The Secret Life of Carolyn Russell: A completely engrossing psychological suspense mystery

By Gail Aldwin

A true-crime podcaster investigates a decades-old suspected abduction, in this powerful psychological suspense novel.

1979
Sixteen-year-old Carolyn Russell grows increasingly infatuated with her school mathematics teacher who is also giving her private lessons. Then she disappears.

2014
Struggling journalist Stephanie Brett creates a true-crime podcast focused on the disappearance of Carolyn Russell. By digging deep into this mysterious cold case, her confidence and flagging career are boosted. But after she confronts the suspects—and talks to a potential witness—the leads dry up. However, Stephanie refuses to let the story rest . . .

Can a small-time journalist with a shoestring podcast really hope to reconstruct the ultimate fate of Carolyn Russell after all these years, or are some secrets best left buried?

“Takes hold of the head and the heart and simply does not let go.” —Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 New York Times–bestselling author of The Good Son

“Captures the zeitgeist for each period with telling accuracy.” —Suzanne Goldring, bestselling author of My Name is Eva

“A rare and thrilling book that manages to be thoughtful and intelligent.” —Joanna Barnard, author of Hush Little Baby

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781504086561

Gail Aldwin

Gail Aldwin is a novelist, poet, and scriptwriter with a PhD in creative writing. Her first two coming-of-age novels were runners-up in the Dorchester Literary Festival Writing Prize, and she has appeared at Bridport Literary Festival, Stockholm Writers Festival, and the Mani Lit Fest in Greece. She splits her time between a tiny flat in South West London and a home overlooking water meadows in Dorset.

Book preview

RIDDLE OF THE MISSING TEENAGER

BY STEPHANIE BRETT

West Country Post, 27 June 1979

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The search for 16-year-old Carolyn Russell continues one week after she left school following a CSE examination. A conscientious pupil keen to gain good qualifications, Carolyn was last seen swinging her school bag as she walked along Greensleeves Road in the county town of Belmont. Suspicion she has run away from home has been ruled out and her disappearance has no links to other cases of missing children. Additional police have been drafted into the area although they face a dead end to their investigation. No new leads have been found in spite of an alert for a yellow Ford Cortina seen near the school at the time of Carolyn’s disappearance. Mrs Russell hopes her daughter will be found alive and well but she is distraught by speculation to the contrary.

1

2014

It was well past five o’clock when Stephanie prepared to leave the office. Glancing through the window, a great belly of cloud suggested a downpour was likely. She opened her desk drawer expecting to see her foldable umbrella tucked beside the desk tidy which always contained a ready-sharpened HB pencil. Not in its correct place, Stephanie wondered where the hell it was. From the corner of her eye, she saw Doug approaching. He probably wanted to share one of his larger-than-life stories and she really wasn’t in the mood.

‘Can I have a word?’ he asked.

‘I was about to go home.’

‘It’s important.’ Doug frowned. ‘Let’s go to my office.’

Shit. ‘Right this minute?’

Doug didn’t answer, just turned and Stephanie was obliged to follow.

They walked between rows of abandoned hot desks. Conscientious colleagues cleared their workspaces while others left the detritus of a birthday celebration: screwed-up napkins, cake crumbs and a shrivelled pink balloon. Stephanie remembered the days of greasy fingerprints on a shared keyboard. Honestly, there should be some rules about office hygiene. That was before the restructure at the West Country Post. Now, she had a permanent base in a quiet corner and the title of Features Editor.

Doug took his place behind the desk and Stephanie sat opposite.

‘What’s all this about?’ she asked.

Doug tapped the Manila folder in front of him. ‘I expect you know what’s coming.’

‘Expect what?’ Stephanie undid a button on her cardigan as heat surged. Of all the times to have a hot flush.

‘You must have heard the rumours.’

‘Rumours?’ Her fingernail snagged on the buttonhole stitching. Oh for an emery board (also stored in her desk tidy). She was tempted to bite the jagged edge of nail to prevent it catching on anything else but she stopped herself.

‘Are you all right, Stephanie?’

‘Absolutely.’ She crossed one ten-denier, pale-crystal leg over the other.

‘This business needs knocking into shape and economies have to be made,’ said Doug.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to stockpile the office stationery to take home.’

