The Blame Game
The gripping new thriller from the author of I KNOW MY NAMEHe said he’d do anything to protect her.She said she’d do anything to protect her family.And they both said they would forget what happened twenty-two years ago.But now it seems that there is someone who will stop at nothing to make them remember…Who is playing the blame game?
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © C. J. Cooke 2019
Jacket design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Jacket photographs © Stephanie Frey / Arcangel Images (envelope); Shutterstock.com (extra texture).
C. J. Cooke 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: 9780008237561
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008237578
Version: 2019-01-21
for Willow
But I know human nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of being tried for murder, the most innocent person will lose his head and do the most absurd things.
Agatha Christie, Murder on the Orient Express
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
1. Helen
2. Helen
3. Michael
4. Helen
5. Michael
6. Helen
7. Michael
8. Helen
9. Michael
10. Helen
11. Michael
12. Michael
13. Helen
14. Reuben
15. Helen
16. Helen
17. Helen
18. Michael
19. Helen
20. Helen
21. Michael
22. Helen
23. Reuben
Part Two
24. Helen
25. Reuben
26. Michael
27. Helen
28. Michael
29. Michael
30. Helen
31. Reuben
32. Michael
33. Helen
34. Helen
35. Helen
36. Helen
37. Michael
38. Helen
39. Michael
40. Michael
41. Helen
Part Three
42. Helen
43. Reuben
44. Helen
45. Helen
46. Helen
47. Reuben
48. Helen
49. Helen
50. Reuben
51. Michael
52. Helen
Part Four
53. Michael
54. Helen
Acknowledgements
A Q&A with C. J. Cooke
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by C. J. Cooke
About the Publisher
K. Haden
Haden, Morris & Laurence Law Practice
4 Martin Place
London, EN9 1AS
25th June 2006
Michael King
101 Oxford Lane
Cardiff
CF10 1FY
Sir,
We write again regarding the death of Luke Aucoin. The time to meet about this tragedy is long overdue. Please do not delay in writing to us at the above address to arrange a meeting.
Sincerely,
K. Haden
K. Haden
Haden, Morris & Laurence Law Practice
4 Martin Place
London, EN9 1AS
25th June 2010
Michael King
101 Oxford Lane
Cardiff
CF10 1FY
Sir,
We write again on behalf of our clients regarding the death of Luke Aucoin.
We request that you contact us immediately to avoid further consequences.
Sincerely,
K. Haden
28th January 2017
MURDERER
I think I might be dead.
The scene in front of me looks like sea fret creeping over wasteland, closing in like a fist. A smell, too – sewage and sweat. There’s a flickering light, like someone bringing a torch towards the mist, and it grows so bright that I realise it’s my eyelids beginning to creak open, like two slabs of concrete breaking apart. Wake up! I shout in my head. Wake up!
Painful brightness. I can make out a ceiling with yellow stains and broken plasterboard, and a ceiling fan that spins limply. I try to lift my head. It takes enormous effort just to raise it an inch, as though an anvil is strapped to it. Where am I? My denim shorts and T-shirt are torn and caked in mud. I’m on a bed wearing one sandal. My other foot is twice its normal size, the blue nail polish that Saskia applied to my toes peeking through dried blood. I wiggle my toes, then my fingers.
I can feel my limbs. Good.
A nurse is busy replacing something at the foot of the bed. A urine drainage bag. A sharp tug at my side alerts me to the fact that the bag belongs to me.
‘Excuse me?’ I say. My voice is hoarse, no more than a croak.
The foreign chatter elsewhere in the room makes me think that the nurse might not speak English.
‘Sorry, but …? Excuse me? Can you tell me why I’m here?’
