She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  ‘I know how that feels, it was the end for my dad. He didn’t even make forty-one.

  Belinda’s eyes widen in surprise.

  ‘We’re not meant to talk about personal lives, unprofessional. And besides, it’s my job to help find other peoples’ loved ones.’ A wry smile crosses Thomasine’s lips.

  Belinda’s eyes suddenly streak with tears.

  ‘I never knew, I just thought—’

  ‘I know,’ Thomasine shrugs her shoulders, ‘you and everyone else.’ She places her glass down on the table. ‘I was wondering if you still had any of Charlie’s things?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not much. Like you know, the coppers take most things, they’re probably in a box somewhere deep in the bowels of the police station.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘There is one thing though, I’d taken it before she left, I thought they were crayons, I’d been drawing with them.’ Her eyes soften. ‘I kept them as a keep-sake, stupid I know.’

  ‘Have you still got them?’ Thomasine tries not to sound too eager.

  Belinda hurries out of the room, her previous reticence evaporated. The dog starts barking again. Minutes later she is downstairs. She offers out her hand, opens her fingers. In the centre of her palm is a yellow tin with a white daisy on it.

  Thomasine feels the air inside her lungs contract. It reminds her of something, she wracks her brain trying to think of it as she takes the tin out of her hand.

  ‘Is it important?’ Belinda leans forward, waits for an answer.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Thomasine’s turns the tin over in her hand. Her fingers tremble. ‘Look, I’m really sorry but I need to get back home, to check something, I’ll be in touch, I promise.’ She lurches to her feet. ‘Can I take this?’

  ‘As long as you let me have it back, it’s the only thing I’ve got of hers.’

  She promises that she will. After a quick thank you, she’s out of the door. Once in the car, she drops the tin into a clear plastic bag. She doesn’t know why. The chances of any prints other than her own and Belinda’s are remote. Not after all these years.

  All the way back she keeps repeating the words in her head, please, please, please let me be right.

  She’s almost home when she remembers that Sam Ingleby took everything for processing. She carries on back to the farm regardless. She can check that the press hasn’t been all over the place.

  It still feels strange not to be greeted by the dogs. It seems so silent at the farm, just the birds cawing on the roof, the wind whistling through the barn. For once the hairs on the back of Thomasine’s neck start to rise. What if someone is waiting for her? What if someone has broken into the cottage. The person who took Karen. Murdered her? Perhaps they’ve come back. She lets out a nervous laugh.

  But what for? There’s only you here now, stupid cow.

  The darkness of the hallway pales as she opens the front door. She stands totally still for a moment, listens for movement. A blackbird squawks as it lands on the chimney.

  She keeps her coat and gloves on. First things first, she thinks to herself. She turns on the lights, plugs in the radiators she brought up last week. Tries to take the edge off the cold. Then she freezes. Upstairs, a door opens and shut. Her legs go weak; she’s positive she’d shut all the doors before she left.

  She creeps up the stairs, a shiver goes down her back, rats, bats, what if they’d managed their way through the roof and into the house. She lets out a gasp, footsteps, she can hear them overhead. She almost jumps out of her skin. Her mouth goes utterly dry. Her mother’s rifle is in the pantry, she hid it there, she could use it. The footsteps get nearer.

  Someone must have broken in, not through the front door, she’d just unlocked that. They must have come in the back way; she wants to kick herself for being so unobservant. Have they heard her? Did they hear her come into the house?

  Thomasine continues up the stairs, the loft door swings open and shut. The floorboards squeal and moan above her. Perhaps they’ve not heard her, the wind makes a lot of noise up there, the rattling of the roof tiles drowns everything out.

  She takes the first step, closes the door behind her, at least they won’t be able to see her silhouette. Places her feet carefully, trying not to make a sound. Seconds later she eases her head above the attic floor, just enough to see what’s going on, see who’s in there. A pale-yellow light moves around the room; he, she is down at the opposite end of the nook. She ducks her head down, holds her breath. She has no idea how big they are, she’ll need an advantage, will need to take them by surprise. It takes her seconds to come up with a plan.

