The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers

by Rachel Abbott

  ‘This is a treat,’ he said. ‘To what do we owe the honour of a visit on a Monday evening? I’m told your mum knows you’re here – is that right?’

  Lucy pushed him away. ‘You haven’t called her, have you? Did you check up on me?’

  ‘No, Lucy, I didn’t. If you tell me that she knows, then I believe you. But I do think we need to let her know that you’ve arrived safely.’

  Lucy gave him a look of incredulity and pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Well, for one thing I’ve sent her a text. But if she doesn’t believe me, she can check on the app she’s put on my phone. She knows where I am, Dad. She always knows where I am.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘Is it? If you say so.’

  The mood had deteriorated slightly, and Tom wanted to get it back on an even keel.

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen and have something to eat. Then perhaps you can tell me what’s going on. And I’ll need to call your mum, love. I know she knows where you are, but she’s going to want to know that you’re okay too.’

  Lucy gave a deep sigh and headed for the kitchen without another word.

  Louisa stopped at the door. ‘Do you two want to be alone? I can eat in the sitting room if you need to talk.’

  Tom was about to say that wouldn’t be necessary when Lucy spoke. ‘No, Louisa. It’s better if you stay. This involves you too.’

  Tom gave Louisa a look of surprise as he ushered her into the kitchen. This was a version of his daughter he hadn’t seen before. Yes, she had started to become more assertive as she reached her early teens, and that was the way it should be, but this sudden burst of apparent confidence was something else. Or was it bravado?

  Louisa had already laid the table for three. She shooed Tom towards a chair and placed a glass of wine in front of him. ‘I’ll serve up,’ she said. It was normally something they did together, but there was nothing normal about this evening.

  ‘Okay, sweetheart. What is it you want to tell me?’ Tom asked Lucy.

  ‘I’ve moved out. I can’t cope with Mum any more, and I’ve decided I’m going to move in with you and Louisa.’

  Tom’s momentary delight at the thought of seeing Lucy every day was quickly tempered by deep concern. Something had to be wrong, and he could tell from the determined set of her mouth that Lucy was expecting an argument.

  ‘Lucy, darling, you know how much I – both of us, in fact – love you being here. This is your home too. But have you thought through all the implications of living here?’

  Lucy folded her arms. ‘Oh, here we go. I suppose you’re going to come up with fifty reasons why I can’t do what I want.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just want you to consider everything carefully. For one thing you would have to change schools, and all your friends live close to your mum too. Perhaps it would help if I knew why you’ve come to this decision. Have you fallen out with your mum over something?’

  Lucy stared at him and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d want me here. I should have known better!’ With that, she turned and ran out of the room. They heard her stomp back up the stairs.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Tom muttered. ‘Sorry, Louisa, but I’d better speak to Kate before we eat. Is that okay?’

  Louisa gave him a sympathetic smile as she pulled a pan from the hob. ‘Of course – dinner will keep. And I don’t know if it helps, but I remember being thirteen. I’m not sure it’s the same for boys, but I felt as if no one understood me and the world was against me. Maybe we should suggest she stays for a few days, and when she’s had a chance to see how it’s working out you can both make a decision.’

  Tom reached out his arms and pulled Louisa towards him. ‘Good idea. Thanks for that. She’ll be okay in half an hour – she doesn’t easily give up on a good plate of food. In the meantime I’ll talk to Kate. That should be fun.’

  Giving Louisa one last squeeze, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

  Tuesday

  11

  ‘Shit! Bloody traffic.’

  How had I managed to forget the roadworks? There are at least three other routes I could have taken to school if my head had been in the right place when I set off this morning. But it wasn’t and I only have myself to blame. I had no more than a few hours’ sleep last night, and I’d had to dream up an excuse to Dominic for getting home at two in the morning – an excuse I prayed he might somehow believe. He was sitting up in bed pretending to read when I finally crept upstairs as quietly as I could.

