She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say.’

  Thomasine waits for a second or two, lets the silence hang between them. ‘I’ll be ready tomorrow, tell them to ring me beforehand. On the landline—I’ve had it repaired. It’s hard to get a mobile signal around here.’

  Thomasine watches Mel do a slippery three-point turn in the yard.

  It occurs to her as the car disappears down the track – the box of Veronica’s things that Rosie kept under the stairs at her place; the magazines, the clothes, the jewellery, the flier for the all-nighter. She could have handed them over. She should have called her immediately, not even opened the box. But there you go, she thinks to herself, that was probably never going to happen. What the hell, she’ll give them to whoever turns up to process the house and deal with whatever shit happens.

  Then she changes her mind, she’ll drop them off, now. It will be one small point in her favour.

  She places the box in the boot of her car, shuts the front door behind her.

  What if the search team turn up tomorrow?

  Her heart sinks. If that’s the case she’s got sixteen hours to search the house before they do and she’s going to need every one of them.

  27

  DS Sam Ingleby’s six-foot-five frame leans over the evidence table. Forensics have already done their work, DNA, fibres, fingerprints all taken and in process. He checks his watch, takes the notebook out of his inside pocket and flips it open. He writes the words Hit and Run and the date at the top of a new page.

  His latex gloves make a snapping noise as he slips them on. ‘Let’s see what we have here then.’ He’s a man who talks to himself often, his voice has a soft Geordie lilt that gives him an advantage in interviews. People warm to him, even criminals. A smile rises to his face. There was no ID on the body, that almost always makes it more interesting for him.

  Before him sits a large grey container with a yellow label, recently emptied of its contents. The victim’s belongings – each item labelled, bagged, sealed and documented by the officer who’d attended the crime. Their shift now over, they are on their way home for the night. Home to their family, unlike DS Ingleby, who has another twelve-hour shift to conquer.

  He works from the left, picking up each item, jotting down notes as the need takes him. Each item equidistant from the one above, to the right, to the left and below.

  Rucksack, black, make Jack Wolfskin. Straps probably cut off by the on-scene medics. Before moving on to the next item, he checks the pockets and inside, everything has been removed.

  Self-defence spray, small, pink, no branding. The sparkling pink metal container disguised as a tin of deodorant glistens in the glare of the overhead lighting – a self-defence spray, not illegal but the results are painful, a stinging that would last for hours.

  Torch, yellow, heavy, make Varta. That probably hurt her back when she rolled off the bonnet, poor bugger. That one thing probably did more damage than anything else. He winces in sympathy. Other than the car and concrete kerb.

  A pair of knitting needles. Nasty weapons if in the wrong hands. Stabbings, gougings, rammed in places too awful to think about. The knitting pattern is a smoke screen. She must have thought that would help if she got picked up, got caught for whatever she was doing.

  A key ring with four keys attached, one of which is sharpened at the point. His eyes focus in on what looks like a copper coin. Is that a running medal attached?

  He grits his teeth. An itch starts from his nose and rises to the crown of his head, an allergy to latex gloves that drives him crazy. Like a cat with fleas, the urge to scratch himself is overwhelming. He is completely aware that a single unconscious act like that can contaminate evidence. He learnt his lesson early on. He wriggles his nose and focuses on the task in hand. Questions pop into his head.

  Why no phone? Where’s her handbag? Where’s her purse?

  Carefully, he places each item of evidence back in the cardboard box before starting on his next task. Beneath the table, in a couple of transparent tamper evident bags, is the victim’s clothing. Almost shredded to pieces by the medics, the only way of ascertaining and treating injury. Now dry, they are stained with the victim’s own blood.

  He checks the label. A frown creases his forehead. It’s not been processed by forensics yet. He goes through each item of clothing with the same level of detail that had earned him high praise during training. After examining each one, he jots down a few words in his notebook.

