Waves of Guilt

By Dawn Marsanne

Six months ago, Sarah Needham's husband died. Now she is trying to rebuild her life. However, she makes a chance discovery which causes her to question the circumstances of her husband's death. Have some details been overlooked which cast the tragic circumstances in a new light? Just when she thought she was moving on, she is catapulted back to an era she would prefer to forget. Sarah is thrown into confusion. Should she pursue these vague suspicions or confine them to the past?

At the same time, someone Sarah was romantically involved with many years ago comes into her life to offer support. Is it too early to begin a new relationship or will loyalty to her late husband cast a shadow over future happiness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Marsanne
• Release date: Oct 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386547211

Dawn Marsanne

Having worked in the pharmaceutical industry for almost twenty-five years I wanted to write a novel which explored some of the serious issues in the field. The reproducibility of scientific data is a common problem which has recently been highlighted in the news and this forms the basis of my first book Adverse Reaction. I particularly enjoy reading thrillers and suspense novels and I have tried to create a fast paced story which holds the reader's attention. Many of the themes of the book occur in everyday life and I have used the backdrop of research to illustrate them. There are relatively few novels which are set in the laboratory environment so I saw this as an undeveloped area but at the same time scientific details are kept to a minimum to allow the work to be accessible to readers of a non-technical background. As I finished the novel I became sufficiently interested in the characters I had created to develop them further and the six book Persford Reaction Series was born. Since then I have written to standalone novels, A Form of Justice and Relative Error. Waves of Guilt is the first in a new series and is now joined by a sequel, Layers of Deceit.  Follow me on twitter @dawn_marsanne

Book preview

Prologue

Six months earlier

The car was being driven erratically along the seafront at speed, the driver struggling to maintain a straight course. As he strayed over the white line in the middle of the road, oncoming motorists expressed their shock and anger by blasting their horns.

Suddenly, the car swerved to the left and clipped the wing-mirror of a stationary vehicle. The driver wrenched the wheel, causing the car to veer over to the right on to the wrong side of the road. A few passers-by stopped to observe the unfolding scene.

With a sudden burst of acceleration, the car scraped alongside three more stationary cars before crashing and bringing the wayward trajectory to a halt. The driver alighted and staggered a few paces looking around warily.

One witness, having a quiet smoke outside a seafront hotel decided to intervene. Discarding his cigarette, he ran towards the scene of the accident, shouting.

‘Hey! Stop!’ cried Darren, but his words sounded feeble, distorted by the strong winter wind blowing off the sea. Undeterred by the heavy rain, Darren kept pace with the driver who by now had stumbled across the grass verge and on to the pedestrian area of the promenade. When the witness arrived, the man was looking down over the railings at the sheer drop.

‘You fucking idiot! You could have killed someone!’ shouted the witness.

‘No! I didn’t,’ replied the driver. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’

‘You were driving! It was your fault! Stay where you are!’

‘No! Get away from me! You don’t understand. I tried to tell them. I did what I could!’

‘You’re drunk!’

The witness had managed to call the emergency services whilst giving chase. ‘Yes, Ramsgate seafront. By the cinema,’ gasped Darren into his mobile. ‘He’s with me now. You need to be quick!’

The man climbed over the railings.

‘Fuck,’ said the onlooker to himself. ‘No, mate! Don’t! Look, calm down! Come back now. Don’t be silly!’ Darren could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and the sound reverberated in his ears. He started to breathe quickly and shallowly as the horror unfolded.

‘Leave me alone!’ shouted the man.

‘OK. It’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you,’ replied Darren, trying desperately to sound sympathetic.

‘I’ve had enough. I don’t deserve to live!’

‘Look, my name’s Darren. We can talk.’

‘I’ve done enough talking.’

‘OK, OK, we don’t have to talk.’

The man clung to the railings, looking down from time to time.

