Be Careful What You Wish For

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  VIVIEN BROWN

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Vivien Brown 2020

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Vivien Brown 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: 9780008374174

  Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008374167

  Version: 2020-08-17

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Prue

  Chapter 2: Madi

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4: Prue

  Chapter 5: Madi

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7: Prue

  Chapter 8: Madi

  Chapter 9: Prue

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11: Madi

  Chapter 12: Prue

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14: Madi

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16: Prue

  Chapter 17: Madi

  Chapter 18: Prue

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20: Madi

  Chapter 21: Prue

  Chapter 22: Madi

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24: Prue

  Chapter 25: Madi

  Chapter 26: Prue

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28: Madi

  Chapter 29: Prue

  Chapter 30: Madi

  Chapter 31: Prue

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33: Madi

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35: Prue

  Chapter 36: Madi

  Chapter 37: Prue

  Chapter 38: Madi

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40: Prue

  Chapter 41: Madi

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43: Prue

  Chapter 44: Madi

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Vivien Brown

  About the Publisher

  To my dad, Wilfred Alexander Smith

  1920–1993

  Loving father, loyal friend

  Hard to believe, but you would have been 100 this year

  Prologue

  I close the door behind me and lean against it, taking deep breaths while I wait for my heart to slow down, my hands to stop shaking, and my head to tell me what to do next.

  I wish it was all just some sick dream, revenge acting itself out as it has so often done before, satisfyingly, harmlessly, as I sleep. But I know this was no dream. This is real. Horribly, frighteningly real.

  I didn’t mean to do it. I really didn’t. I only meant to unnerve her, unsettle her, to drip some small fluttering of fear into her life. It was a game. That’s all. A game where one player doesn’t even know the other exists. A game only one player can win. But I never intended things to go this far. I am not a violent person. It was just a reaction, a spur of the moment thing. I had no idea anybody was there.

  But she was.

  And she still is.

  I left her there, in the dark, lying motionless on the floor. Alone.

  There is water, and silence, and far too much blood.

  Nobody knows I was there. And nobody knows she is there … except me.

  I’m a good person. He used to tell me that, a long time ago. How good I was. How precious. That I was his angel, the light of his life. Until she took him away.

  What would he think of me now, if he were still here? If he knew what I had become? A murderer?

  A cold fear falls over me. He can’t help me now. Nobody can help me. I am alone, and I just want to hide away, to close my eyes and wait for it all to go away. But it’s not going away, is it? Oh my God, what have I done? And what am I supposed to do now?

  Chapter 1

  PRUE

  Prue Harris plonked her bulging suitcase down beside her on the pavement, just missing a muddy puddle, moved her camera bag across to her other shoulder and stretched her aching back. She took the crumpled sheet of paper from her raincoat pocket and looked again at the address she had scribbled down. Belle Vue Court. Yes, this was definitely the place. She stared up at the ugly three-storeyed block in front of her. The big black front door, with its peeling paint, was flanked by rows of doorbells, one for each flat, with a little white card beside each one announcing the name of the occupant. Prue struggled up the three wide concrete steps, her battered old case thumping against her heels, wishing she had thought to buy herself one of those modern waterproof ones with wheels and a long handle, and searched for flat number 9.

  Madalyn Cardew, it said, in fading ballpoint pen, on the card. Yes, that must be her, although in the few emails they had exchanged so far she had only ever called herself Madi. It was only now that Prue realised she had not even known her surname. How strange, for a woman to be handing over her flat, and everything in it, for a whole month without even having exchanged full names! In fact, she knew very little about Madi Cardew. What she looked like, how old she was, even if she had a husband or a family. Just that, like herself, Madi had wanted, or needed, a bit of time away from her normal day-to-day life, had been desperate for some time alone in a new environment far from home. Beyond that, no questions had been asked. Prue valued her privacy and Madi, no doubt, did too.

  The keys had arrived by registered post the previous day. Prue had suggested that Madi leave them in the care of a neighbour, so she could pick them up when she got here, which was exactly what Prue herself had done with her own keys, handing them over to her friend Sian that morning, but Madi had quickly made it clear that she did not have those kind of neighbours. Most were out all day and, even when they were in, they tended to keep themselves to themselves. And hiding the keys under a plant pot somewhere was far too risky. This wasn’t a cosy Norfolk village. This was London, and it was just not that kind of place.

  There were three keys on the ring and Prue tried them, one at a time, in the front door. At the turn of key number three it swung open and she walked into a large square hall. A dim light came on automatically, highlighting the dust as she took off her woolly hat and stood on a strip of dirty coir matting to stamp her feet and shake the rain from her shoulders.