  One size ten, black, knee-length parka, fur hood, make Jack Wolfskin. Blood stains on hood and chest. A hard, oblong object in the outside left-hand pocket – a mobile phone. B

  lack – make Bang. A taser. He knows this because he’s seen them before, the go-to weapon brandished by local drug dealers.

  One pair of size five, black, trail shoes, make Solomon. Laces cut (A & E?).

  One pair of size six-to-eight woollen socks, make Bridgedale. They reek of damp wool and talcum powder.

  One pair of waterproof trousers, black, size and make unknown – label removed. Leg length medium? Pockets empty. Cuts to the legs and groin area (A & E?). Blood stains on knee and shin areas.

  One black fleece, Polar, size ten, cuts to the front and back (A & E?).

  One black running bra, size ten-to-twelve, make M & S. Cuts to material (A & E?).

  One pair of black panties, size ten-to-twelve, make M & S. Cuts to material (A & E?).

  He lets out a long breath through his nose. Someone should have gone through the hospital bag by now, processed everything. Even a matter of hours can make a difference. The weather shouldn’t be an excuse, but he knows it will be. This is one of five car accidents reported this evening. He looks at the evidence label, recognises the name, scribbles it in his notebook. There’s been some mislabelling too. He’ll have a severe word with the officer in question, someone who should have known better. They should be more aware of the look-a-likey weapons readily available on the internet. Items which, to the uninitiated, would seem harmless.

  He completes the chain of custody label then pulls off his latex gloves. His conscious mind already making a mental composite. Good quality clothes, slender, about five six, outdoor type. He imagines her loading up the rucksack, one item after the other. Questions run through his head again. Did she do that every day? Was this a one-off? What was she afraid of? Who was she afraid of? Is she a victim or an aggressor – he’s not sure yet. First things first, a name. They had put a rush on the fingerprints and DNA. With any luck, the results will be on his desk when he gets back. Although he knows the chances of that are almost zero.

  28

  I cannot see.

  I hear him breathing, the monster behind a mask that hides his true self, his lungs like bellows howl.

  He towers above me. Above us. The earth shudders as his boot hits the shoulder of the blade, the shovel’s sharp edge slicing through the soil, lifting it up, pushing deep into the dirt again. I cannot flinch, he must not know that I am awake, if he does—that spade, he’ll use it on me. He used it on her. I saw it. My heart pounds so loud I am terrified he will hear it, hers so silent it makes my own beat out of time.

  My mouth and throat are filled with something I cannot swallow. I must not cough it out, he will hear the wrack of my throat, he will see the rise and fall of my ribs. I must not move at all, the ground above me, around me, may shift, may give me away.

  I see people moving between the roots of the trees, their fingers probing, touching. The pain in my head wants to be let out. He stops… a second later he starts again, digging, sniffing, his words come out in spurts. None of them repentant, frontal lobe, glabella, parietal, he speaks a language I don’t understand.

  The other girl stirs, her face pressed against mine, the curve of her lips on my lips, her skin cooling. Her fingers curl around mine; her eyes open.

  ‘Veronica…Veronica.’

  Who is Veronica?

  Things crawl over me, scratch me, prick my skin like n
eedles, slither their way in my ears and eyes, slide up my nostrils. The earth, writhing with life, wants to consume me. I want to scream out, every nerve in body trembles, every cell keeps me where I am, keeps me silent, a statue made of human blood.

  He stops, there is quiet.

  I hear a hissing sound then a Thump. Thump. Thump. Like some bird stamping up worms, he levels the ground above me – us. I hear the scrape of his boots on a tree root; the spade falls to the floor.

  I do not breath. Must not breathe. My lungs are filled with air without my intervention.

  Am I dead?

  They stand around me, look down at me. They are listening.

  And so is he.

  29

  The following morning, Mel receives two text messages. One from Thomasine Albright, informing her that Rosie Lightfoot had discovered a box of Veronica’s belongings from her mother’s house. She’d passed them to Thomasine, who’d dropped them off at the front desk.

