She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  The tightness in her stomach returns. He never apologises for anything.

  She takes in her surroundings. The room is large and sparsely furnished. She notices a row of trophies behind his desk – cross country running. They glisten in the luminescent glare of an anglepoise lamp. A brown envelope sits in the middle of his desk, three framed photographs face inwards towards his chair.

  He offers his hand; there is a clamminess in his touch.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He inclines his head towards a table and chairs.

  Her knees quake, the far wall is a single pane of glass, it’s like walking towards the edge of a cliff.

  ‘Thomasine, can I get you coffee or a tea?’

  ‘A coffee would be great…’ the words falter in her mouth, ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’ll go get us a couple from the machine. It’s quicker.’

  The racing in her heart slows, he’d called her Thomasine; it would be Albright otherwise. And the tea, there would be no offer of tea if the shit was about to hit the fan. There was no beaming smile, but neither was there a frostiness that normally precedes a bollocking. She looks down at her hands, flexes her fingers, admires the manicure and polish she’d invested in the previous day – smoky plum.

  Moments later he’s back, each hand nursing a cheap, white, polystyrene cup. He kicks the door shut with the heel of his shoe, she takes a cup from him.

  He seats himself down opposite her, places his cup on the table. ‘There’s been a development in the Anglezarke case. We’ve identified the remains.’ His eyes fleetingly glance at the A3 buff envelope. ‘I’m sorry, Thomasine, they’re Karen’s. The report came through about half an hour ago.’

  She stares at him; his words juggling in her head.

  Karen’s remains?

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her chest tightens.

  He nods. ‘I’m truly sorry. I insisted that I be the one to tell you, I didn’t want—’

  Found?

  ‘How did she die?’ Her mouth goes dry; she sucks in her emotions, can’t – won’t let them out.

  He folds his hands in his lap. ‘We don’t know that yet, there was an injury to the back of the skull.’ He averts his gaze, looks out of the window; her eyes follow his – outside the world is covered in a thick carpet of snow. ‘DCI Mel Phillips has been put in charge of the case, you’ll be seconded to another team in the interim.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The case has been reopened. DCI Phillips has been put in charge; she’s taking the briefing now. She’ll be here in a minute.’ His speech quickens, ‘We can’t have you working on the investigation. I know an officer with your experience will understand that.’

  Understand?

  Thomasine’s face remains impassive; she shakes her head. It doesn’t make any sense.

  ‘It can’t be Karen—it must be a mistake.’

  ‘There is no mistake.’ The frown on his forehead deepens, ‘It’s an accurate match on the dental records.’

  ‘How did she get there? It’s miles from the farm.’ Her mouth feels as though it’s full of cotton wool. ‘She couldn’t have walked it.’

  She watches him scratch the inside of his wrist, it’s a trick to check the time, the face of his watch lies above his pulse point. She uses it herself. He must be waiting for the DCI to turn up. He covers his mouth with a clenched fist, coughs.

  ‘She must have been taken there. We don’t yet know whether that was where she was killed.’ He leans back in the chair, his arms loosely folded across his chest. ‘That’s as much as I can tell you.’ His voice softens. ‘Take some compassionate leave – you need to be with your family, just your mother now, isn’t it?’

  He has no idea what that will be like – not a clue, no one has.

  At once she knows the envelope’s contents: a summary of Karen’s case file. Missing since the seventh of January 1973, sometime around nine o’clock on the Saturday evening and seven o’clock on the Sunday morning, when Thomasine herself had woken up, looked across the room and found her sister’s bed empty. Thomasine had been eight-years-old; Karen had turned fifteen a few days earlier.

  There’s a knock at the door. Thomasine turns to look, a woman in her late thirties walks in. She’s tall, like herself, similar in looks. Brown curly hair cut in at the jawline. A stress-filled body that no amount of food fattens up; her posture is as rigid as a brush handle. Dressed in a good-quality black trouser-suit, Thomasine has two like it hanging up in the wardrobe at home.

  ‘DCI Mel Phillips,’ she offers out her hand. The smile fades from her mouth. ‘Sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.’ The sharp edge gone from the voice she’d heard earlier. ‘The team knows you won’t be on the job, everyone understands.’

