Lost Innocence
Contents
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409064916
Published by Arrow Books 2009
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Copyright © Susan Lewis 2009
Susan Lewis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Arrow Books Random House 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
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To James, with love
Lost Innocence
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of
A Class Apart
,
Dance While You Can
,
Stolen Beginnings
,
Darkest Longings
,
Obsession
,
Vengeance
,
Summer Madness
,
Last Resort
,
Wildfire
,
Chasing Dreams
,
Taking Chances
,
Cruel Venus
,
Strange Allure
,
Silent Truths
,
Wicked Beauty
,
Intimate Strangers
,
The Hornbeam Tree
,
The Mill House
,
A French Affair
,
Missing
and, most recently,
Out of the Shadows
. She is also the author of
Just One More Day
, a moving memoir of her childhood in Bristol. She lives in France. Her website address is
www.susanlewis.com
Also by Susan Lewis
A Class Apart
Dance While You Can
Stolen Beginnings
Darkest Longings
Obsession
Vengeance
Summer Madness
Last Resort
Wildfire
Chasing Dreams
Taking Chances
Cruel Venus
Strange Allure
Silent Truths
Wicked Beauty
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Just One More Day, A Memoir
Acknowledgements
Having received so much advice and support during the research for this book it’s hard to know where to begin with the thank yous when everyone’s input was so enthusiastic and invaluable. However, I think my biggest debt of gratitude must go to Ian Kelcey of Kelcey and Hall, who not only provided the inspiration for Jolyon Crane, but who so patiently guided me through the process of bringing a rape case to trial. If I have made any errors, please know they are entirely mine. PC Carl Gadd of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary is my hero – thank you so much, Carl, for your incredible support and all the vital information you provided regarding arrest and interrogation procedures. Also from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary I’d like to thank PC Liz Cole of the Sexual Abuse Investigation Team for so much detailed information on the role of a SAIT officer. From the Crown Prosecution Service I would like to thank Mark Barton for helping me to understand the rudiments of the CPS role at the outset of a prosecution. And last but not least for this section, a big thank you to Melissa Cullum at Corporate Communications of the Avon & Somerset Constabulary.
My love and thanks go once again to my dear friend Lesley Gittings, who gave so generously of her time and her wide knowledge of Somerset to help me situate the book. More love and thanks to an exceptionally talented sculptor Clare Tupman, whose strikingly beautiful art provided the inspiration for Alicia’s sculptures. Please go to
www.claretupmansculpture.co.uk
to see for yourselves. Also to Jake Tupman for his highly entertaining and energetic tour of Bruton, plus the invaluable flashes of insight
into the minds of young men his age. A huge thank you to Lisa Trowbridge, a dear friend and wonderful vet who provided such helpful advice. And to David Anderson, the Bridge Master of the Clifton Suspension Bridge for sharing his expert knowledge of this exceptional landmark.
Once again I want to thank my wonderful editor Susan Sandon for all her amazing support and insightful advice. Also Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Kate Elton, Rob Waddington, Trish Slattery, Louisa Gibbs, Louise Campbell, David Parrish and everyone else on the Arrow team. And of course my dear friend and agent, Toby Eady.
Lastly, a very special thank you to Rachel Herrington whose generous donation to Autism Speaks resulted in her name being used for Alicia’s dearest friend in the book.
Chapter One
Nothing ever happened in Holly Wood. Buried like a plum in a pudding, in the heart of the Somerset countryside, it was no more than a sleepy backwater, looped on three sides by a meandering river, and connected to its neighbouring villages by sweeping grassy glades, and a tangle of country lanes that flowed through the hedgerows like a loose ramble of veins. It could boast no more than a few hundred dwellings, some dating back to the sixteenth century, several to Victorian times, and others, such as the avenue of bungalows that curved like a jaunty tail around the southern outskirts of the village, to the sixties. Lately a uniformed arrangement of new builds had sprouted up in what used to be the Bluebell Field, next to the Bruton Road. This estate stood huddled like a batch of new boys at the gates of an old school, still too gauche to be accepted into the fold, but eagerly and shyly waiting its turn.
Holly Wood’s high street was both quaint and banal, starting on one side with a terrace of four picture-book cottages, followed by Tom Sebastian’s car-repair shop and taxi service, then came the Friary with its mock-Tudor frontage and swinging neon sign that lit up the letters O P and N when the fish and chip bar was serving. Next to it was the old Midland Bank which had long since closed its doors, then came Neeve’s, the village shop, that used to double as a post office until recent cuts. Now the locals had to drive four miles into Bruton for their stamps, pensions and parcels, while those who didn’t have cars either gladly accepted lifts or rode the number eighty-five bus along a circuitous, scenic route into the medieval city of Wells. After the shop was the turning into Holly Way where the village’s
most exclusive residences backed on to the river, then came St Gregory’s, the crumbling old Norman church that sat snugly amongst its clutter of tilted and faded gravestones, like a crusty grandfather watching over his sleeping brood. The main street was sliced down the middle by a narrow stretch of green where Holly Wood’s obelisk of a war memorial and a couple of benches with shiny brass plaques were like sentries at each end of a lovingly tended bed of impatiens, or marigolds, or cyclamen, depending on the time of year – and what Mimi the florist had in stock.
Opposite the church was a long swathe of garden that belonged to the Traveller’s Rest, while the pub itself, whose cosy interior was dominated by a large stone fireplace and an abundance of crooked black timber beams, was on the corner of The Close – a narrow, leafy street that ran down to the riverbank, then curved round to offer an alternative road out of the village. On the opposite corner was a high brick wall surrounding a piece of wasteland, next to which was a boarded-up charity shop with the soaring steeple of an old clock tower rising above it like an oversized magician’s hat, then came Mimi’s flower emporium with its colourful hanging baskets and highly prized Interflora franchise. After that there were a few more flat-fronted cottages and a small rank of empty shops that used to belong to Stan the butcher, Goldie the greengrocer and Felicity the seamstress. Now, Felicity ran up curtains and designed the odd wedding dress at home, while Stan presided over the meat counter at the local Tesco and Goldie laboured for a landscape gardener.
While Holly Wood was definitely a pleasant village with its enticing cobbled enclaves and a claim to having once given refuge to a fleeing King Charles – the hiding place itself was so secret that even the locals didn’t seem to know where it actually was – it wasn’t appealing enough to tempt many tourists from the county’s more exotic offerings, such as those at Glastonbury, Wells and Cheddar. However, the village sign, about a mile outside the village itself, was often photographed by venturesome ramblers and holiday-makers, who seemed to enjoy the idea of stumbling upon such a quaint little signpost with lofty and glamorous pretensions in the heart of the English countryside.
Though the Holly Wood residents were, on the whole, a friendly bunch, they generally preferred tourists to take their snapshots and be on their way, because they didn’t much welcome being stared at, or asked which films they’d starred in, or where George Clooney lived, followed by snorts of laughter, as if the joke had never been made before. In fact, they didn’t much care for being fussed about by outsiders at all, especially those who tried to change things, or tell them how to run their lives. Some interference they couldn’t avoid, such as bossy county councillors with their befuddling recycling rules and even more bizarre pots of yellow paint to prevent parking in the high street – an imposition that was universally and rigorously ignored. The residents of Holly Wood prided themselves on being a successful self-regulating community with a vigilant Neighbourhood Watch scheme; a highly efficient chauffeur service for the elderly and infirm – paid for by weekly door-to-door collections carried out by the Guides and Brownies – and an environmental awareness (once the confusion about bins was resolved) that had earned them some very high praise in
Fosse Way Magazine
and
The Buzz,
two oracles of great local standing.
