Page 1 of The Girl in Room 12

PROLOGUE

Extract from theWandsworth Timesonline:

Police have launched a murder investigation after a woman’s body was discovered in a hotel room in Putney, southwest London.

The body was discovered in a room at the River Walk Hotel, but it’s not yet clear how long the woman had been there before she was found by housekeeping staff.

The manager of the hotel, Claire Sands, said she was deeply saddened by what has happened, and is fully cooperating with police to help establish the facts.

Police are appealing for witnesses. If you have any information about this incident, please contact the Metropolitan Police on 020 8870 9011 or tweet @MPSWestPutney.

ONE

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Poppy asks for the hundredth time this evening.

I stop stirring the risotto and crouch down to her eye level. She’s five now, and quite tall for her age, but right now she looks as tiny as one of her dolls. She’s wearing her favourite rainbow-coloured jumper over her navy school sweater, despite the heating being on. I haven’t said a word – I learnt long ago to let my daughter’s clothing choices go.

‘He’ll be here soon,’ I assure Poppy, moving a strand of chocolate-brown hair that’s fallen across her dark eyes. As quickly as these words leave my mouth, I admonish myself for making my daughter this promise. The truth is, I have no idea when Max will be home.

Until a few months ago, he would always message to let us know when he was likely to be back; but somehow that routine has become extinguished, and neither of us has addressed why. But I’m acutely aware that a new normality has seeped into our life together.

I leave the pan of risotto simmering and rush to the living room to check outside again, with Poppy close on my heels. Welive on one of the quieter roads in Putney, so on a winter evening like this it could just as easily be midnight outside as six p.m.

No one is out there, and there’s no sign of Max’s BMW. My red Toyota Yaris sits alone on the drive.

Poppy tugs on my dress. ‘Daddy’salwaysat work,’ she complains. ‘Or angry.’ She glances out of the window and sighs.

For a second, I don’t register what she’s saying. The words are so alien: how can they apply to Max? The man who’s always been a loving and kind husband and father. The sort of father who will get down on the floor and unselfconsciously play any game his daughter requests. Until all of that stopped abruptly.

‘Remember we talked about how Daddy’s a bit stressed at work at the moment?’ I say. ‘Sometimes when adults have a lot of difficult things to do in their jobs, it can make us…well, a bit grumpy at home.’

Poppy frowns as her five-year-old brain scrambles to make sense of what I’m explaining. ‘Butyou’renot. And you work too.’

I smile. How can I explain to my daughter that it’s different for me? Owning an independent bookshop brings its own issues, but it’s my passion so it rarely feels like work. I relish the challenges that come with being a business owner. Taking over from my mum six years ago was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Whispering Pages gives me an identity outside of being a wife and mother and, as much as I love those aspects of my life, I thrive on running the bookshop. And offering a sanctuary to anyone in the community who wanders inside. Like stepping into the past. Time seems to pause within those walls, and I think that appeals to people wanting just a few minutes to escape their hectic lives.

‘We have very different jobs,’ I tell Poppy.

‘I know.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Daddy does numbers. And they’re super hard.’

Max is a financial analyst for a global technology company, and he would work twenty-four hours a day if he didn’t need to sleep. Is this why his stress levels have been so high lately? I sense that it’s more than that – he’s had demanding jobs since I met him, so what’s changed now?

I hug Poppy, and we turn back to the window. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and check that risotto before it ends up sticking to the pan.’

By the time I’ve dished up dinner, there’s still no sign of Max. I check my phone and there’s no message letting me know he’ll be late. I leave his plate empty and join Poppy at the table.

I lose myself in her chatter about school, and try to ignore the niggling sense that something is wrong.

We finish eating and I tell Poppy she needs to have her bath.

‘But I’m waiting for Daddy!’

‘I know. And he’ll be here soon. Wouldn’t it be nice if you were all ready for bed when he got home? Then he can read you a story.’ Again, I’m making a promise I might not be able to keep.

‘Okay,’ she says reluctantly, slowly getting up and making her way upstairs.

Poppy’s finished in the bath and is in her pyjamas when I hear a key turn in the front door. She glances at me, waiting for me to nod before she rushes downstairs to greet Max. A few weeks ago, she never would have sought my approval for this.

I hold my breath and go downstairs. I don’t want to admit this to myself, but it’s like waiting for a stranger to get home.Which version of Max will it be tonight?

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