She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  Mel flicks open her notebook, jots down a few notes.

  ‘And could you just talk me through this,’ she points to a long paragraph at the end of page two. ‘The one relating to the brain injury. The technical terms, just so I understand.’

  He nods his head. She notices small patches of skin bare on his scalp. Alopecia?

  Five minutes later they are finished, the consultant stands up, puts his arms above his head, stretches from side to side.

  ‘My back doesn’t like me sitting down for long,’ he says with a thin smile, his humour slowly returning.

  ‘Thanks for all your help. I realise you’re pressed for time.’

  ‘She’s up having a CT scan right now; that will give us more detail, especially about the head injury.’

  ‘Thank you for that, it was very helpful indeed. When do you think she can be brought out of the coma?’

  ‘It’s a “wait and see” process.’

  ‘As soon as you plan to do it, could you let me know?’

  ‘Of course. And I’d like her name as soon as possible.’

  She nods her head, offers him her card. ‘You can contact me on that.’ The consultant hesitates for a moment, places the card in the top pocket of his coat. Moments later they both disappear down the corridor, he turns right for Neurological Unit, and she left – for the exit.

  30

  Chemicals whoosh around her body like leaves in a flood, reality and nightmare swirl in the current.

  Her eyelids are swollen shut.

  She pulls her knees away from her chest. She can barely breathe. Her feet catch against cold metal. A thick nylon carpet scratches the skin on her thigh. She’s lying on her side. There’s something behind her. She can’t reach it.

  Her mouth is full of blood… her blood… the sticky sweetness covers her tongue. She tries to spit it out. Her front teeth are loose against her top lip. Someone has hurt her. She can’t remember who they are or why they did it. Shadows rush by her, they pull and tug at her hair.

  Broken—she knows she is broken, broken bones and something else, something so terrifying she has blocked it out completely. She cannot keep in the loud wail that sears through her every nerve. Her left hand traps the noise from escaping her mouth, as if only her fingers know that she needs to be saved from herself. As though only they know that whoever did this to her is still near.

  Waiting.

  The tips of her fingers move over her face. The bridge of her nose loosens to her touch. A sickening pain pulses up through her forehead. She wants to cry out, beat her fists against the hard-metal roof above her. She’s going to die. Whatever they plan to do with her. Whoever they are. It will be bad. She must get out of there. The only senses she has are hearing and touch. And even touch hurts. She cannot unfold the fingers of her right hand. Not without pain.

  She holds her breath, hears an engine. Then music, louder and louder, by each turn of the wheel. The bass so loud that her eardrums hurt. She screams out for help, the music starts again, it jars her bones.

  ‘Please let me out, please let me out…’ she sobs the words out repeatedly. Her words are nothing to the beats of the music.

  She runs her hands down over her chest and thighs. She’s naked except for her knickers and bra. Her mouth goes dry – a feeling of dread saturates her; what happened to her clothes? Who took them? Why can’t she remember any of this? What did they do to her? What has she done?

  The car stops suddenly. She falls back against something. A sack? She tries to feel what is behind her, the fingers of her left-hand wriggle and probe through her thighs, there’s something there. There’s something soft, there’s material, that’s what it is. Her fingertips brush against the weave. Her heart bashes against her chest. She knows what it is. It’s a coat. They’ve put someone else in here with her. It must be the girl she’d heard screaming. She’s quiet now – too quiet. She touches her leg.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  The engine roars, the car leaps forward again.

  ‘Are you okay? We’ve got to get out of here.’ Her words clogged by blood and loose teeth. ‘Come on, wake up!’ She’s got to rouse them, she leans back, nudges them in the stomach with her elbow. There’s an urgency she cannot control. She’s sure it’s the girl. Perhaps they’ve been knocked out. Perhaps they were both knocked out. Did he put something over my face? Were they drugged? She can’t remember.

  If only she can bring her round. They can help each other escape. If there are two of them, they’ll be stronger. They can do that; she knows they can. All they must do is to pretend to be dead.

