Her Deadly Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with twists that will take your breath away

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

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London SE1 9GF

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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Chris Curran 2017

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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 e-books

Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008261320

Version 2017-09-28

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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 Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Chris Curran

About the Publisher

Dedication

This one is for Sue Curran and Jack Farmer, with love.

What would I do without you?

Chapter One

Joe

As the police car brought him home, Joe saw a crowd outside and the cameras started up again. He still had black spots in front of his eyes from the last lot.

It was nearly midsummer, so still daylight at seven in the evening, and coming through the estate he’d noticed how run-down the area looked and realized their own house must seem no better. He had been doing it up, hoping to sell and move somewhere nicer, but he’d been away a lot recently. So the paintwork was peeling on the old front door and the bricks he’d bought to rebuild a wall were piled under the window. Lit up by those harsh flashes, with the knot of people crowding round the gate, it looked not half-finished but neglected.

The kind of place where bad things happen.

He’d used the word exhausted before, coming home from a surveying job at the other end of the country, but this was different. His whole body ached with it. He’d spent two nights driving around Swindon and, when it became light, walking the streets. He’d scoured the parks, getting funny looks from joggers and women with pushchairs, aware he must look half-mad.

The way Hannah was going on didn’t help. She stayed in her dressing gown the whole time, lying on the bed, or sitting at the kitchen table. When he tried to hold her she kept herself stiff, arms by her sides. He talked and talked, telling her where he’d been and what he planned to do next. Instead of speaking she pushed plates of toast or sandwiches in front of him and left him to it. When he did crawl into bed with her for a few minutes she turned away or got up and went downstairs.

At first, the police didn’t seem to take Lily’s disappearance seriously. Hannah had rung him about half past six that night in a panic. Lily was never late back from school and none of her friends had seen her. He’d driven fast, and as soon as he’d got in, dialled 999, and a patrol car came round. But the two uniforms seemed to think it was normal for a 14-year-old to stay out late without letting anyone know. Said they’d ‘look into it’, whatever that meant.

On the third day, they came back; three of them this time. He recognized the black woman constable from that first night, even though she was no longer in uniform. The one in charge introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Philips, and explained that Loretta was now their Family Liaison Officer. The woman nodded at Joe, her expression telling him she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, and went upstairs to see Hannah.

Philips said they now had to treat ‘the disappearance’ very seriously. ‘The likelihood is that she’s gone off somewhere. Maybe something’s upset her or she thinks she’s in trouble, but we need to find her as soon as possible.’

They asked him lots of questions about Lily. How did she get on at school; did she have a boyfriend? He answered as best he could, but too often found himself saying stupid things like, ‘You’d better ask her mum about that.’ All he wanted was to get out again. To do something. Anything but sit here with them watching him. He knew he was fidgeting as he tried to hear the voices upstairs, anxious in case Hannah’s answers were different from his, but he couldn’t help it.

Philips suggested a TV appeal. ‘If there’s still no sign of her by then. I’ll be with you and I can help you with what to say.’

Of course he agreed, and they said Hannah should be there too. She wouldn’t have to speak if she was too upset. But when the policewoman came down she gave the inspector a look and said Hannah wouldn’t do it; nothing could persuade her.

He’d hated doing the appeal and now, as they got out of the car, Philips told him to ignore the reporters. It wasn’t easy with all the cameras and with microphones shoved in his face, one of them knocking against his mouth. Philips stood close to him, and the smell of his sickly aftershave, which had bothered Joe all evening, was very strong. He turned away, preferring the whiff of BO and damp cloth coming from the crowd.

‘Clear the way now. Let us through. Mr Marsden has nothing more to say.’ Philips pushed them both forward, and Joe took the chance to stab his elbow into the guy with the microphone.

The Family Liaison Officer, the one they were apparently meant to call Loretta, was with Hannah at the kitchen table. Hannah didn’t even look up let alone ask how it had gone. Why was she leaving it all to him? Couldn’t she see he needed her?

Philips said, ‘Excuse me, Joe,’ and fumbled in his pocket as his phone chirruped. He kept calling Joe by his first name, even though he hadn’t asked if that was OK and hadn’t offered his own. He turned away muttering into the phone, and Hannah was suddenly standing, brushing off Loretta’s hand and walking towards Joe.