  ‘Don’t shut me out right now.’ Thomasine’s words are cold and flat.

  Lips set in concentration, the DCI’s eyes focus in on her.

  ‘Look, I know how I would feel if I were you. I’d want to be in there, catching whoever did it. We can’t allow that to happen though, you know that.’ The plate glass window flexes as a gust of wind and snow slaps against it. ‘Given the impact on you and your family, it will be impossible for you to be unbiased and non-judgemental. Copper or not. It would be the same for anybody in your position.’ She takes in a deep breath. ‘The whole team is on it. I realise that this is a difficult time, but we’ll need to talk with you and your mother, go through your original statements.’ She takes a business card out of her jacket pocket, slips it into Thomasine's hand. ‘You can contact me on this number. We’ll come out to you. Would tomorrow at about two o’clock be okay?’

  ‘I want—’ Thomasine’s voice rises a pitch; her anger leaks out. ‘I want to be involved.’

  Hardacre interjects, raises his hand. ‘Thomasine,’ his face is impassive, ‘we—’

  ‘Of course.’ Dry-eyed, she pushes back her anger. That battle can be fought later. ‘We’ll do whatever you want.’ She stands up, makes for the door. ‘I need to go, to get to Mam before the press do.’

  The door slams behind her on her way out. Startled, the secretary jumps to her feet, her mouth opens, sounds come out, something about Family Liaison wanting to see her. Thomasine doesn’t stop to listen; she hurries out into the corridor. Faces blur through glass walls, voices whisper, phones cry out. Her feet in flight mode take her down the stairs, out of the front door and onto the carpark. The freezing cold air cloaks her body; her heart thumps against her ribs. She wasn’t going to cry in there, not in front of them. Not in front of anyone. She never cries. That stopped years ago. She slumps back against the wall, hands trembling.

  Memories flood back in technicolour, she stands transfixed, a terrified eight-year-old child again. The front room, on the settee, the policemen kneeling in front of her, her mother standing by his side. She, powerless, shy, dressed in a matching navy-blue jumper and kilt, her sister’s hand-me-downs, her hands tucked beneath her thighs, tears glistening in her eyes. Her father up on the moor searching for Karen.

  There’d been a barrage of questions. She and Karen had shared a room. Was she sure she didn’t wake up? She mustn’t worry about telling the truth, she wouldn’t get in trouble. Karen must have made a noise—did she hear it? It was dark, the lamp, Karen must have switched the lamp on, did it wake her up too? Did Karen say anything to her before she left? What was she wearing? If she made her promise to keep it secret, it’s okay to tell them now. Did anyone come for her? The questions seemed endless. She had no answer for any of them. She didn’t utter a word, total fear obliterating any memory she might have had. Her nose ran, tears streamed down her cheeks, dripped off her chin, soaked her jumper.

  As the weeks went by she lost weight, everyone was too busy to eat. It would be wrong to eat. Why would they waste time cooking when they could be out looking for Karen? That would be a sin. She was already a sinner; she had allowed her sister to disappear. Her mother told her that day after day, if not in words, in silence.

  Where the hell are
they?

  She hunts in her handbag for her car keys, tips the bag’s contents onto the ground. Her keys lie like a broken body amongst a clump of tissues. Karen’s face stares up at her from a photo keyring. Her dark brown eyes suddenly accusing her. She would have been fifty-one-years old last week.

  Frantically, she gathers up her belongings, gets to her feet, throws her bag over her shoulder. She slips her keys and phone into her pocket, looks up, everything is a glaring white. Which car is hers? Where did she park? Her mind blanks—a band of anxiety binds her chest. In the distance a blue van approaches, its wheels skid and slide. Fingers grasping the ignition key, she presses down on the button. Muted red-lights flash in the distance. Seconds later she wrenches open the door, throws herself into the driver’s seat.

  Your fault! Your fault! Her mother’s voice taunts her.

