TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME BACK OUR GUEST AUTHOR, CATHERINE YAFFE, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTERS 1 AND 2 OF HER NOVEL, 'DELIBERATE HARM' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- Aug 16
- 13 min read
1
Day 1
Tuesday, 10 th August 2004
La Rochelle, France
Julia’s heart didn’t so much drop into her stomach, as cascade through her body, hitting every internal organ as it plummeted, fast and furious, to the ground beneath her. Her vision polarised as every memory, moment and emotion swam into a vortex around her. She fell to her knees, the sand giving way beneath her. She clutched at the blanket that, only seconds before, had been laid out in expectation of a family picnic. The midday sun, already impossibly hot, sought patches of her skin that hadn’t been covered with sun cream and seemingly burned her instantly. The air that had been expelled from her lungs insisted on
being re-inhaled, making her mouth dry.
She felt a tug on her arm. ‘Mummy?’
Sarah, her eldest, clutched her arm. ‘Mummy, are you OK?’
Julia turned. Dazed, confused. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, but only a gasp passed her lips. She looked around her. Alex was talking to someone and pointing in her direction. She watched as they walked towards her, muted behind the glass dome she had built around herself.
‘My wife, she may have seen something.’
The man with Alex – a lifeguard, Julia assumed from his red shorts, and the flotation buoy tucked under his arm – spoke rapid French to her. She stared at him, dumbfounded.
Alex took her other arm and shook it, bringing her to her feet. ‘Julia, he wants to know when you last saw Robbie.’
Her jaw flapped. Noiselessly. Reminiscent of a goldfish. Alex moved closer to embrace her, but she shrugged him away.
‘He was with you,’ she managed to say. She stared at him; through him. Suddenly, her emotions flooded her. She snapped out of her fugue state, glass dome shattering. Her voice rose, heavy with accusation. ‘He was with you. You said you were playing with him. Where were you?’
It was a rhetorical question. Julia sat Sarah down and stalked towards the shoreline. Standing next to the red bucket, she placed her hands on her hips and looked around. ‘You were here. It’s yards away. How can he have just disappeared?’’
Alex looked between Julia and the lifeguard. ‘James needed me. He was out of his depth. I must have been gone for seconds.’
Julia threw him a look of utter derision. She turned away and spoke directly to the lifeguard. ‘What do you need? Have you got people looking for him? This beach needs closing down. No one can leave.’
'No one is leaving, madame. We have alerted the authorities' said the lifeguard in broken English. He pointed out the various cordons that had been erected, the filtering line of families as they rushed to leave the beach, each gripping their children just a little tighter. Fear that it could have been them; relief that it wasn’t; guilt at the thought.
‘The police, we need the police,’ she stated. She heard Robbie’s name being called behind her and turned. Alex had left her side and was wading out beyond the shore, yelling out their son’s name.
James came sauntering over, rubbing his damp hair – all legs and arms as he hit the blanket.
‘Sup?’ he asked, directing his question at an increasingly emotional Sarah.
‘Robbie’s gone,’ said the ten-year-old, wiping a tear away.
‘Gone where?’ he asked, reaching for one of the spoilt baguette sandwiches, seemingly unaware of the sand it contained and the commotion around him.
Julia came over and took the food out of his hand. James gave her a confused, irritated look.
‘Robbie has gone missing,’ she stated, watching James’s reaction.
James stared at her. ‘Missing? What do you mean?’
Julia, losing patience, snapped at her stepson. ‘While Alex was helping you, Robbie disappeared.’
The delicate blended-family dynamics fractured in a moment.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly that. Stop with the stupid questions and help look for him.’
‘Madame Wainwright?’
She turned at the formality of her married name being used. ‘Yes?’
A tall figure in a dark-blue uniform pushed through the gathering crowd, his gilt badge of the Gendarmerie Nationale catching in the sunlight. He moved with practised efficiency, scanning the beach before fixing on the parents.
‘Please,’ said the gendarme, calling for calm. ‘You are the parents, yes?’
Alex returned, dripping wet. He stepped forwards. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He introduced himself and Julia.
‘Capitaine Laurent Moreau, Gendarmerie Nationale,’ he said, his voice steady, assertive, but not unkind. He removed his kepi and tucked it under his arm. He turned directly to Julia, who was standing next to her daughter on the blanket. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the paper tissue she had used to wipe Sarah’s tears away.