Doug didn’t crack a smile. ‘Jokes aside.’

Bloody hell. She flapped her collar in an attempt to cool down. The Meno-Ease sage tablets she’d been taking for the last month were having little or no effect.

‘There are to be redundancies.’

‘I see.’ She glanced at Doug and his look of consternation made her realise she should say more. ‘If it’s the only way forward.’

‘I’m glad you feel like that. I’ve been dreading this moment.’

‘My shoulders are broad, Doug. You know I can take on extra responsibilities.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Doug’s expression was strangely contorted. This made Stephanie focus. His cheeks were rosy and probably complemented her own shade of too much heat.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid it’s your job that’s being cut. I’m very sorry.’

As the news sank in, Stephanie sagged. Doug droned on about payments and notice periods and new beginnings, but nothing registered.

‘I thought we were…’ She was going to say friends. Christ, how had it come to this? She’d been at the Post for so long. ‘What about the big project?’

‘Change of plan.’ Doug sighed. ‘You know how it is.’

Returning to her desk, Stephanie saw the umbrella hanging by its cord from the coat stand. There it was! She gripped it, thinking somehow the folded spokes could steady her. Loyalty to the Post meant nothing. She flung the umbrella at her chair and when metal hit metal there was a loud dong. Fortunately, no one saw her little act of rebellion, or the tears streaming down her face.

Back at home, Stephanie scanned the kitchen counters and was satisfied with the gleaming surfaces but the tumbler she’d left upright on the draining board spoiled the effect. She rinsed the glass and returned it to the shelf. All was better. Well really, nothing was better. Before she knew it, the weight of rejection blurred her vision. She sat, letting her head rest on the table and she ran her fingers along the joint where the extension turned it into a six-seater. It had been a nonsense buy. Why on earth did she need a large dining table when hardly anyone visited? The jolt of reality made her sob.

Early evening and already in her pyjamas, Stephanie skipped dinner and instead drank chilled Pinot. The alcohol was reassuringly anaesthetic. As she checked the level in the bottle, it was a shock to see half already gone. She screwed the lid into place and enjoyed the tinny sound that broke the silence. Planning what she would wear the next morning, Stephanie decided on her mandarin jacket with the silky trim that matched her henna-rinsed hair. A careful choice was necessary. She needed every bit of help to get through the days and weeks until her notice period ended. She sighed at the thought and memories drifted. Decades earlier she’d nearly lost her job as a trainee for inaccurate reporting on the disappearance of Carolyn Russell. Although she’d avoided a disciplinary by having her work scrutinised, the humiliation had been hard to bear. Eventually, she earned the respect of colleagues and was able to establish her career. Yet the whole fiasco of Carolyn’s disappearance and Stephanie’s fumbled attempts to tell the story still weighed on her conscience.

The next two weeks dragged but by taking leave and time in lieu, Stephanie finished at the Post before the end of March. Her speedy departure also meant she could slip away without the embarrassment of a leaving do. Sitting at the kitchen table, she skimmed the jobs page of The Guardian on her mobile. She dreaded the prospect of compiling a CV. She didn’t have enough employment history to fill an A4 page. Okay, she’d swapped sides for eight years when she’d worked for a communications team in the city and then returned to the Post. Life in the big smoke had never suited and although the change had set her career back, it was the right decision. Stephanie squashed the memories and inadvertently jerked her arm. This sent her new phone skidding off the table and across the floor. Collecting it, she was relieved the screen hadn’t cracked. She’d invested some of her redundancy money in the purchase and it was hard not to obsess about her shrinking bank balance with the mortgage to pay.

Draining the coffee in her mug, Stephanie decided to tackle the contents of the spare bedroom of her terraced home. She referred to the space as her study, but in times of financial need it was an unnecessary luxury. Of course, if she was offered some freelance work that would be different. Only drumming up a few pitches was bound to end in rejection and she simply wasn’t ready, not for that. A tear seeped from her eye. Taking the tissue tucked into her sleeve, Stephanie wiped away the evidence of her emotional state. Never in her life had she been so pathetic. One way of coping was to get on with stuff except the thought of letting her spare room made her grimace. Sharing with a stranger wasn’t going to be easy. Even her ex’s weekend stays had sometimes been a challenge.