  She inches herself over onto her left side, her knees scrap against metal. She faces her, faces it. Tentatively she reaches out, her fingers find a pair of shoeless stone-cold feet. She pushes her knees against the girl’s chest, tries to hurt her awake, she tries time and time again; her voice is hoarse from screaming. Why can’t she wake her?

  Wake up! Wake up! She screams until she has no breath left.

  It’s her fault—it must be her fault. The girl was alive earlier – she’d woken up and cried for help. Then something must have happened. What? What happened? Now the girl is dead. It must be her fault. It must be.

  The monitor above her head skips a beat, then another, before falling back into rhythm.

  ‘Just a dream, it will be just a dream,’ says the nurse as she carefully smears Vaseline on Veronica’s lips. ‘A nice dream.’

  31

  Mel picks at her teeth with the nail of her little finger, a remnant of her breakfast bagel stuck between her upper left premolars. ‘Family Liaison contacted the Lightfoots yet?’

  Badger nods his head. ‘They spoke to the sister. The mother isn’t well – she has Dementia or Alzheimer’s.’ Dark-haired, the flash of white hair in his widow’s peak gives him the unique appearance that’s earned him his nickname.

  A look of sadness crosses Mel’s face, after years of waiting, Jeannie Lightfoot was unlikely to comprehend that her daughter had been found alive, just. ‘We’ll need to interview the sister at some point, leave it a day or two – let the news settle.’ She moves out of her office into the incident room, eases her bottom onto the edge of a desk. The team are already in place for the day’s briefing.

  ‘Right, team, according to the files, Veronica went missing after work on Friday the fifth of January 1973. Karen Alright disappeared from the bedroom she shared with her sister, Thomasine Albright between nine p.m. on the sixth and seven p.m. the following morning. They lived within three or four miles of each other. Records show that Veronica’s work colleagues stated they thought she was going clubbing with some friends. She was eighteen at the time she went missing, lived with her grandmother in Englewick. A village six miles from the burial site. It wasn’t unusual for Veronica to stay out over the weekend. Back then, her grandmother said she’d normally turn up on Sunday afternoon, just after two o’clock. She had no idea where Veronica used to go other than she thought she’d been staying over at a friend’s house and that they’d been to a nightclub. There were several clubs in Bolton at that time.’

  Sam pulls his face out of his cup of coffee. ‘No phone calls?’

  ‘No, no phone at home, not unusual back then,’ she carries on. ‘Karen Albright had not long turned fifteen, she lived on her parent's farm up on the moors. According to the families, Veronica and Karen didn’t know each other. Different schools, different ages. At the time, no witnesses came forward for either case, there was the odd bit of gossip, but nothing substantiated. The officer investigating the disappearance of Veronica Lightfoot thought she was a runaway. He even made a note on file. He said she was a drug user, he found some Dexedrine tablets in her belongings at her parents’ house. Her mother denied that at the time. She said Veronica didn’t do drugs and nor would she run away from her grandmother. She said they were too close for that. She also said that the tablets definitely hadn’t been there before the search. She complained but no one listened.

  So,
what else do we have?’

  Badger holds up his hand. ‘That’s it for the moment. We’re waiting on some Section 29s so we can access the medical files.’

  Twenty minutes later Sam knocks on Mel’s door. ‘Some hairdresser has fronted up, holding onto the front page of the newspaper. Says he lives next door to her, recognised the coat. One of his girls has one just like it. They’ve not really spoken much; her cat is always in and out of his place though.’ Arms folded, he stands half in half out of her office, his back leaning against the frame, ‘I got a Warrant signed by Dave Forbes.’ He looks at the pile of interview notes on her desk. ‘I know you’re busy but—’

  ‘Definitely.’ Mel puts down her pen, gets to her feet, grabs her handbag. ‘No time like the present.’

  Veronica Lightfoot’s home is like a Christmas card. Red bricked with white shutters at the windows and a topiarised olive tree either side of a shiny black door.

  ‘A nice picture of suburbia, isn’t it?’ says Sam, closing the gate behind them. The front garden, drenched in snow, is littered with tiny paw prints. Fleetingly, he wonders if the chap next door has taken in the cat like he promised.

