The Silent Sister_An gripping psychological thriller with a nail-biting twist

by Shalini Boland

  How dare Joe accuse me of bringing this on myself? I thought I’d be able to come home to a bit of support, and instead I’m faced with ridiculous sexist paranoid accusations.

  Seconds later the door flies open. ‘I’m an idiot, Lizzy. I’m sorry.’ Joe hangs his head and comes and sits by me on the bed.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ I say through tight lips.

  ‘I shouldn’t have listened to the lads. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’

  ‘Funny way of showing it.’ I cross my arms over my chest.

  ‘I couldn’t get the words of that letter out of my head,’ he says. ‘The fact that someone else is obsessed with you, it’s made me crazy.’

  ‘And how do you think it makes me feel!’ I cry. ‘When I was walking home, I was convinced someone was following me. It was terrifying. And then I come home to some Godzilla macho boyfriend trying to blame me for someone else’s weirdness.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s because I’m worried about you.’ He sits up straighter and his eyes narrow. ‘Wait, was there actually someone following you?’

  I shake my head. ‘Probably not. Just me being paranoid. Thought I heard footsteps behind me, but when I turned round there was no one there.’

  ‘You didn’t walk through the Abbey gardens, did you?’

  ‘It’s fine. I always—’

  ‘It’s not fine. Don’t walk through there again. It’s too dangerous. Too deserted.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And I really am sorry…’ He hangs his head. ‘About before.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, without really meaning it. I’m still mad at him.

  ‘Let me make it up to you.’ Joe leans in to kiss me. But I don’t return the kiss with any enthusiasm, so he tries harder, letting his hand ride up under my dress. ‘What can I do?’ he murmurs. ‘To make it up to you?’ He thinks he can win me round with sex, but he’s wrong.

  I get to my feet and face him. ‘If you want to make it up to me, you can go and get some shopping. We’ve got absolutely no food in the house.’

  His face falls. ‘I’ve just got in from work.’

  ‘And where have I been all day? At the spa?’

  ‘Fine.’ His shoulders sag. ‘Can you do me a list of stuff, then?’

  I sigh. ‘Sure.’

  Ten minutes later, Joe huffs out of the house with a shopping list and I collapse onto the sofa with a glass of wine, wishing I could erase today. Wishing my boyfriend was a little more sensitive. Wishing that whoever wrote that note, hadn’t.

  Five

  In a rare moment of quiet, I busy myself with rearranging and restocking the jewellery displays, pinning some new silver necklaces and bracelets to the rectangular black felt boards that hang on the walls. It’s a satisfying, creative task that also helps me become familiar with the new stock. It’s been another busy day at Georgio’s. More deliveries and lots of wealthy tourists popping in to buy expensive souvenirs and summer outfits.

  I’m grateful we’ve been busy as it’s taken my mind off the note, and off Joe’s ridiculous behaviour yesterday. After our row, he was super-apologetic. He went grocery shopping without too much of a fuss, so I decided to forgive him. Hopefully we can put the whole weird episode behind us. I can’t wait to get home, put on some summery tunes, crack open a bottle of wine and chill in the garden with him this evening.

  ‘Do you mind if I slip off early today?’ I turn to see Pippa standing behind me with a hopeful expression on her face.

  ‘Is this anything to do with the man you met last night?’ I ask with a smile, pinning a silver necklace onto one of the fabric boards.

  Pippa laughs. ‘He just sent me a text. Asked if I wanted to go out this evening. But look at me, I’m a sweaty, hideous mess.’

  This is a total exaggeration. Pippa has never looked sweaty or hideous in her life.

  ‘I need to go home and beautify myself, so I was hoping you’d let me go early?’

  I glance at my watch. It’s only four twenty. Still over an hour until closing time. ‘Can you bear to stay till five o’clock?’ I ask. ‘Just in case it gets busy again.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ she replies. ‘I’ll text Seb, tell him to fetch me in half an hour.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I reply, thinking actually it isn’t perfect. Five o’clock is in forty minutes, not half an hour, and we often have a mad rush of customers between five and five thirty – people who finish work at five and come to the shop on their way home. But, well, I can’t begrudge Pippa. She doesn’t go on many dates, and she seems so excited by this new man she met while she was out with Fenella.

