All These Things That I've Done

By Karen Mason

When newlywed Grace Whelan discovers that Paul, her supposedly perfect husband, has kept his horrific childhood a secret, her world starts to spiral out of control.

Meanwhile DI Kit Martorelli is called back to the Metropolitan Police - leaving behind her quiet life Sussex, to investigate the link between the murder of a recluse, and the notorious case of Sharon Morgan, a pregnant woman burned alive in her home by a gang of boys, over twenty years ago.

A DNA find reveals there was another person involved in Sharon's murder who was never caught. While Grace is stranded alone with a man who, far from being her Prince Charming, may well be the worst kind of monster.

With the help of her dad Vito, a former Met officer, Kit revisits the original investigation and discovers a web of police corruption and cover ups. Can she find the real killer of Sharon Morgan and clear the names of the four children who took the blame for this terrible crime?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Mason
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005414801

Karen Mason

Karen Mason (PhD, University of Denver) is associate professor of counseling and psychology at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary and a psychologist working in the mental health field since 1990. She previously managed the Office of Suicide Prevention for the Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment and is a member of the American Psychological Association. She is the author of When the Pieces Don't Fit: Making Sense of Life's Puzzles.

Book preview

Chapter One

For most of my life, it felt as though no-one ever really saw me. Not until him. It sounds like a strange thing to say, doesn’t it? How can a person live for forty years and yet feel invisible for half of it? I’d even become comfortable in my insignificance - I expected no more. But then I met Paul and I suddenly felt like I existed.

Even on our wedding day, a part of me still felt as though I was dreaming. It had hardly been a glamourous affair. A registry office ceremony followed by a reception in a three-star hotel in Epsom, which still smelt slightly of a thousand cooked breakfasts for travelling salesmen; but just to be married, seemed surreal, and every time I looked across the room at my husband, I couldn’t believe I’d got so lucky. Paul seemed to sense when I was looking at him, because he’d catch my eye and give that lazy, one-sided smile. I’d melt a little, and a delicious knot of desire would form in my stomach,. I couldn’t wait until we got home and made the most of our wedding night.

The guests were mainly made up of Paul’s friends and my colleagues and their partners. I didn’t have many friends, only Caren, who was here with her daughter Sasha. I’d known Caren since nursery school, and she was the only person who didn’t think it weird me marrying Paul, despite only knowing him for six weeks. Caren was the sort of woman who other women didn’t like because she lived her life how she wanted and never apologised. We were polar opposites, but somehow we fitted together perfectly. I don’t think I could have gotten through my wedding day without her.

The day seemed to stretch on forever, and by the time it started to get dark outside, I was ready to leave. The formalities were over, Paul and I had danced to Just the Way You Are by Billy Joel; Ed, my brother-in-law had done a brief speech that was largely meaningless because he only saw me once a year at Christmas, and hardly knew me. The cake had been cut, and now the room just seemed to be full of drunk, tired people, too polite to be the first ones to leave.

I wondered if it would be rude if Paul and I just left. We didn’t have a honeymoon booked, but I hoped people would understand that we wanted to be alone. I tried to catch his eye, so I could make some sort of indication, but he was too busy looking at his phone and frowning. He then shoved it in his pocket and walked quickly out of the room. Feeling it was now my place to follow him, I too moved, but was blocked by Mum and Horatio, her latest husband. She met him on a beach in the Gambia, and they were married three months later. She claimed he loved her for real - unlike Tunisian Ali, husband number two. Horatio was wearing a powder blue fake Gucci suit, and Mum was squeezed into a peach-coloured ruched creation she had probably bought in Croydon Market.

‘Where’s hubby?’ she asked. She tried to grab my chin, but alcohol was clouding her judgement, and instead she knocked my shoulder and wobbled slightly.

‘I don’t know. He seemed to get a message on his phone, and he left.’

‘Maybe he’s seen sense.’ Mum snorted.

‘Don’t be nasty, Lesley,’ Horatio said, smiling, displaying the gold crown my mother had paid for him to have on his front tooth. ‘Grace looks very acceptable today.’

‘Today, yeah, all brides look nice on their wedding day. Do you know, Horry, we all thought she was going to be a model before she decided she wanted to go to university?’

‘She has the height.’

‘Yeah, but she didn’t weigh twelve stone then!’

Once upon a time, Mum’s mockery would have hurt me deeply, but not anymore. It swept over me because I had Paul, and every day he told me I was beautiful. I wasn’t beautiful to anyone else, but his was the only opinion that mattered.

