11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat
Anna has always believed that her mother, Debbie, died 30 years ago on the night she disappeared.But when her father gets a strange note, she realises that she’s never been told the full story of what happened that night on the cliff.Confused and upset, Anna turns to her husband Jack – but when she finds a love letter from another woman in his wallet, she realises there’s no-one left to help her, least of all her family.And then a body is found…
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ELISABETH CARPENTER
11 MISSED CALLS
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Elisabeth Carpenter 2018
Cover photographs © Arcangel
Cover photographs © Alamy
Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com 2018
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
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.’
Present Day
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:
