The Darkest Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘Beth? She’s not here. She didn’t come round last night,’ Ursula had said. She’d called up to Chloe, spoken with her to check, then I had insisted on speaking with her.

  ‘You didn’t see her last night?’

  ‘No, no she didn’t come round last night,’ Chloe had said.

  At no point had either of them made it clear that they hadn’t expected you to be there with Chloe, Beth. I had assumed, in my panic, that they’d known you were coming. Assumed, not asked. That explained why they hadn’t called to alert me or Dad that you hadn’t arrived. Even when speaking with Ursula just now I hadn’t thought to check.

  ‘Beth lied to me,’ I croaked.

  Admitting it hurt like hell. I couldn’t get my head round it. Your betrayal gripped me – then anger with myself for wanting to tell you off when you were fighting for your life. A sob escaped. I hid my face in my hands, trying to rub away the confusion of emotions.

  ‘Mrs Oak, did Beth have a boyfriend she might have been meeting?’

  I shook my head, unable to tear my hands away. Too ashamed. Why had you lied to me? Surely you knew you could tell me anything. But these clothes, the smudged make-up… they hinted at a whole other life, hidden from me.

  Then again, it was natural for teens to have some secrets from their parents. I’d kept some from my own mum. Nothing very exciting in the grand scheme of things, but enough to have shocked her or got a lecture if she’d found out at the time. Perhaps I’d been naive thinking that you and I were different.

  I realised I was hugging the photograph of the boots. Those stupid boots you had loved so much.

  ‘Umm, can we have the boots back, please? They were a present,’ I explained.

  ‘We need to keep them for now. Evidence. I wonder if we could take a look in your daughter’s room while we’re here?’

  Jacob and I exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Umm, why… ?’

  ‘It really would be helpful.’

  You wouldn’t be happy about a stranger in your room, but what choice did I have, Beth?

  Fourteen

  It felt utterly wrong to enter your room with two people who didn’t know you. You would have been so embarrassed, I know. In the last few months you had got very protective of your personal space – yet another little sign you were growing up.

  Clothes decorated the floor as though the wardrobe had recently exploded.

  ‘Sorry for the mess,’ I apologised. ‘Typical teenager, eh?’

  I bent to pick the things up, but DS Devonport stopped me with a gentle hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Oak. We won’t be long.’

  She wanted me to leave her and DC Musgrove alone; I could tell by the way she angled her body, inviting me to go through the door. I hovered, uncertain. Torn between my desire to do everything possible to help the police and my urge to protect your privacy, because you weren’t here.

  I could just imagine your reaction when you found out people had been through your things, Beth. First, you’d go red, colour mottling your cheeks and your neck. Then you would put your hands on your hips and start lecturing about how people should respect your personal space. If you were really annoyed, you might even start talking about your human rights being invaded.

  ‘We could go back to the living room and I’ll make a cuppa, eh?’ Flo suggested brightly.

  I shook my head, stubborn.

  Instead of going downstairs, I waited at the threshold, your dad behind me with his hands on my shoulders. Watched as the detectives stood in the middle of the room, simply looking at first. DS Devonport picked up a notebook on your bedside cabinet and flipped through it. Casual and cold. I lurched forward at the violation, but Jacob’s hands steadied me. The tremble in them gave away his own feelings on the matter.

  Flo brought up two cups of tea. Neither of us wanted them, so she stood awkwardly holding both. No one could take their eyes off the detectives.

  The pair of them peered at books, photographs, inside your wardrobe, under the bed… They leafed through papers on your desk and pulled open drawers to glance inside. I bit my lip to stop the cries of protest and stem my guilty tears.

  The police were searching your room for a reason, Beth, a good reason. I had to let them.

  Finally, they seemed to be satisfied. DC Musgrove picked up your laptop and iPad, but it was his superior who spoke.

