especially not during the month of August. Between you and me, I’m delighted he has disappeared and hope he doesn’t show his face round here again any time soon.

All of this changes, of course, at the beginning of September, when a body is discovered.

Jo is the one who gives me the heads-up.

My phone pings with her text as I’m doing the day’s Quordle and drinking my first coffee of the morning.

Joanne has been my best friend since school – the same school where my kids now go and she teaches mathematics: South Lydacombe.

She’s married to a police officer, which is, I suppose, how she was clued in before nearly everyone else.

I put down my cup and call her immediately. When she answers, I skip the formalities and get straight to the point. ‘Do they know if it’s … him?’ I can’t bring myself to say his name.

‘No.’ Jo knows who I mean. He’s the reason she has texted me.

‘I don’t know any more than I told you in my message,’ she says.

‘A body has been discovered in the woods. The body of a male. Ian wouldn’t say any more than that.

He was on his way to the scene. I don’t know if he actually knew any more than that when he rang me. ’

‘Who found it … him?’

‘I don’t know. A dog walker or a jogger, I imagine. I don’t think the police were actively combing the area looking for him.’

‘Which woods?’

‘Lower Buryknoll Wood.’

‘You have got to be kidding me. Is this some kind of sick joke?’

It takes Jo a few seconds to get it. ‘Oh, I see,’ she says when the penny drops.

‘Joshua Knoll. Uncanny. It’s probably just a coincidence.

Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a class at nine and I want to get in early.

First day of the new school year and all that.

Even after all these years, I get a bit nervous. ’

‘Sorry, Jo. I’m holding you up. Good luck! You’ll smash it! You’re the best teacher that school has.’ It’s sincere – I really believe it – but my voice sounds strained.

‘Thanks. I’ll do my best to keep you posted, Carla. Try not to worry. It might not even be him.’

‘Jo, just one more—’

But she has ended the call before I can ask the most important question, although I doubt she knows the answer. Not yet anyway. How did he die? Jo’s husband, Ian – DI Ian Rowland – is CID. Criminal Investigation Department. If he’s in charge of this case, it doesn’t look good.

I set down my mobile on the kitchen counter, having lost my enthusiasm for the word game I was playing before Jo’s text was delivered. Sensing someone behind me, I jump and whirl round.

‘Good morning, sweetie,’ I say, as my daughter walks barefoot across the terracotta tiles to peck me on the cheek. How much of the conversation did she overhear? ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Morning, Mum,’ Iris says. ‘Not too bad.’

I observe her as she puts two slices of bread into the toaster and flicks on the kettle to make herself a mug of green tea, her latest fad.

She clearly doesn’t know. She’ll have checked her mobile, as she does every day now – first thing in the morning and last thing at night, and several times in between.

She’ll have scrolled through any new messages in her WhatsApp groups.

She’s looking for stuff that concerns her, not news of him, but she’d have seen it if there was anything.

The news will be out soon, though, and it will spread like wildfire, whether the body turns out to be his or not. I should warn her, in case. But what if it isn’t him? She’s been through enough. I don’t want to panic her unnecessarily.

Before I can work out what to do, Olly saunters into the kitchen, looking scruffy in his school uniform, even though I washed and ironed his shirt and trousers and hung everything up in his wardrobe at the end of last term.

The shirt is not tucked in, the trousers are creased and the knot in his tie, which hangs about halfway down his chest, could hardly be smaller or tighter.

His blazer looks as if it has spent the summer holidays on the floor.

It was his eighteenth birthday yesterday, but although he’s tall and muscular, he still carries himself like a child: lanky and awkward, as if he hasn’t quite grown into his body.

He’s grown out of his uniform, though. I bought the kids new shoes, but I should have bought Olly a new pair of trousers, too.

He nods almost imperceptibly in my direction and sits down at the table.

‘You need to lose the bedhead, bro,’ Iris comments. She’s right. His wiry, blond hair is standing to attention, as if he has just been electrocuted.

‘Good morning to you, too,’ Olly grumbles as he pours himself a bowl of cereal and adds milk from the carton, stopping just before it overflows.

Iris takes a seat opposite her brother at the large, wooden table and butters her toast. She chats to Olly about the teachers she has just found out she’ll have for this school year.

In the mornings, Olly’s conversation is usually limited to monosyllabic words and grunts, but he’s making an effort, for Iris’s sake.

She sounds cheerful and has painted on a smile, but I know she’s dreading going back to school.

She finished off the last school year studying from home, apart from one disastrous day when she plucked up the courage to go in to lessons.

Going back properly is a big leap for her.

Leaning against the worktop, I tune out their conversation and focus on the questions whirring through my mind.

Should I tell Iris about the body in the woods?

Is it Joshua Knoll? Assuming it is him, if he accidentally broke his neck falling into a ravine or something, it could be a good thing.

Iris might finally be able to turn the page and move on to the next chapter of her life.

But what if his death wasn’t an accident? What then?

I have to tell Iris. I’m not sure what effect Josh’s death might have on her, but if he’s dead, she needs to know.

She needs to prepare herself. Just in case.

Forewarned is forearmed. This may cause a major setback for her.

If everyone is talking about Joshua – and they will be if it turns out to be his body – it will dredge up her ordeal all over again.

Just as I resolve to break the news to my children, chaos erupts in the kitchen.

Cheddar, our golden retriever puppy, who was asleep in his basket, wakes up, gets overexcited when he sees Olly and Iris, and pees on the floor.

