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

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘No, none at all. I’d have commented on it. She had just started experimenting with make-up but I wasn’t a big fan of it; although, to be honest, I might have let her wear it as I’d have thought she was simply dressing up for a girls’ night in with her pal. Chloe sometimes stays with us, and the two of them have started messing about with each other’s hair and stuff.’

  ‘So, Mrs Oak, at what time did your husband leave the house?’

  Ah, now we were getting to the real reason for the grilling. I certainly didn’t blame the police for this. I laid my hands flat on the pale grey Formica table.

  ‘Umm, he left at about 9 p.m. I’m not certain of the time, but it was straight after the football match on the television ended. He came home at one-ish. I was sleeping and barely registered his arrival.’

  ‘So it could have been later than that?’

  ‘Well, maybe, but he’s not much of a night owl, so I very much doubt it. And he doesn’t like to be late because he knows I’ll worry.’

  ‘But you weren’t worrying on this occasion?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted, reluctantly. My fingers started to drum.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Don’t know. I was knackered. Fell asleep. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t an unusual night. I didn’t know my daughter was being attacked.’ My voice started to break. No more drumming; I clenched my fists, trying to fight the tears. ‘If I’d realised what was going to happen, I’d never have let Beth out of the house, much less worry about what my husband was up to!’

  ‘And what was he up to, Mrs Oak?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, you know what he was doing. He’s just given you a statement telling you. He was smoking dope with a friend. He doesn’t do it often, and I don’t really approve, but, well, it’s not the end of the world.’

  There, Beth, I’d said it. Your dad sometimes smoked a spliff. After all the anti-drugs talks we gave you. But we all have secrets, don’t we?

  ‘Why did you lie to us? You knew you were giving him a false alibi.’

  ‘It… it wasn’t that simple. My worry for Beth blotted out every other thought. When Jacob said he was with me all night I barely took it in. I didn’t actually agree or disagree; I did nothing. It was only much later I thought of it.’

  ‘Mrs Oak, are you certain that your husband was where he said he was? The initial 999 call shows a lack of commitment and urgency.’

  ‘What?’ Where had that change of tack come from?

  ‘When Mr Oak spoke to the emergency services, he said: “I want to report a missing person”. It’s interesting that he didn’t use Beth’s name; it shows he’s distancing himself. Here’s the transcript of the call.’

  I looked at the printout, confused. ‘I don’t need to read it, I was there.’

  The officer leaned forward and tapped the page. ‘See the use of “appears” there?’

  My eyes flashed over Jacob’s words: My daughter appears to be missing.

  ‘That’s interesting too. It isn’t definitive and lacks conviction. There’s no urgency. No use of “Send help!” In fact, all the way through, he barely uses Beth’s name. It’s depersonalising and distancing.’

  ‘Depersonalising? Sorry, what exactly are you trying to say?’

  ‘Here, he was asked: “Why do you think she was abducted?” Your husband replies: “I have no idea. When we woke up this morning everything was normal, then my wife realised. I… we looked everywhere”. See, “I have no idea” addresses the motivational aspect of why someone took her, rather than saying why he believes that she was taken. Also notice this change of pronouns: “I… we looked everywhere” – wording such as this is frequently associated with deception.’

  ‘Are you insane?’ It seemed the only explanation.

  The officer ignored me and read out another bit of the transcript. The bit where Jacob laughed.

  ‘Look, he always laughs when he’s worried or nervous.’

  ‘It’s inappropriate behaviour.’

  ‘Inappropriate, yes. An indicator of him hurting his daughter? No.’ It was unbelievable; I had to say it.

  ‘Has he ever hit Beth in the past?’

  ‘No!’ The urge to stand up and walk out grew stronger. But it would probably convince the police that we were both guilty of hiding something. I forced my voice down from a shout. ‘Jacob is one of the most sensitive, gentle men in the world. He would never, ever raise his hand to anyone, much less his daughter.’

  The officer leaned back in his chair. ‘All right, Mrs Oak. We’re going to leave things there for now. Thank you for your time.’

