No One Saw a Thing

About the AuthorAndrea Mara is a Sunday Times and Irish Times top-ten bestselling author, and has been shortlisted for a number of awards, including Irish Crime Novel of the Year. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, with her husband and three young children, and also runs multi-award-winning parent and lifestyle blog, officemum.ie. No One Saw a Thing is her third thriller to be published in the UK and internationally.You can find Andrea Mara on Twitter @AndreaMaraBooks and Instagram @andreamaraauthor Also by Andrea MaraThe Other Side of the WallOne ClickThe Sleeper LiesAll Her FaultHide and Seek Andrea MaraNO ONE SAW A THING Contents Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44Chapter 45Chapter 46Chapter 47Chapter 48Chapter 49Chapter 50Chapter 51Chapter 52Chapter 53Chapter 54Chapter 55Chapter 56Chapter 57Chapter 58Chapter 59Chapter 60Chapter 61Chapter 62Chapter 63Chapter 64Chapter 65Chapter 66Chapter 67Chapter 68Chapter 69Chapter 70Chapter 71Chapter 72Chapter 73Chapter 74Chapter 75Chapter 76Chapter 77Chapter 78Chapter 79Acknowledgements For warrior queen Alice Hayes, with love 1IF ONLY SIVE HADN’T told the girls to run ahead.If only her editor hadn’t picked that moment to phone.If only she hadn’t slowed to look at her screen.If only she’d used the baby carrier instead of the expensive but cumbersome pram – fine for suburban Dublin but completely unsuitable for the London Underground on a humid August Monday morning.If only.As with most disasters, it isn’t one single event or decision or misalignment of stars that causes it but a myriad of tiny twists and turns over the course of the morning.If they hadn’t picked that day to go for brunch.If they hadn’t picked that week to go to London.If Aaron’s friends hadn’t needed a twenty-year reunion to see who was winning at life.If, if, if.But here she is, pushing the pram with one hand, manoeuvring it out of the lift and on to the hot, crowded rush-hour platform, trying to see who is phoning her at 8.30 a.m. when she’s supposed to be off work.‘Keep going, Faye – jump on with Bea!’ she calls after her six-year-old daughter as the two girls, hand in hand, approach the open Tube doors. ‘I’m right behind you!’Her phone continues to buzz, and she squints at the screen. Her reading glasses – a new and unwelcome necessity – are back in the hotel room, but she can just about make out the caller’s name. Caroline. Her editor. Her editor who knows she’s away but has conveniently forgotten. Still pushing the pram with one hand, she swipes awkwardly to decline the call, but it has already ended of its own accord. Phone signal lost, perhaps, now that they’re underground. She glances up to see where her daughters are. Two pink denim jackets, one small, one smaller, visible just ahead. The platform is heaving with rushing commuters, pushing forward to get on to the train. Sive tries to squeeze through the crowd, murmuring ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ while at the same time aware that this tourist-level politeness is not what’s called for here. And now, she’s pulled forward in the surge towards the doors, a few feet behind her children. Through a narrow gap in the sea of passengers, Sive sees Faye climb on to the Tube, holding Bea’s hand as the two-year-old clambers on too.And then, just like that, the doors slide shut.Her children inside looking out.Sive outside looking in.Heart in mouth, she rushes forward. The pram, so awkward just moments earlier, makes an efficient battering ram as she barges through commuters, shouting her children’s names. But it’s no good. The train begins to slide away from the platform and Faye’s eyes widen, understanding now what’s happening.Sive roars, ‘Get off at the next stop! Faye, next stop!’ She points forwards and down, in some approximation of a signal for ‘next stop’, knowing there’s no way Faye can hear her or understand, but hoping another passenger will read it correctly and get the children off the train.And so, the Tube pulls away with six-year-old Faye and two-year-old Bea on board, leaving Sive on the platform, helpless and terrified.Whatever adrenaline or presence of mind had pushed her to shout after Faye deserts her now. Her limbs are somehow loose and frozen all at once as she stares blindly at the rear lights of the departing Tube. Jesus Christ. Her children are on a train, in a city of eight million people, on a rush-hour Monday morning. Without her. Without any adult. What the hell is she supposed to do – try to get to the next station? Run there? With the pram? Hail a taxi? Call the police? Leaving the station feels counterintuitive. What if they come back here and she’s gone? But how would they get back here? Would someone on the Tube have seen what happened and return them? Did people do that kind of thing? Someone is talking to her. A woman beside her on the platform. With huge effort, Sive makes herself tune in.‘… so you stay here, I’ll find someone to help,’ the woman says. ‘OK?’Sive nods dumbly.‘The man beside your little one on the Tube heard you. You saw that, yes?’Sive hadn’t.‘He gave a thumbs-up. He’ll get your child off at the next stop. So we just need to get you there and find someone to radio ahead.’Again, Sive nods, confused and grateful and terrified.‘The next train is due in four minutes. I’m going to get someone. You stay here.’Sive does as she’s told, rocking the pram on autopilot, staring down the track as though her children might magically reappear if she wishes hard enough. She glances up at the train information. Three minutes until the next one. She can do this. Where is the woman? She looks around. Where are the staff? All about, commuters swarm to the platform, jostling and rushing. The heat is stifling and, in the pram, the baby