  Blood thunders through her ears. What is inside of her screams its way out—the grief, the pain. A lifetime of it consumes her. Fists hammering relentlessly on the steering wheel, hot tears soak into the neck of her blouse.

  The wind pummels the car; a thick layer of snow buries the windscreen. She thrusts her hands under her armpits, rocks in her seat, and with each breath the rage recedes—back into its cage just as it had as a child.

  She pulls the mobile from her pocket, her fingers hover over the keypad. Anxiety kicks in. Why hadn’t she got the detail from Hardacre? She’d had to get out of his office before she said something she’d regret. Her stomach flips.

  Mam will want to know more; she’ll want to know everything.

  Had they rung her mother? If they had, surely they would have told her. Her neck stiffens. She can’t ring her mother to check, if she did, and they hadn’t, she’d have to tell her over the phone and that would be wrong, utterly wrong. She’d promised her mother that she would never do that.

  This will kill her…

  Thomasine had been the bringer of bad news to others, hundreds of times. Legs give way, bodies sink against the frame of the front door, some collapse, some shaken so badly they cannot get up without help. Occasionally they look at her blankly, unable to speak, unsure what to say.

  ‘I’ll make us a drink, shall I? A pot of tea? Let’s go in.’ Her own voice often barely above a whisper, the door to the world closing behind them. The next hour the delicate process of describing how their loved one was found. Getting it across in a kind way, sensitive to their months or years of waiting. Empathy and professionalism in equal measure. Knowing only too well the burden they have carried year after year.

  Why can’t I do this for myself?

  She turns on the ignition, switches on the wipers; an arc of snow disappears from the windscreen. A thought occurs to her; she could ask someone else to tell her, a colleague, another FLO.

  ‘No—I can’t,’ the words rush out of her; she doesn’t want anyone else involved.

  Of course, that’s why they’d blanked the screen. So I wouldn’t see the visual of the murder board and go off on my own, half-cocked, like a bull in a china shop. It didn’t matter. She knew exactly what would be there. Maps of the farm, of the moorland. Photographs of Karen as a kid. Not the others, the age-progressed ones, thirty-five and forty-five, all worthless now. Photographs of new evidence will litter the board. Scene of Crime Officers will have done their work. All marked by a numbered card and photographed in situ. Hair, bones, teeth, clothing if it hasn’t decomposed.

  Every part of her wants to go up to the crime scene, but there’s no point, she wouldn’t even get past the tape. Her name won’t be on the list of those allowed on site. She would be the same if she was in charge. Her best hope will be the Coroner’s Report. Perhaps she can call in a favour. They’ve known her long enough.

  She’ll be sidelined after that.

  Early morning briefings would pass down the orders from the Detective Superintendent. Hundreds of interview notes would be unpacked, reviewed and those involved re-interviewed – if they’re still alive. Boxes of evidence, their seals broken, would be retested for DNA and particulates. Technology has moved on since the girls went missing. Soil samples would be taken; Karen’s remains would be analysed for cause of death. The HOLMES database, the brain of the investigation, would be updated by the input clerk, all the evidence entered. Details on anyone connected with the investigation, their names, dates of birth, addresses, anything specific to them, would go on, too.

  Perhaps Veronica’s name will be up on the board as well, her pictures stuck on with tiny pieces of blue tack. She’d disappeared that night too, from town, not the moor, or so they believed at the time. The DI in charge had called her a runaway, there’d been no money for an abduction, no reason to believe anything else. Had they found her body, too? She hadn’t asked. They would have said, surely, they would? Why hadn’t she asked? There was never any evidence that Veronica and Karen knew each other. Her stomach sinks, Rosie – Veronica’s sister. Her own best friend, she’ll have to ring her.

  If Rosie knew she would have rung me already, I’ve got to concentrate on Mam right now. She must be my priority.

  The initial investigation broke her family. Everything, including the farm, fell apart. Her father’s death had been the tipping point. People helped at first but, as the weeks went by, had to go back to their own farms, their own jobs. The final nail in the coffin came months later – the foot and mouth outbreak. Every single sheep had to be slaughtered.