Her throat tightened. Alex spoke, his jaw rigid. ‘Our son – Robbie – he’s three. He was just here. He’s gone.’
Moreau held Alex’s gaze for a moment, then gave the smallest of nods. ‘D’accord. Listen to me. We will find him. But I need you to help me, yes?’
He gestured to one of his officers to push the gathered crowd back, snapping orders in rapid French. Then, softer, to Julia: ‘Tell me. The last time you saw him, what was he doing?’
Julia blinked rapidly. ‘Digging. He had his spade. He…’ Her voice cracked. ‘He was building sandcastles with his dad.’
‘Bien,’ Moreau said gently, as if good were all the reassurance she needed. ‘You remember. That is important. We look to the sea and also to the land. Both.’ His eyes flicked towards the car park at the edge of the dunes. ‘My men are already searching.’
He placed his hat back on, straightened to his full height, and signalled again. Within seconds, whistles blew and officers fanned out, the methodical precision of the Gendarmerie Nationale setting the beach into motion.
Moreau stayed with Julia and Alex, his presence solid as stone. His dark eyes softened. ‘I understand that you are afraid. But you are not alone.’
Julia stared at the bucket and spade that only moments earlier had been the source of her son’s joy and realised that it was now a crime scene. Alex shuddered next to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, turning to her. ‘I’m sorry.’ For the first time, his composure fully slipped, and tears fell down his face. ‘If only I had brought him back before going to James. I thought he’d be OK… He was just there.’
Julia glared at him. She never used the word hate. She stopped Sarah from using it and corrected anyone she heard say it. But in that moment, she truly felt the meaning of the word. Looking at her husband, she had never hated someone so much in her life.
Alex gave her a weak smile and tried to slip his hands around her waist. She pulled away. ‘We’ll find him,’ he said with some determination. He turned to Moreau, who had just been speaking rapidly into his radio.
‘What happens now?’ Alex asked.
‘I have officers checking car parks and nearby roads. I am organising the, euh… “boat of life” to launch and sweep the water – pardon, my English is not so good,’ he stumbled. ‘I have requested a colleague to join us who is fluent.’
Alex nodded.
‘When my colleague arrives,’ Moreau continued, ‘we will take full statements from everyone.’
‘Is there anything I can do in the meantime?’ Alex asked. ‘My wife, and children, can they perhaps go sit in the café?’ They had passed a small beach concession close to the entrance, earlier that day.
‘Oui, that will be fine. I’ll have someone escort them.’
‘Wait,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t want to leave.’
Moreau took a step towards her. ‘Madame, I understand, but you must let us do our work. This will be settled soon, I promise. D’accord? You must think of your other children.’
Julia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Reluctantly, she took Sarah’s hand, and James followed them toward the cafe. The elevated, sun-drenched terrace with panoramic views of the Atlantic Ocean was full of beachgoers watching the flurry of activity beneath them. Julia glanced up at them as they made their way across the wooden walkway. Faint laughter filled the air as children played, while families waited for a vacant table. Parents washed the sandy toes of babies under a nearby shower while an impromptu game of cricket had broken out between a group of teenagers.
Julia felt an urge to glance back over her shoulder. Behind her, by the blanket, she saw Capitaine Moreau speaking with Alex. Moreau was nodding earnestly and scribbling into a small notebook. She strained to catch their words, but she couldn’t hear. She looked beyond them. At the beach, the shoreline, the heat haze shimmering over the sand.
A chill ran through her. In the distance she saw a lone figure.
And she knew, in that moment, that Robbie hadn’t gone missing.
He’d been taken.
2
La Rochelle Police Station
Julia wove a napkin between her fingers, feeling a momentary release of pressure as she pulled it free from her hand and started the process all over again. The sight of the distant figure had spooked her, but it was one she was unwilling to share until she was certain.
‘You were how far away?’ Capitaine Moreau asked from the other side of the table.
Julia wasn’t sure. Was it feet or yards? Metres? She closed her eyes, picturing the last time she’d seen Robbie on the beach. She’d been preoccupied with setting out lunch. She noticed his absence only when Alex asked if she had seen him. Did that make her a careless mother? Deep in thought, she held the napkin to her mouth, as she had done so many times in the last hour.
‘Madame Wainwright?’