  ‘Oh, Dom, you shouldn’t have stayed awake for me. You’ll be shattered tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s okay. I wanted to be sure you got home safely. Where’ve you been until now? That must have been a hell of a workout.’

  I was about to try to explain when I heard a cry. ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  Dominic started to get out of bed. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  ‘No, stay where you are. I probably woke him, so I’ll go.’

  Bailey’s room is opposite ours and the door was ajar. An owl nightlight was casting a turquoise glow over the bed, and Bailey was sitting up, rubbing tears from his eyes.

  ‘Hey, Bubbles,’ I said softly, using the pet name he’d had since being obsessed with blowing raspberries at six months old. ‘What’s up, sweetie?’

  I sat on the side of the bed and pulled my little boy to me, wrapping his warm body in my arms and rocking him.

  ‘I had a dream about the man.’ Bailey was no longer crying and his eyelids were already drooping.

  ‘What man, sweetheart?’

  ‘The man,’ he replied unhelpfully.

  ‘Did he say something you didn’t like?’ I asked gently.

  ‘No. He was just staring,’ Bailey answered, but I could feel him going heavy in my arms.

  I rocked my son for a few more minutes and then gently laid him back down. ‘Well, he’s not here now, Bubbles, so there’s nothing to be frightened of.’ My words were wasted, though. Bailey – reassured by his mother’s presence – was once more asleep.

  I made my way back to our bedroom, leaving the door open so I could hear if he stirred again, hoping that Dominic had dozed off. But he was awake, waiting for me.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, just a bad dream. He said it was about a man, but he’s gone back to sleep now.’ I leaned towards my husband and gave him a gentle kiss.

  ‘I hope a nightmare is all it was.’

  ‘What do you mean, Dom?’ I felt a flash of concern.

  ‘There’s been some guy hanging around for the past couple of days. I’ve seen him on the road outside, and I saw him on the golf course close to the fence this morning. I hope he didn’t speak to Bailey.’

  My concern turned to something more solid, more tangible. Could this be my tormentor?

  ‘What did he look like?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  Dom turned his back to me, clearly wanting to get some sleep. ‘Ordinary. Average height, dark curly hair. No one we know. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sure it’s nothing. Let’s just go to sleep.’

  I turned off the light so Dom couldn’t see my eyes and snuggled up to his back.

  ‘You never said why you were so late,’ he murmured.

  The lie was already prepared. ‘I’m sorry. I stupidly went into the relaxation room after my swim and fell asleep. Next time I’ll set the alarm on my phone in case I doze off.’

  Dominic grunted. ‘I was worried, that’s all.’

  I kissed the skin between his shoulder blades. ‘Look, I’ll try to get back early tomorrow – today, now – and I’ll cook something for us, for after Bailey and Holly are in bed. What do you think?’

  He didn’t respond, and there was no time to say more this morning before I left for school – if I ever get there.

  I didn’t feel like putting the radio on when I first got in the car. The memory of the voice claiming to be Scott is
still with me. I forget about it for minutes at a time, and then it punches me hard as I think about what it might mean. I’ve done things that I’m deeply ashamed of, that I thought were buried in my past. It was another life, a different me. If the truth is allowed to escape from where it has been so deeply buried, I could lose everything – my family, my job, my carefully nurtured, unremarkable life.

  I force myself to face a question, one I never thought I would have to ask: is there any way at all that Scott could still be alive?

  I don’t believe it. He couldn’t have survived what I did to him. I remember his memorial service and how terrified I was that everyone would turn to stare at me, that they would know I had killed him. It wasn’t the worst day of my life, but it was close. I was only glad it wasn’t a funeral. I don’t think I could have borne it had there been a coffin, knowing Scott’s body was inside. I heard a friend of his parents say he had been cremated in America, and I thought how dreadful that must have been for the family.

  Sitting here in the hot car I have too much time to think and a shudder runs through me as I balance my certainty that it can’t be Scott against the terrifying thought that someone else knows the whole story. And if Dominic’s right, maybe that person is watching me – and my family.