I ignored Mum and looked for Paul. There was no sign of him. He’d looked so worried when he’d got that message on his phone, I was scared it was from someone he didn’t want to see. I wanted to find him and make sure he was okay, but before I could reach the door, I was stopped by Tanya, my boss. She looked beautiful in her blue silk dress, her long blonde hair falling down one side. She was only a few years older than me, but she was so kind and somehow motherly.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

‘I just want to go home. My feet are killing me in these shoes and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable around all these people. I’m an introvert, it’s not my natural environment!’

‘I can appreciate that,’ she smiled, rubbing my arm. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry my darling, I’ve got to be going. Tiffany would never forgive me if I missed her opening night. I just wanted to give you this.’

She passed me a gold envelope. I opened it and inside was a card with ‘Congratulations on your Wedding’ on it. I could feel there was something folded up inside it.

‘We all thought you should have something special for your wedding night.’

It was a print out, and it took me a couple of goes of reading it, before it sank in. The girls at the salon where I worked had clubbed together and bought me three nights in a cottage in a place called Breckome.

‘It’s just outside Hove,’ Tanya explained. ‘All mod-cons, even a hot tub.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I uttered. I was so touched. I didn’t think I even meant that much to my colleagues. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s no more than you deserve for looking after us all. Have fun.’

She grasped my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. Once she had gone, Mum sauntered over, Horatio trailing behind.

‘She sodded off?’ Mum hated Tanya, I suspect it was because she was everything she wanted to be.

‘Her daughter is opening in Les Miserables this evening. She had to go.’

Mum looked at the print out.

‘What she got you?’

At that moment, I saw Paul re-enter the room, and as soon as he noticed me, he smiled and gave a wave. He looked flustered. His thick, floppy brown hair that had stayed under control all day was falling over his eyes. His tie was askew, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been kissing someone. I was perfectly aware people were saying I was punching above my weight and he would soon dump me for someone prettier. I left Mum and Horatio and went over to him.

‘Hello Mrs Whelan,’ he smiled, kissing me on the lips. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Where have you been?’ I asked.

‘Oh, that was old Harry from the shop next door. He thought there’d been a break in.’

‘Had there?’

‘Harry’s not sure.’ He looked at the print out. ‘What’s that?’

‘Tanya and the girls have paid for us to have a honeymoon in a cottage down near Hove.’

‘From tonight?’

‘Yeah, we just need to drive home and get some clothes.’

‘Tell you what, you stay here. I’ll go to the shop, double check Harry wasn’t imagining things, then I’ll pop to the flat, get some stuff for us, then drive back down and collect you.’

‘Can’t I come with you?’

‘We paid for all this, Gracie, make the most of it. If you don’t, it’ll be your mum stuffing things in her handbag!’

‘True. Okay, well don’t be long.’

I knew what people were thinking as Paul rushed out once more – that he’d realised the massive mistake he’d made and had done a runner. It felt like everyone was looking at me and pitying me, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I made my escape. I walked out of the French doors onto the small, manicured lawn. I caught sight of my reflection and I was horrified. I’d let Caren talk me into buying a vintage cream lace dress with a Mandarin collar. On the hanger it looked nice, and even when I’d tried it on, I’d been so excited I convinced myself it looked good. Now, I could see it just emphasised my round-shoulders and fat belly. Even the auburn tint I’d put on my mousy hair, looked brassy and cheap. How could I ever have thought someone like Paul could be serious about me?

‘Had enough?’

I looked round, one of the waiters – a short man with grey curly hair, was standing having a cigarette.

‘Just tired,’ I replied. ‘It’s been a long day.’

I wasn’t good at small talk, but I could tell he wasn’t going to give me chance to back out. He walked over to me and offered me a cigarette.

‘I don’t……’

‘Where’s hubby?’ he asked.

‘Probably seen sense and run off.’ I sighed. ‘What was I doing? We barely know each other.’

‘How long?’

‘Six weeks.’

‘Six weeks?!’ he spluttered. ‘You’re not pregnant or dying or something, are you?’

‘No. I’m forty next week. Not long after we met, I told Paul how depressing it was to reach forty and never have been married, so he proposed.’

‘Wow, romantic. How did you meet?’

‘In his record shop in Crystal Palace. He sells vintage vinyl. My friend’s daughter is trying to make it as a DJ and I noticed a record she was after, in the window. I went in and I noticed Paul had a Spectre Bus t-shirt on.’

‘Spectre Bus?’

‘They were an obscure indie band from back in the late nineties. We got talking about them, and I ended up staying until closing time. Paul asked if I wanted to go for a drink…’

‘And six weeks later, you’re married.’

