The Wild Girls Read online

  Praise for Phoebe Morgan

  ‘A cracking page-turner from Phoebe Morgan’

  Cara Hunter, bestselling author of All the Rage

  ‘Well-paced … Morgan has a particular skill for creating a vivid sense of place’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Dark, twisty plotting, compelling characterisation and an ending I didn’t see coming at all’

  Harriet Tyce, bestselling author of Blood Orange

  ‘Smart and sophisticated’

  John Marrs, bestselling author of The One

  ‘Utterly absorbing’

  C.L. Taylor, bestselling author of Strangers

  ‘Insightfully written’

  Gillian McAllister, bestselling author of How to Disappear

  ‘A spine-chilling tale’

  The Sun

  ‘Sublimely dark’

  Woman & Home

  ‘Morgan knows how to ramp up the tension’

  Woman

  ‘Kept me guessing until its chilling conclusion’

  Lucy Clarke, author of You Let Me In

  PHOEBE MORGAN is a bestselling author and editor. She studied English at Leeds University after growing up in the Suffolk countryside. She edits commercial fiction for a publishing house during the day, and writes her own books in the evenings. She lives in London and you can follow her on Twitter @Phoebe_A_Morgan, or find her blog about publishing and writing at www.phoebemorganauthor.com. Her books have sold over 150,000 copies and been translated into nine languages including French, Italian, Polish and Croatian. They are also on sale in the US, Canada and Australia. Phoebe has also contributed short stories to Afraid of the Light, a 2020 crime writing anthology with proceeds going to the Samaritans, Noir from the Bar, a crime collection with proceeds going to the NHS, and Afraid of the Christmas Lights, with all profits going to domestic abuse charities. Her four thrillers can be read in any order: The Doll House (2017), The Girl Next Door (2019), The Babysitter (2020), and The Wild Girls (2021).

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Phoebe Morgan 2021

  Phoebe Morgan 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.

  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, downloaded, 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.

  Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008406950

  Version 2021-03-29

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008406967

  For my agent Camilla,

  for always believing in me

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  After

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  After

  The police tape looks unnatural in the lush green surrounds of the safari lodge complex. The doors are all open, now, as the forensics team come in and out, their clinical white uniforms catching the light of the sun as it burns down on the empty, parched plains. Dotted on the wooden walkways and inside the five lodges are numbered yellow markers – that’s where they found the first body, that’s where they found the second. Over there is where one of the more junior officers uncovered the first victim’s shoe. On the edge of the Limpopo river, in amongst the sticky, thick mud and the shiny-backed insects, that’s where the blood spatter was, bright and viscous. They were lucky it didn’t get washed away.

  Above, a helicopter circles, the drone of it loud and relentless, a harsh man-made noise disrupting the constant hum of the cicadas. From the cockpit, you’d be able to see the whole site, in all its glory – here, the main lodge, able to sleep twelve people. At each corner, a smaller lodge, set up for one guest, alone. The four glistening plunge pools, one of which contained the missing knife, the blade of it circling lazily around the drain. The wooden walkways that connect the lodges look like a maze from this height – or an elaborate board game, designed to catch you out.

  In this game, though, half the players are dead.

  The forensic officer thinks this place will be shut down, now, forever haunted by the events of one hot, dreadful weekend in March. He feels the loss; it seeps from the windows of the lodges, rises up from the river, rustles with the wind through the gum trees, whispering a warning to anyone who might come near Deception Valley. Briefly, a white butterfly lands on his arm, weightless against his uniform, but just as quickly, it is gone. He stares at the patch on which it landed, remembering the imprint of its tiny limbs.

  How easily beauty can be destroyed.

  Part One

  Prologue

  14th February

  London

  Grace

  The invitation lands like a grenade on my doormat early on Friday morning: You are invited to celebrate Felicity’s 30th birthday. Date: 28th March. Place: Botswana, Southern Africa. I stare at it for a few moments; the swirly, smug font, the thick, expensive card it’s printed on, the way her name sits elegantly on the page. The edge of the invite is embossed with gold foil; it must have cost her a fortune. I imagine them shooting through letterboxes all over the country, pretty missiles just waiting to detonate. Her friends scooping down to pick them up, fingers slitting open envelopes, eyes running over the words. Who else will come? I think to myself, who else will be invited?

  My watch beeps, signalling to me to get up even though I’m well awake now. My eyes flicker across the date – of course, Valentine’s Day. Sending out invitations to arrive today is so very Felicity that I almost want to laugh, despite the curl of anxiety percolating in my stomach. Although I haven’t seen her for almost
two years, I still know Felicity inside out. At least, I think I do.

