Bad Apple

BAD

APPLE

ALICE HUNTER

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Cover design by Sarah Foster/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Cover photographs © Andrew Billington/Arcangel Images (apple) and Shutterstock.com (wasp and wood texture)

Alice Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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 ebook 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008662813

Ebook Edition © May 2024 ISBN: 9780008662820

Version: 2024-05-08

For those who’ve experienced, or been affected by, sexual violence. To the survivors and in memory of those lost.

Content warning:

BAD APPLE, although fictional, tackles many issues that some may find distressing. There are mentions of rape and sexual assault, self-harm and suicide, physical and mental abuse throughout.

Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Content warning

Prologue

One year later

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Epilogue

Keep Reading

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

She shouldn’t be driving.

The roads were narrow, unfamiliar; each bend took her by surprise as it appeared like magic through the ominous entrails of mist hanging a few feet from the ground. Not a quicker route back after all. Her mother’s voice filled her mind:

Calm it down. Take your foot off the accelerator.

She took her tear-blurred eyes off the road, threw her head back and let out a frustrated cry. ‘Whhhy?’

The Mini swerved dramatically across the lane and she fought to regain control.

So typical for her mother to be right. She said he was stringing her along, that he was a good-for-nothing layabout with dodgy mates. A lowlife druggy.

But no, as usual, she’d argued the toss: ‘He’s not in with that crowd. You don’t need to worry, Mum. I’ve cleaned up my act for Oakley’s sake.’ And the last sentence she uttered as she flew out the door. ‘I’ll be careful, Mum.’

Her stomach griped. When she walked back into the house, returning far earlier than she’d said, what would her reason be? Perhaps she should just drive until the early hours, go back when it seemed enough time had passed so to avoid the critical analysis. She looked at the petrol gauge and her shoulders slumped. Nope. She had to go home now. She could be light and breezy – all, ‘Silly me, got the wrong night. Thanks for babysitting again though.’ Yeah, that could work, actually.

Anything but the truth.

Anything but the sour-faced, reproachful glare her mother would give if she were to give the real reason.

Her self-pitying thoughts came to an abrupt halt as lights filled the car. She squinted into the rear-view mirror, her mouth agape at the closeness of the vehicle behind.

‘Dickhead!’

She put her fist up but lost control on another bend, wrestling with the steering wheel before righting herself. Jesus, that had been close. She swore at the man behind. It had to be a man. She put her foot down, trying to get some distance between them, stop him blinding her with his headlights. I should’ve got a taxi crossed her mind just as the yellow glare of lights changed to blue. Her heart juddered.

‘Oh, shit.’ She took her foot off the accelerator, knowing it was too little too late. As the Mini slowed, her thoughts sped up. She’d swerved all over the road. She’d been drinking. She’d probably fail a breath test. Her mum was going to kill her.

Don’t panic. You can talk your way out of this. Blame the weather conditions.

But if the copper dragged her into the station, did her for drink-driving, how would that look to social services? They’d already been far too involved in her life in the five months since Oakley’s birth. She was already on her last chance . . .

She could floor it. Lose this idiot. She’d only swerved because he was too bloody close to her. It was his fault. Her sensible head, the one she now wished she’d had on for the entirety of this past week, told her to pull over. She might be lucky – it could even be as simple as a brake light being out.

Relief swept through her. Yeah. ’Course – this heap-of-shit car always had something wrong with it. Her guilty complex immediately caused her to jump to the worst scenario when the simple reason was more likely. Without further thought, she indicated and pulled into a wider part of the lane. And waited, both hands gripping the wheel.

Through her rear mirror, she followed the man’s progression from his unmarked car towards hers, swallowing down the golf-sized-ball that had formed in her throat. He wasn’t in a police uniform and took slow, steady steps. Not in any rush. Making her sweat, no doubt. There wasn’t anyone else in his vehicle that she could make out, no movement from behind the dark windscreen.