Darren was desperate. He felt wildly out of his depth in a situation which had befallen him quite by chance. He had no idea what to do. Where were the police? It seemed ages since he had phoned them, but he knew it was probably only two minutes. Time was standing still, and before him, someone’s life was in the balance.

‘Why don’t we get out of the rain?’ suggested Darren.

‘I don’t care about the fucking rain!’ came the reply.

Whatever Darren suggested was rebuffed. Was it better to remain silent? Darren was at a loss. He glanced around to see several onlookers at a respectable distance, reluctant to get involved but rooted to the spot by curiosity.

The man focused on the vertical drop. Was this Darren’s chance? Very slowly, he inched his way towards the suicidal man. Darren wanted to pinch himself. Was this really happening? One minute he had been enjoying his last cigarette of the evening; the next, he was trying to persuade someone not to commit suicide.

A sudden gust of wind made Darren stagger sideways, and the adrenalin coursing through his veins made him feel unsteady and light-headed. The rain was getting heavier, and the railings looked slick in the glow from the seafront lights.

The man let go with one hand. His body swung forward, inclined at sixty degrees to the railings. This was it. Darren had to do something. He lurched forward to try to grab the man and managed to grasp his arm.

‘I can help you! Please let me help you!’

‘Let me go!’ shouted the man.

‘Come and help me!’ shouted Darren to the group of onlookers.

As the crowd rushed forward, the man managed to pivot around and struck Darren a glancing blow on his face.

‘OK, OK. I’m stepping back now.’ He raised his palms in submission, stepping backwards and treading on the feet of another onlooker. Darren realised it was time to let the professionals take over. He had done all he could. Could he hear a faint siren? He prayed that his ears weren’t deceiving him. To his relief, he could see that the man now held on to the railings with both hands.

As Darren backed away, he flashed a comforting smile at the man who now appeared calmer. Perhaps the sea air and the rain were sobering him up? The two men locked eyes for one last time, then the man let go. He fell backwards and disappeared from view.

A woman screamed.

‘No!’ wailed Darren as he turned from the railings and slumped down to the ground, burying his face in his hands. He lay on the cold, wet promenade, as the sound of police sirens punctuated the air.

Chapter 1

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I looked at the partially written article and sighed. The deadline was fast approaching, and my efforts so far were jumbled and failed to explain the subject clearly. How doctors can stem the tide of opioid addiction. I was still finding it hard to concentrate, although it was gradually becoming easier. I’d no idea how long or even whether I would continue in scientific journalism, but for the time being, familiarity was comforting. Now probably wasn’t the time to make major changes to my life. Nor did I have any idea what those might be.

My mobile rang. I was tempted not to answer, but the editor of Modern Science, was very determined, and I would have to speak to her at some point.

‘Clare! Hi,’ I answered.

‘Sarah. I was beginning to think you’d emigrated,’ she said acerbically.

‘So, how’s your day going?’ I answered, ignoring her last remark.

‘Well, it would be going much better if you’d sent me the first draft of your opioid article. I might need some for the headache you are giving me,’ Clare added with her usual sarcasm.

‘Tomorrow’s the deadline we agreed,’ I replied, ‘the 10th.’

‘Today’s the 10th,’ she helpfully informed me.

‘No, it’s the....oh, shit, I’m so sorry. What am I like?’ I cringed, hoping she wouldn’t answer that last question.

‘Sarah. I don’t want to sound unkind...’

‘Why not, you often do,’ I was tempted to reply.

‘But,’ she continued, ‘we might need to rethink things a little.’

‘Sorry? Are you there? I think you’re breaking up a bit,’ I replied. It was an old trick, but at times, I had to employ the ruse.

‘I said, we might need to reconsider your contract with us.’

‘Wait a minute. I’ll just move to another room.’ I stayed where I was and put the phone down, switching it to speaker mode, whilst I scanned through my emails.

‘Hello? Sarah? I need it by four today. Hope you heard that!’ she said and disconnected.

