One of Us Is Lying: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist

by Shalini Boland

  We walk in silence for a while, just the pad of our footsteps and the whirr and scrape of Leo’s scooter wheels on the pavement, until we reach the cut-through that leads to the lakeside path. It’s usually thronged with parents and kids on their way home from school, but we’re late today so the way is empty.

  The lane opens up onto a vast swathe of blue sky and lake – a beautiful vista that still has the power to make me catch my breath despite having lived in Ashridge Falls all my life. The waterfall that gives the town its name is set further up the hillside in Ashridge Forest, but the lake itself is situated on the eastern edge of Ashridge – the posh side of town – with multi-million-pound houses ranged around the shoreline. The lake is so vast, you can’t even see the other side. You could almost imagine you were by the ocean.

  Half a mile west of here, the town centre is made up of a couple of main roads with all the shops and eateries a town could ever need. For more serious shopping expeditions, I head into the city, which is an hour out of town, but Ashridge can give any city a run for its money, with several cool boutiques of its own.

  A sudden breeze skips across the water, throwing up silver ripples that wink and flash like fish scales. And then a movement catches my eye. ‘Look!’ I point up at the sky above the lake. ‘Rosie, Leo, look over there! Geese!’ They’re honking over the lake, several of them coming into land with inelegant splashes. Usually Rosie would laugh and point at them. Today, she barely even looks up. By contrast, Leo scoots ahead along the path, trying to copy their cries. Normally his antics would make us both giggle, but Rosie is withdrawn and I’m too worried about her to be amused right now.

  ‘Hey, Rosie Posie, shall we make some cakes when we get home? We need to make some good ones for the regatta on Saturday. I thought we could ice some sailboats onto them.’ I pause to let her reply, but she simply takes a deep breath and lets it out again. ‘Daddy’s racing, so we’ll need to cheer him on. Maybe you and Leo could make him a good-luck card?’

  She bites her lip. I want to reach down and scoop her up into my arms for a hug. But she’s never been one for prolonged cuddles and I think the hug would be more for me than for her. This is ridiculous; I’m going to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘Rosie, was someone mean to you at school today?’

  She shrugs. That’s progress – at least she’s responding.

  ‘Was it someone in your class? Or one of the older children? You know you can tell me. Even if they said you mustn’t tell, you can always tell Mummy and Daddy anything – you know that, don’t you?’ Something else occurs to me. ‘Or was it a teacher? Did a grown-up say something to you? Did they tell you off?’

  She shakes her head, and I relax a little.

  ‘Was it one of the older children?’

  She shrugs.

  I think we’re getting closer to the truth now. It’s probably just some little bully. I’m determined to find out exactly who said what. And if she’s being picked on, the school damn well better do something about it.

  ‘Rosie, what did they say?’

  Tears begin to stream down her cheeks, and she gives a few noisy gulps. I call ahead to Leo to stay where he is while I crouch down and give my little girl a hug. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. What happened, darling?’ I smooth a few loose curls away from her face and fix her with a gentle gaze.

  ‘Mummy…’ Her voice wobbles.

  ‘Yes? What is it? What happened?’

  ‘Mummy, why did you kill someone?’

  For a moment I think I’ve heard incorrectly. ‘Why did I…? What did you say?’

  My daughter’s voice steadies. ‘Why did you kill somebody? Were they not very nice? You’re not supposed to hurt people, but you killed him.’ Her eyes meet mine and she seems almost afraid.

  ‘I… Rosie, who told you that?’

  ‘A boy at school. And another boy too. They said you killed him. They called you a murdiner.’

  ‘They said what?!’ I snap.

  Rosie flinches at my tone and I’m instantly contrite. ‘Sorry, darling, I’m not cross with you. I’m cross with those silly boys for telling lies.’

  ‘But they said it was true. They said—’

  ‘Listen to me, Rosie. Sometimes people make things up. They tell lies. So when they do that, we should ignore them.’

