Читать книгу Her Deadly Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with twists that will take your breath away - Chris Curran - Страница 10

Joe

Joe waited until Loretta’s car turned the corner then headed down the back garden to the gate at the end that led to the lane and the garages. They’d taken his van and Hannah’s little Fiat away, ‘just to eliminate them from the inquiry’, but had returned the car already. Hannah loved that car and, while his van had to sit on the drive in front of the house, she insisted on keeping the Fiat in the garage. He was always on at her to let him use the garage for a workshop, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Now he was glad because no one was likely to notice him leaving.

He couldn’t sit about doing nothing any longer. The police weren’t telling him anything and Hannah wasn’t talking to him, but he had to find out about this so-called boyfriend of Lily’s.

The Children of Light, stupid name, had its headquarters in an old farm, fifteen miles or so out of town. Seeing the fields flash by, and the white and purple flowers hanging off the roadside verges, he began to breathe more easily and was able to lean back into the headrest. With the window open to let in the breeze and the sun sparkling over the countryside it felt almost as if nothing had happened. His hand even hovered for a minute over the radio. He always used to listen to music when he drove. But that was before and he bit the inside of his mouth till it hurt, fighting the urge to say the name that circled endlessly in his head. Lily, Lily, Lily. Oh Lily, love, I’m so sorry.

As the farm came closer the memories of his last drive here flooded in. The day he went to pick them up, all those years ago – Hannah and little Lily. His stomach had been churning, in case Hannah had changed her mind about leaving. He knew they’d been pulling out all the stops to persuade her to stay. Or maybe that arsehole, Jerome, the pastor as he called himself, would make it difficult. Joe hated confrontations, never knew what to say and always wanted to hit out, but that was exactly what the slimy bastard wanted.

In the end, it had turned out wonderful, of course. Hannah was already waiting at the end of the drive, holding Lily’s hand, their two little bags beside them. When Lily raised her arms to be picked up and pressed her damp lips to his cheek, he thought his heart would burst.

And then Hannah said, with a special smile at him, ‘Daddy’s taking us home, baby.’ How great that sounded. Especially when she gripped his knee and smiled again, her grey eyes all crinkled and her chin set as if to stop herself crying.

Then Lily, in the new child seat he’d just fitted, began to sing. ‘The wheels on the bus go wound and wound.’

That particular memory – her little voice so happy – was one he’d always treasured. But now … Stop it, just stop it.

He parked in a quiet spot a few yards down the road from the driveway. Didn’t want to alert them, or be seen by the police if they were there, but he felt shaky and exposed in the sunshine as he walked up the track to the house.

It was surrounded by fields, and a couple of the brethren, as they called themselves, were loading a tractor in the distance. One of them waved at him – they always made a big thing of being friendly.

The porch was cluttered with boots and gardening tools, and a few chickens scratched in the dirt. He knocked on the immense front door and a girl came out, wiping her hands on the apron they all seemed to wear. She was thin as a rail, but her smile beamed.

‘Good morning, brother, how can I help?’ The standard greeting, yes, he recalled that too.

‘I want to see Pastor Jerome, please.’ He tried to make his voice pleasant.

She looked around. ‘Can you wait?’

After five minutes he lost patience. Avoiding the door the girl had gone through, he opened the one opposite – a big empty room with a couple of sofas and lots of easy chairs. The next two doors were cupboards, one full of cleaning stuff, another stacked with books and leaflets. Finally, an office, and there he was – Jerome. He looked a bit older, a bit balder, but otherwise much as Joe remembered, more like a businessman than a religious leader in his white shirt and blue tie.

He looked up from the laptop he was using with a calm, ‘Yes?’

Before Joe could speak, the girl he’d seen earlier rushed in only to make a sudden stop when she saw him, her hands at her mouth. She was followed by a plump older woman, who put her arm around the girl’s waist. Both women made a gesture that looked almost like a curtsy and the girl began to mutter, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ sounding close to tears.

The older woman hushed her and turned to Joe. ‘You were asked to wait, brother.’

Jerome pushed back his chair. ‘Come here, little sister,’ he said. Even sitting he dwarfed the girl. He took her hands in his. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, my dear. Now, off you go. I’ll deal with this.’ He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Then looked over at the older woman. ‘It’s fine, Sister Clara, don’t worry.’

They backed out and Joe wondered if they were forbidden to turn away from the pastor. He wouldn’t put it past the wanker to have thought up a rule like that.

Jerome gestured to Joe to take a chair. ‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Joe? But, of course, we heard the sad news. I suppose this is about our poor, dear, Sister Lily.’