  The sudden suspension of hostilities left me confused but relieved. Okay, families were always the first under the microscope when something happened, but in our case, we genuinely were as innocent as we seemed.

  Your dad came out at the same time as me, looking pale and shaken. Part of me wanted to slap him. Most of me wanted a hug.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m an idiot,’ he muttered, kissing me. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Hand in hand we hurried to the car, only letting go to get inside. Before he turned the key in the ignition he looked at me, grabbing my hand again.

  ‘Forgive me?’

  I hesitated. Depersonalised. Distancing. Lying.

  The police’s crazy suspicions could not be allowed to drive a wedge between us.

  ‘It was a bloody stupid thing to do, but of course I forgive you. Come on, let’s get back to Beth.’

  During the whole drive to Leeds I thought once again about who could have hurt you, Beth. If the police were concentrating on us, the real attacker could get away.

  The real attacker, who we almost certainly knew well. A stranger always attracted notice, so someone would have come forward by now if they had spotted an unknown person in the area on the day of your attack. Besides, the marsh was so isolated, the lanes to it so small, that it was unlikely anyone without local knowledge would go there.

  The problem was that every time I considered a villager as a possible suspect, a childhood memory flooded back. I’d gone to the village primary school, then on to the secondary school in Wapentake with everyone around my age; their parents knew my parents and our kids were all friends. Generations of bonding. One of my earliest memories was of Jill Young, her expression inscrutable even in an act of kindness, giving me a lollipop for being brave after falling over and skinning my knee right outside her shop. It had dried my tears faster than Mum’s magic rub. People like that would never hurt me or mine; they were virtually family.

  Then Aleksy Jachowski popped into my head again. He and his family were newcomers, didn’t have the links the rest of us had. But they had settled in well, apart from some muttering about ‘Polish vermin’ among a certain section of villagers. He and his little sister seemed to get on with the other kids their age in the village.

  Perhaps it was one of the occasional birders who came to see migrant waders on the mudflats. Remembering the stranger who had been looking at me made me shudder. Maybe it had been him or someone like him. Watching you from afar with huge binoculars, stalking you.

  Twenty-Two

  Even though we’d only been away from you for one night, it felt like forever by the time we arrived at lunchtime. We rushed through the hospital’s labyrinthine corridors to the paediatric ICU ward. Washing our hands before we entered your room seemed to take an eternity; I hopped from foot to foot, as if that were going to make me wash faster. I needed to be by your side again, Beth.

  Bursting into your room, hope rose. Your cheeks would be pinker. You’d squeeze my hand. You’d open your eyes.

  Instead, you simply lay there, head slumped to one side on your plumped pillows.

  ‘Any change?’ I asked your Uncle John, who was sitting with you.

  ‘Nothing so far. Although I think her eyes flickered earlier.’

  My heart hammered. Jacob and I peered at you. No reaction. No improvement. Disappointment settled as heavy as lead.
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br />   ‘How are you feeling today, Beans?’ asked Jacob. He used the teasing nickname he had for you, perhaps hoping to get a reaction.

  You generally pretended to be furious when he used it, but he meant it with love. You’ve heard the story a hundred times, but I can’t resist telling it again, Beth. The very first time he held you, he was overwhelmed. He’d teared up – and so had I at the sight of his hand dwarfing your head as he cradled it. We were both so exhausted, so proud and so terrified of you and the endless love we already felt, despite you being just minutes old. He’d told you how perfect you were and lifted you to his face to kiss you, and at that moment you had opened your eyes and seemed to look straight into his soul.

  Then you had broken wind. The sound was incredible. That such a tiny, gorgeous newborn could produce something like that had had us in stitches. Your dad’d had to put you down in your crib, terrified he was going to drop you, he was laughing so much.

  Since then, Jacob has called you Beans. Much to your chagrin.

  You didn’t react that day, though. Not so much as a fluctuation in the readings on the machines surrounding you.