  She closed the heavy door behind her and absorbed the sudden silence. Well, she was here. Wet and weary, with her arms feeling like they were about to pop out of their sockets after lugging her case all the way from the station, but here. So now what? The hallway was deserted and she stood for a moment, taking in her new surroundings. The wallpaper was ancient, the
stippled kind, with a dull cream-coloured paint daubed over the top and the scuffed skirting boards finished in a pale shade of green.

  Despite a collection of numbered boxes set out in three tiers to hold the post for each individual flat, there was also a teetering pile of what must be unwanted junk mail strewn across the front of the long rectangular table, giving the impression that it was down to the residents to pick everything up off the mat and sort it, and that the leftover stuff with no obvious recipient had probably been there for a long time and might never be read at all. It was a strange and not very private system, very open to theft, and one that would have worried her a lot had she been expecting any post of her own. Still, she noted that the box marked 9 was empty, although policing its contents, or lack of, was really not down to her. A few curry house and pizza takeaway leaflets were pinned haphazardly to a corkboard up above, and a battered pink baby buggy lay pushed up against the wall.

  Flats 1 to 3, each one identified by a large brass number on its door, led off the hall, one to each side and one at the back. Ahead of her was a steep narrow staircase with thin grey carpet fraying at the edges which she assumed must lead up to the others. With three floors and three flats on each, it didn’t take a lot of calculation to work out that flat 9 was likely to be on the top floor, and there was no sign of a lift.

  Prue sighed. As she started up the stairs, bumping her case step by step behind her, she asked herself why she had brought quite so much stuff with her, and why she was here at all, whether her rather hasty retreat from Norfolk and the distance she was putting between herself and Joseph Barton would make any real difference to the way she felt. Or, perhaps even more importantly, to the way he felt.

  It was the beginning of March, not the ideal time of year to take a holiday, but waiting for warmer weather was not an option. She had needed to escape now – right now – before anyone realised what she was doing and tried to stop her, and the house swap site she had stumbled across on the internet had provided what had seemed like the perfect solution. Besides, she was hopeful that London would have plenty of attractions on offer whatever the weather. Art galleries, department stores, museums, and she was determined to take a look at Buckingham Palace while she was here and watch the changing of the guard, just like Christopher Robin and Alice. Enough to do, surely, to distract her from the aching feeling, part bewilderment, part shame, that had overwhelmed her and that she knew was going to be so hard to shake off.

  She arrived, a little breathlessly, on the top-floor landing. Perhaps being here, with time on her hands, with no work to go to for a whole month, and no car, she could try to work on her fitness. Walks in the beautiful London parks, or along the banks of the Thames, held a lot more appeal than tramping over the familiar muddy fields at home and she was so looking forward to the liberation of a wellie-free life for a while.

  She looked around for flat 9. It was, she was pleased to see, the one at the back of the building, which she hoped would mean less traffic noise, and perhaps a more interesting view. The front offered nothing more than a busy street, more buildings just like the one she was standing in, and rows of bright streetlights which, for a girl used to the sparsely lit country lane outside her own home, would have almost certainly kept her awake at night, flooding the place with far too much unnatural light.

  She quickly found the right key and opened the door to the flat – her flat – wondering briefly what the third key was for. She would take a stroll around later and get her bearings, but for now she found herself standing in a tiny lobby area with a few coat hooks on the wall, all of them occupied, and a couple of pairs of well-polished leather boots lined up neatly in the corner. She dropped her case on the carpet at her feet, kicked off her damp shoes and walked through into what turned out to be the living room.

  She was not quite sure what she had expected, but this was definitely not it. The room was stylish yet warm and cosy, the sofa enormous and squidgy, in a deep shade of red, with a sprinkling of big multi-coloured floral cushions that matched the flowing floor-to-ceiling curtains. A stunning mix of bright white walls, red table lamps, purple rugs, and enormous theatre posters in frames completed the décor. There was some sort of golden statuette in the shape of a mask on the mantelpiece, with various knick-knacks to each side of it, and through an open archway she could see a white wood kitchen, complete with a small pine table and chairs and lots of shiny stainless steel accessories. It was posh, and pristine, and plush … not at all how she had imagined the interior of a London flat in such an ordinary block to look, but she breathed a sigh of relief. It was so different from the casual shabbiness she was used to, but exactly what she needed. A challenge, a change. She loved the flat already and felt instantly at home.

  Prue walked over to the window and parted the curtains. The rain had stopped, and a dim late-afternoon light wafted in. She had been right about the traffic. From this side of the building she could hardly hear it. And, to her delight, she could see a little patch of faded grass down below, with a wooden bench set up beneath the one and only tree, and despite it looking a bit sparse and unkempt, it could be the perfect place to sit with a coffee and a book, if the sun ever came out, which it surely must at some time during her stay.