  ‘But everyone else said it too. They said, “Your mum killed someone so she’s a murdiner and she has to go to prison.” You’re not going to prison, are you, Mummy?’ Her eyes fill with tears again.

  ‘Hey, hey, it’s okay. No one’s going to prison, and no one’s a murderer. Those boys are just making up silly stories and I’m going to speak to their teacher and tell them to stop talking rubbish, okay?’

  Rosie’s lip wobbles, but she nods her head.

  ‘So can I get a cuddle now?’ I tap her nose with my forefinger, and she smiles shyly before launching herself into my arms so hard we bump heads. We laugh, but I don’t feel as happy as I’m pretending to be. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, my skin feels clammy and my stomach is still fluttering. What the hell were those boys talking about? Why would they have told Rosie those things about me? And where did they hear it from? Bad memories echo through my bones, pulling at my sinews and pulsing along my veins, but I damp them down. This can’t be anything to do with that. Can it?

  Two

  FIONA

  I look up from the conference table at my twenty-two-year-old assistant, hovering in the doorway. ‘Molly, can you bring us a tea and two black coffees, no sugar?’

  Molly sighs, nods and walks back into the showroom, her sleek blonde ponytail swinging as she goes. I’m well aware that she’s already becoming disillusioned with the job. I employed her just over two years ago and I’m sure she hoped her role might be a little more creative. I own Salinger’s, an interior design business in the centre of town and, while we’re usually pretty busy, Molly is the one who gets all the mundane tasks. I did warn her at the start that the job wasn’t as glamorous as it might sound, but she had that hopeful glow of optimism back then, which has since worn down to a patchy veneer now verging on rudeness.

  I can’t worry about Molly right now. Instead, I try to focus all my attention on my clients, Belinda and Harry Carmichael, a super-rich couple in their early forties that I’ve been working with for several weeks. They’ve just bought the old mill house which sits up near the waterfall. It’s a property with lots of history and plenty of interesting features, so I was excited when they approached me to help them with it. They spend most of their time in the city, but they plan to come up to Ashridge Falls for weekends and holidays once the house is finished.

  ‘What do you think of these initial ideas?’ I ask, confident that I’ve fulfilled the brief perfectly.

  ‘Fiona, I really like what you’ve come up with.’ My heart sinks. Belinda is speaking with zero conviction and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s got one of those ultra-short fringes that reminds me of when my mum used to cut my hair with the nail scissors, and I’d end up in tears. Only Belinda’s hair is like that on purpose. ‘It’s just…’ She drums her acrylic nails on the table top. ‘It’s just that I want more of a wow factor, you know?’

  We’re currently talking through the mood board I’ve designed for their home office-slash-library. I’ve been trying to steer them towards the Nordic look we first discussed, which will sit beautifully with the traditional building – lots of sheepskin rugs, woven fabrics and blonde wood. But they’re now talking about possibly ripping out a lot of the original features and going for a sleeker, even more minimalist design. To be honest, I’m not sure why they bought the house in the first place if they’re so intent on tearing it apart. But I don’t want to lose their business. They’re from out of town and extremely well connected. If I get this right, it could potentially mean a whole raft of new clients.

  ‘Tell you what…’ I slide the boards towards me, stacking them up like a deck of cards and trying not to think about how man
y days’ work it’s taken me to put them together. Work that they’ve barely even glanced at. ‘How about we forget this look for the moment and I create something more luxe and architectural instead?’ I flash my eyes and grin. ‘Something that will really knock your socks off.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds ideal.’ Harry turns to his wife. ‘What do you think, Bel?’

  Belinda’s expression instantly lifts. ‘Luxe and architectural! I knew we could count on you, Fiona. We just don’t want anything that’s going to date. And while we really love the Nordic look, it seems to be everywhere these days.’ She picks up her phone. ‘I’ve also seen some amazing photos on Pinterest of this Moroccan-type vibe which could be fantastic in the den. As a contrast to all the minimalism, you know?’