  ‘Grace?’

  Without warning, the letterbox is rattling and I take a step backwards, heart pounding, as the front door to the flat swings open, letting in a blast of cold February air and a rush of London noise; the scream of the traffic, the faint wail of sirens, a maelstrom of voices, people going about their busy lives. My fingers clutch the invitation as I step backwards, pulling my dressing gown around me, my feet bare and freezing on the tiled floor. Someone is coming in.

  ‘Grace? What are you doing up?’

  My flatmate Rosie is panting in front of me, and I let my breath out, relief flooding through my body as she shakes her head like a dog, sprinkling tiny droplets of water. She’s dressed in running gear, purple lycra clinging to her, the embodiment of fitness as always. Her dark hair is wet, flattened to her skull, but her eyes are bright with the glowing look of someone who’s just burned 500 calories before I’ve even had breakfast.

  ‘What’s that?’

  She pushes past me, nodding at the invitation in my hand as she does so.

  ‘An invitation,’ I say, swallowing hard, and she laughs, groans. Her soft Irish accent is lilting, effortlessly light.

  ‘Not another one. Jesus. I’m still out of pocket after Jess and Jamie’s. Why do these people think everyone can stump up to afford it all? I bet they want you to buy them a fancy toaster on top of it, too. Whoever invented the idea of wedding lists should be shot.’

  ‘Not a wedding,’ I interrupt, closing the front door behind her, shoving the invitation into the pocket of my dressing gown. ‘A birthday party. In Botswana.’

  She’s in the kitchen now; I can hear the sound of the fridge opening and shutting, her quick, confident little footsteps scurrying about. Getting on with her day as though nothing has happened. Because for her, it hasn’t, has it? The invite is for me, and me alone. Unwanted, a memory flashes into my mind: Felicity, laughing on another Friday two years ago, her mouth wide, the top of her blouse falling slightly open to reveal the lace of her bra, the gleam of her skin. The strange, smoky smell of the courtyard; the sense that something bad was coming. The cold metal of the fire escape stairs. A disconnected phone call that came the day after. Always, the taste of tequila, sharp and dangerous on our tongues.

  I push the images away.

  ‘A birthday party? Whose? I didn’t know you had any friends in Africa,’ Rosie asks as I follow her into the kitchen. She sounds a bit awkward, perhaps thinking that she could have stopped after friends. It’s true that I never have anybody round. After what happened, I find it harder to go out, and more difficult to have people in my own space. Strangers frighten me, though I don’t like to admit it. Taking people at face value has become something of a challenge.

  I breathe in deeply to clear my head, try to make my voice sound normal. Already, it’s as though I’ve lost the ability to act casual, forgotten what I’d usually say in this situation. The invitation has heightened everything; raised the stakes. Brought back the past.

  ‘An old friend,’ I say at last. ‘A girl I went to school with.’

  ‘Nice.’ She nods, accepting the half-truth, gulping water down quickly and easing off her trainers. ‘Pricy, though. The flights alone won’t be cheap, will they? Still, I’d love to go somewhere like that. See the elephants, that sort of thing. Don’t get many of those in Dublin, nor here.’ She laughs, slams down her glass on the counter, the sound making me flinch. Sweat is glistening on her brow; small beads of moisture that she dabs with the back of her hand. ‘I’m going to hop in the shower. I’m out with Ben tonight for V day. Are you…?’

  Her words tail off and I can see her flush slightly with embarrassment, the blush creeping up her ivory throat.

  ‘I’ll be in,’ I say flatly. ‘I don’t have any Valentine’s Day plans, Rosie.’

  ‘All a load of nonsense anyway,’ she says, grinning at me, and then she disappears, leaving me alone in the kitchen, the invitation still in my hand and my thoughts whirring. Felicity wants to see me. After all this time. But the question is, has she forgiven me? Have I forgiven her?

  And who else will be invited?

  Alice

  ‘Babe? You’re using all the hot water again. Hurry up, will you? I’m late for work.’

  Alice sluices the last smudges of apple conditioner out of her dark hair, pulling a tangle out with her fingers, a little bit too hard – there is a tug of pain – and reaches for the shower dial, turning the water off with a hiss. Her skin feels warm and tingly, but already she is dreading the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, the icy rush of air that will come as soon as she steps outside. She and Tom are rationing the heating: Alice hates it.

  Tom is hovering impatiently, naked, and his sleep-smudged eyes don’t meet hers as he steps past her and into the shower cubicle. Happy Valentine’s Day, Alice thinks but doesn’t say.