  The traffic is now at a standstill, and despite the air conditioning, the sun’s heat through the window is making me drowsy. I lower my forehead onto the steering wheel. I need distracting, so I reach out to switch on the radio. I take some deep breaths in time with Sam Smith’s crooning, but the music comes to an end all too soon, and it is time for the presenter to chivvy his listeners along with his chirpy voice. It makes me tired just listening to him.

  ‘Before we go to the news, I thought I’d give you all an update on next week’s “The One That Got Away”. We’ve had an astounding response this week. Scott – the guy who has promised to tell us all about the love of his life, Spike – seems to have grabbed everyone’s attention. We have never had so many votes for one single caller, and the whole of Manchester wants to know what traumatic event brought about the end of Scott and Spike’s relationship in Nebraska. I can’t wait. I don’t know about you!’

  I stare at the radio as if it will somehow tell me what I want to hear – that this is all nonsense and the man on the radio didn’t say Nebraska, he said Nevada. Or it wasn’t Spike but Mike. Or anything at all that will demonstrate conclusively that none of this is about me.

  The honking of horns finally pierces my trance-like state, and I jerk my head back, thinking they are hooting at me. But the traffic is still not moving; it’s just drivers showing their frustration to no end whatsoever as far as I can see, and I feel the tension increase across my shoulders. I try to concentrate on the voice on the radio in an attempt to steer my thoughts away from the edge of the black hole they want to fall into.

  Today there is another phone-in, this one on current news stories. It is usually dreadful, with ill-informed people stating their opinions as if they are fact, but at least it gives me something else to think about.

  ‘I’m speaking now to Brian from Levenshulme. Which news item has you intrigued today, Brian?’

  ‘That murder in the multi-storey. It’s not safe any more, is it? Somehow you always expect lowlifes to be the victims of crime. But it seems that no one’s safe.’

  ‘What do you mean, Brian?’

  ‘This guy was a class act! Drove a great big Merc, for God’s sake.’

  The presenter interrupts him again. ‘Sorry, Brian, but the police haven’t issued a name yet. I expect they want to be sure of their facts and inform the family before it’s made public.’

  There is a scoffing sound down the phone. ‘Well, someone should tell bloody Twitter then. Hashtag MancMurder. His name’s on there so I’m saying nowt I shouldn’t. It’s—’

  The line goes dead.

  ‘Sorry, listeners, we had to cut Brian off before he revealed a name that may, or may not, be correct. Now, who’ve we got on line three? Ah yes. Stacey. What do you want to talk to us about this morning?’

  I stop listening when I realise the talker is moaning about recycling and reach for my phone – anything to distract me until the traffic starts to move. I open Twitter and type the hashtag into the search bar. There are hundreds of results, but they all repeat the same name. I feel as if the air has been punched out of me, and a groan builds in my chest. I check several tweets to be sure I’m not just seeing retweets of a single theory. No. And they all say the same – that the dead man is Cameron Edmunds Junior.

  Cameron.

  I think back to the night before. I had expected him to be there waiting for me, as he usually is. But there was no sign of him. I dismissed it, thinking it might have been because I had chosen to go out on a different night. But by last night he was already dead – murdered in a car park.

  Cameron’s death links everything – and ties it all back to Scott. But if by any remote possibility Scott was alive, do I believe he would kill Cameron? I don’t know. Who can say whether he could have become bitter and twisted enough to do this? And if so, why now, after all this time?

  I shake my head angrily at my futile speculation and ask myself which is the greater threat: exposure of my past sins or the revelation of my present-day secrets? The police will be crawling all over Cameron’s life. Will they find out about me: how I know him and what I am to him? Will I be a suspect? I think that is inevitable.

  One way or another, it seems my life is about to be shattered into a thousand razor-edged shards.

  12

  Then

  ‘Hello again.’

  I was sitting outside a café enjoying a bit of autumnal sunshine, sipping a Diet Coke while trying to study my notes on the morning’s lecture.

