She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  Thomasine checks the time. Rosie will be there in an hour, to help her out, to clean the place. Thomasine rang her earlier, they’d talked briefly. Both eager to escape the circus that the media forced upon them. Rosie offered to help her get the farmhouse ready for the funeral. Thomasine had been quick to accept. Rosie is the one person she trusts completely. Years as a senior social worker on the Child Protection Team have toughened her up, given her a strong sense of responsibility. Two weeks ago, they offered her redundancy. Thomasine closes her eyes for a moment. It is beyond her how they can let someone of Rosie’s calibre and experience go.

  She unpacks the plastic bags on the kitchen table. An A4 lined notebook, a pack of Bic pens, a jar of decaffeinated coffee, semi-skimmed milk, a small sliced wholemeal loaf, a large bag of Maltesers, salt and vinegar crisps, Eccles cakes, fresh vegetables, best butter, cheese and onion pies, vegetarian lasagnes, a roll of black bags and a large bottle of bleach. All bought from the village shop – enough for a week’s stay; enough to get the local gossips excited.

  She fills the kettle; as it boils, mindlessly she sifts through a clutch of letters on the table.

  Why hadn’t I noticed these before?

  A couple are stamped urgent in bright red capital letters. The thought of opening her mother’s mail unsettles her.

  ‘It’s not like she’s still alive, she can’t do it. God knows what’s inside them that might come back to bite me.’ The words echo around the empty room. Or in her head. She’s not sure.

  It’s your job now to sort this all out. The thought paralyses her. The letters lay unopened in a pile beside the milk carton. She closes her eyes for a moment. Work—I need to get back to work. Who am I if I don’t do that?

  Her work is her escape, an ironic distraction. Distraction, she thinks to herself… no, that sounds trite. Yet it does distract her. She was the only child left in a family devastated by the loss of a missing child. Never knowing, always suspecting. Decades of it, years blighted by anger, disappointment, bitterness – blaming. Hope dwindling away like a trail of smoke up the chimney. The cases she dealt with gave her a sense of purpose, what she couldn’t do for her own family she could do for others. From the very beginning, she had known she would never be allowed to work her sister’s case. Her job eased that pain.

  Images loiter at the back of her mind like unwelcome guests. Her job, in the main, is to reunite the dead with the living. To the uninitiated, it’s the stuff of nightmares. She’s seen so many dead people. They crowd inside her head – jostle for her attention, never resting until their cases solved. Partially decomposed, semi-naked, their bones covered in bits of flesh. Washed up by the tides after throwing themselves off a bridge or a cliff. Some caught beneath the water, beneath the rocks, hidden from sight until bad weather and fierce currents drag them out, what remains of them floating on the surface waiting to be found. Seagulls pecking at them.

  God knows what all of this has done to me. What sort of person am I, truly?

  What would she be without her work, alone, unable to deal with everyday life? Thomasine has seen many like that. Antidepressants thrown at them by overworked GPs. Sometimes the pills helped, sometimes they made things a whole lot worse. Weeks later they’d be discovered hanging from the back of the bedroom door, the belt from their dressing gown around their neck. Found by relatives, inconsolable, filled with guilt about the words they could have said but never did. Or had said and no one had listened to. She can never let herself slide down into that pit. Not for long at any rate.

  There are five files locked away in her desk. Five human beings, all apparently homeless – their deaths unexplained. Not enough of them left to create a Photofit. The list of their meagre possessions the last thing she’d been working on. Some had so very little; a coat, a scarf, a thin pair of trousers, trainers, a lighter, four pounds sixty in change, an elastic hair band, four keys, no address, no name. DNA but no match. Some had no money at all. Their cases logged onto the database, their records uploaded to the Missing Persons Bureau, the home of the found and unclaimed.

  Early on, a fellow officer spoke to her of his way of coping with the job. Some went to the pub and washed away the recollections of the day with alcohol. Or went to the gym and ran themselves to exhaustion on the treadmill. He read, immersing himself between the covers of a book. Every single night after work. So, she did the same; her front room lined with bookshelves, ladened with books of all genres. A temporary respite that worked for her, too. Her eyes now search the room for something to read. Only the pile of old newspapers beckon.

