Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist

by Sarah A. Denzil

  ‘You okay, hon?’ Rachel asks her daughter.

  Sasha nods, and as she composes herself, I examine her for the first time. Both Sasha and Alicia are part of the school orchestra. Sasha is the second chair violin, while Grace was first chair. Alicia plays the flute. Lady Margaret’s is well known for their orchestra, putting on a few local shows throughout the year. Sasha would often come to the house to practise with Grace before these shows, and Grace had featured Sasha on her YouTube channel, the two of them giving instructions on how to play Ed Sheeran or Imagine Dragons songs on the violin.

  She’s a pretty girl, though not as stunning as Grace or Alicia. Her hair is dark, curly and shiny. She’s always struck me as very proper, saying please and thank you, sitting straight at the table. I’ve always assumed that her father is strict, encouraging her talent to the point of living through it vicariously – a dangerous line to tread in the family dynamic.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sasha’s heavy eyelashes flick up in her mother’s direction. At seventeen, she should’ve developed a bit more confidence by now, but that’s none of my business. ‘I guess it was when we took the dogs for a walk around the fields. We had a picnic and it was a nice day.’

  ‘I’m sorry to ask, Sasha, but could you tell me a bit more? It’s incredibly useful to know these things. You know, for the memorial.’

  ‘Well, we were chatting a lot.’ Her face becomes bright red, which tells me they were talking about boys. Her gaze flickers to Ethan and her flush deepens. They were talking about Ethan then. The poor girl can’t hide it at all. She’ll need more armour if she’s going to get through this life unscathed. ‘We saw a pheasant. Later we walked to the—’ Almost immediately, the red fades from her face and Sasha becomes off-white, like the eggshell wallpaper around her.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ I ask gently.

  ‘We went to the quarry.’ She looks at her mum again. ‘It wasn’t long after the man killed himself there and Grace wanted to see.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Thank you, Sasha.’ I scribble down a note: Insecure. Quarry. ‘What was it like at the quarry?’

  ‘Quiet. There wasn’t anyone around. I don’t think anyone apart from schoolkids ever goes there, to be honest. Not since the man…’ She worriedly glances towards her mother for more comfort and reassurance.

  ‘Grace knew it was called the Suicide Spot?’ I ask.

  Sasha nods. ‘She wanted to see the place where he jumped.’

  Malc shuffles uncomfortably in his chair and Rachel inhales sharply as the atmosphere changes. Thinking about the quarry sends a chill through my body. Wanting to move on from my daughter’s fascination with death, I continue on to the next friend. ‘Ethan? Would you mind going next?’

  He rubs his hands underneath the table and sniffs deeply. There are no tears in his eyes and I speculate as to whether the sniffing is the symptom of a drug habit much harder than marijuana or he’s starting with a cold.

  ‘When she told me she loved me,’ he mutters. ‘But it was a lie, so what does it matter?’

  ‘Ethan!’ Louise’s mouth hangs agape.

  I make a quick note, obscuring part of the notebook with my arm: Jealous? Not happy with their platonic arrangement?

  ‘It’s okay, Louise. I know how hard this is.’ I place my pen down, purposefully cover my notebook and direct my attention to Alicia, not needing to hear any more from him.

  To my surprise, she stands up, all ready to go with her story, as though she’s about to give a report about what she did over the summer. ‘Grace and I had this perfect day once. We met up on a Saturday morning and went for brunch in the village. I had scrambled eggs on toast, I think. She had an omelette. Then we went back to mine to practise for a while.’ She laughs, and the room echoes with the pleasant jangling of her young voice. ‘Neither of us could be bothered though. We were hyped up on coffee and we wanted to go out. We went for this long walk all around the Ash Dale moors, then back into the village. We bought doughnuts from the sweet shop and walked by the river, throwing stones into the water. Grace told me how much she’d always wanted a sister and I told her the same thing. I think I cried.’ Alicia rubs a tear from her eye, and I catch Ethan watching her intently. ‘I miss her so much.’

  At the end of her passionate speech, she dramatically crumples into her chair and allows her dad to loop an arm around her shoulders. As she leans into him, still sniffing, I find myself cringing, and it takes all of my willpower not to let that show. In my notebook I write one word: LIAR.

  * * *

  After the meeting, I walk down the long corridors to the music room. No matter how many times I come to this building, I’m always taken aback by the grandeur of it. To me, schools are dirty, graffitied places littered with spots of chewing gum that have been worn down beneath scuffed shoes. It’s a place where teachers bellow to make themselves heard over the students’ din. In contrast, Lady Margaret’s is raising well-behaved young people who follow the rules. Sure, there are still hints of the vibrancy of youth, but it isn’t anywhere near as chaotic as my old school.