Olly goes to load his dirty dishes into the dishwasher instead of leaving them on the table for once, but he drops his bowl, smashing it to pieces and splattering milk everywhere.

Margo, my eleven-year-old stepdaughter, who ate breakfast long before the others, materializes in the doorway, on the verge of tears, ostensibly because she can’t find her pencil case, but more likely because she’s stressed about her first day in senior school.

And my mobile blares out with an incoming call – no doubt from Daniel, my partner and Margo’s dad.

He has a demanding job – as a management consultant – and usually I’m supportive of his career, but I curse him under my breath for being away on business, on today of all days. And for calling at a bad time.

The bus stop is within walking distance, but by the time I’ve finished troubleshooting and clearing up the mess, we’re running late. I bundle all three kids into the car and drive them to the school itself. We arrive seconds before the bell goes.

I need peace and quiet to work – I’m a fiction editor – but when I get home, it’s dissonantly calm.

I’ve been looking forward to the kids going back to school so that I can knuckle down and read the novel on which I’ve agreed to provide feedback for a structural edit.

I haven’t even started reading the book yet, but I can’t wait to lose myself in the author’s imaginary world and shut out reality.

I’m supposed to email my report to the publisher who has outsourced the work to me in a few days’ time.

It’s going to be tight. I usually work well under pressure and in the mornings.

I make myself another coffee, then head for my study, Cheddar following me from room to room like a shadow.

But two hours later, I’m forced to admit defeat.

I’ve read only the first three chapters.

The caffeine has worked – my mind is racing – but I can’t concentrate on the manuscript.

My thoughts keep wandering to the body in the woods.

Does this have anything to do with what happened to Iris?

I decide to go for a walk and get some fresh air, clear my head that way, much to Cheddar’s delight.

I walk briskly across the fields behind our cottage in the light breeze and timid sunshine.

The view across Exmoor, which always takes my breath away, fails to act as a buffer for my thoughts, and my vivid imagination runs amok.

I picture a wooded area, by a stream, swarming with uniformed officers and other professionals, and a blue forensic tent, perilously perched on an escarpment.

I’m tempted to go home, put the dog in the car and drive the short distance to Buryknoll Wood.

We could resume our walk there. But the woods are vast and even if I did locate the body, it would look suspicious if I suddenly showed up.

Besides, the chances of me finding out any more information about the dead man, including his identity, are slim to non-existent.

I expect the police have closed off all access to the woods anyway.

After a light lunch, I manage to read through five or six chapters of the book I’m supposed to be editing.

It takes me far longer than usual because I have to reread paragraphs or even whole pages as I’m struggling to take anything in.

Reluctantly, I call it a day. I can’t afford to take a day off, not if I’m going to meet the deadline, but I can’t do justice to this novel unless I give it my full attention.

I get the dinner ready before the kids come home.

That way, I can help Margo if she’s got any homework, and ask Iris and Olly all about their first day back.

I’m not much of a cook – Daniel usually makes the meals – but I have a few tried and tested menus I can handle without messing up.

I stream some opera music through the Bluetooth speaker from my phone – Maria Callas performing Beethoven’s Fidelio.

Olly and Iris hate opera, so I can’t listen to it when they’re home.

I turn it up loud, hoping it will drown out my thoughts.

Then I get out everything I need to make a shepherd’s pie.

That will do nicely for Olly, Iris and me.

There’s some leftover veggie lasagne for Margo, who stopped eating meat a few months ago to help save the planet.

As a result, we all eat less meat and more fruit and veg, which has to be a good thing.

I rummage around in the drawer where we keep some of the utensils, but I can’t find the knife I use to chop up the onions.

We don’t put the sharp knives in the dishwasher in case they rust – one of Daniel’s many house rules – but I look in the dishwasher anyway.

We sometimes bend or break the rules when he’s away.

I check the other drawers and pots on the worktop in case it has been put away in the wrong place.

In the end, I take out a different knife – it’s bigger and sharper.

It slips as I cut into the onion and slices into my middle finger.

It stings, and the pain, more than the music, is a welcome distraction.

When Iris and Margo burst noisily through the front door late that afternoon, I finally manage to consign the dead man to a corner of my mind, although he lies in wait there, threatening to leap up and ambush me at any moment.

*

It’s nearly 10 p.m. when my mobile goes.

The kids are all upstairs – I checked in on them a few minutes ago.

Margo’s asleep; Olly and Iris are in Olly’s room, watching a Netflix series on Olly’s laptop.

My heartbeat quickens when I see the caller ID.

This can’t be good. Not at this hour. I swipe to take the call.

‘Carla? Hi. I’ve got some news, but you have to swear not to tell anyone. I could get Ian into trouble.’

‘I can’t promise that, Jo. Not if it concerns my daughter.’ Jo knows as well as I do that the second this call ends, I’ll ring Ash.

‘Then at least—’

‘I’ll be as discreet as possible.’

‘OK. And you didn’t hear this from me. Two things. Firstly, the man in the woods. He hasn’t been formally identified yet, but—’

‘It’s him.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the second thing?’

She hesitates and I know it before she tells me. I take a deep breath and I hear her do the same. ‘Carla, they’re treating his death as suspicious,’ Jo says.

‘What does that mean?’

Jo spells it out. ‘It means it looks like he was murdered.’

‘I got that,’ I mutter.

What I really meant was: what does that mean for us? For my family?