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Cathy Glass
Run Mummy Run
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.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Copyright © Cathy Glass 2011
Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007299287
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2011 ISBN: 9780007436644 Version: 2017-02-21
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twtnty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Cathy Glass
Introduction
It is said that the eyes are the windows of the soul – an opening, a gateway, to the person within. But what happens when the glass is cracked? Do we see the distortion, or wanting desperately to believe, ignore it, until it’s too late?
To Aisha, the kindest, most gentle person I have ever known. Your only crime was to be too trusting, for having no wickedness in your own soul, how were you supposed to see it in others?
Chapter One
Aisha touched the photograph and then moved it slightly to the right, trying to find its correct position. It had to sit at exactly the right angle, with the light streaming onto her face so that it showed her at her best. Mark liked it that way, he said it reminded him of the day when they had posed for the photograph – on the bench beneath the large oak tree. The sun had filtered through the leaves of the branches overhead, casting little diamond patterns onto the material of her dress. The two of them, with their arms entwined, taking their eyes from each other just long enough to smile into the lens. Mark had stopped a passer-by and had asked him if he would mind taking their photograph, then he’d given Aisha a framed copy, as a token of his undying love, he said.
Aisha inched the photograph left and right again and then saw a smudge, a fingerprint, on the glass. She picked it up and rubbed it hard with the sleeve of her cardigan until all trace of it had gone. She knew how Mark hated dirt, how angry he would become if he saw it. Mark said dirt was a sign of a slovenly and untidy mind, and that it was the inside of a person coming out and couldn’t be tolerated. It wasn’t Aisha’s fingerprint on the glass; oh no, she would never have been so careless. It must have been the inspector when he’d picked up the photograph and examined it, as though a clue might be concealed within, and then returned it