  She makes herself another coffee. Her head still can’t process it, won’t process it. There’s no normality in it. There’ll be two funerals to organise. Two. That’s it. That’s what’s screwing with my head. And Mam’s death, I’ll have to register it.

  It is as though Karen died along with her mother. The two of them together, in a car accident. Here one moment, then gone, snuffed out. She takes a sip of the coffee, the heat of it stings her tongue.

  Thomasine recalls accompanying her mother to register her father’s death. Together they sat opposite the Registrar. She almost nine-years-old, wearing a bright red coat with a black collar; her mother all in black, stoic, refusing to let either of them shed a tear. There was something else, the Registrar, the way he took the top off his fountain pen, the flourish of his hand as it skimmed across the certificate. How he pressed the ornate blotter over the registration documentation to dry the ink. His signature, small and neat. As though all these things were part of the ritual of death

  Tiny, noticeable things.

  She wrote it all down in the memory book, the red exercise book her father gave her to write down her memories of Karen. That’s so you don’t forget, that’s what he said. At first, she couldn’t think of what to put in it, so he helped her.

  ‘She smiles a lot.’

  She wrote that down. It became a game they played. ‘Write that down for me, Thomasine,’ he’d say, whenever he remembered something. Writing notes became a habit that she never gave up. One exercise book filled after another, journals of observation; the dog with three legs, the cat that turned up out of nowhere, four magpies sitting on the barn roof, the price of lollies in the village shop, Tommy Hartley’s acne. The boy who averted his eyes to the right whenever he lied. Years later, in a fit of despondency, she’d thrown them on the fire one night, they’d burnt brightly. No longer able to read them without upset. Unwilling to torment herself any longer. Unwilling to remind herself that she must have been the one that let her sister escape in the night. It must have been her fault that Karen disappeared. She’d shut the window because she was cold. Karen couldn’t get back in. Thomasine’s face flushes… she’d shut the window… where had that come from?

  It couldn’t be true – her brain is playing tricks.

  Just the same she’ll check the file when she next goes back home. The one she personally compiled that documents everything to do with her sister’s case.

  19

  The yellow tape stretches, snaps and twists as the wind tears at it. The wail of the siren gets louder until it drowns everything out. Muted blue lights twinkle on shop windows like Christmas illuminations. Snow, thick as fog, keeps coming in wave after wave. Twenty minutes have passed since Lily’s head bulls-eyed the windscreen. Since she flew over the car. Since her body lay still. As people look on, the slush around her head turns pink like a cocktail.

  People get out of their cars, their necks straining to see what the problem is. As the ambulance approaches, they get back in their cars, try to move forward, pull up on the pavement, reverse. Tyres slide and skid – it’s gridlock. Inch by inch the ambulance manoeuvres its way through the chaos. In the end, it stops, lights blazing, unable to get closer, three hundred yards away from the incident.

  Inside the tape, a uniformed police officer kneels beside Lily, getting to her feet as the front doors of the ambulance swing open. Paramedics; one male, one female, heavy bags sl
ung over their shoulders, drop down onto the road and hurry towards the accident. The police officer gives the Special Constable, the tape guy in charge of access, the thumbs up. Nevertheless, he asks for their names, notes them down, lifts the tape so they can get under it. He gestures towards Lily’s body several metres away, her legs splayed, one arm beneath her body, the other outstretched, her head still resting against the curb.

  The paramedics scramble towards her, the grippers on their shoes clinging to the icy surface beneath their feet. One of them shrugs off his backpack, pulls a torch out, drops down to his knees. He pulls on a pair of surgical gloves, uses his fingers to lift the lids on Lily’s eyes, shines the bright white beam into her irises. No response. He raises his voice over the wind, ‘Hello, we’re here to help you, now. To take you to hospital, to sort everything out. Can you hear me? Can you talk to me?’ Still nothing. He gently touches the wound on the side of her skull – a thick, viscous liquid clings to his gloves – blood.