Kneeling on the sable bedroom carpet, she noticed it had frayed due to the wheels on her swivel chair. Trying to forget the damage, she became convinced a strategically placed bed would cover the bald patches. From the lower shelf of the bookcase, she removed a box file that contained cuttings from her early days as a trainee journalist. She’d been so proud of her byline but reading about carnivals and new appointments to the local council made her heart sink. It wasn’t hard disposing of the pages. As she took a second file from the shelf, she noticed a shoebox wedged between her desk and the wall. Its label showed a picture of the bargain-priced, too-small denim ankle boots she’d bought in a sale. How many years ago was it? She’d dashed into town during the sixth-form college lunch break and had bought them because Janine egged her on. Not long after, Stephanie’s circle of friends disintegrated when Janine and the others went to university. They regrouped each year during the summer holidays but in 1979 everything changed because of Carolyn.

Stephanie pressed her back against the wall and stretched her legs, trying to dislodge a feeling of heaviness she experienced whenever she remembered events from that year. It was no good, she needed to get on. Taking a breath, she eased the lid off the box and peered inside. It was a relief to find bundles of postcards held together by rubber bands. It was her mother’s collection and something she couldn’t part with, yet she couldn’t sort through either. She didn’t want to arouse the sense of loneliness only an adult orphan would recognise. Christ. Stephanie returned to the box files and continued looking through the pieces she’d written for the Post. She wanted to get rid of anything which connected her to the rag. If she came across clippings about Carolyn Russell, perhaps she should hang on to them. The unsolved case was forever at the back of her mind.

Ah, there was one! Stephanie examined the column with its small photo of Carolyn. It must have been a school shot judging from her shirt and tie. There was something enigmatic about Carolyn’s smile but Stephanie couldn’t put her finger on it. She read the words she’d laboured over following Carolyn’s disappearance. Stephanie cringed. Why on earth had she used the term ‘dead end’ in relation to the investigation? Was it a prophecy of what actually happened, that Carolyn was dead? Everybody at the Post had their own theory and she’d stuck to hers. Carolyn had been abducted – she was sure of it. The clipping described details of the hunt for a yellow Ford Cortina parked near the school on the day Carolyn disappeared. Stephanie pressed the report into a folder. There may come a day when she might need it.

2

2014

Stephanie’s shopping list:

Bananas, washing up liquid, rubber gloves, bin liners. New job.

Friday came and Stephanie was ready for her monthly meet-up with Doug. He’d sent a text checking she was going for their ‘drinks after work’. Although she wanted to take issue about his insensitivity, she realised it was just Doug being Doug. Arriving a little late, she pushed through the crowd at the bar and found Doug in the usual place. The small round table appeared child-sized beside Doug’s long legs. She pulled out the stool covered in blood-red velour. His pint was already half finished but there was a gin and tonic lined up for her.

‘Cheers.’ Doug raised his glass.

Stephanie upended the mixer into the tumbler. It was her habit to sip alcoholic beverages, but this time she gulped a mouthful. Realising Doug was still sitting there with his glass raised, she lifted hers to chink. ‘Sorry. Too forgetful.’

‘Or desperate for a drink?’

‘You could say that. I’ve been having a sort out.’

‘Dangerous activity. You never know what you might unearth.’

‘Very true,’ said Stephanie.

‘Go on… what did you find?’

Doug gave a sly smile and tilted his head. His hair had gone through the salt-and-pepper stage and he could now be thought of as a silver fox. Only Stephanie wouldn’t utter those words and inflate his ego. He’d been a catch back in the day before he’d married and he continued to welcome flattery. On no account would he get that from Stephanie. So why the tilting head? One of his mannerisms.

‘As if I’d tell you.’

Doug must’ve thought he was doing Stephanie a favour by avoiding mention of the Post. Of course, she was bursting to know what was happening, yet couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead, Doug droned on about home decorating. Eventually, she could stand it no longer.

‘What’s the gossip?’

‘Nothing much to tell from the office, but Miss Treacle Tart’s going to take on a new assistant.’

‘Don’t call her that.’

‘Why not? You rate her baking as much as the rest of us. Praise the day she started her business in Belmont.’

