TheWrongMother - (EPUB全文下载)

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Acknowledgements
I am immensely grateful for the help I received from the following people: Mark and Cal Pannone, Kurt Haselwimmer, Caroline Fletcher, Guy Martland, Isabel Galan, Tom Palmer, James Nash, Ray French, Wendy Wootton, Narmal and David Sandhu, Dan, Phoebe and Guy Jones, Jenny, Adèle and Norman Geras, Susan Richardson, Suzie Crookes, Aimee Jacques, Katie Hill, and Joanne Golenya.

This is my third crime novel, and it’s high time I gushed in a most un-English way about the dedicated and inspiring people who have helped me from the start: the brilliant Peter Straus, Rowan Routh and Jenny Hewson at Rogers, Coleridge & White, and the fantastic team at Hodder: Tanya, Lucy, Laura, Liz, Richard, Ron, Aslan, Martin, Jamie, Lisa, Nick, Sue, Kelly, Pippa, Helen, Suzie, Alex, Alix, Auriol, Diana, Rebecca, Anneberth, Francesca, Jen, Toni, Kerry, Leni, Emma, Emma, Will, Peter, and Henry, all the reps: Ian, Julia, Phil, Jack, Bob, Andy, Bettina . . . when I say everybody I really mean everybody! Extra huge thanks to Carolyn Mays, Kate Howard, and Karen Geary—in the leisure industry, there’s a prize called ‘The Seven Stars and Stripes Award for World-level Perfection’, and you all deserve to win its publishing equivalent!

Thank you to John Gould for kindly allowing me to use the lyrics of his song Mon Ami François, and to David Wood for helping me to find John to ask his permission.

1
Monday, 6 August 2007
 
 
Or your family.

The last three words are yelled, not spoken. As Pam elbows her way through the crowd in front of me, I hear nothing apart from that last spurt of viciousness, her afterthought. She made it four syllables instead of five: ‘Or your fam-ly’; four blows that thump in my mind like a boxer’s jabbing fist.

Why bring my family into it? What have they ever done to Pam?

Beside me, several people have stopped to stare, waiting to see how I will react to Pam’s outburst. I could shout something after her but she wouldn’t hear me. There is too much noise coming from all directions: buses screeching around corners, music thumping out of shop doorways, buskers beating unsubtle notes out of their guitar strings, the low metallic rumble of trains into and out of Rawndesley station.

Pam is moving away from me fast, but I can still see her white trainers with luminous patches on the heels, her solid, square body and short, aubergine-coloured spiky hair. Her livid departure has cut a long, straight fu ............

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