‘Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But we just sort of fitted together. He only moved into my flat last week.’

The little man threw his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his foot.

‘You know what, my grandparents met in the war and were married within three weeks. They’re still together today, and inseparable in their nursing home.’

‘That’s lovely to hear. Maybe me and Paul will be as lucky.’

‘No reason why you can’t be.’

He smiled and went back into the party.

I found a bench and sat down, hoping no one else would come out and bother me. I couldn’t cope with people’s pity – I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. I needed to take stock of what had happened. Paul had swept me off my feet, and for six weeks I’d lived on this crazy rollercoaster and had been so busy enjoying the ride, I hadn’t seen things how they really were. I had married a stranger. I’d fallen in love with him on the first night we’d slept together. It had taken me so long to trust a man and give myself to him, and the fact I’d done it so easily with Paul, made me realise he was special. But I knew so little about him, and I’d been as stupid as Mum when she fell for the lies of her foreign toy-boys.

It was starting to get cold, and I decided to go back inside and tell everyone the party was over. Paul had the car, so I had no idea how I was going to get back to Thornton Heath. My only hope was that someone was sober enough to give me a lift. I dreaded going home, walking into the flat, and seeing all Paul’s stuff gone, but I had nowhere else to go. I certainly wasn’t going to the cottage to spend my honeymoon alone.

Caren stepped out onto the patio, looking resplendent in her pink suit, which complemented her short, electric blue hair. Nancy, her partner, couldn’t make it today because she was a nurse and was on duty. Caren didn’t consider herself a lesbian. She said she was pansexual because she was capable of falling in love with anyone.

‘What you doing out here?’ she asked. ‘It’s your bloody wedding.’

‘He’s left me, hasn’t he?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Paul, he’s gone. What groom leaves his own wedding reception?’

‘Where did he say he was going?’

‘The old man who owns the shop next to his called and said he thought someone was breaking in. Paul said he was going to check it, and on the way back he’d pop to the flat and pick up our stuff. The girls from the salon have bought us a honeymoon in a cottage down near Hove.’

‘So why do you think he’s left you?’

‘Look at me, Caz. I’m overweight, nearly forty, and a nerd. Paul’s cool and gorgeous and popular. Look how many mates he has.’

‘No family though. I thought someone would turn up.’

‘He fell out with his family years ago.’

‘This is all in your head, Grace. You’re unwilling to believe someone could love you for you. There is nothing wrong with you. I’ve known you all my life, and you’re still the kindest, sweetest, cleverest person I know.’ She nudged me with her elbow. ‘You know you’d always be my Phone a Friend on Who Wants to be a Millionaire.’

‘I guess so. I still want everyone to go. Will you give me a hand getting rid of them?’

‘Course I will.’

It was half past nine by the time everyone had gone. It was just me, Caren and Sasha helping the catering staff to clear up. I said little, because I knew if I spoke, I would start crying and never stop. My mind tormented me as I pictured going to work on Monday. It should have been a day off – the last day of my honeymoon; but what would be the point of staying home and dwelling on things? Instead, I would go to work and endure my colleagues’ pitying looks and words of comfort. At least I wouldn’t have to face the customers as well. I liked having my own little office, away from everyone, and I would really appreciate it now.

Sasha caught me in the corner of the room, pretending to be taking down some bunting, but in reality I was taking deep breaths to prevent the panic attack I could feel coming.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, sitting on the table beside me. I looked at her. She would never know what it was like to feel ugly. Her father had been a male model from the Dominican Republic, and she’d inherited his fine bone structure. Her honey-coloured skin was flawless and her black ringlets were glossy and bouncy. She’d been beautiful from the day she was born.

‘I feel a fool,’ I managed to say.

Before she could reply, the door flew open and Paul rushed in. I was sure I was dreaming. I’d convinced myself he was gone forever.

‘I’m so sorry, Grace,’ he gasped. ‘I got stuck in traffic on London Road.’

‘I thought you’d left me!’

To my mortification, I burst out crying.

‘Oh, you silly goose,’ he said, rushing over to me and pulling me to him. I melted into him and it felt like home. It was only when I stroked his back that I realised he was wearing a sweatshirt.’

‘You got changed,’ I said.

‘You know me, suits aren’t my sort of thing.’

‘Hey you two, get a room!’ Caren out.

We laughed, and Paul took my hands, and I saw the love in his big brown, sleepy eyes, I felt a fool for ever doubting him.

‘Shall we go on honeymoon, Mrs Whelan?’ he smiled.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘All I want is for us to be alone.’

