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I Know My Name: An addictive thriller with a chilling twist
C.J. Cooke
‘Atmospheric, mysterious and intense . . . It's a stunning psychological thriller’ C. L. Taylor, bestselling author of THE MISSINGKomméno Island, Greece: I don't know where I am, who I am. Help me.A woman is washed up on a remote Greek island with no recollection of who she is or how she got there.Potter’s Lane, Twickenham, London: Eloïse Shelley is officially missing.Lochlan’s wife has vanished into thin air, leaving their toddler and twelve-week-old baby alone. Her money, car and passport are all in the house, with no signs of foul play. Every clue the police turn up means someone has told a lie…Does a husband ever truly know his wife? Or a wife know her husband? Why is Eloïse missing? Why did she forget?The truth is found in these pages…
Copyright (#u60cf5dd1-b108-5513-ae83-b97d7be4f4c2)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © C.J. Cooke 2017
Cover design by Heike Schüssler © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover Photograph © Josephine Pugh / Arcangel Images
C.J. Cooke 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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: 9780008237530
Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008237547
Version: 2017-04-24
Dedication (#u60cf5dd1-b108-5513-ae83-b97d7be4f4c2)
For Summer
Little lover of horses
Table of Contents
Cover (#uae153e26-8c93-55b4-a935-402188db5a69)
Title Page (#ufd68f6f7-dbe1-56be-8649-618f9cae87a4)
Copyright (#u5bfdf889-9ea0-5dbb-9e97-a902acb01079)
Dedication (#uf73272a4-e81c-505e-8924-372b09abc493)
The Girl on the Beach (#u8f999647-608d-5737-941e-875e4167ec34)
17 March 2015 (#u956ac86e-27b2-55db-8fdd-5bdf7ef83264)
17 March 2015 (#ufd7e40e0-ab51-57b1-a228-a6ba9de16cd5)
17 March 2015 (#ub4a8bb4c-5860-5558-97c9-f2d3b91468da)
18 March 2015 (#ub7b17e1a-a5b5-5f1b-84c2-ffc24114e505)
18 March 2015 (#uef4a6a54-58ef-5e1a-aa6e-f07ed2920cfc)
18 March 2015 (#u336e2197-3507-5caa-aa79-5e5bdfbfa4ac)
19 March 2015 (#u97419054-0bff-5cf4-b68d-64d136fe1983)
18 March 2015 (#u56a8703a-2445-5743-8672-1fe7fa7b00fd)
20 March 2015 (#u26f025a9-e1e8-5554-99c7-9a4b933f596b)
18 March 2015 (#u6841c61a-46e6-597c-8e32-fc8ec12636a4)
11 April 1983 (#u664bcf62-95b3-5bc8-9331-954da45b3024)
23 March 2015 (#ufe23cb02-e2ef-5a67-916d-416f1238beeb)
23 March 2015 (#ua4588885-ea37-5dba-9509-da37328bff9d)
24 March 2015 (#u16604b83-b713-5737-9899-3135391c07d9)
24 March 2015 (#u2ad7982f-9142-576d-8c5a-93f2b11752db)
24 March 2015 (#u1bf42b2d-9780-5aa0-9267-40f3a9a4578f)
25 March 2015 (#u27fee952-7c02-508b-9d83-8f1ee15ca816)
21 January 1986 (#u7a252c3b-2aec-5ea9-9a37-bbc731636383)
28 March 2015 (#uda061def-b1e0-51b4-928f-8100340ecfc0)
27 March 2015 (#u3211e3c2-1d97-5f54-a2b1-b39720ff93e1)
29 March 2015 (#u30f008c7-0879-560a-b110-2622c7f3fd08)
29 March 2015 (#u41a2f7c1-6fc8-58f1-a370-aa10ba0e1963)
Red Wool (#uf68f7263-ad09-5b3a-a809-d470b6f12239)
14 November 1988 (#u56134e7f-9d2e-56b9-9deb-ff49d984c79b)
31 March 2015 (#u57a34c3c-5d76-5ad9-b1a4-64cd73310c37)
31 March 2015 (#u9eddb953-cb57-5661-9b20-aaebc58a7c3d)
1 April 2015 (#uc1c4e529-6268-5a0e-8dbf-46b64df9e99c)
24 April 1990 (#ua2fb02b8-6e86-5e31-a31a-f908d853b52b)
2 April 2015 (#u7a51443c-fd50-594f-b68d-e9db8327d470)
2 April 2015 (#u3e58df37-5be5-5a52-91e8-f25813ba0c6c)
31 March 2015 (#ub3a1a5a9-30e3-500e-b04a-b63091f4f957)
2 April 2015 (#u6455723b-1b61-5280-8ad9-ce3f698de35d)
1 April 2015 (#ua89c366f-7fe8-55b6-9863-f80b50214113)
2 April 2015 (#u6ceaf5dd-9e51-5b24-b704-4f3a845fd1e7)
1 April 2015 (#u880d5311-7395-56db-925b-de5ab17a1447)
2 April 2015 (#uff199ec6-810e-5bd2-aae3-865b5ec38e1f)
2 April 2015 (#udaf7b578-07de-57ec-9402-3b4382b561b4)
2 April 2015 (#u3537f1f1-e7e3-58e6-9861-992e535135eb)
2 April 2015 (#ucf3a699b-023a-523f-b776-930166e5b635)
2 April 2015 (#u242b35ff-9803-56e7-b3bd-533dfd687894)