  Tentatively, Thomasine makes her way down stairs, checks for signs of a break-in. There are none. Whoever they are, they have a key, or they’ve picked the lock. She picks up her bag, slings it over her shoulder, makes her way silently back upstairs. The ceiling above her groans beneath their weight. She slides open her mother’s underwear drawer, takes out a pair of her thick nylon tights. Tucks them in the band of her jeans. She draws the curtains; the room sinks into a dark grey gloom. Her fingers wrap around the small cylindrical tube in the outside pocket of her handbag. She takes it out, presses the cap, drops it at the bottom of the stairs. The piercing noise screeches in the silence.

  Heavy footsteps clatter across the floor – then a thud – the sound of a body falling to the floor. It’s a man, it must be a man, the weight, the ungainly movements. Then the scrambling of feet, the footsteps hammer down the stairs, his hands scrape along the wall, the door explodes open. She’s waiting on the other side, she swings her torch into the middle of his face, hits him hard on the bridge of his nose. The wail of a wounded animal bounces off the wall, he drops to his knees. She swings the torch again, to the back of the head. The blow knocks him forward. The toe of her boot hits him centre spine. His hands flay about as he hits the floor, her heel digs deep into his shoulder blades as she wrenches his arms back, binds her mother’s tights around his wrists. She jerks the nylon like catgut, binds his ankles then – in one quick sweep – ties his hands and feet together. His body immobilised. She grabs his hair, pulls back his head, glares at him.

  ‘Who–Paul? A look of incredulity springs to her face. ‘What the—’

  ‘I can’t b-b-breath, g-g-get off me.’ Tears mix with blood as they stream down his face, over his sweatshirt onto the floor; sobs rattle out of his chest.

  Her heart pounding in her ears, she fumbles with the knots she wound tight only a few minutes earlier. He slumps forward, his body juddering in shock.

  ‘Shit – I’m sorry! I thought you were—’

  She grabs him a towel out of the linen chest. He holds it to his nose.

  ‘Why did you hit me?’

  ‘Why do you think, Paul?’ Her voice clipped, she helps him to his feet.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘I come home and hear someone in our loft, an intruder. Surely, you’re not that naive to think I’d just say hello, tell them to just get on with it, help themselves. I’d no idea who it was, I just heard footsteps in the loft. This beggars belief…’

  ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘You certainly didn’t think, Paul. I’m a police officer, I’m trained to respond. You’re bloody lucky I didn’t have my taser on me. I could have done you some serious harm. I could have…’ She looks at his face, the penny drops.

  Of course, I should have guessed, I should have anticipated this, he wanted to know what I’d found up in the loft, wanted to see if there was anything else. He’d even asked if there was anything about him in the diary.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs, have a proper talk, I still can’t believe you’ve done this.’ She shakes her head in exasperation. ‘Anyway, how did you get in?’

  He coughs blood into the towel, his voice is muffled.

  ‘Yer mam left a spare front door key in the barn.’

  ‘Great,’ Thomasine shakes her head in disbelief, ‘she never told me that.’

  He follows her downstairs, she soaks th
e towel under the cold water, bright pink blood seeps out. She gestures towards the kitchen table.

  ‘Sit there.’

  He sits down without a fuss, face streaked with dust and blood, his skin the colour of beetroot. Tentatively, she feels the bridge of his nose between her fingers. He lets out a whimper. Her patience frays. ‘Don’t be a wally. You’re okay, it’s not broken.’

  She makes them both a drink, they sit in silence, their hands wrapped around pint pots of tea. Thomasine breaks the ice first.

  ‘It’s about the diary, isn’t it? What did you think it would say about you?’

  A sullen look transforms his face. ‘I d-d-don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t mess me about, did you see Karen with someone? It might be important.’