  ‘Sounds gorgeous!’ I sigh inwardly and wonder how many times they’re going to change their minds. I’m willing to lay money on it that Belinda will want me to design the whole place like a middle-eastern bazaar before declaring that it’s all too much and we should go back to the modern look once again. In fact, I’ll keep hold of this last lot of work in case they come back full circle.

  Through the interior floor-to-ceiling windows I spot Molly talking to a couple who are standing awkwardly in the reception area. They don’t look like any of my regular clients. They’re actually quite official-looking – wearing ugly grey suits and serious expressions. Molly glances over at me, her eyes wide and somewhat panicked. She jerks her head in the couple’s direction and I realise she wants me to come out and see to them. However, the Carmichaels aren’t the kind of people you can ditch in order to talk to someone else. I shake my head at Molly and try to indicate that I need her to deal with them.

  Molly rolls her eyes and turns back to the couple with a forced smile, but they don’t look very happy at what she’s saying. Molly gestures to the sofa and, after a moment’s hesitation, they sit. I tip an imaginary teacup in Molly’s direction to indicate that she needs to get on with making our teas and coffees.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to instil fresh excitement into Belinda and Harry at the thought of how incredible and original and timeless their new holiday home is going to be.

  ‘I can’t wait until it’s habitable,’ Belinda says with a sigh. ‘These things always take so long.’

  Only because you change your mind so many times. ‘How’s your stay at the Ripple?’ They’re booked into the beautiful five-star hotel on the other side of the lake.

  ‘It’s lovely, but it’s not like having your own place. One thing I will say, the spa’s incredible. Have you been?’

  I nod. ‘I could quite easily live in that spa.’

  ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it.’

  Harry makes a harrumphing noise.

  ‘Oh, ignore him.’ Belinda gives his arm a playful slap. ‘He’s grumpy because of the distance.’

  ‘I’m “grumpy”, as you put it, because it’s such an unnecessary trek from the hotel to the mill house every day. I don’t know why we can’t stay in town.’

  ‘Because there aren’t any decent hotels. It’s a lovely town, but it’s a bit rustic. No offence, Fiona.’

  ‘None taken. But you really should check out the Scott Arms.’

  ‘What, the pub?’ Belinda’s nose wrinkles.

  I try not to smile at her distaste. ‘They have rooms and a couple of apartments. The food is incredible. My friend Tia’s husband, Edward Perry, is the chef there. In fact, I think they offer monthly rentals too.’

  ‘Hear that, Bel? Let’s go and take a look. To be honest, I’m not that impressed with the food at the Ripple. It’s a bit bland.’

  They finally take their leave with plenty of hugs and kisses, as though we’re lifelong friends. I try not to think about how much more time it’s going to take me to pull together their new concept. But, as long as the Carmichaels are willing to pay, then I’m happy to oblige. Plus, I guess it will be quite fun to see what I can come up with.

  The walk-ins are still sitting in reception, perched on the edge of the sofa as though it’s against the law to get comfortable. Molly is glaring at me as though I’m the worst boss in the world for leaving them with her. If this couple want to hire me for a project, they’re going to have quite a long wait. I’m booked up for the rest of the summer and through most of autumn.

  I feel a little hot and flustered after my meeting with the Carmichaels, but I don’t have time to freshen up in the loo before meeting these potential new clients. Instead, I make do with running my fingers through my chestnut hair and pinching my cheeks to inject some colour before approaching them with a smile.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Fiona Salinger, how can I help?’

  They both stand.

  ‘Hello,’ the curly haired woman says without a smile. ‘My name is Cathleen Docherty, and this is my colleague John Garland.’

  Colleague? Must be a business project. ‘Nice to meet you.’ I hold out my hand. Cathleen’s handshake is soft, her hand cold. She’s about my height and gives me direct eye contact, which is a little unnerving. John’s handshake is firmer, his hand a little sweaty. He’s tall with mid-brown hair that’s greying at the temples. Neither of the two seem particularly friendly or enthusiastic. Usually I like to guess at people’s tastes in decor, but I honestly wouldn’t have a clue about either of these two. They seem very unlikely clients.