  They each pull on a pair of latex gloves. Mel drops her head down to look at the locking mechanism on the door, a Yale deadlock. She recognises it. Pulls the evidence bag from her pocket. Four keys dangle from the running medal keyring. Two brass keys and two small silver ones. Both sets appear identical, but experience has taught her that they probably aren’t. She tries one of the brass keys, it sticks, then tries the other, the lock releases, the door opens with a high-pitched squeak. Her right-hand reaches for the light switch. A pale-yellow glow emanates from an expensive-looking shade hanging from an ornamental ceiling rose. And bleach, she’d know it anywhere, the smell so strong it catches in her throat.

  She steps inside, stands still for a moment, takes in the silence, lets it wash over her. Her eyes skim over the surfaces, the hallway is well-cared for, not a speck of dust on the skirting, no scratches on the walls. The floor is laid with original tiles, geometric shapes in blues, browns, blacks and pale cream. Against the left wall is an oak staircase; the ornate bannister running up to the first floor and along the upper hall; the candy twist spindles gleam with polish. Mel nods to herself, even the runners on the stair carpet have been restored.

  She hears a cough behind her and she takes a step forward.

  ‘Oooh, very nice, this must have cost a few bob.’ Sam stamps his feet on the front doorstep, then bends over to put on a pair of overshoes, he hands a pair to Mel.

  ‘Looks like a show home to me.’ Mel drops the keyring back into the evidence bag and returns it to her jacket pocket. She leans against the doorframe as she slips on the overshoes. ‘Let’s have a look around then, you do upstairs, I’ll do down here.’

  She slides open the drawers of the hallway table, her fingers slowly move around the contents. Charger cables, safety pins, pens. In the next drawer, a Garmin running watch, an unopened packet of Power Beans.

  Sam takes the stairs one at a time, careful not to put his hand on the handrail. Mel opens the first door on the right, into the living room. The décor is creams, natural fabrics – a wood burning stove sits in a contemporary fireplace. A badly folded lilac throw lies over the back of the settee, it looks out of place, out of order in a room that appears, at first glance, so very orderly. On the side table, there is a pile of magazines, on top of them a manual for an alarm system. She cocks her head, listens.

  Oh shit! Probably set on silent.

  She walks back into the hallway. The alarm box is set behind the door.

  That’s why we missed it.

  There are no flashing lights, no lights at all. It’s not been set. As she turns, she spots an envelope hanging from the letterbox. A charity fundraiser by the look of it. It’s addressed to a Lily Probisher. She takes out her phone, takes a photograph of it, lays the envelope on the hallway table.

  Lily Probisher – lodger? Previous tenant?

  She goes back into the living room, casts her eyes over the walls, nothing personal, no photographs. She hears the toilet flush.

  Shit! Stupid bastard, why did he do that?

  She knows, he knows, that peeing on the street is more appropriate than peeing on or in anything related to a criminal investigation, or in this case, the home of a victim. She goes upstairs, sees him exiting the bathroom, his fingers doing up his flies. The colour drained from his face.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t wait. I’m still getting…’ He shuffles back into the toilet, his hand on the buckle of his belt. He shouts through the door, ‘The wife’s got the Norovirus, I think—’

  ‘Spare me the details,’ her voice is emphatic.

  Beyond the bathroom are two rooms. Mel enters the one on the right. It’s sparsely furnished: a double bed, pastel colours, no wardrobe, no cupboards, one bedside table, a dressing table. She checks the back of the door, key on the inside, four bolts above the lock.

  ‘There’s something off in this room,’ she says to herself. ‘You can tell there are no kids; this place is bloody spotless.’

  She jumps, her heart races. ‘For God’s sake, don’t creep around behind me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ A glum look spreads across Sam’s face.

  ‘Never mind. Her eyes rove around the room. ‘The last time my place was as clean as this was when I bought it. I’m not even convinced we’ll find any fingerprints in here.’ She gestures towards the door. ‘Someone is afraid of someone getting in.’

