Looking back on that time, I wish with all my heart that I’d had the confidence to ask him what was going on – why was he lying to me? But I was scared of losing him, so I said nothing and let the pain eat away at me from the inside.
And then everything changed. Just as I was working myself up to ask for an explanation, he told me he loved me. What could I do? Those words were everything to me, and if he had told me a tiny lie about a stupid football game, what did it really matter?
That was all so long ago, though, and today I need to face his family – to find out if he lied to me about keeping our secrets safe too. I push down hard on the accelerator. Now that I’ve started, I can’t wait to get this over with.
15
As Tom turned off the busy main road onto a quiet lane bordered by hawthorn hedges, Becky stared out of the window. Even though they were only three miles from the market town of Macclesfield, it felt as if they had penetrated deep into the Cheshire countryside.
‘Are we ready?’ Tom asked quietly.
Becky could see how uncomfortable he was and knew he dreaded visiting the bereaved, especially when a loved one had been brutally murdered. But it had to be done. Cameron Edmunds’ wife deserved to know what had happened to her husband.
‘Yep, as ready as I’ll ever be,’ she answered, doing her best to give him a reassuring smile.
They didn’t know what to expect. Was Dawn Edmunds’ apparent lack of concern simply a cover for the fact that she was heartbroken? Or would she be angry? Or accepting? All they knew was that she had been in no rush to get back from her spa weekend.
‘The house is down here, on the left,’ Tom said. As Becky glanced down at her phone to see if there were any messages she needed to respond to, she was surprised to hear Tom mutter, ‘Shit.’
She looked up. Several cars and vans were pulled over at the side of the road and a group of people, some with cameras, were standing expectantly outside the gates of Cameron Edmunds’ home.
‘Who in God’s name leaked his name?’ Tom muttered, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. In truth, it could have been anyone, including Cameron’s wife.
He turned off the road and pulled up in front of the gates. The journalists moved out of the way of the car, but the photographers bent down to snap quick photos of Tom and Becky’s arrival. Becky saw how rigid Tom’s jaw was.
‘I’ll get out and ring the bell,’ she said. ‘You stay here and try not to frighten the press too much.’
She jumped out of the car to press the buzzer by the electric gates, nodding acknowledgement to the journalists who shouted a few questions, but not deigning to answer.
No one responded to the intercom, but a humming sound indicated that a motor was being activated, and the gates slowly began to move inwards, parting to allow Tom to drive through as Becky slid back into the car. A few seconds later they rounded a bend in the drive and there ahead of them was Cameron Edmunds’ home.
‘Jesus,’ Tom muttered, trying to suppress a grin, his mood cheered by what he saw in front of him. ‘It’s a bloody castle!’
Becky smiled. She knew he wasn’t a fan of the ostentatious, and this house had it all. A relatively new build, its low central structure linked two tall wings with steeply pitched roofs, each gable wall boasting a single huge window at least six metres high. The entrance was via a stone-built portico that looked to be something of an afterthought.
‘Not exactly cosy-looking, is it?’ he said, and he was right. It looked austere, forbidding – a place that might define a person’s financial status rather than say anything about his character. ‘Come on. Perhaps it’s a bit less intimidating inside.’
Becky pushed open her door and got out of the car again. However unappealing its architecture, the house was situated in a peaceful spot with no sound other than the distant hum of traffic from the main road. But the warm air felt heavy, and Becky longed for a thunderstorm to break through the sticky atmosphere.
The front door was opened by a little girl in shorts and a sparkly pink T-shirt who looked about nine years old. She spoke before either Becky or Tom could say hello: ‘Mummy is in the lounge.’ Without giving either of them the chance to reply, the little girl scurried off.
Becky turned to Tom and shrugged before moving into a vast marble-tiled hallway with two uncomfortable-looking giant black leather wing-backed chairs. Ahead was a wall-to-wall fish tank, separating the hall from whatever rooms lay beyond. Between the two chairs was a door they assumed led to the lounge. Glancing at Tom for his approval, Becky knocked softly on the dark wood.