  Mel blows out a sigh. So, this was how it was going to be, Thomasine messing where she shouldn’t. She’d thought she’d made it clear, obviously not. Why hadn’t she given them to her when she visited the farm? Probably didn’t want an argument or a reprimand for tampering with evidence. She shakes her head, hopes that nothing is amiss, wonders if Thomasine and Rosie had been looking for the match to the earring that had been discovered amongst the remains. She hopes there’s nothing important in there. If there is she’ll have a hell of a time explaining that to the CPS.

  The second message is from DS Sam Ingleby asking if she can contact him immediately.

  I wonder what he wants? She punches back a response.

  ‘Hi Sam, what do you want? I’m still at work. Mel.’

  The text is short, to the point and puts the matter, whatever it is, back in his court. She and Sam worked together on the Barker case. How many years since I’ve seen Sam? Two, three? She knows it’s more than a year since they’ve spoken. No argument between them, life moves on and they’d been working on different jobs. An ugly memory long blocked out materialises in her head: four years ago, last June. Sam lying prone on the ground, the stink of old coins in her nostrils, bright red blood, a river, then a lake, eating its way through his white shirt. He’d been trying to get to his feet, he didn’t even know he’d been stabbed.

  A teenage girl, strung out on meth, mumbling to herself, crouched over him, a breadknife in her hand. He’d tried to talk her off the bridge above the motorway. She swearing he’d tried to rape her. Hallucinating. Screaming it was his fault. Raising the knife above her head.

  Full force, Mel’s foot missed the knife, the heel of her boot hit the girl full in the face, cracked her cheekbone, broke her nose. There’d been blood everywhere. His blood, the girl’s blood. Mel’s blood as she grabbed at the blade of the knife and wrenched it from the girl’s hand.

  The IPCC cleared her six months later. The girl is now serving eight years for the attempted murder of a police officer, the penalty reduced because of mitigating circumstances, her age and psychological state. It had pissed them both off.

  She and Sam got on with their everyday lives, both unwilling to raise the matter, neither wanting any form of indebtedness, any form of guilt. They’d been tested for Aids, for Hep C. Both still subject to regular checks.

  Mel knew that Sam would never have touched a crackhead. She’d been with him the whole time. She reaches out and takes a mouthful of the milky coffee Badger had made an hour ago.

  Her lips twist. ‘Ugh!’ The coffee, stone cold, turns her stomach.

  It’s late, the outer office is deserted, lights off, the team have gone home for the night. She leans forward, rests her elbows on the desk. Her eyes ache from staring into the computer for the last forty minutes. The notes from her interview with Thomasine Albright almost finished. She’d been right in her estimation, she remembered very little of that night.

  The cardboard box that Thomasine Albright dropped off earlier has been processed by a member of the team. There was nothing of real interest – half a dozen teenage magazines, clothes, makeup, nail varnish, jewellery – none of the earrings matched the one found at the crime scene. The details are written up on a second board, waiting. Waiting for what, she wonders? She isn’t sure how any of it links to the Karen Albright investigation. The hooped gold sleeper earring found in the remains could have been either girl; both had pierced ears. It was the size of a pound coin, men and women wore them. It could belong to the killer. It could belong to Veronica; there was no way of proving it at this present time, any DNA long gone.

  Her phone bursts into life, she grabs at it to stop the noise. Sam Ingleby clearly is in a hurry; his words rush out in a babble of excitement. He is investigating a hit and run. The victim, a woman, had no ID on her; they’d rushed fingerprint and DNA analysis. He pauses for breath then carries on.

  ‘There’s a DNA match, Mel. I think you’ll be interested. The PNC flagged it up as a missing person, someone wanted in connection with an on-going investigation.’ His voice gives away the smile on his face. He had always been that way with her, the joker, always wanting to reel her in. ‘Guess who?’

  ‘Come on then,’ the tension eases, ‘spill the beans, it’s getting late, who is it?’

  He’s unwilling to give up. ‘Who do you think it might be?’