  ‘Well, we’ve brought lots of things from home for you, to cheer this place up,’ I said brightly. ‘The nurses have said we can put some posters up, so we’ve brought that one of the mountain gorillas. Hope you don’t mind me taking it from your room, but I thought you’d like to see it here. Oh, and we’ve got you… Ta-da! A new Justin Bieber poster. Think I preferred him with his old hair and fewer tattoos.’

  ‘Did you bring her speakers? Yes, we’ve brought your speakers, too, so you can listen to Justin to your heart’s content. Lucky us, eh?’ your dad joked.

  ‘And because you can’t cuddle up to Justin, here’s Jesus.’

  For some odd reason, that was what you called the now tatty teddy Jacob had bought for you when you were born. You’ve never been able to explain why you chose that name; it has been rather embarrassing for us, at times. Now, the blue bear nestled beside you on your pillow.

  After putting everything in its place, including throwing a colourful home-made patchwork counterpane over your bed to cheer it up, the room looked a little better. But you looked the same, Beth. Tubes coming out of your nose and throat, your shaved head. Some of the swelling had gone down a little, but the bruising was the deep black and purple of storm clouds. I took hold of your hand, careful to avoid the arterial cannula, which measured your blood pressure, and told myself that at least things couldn’t get any worse.

  That night, there was one improvement: the local news covered your attack. It was a quick one-minute segment on the television, with your photo, then footage of the police combing the marsh and DS Devonport asking anyone with information to come forward.

  Fingers crossed.

  Twenty-Three

  ‘COMA GIRL’S FATHER QUESTIONED: Doing drugs while his daughter fought for her life.’

  I stood in my kitchen and read and reread the headline of Friday’s edition of the Wapentake Investigator. It didn’t change, no matter how much I glared at it.

  ‘Bloody Finn. I’ll kill him!’

  ‘Maybe he’s just printing what everyone else has,’ offered Jacob miserably.

  Oh, the naive fool.

  ‘Jacob, Finn’s the one who has sold this story to all the nationals. The story broke with them today – and our local paper came out today too. There is no way that could have happened unless he was the one who flogged it to them.’

  My voice had started out quiet and sympathetic, but began to speed up again with the tempo of my heart.

  ‘Finn’s a small-time reporter who likes to imagine that his weekly rag full of school initiatives, town councillors congratulating one another and the occasional shed break-in or car theft will one day launch him into Fleet Street. He’s seen what’s happened to Beth not as a terrible thing for a colleague’s family, but as a golden opportunity to show the big papers what he is capable of. Look!’

  I stabbed my finger randomly at the page, but Jacob knew which paragraph I referred to. ‘He’s even quoted me about Beth’s attack! He called me to offer support, then recorded the conversation and quoted me!’

  The betrayal by a colleague of seven years was absolute. Your dad suffered the most at Finn’s hands, though. Beth, Finn had made him sound like a junkie. A contact in the police must have tipped him off about Jacob’s spliff confession. Then he had clearly seized his big opportunity and contacted everyone from The Sun to the Daily Mail. Each had run a variation of the story, with much added background ‘colour’ and even more sensational details of your attack.

  I’d wanted what had happened to you to get publicity – but not like that. The article wasn’t about raising awareness and uncovering the attacker; this was about crucifying a struggling family. The implication was clear: we were no-goods, and had let our daughter run riot in the middle of the night. Your injuries were our fault for being bad parents.

  Maybe they were right.

  I looked around the room in despair. The photo on the noticeboard of you and your dad caught my eye. We’d had such a giggle taking that. You had spent the morning in Decoy Wood, the small patch of Wildlife Trust land near the Daughtrey-Drews’ big house. You were a little late, so I had been in your bedroom, looking out for you and mucking about with a camera your dad had just bought. He’d got a brilliant bridge camera with 60x optical zoom on it so you could use it for taking nature pictures, and I was focusing on the Picky Person’s Pop In, a couple of doors down, impressed with the zoom function. Then I had spotted you, in such a hurry to get home that you bumped right into Alison Daughtrey-Drew as she came out of the shop.