  As I make my way towards the music room, the sound of the orchestra fills the hallways, swelling and swelling until I feel as though I’m shrinking down like Alice in Wonderland, and the handsome panelled walls are growing taller and taller. It has been two weeks since I last heard Grace practising her violin part for this particular concerto. Two weeks since I last saw her alive.

  There are glass panels on the door, allowing me to stop and watch the students play. One of the violin chairs is empty, probably because I pulled Sasha out of her practice to talk about the memorial. The other chair is occupied by a girl I don’t know. She’s in a school uniform, which suggests she isn’t a sixth former. Sasha will be the first chair now.

  A young man stands at the front of the orchestra, conducting the kids. The young, popular teacher who came to Grace’s funeral. I remember the card signed by him, too. He’d written a cheesy line about music. What is his name? Daniel, I think.

  I can no longer remember why I wanted to come here. The music seeps into all the empty spaces inside me until my eyes burn with unshed tears. Eventually, the kids notice me staring, get distracted, miss their notes and look at me instead of their sheet music. The teacher follows the gaze of the students to find me at the window. He recognises me and nods. I give a small nod in return, step away and make my way out of the school.

  When I reach the Land Rover, my phone beeps. I pull it out of my pocket and check the notification to find a new text message.

  It’s in your best interest to stop coming to the school.

  Fifteen

  An anonymous person with an anonymous number doesn’t want me to come to the school. Someone who knows my private mobile phone number – a number I don’t give out freely. My first instinct is to call them, but no one answers. I didn’t expect them to. I reply: Why is that? And then I watch the screen and wait. Nothing. I can’t help myself. I text again: Why isn’t it in my best interest?

  And then I stop, because perhaps it isn’t in my best interest to let this person get under my skin. Instead, I drive out of the school grounds and into the village, find somewhere to park and then think calmly about what I should do next. Clearly, this person has no idea who they are dealing with. To them, I’m a weakened and grieving mother who can easily be frightened by a vaguely threatening message. The reality is quite different. I’m not frightened at all. Instead, I’m ecstatic. Finally, I have a solid indication that Grace’s death wasn’t suicide. Why else would someone threaten me? I must be getting too close to the truth.

  My screen flashes and another notification pops up.

  Don’t go to the police.

  And then…

  I know where you live.

  That makes me chuckle, because half of Ash Dale knows where I live – in the big house on the hill, the place that was built to be noticed. Charles and I are part of the community and where we live is not a secret. And now that I think about it
, neither is my phone number. Though I don’t give out my number to many people, it’s listed in the school records as an emergency contact for Grace. Who has access to those records? Most staff members, probably. Could a student hack in to them? Last year a student discovered the admin password for the school’s website and redirected it to porn.

  And then there are Grace’s friends, who could have accessed my number from Grace’s phone. In fact, I remember Grace giving Alicia my number after she’d smashed the screen on her old iPhone and sent it to be repaired.

  Well, I’m certainly not to be frightened by these messages, and I won’t let the threats cloud my judgement about what to do next. The way I see it, I have two choices: I can go to the police or I can keep this to myself and try to put the pieces together on my own. DS Slater has not been much of an ally throughout all of this. He’s already dismissed my suspicions about Grace’s death. Why would he take me seriously now? On the other hand, the police might be able to trace the number and find out who sent the message. I’m not sure which would be the best option for me, but I need to make the decision soon. The longer I sit on this information, the easier it will be for the police to dismiss me as crazy.

  I wait a few minutes to see if any more messages come through, and then I put my phone back in my bag, switch on the engine and drive away.

  * * *

  ‘Can I speak to DS Slater, please?’

  A rotund man with greasy hair regards me with half-closed eyes. The glass partition between us muffles his voice. ‘Name?’

  ‘Kat Cavanaugh.’

  ‘What is this about?’

  ‘An ongoing investigation into my daughter’s death,’ I reply. It’s only half a lie.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Take a seat.’

  Ten minutes later, DS Slater strides into the waiting room with his hands pushed down into his trouser pockets. The tight smile on his face tells me he’s annoyed about the rude interruption at work. That he’s willing enough to tolerate whatever conspiracy theory I’m here to present, but that he has other – more important – things to be doing.