  Her heart thuds against her ribs. The left side of her brain kicks in.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘I’m a professional police officer, DCI Phillips, why would I do that?’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Just. She’s in the neurosurgical unit at the Royal Salford.’

  ‘Can I meet you there in thirty minutes?’

  ‘I can meet you in five, I’m downstairs on reception.’

  ‘I’ll come to get you.’

  Thirty minutes later she was fully briefed, five minutes after that her request for him to be seconded to her team had been agreed. Two linked lines of enquiry and she would oversee both.

  The hospital corridor is filled with noise – the ringing of phones, the murmur of voices, the click and ping of equipment, the sound of footsteps on the linoleum floor. People in white coats and sky-blue uniforms stream by her. Mel leans against the wall, a red foolscap file under her arm, head dipped, she flicks through the messages on her mobile phone.

  Without warning the door opposite jerks open. The consultant, a lean man in a tailored black suit hurries through. Long blond dreads cluster behind his neck.

  ‘Brandon De Costa. I’m one of the Lead Clinicians in the Neurosurgical Unit.’ His dark brown eyes focus in on her. ‘The patient is under my care.’

  His accent throws her off centre, he reads the look on her face, a smile rises to his lips. He lets out a low laugh.

  ‘For some reason, people are always surprised by my accent – I’m a white Barbadian.’ He proffers his hand, she grasps it in her own and returns his smile.

  ‘DCI Mel Phillips – born in Manchester, mother Italian. The victim has been listed as a missing person since 1973, we are very eager to talk with her as you can imagine.’

  A look of surprise flickers across his face. ‘Right, well. That might not be for some time.’ He squints at her, nods his head. ‘We have an office just along here on the right, we can talk there.’ He takes off at a pace. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have long, though.’

  He holds the door open for her, lets her through first. Mel looks around the room, it’s the size of a public toilet and just as welcoming. Sparsely furnished, there are three hard-backed chairs tucked around an arm’s length circular table. In the bay of the window is a coffee machine, beside it a pack of bottled waters.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Thanks – just water.’

  He hands her a bottle from the pack. ‘No glasses, I’m afraid.’

  She places the foolscap file on the table, takes a long gulp
from the water bottle then wipes her mouth. ‘I’d like you to describe the extent of her injuries if you would, and if possible, give me an idea of when we can expect to be able talk with her? If I can just say that at first, we thought it was a straightforward hit and run, an accident influenced by the weather. Now we have intelligence that leads us to believe there might be other factors at play.’

  Brandon Da Costa puts his elbows on the table, leans forward. Mel wonders how long he has been at work, his eyelids flutter as though he’s struggling to keep them open.

  ‘Other factors?’

  She looks him directly in the face. He’s not going to like this. ‘I’m truly sorry but I’m not at liberty to say at this moment in time.’

  His mouth hardens, he balances his chin on his fist, lets out a sigh. ‘And her name?’

  Mel shakes her head, ‘Not even that at this present time – I’m sorry.’

  He lets out another sigh. ‘In layman’s terms, the head injury was severe. We’ve put her in a medically induced coma that should reduce the swelling on the brain and allow us to treat her injuries. It would be imprudent to comment on whether or not she’ll be in a position to talk, if ever.’ He looks down at his watch. His eyelids flutter again. ‘My shift is due to finish in about thirty minutes, I need to do a handover before I leave. Sorry, but that’s it.’

  ‘We understand, truly we do. I won’t keep you long. Could you tell me about this?’ She takes the medical report out of the foolscap file she’d laid between them. She points to a paragraph near the bottom of page one.

  He nods his head, reads the paragraph in question. ‘There’s evidence of pre-existing injuries. Probably a physical attack. We see that sort of injury all the time. Mainly in women – domestic abuse. Her nose has been broken; t looks like she’s had surgery to repair it. Three of her fingers on her right hand have been broken, they don’t appear to have reset properly and it’s likely she didn’t have full use of her hand in that regard. I’ve got the x-rays if you’d like to see them. All the injuries are roughly of the same age.’