2 April 2015 (#u52d81832-4c59-55e3-b2b7-0ff0558bd2e3)
The Light That Moves Inward and Outward (#ud9ce0d4d-4c66-5849-81ce-43551c46a234)
3 April 2015 (#u8b03d15b-a767-51d2-a183-5e011b3d941a)
3 May 2015 (#u1208a8cc-234b-51bb-9e78-6ff33060907a)
25 June 2015 (#u106072bd-8a0c-5f5e-afed-6df80be9c958)
Three Years Later, 17 October 2018 (#ucd403797-43c5-5412-8cc4-db5a82d4c124)
Afterword (#u19bb4303-c696-5ec1-907f-9d0368589170)
Acknowledgements (#u97e8b0f6-005c-5088-b95b-bc196df8a3f3)
About the Author (#u321b8ca8-b038-5515-a4d5-c7cd4383a6d6)
About the Publisher (#u9bdaabf6-fb0c-5317-9851-b783772d6037)
The Girl on the Beach (#u60cf5dd1-b108-5513-ae83-b97d7be4f4c2)
17 March 2015 (#u60cf5dd1-b108-5513-ae83-b97d7be4f4c2)
Komméno Island, 8.4 miles northwest of Crete
I’m woken by the sounds of feet shuffling by my ears and voices knitting together in panic.
Is she dead? What should we do? Joe! You know CPR, don’t you?
A weight presses down against my lips. The bitter smell of cigarettes rushes up to my nostrils. Hot breath inflates my cheeks. A push downward on my chest. Another. I jerk upright, vomiting what feels like gallons of disgusting salty liquid. Someone rubs my back and says, Take it easy, sweetie. That’s it.
I twist to one side and lower my forehead to the ground, coughing, choking. My hair is wet, my clothes are soaking and I’m shaking with cold. Someone helps me to my feet and pulls my right arm limply across a broad set of shoulders. A yellow splodge on the floor comes into focus: it’s a life jacket. Mine? The man holding me upright lowers me gently into a chair. I hear their voices as they observe me, instructing each other on how to care for me.
Is that blood in her hair?
Joe, have a look. Has the bleeding stopped?
It looks quite deep, but I think it’s stopped. I’ve got some antiseptic swabs upstairs.
My head starts to throb, a dull pain towards the right. A cup of coffee materialises on the table in front of me. The smell winds upwards and sharpens my vision, bringing the people in the room into view. There’s a man nearby, panting from effort. Another man with black square glasses. Two others, both women. One of them leans over me and says, You OK, hun? I nod, dumbly. She comes into focus. Kind eyes. Well, Joe, she says. Looks like you saved her life.
I don’t recognise any of these people. I don’t know where I am. Whitewashed stone walls and a pretty stone floor. A kitchen, I think. Copper pots and pans hang from ceiling hooks, an old-fashioned black range oven visible at my right. I feel as though all energy has been sucked out of me, but the woman who gave me coffee urges me to keep awake. We need to check you over, sweetie. There’s an American lilt in her voice. I don’t think I noticed that before. She says, You’ve been unconscious for a while.
The younger man with black glasses tells me he’s going to check out my head. He steps behind me and all of a sudden I feel something cold and stinging on my scalp. I gasp in pain. Someone squeezes my hand and tells me he’s cleaning the wound. He looks over a spot above my eyebrow and cleans it, too, though he tells me it’s only a scratch.
The man who hoisted me into the chair sits opposite. Bald, heavy-set. Mid to late forties. Cockney. He takes a cigarette from a packet, plops it into his mouth and lights it.
You come from the main island?
Main island? I say, my voice a croak.
From there to here on her own? the younger man says. There’s no way she’d have managed in that storm.
I think that’s the point, Joe, the bald guy says. She’s lucky her boat didn’t capsize before it hit the beach.
The woman who served me coffee brings a chair and sits at my right.
I’m Sariah, she says. Good to meet you. Then, to the others in the room, Well, she’s awake now. Why don’t we stop being rude and introduce ourselves?
The guy with glasses gives a wave.
Joe.
George, says the bald man. I’m the one who found you.