Joe wanted to punch that smirk off his face, but he kept his voice level. ‘It’s just Lily. My daughter didn’t belong to your lot.’

The smirk was still there. ‘Not officially, no, but she was involved.’

‘Only because she took up with a lad who lives here, according to the police.’

‘I’m afraid they’re wrong about that, Joe. Lily was very keen to join us. She came to one of our meetings and, like so many young people, she realized something was missing in her life. She felt at home here.’

That was it. Joe thrust his chair back so hard it tipped over. ‘There was nothing missing in Lily’s life, and she had a perfectly good home.’

The fucker was still smiling. ‘She wasn’t happy; surely you could see that. Or were you away so often you didn’t notice?’

Don’t let him get to you. ‘I just want to see this boy.’

Jerome shook his head, the smile still fixed. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, Joe. I understand you’re distressed, but I can’t tell you anymore than I have. I know nothing about any boy.’

The door opened and two of the brethren – a couple of hulks with faces like Easter Island statues – stood there. Jerome began tapping at his laptop. ‘The brethren will see you off the premises.’

Joe looked at the hulks. There was no point in arguing.

Rosie

Rosie had persuaded herself she was just going for an aimless drive in the country to try and clear her mind. But here she was again in Sedlescombe, the village where she was born, parking opposite their old house. The house she lived in until she was fifteen. The house where Alice died.

She and Oliver had discussed the move abroad in more detail last night. They’d almost decided to go last year when he wanted to change jobs. But her mum was having a bad time then, knowing her ex-husband might soon be out of prison, and Rosie hadn’t felt able to leave her. So, Oliver had joined a firm of corporate solicitors in London.

He wasn’t happy there, and he was right that things were different now. ‘You gave up so much to stay near your mother. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ She never got to be a proper student: to live away, to make friends, to kick up her heels. Had no choice but to go to Sussex University, travelling home every night to the bleak flat in Bexhill they’d moved to after the trial, trying to be cheerful, to pretend they were living a normal life. If it hadn’t been for Oliver she would have gone mad. And her mum hadn’t been happy when she started seeing him either. Kept telling Rosie she was too young to get serious. Making her feel guilty whenever she went out with him.

And after all that, look at what Mum had done. Rosie owed her no loyalty. And if they went far enough away from England, there would be no question of her turning up at the house or Fay’s school. No chance he might turn up.

France was no distance these days. She could still teach music there and maybe English as well. Oliver was really fired up with the idea, and Rosie just wished she could feel as excited.

The old house was in a quiet tree-lined lane on the outskirts of the village and, as always, she was tempted to walk up the path to the front door. As if she could go in and find the place just the same as it had been and somehow stop it all from happening.

The living room curtains were open and she could see a sofa at the back with a shelf of books beside it. It looked almost as it had when she lived here; the way it looked on that awful day.

And here they came: the memories.

* * *

She’s 14 and sitting on a bus, on a beautiful summer’s day, at the start of the school holidays, but she’s really fed up. Dad drove her to her tennis lesson but, just as she got out of the car, he handed her some money. He needed to go shopping, he told her, and might not be finished in time to take her home, so she should get the bus. She’s had to sit on the bus sweating in her tatty old shorts and T-shirt. A boy she fancied from school got on and she turned away to look out of the window. But she was sure he’d seen her, with her shiny face and hair in two messy bunches.

If only she wasn’t on her own, but, of course, Alice had refused to come, hinting she had her period. Rosie guessed she was lying, as usual. Probably knew they wouldn’t get a lift back.

Now she’s chewing a torn nail and thinking that if this is how it’s going to be for the rest of the summer then she can’t stand it. Nothing is going right. Alice is a moody cow and Mum and Dad keep arguing. That’s probably why Mum’s gone to spend the weekend with Aunt Meg. It crosses Rosie’s mind, not for the first time recently, that her parents might get divorced.

As the bus passes the village green she checks it out, thinking Alice might be there. Alice pretends to hate the local kids, but Rosie knows she hangs out with some of them. It’s not fair because, even though Rosie goes to school with them, they still call her stuck-up and don’t seem to think that about Alice.

Their house is outside the village, so, when she gets off the bus, Rosie has to walk up the hill. By the time she reaches home she’s boiling. She’s got her key in her pocket and she could let herself in, or she could walk around to the back gate and through the French windows, but instead, she gives the bell three fierce buzzes, to make Alice stir herself. Of course, she doesn’t answer and Rosie has to use her key. Music is blaring out from the living room, but the door is closed. If Alice is going to be like that, she’ll just ignore her …

And that was where the memories became hazy and it all got mixed up with what she’d said to the police in her various interviews, as well as what they’d told her, what Mum had said, and what she’d read or heard later.