  Yet despite all of it, her love for the moorland never paled, not for the place that shaped her. Her fingernails dig into the leather cover of the steering wheel. The realisation of it cleaves her chest like an iron brace, Karen couldn’t come home—it wasn’t a choice that she made. All these years of waiting, all that hurt, the silent accusations, the disappointments. The anger. All wasted.

  The windscreen wipers let out high-pitched squeal. Thomasine closes her eyes and allows the tears stream down her face.

  She did everything she could to find her sister. She will sacrifice everything to find her killer.

  And when she does—he’s going to pay.

  3

  Until yesterday, Saturday, she would say, life was better than it had ever been. I disagree. But then I would.

  Her name is Lily, by the way. Lily Probisher – that’s what she calls herself.

  She lives in a great big Victorian villa in Lymm, double-fronted. Wrought iron railings painted a glossy black. Trees either side of the front door. Beautifully topiaried. You’d never guess they weren’t real. Wooden shutters on the windows that cost a fortune. And a posh security system to keep it all safe. There’s a camera over the front door and one out the back. She could access them online. Could is the operative word. Doesn’t know how to switch them on. She’s not read the manual yet. She’s a bit of a Luddite.

  She longs for a converted barn up on the moors with high ceilings, oak beams and a two-acre garden. The sort you see in Homes & Gardens, that in spring is pricked by snowdrops and daffodils. Where in winter the birds feast on the withered fruits of summer, blackberries, winberries, sloes. She’d never be happy there. She’s not one for sinking her fingers into the soil. Thank God for Marigolds, that’s what I say, she buys them in bulk. The rubber gloves, not the plant.

  Lily’s a therapist, like I said, she helps people to help themselves. She likes big words, like empowerment, is an expert on paired comparisons and to-do lists. Her current one is attached to the fridge door by a magnet that says One Life – Live It. She’s booked herself onto a triathlon in three months’ time. She can’t even swim.

  Anyway, like I said, yesterday happened. I’m sure somewhere in those self-help books, those that line the shelves of her study, there will be a paragraph that reads things happen for a reason. I’m sure in the future we’ll see the good that came out of yesterday. We’ll look back and think, thank God that’s all over.

  Today, however, she’s a right mess.

  Yesterday started off as a good day. She got up early. Cleaned clean things. Rewashe
d washed stuff. Scrubbed the kitchen until her fingers bled. The house was clean as a pin when she left.

  She went out for a run. It was one of those chilly days when it’s so cold the tips of your ears feel like they’re turning to ice. Where the end of your nose turns pink and the skin on your lips goes tight. One of those wonderful, crisp, winter days that make you want to be outside. The sun was a huge lemon disc in a bright blue sky. Beyond the moors, far away, snow-filled clouds drifted towards us like giant pulls of candy floss.

  She was outside the local park, at the gates, jogging on the spot. Kitted out in a long-sleeved, black merino wool, running top, capri tights and a bright pink buff around her neck. She had a large water bottle in a carrier around her waist. It made a swishing noise as she ran.

  There’s an expensive running watch wrapped around her wrist. A Garmin. Its tiny screen feeds her statistics; how fast she’s running, how many miles she’s done. It’s waterproof too, so she can wear it swimming. When she learns to swim that is. It was a Christmas present to herself. Just like all her other gifts.

  Yesterday was day one of the sixteen-week triathlon training programme. The one stuck on the door of the fridge, underneath her goals for the year. The one she typed up after she read that book, Breaking the Mould – a Life Unlimited.

  As I mentioned, she was jogging on the spot. She looked down at her Garmin, it said she’d run one mile, three hundred and fifty yards. She wasn’t very happy. She likes things going to plan. They weren’t.

  The gates were cordoned off by a row of bright, tangerine-coloured safety barriers. A white Ford Van was parked at the front. The rear doors were wide open, black rubber buckets, long-handled shovels, loads of cardboard food wrappers, empty tins of coca cola – it was full of crap. I could almost feel the tightness in her throat.

  A couple of blokes in hard hats, hands wrestling with pneumatic drills, were breaking up the pavement. The jab and rattle of metal on concrete hurt her eardrums.