  ‘Thanks, Lizzy. You’re a star. Appreciate it.’

  ‘That’s okay. If you could tidy up the clothes rails before you go, that would be great.’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  But rather than tidying up the rails, what Pippa actually does is to call her brother to pick her up, then proceed to spend the next ten minutes holding up various outfits against her body and asking me what I think. Seb appears in the shop at four forty.

  ‘Afternoon, Lizzy,’ he says, in a stiff, deep voice. He’s lurking awkwardly beside me, a little too close, so I take a small step back.

  ‘Hi, Seb.’ I glance at my watch. ‘You’re a bit early. Pip’s got another fifteen minutes.’

  But Pippa rushes past me with her handbag and a bag of shopping. ‘Sebbie! Thanks for this, Lizzy. You’re an absolute darling.’ She blows me a kiss and I take a breath, muttering something about taking the piss. But I don’t say it loud enough for her to hear, and I’m not bossy enough to make her stay until five on the dot. I’m supposed to be her manager, but I guess I’ve always treated her more like a friend and equal than an employee. I’m good at managing the shop, but not so great at managing my one member of staff.

  Sure enough, the minute she leaves Georgio’s suddenly becomes the most popular place in Wiltshire. As well as the usual last-minute customers, we’re graced with a coachload of Welsh sightseers and a couple of well-to-do ladies who need personal shopper-type assistance. Normally I love to help customers out with selecting outfits and accessories, but it’s tricky when there’s a queue of tourists almost out the door wanting to buy postcards and local fudge, and I’m flustered and irritated that I’m having to do all this on my own. ‘Bloody Pippa,’ I murmur. But I have no one to blame but myself. I should have told her she had to stay until five thirty.

  Finally, at 5.35 p.m. the shop empties and I quickly bolt the door and turn the sign to ‘Closed’, heaving a sigh of relief that I managed to serve everyone without having a nervous breakdown. I always find in these situations it’s best not to worry about how long the queue is, or how huffy the customers get; you just have to deal with one customer at a time and accept that you can’t serve everyone at once. Easier said than done, though.

  I make a start on the till receipts and see that it’s been another exceptional day, although something is niggling me and I can’t work out what it is. I scan the till roll again and then it hits me. A dress was sold from the window display this morning, but I can’t see it listed here. It’s not showing up on the roll and it’s not been written down in the receipt book either. But the takings add up just fine. The only other explanation would be that the dress was stolen. But I remember the woman who tried it on, and I remember seeing her queue up to pay. Pippa served her while I was dealing with another customer. I must be mistaken. Only I don’t think I am.

  I put the receipts into an envelope and push away an unwelcome thought. Pippa wouldn’t do anything like that, would she? I mean, I know she has money worries, but… No. I’m going to ignore this for now. It could just be that I’m tired and remembering things wrong. I’ll take another look tomorrow.

  Remembering that it’s Mum’s birthday on Sunday, I head over to the scarf display where there’s a patterned silk scarf that I really can’t afford, even with my staff discount. But I’m sure Mum will love it. I slide
it off the spigot and run my thumb across the soft fabric. I know Mum won’t show me any appreciation for the gift, but I take it into the stockroom anyway. I’ve already cashed up, so I’ll buy it tomorrow. Every year I get her something beautiful for her birthday, and every year she acts like it would kill her to say thank you. Although if the scarf was from my sister, Mum would talk about what excellent taste she had, and how generous she was. It’s always been this way – our screwed-up family dynamic – so I guess I’m used to it. But it still rankles. And I’m annoyed with myself for trying so hard to please her when I know it will end in my own disappointment.

  The thought of our upcoming family lunch makes my insides clench. It’s always a trial for Joe and me, and not only because of my mum’s demanding nature. No; it’s due to something far worse than that.