Chapter Two

The last place DI Kit Martorelli wanted to be visiting was the Satchwell Estate. She had the period from hell, her head was throbbing, and to add insult to injury, she’d been partnered up with DC Emma Jacques. Emma had transferred down from Haringey with the misconception that policing Brighton would mean spending her days walking The Lanes and making friends with drag queens and gay café owners who’d had their takings stolen. The reality was this, traipsing round the sink estates on the outskirts of the city that were filled with the undesirables, who’d been sent here from London when their slums had been cleared or their council blocks sold.

‘Surely this is a job for uniform,’ Emma said, jumping out the way of a soiled nappy that was in the middle of the road.

‘The Batemans are a complex family,’ Kit sighed, even though she had already briefed Emma about this and didn’t want to go over it again. ‘They know and trust me.’

. The Bateman house was at the end of a tatty terrace of flat-fronted, pebble-dashed houses. The skeletons of Christmas lights were still fixed on the walls, even though it was the beginning of April. Kit knew, come October, they would be connected to a nearby lamppost and switched on. The front garden was paved over, and the only greenery were the weeds coming through the cracks. There was a discarded child’s scooter with only one wheel, a broken bottle, and a punctured football. Even though Emma was behind Kit, she could imagine the look of disgust on her pretty little face.

The door was ajar, and as they stepped in, Kit could hear music coming from one of the rooms upstairs. Someone was playing Skepta so loudly, Kit had to shout to make sure she was heard.

‘Are you there, Sandi?’

‘Yeah, come in love,’ Sandi Bateman called from the front room. The hallway was smelly, the carpet so in-ground with dirt it had become part of the pattern. The front room was the first door on the right. The focal point of the room was the sixty two inch TV on the wall. This Morning was on, but the sound was muted. Sandi was on the gold velour sofa, one skinny leg up on the coffee table, while she painted her toe nails and spoke on her mobile, which was wedged under her jaw. Her thinning red hair was in rollers, and her fake tan seemed to be seeping into every wrinkle. She was forty five – ten years older than Kit, but a hard life had made her age and she looked nearer sixty.

‘I ain’t fuckin’ lendin’ you the money, Chantelle.’ Her accent was pure South East London. She’d lived in Brighton for nearly twenty years, but it had done nothing to soften her voice. She ended her call and looked up at the two women.

‘Alright.’

‘Sandi, this is DC Emma Jacques,’ Kit said. ‘Can we sit down?’

‘Yeah, but don’t get no marks on it. Dean only got it from DFS last week.’

It was then that Kit noticed the grey leather sofa against the other wall. When Sandi said her son had got it from DFS, what she really meant was that him and his mates had lifted it from the warehouse in the dead of night. But Kit wasn’t here about that, so she turned a blind eye and sat down. Emma sat beside her, doing her best to hide her disgust at the tatty room where every surface seemed to be covered in a layer of fag ash.

‘So you say Bernie’s missing?’ Kit said.

‘Yeah, he ain’t been ‘ome since Friday.’

‘Well it’s hardly unusual for Bernie not to come home, is it?’

‘Shall I make notes?’ Emma asked.

‘Yes please.’

‘It’s different this time. He ain’t answering his phone. I’ve called all his mates. Nuffin.’

‘Well, where did he say he was going on Friday?’

‘He had to sign on, then he said he was going to see somebody who was going to give him some money.’

‘Who?’

‘Wouldn’t say.’

‘Do you think he was lying?’

‘Probably. Who’s gonna give ‘im money? I’m scared he’s been got by the Barlows.’

‘Have you had any threats from them recently?’

‘Shane got sent a Tik Tok video of somebody getting their throat cut.’

‘Throat cut!’ Emma sounded like an hysterical Victorian heroine. ‘Like a snuff film?!’

‘No, it was from a horror film, but it was a warning.’

‘Did he report it?’

‘What’s the point? You lot don’t care.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ Kit said. ‘We’re doing all we can to protect you up until the trial.’

‘I wanted witness protection, but you lot didn’t ‘elp.’

‘It wasn’t practical in the circumstances.’ Kit tried to sound convincing, but in reality, she’d thought witness protection the safest option after Shane Bateman grassed on the Barlow family’s criminal activities. But Poole, her Superintendent had thought them the sort of family who would blow their cover, so it would be a waste of resources.

‘Surely if a member of the Barlow family had hurt Bernie, then they would have sent some warning to him.’ Emma had a point. The Barlows were hardly subtle. Brighton was awash with graffiti with slogans like ‘Shane Bateman Snitch Gonna End Up In A Ditch’. Kit considered it threats. Poole just considered it idiocy.

