The Prisoner’s Wife

THE PRISONER’S WIFE Ali Blood CopyrightPublished by AVONA division of HarperCollinsPublishers1 London Bridge StreetLondon SE1 9GFwww.harpercollins.co.ukFirst published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2023Copyright © Ali Blood 2023Cover design © Holly Macdonald, HarperCollinsPublishers 2023Cover photographs © Ildiko Neer/ Trevillion ImagesAli Blood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.Source ISBN: 9780008527167Ebook Edition © February 2023 ISBN: 9780008527174 Version: 2023-01-09 DedicationThis book is dedicated to little Isaac Proctor, the latest addition to our ever-growing family. Wishing him a long and happy life. ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty-TwoChapter Thirty-ThreeChapter Thirty-FourChapter Thirty-FiveChapter Thirty-SixChapter Thirty-SevenChapter Thirty-EightChapter Thirty-NineChapter FortyChapter Forty-OneChapter Forty-TwoChapter Forty-ThreeChapter Forty-FourChapter Forty-FiveChapter Forty-SixChapter Forty-SevenChapter Forty-EightChapter Forty-NineChapter FiftyChapter Fifty-OneChapter Fifty-TwoChapter Fifty-ThreeChapter Fifty-FourChapter Fifty-FiveChapter Fifty-SixChapter Fifty-SevenChapter Fifty-EightChapter Fifty-NineChapter SixtyChapter Sixty-OneChapter Sixty-TwoChapter Sixty-ThreeChapter Sixty-FourChapter Sixty-FiveChapter Sixty-SixChapter Sixty-SevenChapter Sixty-EightChapter Sixty-NineEpilogueAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorAbout the Publisher PROLOGUEWhen the dream ends, I suddenly become aware of myself. I’m lying in the pitch black, but the pain in my head tells me that I’m awake. And yet I don’t know where I am. As I try to move, I discover that I’m crouched in a ball in a cold, confined space. The vibrating floor beneath me and the growl of an engine register suddenly. It’s a car. I’m trapped in the boot of a car.A gut-churning wave of terror overwhelms me, and I instinctively start to cry out and bang my clenched fists against the boot lid.But it doesn’t achieve anything. The car keeps moving and nobody responds.I gulp in air, trying to fill my lungs, as I attempt to understand what’s going on. Questions scream inside my head. How did I get here? Where am I going? Who is doing this to me?Then a memory swims to the surface and it chills my blood. And, in that moment, I know for certain that I won’t survive the night. CHAPTER ONEThe call I’ve been waiting for comes through at two on Tuesday afternoon.‘The jury has reached a verdict, Emma,’ my husband’s lawyer tells me. ‘Court will reconvene at three, so I suggest you get here as quickly as you can.’‘Already? How long were they out?’ I ask him.‘Only three hours,’ he replies. My heart skips a beat. I know from the many crime dramas I watch on TV that that’s not a good sign.Our flat on London’s South Bank is only a short cab ride from the Old Bailey, so I manage to arrive well before the proceedings get under way. My husband’s mother and his brother are waiting for me in the packed public gallery of Court Number Two. They slide apart as I approach – a pointed move – and I take the hint, sitting on the bench between them and placing my handbag on the floor.‘We need to brace ourselves,’ Ruby Driscoll says, her voice thin and shaky. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We need to be strong for my son.’When the trial started a week ago, Ruby was upbeat because Tommy’s expensive legal team had assured her that they would get him off. But as the prosecution presented the case against him, her outlook slowly began to sour. I, on the other hand, felt simply numb as my husband of eighteen months pleaded not guilty to constructive possession of a firearm, namely a Glock 17 revolver. It was found in the glove compartment of his car by police who stopped him following a tip-off. I kept my expression neutral as Tommy insisted that he’d been stitched up, that the gun had been planted and didn’t belong to him. He declared to the court that his prints were on it because, just before he was stopped, he’d reached into the compartment for a cigar and found the weapon. The police hadn’t believed him, of course, hence the trial – or if they did, they didn’t care. They’d been wanting to pin something on him for a very long time but until now had failed to gather enough evidence.I didn’t even flinch when the prosecution told the jury that Tommy’s involvement in organised crime was common knowledge and that he had only managed to evade justice through a combination of bribes, threats and intimidation. Or as they reeled out statements from two anonymous witnesses who claimed they used to work for him. But the more I heard, the harder it became to stop myself crying.Liam Driscoll pats me on the knee and I’m pulled out of my reverie. I’m glad I’m wearing trousers. The last thing I want is to feel his fingers on my flesh. He leans closer to whisper in my ear. His breath smells of his last cigarette, and I fight the urge to visibly recoil.‘I want you to know that if he goes down, you’ll be looked after,’ he says. ‘You’ll want for nothing, Ems.’I brace myself for the worst; it must be bad if Liam is making such promises. And his remark provides me with little comfort. I’ve never got on with the guy and I’ve always sensed that he resents me being part of the family. He’s rarely struck up