If You Only Knew: A gripping, debut thriller that you won't want to put down

by Cynthia Clark

  Warmth creeps up my body. My head spins and I feel faint. Here it comes. I’m scared. Terrified really of what’s going to happen next. Of what Ellen’s going to say or do.

  “The match triggered an alert and the DNA company notified Interpol. They tracked it down to some guy who was found dead almost seventeen years ago in the fields close to Cambridge,” Ellen says.

  My head jolts up. Have I heard right? The connection was to John Larkin and not to me. Does this mean I’m safe? Or is this just the beginning? Ellen is looking at me, waiting for me to say something. Swallowing the knot in my throat, scared that my voice will betray my fear and confusion, I ask: “So they tracked down her biological father?” It’s more a statement than a question.

  Ellen nods. She rummages in the pocket of her tracksuit trousers and takes out a crumpled piece of paper. She opens it and reads something. “His name is… was… John Larkin.”

  Familiar survival instincts lock into place. My brain whizzes with the chaos of thoughts rushing through it. Protecting my secret, continuing to keep it hidden, becomes of paramount importance. One false move, one word out of place, and I could be caught. Ellen must never suspect that I knew anything about John Larkin’s link to Maya. Rubbing the scar on my hand, I make small circular movements meant to calm me down. My best response right now is to feign ignorance. “How did he die?”

  But Ellen shakes her head vehemently. “No, you don’t understand.” She starts to cry again. “He was murdered. Stabbed in the neck and left to bleed out.”

  “And it gets worse,” Ellen continues. “The investigators found the bodies of three girls buried around the area. They believe he’d raped and killed them and his attacker was to be another victim.”

  A sense of relief spreads inside me. She doesn’t seem to know about me. This is horrifying, but perhaps I am safe. For now. But I have to remain alert. I can’t let the cover-up that started all those years ago slip now.

  “This story rings a bell,” I say, feigning calm over the beating of my heart. “I think it happened when I was at university.”

  Ellen looks at me and then nods. “I had forgotten you went there.”

  “I don’t remember much,” I lie. “Just that everyone was really scared when they started to find the bodies.

  “What did the detectives want? Were they simply letting you know about the connection?”

  “No,” she wails. “They want to unseal Maya’s birth certificate to help with the investigation into his death.” Then in an increasing pitch, she adds: “They want to use my daughter in a murder investigation.”

  My heart stops. Then it starts beating so fast and loud that I’m sure Ellen can hear it. The thumping in my chest escalates to a crescendo and I wonder if this is how people feel before a heart attack.

  This has always been my greatest fear. Back then, I had heaved a sigh of relief when the investigation into John Larkin’s death had fizzled out. There had been no fingerprints, no clues as to who had killed him. It only took a few months before the detectives gave up. Once the girls were found, he stopped being a victim and became the perpetrator, not deemed worthy of police time. It didn’t matter how much his mother appealed to the authorities, how many letters she wrote to newspapers. What mattered was that he was no longer a living threat.

  Yet I never stopped being afraid. I have always worried I’d be caught. Especially since someone out there knew my name. Would some twisted turn of events link John Larkin to me? Right now Maya is that link. The moment she is connected to me, my secret is out.

  And now that the case is being reopened, I know that I’m facing a ticking time bomb. At any moment I can be found out. Made to pay for my actions. Probably even sent to jail. I try to compose myself, to focus on what Ellen is saying rather than the fear bubbling inside my chest.

  “… they said the timing seems just right.”

  “Sorry Ellen, can you repeat? I didn’t catch what you said.”

  “The detectives said that Maya was born almost nine months after he was killed and perhaps her birth mother killed him when he attacked her.”

  I decide to act as ignorant as possible as to what happened “But Maya was born in the US. How is her biological mother connected to someone found dead here?”

  Ellen narrows her eyes. “I asked the exact same thing. But they said she could have been here on holiday when he was killed. Or travelled to the US to give up the baby.”

  “I thought that case was closed.” I am clutching at straws.

  Ellen shrugs. “Apparently they think they can solve it now they have this new lead.”

  I’m in trouble. Once the case is reopened there’s no saying what they will find. Whether they will uncover my secret. The life that I have built over the years will fall apart. The one that I’ve worked so hard to make as perfect as I can. My parents and my husband will never look at me the same way. My children will know that their mother is a killer. There will be a long, drawn out court case and I might end up in jail.

  “Liz, are you ok?” I hear Ellen say. Her voice seems so far away.

  I need to snap out of it. I need to find out every single detail that can help me determine the extent of the risk I’m facing. “Yes, I’m sorry.” I reach out for her hand across the gulf between us. “I guess I’m just in shock at what you’ve just told me. Did the detectives say what they want from you?”

  “Just permission to unseal Maya’s original birth certificate.” Her shoulders shake as she starts crying again.

  Digging deep into my memories, I try to remember the details on the birth certificate. But I cannot picture it after all those years. Aside from the surreal memory of signing the birth register as Laura Black, everything else is fuzzy.

  Snapping back to the present, I ask Ellen: “Are you going to tell Maya?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I need to speak to Tom.”

