She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  Leaves the room without a backward glance.

  59

  At least the rain has stopped.

  Thomasine hates London, hates the crush of people; lemmings rushing to some unknown destination, roadworks everywhere.

  ‘Turn right,’ the electronic voice of the satnav pipes up. ‘You have reached your destination.’

  On one side of the road is a row of garages, the other a run of viaduct with units built into the arches. The slip of white paper in her hand notes the address, 4B. There’s a door next to a roller-shutter garage, both painted a dull grey. Thomasine sits in the car for a while, watches for any sign of life. After a while, she eases herself out of the car, strolls towards 4B, in her pocket a picking hook. She knocks on the door, knocks again. No answer.

  She looks up and down the street before sliding the hook into the lock, a few twists, a click and it’s open. With tens of unlabelled keys at the farm, she’s had plenty of practise lately. Her mother didn’t believe in labels, not for keys anyway.

  ‘I know what goes with what.’

  It’s like a prank she planned for after her death, something to chortle over. Thomasine feels a knot in her stomach. Her mother’s voice now a constant companion, getting louder and louder.

  There’s a flash of light as she walks through the door. She jumps back—blinded by a row of enormous halogen lights that hang from the ceiling. It takes her seconds to get rid of the green patches of light that blur her vision. Whitewashed brick walls rise high above her. The place is cavernous. She turns her head, looks over her shoulder. Quickly glances through the door before locking it behind her.

  She takes the place in. It looks like a crime scene – the rugs, the walls, the concrete floors, all splattered in dark red paint. She slips on a pair of latex gloves. Turns off her sense of smell – she’d learnt to do that years ago. It went with the job – half-consumed corpses have an odour that not everyone can bear. She walks around the room, stopping now and again to explore whatever is within hand’s reach. There’s a pungent odour of methylated spirit and rotting food that cloys in her throat. It stinks like a pub that’s not been cleaned in weeks. A mound of empty wine bottles lie in a plastic box just right of the sink; red, white, cheap, expensive. Billy Bennett clearly has a drink problem.

  Next to it, a black bag filled with empty pizza boxes, half-eaten chunks of food, chips, bananas, burgers, gangrenous bread that’s a putrid olive green. If it hadn’t been winter, there would be maggots and flies everywhere. At the back there’s a small oblong room with a white door; a cheap metal plate marks it as the toilet. She opens the door, shuts it just as quickly. One look at the toilet was enough to turn her stomach. In the other corner, a metal sink caked in paint; the bowl filled with unwashed cutlery and crockery. Above it, several shelves laden with painting supplies. There’s a pile of rags—they stink of methylated spirit. No, something else, she lifts one to her nose, her head spins a little. The smell is familiar, she can’t quite name it.

  Thomasine hadn’t expected him to be an artist. Dug deeper, I should have dug deeper. She’d been impulsive, set off without thinking it through. That’s not like me. Not like me at all.

  She casts her eyes over the paintings. They’re not to her taste; too depressing, too dark. Rather weird. Dark red swirls, mouldy greens, gloomy browns. Unsettling images of mould, mushrooms and decay.

  Exhibition posters litter the walls; their yellowed paper curling at the edges. All advertising his own work. His name in bold letters in the foreground. Some go back over twenty years. She wonders when Billy Bennett became Robert William Bennett.

  In the centre of the room is an Ikea daybed – the duvet is covered in stains and reeks of stale air and sweat.

  There’s a large antique oak easel with wheels on it. On the floor beside it, there is what appears to be a matching box, both riddled with woodworm. She opens the lid, inside there’s a jumble of business cards and photographs. She takes them out. Most mean nothing to her – names she doesn’t recognise. Melancholy landscapes of God knows where. She gives each one a quick glance before moving on to the next.

  Halfway through, a photograph stops her in her tracks – a black and white. Her stomach flips—time stops. Karen dressed in summer shorts, legs tanned, her hair tangled by the wind. Stood amidst the long grass. Seemingly unaware that she was the centre of someone’s attention.

  It’s him. It must be him.

  Then another—Candy Wharton, she recognises her immediately. In a nightclub, standing just off to the left of him. Then several photographs of what might be a reunion. A group of middle-aged people stand in the midst of a dance floor. Smiling, posing – dressed in Northern Soul garb.