‘Mrs Edmunds? It’s DCI Douglas and DI Robinson. May we come in?’
There was a murmur of assent, and Becky pushed open the door to reveal a gloomy room with three deep-purple sofas sitting on a black carpet. The walls were painted battleship grey, and to Becky it felt as if she was entering a cave. The only splashes of light to relieve the gloom came from a few empty white vases, evenly spaced on fitted bookshelves. There wasn’t a book in sight.
A room to be depressed in, was the thought that sprang to Becky’s mind.
Her gaze was drawn to Dawn Edmunds, curled up in the corner of one of the sofas, her feet tucked under her. She looked young – probably not much more than thirty – although the layers of make-up added to her years. Her long blonde hair was artfully waved and immaculate, but her eyes were bloodshot, and Becky had the feeling this was due less to tears than to the contents of the glass in her hand, filled with a clear liquid which she strongly suspected was not water.
‘We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs Edmunds,’ Tom said.
Dawn Edmunds smiled. ‘Good. Because I’m not. It complicates things, but that’s as far as it goes.’
Becky avoided looking at Tom.
‘We apologise for disturbing you at this very distressing time,’ she said, ‘but we’re going to need you to formally identify your husband so we can continue with our investigation. I know it’s going to be painful for you, and I do wish it wasn’t necessary, but I’m afraid it is.’ She gave Dawn some time to absorb this, but there was no reaction so Becky continued. ‘At some stage it would be helpful to us if we could also have a chat about Cameron – either now or, if you prefer, after the identification. Do you have someone who can look after the children while you come with us?’
Dawn Edmunds nodded. ‘The nanny’s here – they’ll be fine. I’ll answer your questions now, if you like. I can’t help you much, I don’t suppose, but let’s get it over with.’
‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ Tom asked. Dawn waved a hand carelessly at the facing sofa. Becky perched right on the edge, sensing that if she sat back she would never get up again, so deep were the cushions.
‘When did you last see your husband, Mrs Edmunds?’ Tom asked.
Dawn bit her bottom lip and stared into her glass. Her voice was surprisingly steady. ‘Friday night. I was watching the TV and I heard him, rather than saw him – he was jangling his car keys in that annoying way of his. Then I heard the front door slam and his car started. The kids were in bed. I left for the spa early on Saturday, and I didn’t see him then, so I don’t know if he came home or not.’
Becky assumed this meant that they didn’t share a bed, but it was a thought to park for later.
‘What did he say as he left on Friday? Did he give you any indication that the weekend ahead was going to be different from any other?’
Dawn gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He didn’t say anything; he just went. We didn’t speak much, unless it was absolutely essential.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’ Becky asked.
‘Not really. I know he went to the casino most nights, but I never asked and he never volunteered any information.’
‘Did you speak to him over the weekend, or did the nanny – or maybe the children – see him, do you know?’
Dawn shook her head. ‘The nanny’s terrified of him, so when I knew I was going to be away I arranged for her and a friend of hers to take the
kids to Legoland for the weekend. They got back on Sunday night, but if Cameron had been here at all he’d have gone out by the time they arrived home.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your husband – anyone who had a grievance against him?’
Again, the cold laugh. ‘Just about anyone who ever met him, at a guess.’
Becky didn’t know where to go with this and glanced at Tom, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. He was going to take over again, thank goodness.
Tom leaned back on the sofa, as if this was a friendly chat. ‘Tell me about your husband – where you met, how long you’ve been married. It would be helpful to get a picture of the man.’
Dawn said nothing for a moment, but as the silence lengthened she took a sip of her drink and started to speak hesitantly. ‘We met when I was at university, here in Manchester. I got into a spot of bother and Cameron helped me. I hadn’t quite realised how high the price would be.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tom asked.