  The police officer stands a few feet away, watching.

  The paramedics, heads together, speak quietly but efficiently. Head injury, shock, possible broken neck, fractured fibulas and possibly the kneecaps. The words flit between them, the male uses scissors to cut Lily’s trousers from the heel upwards, the female sticks small electronic discs on her torso then clips in the wires. The portable ECG kicks into life. A weak pulse quivers on the screen. Seconds later, the female runs back to the ambulance, returns with a neck immobiliser and a spine board tucked under her arm.

  ‘We’re going to have to move her onto the board, got to be careful… there might be internal bleeding. And damage to the spine. We’ll give her some pain relief first.’

  The police officer takes a step back. The paramedic injects Tramadol into Lily’s thigh. She doesn’t stir. Long minutes tick by as the careful and painstaking process of cutting off the rucksack begins. They slowly lift her arm. One gentle move and the rucksack slips out from under her. She gives out a low moan, her skin is waxen, sweat pours off her face. As they move her onto the board, a loud visceral scream, so full of wretchedness, so full of pain, hurls out of her mouth. The paramedics ease the board onto a trolley, then roll it towards the ambulance as quickly as they can.

  The police officer gazes at the blood-sodden patch of snow beside her feet. The snow is melting. She takes out her phone and takes a photograph; already gloved up, she dips her hand into the rucksack. There is no sign of any identification. There are several bulky items but no purse or handbag.

  ‘We’re off!’ shouts the female paramedic, pushing shut the rear door of the ambulance. The siren and lights start up again, this time the road is clear. The ambulance moves off into the night.

  The police officer picks up the tattered rucksack nestling beside her feet and walks over to the unmarked car parked up on the pavement. She opens the boot, inside is a cardboard box full of evidence bags. She takes a large white paper bag out of the box, lays the rucksack on top of it. The rucksack is wet and will need drying before it can be properly bagged, tagged and processed; that will have to be done when she gets back to the station. For now, she’s worried that the weather will wash anyway any evidence.

  Another drunk driver, no doubt, she says to herself. Bastards! I hate them

  20

  The dogs let out a low growl, tumble out into the hallway, claw at the door howling to be let out, desperate to get to whoever is at the other side of it. Thomasine had let them in for a bit of warmth and company. That’ll be Rosie. Her fingers tucked inside their collars, the dogs wriggle and squirm as she drags them into the front room.

  ‘Sit. Quiet!’

  They obey.

  She shuts them in, opens the front door to find Rosie manhandling a large cardboard container out of the back of her Renault Koleos. Her shoulder-length red hair a flash of colour against the glare of the snow, her face bare of makeup.

  ‘A bit of a bumpy ride up through the field, isn’t it? I locked the lower gate like you asked, put the key back in the hiding place.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m hoping it’ll keep the press out a bit longer.’ Thomasine gives her a weak smile. ‘I’m sure they’re not eager enough to walk a couple of miles in this weather.’

  ‘I thought you might be interested in this.’ The cardboard container perches precariously on her left thigh. She tries to close the boot with her elbow. ‘It’s been under the stairs for years, behind that old tumble drier of Mum’s, the one she made me keep for Kim. They discovered it when they cleared Gran’s place. It’s the last of Veronica’s belongings. It was already boxed up, Mum was going to throw it out. It’s her clothes, her makeup. She couldn’t bear to look at them. I made her keep it for me. It was all that was left.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, let me help you.’ Thomasine takes the box out of Rosie’s hands, ‘Mind, it’s slippy.’ Both totter unsteadily across the yard and into the house.

  Thomasine places it on the worktop. She offers Rosie a chair, ‘Let’s have a bit of something to eat before we start.’ She fills the kettle, makes them both a coffee, butters the Eccles cakes. They sit facing each other at the table, the plate between them. They only meet up every couple of months, but the ritual is always the same, coffee and cake.

  Rosie stirs her coffee, her eyes darken. ‘I’m truly sorry, Thom.’