Her attention snapped back into the room. ‘Sorry, I… maybe a hundred yards?’
Moreau lifted his pen and looked at her. ‘One hundred yards? So, perhaps, ninety metres, yes?’
Julia sighed at the pettiness. What did it matter? ‘Yes, around that.’
‘Was it or was it not? We need to be exact, madame.’ He tapped his pen on the desk, the repetitive sound grating on Julia’s shredded nerves.
‘You’ve seen the beach where I was.’ His red bucket was still there, as if the bucket alone should have anchored Robbie in place. She saw the raised eyebrow and exchange of looks between Moreau and Anais Devereaux, the English-speaking family liaison officer who had joined them. The repeated questions were as relentless as the heat. She could feel a headache starting at her temples. ‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’
At Moreau’s direction, an officer left the interview room to retrieve a fresh jug of water. Julia took the chance to stand up and stretch. ‘Where’s Alex?’ the question was directed at Devereaux.
‘He’s waiting with the children in the family room.’
Julia had seen the so-called ‘family room’. She had waited there whilst the police officers had been contacting various associations. It had been bland, sparsely furnished, as if it hadn’t ever been used. As a result, it had the mustiness of warm air left stagnant for too long.
‘I hope they’re being looked after.’
‘They’re fine.’
‘When will I be allowed to leave?’
The door opened, and a jug of water was placed on the desk. She poured herself a cup and sat back down. The temperature in the room was climbing as the afternoon wore on. She desperately wanted to change out of her beachwear into something more practical.
‘We have just a few more questions, then you can go,’ Moreau said.
‘Let’s get this over with, then perhaps you can get on with your actual job of finding my son.’
Ignoring the slight, Moreau continued to push. ‘What time did you last see your son?’
‘It must have been just before lunch. I was laying out the picnic we’d taken with us.’
‘Lunch? Vers midi? Around noon, yes?’
‘Yes, around noon.’
‘Your husband was playing with Robbie, yes?’
‘He was building sandcastles with him, yes.’
‘And he didn’t leave him at any point?’
‘He left momentarily when James needed help.’
‘And when you turned to look for Robbie, he was gone?’
‘Yes. I’ve already told you all this.’
There was a pause as Moreau scribbled something down. He stared at her as he asked his next question. ‘You have a complicated family set-up?’
Julia took a deep breath and spoke slowly, her words deliberate. ‘No, it’s not complicated. Sarah is my daughter and James is Alex’s son. Together we have Robbie. That’s not “complicated”.’
‘You have an ex-husband?’
‘No.’ It was none of their business who Sarah’s father was, and Julia didn’t see how it applied to the conversation. She said so.
‘Madame Wainwright, we must ask these questions, you understand?’ said Moreau firmly.
‘Yes, I understand, but I don’t see how it’s relevant.’
It was Moreau’s turn to sigh. ‘I think we are done here for the moment.’ He waved his hand as if to dismiss those around him.
Devereaux scraped her chair back, and Julia got to her feet. ‘Can I go back to our gîte?’
‘Oui, but you must stay close. We must be able to contact you.’
Heads of various officers turned to follow them as they took the short walk back to the family room. Everyone would know she was the mother who allowed her son to be taken. The walls were closing in; she needed to get away.
Alex greeted her with a weak smile as she stepped into the family room, whilst Sarah rushed forwards and wrapped herself around Julia’s legs.
‘Monsieur Wainwright, could you come with me, please?’ requested Moreau.
Julia turned around. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, can you not give us some time—?’
At that precise moment, Sarah kicked out at James as he passed them. James pushed her hard.
‘Stop that!’ Julia snapped, louder than she meant to. Everyone stared at her. She apologised. ‘We’re all a bit tense. Please, just give us five minutes.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Alex said, blatantly contradicting her. ‘If it moves the investigation forward, I’m happy to talk to you.’
Julia glared at his betrayal as he brushed past her. She watched as he kissed James on the forehead, told him to help Sarah with whatever she needed, and promised to see them all soon. Julia was still quietly seething as he left the room.
* * *
Alex followed Moreau along the narrow corridor to the interview room. When he’d been sitting in the family room, he’d gone over and over the last time he had seen Robbie. Had there been anyone around them he thought looked suspicious? Had he noticed anyone following them, or hanging around outside the gîte?