  She towels herself off quickly, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, brushing her teeth as fast as she can. There are tiny trails of blood in amongst the mint froth when Alice spits in the sink; she wipes them away with the tips of her fingers, runs the cold water until the porcelain is clear. She is late for work, and Year Six are like animals if left alone in a classroom for too long. Alice can just picture them careering into the school, their parents (the ones that turn up, at least) casting disapproving eyes at her empty desk – Ms Warner, running late again…

  There’s no time to blow-dry her hair and so she shoves it up in a bun, drinks a quick glass of water standing at the sink and grabs her leather rucksack. There isn’t time for make-up, either; she’s slathered some tinted moisturiser across her cheeks and wiped the mascara smudges from underneath her light green eyes, and that will have to do. It’s not far to work, a fifteen-minute walk through deepest darkest Hackney and then she’s there. Quicker and cheaper than taking the bus, and less chance of seeing a pupil. Since that time Alice saw Liam Donoghue from the senior school on the number 43 and he insisted on sitting next to her, she has steered clear. No one wants the boundaries blurred. Least of all Alice Warner.

  She crossed a line once before, and she won’t let herself forget it. Alice knows how easy it is to lose everything, how rapidly mistakes can spiral into more.

  Alice’s hand is on the latch when she sees the envelope, wedged in the letterbox, half in and half out, hovering above a pile of junk mail, none of which either of them can ever be bothered to open: red and yellow flyers, laminated promises with no meaning; a Hackney newspaper full of bad news, the edges already ripped and tatty. Her heart sinks as she takes in the fancy handwriting on the front, addressed only to her. A wedding invitation, she’d bet their flat on it. Not that she’s got the money to place a bet right now, far from it. Quickly, Alice grabs it and stuffs it into her bag to read later, yanking the door open and stepping out onto the rainy London street. Water immediately drenches her left shoe – great, she thinks, a good start to the day.

  It’s lunchtime when she remembers it. Her fingers graze the cool paper as she is searching for her phone, having spent a busy morning trying to teach Year Six the basics of fractions, a subject Alice is rustier on than she’d thought. She is slumped at her desk, drinking a cup of instant coffee that’s been cold for an hour already. She knows she should pop to the M&S on the high road, but she can’t face the thought of spending eight quid on a sandwich and some crisps; buying the flat with Tom has cleared out every last penny in her account and she has promised herself she’ll be good for the next few months. Cut out any unnecessary expenditure, that’s what they had said. The plan was to start bringing in a packed lunch, but, well. She doesn’t see Tom doing that.

  Alice pulls the envelope out of her bag and uses a pair of slightly gluey scissors to slit it open, already wondering who it’ll be this time. She is thirty – still prime time for summer weddings and expensive hen-dos. It’s never-ending, really it is. She won’t have anything to wear – she’s put on weight recently, feels curv
ier than before, as Tom has pointed out more than once.

  And then she sees the name, and she has to put the scissors down because her hands begin to shake. Felicity’s birthday. And she wants Alice to come.

  Hannah

  Hannah is in the baby’s room when Chris brings the post in. Of course she is – where else would she be? He’s just about sleeping through the night these days, which is something Hannah could weep in gratitude for to whoever might be listening, but still he wakes up at around five every morning and she sits with him, feeding and stroking, calming and shushing, as the hours tick by and the dark becomes light. It feels like the two of them are the only people left in the world in those moments, as she listens to his breathing, feels the beat of his heart against hers. Her eyes always feel gritty with tiredness; the shadows of the cot bars make strange shapes on the wall: a tiny prison. During those dawn hours, she forces herself to feel grateful, to remember how much she wanted this, how far they have come to be parents. She must remember that. At all times.

  ‘Morning,’ Chris whispers, keeping his voice soft – he usually does nowadays for fear of Hannah flying off the handle at him if he doesn’t. He’s clutching a mug of coffee and the smell makes her want to rip it out of his hands, but she is still breastfeeding and has had two cups already today, so of course she doesn’t. He pops the stack of mail down on the ottoman next to Max’s cot and peers down at their sleeping baby boy, whose blue eyes, the mirror image of hers, are squeezed shut (although Hannah doubts they’ll stay that way for long). Chris is dressed in a suit and tie, all sharp angles and clean-cut corners, and she feels a sharp pang of jealousy as she pictures him leaving the house, popping his earbuds in and hopping onto the tube to work, interacting with other adults. Most of Hannah’s conversations these days are pretty one-sided.

  ‘Is he OK?’ he asks her, and she nods sleepily, a yawn stifling her reply, and brushes a strand of her dark-blonde hair away from her face. It feels dry and frizzy to the touch; she hasn’t paid any attention to it for weeks.