  Purple shadows are forming around his eyes; he’ll have two black eyes before the evening’s out. She wonders how he’ll explain that to his father.

  ‘Not at first, it was November time when I saw them together, I can’t exactly remember when. It was when the weather had changed. It was r-r-raining. I spotted them out in the fields. I was out hunting for r-r-rabbits with the dogs.’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘It must have been a weekend. I saw them walking up through the back field. Her and him, he had a beard, I remember that. I remember thinking she was with an old bloke. Why would she be with an old bloke?’ He looks out through the kitchen window. ‘They went in the old bomb shelter – y-y-you know, that one she locked yer in. I was just curious. It was the once, that’s all.’

  The memory of the bomb shelter flashes into her conscious – a rat invested hovel – a shudder runs down her spine.

  ‘So, what did you see?’

  He averts his eyes, picks up his tea, his hands are shaking. ‘I didn’t see anything, they went inside and shut the door.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ He snivels; wipes his nose on his sleeve. Right in front of her he transforms into his fourteen-year-old self.

  ‘Yes, you can, Paul. I can tell that from the tone of your voice.’

  ‘Well, I heard things, laughing, things like that?’

  ‘Did he rape her?’

  ‘No, no.’ He has a look of horror on his face. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then what happened next?’

  ‘I heard her cry out. She told him to stop.’ He averts his gaze again. ‘One of the dogs barked, I couldn’t shut it up. I heard her calling me like she used to. “Spaz, Spaz – go away, Spaz.” She sounded afraid.’ His eyes glint with unshed tears. He hated that name and she knew it. He looks down at the floor, the sadness that this particular memory brings him written all over his face. ‘Yer could never tell with her. Anyway, I ran off.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell anyone about it?’

  ‘I saw her at school a couple of days later, she p-p-pulled me aside, told me not to tell anyone. I know yer p-p-probably think I’m a coward, but I didn’t know what to do, I were t-t-trapped.’ His words rush out. ‘I couldn’t tell anybody; she would have known. My life would have been sheer bloody misery.’

  ‘Okay,’ she breathes out. Takes the black and white photograph out of her bag. She slides it towards him. Points to the man in the centre of the dance floor. ‘Is this him?’

  He stares at it for a few moments.

  ‘Yeah, th-th-that’s him.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ve had that face in me head ever since.’

  She let out a low groan, all these years wasted.

  ‘Where did yer get that picture from?’ His voice cuts through her thoughts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The picture, where did yer find it?’

  ‘On the internet.’ She leaves it at that. The trust she’d always had in him dissipates into thin air.

  ‘Did you take anything out of the loft?’

  He shakes his head, stands up, clears his pockets. Two keys clatter onto the table, his own and the one from the barn.

  Her fingers wrap around the latter. ‘I think I’d best have this one back.’

  His face flushes. ‘I’m sorry, Thom, r-r-really. I should have talked to yer about it. I just—’

  ‘It’s done now, let’s move on. Come on, I’ll take you home. I’ve got some more work to do.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  She shakes head. ‘No, I’m on top of it. I’ll take you home. We can face your dad together.’ At least that was like when they were kids.

  He gives a weak smile. ‘It’s alright, I’ll tell him meself.’

  45

  The welcome aroma of fresh coffee washes over Mel as she enters the meeting room. The team are already there. ‘Sam’s on a call to Lily Probisher, the real one. I’ll bring him up to speed when he gets back.’ Her eyes rove around the room. Scattered on the table are coffee cups on placemats, a large plate of blueberry muffins and a tape recorder on temporary loan from one of the interview rooms. ‘Best get a start on this, we’ve got a lot to cover.’ She eases herself down in the vacant seat at the head of the table.

  Jenny Welbeck’s eyelids flutter shut as she downs a couple of tablets with a glass of water.

  Mel leans over towards her, touches her lightly on the arm. ‘You alright?’