  ‘We need to take these away to check the contents.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. Because, despite it being yet another assault on your privacy, it would be worth it if the attacker were discovered. Jacob’s fingers massaged my shoulders, trying to comfort me.

  At the front door, DS Devonport paused.

  ‘Don’t forget, we’re going to put an appeal out on the local news. Prepare yourselves to see that, should you put the telly on. It can be upsetting.’

  Jacob and I nodded. Numb. Dumb.

  ‘Well, I think we have everything we need for now. Thank you.’ She inclined her head again, giving another small, practised smile. ‘We’ll let ourselves out.’

  Then she and her colleagues left, leaving us to the ticking of the grandfather clock in one corner of the living room. It shaved the present into manageable pieces for us as we tried to work out what the hell had happened to us in the last three days.

  You had lied, Beth.

  You had been secretly meeting with someone.

  Someone we knew – because we knew everyone in your life.

  A thought occurred to me unexpectedly. I turned to Jacob, frowning.

  ‘Why did you say we were together all night when Beth was attacked?’

  Fifteen

  The plan itself had worked a dream, but the execution could have been better. The more I watched the attack in my mind’s eye, the more silly mistakes revealed themselves.

  ‘Next time,’ I found myself thinking. ‘Next time will be perfect.’

  But it was too soon to undertake another just yet. The risk of discovery would be too great – even stupid people could put two and two together sometimes. No, my time must be bided for a little longer. My alibi would hold, of that I was confident; it was tighter than cling film over a mouth struggling for breath.

  Still, there was an itch growing, one that simply must be scratched. I needed to kill. Smashing watermelons, remembering the thrill of snuffing out a life, wasn’t doing it for me any more – I needed someone’s pain to feed off.

  Sixteen

  Your dad stood in front of me, his arms open wide in apology. ‘It was just… it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. Think what the police would make of it, if they found out.’

  ‘You bloody idiot. It’s bound to come out! And when it does, it’s going to look a lot worse than if you’d told the truth.’

  I hissed the words, furious. Jacob and I never rowed. Ever. We disagreed, discussed, but never usually rowed.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else – I’m not lying for you. Why the hell should I give you an alibi? You’re a complete and utter idiot. If I hadn’t been in such a state I’d never have gone along with it, but with so much else going on I’d not even thought about it until now.’

  With so much on my mind, it was only now that I had remembered Jacob telling the police twice we had stayed in together all night. But we hadn’t, Beth.

  ‘Look, take an hour or so to think about it before you make a decision,’ he begged. ‘It’s not worth me getting into trouble over.’

  ‘The truth will come out.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s not relevant, anyway. If people find out about this, though, they’ll make judgements, they’ll—’

  ‘Jake, if they find out you’re lying about something like this, it might make them suspect you of bigger lies. Like hurting your own daughter.’

  His head snapped back at the verbal blow. ‘You think?’

  ‘Come on, it’s always the family people suspect first.’

  ‘Oh! The news – it’s time!’

  The change of subject gave me men
tal whiplash. Jacob gestured urgently towards the television.

  ‘It’s six thirty; time for the local news! Beth’s appeal!’

  Of course. Our discussion suspended for the time being only, Jacob put the telly on. We both flopped onto our squishy brown corduroy sofa and I grabbed a cushion to hug. Instead of putting his feet up on the chunky wooden coffee table, like he generally did, Jacob sat forward, eager, elbows resting on knees. Hopefully loads of people would see the news report, and information would come pouring in.

  But no. The news was all about a murder that had happened over in Nottingham. It was a terrible thing, but I couldn’t help feeling angry. That attack had happened months ago – 27 September, according to reports – and the family had had their share of publicity.

  ‘Police now believe that Tiffany was lured out by her killer in the middle of the night. Her phone was found this week, discarded under bushes near where her body was discovered. Messages described as being of a suspicious nature were on it. If anyone saw anything, they should call the number at the bottom of the screen.’