I looked at the time. Six hours to complete it and send it to Clare was tight but doable. Stay positive I told myself. Returning to my article, I scanned through to the sections I’d marked as requiring more detail and once more began to search for information on the web. Frustratingly, I had trouble finding a reference I’d seen late last night but had failed to bookmark, so I ended up looking through my browsing history to locate it.

‘Bingo!’ I exclaimed as I scrolled through the article to find the details I needed. Suddenly, I felt in the zone. My fluency had improved, and I quickly dashed off a couple of paragraphs without too much of a struggle. Soon, I would have the article finished, and Clare would rejoice and shower me with praise. Perhaps I would be able to get it to her by early afternoon, and I would be off the hook until my next assignment.

Pleased that it was finally beginning to take shape, I stretched my arms above my head and flexed my shoulders. An email notification appearing at the bottom corner of my screen distracted me. In a couple of days, I was due to attend a meeting, entitled, Making Science Accessible: The role of the science journalist. I was looking forward to a trip to London and a change of scene. Working from home was great, but at times, lonely. I found that since being widowed, my solitary evenings were a struggle.

I looked at the photograph on my desk. My late husband, David, had such a lovely smile and to others appeared happy and relaxed. In contrast, I knew his inner torment, and every day, I felt a mixture of anger and guilt that I should have done more to prevent him from taking his own life. How did I not spot the signs that the end was imminent? Had I become complacent over the years? So used to living with his depressed moods that I thought it was just a typical day listening to David, who always used me as a sounding board to work through his emotions.

‘Why?’ was still going through my mind. ‘Couldn’t you have let me help you work through your problems?’ How many times had I gone over those questions? I closed my eyes. I could agonise over the reasons an infinite number of times, but it wouldn’t bring David back. Sadly, he had decided he could no longer continue with life.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said to David’s photograph. ‘Why couldn’t you accept that?’

I could feel my mind starting to wander into that dark place, a place where I would become entangled in the tentacles of despair. If that were to happen, work would evade me for the rest of the day. I closed my eyes, but that was a mistake as images began to flood in like a film on fast forward.

I realised that I was in danger of spiralling down into melancholy myself. With a deadline tapping me on the shoulder, it was a feeling I needed to nip in the bud. I also had a student arriving at 6 p.m. for some private tuition, and I needed to be in the right frame of mind for that. Exams started in four weeks, and each year I took on a few students to prepare for their science exams.

I knew what I needed to do, and that was to get out into the fresh air. A walk by the sea would help and perhaps I would stop off at my favourite coffee shop. I could do some work there instead of in the claustrophobic atmosphere of my house.

Before I could change my mind, I closed my laptop, slipped it into my leather satchel and grabbed a light jacket. It was seventeen degrees according to my phone, but the wind off the sea could be cool and was buffeting the shrubs in the garden. Checking that I had my purse and cards, I headed outside.

Chapter 2

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I pulled my front door firmly closed and scurried down the driveway, just as my neighbour appeared through his side gate. Inwardly, I cursed.

‘Morning, Mrs Needham! Off out?’ asked my neighbour, Cyril.

‘Morning, Mr Bent! Yes, just into Broadstairs.’

Many years ago, I had tried to get my neighbour to call me Sarah, but he had continued to address me as Mrs Needham, thus I had felt duty-bound to reciprocate on formal terms.

Cyril was in his mid to late sixties but seemed much older, not just in appearance, but in outlook. Unlike many men his age, he had a trim figure and with a decent haircut could have been quite handsome. He had once told me he cut his hair himself, and it certainly looked like it. Cyril had retired aged sixty, having worked in local government since leaving school. A confirmed bachelor, and a tendency to tell everyone what they should do and how to do it, made him a bit of a social pariah. It was sad, but he didn’t realise how irritating he was. Still, he was quiet and didn’t cause any major trouble, so I had little cause for complaint.

‘Seen anything of your new neighbours?’ he asked, inclining his head towards the house adjacent to mine.