‘Has Bernie argued with anyone else?’ Kit asked.

‘Nah. He owes Mr Khan in the corner shop ten quid for some cans, but I don’t think he’s the sort to put a hit on him.’

‘Okay, well we’ll see if anyone has seen him. If he comes home or calls you, let us know immediately.’

‘I’ve got a bad feeling,’ Sandi said, shivering to emphasise her point. ‘He normally tells me everything, but he wouldn’t even tell me where he was going on Friday.’

‘Did he have all his phones on him?’

‘Only the iPhone is missing.’

‘What network is it on?’ Emma asked. ‘Do we have the number?’

‘We have it,’ Kit said.

‘When I ring it just goes to voicemail,’ Sandi said. ‘Ain’t like Bernie to not answer his phone.’

‘Can I have a word with Shane? Is that him upstairs?’

‘Yeah, but he might be blazing.’

‘Well, he’ll just have to put it out, won’t he?’

The house was stiflingly hot, and Kit wondered how they could endure it. She went up to the next floor and knocked on Shane’s door. She could smell the weed and it made her feel sick. She seemed to develop some super power sense of smell when she had a period.

‘Can I come in, Shane?’ she shouted so he would hear her over the music.

‘’Oo is it?’

‘Police.’

‘’ang on.’

The music quietened, and Kit could hear him moving around, no doubt trying to hide his drugs. She opened the door anyway. The room stank of cannabis, stale socks, sweat and Lynx Africa. Kit tried to hold her breath as best she could, just to avoid taking it in. Shane was leaning out of the window, probably dropping the joint into the back yard.

‘Don’t waste your time, Shane. Get in.’

He came away from the window and turned to face her.

‘Oh it’s you,’ he said. Shane Bateman’s uniform was archetypal chav. His hair was cut in a French crop, he wore a Fred Perry polo shirt, jogging pants and Nike socks in Adidas sliders. Kit had heard on the grapevine that up until the age of eleven, Shane had been the brightest boy in his school; but puberty had brought about a realisation that he was a member of the Bateman family and he chose a life of crime.

He sat on his scruffy, unmade bed, but Kit remained standing – convinced if she sat on it, she’d get back up with chlamydia.

‘What’s this about you getting threats from the Barlows?’

‘They’re always threatening me. I was in The Wheatsheaf the other night, playing pool, minding me own business, and Danny Barlow comes up to me and tells me if I don’t withdraw me evidence, they’re gonna get these black boys from London to rape Teigan.’

‘They threatened to rape your fourteen year old sister and you didn’t think to tell us?’

‘It’s all bullshit, man.’

‘Have they made any threats about your dad?’

‘Nah.’

‘So do you have any idea why he’s gone missing?’

‘Dunno. He reckoned he’d found something out and he was gonna get enough money to buy us a house and get away from the Barlows.’

‘What had he found out?’

‘Dunno, he said it was best I didn’t know.’

‘Well if he contacts you, even if he doesn’t want your mum knowing, can you give me a ring? And if the Barlows make any more threats, call nine nine nine, that’s what it’s there for.’

Kit was glad to get out of the house and away from the smells and the heat. Emma took a bottle of Angel by Thierry Mugler from her handbag and sprayed it around herself.

‘How can they live like that’ she said.

‘It’s what they’re used to. I still think Poole should have offered them protection. Shane told me that the Barlows have said if he doesn’t withdraw his evidence, they’re going to get some black boys down from London to rape Teigan, his younger sister.’

‘What do they mean get black boys down from London?’

‘I’m guessing it’s a gang they’re affiliated with. Could also be a load of bullshit, I suppose.’

‘These people are animals.’

‘Whatever they are, it’s our job to protect them. I’m going back to the station, see if I can work on Poole. You start checking CCTV from the town centre on Friday.’

‘Will do.’

‘I have a feeling this is nothing to do with the Barlows. This stinks of one of Bernie’s scams. Perhaps he’s finally bitten off more than he can chew.’

Chapter Three

I had been married for a week, and I could truly say I had never been happier. At work, I’d suddenly become one of the girls. My young, glamorous colleagues would come up to my office to eat their lunch and ask me about the honeymoon. I think part of the fascination was that they’d written me off as a dried-up old maid, and now I had a handsome, younger husband, and an active sex life. I always thought women who boasted about these things were crude show-offs, but I couldn’t help but tell all. I hadn’t even had to embellish the truth. Paul and I had spent the first two days in bed, only leaving the cottage on the third day, when we drove to Hove and ate fish and chips by the sea.

Wednesday had been my fortieth birthday, and Paul had sent me flowers at work, and afterwards