He stopped alongside the driver’s door. Here we go. He ducked down and motioned for her to lower her window. He smiled. There was a warmness to it, and his eyes crinkled as it reached them. For a split second, she relaxed, allowing herself to return the gesture.

‘What a night, eh?’ she said. ‘Really hard to see the . . .’

‘You know why I’ve pulled you over?’ He placed one hand on the opened window while the other tapped on the roof of the Mini – the rhythmic drumming loud, but no match for her heartbeat. His face was close to hers and she instantly panicked, turning hers away. Shit, shit, shit. He’d smell the alcohol for sure.

‘No, Officer.’ Best say as little as possible.

‘This your car?’ He cast his eyes around the interior, then stood back from the window and began walking around it without waiting for her answer. She saw him take out a notebook. How could she get out of this? She swung her door open and got out.

‘Stay inside your vehicle, please.’ He strode back around to her, an arm outstretched indicating that she should get in. But she stood, rooted to the spot.

‘Look, I might’ve been driving a bit erratically, but it’s the mist. And the lanes – I’ve not driven this way before. I’m used to the bright city lights.’

He nodded. Gave a sigh, then shook his head. Like he was weighing up whether to let her drive on without taking up any more of their time. ‘Name and address, love?’

She blew out a breath. It wasn’t over, then. Dammit. But, love. At any other time, that would annoy her, but right now she was taking it as a good sign. She reluctantly gave him her details, each admission feeling like a nail in her coffin. She shivered against the cool air biting at her skin. With her eyes averted, she pulled her fake leather jacket tighter around her, then looked down – her gaze travelling from her bare thighs towards her high-heeled boots. She’d borrowed them from her old roommate three years ago and failed to return them. As she raised her head, she locked eyes directly with the man standing in front of her, and something in her brain made a connection. Despite her thumping heart, the adrenaline racing through her veins, her mind cleared.

‘What is it I’m supposed to have done?’ She frowned at the officer. Why was he in an unmarked police car? ‘Are you even on duty?’

‘Was on my way home, actually.’

Braver now, standing upright. ‘Then, I’ll ask again, why did you pull me over?’

‘A feeling,’ he said. He took another step closer to her, his body a few inches from hers. ‘Call it gut instinct.’ Her own instinct flared, and she flattened herself up against the Mini, uncrossing her arms but putting them up to her chest, palms flat, facing the officer. If he even was a police officer. She’d heard about a bloke recently who’d pretended to be a copper, pulled a woman driver over and then attacked her.

Her bag was on the passenger seat, but even if she could reach it, she’d have to fumble inside to find her mobile. She gave a furtive glance around. The lane was in darkness, no sign of other vehicles approaching. There were hedgerows either side of the road. The lay-by she was in was muddy, but no evidence of a gate into a field, or any houses. There was nowhere to go – no one to hear any cries for help.

‘Can I see your ID?’ She heard the wobble in her voice, and as he smirked, she felt the wobble in her legs, too. He grasped hold of her, one hand on either shoulder. The thud of his notebook landing on the ground echoed in her head as if it were amplified.

‘Woah. Careful now, love.’

Great. Now if he really was a cop he had more cause to think she was drunk.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘You and I both know that if I breathalyse you, you’ll be over the limit, yeah?’

She had to assume he was the real deal. For now, her only concern should be making sure he didn’t book her. She tried to remember her past experiences with coppers – if this one was off-duty could he even breathalyse her? She shook her head, the knowledge not coming to the fore. She couldn’t chance it.

‘Then don’t,’ she said, giving a shrug. ‘I’m sure you don’t want the additional paperwork. If you’re on your way home, like you said.’

His smile returned. ‘Come with me.’ He stepped back from her, swiftly taking her car keys from the ignition through the open window. He locked the door and pulled her towards his car. The clacking of her boot heels sounded like rapid gunshots in the night. He told her to get in. Then he started the car.

‘What the hell?’ she said, glaring at him. ‘I thought—’

‘I’m not shopping you. Don’t worry.’