  She takes a copy of each one, then places them back in the box.

  Her feet create an echo as she moves around the room, even her breathing sounds loud. Shrouded in cotton bedsheets, four enormous canvases hang high on the wall. As she stands in front of the first one, she takes a small torch out of her pocket. Reaching up, she lifts the sheet, shines the light on the canvas.

  ‘What the—’

  Her legs crumple beneath her.

  60

  On the way to the car, he’d taken a detour, drawn into a corner shop by the potent aroma of turmeric and coriander. The girl behind the counter scrutinised his face as he passed her—she wrinkled nose. Did he smell? Her long, jet-black plaited hair swung across her back as she focused her attention on the closed-circuit TV fixed on the wall above her head.

  He felt an uncomfortable shift, he saw her watch him as he walked up and down the aisles. She had taken too much interest in him. Her eyes lingered on his face. Had the police released a photograph of him?

  That foolish bitch from Liverpool said there was a photograph of him and Karen. That the sister, the one with the funny name that Karen had taken the piss out of relentlessly, had a copy of it. He hoped his little gift has distracted them for a while, he knew the card would come in handy. It was as though he was applying the fine detail to a painting, a tiny touch of white in the lens of the eye to reflect the light.

  He’d wondered for a moment whether it would be better to disappear, right then and there, into thin air. Just as Veronica had. His fingers curl at the thought of her, if it wasn’t for her, none of this would have happened. And that photograph, if only he’d known about it. It’s years out of date, what good will that be? He can easily say that they just had one dance and that was it. He’d chided himself for the bout of negativity, bought a sliced white loaf and some ham. Smiled at the girl as he handed over the money. She didn’t smile back.

  61

  They play The Name Game. Veronica, propped up against the pillows, smiles. Barely lined, her face has a translucent quality to it, blonde eyelashes, almost non-existent eyebrows, pale pink lips. She bears no resemblance to the eighteen-year-old girl that disappeared from their lives so long ago. Her pale green nightie and floral cardigan hang loose on thin shoulders. Only her eyes give a clue to who she really is, dark green irises, an exact match of her sister’s.

  ‘Who am I?’ asks Rosie, pointing to her own chest.

  ‘Mum, Mum.’ A cheeky grin crosses Veronica’s lips.

  For a moment, Rosie wonders if it’s better to say yes. To play along. Or is Veronica having fun with her, is it joshing? Hard to tell.

  ‘I am Rosie. I am your sister.’

  ‘Sis, Nosie, sis.’ Veronica laughs, eyes open wide, her body shakes. As yet unable to get her tongue around the r in Rosie.

  Rosie holds her breath, won’t let out the hurt. Her sister may never be reunited with their mother; dementia was eating at her brain. Her memories of Veronica’s disappearance, and the years that followed, have themselves disappeared. At first, it had been a gift – but now?

  They play the game again. This time it is, where are we? Veronica’s laughter turns into hiccupy giggles that she can’t stop.

  ‘Nosie’s stupid, Nosie’s silly.’

  Rosie chides her. ‘Now
, Veronica, don’t be naughty.’ It has no effect.

  Anything can prompt it, someone walking by, someone crying. As yet, she is unable to differentiate between what is an appropriate response and what’s not.

  Suddenly, Veronica’s attention is caught by one of the nurses, the giggles stop. She shrinks back at the sound of the woman’s voice, turns her head away.

  Rosie’s stomach churns, so many questions still go unanswered. For now, her place is by her sister’s side helping her recover. Easing out her clawed fingers, massaging her feet, talking about the life they had until she went missing.

  And she’ll have enough time now. The redundancy offer—she’d accepted it.

  Under her breath, Rosie whispers a silent prayer.

  Please God, don’t let my sister end up in prison.

  The sister she knew wouldn’t harm a soul.

  Veronica’s eyes close, she lets out a low whimper, tries to cover her face with the bedsheet. As though she’d heard every word that Rosie said.

  62

  ‘Has Jacky Wainwright recovered yet?’ Mel rubs the tiredness out of her eyes.

