She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  Thomasine averts her face, stares intently at the photographs on the mantelpiece. She knows only too well what that might mean. Unconsciously she edits her response. ‘Yes, hopefully.’

  Rosie reaches into her handbag, pulls out her phone, frowns. ‘Can I ring Phil on your landline? I can’t get a signal on my phone. Just to tell him where I am.’

  ‘Of course, help yourself. You know where it is.’ Thomasine wonders how Phil, Rosie’s husband, is handling all of this.

  Rosie leaves the door ajar, a few moments later, her voice goes up a notch. ‘Why didn’t you tell them to piss off? For God’s sake, why can’t they leave us alone.’

  A few moments later, she opens the kitchen door, her cheeks are pinched red, her eyes brim with tears.

  ‘Those bastards! On the doorstep when Phil got home. Our Kim said they’d been hammering on the door for ages, shouting through the letterbox. Scared her to death! Phil said the bloke got right into his face, camera going off and everything. He said that Veronica was the suspect for Karen’s murder. Did we want to comment?’ A look of indignation crosses her face. ‘They didn’t even know each other.’

  Thomasine takes in a deep breath, she knew this would happen.

  Rosie’s daughter is eighteen, the image of her mother, though the opposite in personality. Shy and reserved, always in the background, never stepping into the limelight. Kim would have been paralysed with fear.

  ‘They’re just scraping for a headline. Let it wash over you, Rosie.’ She is surprised by the normality of her own voice. ‘There’s probably no truth in it.’

  Rosie’s eyes flash, the tears run down her cheeks. ‘It’s fine for you to say—’ the colour drains from her cheeks, eyes wide she covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, really sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just angry.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Thomasine puts her arms around her friend, gives her a hug. ‘I’ve seen it all before, honestly. When they find out Mam’s dead, she’ll be next on the list. After that they’ll really scrape the barrel, it’ll be me, an eight-year-old murderer with the strength of Hercules.’

  ‘I know but… can’t you—’

  ‘No, I can’t put a stop to it. They won’t tell me anything. As soon as I go back to work, they’ll transfer me to another team. I won’t even be in Missing Persons.

  Rosie’s hands start to tremble.

  ‘What if they come for you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The person who did it.’

  Thomasine’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘Me? Why would they do that?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Because, as far as everyone is concerned, you’re the last person to see Karen alive. Perhaps they might think you saw them, too.’

  That thought lodges itself inside Thomasine’s brain; her mouth goes dry.

  Hours later, when Rosie has gone home, Thomasine opens the box of Veronica’s belongings. She is methodical in her approach, gloves on, she removes one item at a time.

  First, a small off-white plastic container filled with nail varnishes – the liquid separated, three lipsticks, a pallet of block mascara and eyeliner. All by Rimmel. Next, a tired brown velvet clutch bag full of cheap jewellery; metal bracelets, dangling earrings, studs for pierced ears – some still on the cardboard backing, never worn. Then clothing, wrapped in plastic bags, two pairs of platform shoes with wooden soles, a pair of full-length navy-blue culottes, a pale pink dress with padded shoulders, the label still attached and carefully folded. At the bottom, curled with age and faded by time, half a dozen Jackie magazines lie flat. The most recent, November 1972 with the headline Stories to Warm Your Heart. She handles each magazine by the spine, lets the pages flutter then still. A solitary slip of blue paper falls to the floor. As she picks it up, her eyes strain at the faded black ink. The Torch in Tunstall, Northern Soul Nights. All-nighters for September and October. She turns it over in her hand, there’s nothing on the back. Thomasine lies it flat on the table, takes a photograph of it with her phone. Unsure of its relevance, slips it back inside the magazine it had fallen out of.

  A keepsake? There is no mention of all-night clubs in her case file. Why is that? Surely, that would have come out during the investigation? She pushes that thought to the back of her mind, then carefully returns all Veronica’s things to the cardboard box.

  If she can’t be involved in her sister’s case, there’s no reason she shouldn’t take a look at Veronica’s. Unofficially, of course.