  “I need your help.” She faces me. “I want Maya to have a legal representative to protect her interests.”

  “Yes, of course,” I quickly say, even though my mind is still catching up with Ellen’s intentions, why she ran over to me before even telling her husband.

  “We need to go and talk to the detectives after the holidays. Can you come with us? We’ll pay your regular fee of course.”

  “I’ll be there.” The irony that this situation will allow me to get first-hand knowledge of what’s happening is like a form of torture. It also means that I need to compose myself. Not give away any indication that I’m closer to this than as just their lawyer. A family friend.

  Ellen puts her mug down and stands up. “I need to go. I want to be home when Maya and Tom arrive.”

  I walk her to the door. “Are you telling Tom tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Part of me wants to wait until after the holidays.”

  She opens the door and disappears into the dark night, engulfed by the pelting rain and raging winds. It’s freezing cold but I stand in the doorway for a while, rooted to the spot, unable to move. When I do, I feel as if I’m about to collapse.

  Chapter 22

  When Ellen leaves I pace through the maze of rooms, going over these revelations. My stress levels are escalating rapidly and I can’t keep still, overwhelmed by the fear that I’m finally going to be found out.

  The feeling of safety in the knowledge that Maya’s birth certificate won’t bear my name is soon replaced by panic. The police are immediately going to find out that Laura Black never existed. For years I had forced myself to believe that giving birth in another country, finalising the adoption there, would further distance me from John Larkin. But it was not going to take the police long to figure out what happened, that the killer travelled to the US soon after. And that was going to narrow down their search. Until it led them to me.

  Making my way into the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of whisky. This is unlike me. I don’t even enjoy drinking. Certainly nothing this strong. Bringing the glass to my lips, I take a sip, making a face at t
he burning sensation in my throat. Taking a second sip I make an effort to shift my concentration to the strong taste of the alcohol instead of what has blown up tonight.

  “Liz, is something wrong?” My head shoots up when Miles comes in.

  Putting the glass down, I walk towards him and put my arms around him, nestling my face in the crook of his neck, savouring the rock of his body as he holds me against him. I wish I could speak to him, tell him what happened. Tell him the whole truth. Have someone else help me carry the tremendous burden that I feel on my shoulders right now. But I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m not going to give my secret up unless it’s uncovered. And most importantly, I’m not going to ruin Christmas. I’m going to cling to it in case it’s the last one we will ever have as a family before the truth comes out to ruin us.

  He walks into the living room and sees my case notes still strewn on the coffee table, where I’d left them when Ellen came to the door. “So, this is why you’re upset.” His voice is tinged with impatience. “You’ve got to stop letting this case get to you.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions!” I retort, stress transforming into anger. “I’m worried about the McBrides.” Then, knowing that I have to give my husband some proper information, I add: “Ellen was here.”

  Pausing, I wonder how much I should tell him. I decide to be as honest as I possibly can, all the while swallowing my dread at how closely I am skirting the truth I’ve withheld from him.

  “Remember that guy they found dead a few miles from campus when we were in university?”

  “Who?” Miles asks. “That Larking guy?”

  “Larkin,” I correct, shuddering slightly at the mention of his name. “Maya tried to track down her birth parents and the investigation led to him.”

  Miles’ mouth drops open, his eyes open wide. “What do you mean?”

  “She sent a DNA sample for testing in the hope it would lead to her birth parents, and it led to him.”

  He doesn’t speak for a few seconds and I’m about to continue when he says: “Is he her father? The man in the woods?”

  “It appears so.”

  Miles continues to stare at me, the frown still plastered on his face, his head making minuscule back and forth movements as he digests the information. “But didn’t the McBrides adopt Maya in New York?”

  “Connecticut,” I correct. “Close enough.”

  Miles runs his hand through his hair. Once, twice, three times. “So, was he in the US before he was killed?”

  I bite my tongue before I can say too much. Give one detail too many. Get into the timeline that I know intimately. “I don’t know,” I say instead.

  The silence that ensues makes me uncomfortable. “And how did Maya even know how to go about tracking her father?” he finally asks.

  “She looked it up online. Ellen told me a few weeks ago that Maya was looking for information on tracking down her birth parents.”

  “But… It’s a big step from doing research to actually acting on it. Didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “I don’t know. She’s smart.” There’s no way I’m going to tell him I talked to Maya about DNA testing.

  Miles shakes his head from side to side, as if he’s still trying to make sense of all of this. “How did Maya take the news?” he asks.

  “Maya doesn’t know yet. The police were alerted to the link and they want to unseal Maya’s birth certificate to track down her birth mother and question her.”

  Miles rubs his forehead, as if he’s trying to smooth out the frown. “Why would they need to speak to Maya’s birth mother?” And then, before I have time to respond, he realises the implication. “Do they think it was her who killed him?”

  Nodding, I avert my eyes, afraid that Miles will see the fear in them. “That’s what the detectives told Ellen.”

  The seconds tick by and I force myself to look at Miles, hoping that he doesn’t see how terrified I am. His lips are pursed and he is staring at me, a new questioning look in his eyes. “So, they think she was American and went back to the US after she killed him?”