A heaviness pressed down on her chest, expelling the air from her lungs. She gasped and grappled with the door handle.

‘I’d like to get out. Let. Me. Out.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ His eyes stayed on the road ahead. His calm demeanour evoked the opposite reaction in her.

‘Why? I don’t understand . . . where are you taking me?’

‘Oh, not far. Just up here, in fact.’ He made a turn onto a dirt track and the car bumped along it for a few minutes. All the while, her heart and mind raced frantically.

There was no radio in this car, nothing that made her think it was a cop car. But then, he did say he was driving home after finishing duty, didn’t he?

If he’s a police officer, everything will be fine.

She wouldn’t come to harm. Surely.

The car engine died. He turned to her.

‘You do something for me, I’ll do something for you.’

Realisation made her insides freeze; her body went rigid, like rigor mortis had instantaneously invaded every muscle despite being alive.

‘No,’ she said. Didn’t she? Or was the word trapped inside her head. ‘Please . . .’

She closed her eyes, the tears squeezing from her lids spilled down her cheeks.

A sensation of falling as the back of the seat reclined.

A hand pushed up her skirt and thrust between her legs.

Her lower lip quivered, but the scream she desperately wanted to burst from her, remained dormant. He yanked her knickers down. Material ripped as her thighs were roughly parted. Why wouldn’t her limbs move? Fight against him? The hair at her temples tickled as tears rolled into it. That’s what she concentrated on when the pain started. She imagined the trail they were leaving, the path they were taking between her dark strands of hair and along her scalp towards the back of her head. She visualised the damp patch they’d leave on the headrest of the seat.

She imagined Oakley’s baby face and wondered if she’d ever see it again. His tufty piece of hair that jutted from the crown, his gummy smile as he looked with unconditional love into her eyes.

An hour later she was home. She avoided any talk with her mother, heading straight for the shower. As she held Oakley in the early hours of the next day and he sought the love in her eyes, she turned away, afraid of just what he’d see.

One year later

It’s your word against mine.

God, you think you’re untouchable, don’t you.

That’s because I am. No one’ll believe you – not by a long shot. Not with your history. There’s no CCTV footage, no evidence even if they were to go looking. Which they won’t, of course.

You’re meant to protect people.

And I do. I’m protecting you right now, aren’t I? You won’t come to harm if you keep your mouth shut. I’m looking out for you.

You’re disgusting.

I didn’t hear you complain when I was in you.

Her heart bashed against her ribs as the messages and conversations replayed in her mind. Over and over. He was right. No one would believe a long-serving police officer – a detective – over the alcoholic drug abuser she’d been painted as, whose kid was removed from her custody. A pitiful yelp escaped her. She should’ve known something wasn’t right. Trusted her instinct instead and driven off. Stupid, stupid woman. And then to allow it to continue. She banged her fists against her temples. This was all her fault.

Through her tears, she reread her first journal entry – how he’d pulled her over that misty night, her relief when he offered an alternative to a drink-drive charge. Her despair when she realised his intention. How she assumed that was the end of the matter . . . Her life ended that night and her son’s life was now someone else’s responsibility. Death was all she deserved.

She added another entry to her journal, closing it with finality, then she took a screenshot of the phone message thread. She hesitated with her fingertip hovering above the send button. Would this even shake him? Cause him concern? Nothing had rattled him during the past year of her threatening him. But maybe this would if she told him she’d sent it to others too. Her mind paused, skipped, rewound, fast-forwarded. It was all too much. She stuffed the phone down the back of the sofa. Then took the journal back to its place.

Once she’d concealed that, too, she returned to the sofa, positioned the cushions and sat down. She shook the plastic bottle, spilling the cylindrical white pills into her shaky palm. She briefly wondered how long she’d be lying dead in her own vomit before she was discovered. It would likely be her mother who found her. She was the only one left who might question her lack of activity and finally pop over to check on her.