‘Er, no, can’t say I have,’ I replied.

‘They seem like keen gardeners,’ replied Cyril. ‘Saw a van delivering lots of plants the other day.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ I replied.

‘It’s good when people look after their gardens. Makes the whole neighbourhood look respectable.’

‘Yes, it does,’ I replied, inching away from Cyril, keen to be on my way. I raised my hand in a valedictory gesture, but it wasn’t enough for my neighbour. He had been known to follow me down the road, garden shears in hand, continuing his conversation with me.

‘I’ve got a Weigela like yours.’

‘Oh, yes, in your back garden?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

I felt that Cyril had something else to add, but he seemed a bit hesitant.

‘I’m not sure whether you know this, but it’s best to prune it now, otherwise, you won’t get the flowers next year. I’ve just done mine,’ he added hurriedly.

‘I’m going to prune it at the weekend,’ I replied. ‘Well, I’ll be getting along,’ I said.

‘Did I tell you that I’m thinking of growing more vegetables?’

‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

‘Well, I’d be reducing my carbon footprint, don’t you think?’

‘I guess so. If that’s what you want to do.’

‘What about you?’

I frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘Would you be interested in doing that? Vegetables, I mean?’

‘Oh, no. I’ve not got the time,’ I replied. I liked my garden as it was, and enjoyed the colour of flowering plants and shrubs. As we were speaking, I noticed Cyril’s gaze straying past me and up to the roof of my house. He continued to stare up at something.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no, well, nothing much,’ replied Cyril.

‘What is it? Is there something on the roof?’

‘I’ve just noticed you have a plant growing in your gutter.’

‘Really?’ I said, squinting against the sunlight and shading my eyes as I looked upwards.

‘There! Can you see? Just above the landing window.’

‘Oh, yes, I can just see it poking up. It doesn’t seem very big.’

‘No, but it’s probably growing along where you can’t see it, and before you realise it, your gutters will be blocked and start to overflow when we get heavy rain.’

‘It rained yesterday, and I didn’t notice a problem,’ I replied petulantly, ‘so it can’t be too bad.’

‘I’d get it out as soon as you can,’ replied Cyril. ‘I’ll hold the ladder if you want to go up.’

‘Er, no, I’ll get someone to look at it, thanks.’ There was no way I was going any higher than a small stepladder. ‘Thanks for pointing it out!’ I walked briskly down the road before Cyril could find something else to chat about.

It was about a twenty-minute walk into Broadstairs from my home on an estate at Dumpton Gap, the area between Broadstairs and Ramsgate. The sea looked lovely, and the French coast was just visible through a slight haze on the horizon. There were a dozen or so cars parked along the seafront, but in a few weeks, there would be many more when the schools broke up for the summer holidays.

As I walked along, my phone beeped with a few incoming emails, and I retrieved it from my bag, squinting against the sunlight to see the notifications. There was nothing of interest, so I dropped it back in my satchel. I thought back to my school days in the 1980s when a computer arrived and we had special lessons to write a simple program. I would never have imagined how technology would dominate our lives. Without it, I simply wouldn’t be able to work from home.

Viking Bay, the main beach in Broadstairs came into sight and looked glorious in the summer sunshine. Bleak House, immortalised by Charles Dickens stood proudly above the sweep of the bay, looking welcoming in contrast to its name.

I was five minutes from my favourite coffee shop and my caffeine fix. As I traversed Broadstairs’ narrow streets, most unsuited to today’s SUVs, I increased my pace, my quarry in sight. As I pushed open the door, the aroma of freshly ground coffee greeted me, and thankfully, quite a short queue at the counter. I scanned the cafe and saw that one of my favourite tables, tucked into an alcove next to the fireplace was currently free. There, I could ensconce myself and concentrate on my article.

I also noticed that several people were standing up, peering through the windows, looking out to sea. Despite the strong wind, hardy patrons were sitting at the tables on the verandah, and as I was looking over at them, the woman in front of me turned around.