Angel Cakes had become the regular lunch venue for anyone with spare cash at the Post. Formerly a tobacconist shop, Beth was the talented baker who put the café at the top of TripAdvisor reviews. Stephanie adored the fig-and-apricot flapjacks for their lovely aniseed crunch. This hadn’t stopped her from trying other delights including the chocolate truffle balls laced with chilli. Beth was about as exotic as her range of cakes. As the manager of a successful shop, Beth had to be of a certain age even if her smooth golden-brown skin belied the years. She was a new businesswoman in town and an asset to the community. Her enthusiasm for tempting treats was also a joy.

‘Angel Cakes is one of the reasons I’ve decided Belmont isn’t such a bad place to live,’ said Stephanie.

‘It’s taken an entire lifetime to reach that conclusion?’

‘There’s no job tying me down, I need to be sure I actually want to stay. I like my house, but there’s not much chance of alternative employment.’

‘You could take a diversion. How about podcasting? You’ve got a voice that’s easy on the ear and you’re good at winkling out stories. There’s huge potential in–’

Stephanie showed Doug her palm to halt the talk. Clearly, she had the investigative skills to develop a podcast, only she didn’t want Doug taking credit for a new direction in her career. Besides, she couldn’t stand hearing him bang on about the future of streaming and his contacts already in the field. Stuck in the rhythms and routines of the newspaper, she didn’t want a change. This meant her career options were limited to say the least. ‘I’ve a contingency plan to stay financially afloat.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’m going to rent out my spare bedroom.’

‘Funny you should say that. Miss Treacle…’ Stephanie was about to scold when Doug corrected himself, ‘I mean Beth.’

‘Yes?’

‘She’s looking for a place as she’s sold her flat to invest in the business. You can’t get a better housemate than someone who bakes.’

Absolutely, thought Stephanie. ‘I’ll give her a ring.’

Weather over the weekend was atrocious and Stephanie, huddled in a throw on the sofa, relocated the laptop from the floor and balanced it on her knees. A little distraction on social media was needed. Of course, she preferred Friends Reunited in its peak, but once it started slipping, she deserted the site in favour of Facebook. Scrolling the pages, she quickly became fed up with reading about mother-of-the-bride responsibilities and who was soon to be a granny for the first time. As for Stephanie’s Facebook profile, she’d have to update her details and remove the West Country Post as her workplace. One tap on the delete option and it was done. She wished there was something new to add. This was her life now – a career in shreds. She needed to get a grip. Facebook was the last place she should be spending time when feeling like this: inadequate. She continued to scroll in spite of her better judgement and as the photos flashed in front of her, Stephanie considered the merits of getting in touch with some of the old gang. They couldn’t have all morphed into happy families. Take Janine, for example, how had life gone for her? Not very smoothly, Stephanie suspected. A tide of regret washed over her. By emphasising the connection she’d had with Janine, the older sister of the missing Carolyn, Stephanie had persuaded colleagues at the Post to let her try reporting on Carolyn’s case. A sliver of guilt caused Stephanie to tense up. It wasn’t entirely her fault things had gone off-kilter. She’d been far too inexperienced. The whole episode had happened years ago and maybe now was the time to get in touch with Janine and make up for the past. If she was using her old name, Janine would be easy to track down on Facebook. A nagging curiosity spurred her to action. After a few minutes, Janine’s face beamed from a profile picture and there remained a sense of the young Janine in the contours of her middle-aged look. From what Stephanie could gather, they were in the same boat. Single. Janine had a job at least, employed by a boarding school next to a large country house. She’d stayed reasonably local, too. The urge to get in touch was almost overpowering but it palled due to the legacy of Carolyn’s disappearance.

3

APRIL 1979

The tring-tring of the telephone echoed through the house and into my bedroom. Racing down the stairs two at a time, I crash-landed in the hall.

‘There’s no need to hurtle about the place, Carolyn.’

Ignoring Mum, I grabbed my chance and sat at the telephone table regularly reserved for her derrière. With the receiver pressed to my ear, I listened to the pips. It had to be my sister. Janine’s usual fumbling with coins meant it couldn’t be anyone else. I caught my breath then chanted our number – hopefully putting Mum off the scent. It might give me a few minutes of chat before she realised her firstborn was on the line. I wanted to cling on as long as possible before Mum played her I’m-in-charge card and hoicked the receiver away. It really wasn’t fair when Mum hogged the phone.