‘Sorry, Mum. But you probably saw this coming, too . . .’ Her hand slapped against her open mouth, depositing the fatal heap inside. For a while, she held them there, her cheeks bulging like the hamster she had when she was six. What was his name again? Jimmy. That was it. He’d lasted for three years – apparently a great age for a hamster. Twenty-four wasn’t such a great age for a human. She snatched the vodka bottle and took a swig large enough to aid the journey of the pills.

It took several more gulps, and plenty of gagging, before she’d accomplished her task.

No going back now.

He’d won. That bastard would get away with what he’d done. If anyone did ever find out, they’d think she was weak, selfish even, for not fighting him. Both in the moment, while he raped her, and now – as she left this life. Other women would no doubt fall foul of his manipulation, his twisted and controlling ways that enabled him to get what he wanted.

Did she owe it to his past and future victims to stay and fight a battle that might destroy her anyway? Owe it to the child she let down so badly? She didn’t have the strength. He’d made sure of that.

Leaning back into the cushions, awaiting death, she gazed around the room at the discarded, unplayed-with toys – the remnants of her life. Her head fell back. Staring at the ceiling, she hoped that he’d get what was coming to him one day. Then she closed her eyes.

Chapter 1

NOW

BECKY

The envelope propels through the letterbox as I’m three paces away from the front door. It lands face up on the patchy doormat, the name and address printed in large, black letters leaping from it. I stop dead, staring at it like it’s a stand-off. A rush of warm air passes through my dry lips. Licking them would be futile; the moisture’s instantly been withdrawn by anxiety.

Mrs Rebecca Lawson

A cold sensation alights my nerve endings and I shiver myself into action, tentatively taking the final steps and sucking in a lungful of air as I swoop my hand down to grab the envelope.

As I run my fingertips across the top line, I wonder how these three little words could possess such power to cause goose bumps on my arms. How they can provoke a deep ache within my belly, the beginnings of a familiar nausea. If it were junk mail, I’d find it easier to brush off the offending string of letters. I’d immediately tear it into tiny, unintelligible strips of nothingness. Obliterate all record of that person.

But given the ‘Greater Manchester Police’ stamp mark on the envelope, I’m confident it’s a communication I’ve been expecting – and if my pathetic begging has worked, it contains hope. A means of digging myself out of the depths of despair I’ve languished in this past year – the rut I’ve been neck-deep in since moving to this shit area of Salford five months ago. Destroying it right this second will be cutting off my nose. I take a few unsteady strides through to the kitchen, shimmying around the stacked boxes I’ve yet to unpack, place it on the table and lean over it, my frown deepening. I haven’t used that name for a while and certainly not since the official final order came through. Strange that Marcus has chosen to address me like this.

Did he think I needed a reminder?

A blast of tinny-sounding music erupts from my mobile – a rarity these days. I get the odd text or WhatsApp message but can’t remember the last actual call. I ignore its insistent tone. I need to read the letter first. Deal with one thing at a time.

It’s the only way I’ve managed to see each day through since finding out what he did. It’s a coping mechanism that the counsellor I saw after the death of my parents taught me. Seems a lifetime ago, but it’s only been ten years. How different my life would’ve been had they not taken that trip. Had my dad not been driving on the road at the exact moment the best man from a wedding party – who’d chosen to jump in his car fully aware he was hammered – turned down the one-way street and hit them head-on. I’d have continued on at Falmouth Uni, close to where I’d grown up – qualified as a psychologist and found a picturesque cottage by the sea to live my happily-ever-after in. I always imagined I’d meet and marry a Cornishman, have children and then work from home in an adapted summerhouse in the garden, my doting, loyal husband bringing me cups of coffee with custard cream biscuits on a plate to keep me going between clients.

Instead, here I am. Divorced and living alone. Desperately attempting to salvage something from the mess the man I ended up marrying made. My mobile pings with a voicemail notification. My attention drifts to it and my muscles twitch with the urge find out who could be bothered enough to stay on the line once the standard greeting cut in.

‘No! Just get on with it. Open it now, open it now.’ I pull my gaze back to the letter.

