Im delighted to be sharing a extract from Sarah’s latest book. I loved her other books so cant wait to read this and with a title the mothers it already sounds intriguing!

Do check out the other blogs taking part and this is published in paperback 30th April and e book is available now.

The Uptons lived in a three-storey Georgian townhouse at the
wrong end of the Kings Road. It was the only house in the
terrace without a thick coating of grime on the stucco and gaps
in the cornicing like knocked-out teeth : the only basement not
a dumping ground for litter. Most of the houses on this street
were divided into flats, their windows opaque with filth, cracks
in the glass repaired by parcel tape. Still, Iona thought, the
Uptons’ place was probably worth a cool one and a half mill.
Perhaps they were hoping the area was up and coming. But
anything that was going to up-and-come in Chelsea had probably
done so already.
‘That’s his car,’ Yannis said as they parked and got out into
the rain.
The black Audi stood out among the Ford Focuses and ancient
Vauxhalls. Iona walked around it, peering through the windows.
Surprisingly spick and span for a family car : a bag of boiled
sweets in the compartment between the seats, a sports drink
bottle in the footwell, a gap for the stereo to go. Only sensible
to take it out in an area like this.
‘So, either he wants to make it hard for us to trace him,’ she
said, almost to herself, ‘or something’s happened to him.’
‘But if that’s the case,’ Yannis said, his reflection swimming up
beside her in the car window, ‘a mugging gone wrong, a sudden
heart attack, then surely a body would have turned up by now.’
She looked around her. This was perhaps the worst part of
Chelsea : worse than the sprawling council estate by the river.
These flats were bedsits let out to the desperate who had no
chance of even making it onto council lists.
Desperate enough to mug Upton and leave him bleeding in
the gutter ? Or to murder him and dump the body somewhere ?
That suggested a degree of organisation not generally displayed
by those existing at society’s margins.
A junkie Iona vaguely recognised was shuffling up the pavement
towards them. Raising her head at the last moment, a
look of consternation flashed across her ravaged features and
she turned and scuttled back the way she had come.
‘Not this time, Marta,’ Yannis called after her. ‘You’re all
right !’
As she tottered away they climbed the steps and rang the bell.
Bella Upton looked as bad as might be expected for a woman
whose husband was missing. On a good day, with washed hair
and a decent night’s sleep, she would be pretty. She was about
thirty-five, with a round face framed by long, chestnut hair
and large, expressive brown eyes. She blinked slowly when she
opened the door and seemed to take long moments to register
their badges.
‘Good morning, Mrs Upton. I’m Detective Inspector Iona
Chatwin, and this is Detective Sergeant Yannis Mohamud. May
we come in?’

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