‘Hiya, Carolyn.’ Janine’s voice was chirpy.

‘It’s you!’ I acted surprised.

‘How are things?’ she asked.

‘Much the same. Loads of revision.’ I had to lie as Mum looked on, her ears flapping. In a whisper, I shared the real news. ‘I’ve got my eye on a silky green top in Chelsea Girl.’

‘Let’s plan on a day in town soon.’

Janine had been dripping money ever since she got her student grant.

‘Perhaps the Easter bunny will bring me a pound or two.’ There wasn’t any harm in hinting. Janine agreed my pocket money was miserly. I turned to see Mum’s eyebrows springing halfway up her forehead. Her disapproval was obvious.

‘I’ve been eating baked beans every day so we can have a bit of a spend,’ said Janine.

‘Super-duper.’ Oh no, why use such a daft expression?

‘Don’t get too excited. I’ve got to pay for my coach fare home yet. And there’s another thing – I’ll be back next Thursday not at the weekend as planned. Sorry.’

I held my breath, not knowing what to say. The silence between us bit.

Janine sighed. ‘It’s a shame but it can’t be helped. Research at the Bodleian comes first.’

I literally couldn’t believe it. ‘I want to see you.’

‘I know…’

I let the receiver drop into my lap and Janine’s voice became a squeak. The next minute, Mum was beside me, her eyes full of concern. The question was, concern for who, me or Janine? It took less than a second to find out. Taking the phone, Mum waved her arm and made me move out of the way. I slunk off without another word. In the kitchen, disappointment had me drooping. Perhaps a strong cup of tea would give me a boost. My fingers shook as I removed the lid and my wrist ached as I filled the kettle. Why was I such a weakling? The pilot light on the cooker never worked for me. Anyone else pressed it and two clicks later the hissing gas burst into a yellowy blue flame. I searched for matches and shook the box. The rattle reminded me of Dad and how he liked to set the fire. I was only little back then but I could almost feel the warmth he brought. We were an ordinary family once. According to Mum, it was best not to dwell.

A ching sounded as Mum returned the receiver to the cradle and then the trundle of the dial turning followed. Janine must have run out of coins and Mum was calling her back. Why wasn’t she bothered about Janine not coming home? I thought there’d be at least a raised voice if not a full-scale row. Holding a mug in each hand, I offered Mum the one plastered in college badges. It was her favourite, bought at a gift shop in Oxford the last time we visited. The trip hadn’t been a huge success. Mum objected to the continental quilt at the B&B but couldn’t bring herself to tell the landlady. The woman was far too common.

‘Thank you.’ Mum took the mug, then balanced it on her knee. She sat there nodding as the bubble of Janine’s voice came down the line. Those two were in the thick of it as usual. I turned around and left them alone, not wanting to show I actually cared.

Back in my room, I pushed the piles of books to the side of my desk. The little chair creaked and I thought it might collapse but Mum said she couldn’t afford a new one. It was typical. Janine got everything she wanted and I was left without. Leaning on my elbows, I let the disappointment swirl. My sister was the favourite but that didn’t stop me from wanting to see her. I glanced at my maths text book. It was doing the splits, the pages hunched, the hard cover coming away at the spine. The largest and heaviest book to be lugged from school to home and back again, I resented its weight and pages full of questions and sums that baffled. Why couldn’t my brain cope with numbers?

The thought of maths filled me with loathing for Mr Forsyth. Him and his grey coil of hair dangling. I couldn’t hate him any more if I tried. Mum told me about the way he went on at parents’ evening, saying I was feigning difficulties and that I could succeed if only I put my mind to it. He said I was from intelligent stock which Mum took as a compliment even though it made me sound like a horse. I formed a fist and slammed it into my other open palm and enjoyed the thwack. What would it be like to bash his face? I imagined his pudgy cheeks flattened under my punch. Bop! Shaking out my hands, I waggled my fingers then stretched them into stars. Could wishing on a star make things real? Not with my luck. I was never going to do well in the maths exam and everyone knew it.

4

2014

The search for Carolyn Russell continues by Stephanie