  I lifted my head at the friendly voice. ‘Hello.’ I recognised him immediately from the other night. Scott.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked, pulling out a chair. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Ah, the wonders of T. S. Eliot.’ I hid my surprise that a student of economics and politics knew about early-twentieth-century poetry. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘I am, actually.’

  ‘Good. If you weren’t enjoying it after a couple of weeks on your course it would be a bit sad. Did the gig the other night get any better after I’d gone?’

  I dropped my eyes back to the page. ‘I left just after you.’

  Scott laughed. ‘I thought you might. You should have come with me. I had fun. Do you want another Coke?’

  ‘No, thanks. I shouldn’t really be drinking this one. It’s supposed to rot your insides or something, isn’t it?’

  He grinned at me. ‘Most things that you enjoy are bad for you. Can I get you a coffee? Water?’

  ‘No. I’m fine, honestly.’

  Scott wandered off into the café and towards the bar to order his drink, and I sneaked a look at him through the window. Average height with quite a slender frame. A bit on the thin side, if I was honest, but it was his friendly open face and lovely smile that drew me to him. I lowered my gaze quickly as he turned his head in my direction and I wondered what his assessment of me would be. Short, skinny, with hideous dyed-blonde spiky hair, but when I risked another glance he was still looking at me.

  A noisy group of five or six students walked past me and pushed into the café, laughing and joking with each other. Before the door closed I heard them hail Scott and saw them make a beeline for him. It was easier to watch him now because he was chatting with them and was no longer looking at me. I could see he was popular, and one of the girls in particular kept touching his arm and leaning against him. He had lost interest in me, and who could blame him? So I was surprised to look up about ten minutes later to see him standing by my table.

  ‘Listen, Anna, a few of us are going out later – nothing special, but the film society is running a series of supposedly cult films, and toni
ght it’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. I thought you might like it, as an English lit student. There’s a great cast. Have you seen it?’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I hadn’t seen it, but I didn’t know the other students and felt a little uncomfortable gatecrashing their evening.

  Before I had the chance to answer, a shadow was cast across the table. Someone was standing behind me, blocking out the pale sunlight, and by the look on Scott’s face it wasn’t someone he wanted to see.

  ‘Are you going to introduce me, Scott?’ The voice was deep and slightly husky.

  The guy walked around the table so he was to my right. He was tall with dark blond hair, pale blue eyes and a thin layer of carefully maintained stubble along the line of his chin. I guessed he was about twenty-two – no more – but he had the air of someone much older.

  He held out his hand to me. ‘Cameron Edmunds Junior.’

  I had never heard anyone outside of American films tag ‘Junior’ on to the end of their name, and for a moment I nearly giggled. Fortunately, Scott came to my rescue.

  ‘This is Anna,’ he said. Dark red stains coloured Scott’s cheeks, and his eyes had changed from soft pools to hard pebbles. He was watching Cameron warily, as if he were a dangerous animal about to bite.

  ‘You’re new, Anna, aren’t you? You look vaguely terrified and haven’t yet adopted the air of indifference that will no doubt come to you in time. Watch out for this chap.’ Cameron waved his hand in Scott’s direction and leaned slightly towards me as if sharing a secret. ‘He’s like a vampire – not safe to be let out at night,’ he said in a stage whisper.

  Cameron grinned as if it was a joke and I returned the smile, but then I noticed that Scott’s jaw was clenched tight, his lips pressed together. His gaze never left Cameron’s face.

  Two steps behind Cameron was another guy. Short and lean, with broad shoulders and slender hips, his body looked as if it was made of iron. His narrow, sharp features didn’t alter, but his small dark eyes shifted from me to Scott and back again.

  Nobody spoke for what felt like minutes, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Then, with a chuckle, Cameron turned and sauntered away, lifting his hand in a farewell salute. I raised my eyes to look at Scott, who was staring down at the gap between his feet.