  The woman’s handbag had flown from her shoulder, spilling its contents as it dropped to the ground. You both scrambled to pick everything up. A packet of cigarettes, a phone, a clear plastic bag stuffed with pastel-coloured sweeties. A quick exchange of pleasantries and you had scurried on, the front door slamming seconds later. Telling me breathlessly about the things you had seen.

  ‘There were redwings and fieldfares, crows and starlings, as well as several robins. Not too bad a day. I lost track of time, though; sorry I’m a bit late.’

  You had shrugged your coat off and hung it up. Kicked your shoes into the corner and chucked your bag on top of them, as usual, before flopping onto the sofa.

  Usually nature-watching put you in a great mood, but that day you had seemed anxious. I had wondered, momentarily, if there had been more to the exchange with Alison than there had seemed. Perhaps she had been angry with you for knocking into her. But then your dad had showed you his new camera, and soon we’d all been laughing.

  We were a happy family before this, weren’t we, Beth? Was this our fault? Were the papers right?

  Screwing up the newspaper, I threw it in the bin.

  ‘Jacob, could we manage only on your wage? I don’t see how I can go back to work after this.’

  He was the foreman of a factory that made all kinds of wooden furniture. It was handmade, good-quality stuff. His wage wasn’t too bad for the area, which was renowned for low pay.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll just tighten our belts. You want to call Finn now, or have a cup of tea and calm down a bit first?’

  I loved that he didn’t even hesitate in his support.

  ‘Call first, then tea.’ Why should Finn be spared my fury? I didn’t get annoyed often, but when I did, the world needed to watch out.

  * * *

  ‘You using piece of Fleet Street wannabe scum,’ I spat, the second Finn answered the phone. He spluttered, but I gave him no chance to reply, furious.

  While I gave it to my now ex-boss with both barrels, Flo arrived.

  ‘I’m so sorry about the press leak,’ she told Jacob.

  I stuffed a finger in my ear to block her out, and Finn took my moment of hesitation to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel—’

  ‘How I feel?! Don’t give me that,’ I bellowed. ‘You can’t even say sorry properly, in
stead you do the “journalist apology” – can’t admit liability, eh? You shouldn’t be sorry about how I feel, Finn, you should be sorry that you betrayed me. We’ve worked together for seven bloody years!’

  Flo’s arrival was distracting me from my telephone rant, so Jacob took her out of the way, leading her into the kitchen.

  * * *

  By the time I’d finished the call, she’d gone.

  Jacob popped the promised cuppa in front of me, along with some custard creams.

  ‘To keep your strength up,’ he said.

  Bless him, he still fretted about my birdlike eating. I munched on one to give him some peace of mind, while he filled me in on Flo’s promise of an internal inquiry into the leak to Finn.

  ‘No need to ask what you said to Finn,’ he added. ‘The whole of Fenmere heard you, I reckon. Did he say who’d given him the tip-off?’

  ‘No, the complete git. He gave me the spiel about how a journalist can’t reveal their sources. That’s when I told him to stick his job – although I think he’d probably guessed.’ I savagely bit into a custard cream. ‘Maybe this job thing is a godsend.’

  Jacob cocked his head as he dipped his biscuit into his tea.

  ‘I’m going to be at the hospital at lot, and once Beth comes round we don’t know how long it will take to get her back to full strength. Without a job, I can concentrate on Beth, and we can bring her back that much faster. I can look after her here. Even…’

  I trailed off, worried about voicing my fears. The thought had been tapping on my shoulder for a while now, though, begging to be articulated.

  ‘Even if it’s worst-case scenario stuff ‒ you know, she has to learn to walk, talk, eat, all over again ‒ it’ll be better to do that here than at a hospital, if possible.’

  ‘It’s not going to come to that,’ insisted Jacob.

  ‘But if it does, then I’m ready for it.’

  I’d taught you all that once; I could do it again. A vivid memory flashed: of you as a toddler, wiggling your nappy-covered bottom in time to something playing on the radio. Bare feet slapping on the wooden floor as you discovered the joy of dancing for the first time. Your giggle had been musical.