She knew she’d run upstairs to take off her sweaty shorts, T-shirt, and socks and pull her dressing gown over her bra and pants. Then she’d apparently gone down to put her tennis kit in the washing machine. She couldn’t actually recall doing that, but the clothes were certainly there when the police asked what she had been wearing. She must have put her stuff on to wash because Mum was away and Rosie thought she might play tennis again the next day.

How long was it until she heard Dad moving about downstairs? She wasn’t sure. The bathwater was running and Alice’s music was so loud it was difficult to hear anything else. And it had caused problems with the police when she couldn’t give them a proper estimate of the time Dad got home.

After that things were clearer …

She’s in the bathroom when she hears the front door closing and Alice’s music go silent. Dad must have told her to turn it off.

But the silence doesn’t feel right and she goes to the top of the stairs to peer over.

Dad is standing at the open living room door. Just standing there in a bright beam of sunlight. Rosie can’t see his face, but he must have heard her because he turns and looks up.

Then she does see his face. And she knows something awful has happened.

She runs down but, as she tries to go past Dad into the living room, he grabs her, holding so tight it hurts. His expression makes her stomach lurch. ‘No, Rosemary, don’t …’ But she can see already.

Alice is lying on the floor next to the sofa, all sort of twisted. She wants to go to her, see if she can help, but Dad is still holding her arm and he just keeps saying, ‘Wait for the ambulance. There’s nothing we can do.’ Which is mad, they have to do something, can’t leave Alice lying there.

Then – and she’s not sure how this happens – she’s sitting on the stairs, feeling sick and weak, staring at Dad as he shouts into the phone. ‘She’s hurt. She’s bleeding … Yes, I said, it’s bad.’

And the ambulance is here and the medics are in the living room. Someone is saying there’s nothing they can do. They say Alice is gone, even though that can’t be right. She can’t be gone. She can’t be dead. Not dead. Not Alice …

They’re sitting side by side at the big oak kitchen table. Dad’s arm is round her and she’s glad because, although it’s still warm outside and the Aga is on, she can’t stop shivering. There’s a policeman sitting opposite them at the table, asking questions about when she last saw Alice. If anyone has been hanging around the house. Was Alice worried about anything? She tries to answer, but she’s crying, doesn’t want to, but can’t stop and her nose is running and there’s nothing to wipe it on. Dad’s saying: ‘Can’t this wait? She’s in shock.’

And it must be hours later because Mum is back, pacing up and down and doing something with her hands like the woman Rosie saw in Macbeth last year. Mum hasn’t touched Dad or Rosie and hasn’t cried. She looks angry: white and angry. As if it was their fault – Rosie’s and Dad’s. Maybe it was. For letting Alice stay home on her own.

She’s all sweaty now in her thick dressing gown with her bra and pants underneath still damp from tennis. Wants to have a shower, to feel clean, but wanting that seems wrong, somehow.

‘Marion, darling, you must sit down.’ Her dad leads Mum to a chair at the table, but she shakes her head and goes to sit all hunched up on the big squashy sofa in the far corner. He stands looking at her for a minute then says, ‘What about something to eat? Rosemary must be hungry.’

She is a bit, although she feels bad about that too. She shouldn’t want to eat now Alice is dead. Alice is dead. Alice is dead.

Dad’s talking again. ‘Come on, Rosemary. Let’s make some sandwiches.’ He won’t stop talking and Mum won’t stop twisting her fingers together.

At the kitchen counter he cuts bread and asks Rosie to butter it. Then he slices tomatoes and puts the kettle on, gets milk out. He keeps saying it’ll be all right.

It won’t be. So why say that?

He stands behind her and rubs her shoulders. ‘But I’m afraid it’s going to be nasty for a while, my darling. And we have to be brave and stick together.’ She doesn’t know what to say, just carries on buttering. Remembers she should have washed her hands first. He puts ham on the bread. She wanted cheese, but it doesn’t matter. Alice is dead.

‘Rosie?’ He’s cutting the edges off the ham to fit perfectly on the bread. Mum never bothers about that. ‘The police will want to talk to you again, but don’t worry, I’ll be with you. Just tell them what happened. You didn’t do anything wrong and you didn’t see anything so …’ He seems to need an answer.

‘OK.’

‘Just tell them it was the same as always. Keep it simple. I’m afraid the police aren’t all that bright as a rule. So don’t confuse them. I don’t know when you got back, but I’ve told them we arrived home at almost the same time, so you’d better say that too.’