  ‘Just a bit tired, this job was a bit unsettling, stays in your mind, if I’m honest.’ She sinks back into her seat, inclines her head towards the tape recorder. ‘Long job, we might need to bring a few more transcribers on board.’

  Mel nods in agreement. ‘I’ll have a word.’

  Kinsi switches off her mobile phone and stuffs it deep into the bowels of the large black and gold Gucci handbag hanging on the back of her chair. Badger places a cup of coffee in front of Mel. She looks up at him, gives him a quick nod and a smile.

  ‘Let’s start then. Jenny kindly transcribed the first ten tapes out of the box. No small task given the age of them. Those transcripts will be handed out at the end.’ Mel looks around the room, ‘I thought it would be useful for the whole team to listen to them together. So, notebooks out and pens ready, folks.’ She gives a quick nod to Badger, who presses the play button.

  An uncomfortable burst of static fills the room. Jenny swiftly interjects. ‘The tape has probably been damaged at some point.’ Then a clicking noise, as though the record button was being switched off and on. The room fills with the sound of rustling paper, a cap being pulled off the top of a pen.

  ‘How are you today, Lily?’ a woman, the voice is accented, nasal, American.

  ‘I’m not Lily.’ Another voice, a woman, disinterested, irritated, Mel can’t quite decide which, there’s a trace of a northern accent, middle class.

  ‘Who are you right now?’ There is no sarcasm in the American’s voice.

  ‘I’m me, Veronica.’ Agitation rises in her voice. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You can call me Rosalee,’ There’s a smile in her voice. ‘We aren’t very formal here. I’m a psychiatrist… your psychiatrist. My role is to help you get better.’

  There’s a bubbling sound from a water cooler in the background.

  ‘Get better?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve been very sick.’

  ‘I have?’ Veronica sounds disbelieving.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No,’ there’s a sadness in Veronica’s voice that tugs at Mel, and that’s rare.

  ‘We help you make sense of those voices in your head. The one that you say is called Veronica.’

  ‘There are no other voices in my head. Veronica is me, I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘Who is Lily?’

  ‘Lily is who I had to become, I had to hide. If he finds me…’ she stops speaking, there’s a sound of water being poured into a glass.

  ‘In case who finds you?’

  ‘Him, he’s looking for me,’ she takes in a breath. ‘I got away, he won’t like that if he ever finds out. He thinks I’m dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Veronica ignores her question. ‘He won’t let me get aw
ay. I know what he did.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me about Lily then, who is she?’

  ‘She’s the fake one.’

  ‘How do you know that, Veronica.’

  ‘Because I took her name, she didn’t need it anymore, I did.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t want to talk, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘What’s his name, Veronica – this man who’ll hurt you?

  There’s a pause, the tape makes a crackling noise. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘What can you remember?’

  There’s a choking noise, a sob rising out of her throat. ‘His hands, I remember his hands,’ she swallows, takes a breath, ‘he had long fingers, I could feel them as he put his hands around my neck.’

  ‘Tell me about his face, what does he look like?’

  ‘He’s—’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I want to go back to my room,’ she sounds flat – weary.

  ‘We have a drug that will help relax you, it won’t hurt, just a prick.’

  Someone sniggers, there’s a muffled laugh. Mel looks towards it – Kev’s face straightens immediately.

  ‘A drug?’

  ‘Yes, a sedative.’ the smoothness of the American’s voice cuts the ice.

  ‘What kind of sedative?’ the sense of fear in her question is palpable.

  ‘No need for you to know that right now. It will help you remember; you’ll be safe – I promise you that.’

  ‘Drugs do bad stuff to me.’ Her voice drops to a whisper. It’s impossible to hear what she then said.

  ‘Your friend, the one who brought you here, Ellen. She tells us that your name is Lily, that she’s known you for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘Ellen?’ Veronica is incredulous. ‘Who’s Ellen?’ Her voice is on edge.