‘Cameron wanted a wife, but it had to be someone amenable, who would do what he said, give him children – he specified four – and basically apart from that the main requirements were to look ornamental when he needed to appear respectable in public, and otherwise to shut up and keep out of his life. That was the deal. He was very clear that those were his terms. So I agreed. I married him.’
‘If you were so unhappy, didn’t you think about leaving him?’ Becky asked, unable to stop herself.
‘Ooh, you don’t know much about my husband, do you?’ Dawn shook her head slowly, her lips turning up in apparent amusement. ‘You’d think that would be a solution, wouldn’t you? But no. I’d signed a pre-nup – my deal with the devil – and if I left I had to walk away from everything, including my kids.’
‘I’m sure the courts would have been favourable to you with regard to your children.’
Dawn’s eyes met Becky’s.
‘I don’t think you understand, Inspector. There’s the legal argument, and then there’s the Cameron argument. There would have been so many ways to make me seem an unsuitable mother – faked drug or drink addiction, huge debts, or if push came to shove a few shattered limbs, maybe even a broken back to put me in a wheelchair for life.’ Her eyes flitted back and forth between Tom and Becky as if imploring them to understand. ‘I don’t think you’ve quite got a handle on my Cameron yet, have you?’
16
The town where Scott had lived all his young life was small, I remember that – nestling between hills on the edge of the Snowdonia National Park. His parents’ house was just off the main road but for the life of me I can’t remember if it was on the right or the left. I was so distraught on the day of the memorial service – so terrified of being there, but even more terrified of not being there – that I barely noticed.
Pulling the car to a stop, I decide that the most likely place to find the answer is in the small shop proudly displaying a Post Office sign. I push open the door to the sound of an old-fashioned bell. A woman with a turned-down mouth is sitting on a stool behind the counter, knitting. She glares at me. Deciding she doesn’t look like the type to volunteer information for nothing, I buy some chocolate and a bottle of water and approach the counter to pay.
‘Hot again, isn’t it?’ I say with a smile.
‘Too hot, if you ask me,’ the woman says, putting her knitting down and holding out her hand for the money. ‘It’s September, for God’s sake. Roll on the winter.’
There is nothing positive I can say to that, but I need to get this woman on my side.
‘I’ve not been here for a while, but it’s such a lovely part of the world. I once knew someone round here by the name of Roberts. Do you know if the family still lives here?’
The woman lowers her hand and stares at me. ‘You do know this is Wales, don’t you?’ she says with a sneer. ‘So which of the roughly fifty thousand people in this country with the surname Roberts might you be talking about then?’
I am no longer the young girl who was scared of her own shadow, but this isn’t the moment to be argumentative.
‘Oh, of course,’ I say with a small laugh. ‘I’m so sorry. I hadn’t thought. They had a son called Scott.’
The woman nods slowly. ‘Right.’ She picks up her knitting again, and I wait. ‘I don’t normally like to gossip about people in the village,’ she says, a statement I find difficult to believe, ‘but you might as well know that Scott came to a bit of a sticky end. He’s dead, so if it’s him you’re looking for, you’re out of luck.’
The clacking of the needles stops, and for the first time the woman looks me in the eye, no doubt hoping to see shock or dismay.
‘Yes, I know about Scott,’ I tell her. ‘A tragedy, although it’s some time ago now. But it was his mother I was hoping to see.’
The woman gives a bark of laughter. ‘Well, that’s almost as bad. Sylvia Roberts is alive, but she’s away with the fairies. She’s been admitted to one of those posh homes in Colwyn Bay. They call it a hospice – a fancy name for what it is, in my opinion.’
I don’t want to know what the woman thinks a hospice is, and I groan inwardly. Colwyn Bay is another forty minutes away. I will never get back to school this afternoon if I visit Mrs Roberts. I don’t know what I will gain anyway, especially if Scott’s mother is suffering from some form of dementia, as ‘away with the fairies’ might suggest.