He felt the tears he’d been holding back for so long shift, a lump of rock in his throat, and he moved forward wanting only to cry at last in the warmth of her arms.

But she was looking past him. And her face was terrible. And Joe saw Philips. Saw the tight line of his mouth, the slight shake of his head as he looked over Hannah’s head at the policewoman.

The world stopped. Something hammered in his ears. There was an agony in his throat, and the kitchen had turned into a shimmering photograph; a place he didn’t know.

And in front of him – Hannah. Pale mouth stretched wide with no sound. Hands in her hair, as if she wanted to tear it out by the roots.

He made himself move. Reach for her as she began a broken chant, ‘No, oh no, no, no.’ He pulled her into his arms. She clung to him, and he closed his eyes pressing his face into her hair. Her heart thumped hard against his chest, echoing the rhythm of his own. If they could stay like this, just the two of them, they could hold back the nightmare.

But then she pushed him away and, as he tried to touch her again, she beat at him, hitting his chest, his face, his eyes, her hands clenched into stones. He tried to speak but, as Philips dragged him back, Hannah shrieked so loudly Joe was sure the whole world could hear.

‘Don’t touch me, Joe. Don’t touch me. Keep away from me.’

Rosie

It didn’t help that it was Alice’s birthday today – what would have been Alice’s birthday. At ten o’clock Rosie switched to another news channel just in time to see the photo of the missing girl again. A slim face and light brown hair, held up at one side with a blue clip. She had already watched the whole of today’s appeal three times. And now there was a sentence of breaking news rolling along the bottom of the screen.

Body found in search for missing teenager.

The girl’s family must have heard already, and she could imagine all too easily what it would be like in that house now.

She wrapped the soft throw more tightly around her legs on the big sofa, curling her bare feet under her. It crossed her mind to put the central heating on or move to the kitchen. The sitting room, which had seemed so elegant when they bought the place, always felt cavernous when Oliver wasn’t at home; the windows too large even with the curtains closed. She wished they hadn’t positioned the sofa in the middle of the room near the fireplace and TV, where you had to look behind you to see the door and the hallway.

The kitchen was large too, and they’d extended it to make a dining area which was nearly all glass. She shivered at the thought of pulling the blinds in there, one by one, while the lights turned the garden into a black emptiness. She always had the feeling that someone was out there, staring in at her.

Here was the news conference again, coming from Swindon. She’d never been there, but thought it was in Wiltshire, about a hundred and fifty miles away from their home in Hastings. The policeman in charge was explaining they were seriously concerned about Lily, because she was only 14 and she wasn’t the kind of girl to go off without letting her parents know. Unusually, the mother was absent and the dad looked very lonely up there, flanked by the row of uniforms, a bank of microphones in front of his face.

He was coughing now, the father, as the police inspector said Mr Marsden had a message for his daughter and cameras clacked like a volley of gunshots in the man’s face.

‘Lily, love, if you can hear this we’re worried about you … sweetheart. So come home if you can. We won’t be cross with you if you’re in … I mean, if you’ve done something wrong.’ He stumbled to a halt, cleared his throat and glanced at the policeman, whose nod told him to go on. ‘Your mum’s beside herself with worry.’ He gulped at a glass of water. ‘We both are; so, please call us if you can. Just to say you’re all right.’

The father stopped, looked up then flinched back into himself as the cameras flashed. He turned to the policeman. ‘That’s all.’ Looking down, his face red and voice gruff, suggesting tears held back, he muttered to the table, ‘We love you, Lily.’

As the cameras clattered and flared at him again, Rosie wondered whether he knew that, if the body they’d found was his daughter’s, he would soon be the prime suspect.

‘Mummy, Muuum.’

The cries must have been going on for some time, and she bounded across the hallway, the parquet floor cool under her feet.

Fay’s room was warm, but she was sitting up in bed, eyes puffy with sleep and tears. ‘I had a dream and you didn’t come.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’ Rosie sat on the bed, holding her daughter and kissing her hair. It smelled musty with sleep.

She tucked Fay in and passed her a doll from the pile of toys at the end of the bed.