  21

  The thin line of terraced houses has long gone; their cobbled streets and high-walled yards lie buried beneath acres of housing estates, high-rise flats and mini-markets selling newspapers, cheap bags of sweets and cans of lager in singles. He has no sense of where he grew up, where he’d escaped from, who he’d been. He’s bewildered. The man he’s become surely didn’t come from this, he thinks to himself.

  He buys himself a car out of small ads in the local newspaper, a rusting mini, destined for the crusher.

  ‘A doer upper,’ says the bulked-up bodybuilder as he gets out of the driver’s seat. ‘I’ve no time to do it – six months MOT and tax still on it.’ He looks him directly in the eyes, ‘No warranty, buyer beware and all that.’ The man offers him a test drive, ten minutes later he buys it on the spot, five hundred pounds, twenty off for cash. ‘For yer daughter, is it?’

  He nods his head, eager to complete the transaction.

  ‘The service manual got lost, okay?’ A taut smile crosses the man’s lips.

  He nods his head again. ‘Fine, yes, fine.’ He doesn’t ask about the logbook, won’t be needing that either.

  After that, he picks up the search, his eyes scour every female face for her. For any trace of the eighteen-year-old, Veronica, Ronnie. That’s what everyone called her. Tears streaming down her cheeks, as Jimmy dragged her down the street. It won’t be the same face. He’d done a pencil sketch of her, from the photograph in the paper, then made her look older. He keeps it in the inside pocket of his jacket for reference; he’s not shown it to anyone, yet.

  He feels no empathy for either girl, nor guilt. Only fear of his own plight. It’s 2010, the chances of him finding anything from 1973 are zero and yet…

  Why am I putting all this effort in? he asks himself. She’s dead. But at night the doubt sinks in. He wanders around Manchester, Bolton, Bury, even up as far as Blackburn. He wonders how far she will have got if she had escaped.

  Like an automaton, he cannot give up. He visits libraries, spends hours scanning electoral roles, birth, marriage and death registers, anything that might lead him to her. The muscles in his eyes ache; no amount of sleep eases them. His nights spent in cash-only B&Bs with nylon sheets where fire alarms hang by a flex from the ceiling and the switch on the shower is missing. Where continental breakfasts are made up of sliced white bread, thin slices of ham, margarine and seeded jams bought from the pound shops. All left on a tray outside his room overnight. Places that no one would think he’d want to stay, and he doesn’t.

  He dons dark clothes, beanie hats, no longer shaves, blends into the landscape of drug addicts, drunks and girls on the street.

  His eyes catch it by chance, the headline, at the supermarket. He’d been ambling along the magazine and newspaper isle, heading for the chocolate bars. A thick banner of text – Missing Girl Found. He’d nearly shit himself. Then he realised it was Karen they were still talking about. There, slap bang underneath it was a picture of a woman with her hand obscuring most of her face, a fierce look in her eyes. He picks up the newspaper, folds it in two, pays for it at the till.

  He reads the article in a café over breakfast. The media are so very helpful, he thinks to himself, quite negligent in many ways. His jaws champ on a slice of fried sausage, the smack of salty pork settles on his tongue. He puts down his cutlery, picks up his mobile phone, takes a photograph of the photograph. Then another of the article. Then he carries on with his breakfast, comfortable in the knowledge that there are more
ways to skin a cat than he thought.

  He hadn’t intended to visit the crime scene. He had gone on impulse again, unable to keep away. He clocks a face in the crowd. White male, tanned, a camcorder on his left shoulder; his head covered by a navy bobble hat pulled low. A dark red scar runs down his right cheek.

  The camcorder is pointed directly at him, quickly he averts his head, turns and walks the other way. His Doc Martens slip on the sodden ground.

  He’s seen her at the site several times now, standing there, peering into the woods. Yesterday he decided to follow her; she went back to work. She’s one of those hard on the accelerator, hard on the brake drivers. She didn’t seem to notice him.