  I knew exactly what I was doing that night, 27 September 2015. Like many people, the three of us had spent much of it gazing up at the super blood moon, two stunning lunar events coinciding so that the moon looked massive and shone red. Remember? You inherited my, and your dad’s, amateur interest in stargazing, and we’d all been fascinated by the event.

  Even on the night of your attack, remember, Beth, you and I had been looking at the full moon as we walked. My throat caught thinking about how, only four nights ago, you had been so bursting with life as you laughed, then skipped away from me.

  We hadn’t even hugged, I realised, tears prickling.

  You had to get better, Beth. And your attacker had to be caught. Why weren’t you important enough to appear on the news? I could imagine all too well this other mother’s pain, but this report needed to stop and the one about my own daughter’s attack to start.

  It was eventually replaced with a story about the Duchess of Cambridge visiting a drugs charity in the area. Then another on immigration and Brexit. Finally, it was time for the weather. I turned the telly off, stunned.

  We were now in competition for publicity, and we were losing. Our daughter’s attack was less headline-grabbing than a murder, and there were no salacious details to give out. On a slow press day you would have got some coverage: a pretty white teenage girl found seemingly lifeless on a marsh. But not that day. Of course, I knew, in theory, that was how things worked in journalism; after all, I was employed as receptionist at the local weekly newspaper office, the Wapentake Investigator. But to be on the receiving end of it was awful. It made me glad that being a receptionist was as far as I’d got to becoming a journalist.

  University had been put on hold only temporarily when I’d fallen pregnant with you, Beth, at eighteen. But somehow, despite Jacob insisting he’d support me, and with my parents and his parents vowing to help out, it had never felt the right time to leave my little family – to leave you – to study. I was happy with my life.

  The receptionist job had been a handy halfway house, though, making me feel I was still half-living my dream. The editor, Finn, was certain to give your attack good coverage; a thought that lifted my spirits. He was a good bloke, and let me type up the minutes from local council meetings, or the obituary and wedding forms. It was a fun challenge finding a unique angle and turning them into something interesting. Even Finn admitted that I had a good eye for a story.

  A good story… If the truth got out about Jacob, we’d definitely be in the news…

  Seventeen

  With blurry eyes I glanced at the clock: 5.03 a.m. Damn. My brain was working overtime, my body keyed up. No more sleep for me.

  Holding back a sigh, because it might disturb Jacob, I did a sort of horizontal limbo dance, sliding inch by careful inch from under the duvet and onto the floor.

  Still not daring to straighten fully, I crept across the lightless room, cautious of the bedroom equivalent of landmines: discarded shoes, jeans tossed aside in a tangle, the sharp point of a belt buckle.

  Free of the bedroom at last, and able to breathe normally, I stood in the darkness of the landing trying to decide what to do with myself. Go to your bedroom, maybe? Five seconds later my fingers rested lightly on the doorknob, the cold brass warming under my touch. I couldn’t move.

  I couldn’t face it, Beth. The house was bad enough without you. Too quiet, too empty. A husk of itself. It was ten times worse in your bedroom. Each time I entered it seemed to get harder. The night before, while the police had searched it, the bedroom had felt as if it was in suspended animation, waiting for your return. The glass with its film of milk. The clothes discarded as if you’d be back any second.

  The thought of going back in there made me shiver. I longed to be somewhere I could feel close to you, but your bedroom wasn’t it. Besides, it reminded me of your lies. The wardrobe door gaped open to reveal the empty shoebox your boots should have been in.

  Instead of your bedroom, I decided to go downstairs, stepping to the right to avoid the creaking bit of stair three down from the top. Your poor dad was shattered, so the last thing he needed was me waking him. Let him escape his pain in dreams for a while; I wished I could.

  But what should I do? After two hours, sitting alone in the darkness held no appeal. My brain whirled with everything that had happened; my body longed to be on the move, to be doing something. I wanted to jump in the car and be at the hospital with you again. I couldn’t even pour my heart out to Wiggins, because he was still with your grandparents.