  Sam raises an eyebrow, ‘A lot of locks for a bedroom.’

  The room next door has a wall of fitted wardrobes, all with clear glass sliding doors and no other furniture. There are vacuum marks on the oatmeal carpet.

  Mel goes downstairs. The kitchen is much the same, pristine, not a crumb in sight. Three large Velux windows let in the light. A neatly laid out garden looks in through folding doors. The white quartz worktops are bare of clutter, not even a kettle. The hardwood floor gleams like a chestnut. Sleek white gloss cupboard doors run along one wall. In the centre of the room, an island unit houses a sink and a six-ring hob.

  I’d kill for a kitchen like this, thinks Mel to herself, running her fingers over the worktop. Everything about this place reeks of someone with a whole host of personality problems. Someone with an unquenchable desire for control.

  Sam opens cupboard after cupboard. Each one an example of organised living; cups stacked one upon another – every handle off to the right, tins of food in date order, crystal glasses sorted by shape and size, see-through plastic boxes filled with a variety of breakfast foods, cornflakes, muesli, shredded wheat, all side by side, all full, in date and labelled in neat capital letters.

  Mel opens the dishwasher, there is nothing inside. It’s the cleanest dishwasher she has ever seen. She sniffs inside it – bleach.

  ‘Are the rooms you checked like this?’

  Sam gives a thin smile. ‘From what I saw, yes. Not a thing out of place. I get little sense of who lives here, it’s weird, everything is too clean, too orderly. There’s a library or study upstairs, the shelves filled with self-help books. Hundreds of them. All in plastic covers and filed in alphabetical order.’

  ‘Self-help?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘What about the other bedrooms – anything in the drawers, under the bed?’

  ‘Not anything that tells us much about her, you don’t need to be a shrink to know she has a serious case of OCD. Either that or she has a bloody good cleaner and I’d like her name. Even her knicker drawer is sorted by colour. Oh—’ The blood drains from his face, he puts his hand over his stomach, goes for his belt, sprints up the stairs again.

  As the door to bathroom slams shut, she hears him let out a groan. She looks under the sink for a bottle of bleach just in case.

  A dark shape catches her eye. A thin black and white cat, tail erect, presses itself up against the French windows, it stands on its hind legs, cries to be let in.

  She hunts around in the
drawers for a key before noticing it was already in the door. As she opens it up, the cat shoots between her legs and up the stairs.

  Sam’s footsteps sound behind her, she turns to see him walking down the stairs, cat under one arm, a book in his free hand.

  ‘Self-Help? I thought you might need this,’ he hands her the book. The Paradigm Shift – What if I’m Addicted to Me? is typed in big letters on the front cover, he grins. ‘It’s got five-star reviews, says so on the back.’

  ‘You cheeky bastard!’ she lets out low laugh, shakes her head, hands the book back to him. ‘I hope you’ve flushed and cleaned the toilet.’

  Sam nods his head, strokes the cat’s back, before shutting it in the kitchen. She checks her watch; they’ve been there nearly an hour.

  ‘We’ll get a team of CSIs to come back and process the place properly.’

  ‘What about the cat?’

  ‘Not me.’ She can already feel the wheeze in her chest.

  ‘I know,’ he looks her in the eye, ‘allergic. I suppose I’ll have to take care of it then.’

  She smiles. ‘You can always ring the RSPCA tomorrow morning. By the way, I found this,’ she shows him the photograph of the envelope. ‘Someone called Lily Probisher either lives, or has lived, here.’

  ‘Could be a lodger?’

  ‘That’s what I thought too.’

  ‘Or,’ their voices chime together, ‘an assumed name.’

  ‘Very likely. Maybe this isn’t just a hit and run after all,’ says Sam.

  Mel notices a twinkle in his eye. She hopes the Sam she used to know is on his way back.

  32

  The incident team hadn’t turned up to the search the house. Relieved, Thomasine doesn’t ring to find out why not. By four o’clock, dead on her feet, she plonks herself down on the settee in the kitchen. She wolfs down a piece of toast and marmite.