My breathing shallows and I press my hand against my thudding heart. I need Chief Inspector Marcus Thomson’s words of praise that are contained within this envelope, to increase my chances of securing the psychological assistant job and enable me to move forward with my life. He was the only senior rank I felt able to ask. It’s not as though I left with my head held high. Heat invades my cheeks as the memory of my last day on the force shoots unbidden into my mind, and I place my cool palms against them.

‘Sorry it had to come to this.’

My eye roll was automatic and clearly didn’t hide my contempt – but I added an audible humph to make sure there was no room for misinterpretation. I was standing with my feet hip-width apart, back rigid, hands balled into fists at my side as I faced the day I’d been dreading. I listened to the final, shallow words of someone who’d been promoted above me more than once despite not deserving it.

‘If there was any way around it, we’d have found it. But . . .’ DI Wallis paused and scratched his shiny head ‘. . . you’ve put everyone in an awkward—’

A familiar tide of anger rose. I physically pushed it down by pressing the heels of both hands into my stomach.

‘I’ve put this team, this force, in an awkward position,’ I said, in a more controlled way than in previous discussions with those higher up. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

He shuffled papers on his desk, then lined up several pens and pencils. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s gone to the top. Right to the top, you know that. Face the facts. You were wrong, and you’ve caused them to make an impossible decision.’

‘Yeah.’ I sucked in my cheeks and shook my head. ‘And turned out that the not-so-impossible decision was me. You’re all going to live to regret that choice.’ I watched as Wallis’s straggly, dark eyebrows shot up. He started to stand, so slowly it was like watching a predator trying not to startle its unsuspecting prey.

‘Don’t make it worse for yourself, Lawson.’

‘Don’t. Call. Me. That.’ I backed out of DI Wallis’s office, not breaking eye contact with him until the door slammed closed. ‘Wanker.’ I turned slowly and headed back to my desk, collected the box containing a cactus – my thirty-fourth birthday gift from my team – a coffee mug, and all the stationery from my drawer whether it was mine or not, and without glancing at my now ex-colleagues, I strode towards the lift.

‘Hey, Becks!’

I bit down on my lip, kept my gaze forward. ‘Come on, come on,’ I mumbled, willing the lift doors to open before he could reach me.

‘Wait up.’

Charlie Harris, energetic, friend to everyone, bounded up beside me. I waited for a sarcastic comment – his usual dry-witted one-liner, but it didn’t come, instead he offered an apologetic smile.

‘I’m sorry. I have to escort you . . .’

‘Oh. I see.’ I forced a tight-lipped smile then turned around. ‘Don’t trust that I’ll hand in my pass? Wouldn’t want me coming back causing more trouble, would you?’ My voice travelled across the office floor, garnering looks of pity from what had been my team. Charlie cleared his throat with an awkward cough, but said nothing.

The silence in the lift spoke volumes. Charlie held his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed. The atmosphere was heavy with guilt, sadness, regret. He hadn’t put his career or reputation on the line for me, and although he wasn’t alone in that, it was his lack of support in particular that stung the most. And a part of me hated him for it. The other part had to accept he didn’t feel he had a choice in the matter and I shouldn’t hold that against him. His inaction wasn’t driven by malice, it was due to misplaced loyalty. It was driven by a fear of the repercussions. Had I considered those a little more deeply myself, I might still have been a detective. I might still have had the means and the ability to make a difference. Protect lives. Uphold the law.

The lift doors swished open and I shot out and across the foyer, my mug jangling against the ceramic plant pot within the box as I stormed off. I heard footsteps close behind and after swiping my pass to get through the barrier for the final time, I chucked my ID card back towards Charlie without looking at him. ‘See ya.’

‘Becks,’ he said. ‘Don’t be like that? All this, it doesn’t mean we can’t still be mates—’

I turned in his direction, but kept walking backwards, away from him. ‘Honestly, Charlie?’ I forced myself to make eye contact. ‘It might.’

He hung his head. For a moment, I stopped, my