  Five years ago, my elder sister Emma bumped into Joe in the pub while he was out with his mates. She was single at the time and she tried to kiss him. Joe didn’t know whether to tell me or not, but in the end he came straight home and admitted what had happened. He said he didn’t want us to have any secrets. He swore he didn’t kiss Emma back. He told her that he would never cheat on me, especially not with my own sister. That night tore apart my relationship with my sibling, but cemented mine and Joe’s.

  I waited for Emma to ring me up and apologise, but she didn’t. I gave her a week’s grace, and after that time I went to visit her to confront her about it. I wanted her to give me an explanation that made sense. But then she had the cheek to suggest that it had been Joe who’d tried it on with her. I said if that was the case, then why did he come straight over and tell me what had happened while she stayed silent?

  We had a massive row about it where she said that there was no point her trying to defend herself because she knew I would take Joe’s side. She even had the nerve to call me disloyal. It was like talking to a stranger. I mean, our relationship has always been a bit rocky since we were teenagers – the usual arguments over clothes, boys, our parents’ attention and all that sibling stuff – but nothing as bad as this. Nothing as bad as her trying to steal the love of my life. But then Emma is used to having everything her own way. I usually found it easier to give in to her. I’ve always been more laid-back, more easy-going. She’s a high-maintenance type of girl. But I still loved her. She was my sister. I guess she still is. Although I’d rather she wasn’t.

  Emma is a total brainiac, a genius with a worthy career as a cancer research scientist. Plus she’s slim and super-pretty, so goodness knows why she did it. She’s always had plenty of attention without resorting to trying to steal my boyfriend. But Emma always had to be the best at everything. Maybe she was trying to prove to herself that she could have Joe if she wanted to. Or maybe she was just drunk and didn’t know what she was doing. Either way, she should never have done it. And after it happened, she should bloody well have apologised. Even thinking about my sister these days sends my blood pressure skyrocketing. Seeing her on Sunday will be as painful as always. I wonder if she feels the same. If she feels any remorse for what she did.

  I push my hair back out of my face and glance around, realising the shop is in a bit of a mess. I can’t leave it like this for George to see when he comes in later to collect the day’s takings. I’d better have a quick tidy-up. I make my way around the clothes rails, ensuring that all the garments are hanging straight and in the right order. Next I rearrange the gifts on the shelving units, getting rid of any gaps and bringing old stock to the front. My gaze lands on a discarded chocolate wrapper near the window. I march over to pick it up when I see a plain white envelope face down on the doormat. It wasn’t there when I locked up a few minutes ago.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump. My heartbeats are suddenly too loud. No need to panic; it could be anything. It will be junk mail, that’s all. So why are my hands trembling? Why don’t I want to pick the thing up? I could leave it there, pretend I haven’t seen it. But then it would niggle at me all evening.

  I glance out through the window. A middle-aged couple walk past; she’s talking, he’s nodding. A girl is looking in the window of the shoe shop opposite. A man darts diagonally across the road in this direction and then strides away up the street. No one is hanging around suspiciously or looking in at me. I snatch up the envelope and turn it over in my hand.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump. Handwritten in that recognisable blue ink, my name is stark across the front of the pristine envelope. Someone has pushed this through the letterbox within the past ten minutes. I unbolt the shop door and pull it wide open, the jangle of the bell harsh, like a warning. I step out onto the pavement, a breeze cooling my warm cheeks. Still clutching the envelope, I whip my head back and forth, peering up and down the road in case I see… in case I see who? I don’t know. A guilty man running away? Whoever it was will probably be long gone by now.

  A grey-haired woman puffs up the street towards me, a harried smile on her face. ‘Oh, great, you’re still open. I thought I’d missed you.’ I recognise her; it’s the woman who works in the chemist.

  ‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ I say.

  Her face falls. ‘Just need a birthday card. I’ll be ever so quick.’