‘Is Mr Roberts still at home?’ I ask.
‘Ha! He didn’t last more than two years after that boy of theirs died. They doted on that kid – thought he was their world. No one else in the family counted for anything. And when the father died, Ma Roberts went into even more of a decline. The house is up for sale now. It’s up the road on the right – you’ll see the estate agent’s sign if you’re interested. But it’s a dark, dingy place that’s had no one to care about it in many a year, so I doubt it’ll sell quickly.’
I’m angry with myself for taking the impulsive decision to come here. Maybe deep down I was hoping that, despite everything, I would discover that by some miracle Scott is still alive. Of course he isn’t.
Still, Mrs Roberts could hold the key to it all. Scott swore his family knew nothing about what we did, but maybe that was another of his lies. I have always felt safe in the knowledge that only two people knew our secrets, and one of them was dead. But what if I’m wrong?
The only person I can think of to ask is Mrs Roberts. It’s a long shot, but I’m here now – or close enough.
I thank the lady in the post office and hurry back to my car. I can still make it to Colwyn Bay and back before the end of the day – just. I can use the journey to ring around the various care homes to find out where Mrs Roberts is living. At least I have her first name now, so it shouldn’t be difficult.
As I pull into the drive of the hospice, I look around. This is not what I was expecting from the woman’s description. The entrance drive to the stone building is overgrown, and tall trees deprive the windows of light. Should my mother ever need to be looked after by anyone other than me, it’s not a place I would choose for her.
For a few minutes I sit and stare at the door, wondering if I should go in. What can I say to Mrs Roberts? What excuse can I have for my visit, and will I even be allowed to see her? Maybe I don’t want to know the truth. But I haven’t come all this way for nothing, so with renewed determination I get out of my car and head towards the building.
Inside the narrow hall I see a sign saying RECEPTION above a small hatch. A young girl with a pretty, smiling face is sitting on the other side, behind a desk.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’
‘I wonder if it would be possible to see Mrs Sylvia Roberts, please? I used to know her son, and I found myself in the area so I thought I’d call in. I don’t suppose she’ll remember me, though.’
The girl’s smile widens further. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that too much. She doesn’t recognise anyone. I’ll check with the manager, but I’m sure
it will be okay. Do you want to sign in, then take a seat in the lounge? First door on the left. I’ll need to check some ID against your signature. Sorry – new regulations.’
The lounge is empty, and I perch on the edge of a chair, willing my brain to come up with a good excuse for being there.
The young woman is standing in front of me before I realise it.
‘You can go through now. It’s the third door on the right, down the corridor.’
I push myself up from the chair and head down the hall. I can hear a commotion in one of the rooms, and it’s only as I get close that I realise the noise is coming from Mrs Roberts’ room.
‘Settle yourself down, darlin’. I’m going to bring you a nice cup of tea. Shush, now.’
I stand in the doorway, taking in the sight in front of me. A lady who can only be in her early sixties is sitting in an easy chair, and she is crying.
A black woman in a dark blue uniform turns her kind face towards me. ‘Sorry. I should have told the boss no more visitors. She’s got herself into a right lather. Can you give her a minute before you try to speak to her – let her calm herself? It’s always the same when he’s been. Maybe you should go back to the lounge. I can come and get you when she’s a bit more herself.’
I want to ask her who has been, thinking whoever ‘he’ is could be another source of information, but I don’t need to.
Mrs Roberts tells me herself. ‘Scott! Where’s Scott? Where did he go?’ She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and mops at her eyes.
I can’t move. I feel myself begin to tremble as her words register.
She said, ‘Scott’. She said his name twice. Oh my God, he’s alive!
My eyes flood with tears, but I blink them away as the nurse turns back towards me.
‘It’s going to take a while. Best if you go, if you don’t mind. You’ll have to wait. I don’t know why he winds her up so much, that son of hers.’ She shakes her head and frowns, but I don’t want to wait.
The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Page 7