‘No, I want Doogie Dog, not that.’

Fay always reverted to the behaviour and toys of her babyhood after nightmares but, by morning, Rosie knew she would be an indomitable 6-going-on-15-year-old again. Now, with the green fleecy dog under her chin, she was nearly asleep, and Rosie sat watching her, filled with so much love she could barely breathe. She pulled a strand of pale hair away from Fay’s lips, but her daughter brushed sleepily at her hand, irritated by the touch.

After watching for a few minutes Rosie stood, holding the rejected doll. In the past year or so everything had had to be on Fay’s terms, and Rosie found it more and more difficult to deal with her. ‘Maybe she needs a brother or sister to show her she isn’t the centre of the world,’ Oliver had said a couple of times recently but Rosie wasn’t sure how serious he was.

And another baby wouldn’t change things. Fay was the centre of their world and always would be. No other child could take that special place: just as Rosie had never been able to replace her parents’ firstborn, Alice.

It was difficult to believe it had been fifteen years since Alice was killed. (Rosie always found it difficult to use the word murdered even in her thoughts.) Rosie had been 14 at the time, like the missing girl; Alice, two years older. At times, it seemed like yesterday. Yet so much had happened since then. Sometimes, she went whole days without thinking of her sister. Sometimes, she was even able to remember the good things. Their childhood together, before everything went wrong. Able to show Fay the pictures of Auntie Alice and tell her funny stories about those days. To think about how, when she was little, she had adored her big sister and longed for her love and approval. It was when she saw news of missing or murdered teenagers that it became impossible to forget what came later. And how it all ended.

The TV was still on in the living room and showing the father of the missing girl leaving the press conference. He looked nice enough: an ordinary dad, with a thatch of untidy brown hair streaked with a few strands of grey. His face was pleasant, the hint of stubble somehow making it more appealing, and when he looked up she saw eyes that might have been kind if they hadn’t been so haunted.

But then, Rosie knew only too well how easily eyes can lie.

Chapter Two

Joe

The thought that kept going around in Joe’s brain was that this didn’t happen to families like theirs. He knew that his little girl, his Lily, was gone. Murdered. He’d identified her body. But, no matter how many times he told himself it was true, his mind refused to understand.

Once or twice in the past, a past that seemed so remote he’d begun to think of it as before, he had asked himself how people coped in a situation like this. He’d imagined the parents would cling together, support each other.

But this was nothing like that.

Hannah was pumped so full of tranquilizers and sleeping pills, she was either a hump in the bed he dared not touch, or a ragged-haired zombie, smelling of coffee and sweat. When he tried to talk to her, suggested a drink, some food, or a warm bath, she looked right through him and turned to whisper something to that bloody Loretta – the FLO, as she called herself. Then Loretta would smile her fake smile, saying, oh so kindly, ‘Maybe just leave her for now, Joe,’ making him feel even more like a spare part.

And there was no peace, no quiet; no time to take in what had happened; to turn the nightmare into reality. Every day, and well into the evenings, there were people outside. Teenagers bringing flowers and even balloons. He watched from the window of the spare bedroom as the girls clutched each other and dabbed tears from under their eyes.

The phone rang constantly, and he thanked God for caller ID. He begged his mum to stay away for now, told her they were coping and there was nothing she could do. And he could tell she was relieved. She’d never really got on with Hannah, never accepted Lily as a proper granddaughter. His brother, Dave, sent texts and emails. Obviously, didn’t want to talk, but Joe couldn’t blame him – what could he say that would help?

The police asked to search the house and, of course, there was no question of refusing. The place was filled with them for hours. Watching them go through Lily’s room was the worst and, when Hannah saw them, she started up with that groaning again.

He didn’t even try to go to her this time. Let her precious Loretta deal with it. She took Hannah downstairs, made yet more coffee, and went through the photo albums with her again. It seemed to help Hannah, although how she could bear to look at them he didn’t understand.

He stood at the door of Lily’s room while they searched. They looked through her clothes, even in her pockets, took out the drawers, pulled back the covers on her bed. That was when he wanted to punch someone. To tell them to leave her alone.