  There’s a dull ache in his chest, a longing. He wants to be amid the milieu, jostling amongst the media, scrambling for photographs, hailing out questions that go unanswered. He’d never seen them at work, never seen the power of the pack. They’re like wild dingoes – hunting, sniffing, scavenging. He imagines what it would be like to stand in front of them, the sole focus of their attention. He feels something crystallise inside of him. A need that he had hitherto ignored.

  Without Lottie to distract him life seems simpler, no one else to please but himself. He does one thing at a time, spends hours in cafés planning his next steps, putting ideas down like charcoal strokes on drawing paper. Filling in the detail later. The drama unfolding in his head, he, the leading player. A hero of sorts.

  When he was younger he had a talent for getting things done, for clearing things out of the way. He was a finisher, tying off loose ends for those less capable of doing so.

  He makes his way back to the car, parked a mile up the road in a layby. Lorries hammer by, throwing waves of slush and sleet up onto the pavement, stinging his face, soaking his clothes. Obscenities rise out of his mouth and into the air, only to be lost in the thunder of the traffic. It is fifteen minutes of misery before he gets into the basic comfort of the Mini. He jerks off his jacket; hangs it off the back of the passenger seat. Shivering, he takes his mobile phone from the pocket. No messages. No missed phone calls. He calls his home number, his fingers drum on the dashboard impatiently as he waits for her to answer.

  Where is she? Where is she?

  Last time he’d called he’d been explicit: stay in, be there for when I call. She’d told him to piss off.

  He takes his wallet out of his trouser pocket, counts his money. He’s running out. A couple of the twenties and a tenner, he’ll need that for petrol. He’s purposely avoided making cash withdrawals. Hasn’t paid by card for anything. He’s mindful now, wears gloves and he’s got two packets of antibacterial wipes in his rucksack.

  He pivots around, lifts the carrier bag nestled in the footwell of the passenger seat. He peers inside; chopped liver and kidney swish about their polythene containers. He smiles, exhales.

  He’d thought it all out. He can stop on the way, quick and easy; the first task on his action plan.

  Then off home. Pick up more cash. Sort out Lottie.

  Then the fun begins.

  22

  The pain is gone, their voices fade, their bodies blur, time is running out, she knows it. She feels a separation, a butterfly casting off the pupae, a pull into the brightest light. Freedom… peace from that place that trapped her. From the cruel voice that brought the nightmares.

  She looks down at the battered body on the bed. Her body. Medical staff swarm over it like ants. They cut off clothing; drop them into plastic bags, check for injuries; call out findings, insert lines into veins; pump in drugs. Gentle hands carefully wipe away the blood.

  Time rushes in and pulls her out into another place, another time.

  Miles of violet sky welcome her, white cotton candy clouds drift towards the horizon then melt away. The fields are a mass of blonde grass, like waves of a choppy sea, the breeze pulling them one way, then another. A warm summer sun washes over her back. The fear trapped inside her dissipates. She is young again – just seventeen. No mistakes have been made.

  Her eyes fix on a golden plover, catching the thermals, the bird spreads its wings; soars above her. She tilts her head back, sees the beauty in the tip of each feather. How dark goes to light then back again.

  In the distance, she sees someone walking towards her. A female form, a slow step, her head held high, arms resting by her sides.

  Ahead, the narrow rocks of the druid circle jut up through the soil. She weaves her way around them, her fingers glide over their hard edges.

  The ground is covered in a bed of honey-scented heather, she sinks into its comfort, looks up at the sky, drinks it in.

  ‘It’s been a long time. I’m glad you’re home.’ A whisper carried by the wind.

  She opens her eyes wide. A hand reaches down then pulls back.

  ‘I wish I could take you.’

  It’s her grandmother, Alice, a look of sadness on her face.

  She feels a heavy thump on her chest—then a searing pain down her breastbone. A shard of light blinds her.

  The trolley thunders along the hospital corridor towards the theatre, takes her with it.