‘Nothing like a tragedy to attract a crowd,’ she said, inclining her head towards the people by the window. Did you see all the emergency vehicles?’

‘Er, no, I came from that direction,’ I said, pointing with my hand.

‘Someone saw a body on the beach,’ she said.

‘Oh, how sad,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps a boat has capsized?’

‘No, I reckon it could be the missing migrant. You know the young woman who was missing when they rescued that boat off North Foreland last week.’

‘Oh, yes, I read about that. So tragic.’

‘Yes, well, the problem is the more they rescue, the more...,’ but she didn’t get to finish her sentence as the barista was asking for her order.

My mood suddenly dipped as I absorbed the sad news. Death was always around us, and I felt for the victim and the poor person who had made the discovery. Today was turning out to be one of those days, where I had to fight against the forces of depression dogging me at every step. Perhaps I should have stayed at home? However, being out of the house and amongst other people often made me feel better, and I had to dispel my negative thoughts, otherwise, I would have Clare hassling me again.

‘A large latte, please,’ I said.

‘Coming up. Anything else?’

‘No, thank you.’ My gaze wandered to the glass-fronted cabinet. ‘Er, on second thoughts, I’ll have a pain au chocolat.’ I didn’t need any extra calories, but I had walked briskly and would do so on my way back. Hopefully, the sugar would give my brain a boost and help me to complete my article.

Chapter 3

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My home-tutoring hour with A level student Rory Campbell was coming to an end. ‘So, anything else you want to go through, Rory?’ I asked, glancing at the clock on the wall.

‘Er, well, I think I just need to focus on the subjects we’ve outlined.’

Rory’s smile lacked confidence, but that was partly because he was a perfectionist.  

‘I think you will be fine. You just made a few slips here and there. Take it steady and don’t rush.’

‘I feel such an idiot for those mistakes,’ said Rory. ‘I can’t afford to throw away marks like that.’

‘Here are a couple more past papers. Try to do them under exam conditions, so you keep an eye on the time.’ I handed them over. ‘I know you’ve heard this a hundred times, but read the questions carefully.’

‘That’s a hundred and one times, now,’ he quipped, then blushed slightly at his remark.

I was pleased he was showing some humour. His mood had been so dour throughout our session. ‘So, remind me when the exam is?’

‘Next week, on Tuesday. It’s first thing in the morning, which suits me best.’

‘Well, I’m confident.’

Rory nodded. He smiled weakly and began to gather his papers together into his wallet file. This evening he’d been very subdued. His single exclamation, ‘Oh, I see!’ was his only display of animation and it concerned me. Had I noticed a slight tremor when he had picked up one of the sheets of paper? Exam nerves were not unexpected, but usually, Rory was much more self-assured.

‘Rory, is everything OK? I don’t mean the exams. You just seem, well, how can I say, a bit down?’

‘Oh, it’s just exam nerves,’ he replied, avoiding eye contact and continuing to flick through his folder. ‘I just want them to be over.’

‘Well, that’s understandable, but you just don’t seem your normal self,’ I persisted.

‘I’ve not been sleeping. I think it’s starting to catch up with me,’ he replied. ‘My horrible little brother keeps playing his music too loudly, and I have trouble getting off to sleep.’

‘Oh, dear. Well, he’s being very selfish, isn’t he? Anyway, I wish you all the best, and it’s been nice working with you,’ I said, getting up from the dining room table.

‘Thank you, Mrs Needham. You’ve really helped.’

‘You know if you ever have trouble finding a quiet space to revise, you can always come here. Don’t just turn up though, make sure that you phone first as I’m quite busy at the moment.’

‘That’s really nice of you,’ replied Rory. ‘I’ll just beat up Ollie, or hide his speakers!’

I showed him to the door, and he waved goodbye. His shoulders were tense, and he shuffled off along the pavement, his eyes downcast, and his posture stooped.

