The Second Woman Read online

  THE SECOND WOMAN

  Charlotte Philby

  Copyright

  The Borough Press

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Charlotte Philby 2021

  Jacket design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Jacket photographs © Miguel Sobreira/Arcangel Images (women), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

  Author photograph © Roo Lewis

  Charlotte Philby 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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: 9780008367350

  Ebook Edition © JULY 2021 ISBN: 9780008367374

  Version: 2021-05-17

  Dedication

  For Xander

  Epigraph

  ‘Let the die be cast!’

  Plutarch

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  Harry

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Harry

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Harry

  Artemis

  Harry

  Artemis

  Harry

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Harry

  Artemis

  Harry

  Madeleine

  Harry

  Part Two

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Harry

  Part Three

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Artemis

  Madeleine

  Part Four

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Maria

  Part Five

  May

  Epilogue: Madeleine

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Charlotte Philby

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London, the day Anna dies

  It is dusk. The road is not yet dark but the early evening glow of the streetlamps casts pools of light, like fingerprints, along the pavement. The figure moves quickly, heartbeat rising as the house comes into view. The wisteria that had burst with new life just a few months earlier now clings to the brick like sinew, exposed beneath the skin of a corpse.

  From this vantage point at the bottom of the tiled front steps, it is possible to see through the panes of glass in the front door that the hallway is dark. At the back of the house a wall of glass overlooks the perfectly manicured lawn rolling down towards the Heath, the moonlight blotted out by the shadows of the trees.

  The children are not home yet, but they will be soon. There isn’t much time.

  Hearing the faint sound of the car doors closing in the street, the figure takes a step up towards the front door, flinching at the brushing of rope against skin as the men from the car pass by and disappear up into the shadows beside the entrance, just out of sight.

  When they have taken their positions there is a sharp intake of breath, and then a single knock.

  The voice, as it calls through the letterbox, is firm.

  ‘Anna, it’s me. Open the door.’

  When she does, her expression transforms. ‘What are you doing here?’

  PART ONE

  Harry

  London, the inquest

  The journalists gathered inside the Coroner’s Court are growing restless. Through the arched window of the courtroom the leaves of the oak trees in the Vestry of St Pancras sway against a clear blue sky. But in here, there is no fresh air.

  The jury benches are empty, giving a ghostly quality to the room. There have been no jurors present since the inquest started. There seems to be no need in a case such as this, the inquest serving as little more than a rubber stamp to officiate an inevitable conclusion.

  Beneath dark beams that line a gabled roof, with blood-red ceilings and matching carpets, the twelve or more reporters squashed together along the mahogany pews at the back of the room are agitated from the heat. The coroner, seemingly unfazed at the front of the room, continues to consult her notes. On the table in front of her, which is reserved for family and friends, two women sit: the older one perfectly still – the dead woman’s mother, her body closed in on itself as if in retreat from the world. The younger woman sits beside her but set slightly apart, her spine poker straight, making no effort to push back the red curls that fall around her face. Behind them the father-in-law, who wears a fedora hat, even in this heat, coughs into his sleeve. The woman next to him pulls a tissue from the pocket of her immaculate trouser suit, handing it to him and giving his elbow a comforting squeeze.

  ‘I’ll now call my final witness.’ The sound of the coroner’s voice silences the ripple of impatience moving along the press benches. A young woman stills the pencil she had been absent-mindedly drumming against her notepad. Harry, a few seats along, bites his lower lip, eyes fixed ahead. His fingers touch the outline of the old NUJ card hanging from a lanyard around his neck.

  The summoned witness is small and sharp. He wears glasses, his nose like an upright skimming stone. The eyes of everyone in the room follow him intently as he moves towards the microphone, his manner suggesting he is savouring every moment with his captive audience.

  When he reaches the stand, he pauses, adjusting his microphone before repeating the oath.

  ‘I solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Blackman,’ the coroner says. ‘And will you please explain to the court your relationship to Marianne Witheral
l?’

  ‘Of course. I am a psychiatrist. I am – I was – Ms Witherall’s doctor in the final two years of her life.’

  The energy in the room changes. Beneath the silence of the crowd, there is a fizz of excitement.