  ‘I’ve already cashed up… Oh, go on then. I’ll add it to tomorrow’s totals.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re a life saver.’ She pats me on the arm and follows me inside. I close the door behind us in case anyone else gets the same idea. True to her word, she quickly makes her selection and pays. ‘Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘I know what it’s like when you just want to go home and you get a straggler.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I murmur, not really listening.

  She finally leaves and I bolt the door behind her, realising I’ve had the envelope in my hand all this time. I stare at the front of it once more, at my name written on the thick white paper. Not aged this time, but white and new. In a daze, I open it, pull out a single sheet of paper. The paper looks similar to yesterday’s letter – only this time, instead of an aged sheet, it’s a brand new white rectangle of paper, unremarkable in its plainness. I unfold it and make myself read what’s written:

  Dearest Lizzy,

  I love to watch you.

  The words blur in front of my eyes, like I’m reading them from far away. The blood thrums in my ears and my fingers tingle. Okay, this is not good. This is definitely not good. Standing by the glass door, I feel exposed, vulnerable. Is the person who wrote this watching me now? I turn off the shop lights and take a step back, and then another until I’m standing in the dim interior. Perhaps whoever it is works in one of the shops opposite? Or maybe they live in a flat above one of the shops? Will this person make themselves known to me? What do they hope to get out of it? This is more than some admirer with a crush. These letters are not romantic. No. They’re scary. They make me want to hide. To cry. This is stalker territory. They’ve been written by someone who gets off on doing this type of thing. And they’ve sent two of them now, which means they’re not going to stop, are they? They’ll write more, won’t they?

  Something suddenly dawns on me. Whether Joe likes it or not, I’m going to have to call the police. I’m going to have to call them right now.

  Six

  Our local police station isn’t far away, so within minutes of making the call a marked police car pulls up outside the shop on double yellows. By this stage, I can’t even bear to touch the letter and it’s back in its envelope, lying on the counter. I unbolt the front door and let the two uniformed officers – a spotty male and a female with a short, no-nonsense haircut – into the shop. The female officer looks like she’s my age, late twenties or thereabouts. The male officer looks a bit younger, or maybe he just has a baby face. But, however young they are, dressed in their black uniforms with their boots, stab vests and utility belts, they seem to fill the whole shop with their official-ness.

  ‘Are you Elizabeth Beresford?’ the female officer asks in a Wiltshire accent.

  ‘Yes, I’m Lizzy,’ I
croak.

  ‘You reported an anonymous letter?’ she says.

  I gesture to the back of the shop, to the counter where the envelope now sits, pulsing with menace. The two officers wait for me to lead the way. Will they think I’ve overreacted by calling them? After all, it’s just a harmless piece of paper. But no, it’s not. It’s a threatening statement. A statement that’s letting me know someone is watching me. And that’s not normal behaviour, surely?

  I lead them over to the counter and point to the envelope.

  ‘Have you touched it?’ she asks.

  ‘Uh, yes. Sorry.’ I feel foolish. Of course I shouldn’t have touched it with my fingers, I should have used something to pick it up with.

  The female officer slips on a pair of gloves, picks up the envelope, slides out the letter and reads it. She shows it to her colleague who gives a single nod.

  ‘When did you receive this?’ she asks.

  ‘It was posted through the letterbox just after I locked up at five thirty-five.’

  ‘Did you get a look at the person who posted it?’

  ‘No.’ I take a seat on the wooden stool behind the counter, suddenly feeling wobbly on my feet. ‘I was cashing up, here, by the till. So I wasn’t looking towards the front of the shop. After I finished, I had a quick tidy round the shelves and that’s when I noticed it… the envelope lying on the doormat. It wasn’t there before, when I locked the door.’

  ‘Have there been any other letters or anything else unusual?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  They stare at me encouragingly, waiting for me to continue.

  I slide off the stool. ‘There’s another note. I’ll fetch it.’ I go into the stockroom to get my handbag and return to the counter where I slide the dusty envelope out of the side pocket and give it to the woman officer.

  ‘This came through the door, too?’ she asks.