  According to the grandfather clock striking noisily, it was 7 a.m. There was about an hour until dawn. That suited the plan forming in my mind perfectly.

  Still not daring to put the light on for fear of waking your dad, I crept through the darkness to the hall. The slippery, cool feel of waterproof material helped identify my coat among the others hanging up, along with the familiar density of its padded thermal filling and the faux fur trim around the hood. I blindly pulled it on over my pyjamas, the pale blue brushed cotton ones you had bought me for Christmas, Beth.

  The wellies were harder to differentiate in the darkness, but I shoved my feet into them all until I’d found both parts of the pair that fitted. A woolly hat and scarf were put on, along with the thick gloves that had been sitting in my pocket, waiting patiently for their next expedition. The last time I’d worn them had been to walk you to Chloe’s on Friday night, just three days and one lifetime ago.

  * * *

  Outside, I scurried along, my footsteps echoing through Fenmere and making me wince. I didn’t want to be seen, couldn’t face having a conversation with people, even though they would only be asking about you because they cared. The orange glow of the street lights didn’t feel comforting; they made me feel spotlit, like an escaping prisoner highlighted by guards in a watchtower.

  A scraping noise came from the Picky Person’s Pop In. Jill would just have opened up, after getting the delivery of newspapers. That woman was one hard grafter. Thinking of newspapers, it suddenly occurred to me that your attack would be front page news for the Wapentake Investigator. Finn had been great when we had spoken, calling me to show support after the lack of coverage on last night’s news. Brilliant – at least we’d get some publicity for you.

  Hunched against the cold, I hurried away from the shop and street lights towards the darkness that would soon swallow me up, my breath a pulsating pale orange halo hanging before me, whipped by a soft breeze.

  The final building for me to pass was The Malt Shovel. Huddled on the edge of the village, the pub faces it, with its back to the marsh and the sea. Like all the older buildings in the area, it has a long, gently sloping roof one side and a more steeply pitched, shorter one on the other. Incomers assume it’s simply a design quirk popular to the area. Locals know it’s far more practical: they are aerodynamic. Sea breezes that are vicious enough anywhere else along the coast tak
e on new meaning here, on the flat fens of Lincolnshire just a handful of miles away from the famously bracing resort of Skegness. With nothing to break that wind – no hills, few hedges, just coarse grass – even a mild breeze can inflict an impressive punch. The gentle side of the area’s roofs breaks the force of the winds, the steep pitch getting rid of it as quickly as possible before it tears off the tiles.

  I stepped from the shelter of the buildings and the gentle breeze grew to a bluster. But I’ve spent my entire life here, so I was braced for it and sank my gloved hands deeper into my pockets.

  Within a minute came a sharp right off the main road. Sea Lane, although tarmacked, was only wide enough for one car to pass down at a time. The sky began to grey, dawn approaching, enabling me, just about, to see where I was going without a torch as the village’s lights were left behind.

  There was no sign of anyone around, not even a tractor working a distant field.

  The single-track lane ran straight and true for two miles, with no change in direction or level to give a clue to the distance travelled. Not many people came to the marsh, apart from the occasional dog-walker or birdwatcher – and as an avid nature-watcher, you had often begged me to drive you here. It felt strange walking the route, and seemed to take forever, but it made me far more aware of the subtle changes of smell as the landscape slowly altered. First, the cabbages in the fields, fading to a rich, earthy scent, finally joined by the sharp ozone and brine of the sea.

  A sudden steep rise in the road obscured the view immediately ahead. That was the sea bank, an ancient man-made defence against nature which ran perpendicular to the lane and parallel with the horizon. Over I went, and the lane dropped back down then stopped abruptly in a small, permanently empty car park. It had taken forty minutes to get there, but at last the marsh lay before me. It was so lacking in undulation that it seemed to be squeezed into a couple of inches, the rest of the view taken up solely by a huge sky streaked with dawn’s first hints of pink and orange.