  ‘Aye, just about. Nasty attack. We’re waiting for the full forensics report to come back.’ Sam fixes the satnav on the windscreen, it starts up automatically. He’d put the destination in earlier – Wassingham, Norfolk. Securing the seatbelt over his stomach, he glances over at Mel then switches on the ignition. ‘She’d thought it was you coming back to ask more questions. Apparently, the attacker put his foot in the door, grabbed her by the neck then pushed her back into the hallway.’ He shakes his head, switches on the heater. ‘Unfortunately for us, he kept his mouth shut, didn’t say a word, or so she says. He threw her up against the wall, wrapped his fingers around her throat, tried to throttle her. Fortunately for us and her, she passed out, he must have thought she was dead.’

  He eases off the handbrake, manoeuvres the car out of the carpark.

  ‘She didn’t recognise him?’

  ‘Nope.’ His fingers tap on the steering wheel. ‘All she can remember is that he was wearing a black coat buttoned up to his chin. And black leather gloves.’

  Mel frowns, ‘Any take on who it might be?’

  ‘Jimmy Fairfax? Billy Bennett?’ He narrows his eyes on the road. ‘Badger’s checking the phone records, to see if she spoke to either of them recently. Kinsi is over there with her now, it’ll be a few hours before Mrs Wainwright will be ready for a formal interview. She’s still in shock.’

  ‘It must have scared her to death.’ Mel looks out of the window; a homeless man shivers in a doorway. She caught his eye, he averted his gaze. ‘Have Forensics picked anything up?’

  ‘Just bits of stuff off his boots, we’re not sure if he had transport. Unfortunately, all the tyre tracks were obliterated by this last lot of snow.’

  There are a lot of unfortunates in this case, thinks Mel. They continue in silence for the next fifteen miles. Sam lost in his own thoughts, she ponders the information they’d garnered from the medical files. It had made uncomfortable reading.

  Suddenly Sam jabs his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I can’t believe she’s getting there before us. It’s like she’s taking the piss.’ He swivels his head to look at her. ‘I thought you’d warned her off.’

  ‘Who?’ The tone of her voice is sharp. ‘Eyes on the road, please.’

  ‘Thomasine Albright—I thought you’d had a word with her.’

  Irritation flashes in her eyes. ‘I did—we did. She’s on compassionate leave. We can’t be babysitting her; checking whatever she’s doing.’ A little admiration leaks through, ‘And let’s be honest here, we’d both be doing the same, wouldn’t we?’

  He snorts out an uncomfortable laugh. ‘Probably.’ The tension dissipates, he puts his foot down on the accelerator as they slip onto the motorway. The speedometer inches up to 90 mph. ‘Still, let’s hope she’s not made a dash down the M1 with a shotgun on the back seat, those farmers always have one stowed away somewhere.’

  Her stomach plummets, a bright red BMW swings out in front of them, Sam flashes them to get out of the way. The driver ignores it, he follows it up with a blare from the sirens, the BMW swiftly manoeuvres into the second lane. Then it hits her like a slap on the face. They’d been so consumed by the Lightfoot case that they’d not considered alternative scenarios.

  ‘What if Karen hadn’t been the only one to disappear?’ A lorry changing gears nearly drowns her out.

  ‘Veronica Lightfoot did.’ There’s a lilt of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘No, what I mean is what if other girls have disappeared?’ Her pulse races. She messages Jenny, ‘Do a long-term missing persons for girls aged between fourteen and eighteen. Specifically, anyone with the same physical profile and within sixty miles of the crime scene.’

  There was something else she wanted her to check but she can’t remember what it is. She puts her phone on charge, leans back in the seat, lets her eyelids shut.

  Sam kills the engine; parks outside the barn conversion, the curtains are drawn. ‘The place looks deserted. ‘Shite—driving all this way and he’s not in.’

  Mel shakes her head in frustration. ‘Let’s not make assumptions.’ They get out of the car, open the gate.

  Sam knocks loudly on the front door. They hear a dog barking inside, within seconds it’s directly behind the door, growling, its nails clawing at the wood.

  ‘Let’s give it another ten minutes.’ She checks her watch, ‘He could be out in the fields for all we know.’