I thought about our conversation. It sounded so unlikely that the Campbells would pay for private tuition, yet at the same time, allow their younger son to disturb Rory. Also, I realised that Ollie would be sitting his GCSEs and presumably would also be studying hard. Rory’s excuse had seemed feeble, and I’m sure he sensed that I didn’t believe him. I was sure he wasn’t telling the truth, and it worried me.

**

My mobile rang as I was preparing my dinner, a macaroni cheese ready meal and some broccoli. ‘Hi, Clare,’ I answered, putting the phone on speaker so I could continue tidying in my kitchen.

‘Just a quick call to say thanks for your article. It reads brilliantly!’

I nearly dropped my plate as Clare wasn’t fond of dealing out praise. When she did, it was usually much more muted. Fine, acceptable, OK, were more her standard. Was she feeling unwell, I asked myself.

‘Well, thanks,’ I replied.

‘So, you are going to this meeting in London in a couple of days, and Gerry was also going. You know him, don’t you?’

‘Er, yes, I know he’s another contributor, but we’ve never met.’

‘I guess not as he lives in Manchester,’ added Clare, ‘anyway, he was going to do a piece on AI, and he’s just cancelled. His mother died suddenly, so he can’t attend.’

‘Oh, that’s sad,’ I added. I knew what was coming next, but I wasn’t going to help Clare out. I would wait for her suggestion.

‘Indeed. So, I’ve got an opportunity for you.’

‘You mean a favour,’ I corrected, smiling as I uttered the words. I knew it would annoy Clare, but she annoyed me. It wouldn’t hurt her to see what it was like to write a piece from scratch, rather than just coordinating things as she liked to describe it.

‘That’s a matter of opinion, but I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like you to take over Gerry’s piece on AI.’

‘AI? You mean artificial intelligence?’

‘Of course, I mean artificial intelligence,’ sighed Clare.

‘Sarah? Are you there?’

‘Yes, I was waiting for you to make me an offer.’

She didn’t respond immediately. ‘I’ve already asked you what I’d like you to do,’ she said. I knew I had the upper hand as she sounded tentative.

‘Yes, but it’s not my field. I’d have to spend a lot of time reading around the subject and as they say, money’s time and time’s money.’ I wasn’t desperate for money, but Clare’s manner, which at times was arrogant in the extreme, made me want to challenge her. She tended to ride roughshod over people, and I felt it my duty to reign in her domineering manner. I heard Clare sigh, which was a sure sign I had her on the back foot.

‘Name your price,’ she said.

‘Shall we say, double my normal rate?’

‘Oh, come on, Sarah. Where’s your sense of reason?’

‘Where’s yours?’ I countered.

‘Let’s say, your normal rate plus fifty percent?’

‘Let’s not,’ I replied, turning off the oven and putting my broccoli in the microwave. We were now in full adversarial mode, volleying the questions back and forth like two tennis players at the net. ‘You know how much extra work this would be for me. I’m not looking to expand my skill set at this stage in my career.’

‘Your normal rate plus seventy-five percent on top,’ she offered.

I paused for a few minutes. ‘OK, but this is the last time I step in at short notice. I’d appreciate you putting it in writing.’

‘Consider it done,’ she said, grudgingly as she disconnected.

**

I was watching the BBC 24 hour rolling news, feeling quite replete after my macaroni cheese, when an email pinged into my mobile. Curiosity won out, and I looked at the message, which caused a momentary lurch of my stomach. An ex-colleague, in fact, more than just a colleague, from many years ago, was making contact through LinkedIn. Any messages via this app were few and far between, and I had recently wondered whether it was worth still having my details on the

Reviews for Waves of Guilt

[Elizabeth Schneider · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I'm giving this five stars because I enjoyed the heck out of this and want more and more and more from the author.

A lot of time went into a very unique tale and I appreciate the detail.

I can't say anymore because I don't want to give anything away but I loved it.

Loved it!