  Thomasine takes a deep breath, ‘Ironically, I think it would have been exactly what she’d have wanted. God knows how she would have coped with the investigation—’ A wave of emotion catches in her throat. She changes track. ‘Look, I’m not up to talking about it right now. Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s Jeannie?’

  Rosie nods her head, ‘Not good now. She’s getting more and more confused.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ and Thomasine is. Dementia has turned Rosie’s once vibrant mother into a ghost of her former self.

  ‘Me too.’ Her friend pushes her fingers through her hair, rubs her temples. ‘There’s an upside that I hadn’t anticipated. All that sadness she carried for years, all that anger, it’s all gone. She thinks Veronica visits her and I don’t dissuade her of that. You know, Mum used to say that Veronica changed, in those last few months before she disappeared. It started when she went to college in September. Some girl was a bad influence on her. Pamela or Paula, something like that. She’d started getting all dressed up, loads of make-up, then she’d catch the last bus into town. Mum was worried sick about her. Then Veronica would rock up at six in the morning, banging about, waking everyone up. Mum said there was something about her that wasn’t right.’

  ‘Not right?’

  ‘She’d be rabbiting on about things. Was too awake for someone who’d been out all night.’

  A frown deepens between Thomasine’s eyes, ‘Drugs?’

  ‘I don’t know – drugs wouldn’t have been on Mum’s radar. Then Veronica stayed out all weekend, Mum went bananas with worry. Told her it wasn’t a hotel. Veronica moved in with Gran after that. We didn’t see her for months. Then she turned up at Christmas, thin as a rake, even I remember that. All done up in a red backless dress and platform shoes. Off later to some nightclub. When Mum asked her where she got the money from, Veronica just shrugged it off. Said that she’d got a part-time job. Wouldn’t say more than that.’

  ‘That was the last time you all saw her, wasn’t it?’

  Rosie nods, places her elbows on the table and cups her chin in her hands.

  ‘Did she have any other friends?’

  Rosie shakes her head. ‘If she did they shrunk back into the woodwork. I guess she must have had some at school. Even then she was always one for going off on her own. She’d be gone for hours.’

  ‘On her own? Where did she go?’ Thomasine’s interest is growing.

  ‘I only know what Mum told me. Some old paper mill down in the woods, and that place called the druid circle.’

  ‘The druid’s circle? The one on tops, directly behind us, here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t
remember you telling me this before.’ A look of confusion crosses Thomasine’s face.

  Rosie shrugs her shoulders. ‘You know what it’s like, you get on with life. You don’t forget, you just park stuff. Put it somewhere where it can’t hurt you. I don’t believe she just buggered off—she would never have run away. Not from us, and certainly not from Gran.

  Thomasine breaks an Eccles cake in two, nudges the plate towards Rosie. A habit born out of years of friendship. They sit in silence for a moment, the sticky sweet pastry melting in their mouths.

  Rosie breaks the silence first. ‘I don’t believe she’s dead, either, I’ve always thought she’s out there somewhere. Lost, trying to find her way home.’

  Some don’t care about who they hurt. They just get on with life, move on. I’ve met many of those. Thomasine’s thoughts go unsaid. She rubs her tongue around her teeth and gums, licks away the last vestige of the pastry. A gust of wind rattles the back door.

  One of the dogs lets out a loud moan, scratches the door to get out. Thomasine gets up, opens the front door, lets them out into the yard.

  ‘They’re farm dogs, farm dogs stay outside, Thomasine.’ Her mother’s words haunt her every time she allows them over the threshold.

  ‘Perhaps she is alive, that does happen.’ She settles back into her chair. ‘I’ve seen it hundreds of times. People go missing, after a while they’re too afraid to come back, they believe that their family won’t want them anymore.’

  ‘All we’ve ever wanted is to get her back. Every single anniversary we send out a message on YouTube, on Facebook and Twitter too. We just want her home.’

  Thomasine reaches out for her hand, covers it with her own. ‘I know. We did the same.’

  ‘With all of this, with finding Karen, she might come back.’ Rosie’s face brightens for a moment. ‘She might be able to tell us what happened to Karen. If she knows, that is.’