At least they left it tidy and, when they’d gone, he went in and smoothed the wrinkles out of the duvet. Sat on the bed and picked up her pillow, holding it close. Then he remembered seeing someone do that in a film and almost laughed at himself for being so corny. And for a moment, the great chunk of something that had been hurting his chest all this time surged into his throat. But even as the tears came he stopped them, squeezing the pillow into a hard lump. If he let go he would lose control.

So he sat there crushing the pillow that still smelled of her and staring at nothing. All the time keeping out the image he must never let himself see again. Lily, as she was now.

They wouldn’t say much about how she died; only that she wasn’t raped – thank God. But he imagined all sorts, and even thinking about how the doctors must have pulled her about was horrible.

Loretta had been there, of course. Watching him when he identified the body. Noting down his reactions, no doubt. But he had simply looked at the face that was and wasn’t Lily. It certainly wasn’t his cheeky laughing girl who loved his special cheese on toast and was always trying different hair dos. He stood, staring, numb and yet aware of being watched. And suddenly, horrifically, he’d wanted to giggle. He’d fought to keep it down, gritted his teeth and pressed his lips together until he was able to look up and nod that, yes, this was his daughter.

As he put the pillow down, smoothing it carefully, he realized Loretta was watching him again, leaning on the wall outside the door. She laid a warm hand on his arm as he slid past, but said nothing. He didn’t speak either. If he did she would probably write it down in that fucking notebook of hers.

That was what made him so angry. He couldn’t even tell Hannah to be careful about what she said. She must think bloody Loretta was just there to help them. But she was police, the same as Philips and the rest, and she was watching them all the time. Reporting on everything.

He went into the spare room – the only place he could escape to. It was empty apart from a sofa bed, so the police hadn’t spent as long in there and it felt less contaminated somehow. The venetian blinds meant he could see the street without being seen.

After the first few nights the group of reporters and cameras had thinned out. Lily wasn’t top of the news bulletins anymore, and his mum said the papers had gone quiet too. More important things to focus on: celebrities and football.

Loretta was outside talking to a group of girls. The ones who seemed to have nothing better to do than hang around all day. Probably hoping they’d get their faces in the paper or even an interview on TV. As if none of this was real. As if Lily wasn’t lying back there in the morgue, cold and all alone. He told himself not to be mean: they were Lily’s friends. Trying to show they cared; trying to make sense of it.

Loretta

Right now, Loretta hated her job. She had trained as an FLO because she thought she was good with people, and it was always useful to have an extra qualification. Also, her kids were happier when she was out of uniform. What she hadn’t bargained for was the way, when you were working with a family, it set you apart. She had no reason to spend much time at the station. When she was there hardly anybody bothered to talk to her or ask her how it was going. They seemed to think she was onto a cushy number. ‘Sitting about drinking tea all day,’ was how she’d overheard that bitch Maggie describe it.

And this was her first murder as an FLO. It had come as a surprise when they’d found a body, because with a 14-year-old you expected the girl to come back, shamefaced, after a couple of days hiding out.

But there had been something wrong with the atmosphere inside that house from the start. The parents both seemed sure the worst had happened on the very first night. And the mother, Hannah, well, she was something else. Loretta knew she should feel more sorry for her – the poor woman had lost her only child for fuck’s sake – but it was difficult when she was so cut off. So cold.

At least she whispered the occasional word to Loretta. A lot more than the husband got. Hannah still blanked him completely, which was curious. The most likely explanation was always going to be that he had something to do with it, so she probably had good reason to reject him, but for now they had to keep him sweet. It stuck in Loretta’s throat to be pleasant when she let herself imagine the possible scenarios, but that was the job.

Hannah was asleep again – out of it with all the stuff the doc had given her. It was obvious Joe wasn’t going to be forthcoming either, and DCI Philips had suggested she try to talk to some of the kids hanging around outside, so she had the excuse she needed to get out for a bit.

As she closed the front door behind her silence fell. The kids lounging in small groups looked studiously away. She strolled out, mimicking their pretence of indifference. A lanky boy of thirteen or so in a school sweatshirt and grey trousers elbowed his smaller friend, who turned to stare at her. Then, very deliberately, the smaller boy placed a cigarette between his lips, head to one side, daring her to do something.