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.
The Borough Press
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Joanna Cannon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Joanna Cannon 2016
Lyrics from ‘Bye Bye Baby’ © Bob Gaudio, Bob Crewe
Lyrics from ‘Knock Three Times’ © Irwin Levine, L. Russell Brown
Lyrics from ‘Crazy’ © Willie Nelson
Lyrics from ‘Save all your kisses for me’ © Tony Hiller, Lee Sheriden, Martin Lee
Map by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com 2016
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Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780008132187
Source ISBN: 9780008132170
Version: 2017-10-27
Mrs Creasy disappeared on a Monday.
I know it was a Monday, because it was the day the dustbin men came, and the avenue was filled with a smell of scraped plates.
‘What’s he up to?’ My father nodded at the lace in the kitchen window. Mr Creasy was wandering the pavement in his shirtsleeves. Every few minutes, he stopped wandering and stood quite still, peering around his Hillman Hunter and leaning into the air as though he were listening.
‘He’s lost his wife.’ I took another slice of toast, because everyone was distracted. ‘Although she’s probably just finally buggered off.’
‘Grace Elizabeth!’ My mother turned from the stove so quickly, flecks of porridge turned with her and escaped on to the floor.
‘I’m only quoting Mr Forbes,’ I said, ‘Margaret Creasy never came home last night. Perhaps she’s finally buggered off.’
We all watched Mr Creasy. He stared into people’s gardens, as though Mrs Creasy might be camping out in someone else’s herbaceous border.
My father lost interest and spoke into his newspaper. ‘Do you listen in on all our neighbours?’ he said.
‘Mr Forbes was in his garden, talking to his wife. My window was open. It was accidental listening, which is allowed.’ I spoke to my father, but addressed Harold Wilson and his pipe, who stared back at me from the front page.
‘He won’t find a woman wandering up and down the avenue,’ my father said, ‘although he might have more luck if he tried at number twelve.’
I watched my mother’s face argue with a smile. They assumed I didn’t understand the conversation, and it was much easier to let them think it. My mother said I was at an awkward age. I didn’t feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant that it was awkward for them.
‘Perhaps she’s been abducted,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s not safe for me to go to school today.’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ my mother said, ‘nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it.’
‘How can someone just disappear?’ I watched Mr Creasy, who was marching up and down the pavement. He had heavy shoulders and stared at his shoes as he walked.