  23

  Thomasine strains to hear the noise of them, their early morning yelps for food. They didn’t come, would never come. Whoever put the food down knew exactly what they were doing. Her eyes well with tears, a wave of emotion ripples up through her chest. Fists clenched, her arms ache for want of someone to punch.

  Probably one of the press – no, surely, they wouldn’t kill the dogs?

  She’ll never forget the horrible death… the thick rancid foam covering their tongues, their backs arched. The fox beside them, its snout covered in its own blood – a female. Vision clouded, she’d fallen back against the barn door, unable to believe the abject cruelty before her.

  Thomasine gets dressed, the black suit and olive-green silk shirt too light for the winter weather. Nothing else seems appropriate. She didn’t put the funeral in the paper, why would she? The few relatives she has left will be there, they all live in the village. They know better than to blab to the press, they’d ticked that box years ago, encountered her father’s wrath.

  I need to get through today. She looks in the mirror. No makeup, no dressing up. No jewellery. Chin up, girl! At that moment, she realises most of her life has been chin up. She pulls on her boots, grabs an umbrella off the coat rack, rushes out of the door. The hearse and car will be waiting for her at the bottom of the track.

  The wake is at the farmhouse; the kitchen table is crammed with food. The funeral a blur that Thomasine is slowly rousing from. Rosie is making teas and coffees, Uncle Oliver handing out glasses of sherry, her cousin Paul taxiing people up and down the track in her mother’s four-by-four. The field is now such a quagmire of mud that boots sink down into it and can’t be pulled out. He is under strict orders from Thomasine to tell every single person about the dangers around the farm, most of the outbuildings should be demolished. She thanks God there are no children there.

  People stream in and out. Time passes, the food and drink consumed. In the front room, people are standing in twos and threes, heads dipped in conversation, the sofa and chairs already taken by those less mobile.

  Uncle Oliver has lit the fires and stokes the range. At least there is heat and hot water. At long last, the house feels warm, welcoming even.

  For some it’s the first time they’ve visited the place in over thirty years, their eyes soak up the dowdy walls and hand-me-down furniture.

  A hand catches hold of hers, it’s Karen’s childhood friend, Judith. ‘Are you free for a moment… to talk about Karen… about that thing I told you about, outside the church?’ Her forehead is creased with worry.

  ‘Of course, let’s get a bit of privacy.’ Thomasine gives her a weak smile then leads her upstairs to Karen’s bedroom.

  Judith’s face freezes as she walks through the door. One side of the room a mausoleum, circa 1973. The other like an empty prison cell. She walks over to the window, peeks through the cur
tain before turning back to face her.

  ‘It’s about the diary,’ she speaks quickly as though eager to be out of the room. ‘I bought it for her fourteenth birthday, from M & S. Definitely her fourteenth birthday, the one when we all camped the night, in the barn; up in the hayloft. It was one of those lockable diaries. It was freezing that night; don’t you remember?’

  Thomasine did, she wasn’t invited, wasn’t allowed to go. Karen didn’t want her seven-year-old sister cramping her style.

  ‘Your mum brought loads of blankets and quilts out. Your dad made a house out of hay bales. We all brought our hot water bottles; your mum filled them up. It didn’t make an inkling of difference, we were all bloody freezing and moaned like hell.’ She lets out a nervous laugh. ‘Karen threw a right wobbly because we wanted to come in.’

  Thomasine thinks back to the night, she’d been made to stay indoors, up in their bedroom. She’d spent the night looking through the window, down at the barn. A yellow light shone out from the hayloft. Eight of Karen’s friends from school had been invited. It was winter. No one truly wanted to camp out in the winter. Even if it was in the barn. Karen had told them that it would be a sign of true friendship. Apparently, none of them had been impressed. In the end, only six had turned up.

  ‘So, what did she do with the diary? I’m sure there’s no record of a diary in the investigation file.’

  Judith’s face clouded over. ‘I don’t know, I know she wrote in it, she told me that all the time. I think she hid it somewhere, not in her bedroom, I’m sure of that. She said you’d have it in no time.’

  Thomasine forces a smile. ‘I would have tried, junior detective even then.’