  There were three more doors, all closed. Opening the first, Prue found a sumptuous, shiny-white bathroom. From the empty holder attached to the tiles above the sink it looked as if the only thing Madi had taken with her was her toothbrush. Everything else had been left behind, with several half-empty shampoo and bubble-bath bottles lined up along the side of the bath and a small cupboard on the wall revealing a selection of hairsprays, headache tablets, cough medicines and plasters. There was an unopened packet of ash blonde hair dye too, which provided the first clue to what Madi might look like or wanted to look like at least. Two fresh towels, in a pretty lemon colour with a scalloped edge, had been left for her on a chair next to the radiator, which, like the water when she tried the tap, was wonderfully hot.

  The second door led her into a small double bedroom, simply furnished and clearly not in use, although there was an old teddy lying on the pillows and a handful of old Rupert annuals and a lamp shaped like a car on a shelf by the bed. The third door took her into what must be Madi’s room. For the first time since she had arrived, Prue felt like an intruder. This was no hotel room. This was Madi’s private space. The bed was a large king size, with a pretty rose-patterned duvet and heaps of small pink cushions, most of which Prue knew she would have to chuck onto the floor in order to get into bed. She half expected to lift a pillow and find Madi’s pyjamas hiding underneath. Posh satin ones, if the rest of the flat was anything to go by. A book sat on the bedside cabinet with a bookmark sticking out of it, as if its reader had just left the room and would be back at any minute. How could anyone do that? Know they were going away for a month and leave a book behind, unfinished? Prue certainly couldn’t, and had brought a good six or seven new novels with her, as well as the romance she had been so engrossed in on the train and couldn’t wait to get back to.

  On the top of the chest of drawers, Madi’s perfumes and various items of jewellery, some laid out on a flower-painted china tray, some curled into trinket boxes with no lids, had been pushed aside, making room for a vase of purple tulips whose petals were already starting to droop, and providing space for Prue to put some of her own things. The perfume bottles were all expensive brands. She took the lid off one and sprayed some onto her wrist, lifting it to her nose and enjoying the fresh citrusy aroma that reminded her, just briefly, of her gran, standing in the kitchen years ago, leaning over a bubbling pan of lemon marmalade as a young Prue sat at the table, sticking labels onto the waiting jars. She still missed her gran every day and couldn’t imagine a time when that would ever stop.

  Most of the necklaces looked like they were real gold and, picking up a ring and holding it towards the light, she felt sure the gorgeous green stone must be an emerald. Why hadn’t Madi taken them with her, or at least
put them away safely somewhere? She felt ridiculously honoured that this stranger trusted her enough to leave such things lying about so casually, and more than a little guilty that she had carefully stowed all her own valuables away in a locked cupboard under the stairs before she’d left, and had brought the key with her. But then, everyone’s idea of what was most precious to them was different, wasn’t it? Prue’s biggest worry as she’d packed to leave the village had been for her gran’s old cat, Flo, definitely the hardest thing of all to leave behind, but Madi had assured her she would look after her as if she were her own. Jewels could be easily replaced, certainly if you were as rich as Madi appeared to be. Pets really couldn’t. Prue had inherited the cat along with the cottage, but she had to admit she had grown increasingly fond of her this past year and was missing her already.

  Peering inside the chest, she found that the top two drawers had been emptied for her, although the lower ones still held brightly coloured headscarves and neatly folded piles of nightwear and T-shirts. Similarly, a section of the wardrobe stood empty except for a few padded hangers, while the rest contained a range of boldly patterned dresses, smart jackets and trousers, two loose kaftan-type garments in Chinese designs that probably served as summer dressing gowns, and some very nice handbags and high-heeled shoes. Prue touched the soft lacy collar of one of the dresses and peered at the label. A good make. Size fourteen. Too big for her to borrow, not that she ever would, but already she felt she was beginning to know just a little more about Madalyn Cardew.

  There was a photo next to the bed, a black and white shot in an ornate silver frame. A man, good-looking, probably about thirty years old, smiled up at her. Husband? Boyfriend? Brother? She couldn’t help noticing that the photo was a bit fuzzy, the exposure not quite right. And why, she wondered, if the picture was important enough to stand by her bed, had Madi not taken it with her, just as Prue herself had brought a few favourite family photos along with her, tucked into the little pocket inside her purse? She was being too inquisitive, of course. She had no business asking such questions, or snooping into Madi’s life. It was enough that she had free run of the place, that she had found somewhere private and comfortable to hide away and lick her wounds.