The answer to all the questions was no. Why would he even consider something like that? They were a normal family from the north of England. They weren’t famous. Neither he nor Julia had a high-profile career. While Julia worked as a defence solicitor, it was hardly Mafia cases that she defended; motoring misdemeanours, low-level offences mainly. He ran an auto-repair centre.
As Moreau ran through the same questions he’d asked himself, Alex felt a frustration that perhaps the French weren’t doing everything they could. If Robbie had gone missing in the UK, wasn’t there some kind of national alert system? Did they have the equivalent in France? Would the UK police know by now? He interrupted Moreau and asked the question.
‘Yes, Interpol is aware, and we have contacted our colleagues in the UK.’
‘And what are they doing? Are all the ports and borders closed?’ Alex let out an anguished cry that was riddled with guilt. ‘God, he could be anywhere.’ He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. 'I need to look for him.’ He stood up, but Moreau waved him back into his seat.
‘Please, Monsieur Wainwright. I understand, but just a few more questions.’
Reluctantly Alex sat back down, so Moreau continued.
‘You said you last saw Robbie at around noon, oui?’
Alex thought for a moment. ‘It must have been before noon. We were building sandcastles, but I left Robbie to help James, who was splashing in the sea. He’d gotten a little out of his depth.’
‘How long before noon was that?’
‘I say noon, but I don’t know the exact time, just that Julia was laying out lunch. I ran over to her as soon as I noticed Robbie was missing.’
Alex was silent for a moment, replaying the scene in his mind. If he’d known he was going to have to repeat the morning’s activities over and over, he would have paid more attention to the time. He leant forwards, elbows on the table in front of him. ‘I wasn’t wearing a watch – I don’t know the exact timings. I’d been playing with Robbie when I saw that James appeared to be in trouble. He's not a strong swimmer so I went to help him.’ Alex shook his head in disbelief. ‘Robbie must have been taken in the seconds that I had my back turned. Have you questioned people who were at the beach? Someone must have seen
something, or someone?’
Moreau didn't answer his question, which only riled Alex up more. ‘What exactly are you people doing? Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’ He slammed his hand on the table.
Moreau calmly put his pen down and looked directly at Alex. ‘Monsieur Wainwright. I am a father. I understand what you’re saying and appreciate how hard it is to be sitting in here right now. We are doing everything we need to do. Our UK colleagues are aware of the situation. It has been escalated to urgent on both sides. But you understand that we need to be as accurate as possible. You were the last person to see Robbie,’ he pointed at his head. ‘You may hold clues in your memory.’ Alex knew that what the French officer was saying made some kind of sense, but his judgement was clouded by a plethora of emotions: guilt, regret, urgency. He didn’t want to be sitting here when he could be looking for his boy. A thought occurred to him.
‘What about a press conference? Is that something you have planned? The more people who know about this, the better, surely?’
‘Hopefully there will be no need for this. Our priority at the moment is to speak to everyone at the beach and in the immediate area. Then we will speak with la presse.’
There was a lull as Moreau made further notes. Alex scratched his head and pulled either side of his hair in frustration.
‘I can’t remember anything else. I wasn’t taking much notice, to be honest. I was enjoying a hard-earned family holiday.’ He tripped over his sentence as tears pricked the back of his eyes. ‘Please,’ Alex implored. ‘Please find my son.’
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AUTHOR BIO
Catherine is an Amazon bestselling British crime author whose gripping thrillers have topped the Amazon charts multiple times. Her work is known for its psychological depth, twisty plots, and unforgettable characters.
When she's not plotting fictional murders, she’s passionate about supporting new writers. She runs a local writing group dedicated to helping unpublished authors develop their stories, and delivers workshops on crime writing, storytelling, and overcoming creative blocks.
A regular speaker at festivals including CrimeFest, Bay Tales, and Bloody Scotland, she also gives talks to libraries and community groups where she shares her journey through writing, illness, and resilience. Each year, she co-hosts Murder in the Rhubarb Triangle in partnership with Wakefield Library, a lively crime event that attracts over 200 visitors.
Her stories often draw on her own experiences of growing up in a gritty Northern town, bringing authenticity and emotional Yorkshire grit to her work. When she’s not writing or speaking, she can usually be found with a strong cup of tea, plotting her next murder.
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COMING SOON: On Monday 17th August, our team member, author David W Thompson, is sharing his short story, 'Happy Valentine's Day!!'
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