  ‘Without the dog? I doubt it.’ Sam kicks at the stone chippings beneath his feet. ‘This place is in the middle of bloody nowhere, boss. There’s no guarantee he’s even here.’

  ‘Don’t sulk,’ her mouth twists in irritation, ‘Go check the neighbours’ place, who knows, he could have gone over for a coffee.’

  ‘Aye, like that’s conveniently going to happen.’ He opens the gate and walks up the road towards the converted water tower.

  Her mobile vibrates in her pocket. It’s Badger; his Lancashire accent booms in her ear. He only has one volume on the phone – loud.

  ‘We’ve traced Jimmy Fairfax.’ His voice is full of excitement. ‘He’s got a place a couple of miles away.’

  Mel feels a burst of elation. ‘Great! Check where he was when Jacky Wainwright was attacked and get him to give us a DNA sample. And check his mobile, see if there are any calls between them.’

  ‘Will do. I’ll let you know how it goes.’ He hangs up.

  Moments later Sam jogs back down the road, a look of disapproval hangs on his lips.

  ‘The woman’s in, she says he’s gone away for a few days, doesn’t know where.’

  Mel holds out her phone, Sam stops, in front of her, a look of confusion on his face. ‘Badger’s located Jimmy Fairfax.’

  He thumps his fist into the palm of his hand, ‘Get em in—all we need now is him to turn up and we’re quids in.’

  She slips the phone back into her pocket, raises an eyebrow. ‘If only we were so lucky.’

  ‘Let’s go have a chat with the woman next door, then,’ Sam looks over his shoulder at the sparkling glass-covered tower, ‘my gut tells me we should. She’s seems rattled about something.’

  As they make their way over, Mel’s phone vibrates again. An email from Jenny – a list of names with photographs attached. She gives the message a quick once-over, pockets the phone.

  The woman welcomes them in, offers her hand. Mel shakes it, she senses a trembling, a discomfort. She doesn’t close the door after them.

  ‘I’m Kerry Marchant,’ a weak smile comes to her lips, ‘nice to meet you. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘DCI Mel Phillips, no doubt you already know that this is DS Sam Ingleby. Tea would be good, if that’s okay.’ Mel takes in the room. The glass panels and concrete finishes, not her thing. ‘Milk, no sugar, same for both of us.’

  The woman opens the cupboards, roots around, her face flushes. ‘Sorry, we’ve had someone
looking after the house for us, they’ve moved things around a bit.’ Eventually, she finds three cups, opens the fridge. It’s empty.

  Kerry—’ the woman doesn’t answer. Mel taps her on the shoulder. ‘Kerry, that’s okay.’

  ‘What? They’ve not left me any milk, I asked them to. I’ll pop next door—’

  Mel gestures toward a seat. ‘Let’s not bother about that, shall we?’

  ‘I’d rather stand, if that’s okay.’ The frown lines on the woman’s forehead deepen.

  Mel folds her arms across her chest, she seems deep in thought for a moment then lifts her head, her eyes drill down on the woman in front of her. ‘You don’t live here, do you?’

  ‘What—what do you mean? Of course, I do.’ A look of fear freezes on her face.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Kerry Marchant, like I said.’

  ‘You’ve not asked us why we’re here. Aren’t you curious?’

  ‘No, I assumed it was something to do with Rob next door. It’s none of my business.’

  Sam interjects, ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you, either.’ He sits down at the kitchen table, takes in the view across the fields. He raises his voice. ‘Sit down.’

  The woman seats herself opposite him, her eyes go to the open door. Is she expecting someone else, Sam thinks to himself. Or is she planning to make a run for it. He gets up, strides over to the door, slams it shuts.

  Mel takes out her phone, calls up the email she’d received a few minutes earlier. She clicks on the photographs until she finds the one she wants; her fingers stretch out the picture. ‘Who are you really? I don’t want to have to arrest you, but I will.’

  Tears form in the woman’s eyes, stream down her cheeks. ‘Lottie Bennett, I’m Lottie Bennett. I’m Rob’s wife.’

  Mel’s lips twist in a smile. ‘I don’t think so, he’s never married.’ There’s a sarcastic edge to her words. ‘We’ve checked.’ She leans forward, puts her phone on the table, swivels it around to face the woman. ‘Do you recognise this girl?’