  ‘We’re here from HMRC – Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.’ Cathleen opens her bag and extracts some papers, holding them out for me to take.

  I need a moment to process her words. HMRC? Why are they here?

  Cathleen continues talking. ‘We’ve sent you several letters and voice messages over the past few weeks, but you failed to reply to the letters or return our calls. Here are copies of those letters.’

  ‘I… er…’ My chest tightens and I feel heat flood into my face. I vaguely remember receiving some letters from the tax office, but I set them aside to deal with at a later date. Somehow I forgot, not realising that they might be serious. That they might result in two tax inspectors showing up on my doorstep. I take the thin sheaf of papers from the woman’s hand, giving the contents a brief glance, but the words swim on the page.

  ‘Can you confirm that you received our correspondence?’ she asks. They’re both staring at me and, from the corner of my eye, I can also see Molly gazing over curiously.

  ‘Er, would you like to come into my office?’ I’d rather get them away from the reception area in case any of my clients happen to walk in and overhear our conversation. I don’t want people knowing my business. Although Molly’s bound to have heard all that, and I doubt she’ll keep it to herself.

  The tax inspectors follow me through the showroom and into my office, where I offer each of them a seat and try to collect my thoughts. I sit at my beloved marble desk and lay the letters in front of me, wondering what the hell is going to happen now. Am I in trouble? Do I owe the taxman money? I stare down at the letters once more, trying yet again to absorb what’s written. I spot the words tax audit. I don’t remember ever reading anything like this. If I had, I wouldn’t have ignored it. But, then again, did I even open the original letters? I stare over at my in-tray on the shelf, it’s piled high with unopened mail that I keep meaning to get around to dealing with. I’m such an idiot.

  ‘So, as you can see by the dates on the letters,’ Cathleen says, ‘we gave you plenty of notice regarding your tax audit, which we’ll be starting today.’

  ‘A tax audit? Today?’ A chill runs down my spine and my mind begins to race. I try to keep the panic out of my voice. If only I’d opened those letters, I would have had some advance warning. I could have… I don’t know… been more prepared. I clear my throat. ‘Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘We hope not,’ John says without smiling.

  ‘So why do I need to have an audit?’ I think about my books and receipts. Try to think whether there might be anything bad for these inspectors to find. Anything incriminat
ing. But my brain doesn’t want to work properly.

  ‘We’ll need access to all your business records. Your receipts, client information et cetera.’ Cathleen looks around, eying up the shelves and filing cabinets. ‘Is this where you keep everything?’

  I nod, feeling like some kind of criminal, which is ridiculous. I work hard, I pay my taxes.

  ‘Okay, so we’ll set up in here, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Set up? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s an audit, an investigation,’ John says. ‘We’re going to look at everything and make sure it’s all in order.’

  ‘You’re going to go through all my stuff?’

  Cathleen grinds her teeth. ‘If you’d read the letters we sent you’d know exactly what the procedure is.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Why don’t you take the paperwork out there and read through it.’ John’s tone is a little gentler. ‘Then you can ask any questions when you’re done.’

  ‘But can’t you at least tell me why you’re here? Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘Just read through the paperwork,’ he repeats.

  The enormity of what they’re saying is beginning to sink in. I try to slow my breathing, wipe my sweating palms down the side of my dress. This investigation is going to mess up everything. And I’m not just talking about my business.

  Cathleen makes a rising motion with her hand, coaxing me up out of my chair and back out into the showroom. I grip the sheaf of letters between my sweaty fingers and head over to the conference table as the door to my office closes behind me with a firm click. I’ve been ejected from my own office.

  I start to read the letters, skimming through to see if I can find out why they’ve targeted my business, but there’s nothing here to give me any idea as to why they’re here. I snatch up my phone and do a quick Google search for possible reasons for tax audits. The results list several reasons why an investigation might have been triggered, including: mistakes on tax returns, omission of income, no accountant and unjustified expense claims. But it’s the last one that has me really worried: