Her Last Lie

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sally’s voice was cracking under the stress and exhaustion. ‘We’re going to talk with the police now, and we’ve hired a car, so maybe we’ll head to Abisko if we get no joy here. And, Roxanne.’ There was a pause. ‘If you hear anything – anything at all – call me. Please.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. Of course.’

  ‘Oh, and one more thing, the police have spoken to Andy Fisher.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He admits meeting Isla in Canada, but he insists they didn’t have a relationship. He was there with his wife, and a whole group of them befriended her.’

  ‘And they believe him?’

  ‘He’s nearly seventy, Roxanne. I can’t see how it can be the same man Isla talked about.’

  ‘No, no, you’re right. It can’t be.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you soon, love,’ Sally said, before ending the call.

  Roxanne left her half-eaten soup and returned to her room. She sat on the bed cross-legged, and tried Jack’s number twice more, with no luck. What else could she do? Her eyes drifted to the window. It was still snowing, flakes tumbling from the sky, clinging to the glass. And although it was warm inside, it was as though she was out there in the cold.

  Chapter 42

  Isla

  A car door banged, startling Isla awake. Unsure how long she’d been lying on the kitchen floor, she hauled herself to her feet with the aid of the worktop and looked out of the window. It was dark now, but an outside light lit the area – whoever it was had turned off the engine, and was sitting in the car, head down – no more than a silhouette.

  Memories of thinking she saw Carl Jeffery in England swooped into her head. Was he out there now? Had he escaped and trapped her miles from anywhere so he could finish what he’d started six years ago? Or had he sent someone to do the job for him?

  Panic surged through her body. She fumbled for a light switch and flicked it on, illuminating the kitchen. Her eyes skittered over the worktop, and she opened drawers and cupboards, searching for something to protect herself with, finding nothing but a dinner knife.

  She staggered from the kitchen. A small hallway led to a front door, and another door opened into a lounge. She stepped into the room and froze, the light from the kitchen behind her streaming in. Hanging from the ceiling beam was a noose.

  ‘No!’ she cried, stepping backwards, and falling to her knees. She dropped the knife, and buried her head in her hands.

  Moments later there was a sound of a key in the door.

  Isla crawled into the room and, with the aid of the sofa, she dragged herself to her feet again, a sense of doom washing over her. She hadn’t got the strength to fight – not this time.

  ‘Oh my God, you poor sausage.’ It was Sara. She flicked on the lounge light, and leapt towards Isla, pulling her into a hug, the soft fur of her hood brushing against Isla’s cheek. ‘I didn’t think you would wake up while I was gone.’ She looked up at the noose. ‘I should have taken that down. I’m so sorry. You really don’t need reminding.’

  ‘Reminding?’ Isla’s voice was thin and wispy, as Sara helped her onto the sofa, rubbing her arm affectionately. ‘Why are you here? Why am I here?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  Isla searched her mind. ‘My father died.’

  ‘I just thank God I was here for you last night, that’s all,’ Sara said, leaving the room, and reappearing moments later with a glass of water. ‘Drink up,’ she said, handing it to Isla. ‘You must be thirsty after sleeping off all that booze.’

  Isla sipped the drink, the pain intolerable as she swallowed, her eyes on Sara, watching, spellbound, as she climbed onto the coffee table and took down the noose.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Isla said.

  ‘No, well that would be the alcohol, I expect.’ Sara smiled.

  Isla certainly had a headache, a feeling of nausea. She touched her neck, ran her fingers down her windpipe.

  ‘I’m sure that will hurt for a while.’ Sara threw the rope behind the sofa and it landed with a thud. She took off her coat, to reveal jeans and a cream cashmere jumper, and her eyes slid to a fire barely flickering in the grate, and then up to a mirror above.

  Isla put down the glass, rose, and looked at her reflection. The bruises, deep reds and blues, on her neck, just as they’d been after Carl Jeffery.

  Sara moved behind her. ‘We look so alike, don’t you think?’ she said, stroking Isla’s hair. ‘Do you remember us meeting up on Saturday morning?’

  Isla shook her head, as she sat back down. Everything around her felt surreal.

  ‘You were coming out of Camp Arctic.’ Sara sat down next to her and took Isla’s hand. It felt oddly comforting. ‘I came there to find you. I knew where you were staying from your Facebook.’ She paused, her eyes shimmering.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Abisko in Sweden. You don’t remember?’

  Isla shook her head as a memory of sitting in departures at Stansted came and went. She could remember things before that, but her recent memories were almost non-existent.

  ‘You said you didn’t mind me coming over, especially when I told you my father died.’

  ‘My father died.’

  Isla vaguely recalled meeting Sara, but it was exactly that, an elusive memory she couldn’t pin down. Tears gathered behind her eyes. ‘I should probably get back to Camp Arctic,’ she said, although the place wouldn’t come to mind. Alcohol had never affected her this way. Yes, she liked a few wines, but she’d never got so intoxicated she’d forgotten things.

  ‘I’ve just been out,’ Sara said. ‘There’s been a deep snowfall. I’ll take you back as soon as the roads are cleared.’

  Isla rubbed her head. ‘Could I use your phone? Call Jack?’

  Sara smiled, and squeezed Isla’s hand. ‘Oh dear, you really don’t remember anything, do you?’

  Isla shrugged, reaching into her head and coming up with nothing.

  ‘When we met up yesterday, you were in a dreadful state,’ Sara said. ‘The irony was, I’d come here to ask you for support, but you needed me more than I needed you. You were so down, Isla.’

  ‘I . . . ’ she began, but the words died in her mouth.

  ‘I suggested you came here to my lodge for a bit. I’m renting the place.’ She looked about her. ‘We spent the day together.’ She paused. ‘You told me about Andy.’

  Isla remembered the note in the kitchen. It felt as though she’d entered another dimension. She was there, sitting next to Sara, but this was all happening to someone else. Was she dreaming? Her head began to swim again.

  ‘We drank a fair bit,’ Sara continued, and a memory of being handed a glass of wine, a flicker of knocking it back and the liquid warming her throat, an image of the two of them in deep conversation, ‘My father died,’ came and went.

  ‘We drowned our sorrows,’ Sara added. ‘You’ve been through so much lately.’ A pause. ‘Carl Jeffery,’ she said, tilting her head. ‘You told me how you’d seen him everywhere.’

  ‘Did I?’ Isla looked down at her pyjamas, ran her fingers over the silk, as everything continued to blur and distort.

  ‘I changed you into those last night after you passed out.’ Sara touched Isla’s arm, and Isla flinched – it was sore – before tucking a straying tendril of hair behind Isla’s ear. ‘I wanted you to be comfortable.’ Sara rose and moved across the room, perching on the edge of the armchair.

  Isla struggled to stay awake, her fingers searching her wrist for her rubber band. If she could only ping it, she might stay awake. But she knew it wasn’t there.

  ‘It was later that I found you.’ Sara, now a hazy blur, tilted her head towards the ceiling. ‘If I hadn’t been here, Isla . . . well I can’t even say the words.’

  Isla fought to stay awake, biting down hard on her lip, the pain returning her to the moment. Sara came back into focus once more, her blue eyes steel-like, as she stared at Isla.

  ‘Oh dear, sweetie,’ she said wit
h a smile. ‘I thought I was about to lose you.’

  Isla shifted and began to shiver.

  ‘The fire’s gone out,’ Sara said, leaning forward and touching Isla’s hand. ‘You’re freezing. It’s as though the cold has crawled under your skin and fallen asleep.’ She gave a little giggle, and jumped to her feet. ‘I’ll get into something more comfortable, and chop some wood for the fire.’ She smiled again as she left the room.

  Her footfalls were light on the stairs. And it wasn’t long before she was heading back down again. ‘Won’t be long,’ she called, leaving the house.

  Isla rose, and staggered into the kitchen, her limbs heavy, as though wading through tar. Through the window, the outside light had illuminated the area. Sara picked up the axe and began chopping wood. Snow was falling thick and heavy now, a curtain of white.

  She held on to the worktop to steady herself, desperate to piece things together, when a figure appeared in the distance, heading towards the house. She narrowed her eyes and peered more closely. Whoever it was, was battling against the snowstorm, with the aid of walking sticks.

  Isla’s eyes drifted to Sara who seemed oblivious to the person approaching. She ran her fingers over her naked wrist. Was Sara safe? Was she safe? Oh God, was she being foolish? Over-reacting? After all, it could be anyone out there. She’d got herself in such a state back in England over what was probably nothing. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe once she was back home, she should see a GP, get on some medication.

  She tried the back door several times but it was locked, before leaning over the sink and banging on the glass. ‘Sara,’ she called, as the figure got closer, but Sara still seemed oblivious.

  She remembered the window in the bedroom was open, and made her way up the stairs. She would call out to Sara – warn her that someone was approaching. But it seemed to take for ever to reach the top step.

  Finally, she stumbled into the bedroom, but the window was closed and locked. And outside all was quiet. There was no sign of Sara or the figure through the veil of snow.

  Woozy, heart racing, Isla dropped onto the edge of the bed. She needed to find a key to the window, or better still something to protect herself with. She threw open the bedside drawer, before looking in the wardrobe, but they were both empty.

  A holdall and a rucksack were wedged into the corner. She reached for the rucksack and unzipped it. Inside she found a dark bobbed wig, a make-up bag and a yellow Nokia.

  She would call Jack. But then she’d never memorised his number. She began to cry stupid tears. Stop panicking, stop panicking.

  She could call the police.

  And say what?

  ‘A friend’s locked me in.’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘She’s outside, and someone’s heading towards the house.’

  ‘Someone? What house?’

  ‘It could be Carl Jeffery. You have to listen. He tried to kill me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Six years ago.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve no fucking idea.’

  And they would put her on hold. They would put her on fucking hold. And she would yell down the phone that they had to fucking listen, because she was trapped. Locked inside a house. ‘Listen to me, you fucking morons,’ she would scream, but nobody would hear her. Nobody would hear her.

  Hands shaking, she switched on the phone, and within moments it sprang to life. The old phone didn’t have a password, and several text messages came through, as though the phone had been turned off for a while. One stood out. It was from her. She opened it and read it.

  I don’t know why you’re being like this, Trevor. I never meant to hurt you. You have to understand I’m deeply in love with someone else.

  It was Trevor’s phone. What the hell was Trevor’s phone doing there?

  She fumbled, hand shaking, trying to recall the number for the Swedish emergency services. But even if she could have remembered it, she couldn’t keep her limbs from shaking, and she wasn’t used to the Nokia format. Frustration and panic injected her heart with adrenaline, making it thump, as tears rolled down her face. Something was very wrong. This wasn’t her imagination. She wasn’t over-reacting. Something was very wrong.

  She heard footsteps heading up the stairs and jumped, dropping the phone.

  Behind her, the door opened.

  Chapter 43

  Roxanne

  Roxanne’s phone pinged, startling her out of her helpless trance.

  From: VERONICA Beesley veronicabeesley@yomail.com

  To: ROXANNE Furaha roxannefuraha@littleboxmail.com

  OMG, you’re a blast from the past. Roxanne Furaha – long time! Are you still trying to save the world, getting pissed and shagging your way through half of the UK?

  In answer to your question, nope, Isla hasn’t been in touch.

  B.t.w. I don’t know anything about any reunion. Maybe the message didn’t get through to me. And I’m amazed Ben agreed to meet up, as he’s living in Hollywood now. Last I heard he’s got a small part in the next Bond film. I always knew he’d be an actor one day. He blagged his way into my bed enough times.

  Listen, sorry this is a bit short, hon, gotta dash. Alfie Christie is here – remember him from uni? Cute with muscles to die for? He’s my cockapoo walker, and he’s about to take Maudie and Freda for their trundle around Hyde Park. Plus, I’ve got a fashion show to prepare! TOODLES!

  MWAH MWAH MWAH

  Veronica

  Roxanne absorbed the words. How could Veronica know nothing about the reunion? Was Ben a publisher and an actor? Was that even possible? Her head pounded. Had Isla lied about the reunion? Had she been meeting Andy all along? She pummelled her temples with her fingers. But Isla must have been at the reunion. Roxanne had seen the photograph on Facebook of her and Sara.

  Roxanne headed from her room, a dire need for something alcoholic from the bar washing over her. She would contact Sally, and Jack if he would only pick up. She dived along the corridor, bumping into Alex coming out of his room.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘No, worries.’ He closed his door. ‘Doesn’t get any warmer, does it?’ he added with a laugh. ‘Makes the UK feel like the Sahara.’

  Trying to hide her angst, Roxanne hurried onwards.

  ‘Oh, hang on,’ he said, trotting after her, the smell of his expensive aftershave wafting over her. ‘It’s about your friend.’

  Roxanne stopped, and turned. ‘Isla?’

  He nodded, by her side now. ‘We got chatting with a woman earlier, and I told her how you were looking for Isla. And she thinks she saw her at the Sky Station on Friday.’

  Roxanne’s hopes rose. ‘Who is she? Can I talk to her?’

  He shook his head. ‘She left for home, but she definitely thinks she saw a blonde woman get off the chairlift, and meet someone.’

  ‘Was it a man?’ She thought of the photograph of Isla with Andy, her head whirring with confusion.

  Alex nodded. ‘She overheard him mention somewhere called God Dag Lodge. It’s a few miles out, apparently.’ He shrugged. ‘They got in a car.’

  ‘But you didn’t notice the car.’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t notice anything much. We were knackered, and the cold air and a couple of bevvies . . . well, you know.’ He opened the door, allowing her to go through.

  ‘Well thanks,’ Roxanne said, heading past him and not looking back.

  A taxi stood outside, dropping off visitors. Roxanne knew she needed to move fast, so she stepped out into the darkness, raced across the snow and jumped into the back seat.

  ‘God Dag Lodge, please,’ she told the driver, as she keyed 112 into her phone.

  ***

  At her destination, Roxanne climbed out of the taxi, plunging her booted feet into the deep snow, which cracked under the pressure. She flicked on her phone torch and shone it around the area. The lodge itself was in darkness.

  ‘Can you wai
t for me, please?’ she asked the driver, who nodded.

  As she stepped out across the snow, sirens rang out in the near distance. The police wouldn’t be long now. Isla must be here somewhere. She had to be.

  But, as she took in the silence, she began to wonder if she was wrong. Had she put two and two together and made eight? Had she been so desperate to find Isla that she’d hoped to find treasure where none had been buried?

  Snow had stopped falling for now, but the air was freezing as she walked towards the lodge, and a mist formed before her lips as she stumbled. Everything was far too quiet, and any hopes she’d had were drifting away.

  Her phone pinged, and she stopped and quickly read a text from Sally telling her they would soon be in Abisko. There was an email from Sara too. She would read it later.

  With gloved hands, she banged on the door, and tried the handle several times, but it was locked. She peered through the window, to see no sign of life. There was a notice on the glass saying the place was available for holiday rental. She punched the contact number into her phone.

  ‘Hello, I’m at God Dag Lodge. I wondered if anyone is staying here at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, until today. It’s available from tomorrow if you are interested.’

  ‘Could you tell me who is renting it out at the moment?’

  ‘That is confidential, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But it’s very important,’ Roxanne said her voice rising.

  ‘Sorry. Would you be interested in hiring the lodge?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She ended the call, and strode around the lodge, but there was nothing to see.

  She was almost at a loss when the police arrived, and even more so when they searched the area and confirmed what Roxanne already knew: that nobody was there.

  And that’s when Roxanne broke down, sobbing into her hands. A stream of tears she couldn’t control.

  ‘Please be assured we’re taking Isla’s disappearance seriously,’ a young police officer said, her Scandinavian accent warm, her tone comforting, as she rested her hand on Roxanne’s arm. ‘We’ll talk to the owners, and make sure she hasn’t been here.’