  ‘When you say you were her doctor …’

  ‘I was employed by the family. There was an intervention, if you will, not long after the birth of her twin daughters. David, her husband, was worried. So was her father-in-law, Clive Witherall.’

  The doctor glances briefly at the older man in the hat, seated in the benches.

  ‘Anna – sorry, Marianne – had been suffering from postnatal depression.’

  ‘And you treated her for her depression, Dr Blackman?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what did that treatment involve?’

  ‘It was a combination of talking therapies and medication.’

  ‘What sort of medication?’

  ‘She took an SSRI, sertraline specifically, owing to the fact that Ms Witherall was still breastfeeding at the point of commencement.’

  ‘It was you who prescribed the drugs?’

  He pauses. ‘Not at first. It was the hospital who suggested them initially. I oversaw the increase in dosage. She’d started with 50mg per day. When that failed to have the desired effect, the daily intake was gradually increased to 200mg.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Ms Witherall wasn’t coping. She was detached. She was struggling to bond with her children. My suggestion at this time was that she ought to seek in-house treatment, but she refused. And David, her husband, was keen to support that decision.’

  ‘How long did you treat Ms Witherall for her depression?’

  ‘Just over three years, until she … Until she died.’

  ‘And did you prescribe any other medication during that time?’ the coroner asks.

  Dr Blackman pauses, running his tongue over his top lip.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And in your professional opinion, do you believe that Ms Witherall was of a mental state that she might have taken her own life?’

  Dr Blackman sighs regretfully. ‘I do.’

  There is a scuffle on the press benches, the excitement too much to contain. Although whichever way, this is a story that will continue to elicit plenty of hand-rubbing on Fleet Street. Either she took her own life or she was murdered. However you look at it, the story of the beautiful fallen heiress is gold dust, and this lot will continue to pick at the remains until there is nothing left, or until they are distracted by the smell of fresh blood. Whichever comes first.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Blackman,’ the coroner says, crisply. ‘Please return to your seat. The court will now adjourn for a short while so I can prepare my conclusion. If the family would leave first, and wait in the family room. Members of the press, owing to your volume, please wait outside the court until you are called back.’

  The journalists have barely finished their second cigarettes when the coroner’s officer calls them into the courtroom for her conclusion. Harry doesn’t join them, slipping quietly away to the corner of the adjoining gardens until he hears the crowd being summoned back in.

  The coroner sits still at the front of the room, studying her hands while she waits for the final reporters to shuffle back into their seats. The woman with the red hair has her arms held protectively in front of herself. Even now, he won’t let himself say her name. Anna’s mother looks as though she has not moved since the onlookers cleared out, before piling back in again.

  ‘I would like to start by thanking the witnesses for their time. I am satisfied that I have reached my conclusion in reference to the circumstances of the death of Marianne Witherall. In a case of suicide, there needs to be clear evidence so that the coroner is sure beyond all reasonable doubt that the deceased intended to take their own life. This is different from other conclusions, where we just have to be sure on the balance of probabilities. Based on the presence of the note, which as we have heard was confirmed to be in Ms Witherall’s handwriting by Consultant Graphologist Hannah Birch, along with the testimony of the police officers who first attended the scene, Sarah Marshall, who found the body, the forensic officer who studied the body, and Ms Witherall’s psychiatrist, Dr Blackman, I confirm that I am fully satisfied with the conclusion that on the date in question, Ms Marianne Witherall died by suicide.’

  The woman with the red hair slumps slightly, her posture softening at the news. The older woman barely flinches.

  Focusing her attention on the table in front of her, the coroner continues, ‘I would like to offer, on behalf of the court, my sincerest condolences to Ms Witherall’s family, not least her mother and her daughters, Stella and Rose. The inquest is now closed.’

  Artemis

  Greece, the Eighties

  The sun was already stretching over the port when Artemis came to, perhaps awoken by the sound of her own moaning. Or maybe it was the cloying damp of the sweat on her forehead that caused her to shiver and stir, her heart tapping out a rhythm against her ribcage.

  She had been deep in dreams of the earthquake – the same dream, mutated over time: the earth cracking so that the ground opened up beneath her, preparing to draw her in. Screams quickening into a shrill vibrato.

  Artemis sat upright and gave herself a minute, taking in the scene, as if half-expecting to find herself in the old cot-bed she had slept in as a child, in the village at the top of the mountain rather than where she had passed out the previous evening, safely tucked up down by the water in the same house she and her family had lived for the past twenty years. Ever since—

  She paused her thoughts there.

  Reaching for the Walkman on the side table, she pulled the headphones over her head and pressed play, hearing the click before the music seeped in, Simple Minds’ ‘Don’t You (Forget About Me)’ instantly blotting out the world around her.

  Sinking back into her pillow, she closed her eyes and drank in the sounds, dozing for a few minutes before standing to face the day, dressing quickly and heading out into the sun-bleached morning.

  It was a Saturday, mid-July. On the street she turned right, away from the corner window of the bakery where her mother would have long been at work, away from the fishing boats bobbing at the edge of the water. She stretched her hands above her head, then reached into her bag for her Walkman. Pressing rewind, she yawned as she moved up the mountain path, towards the old village and the freshly emerging tremor lines that she could not yet see.

  The old village, which stood at the top of the mountain, rang with the intermittent sounds of new life that summer. Twenty years after the earthquake that had taken their home and what lay inside, her father, Markos, behaved as though this act of nature had been a cruel and cunning ploy orchestrated by foreign developers seeking to take hold of the island on which his family had lived for generations. Even now, he refused to come up here, too scared of the ghosts that lingered among the olive trees, repelled by the steady churn of diggers as Europeans – from across Germany and France predominantly – snapped up property that had lain abandoned for two decades.

  Artemis despaired of and loved her father in equal measure for his unshakeable loyalty to a past life. In the two decades since the house had fallen, taking with it his youngest child, the carcass of the building now symbolised for Markos a physical and spiritual sacrifice. Unable to focus on the true horror of his loss, the earthquake represented not just the event that had taken away his three-year-old daughter, but had become an emblem of a world – his world – that was now under threat from the emergence of a frivolous new Greece. To his broken mind, the earthquake was no longer an act of God but a threat to the foundations of the land he loved.

  It wasn’t rational, of course, but then what would be an acceptably rational response to the death of a child? This wasn’t a question his fellow villagers were willing to take time to consider. So many people had lost so much that night, and in refusing to come together with his neighbo
urs in his suffering, unwilling to conform to their collective grief, Markos had outcast himself and – by association – he had cast out his family, too.

  The last time Markos ventured to the old village, he had returned with a look of dread. Rena had held out a hand to comfort him but he pushed her away.

  ‘Perhaps regeneration is exactly what this island needs,’ his wife had tried softly. ‘A bit of fresh life – for all our sakes.’

  ‘What are you saying, Rena? You think we need to move on?’

  She barked back at him and Artemis had snuck away, leaving them to scrap like dogs over the bones that lay buried in the rubble.

  Artemis walked with no particular direction in mind this morning, running her fingers along the mottled stone of the narrow alleyways, past flashes of the original Venetian walls and an old Byzantine church, her head bobbing occasionally to the beat of her mixtape. The morning sun brushed lightly against her skin, warming her.

  Athena would be working all day. They had agreed to meet that evening at the opening of Nico’s, a new restaurant that was launching in the village’s central square. Now that foreigners had started to trickle in for the summer, Athena was keen to hang out in the places where she imagined some loaded, far-flung visitor might step in and whisk her off her feet. This was despite her on-off relationship with Panos, the boyfriend Athena was head-over-heels in love with one minute, and in total denial about the next. Absent-mindedly, Artemis scuffed the dusty path with the toe of her shoe as she walked her usual route to Carolina’s shop. Athena had no idea what she had; more to the point, she had no idea what it was like to be Artemis and to be considered an untouchable, even among boys like Panos; nice boys. And God knows those were few and far enough between.

  It wasn’t that Artemis needed, or really actively wanted, a boyfriend. But there was something about the idea of someone wanting her. Objectively speaking, she was attractive. On the island, though, she was branded for life – partly due to her father’s idiosyncrasies, and partly due to manifestations of her own trauma, which ranged from the nightmares to, when she was younger, wetting herself in class; both irresistible fodder for the bullies who smelt her weakness, along with the urine that had sometimes streaked down her legs suddenly in the middle of a lesson, causing her to freeze.