  Wanting to avoid more conjecture, I simply shrug. “Ellen was a mess, so upset and so lost. She hadn’t even told Tom yet, just came here,” I say instead. Miles doesn’t respond. He seems to be mulling over the information I’ve just given him, going through it in his head, trying to piece together the sparse details. “What are you thinking?” I prompt when I feel that I cannot take the silence any longer.

  Miles takes a deep breath and finally says: “I don’t know what to make out of all this. I am still trying to wrap my mind around the strange coincidence that a person who was killed next to campus while we were in university happens to be linked to our neighbours.”

  My stomach lurches and the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t want to talk about John Larkin. I don’t like the direction of Miles’ thoughts. His eyes lock onto mine, he looks exhausted, and I can’t read the expression in their depths. “Yes, it’s quite a coincidence,” I say, looking away. “Small world.”

  Suddenly, he grabs me by the shoulders, turning me to look at him. “What is really happening, Liz? What are you not telling me?”

  The severity of his look scares me. There is suspicion in his eyes. Real doubt about my story. It looks like he’s putting together all the scraps of information and building the puzzle that I never want him to complete. Swallowing hard, I say: “I told you what Ellen told me.”

  Putting the whisky glass on the counter, I busy myself taking plastic containers with yesterday’s leftovers out of the fridge. My hands are trembling and I almost drop the sweet and sour chicken.

  Chapter 23

  I’m walking along a narrow pathway, with tall trees lining each side. There’s nothing else around me. The path keeps going until it disappears into the distance. Behind me is the same – a long narrow street that dissolves into nothingness. The leaves rub against each other in the light wind, making a swishing sound. I hurry my pace, wanting to get out of there, to reach my destination, wherever that might be.

  But the more I walk, the longer the road ahead seems. It’s as if I’m being followed. I know someone’s watching me. I can feel their eyes on me, surveying me carefully, probably waiting until the perfect moment to pounce on me. I don’t know where I can go, what I can do to get away from them.

  It seems like the road is narrowing. I have to walk sideways to make it between the trees. I’m not sure how much farther I’m going to be able to go before I can’t walk any longer, before the road becomes too narrow for me to go through.

  Opening my eyes with a jolt, I take a deep breath. And then another, as if I’m climbing out of an abyss. Remaining still, I force myself to calm down. I stare at the ceiling until my heart has stopped racing and my breath’s no longer coming in short pants. It’s only five o’clock but I know that I won’t be able to go back to sleep. The dream has rattled me, like bad dreams always do. I need to be awake and in control, able to take the right decisions and understand the consequences.

  Quietly, I get up from the bed and wrap a robe around me. I walk out of the bedroom, careful to close the door softly. Popping my head into both children’s rooms, I listen to their soft rhythmic breathing. There’s a lump in my throat as I consider how my past can ruin their perfect lives.

  Downstairs, I make a cup of coffee. Standing by the kitchen sink, I look towards the McBrides’ house. The windows are dark; everyone’s still asleep. Why did Maya have to bring up the past?

  Shaking my head, I move to the kitchen table and boot up my laptop. Work is the only way I know how to stop the thoughts that are running through my mind. The fears that have been brought to the surface. Putting headphones on, I watch the video of Ben’s interview over and over, hoping to catch any minuscule sign of what will trigger discomfort, force him to stray from his scripted responses. Identify which buttons to push for the best impact. I focus on his eyes, noting the times he looks away,
lowers his glance, changes his blinking pattern. I concentrate on his hands, looking for a pattern in his gestures. Then I direct my attention to his facial expressions, observing when he purses his lips, or sighs, or fiddles with his hands. Some questions triggered longer than normal pauses, others made him shift uncomfortably. A few hours later I feel I know better what ticks him off, what can get me the reaction I want. It’s only then that I continue working on my questions for the trial, tweaking my verbiage for the highest impact.

  My phone rings. The caller’s number is blocked. My heart misses a beat and I hold my breath as I answer.

  “You’re gonna love me,” comes the booming voice on the other end of the line.

  “Luke?”

  “I found her.”

  “The girl? Please tell me it’s her!”

  “Who else would it be? Her name is Mary Beth Hayes.”

  “Will she talk?”

  “I don’t know. I just found her. The rest is up to you.”

  “Yes, of course. This is fantastic news. Where does she live? Can you send me her address?”

  “It should hit your inbox any second. She’s in Sutton, so not that far from you.”

  “I’m going to head there now.” I jump to my feet, already half way up the stairs before I hang up.

  *

  An hour later I’m knocking on the door of a small semi-detached house. It opens a crack and a young woman peeks through the small gap. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I think so.” I smile, trying to appear as friendly as I can. “I’m Elizabeth Perkins, a barrister…”

  “Oh, we’re not interested.”

  “Please hear me out. I need your help with a case I’m working on. It’s about Ben Grant. You filed a complaint about him.”

  She opens the door another inch. “How do you know that?”

  “It came up during the investigation. Mary Beth Hayes, right? Can we talk?”

  “I don’t know, it was a while ago, I just want to forget about it.”

  “Please, you’d be helping a teenager. Just let me speak to you.”