Then She Vanishes(103)

The same goes for my two wonderful editors, Maxine Hitchcock and Matilda McDonald, who, along with all the amazing Michael Joseph team – from the sales to the art department – have made my books into Sunday Times bestsellers. I couldn’t ask to work with a nicer, more dedicated team of people and I feel very lucky to be an MJ author.

A huge thank-you to Hazel Orme for her meticulous copy-editing and her encouraging and supportive emails.

When I was writing this book I was fortunate to be introduced to a retired CID detective, Keith Morgan, who gave me invaluable help with this story, answering my endless questions about police guards in hospitals, what would happen to a suspect if they were too ill to be questioned or arrested, etc. Before I finished the book, Keith sadly passed away. He was such a lovely, kind-hearted man, who went out of his way to help me and I am so thankful to him.

Writing can be a lonely business so I really appreciate my writing buddies, Gilly Macmillan, Nikki Owen, Tim Weaver, Liz Tipping, Joanna Barnard, Fiona Mitchell and Gillian McAllister for the chats, support, meet-ups, WhatsApp messages and laughs.

Thank you to all the bloggers and readers who have bought, shared, borrowed and recommended my books, and to those who have contacted me on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram – your messages really do mean so much to me.

To all my friends, who have been so kind and supportive, reading and recommending my books, particularly the wonderful netball team for all our pub chatter.

To my mum and sister for being my first readers, and to my lovely step-parents, step-sister, nieces and in-laws.

My family, as always, has been incredibly patient while I wrote this book. To my husband, who spends hours listening to me droning on about plots and characters, who’s always honest if he thinks something won’t work, and helps me brainstorm tricky plot points. To my children, who are still too young to read my books – although I suspect my daughter will be reading them soon!

And last, but definitely not least, to my dad, Ken, to whom this book is dedicated. From a very young age he taught me and my siblings that we could do anything if we put our minds to it and worked hard. Thank you, Dad, for always believing in me, for your continued support, for forcing my books on all your friends (whether or not they want to read them!), for your humour, your generosity and strength.





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Read on for an extract

from Claire Douglas’s new novel …


JUST LIKE

THE OTHER GIRLS



Coming 2020


@DougieClaire

@ClaireDouglasAuthor





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Claire Douglas


JUST LIKE THE OTHER GIRLS


The rising fog mingles with the dark night, turning everything opaque. I can barely see yet I know someone else is on the suspension bridge with me.

I can hear them breathing.

How foolish I’ve been. I should never have trusted either of them.

Nobody will come to my rescue. It’s too late at night; even vehicles have stopped driving across the bridge due to the weather. I clutch the railings tightly with gloved hands to anchor myself. One false move and I’ll end up toppling over the side and into the Avon Gorge.

Someone calls my name. I turn, but I’m disorientated and I can’t tell which direction the voice is coming from. I just know I’ve been lured here. I need to find a way off this bridge. I let go of the railings, stumbling in panic, my breath quickening.

Don’t lose it. I must stay calm. I need to get out of this situation alive.

Suicide. That’s what they’ll say it was. Just like the other girls.

I hear a laugh. It sounds manic. Taunting.

And then a figure steps out of the fog, clamping a hand across my mouth before I’ve had the chance to scream.





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October 2018


It’s even more stunning, more perfect than I remember from my interview. I stand and stare for a while, at the place I will soon call home. The scene before me is like a photograph in a glossy magazine, or the opening shot of a romantic film. I can almost hear the swell of background music as I take in the row of Georgian townhouses painted in different pastel shades, with their mint-hum-bug-striped canopies, delicate wrought-iron balconies and rooftops that reach up towards a cloudless blue sky. Trees with leaves that are turning red, brown and orange line the pavement and a stretch of grass divides the street from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. A handful of people sit, chatting and laughing, basking in this rare mid-October sunshine. To the side of me an older couple are huddled on a wooden bench overlooking the bridge and the Avon Gorge while sharing a drink from a flask. Beyond them, a young father helps his son with an oversized kite.

There is an electric charge in the air that makes me think anything is possible. I smile to myself as I bend over to pick up my battered suitcase. Ignoring the fluttering of nerves in my stomach my fingers find the torn-off newspaper advert still in the pocket of my denim jacket. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. It’s my talisman.

I take a deep breath and stride towards the McKenzie townhouse.