  Once he’s led me through to a private room, he closes the door and raises an eyebrow. ‘Ongoing investigation? You know that the case is closed, Mrs Cavanaugh. Your daughter committed suicide, I’m afraid.’

  Carefully, I place my bag on the table, sit on the available chair and cross one leg over the other. ‘I have something to show you.’

  While DS Slater gets comfortable in the chair across from me, I retrieve my phone, unlock it with my fingerprint and bring up my messages.

  ‘Read this, please.’

  He cranes his neck as I tilt the screen towards him.

  ‘Have you tried calling the number?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. There’s no answer.’

  ‘What about a voicemail? Any identifying information on the voicemail?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ I almost roll my eyes, but I manage to control myself.

  ‘Well, I’ll take a note of the number and see what we can do,’ he says. ‘But I should warn you not to get ahead of yourself here. It would be reckless to assume the sender had anything to do with Grace’s death. Unfortunately, when a popular young person dies it can attract a lot of media attention. You’ve seen the coverage in the local newspaper, and you must have noticed that Grace’s passing was mentioned on the BBC news.’

  ‘I have,’ I reply, maintaining the same calm exterior as DS Slater.

  ‘Then you know that Grace’s death has attracted a lot of interest from the general public. That includes some people who…’ He sighs. ‘How can I put this delicately?’

  ‘Are a few sandwiches short of a picnic? As the saying goes.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that, but there certainly are some delusional and ill people out there. This sort of thing has happened before. Some people crave attention. They want to be caught. They want to feel as though they are part of something bigger. Right now, Grace’s death is exactly the kind of situation that would attract a person like that.’

  I shake my head as I put my phone back in my bag. ‘You’re wrong, Detective. I received that message as I was getting in my car to leave the school. Whoever sent me this was watching me. I don’t give my number out to many people. Either the sender is a student who knew Grace or they’ve accessed the school records to find my details.’

  ‘Then it’s probably a schoolkid desperate for attention,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but trust me, I’ve seen this before. Killers who have gotten away with it don’t tend to make threats. They don’t want to draw attention to themselves. There’s nothing about this message that makes me believe Grace didn’t commit suicide.’

  ‘Well that’s your opinion,’ I reply, still unruffled on the outside, but alive with fire internally. ‘You don’t know her and you certainly don’t know me.’

  He grimaces. ‘I know you’ve seen the inside of a few interview rooms.’ His eyes roam the walls of the room in a dramatic fashion, highlighting that I’ve been in trouble with the police before.

  Ah, I’ve irritated him. He thinks I’m up myself and he wants to bring me back down to where I came from. People often like to remind me that I used to be poor, as though it’s some sort of insult. Why would emphasising my improvements be an insult? Why would drawing attention to the fact that I’m a social climber ever make me cringe? No one chooses where they are born, however much the world likes to pretend otherwise.

  ‘You have a wild past, Mrs Cavanaugh. It was quite unexpected.’

  ‘Was it?’

  We lock eyes for a brief instant, but neither of us speak. I certainly don’t want to make an enemy of DS Slater, but he’s rattled me during this exchange. His instincts must be telling him that I’m different, a little ‘off’, and I don’t want to linger in case he becomes even more suspicious and untrusting. I don’t wait for him to show me out.

  * * *

  Someone saw me at the school and decided they didn’t want me there. Was it because of who I was talking to at the school? Or is there a vital piece of evidence hidden on the school premises? Grace’s locker has already been cleaned out, though I suppose the sender might not be aware of that information.

  By now it’s almost three and I have barely any time to get back to the school and park somewhere inconspicuous. Perhaps I can catch Alicia as she leaves. I haven’t forgotten about her performance in the meeting. Who was that display for? Preeya? Her father? Was she trying to impress me?

  Grace and Alicia had been arguing just before she died, but now Alicia can’t stop pretending that they were closer than sisters. Little Miss Perfect, queen of the after-school drama club, always on the tennis team, a keen equestrian and a member of the orchestra. She presents herself as squeaky clean, with decent grades and plenty of friends. She was certainly Grace’s best friend, but there were tears and fallings-out on a regular basis over the years. I remember one incident, when Grace had been ditched by Alicia because Alicia decided to go to the cinema with a boy. Back then I hadn’t quite understood the devastation my daughter felt, but now I do.

  I can’t deny that my lack of conscience saved me from suffering the brutality of teenage girls in my younger years. I simply didn’t care what they did to me.

  Parked a street away from the school, I wait for the stream of students to start making their way home. Most are picked up by parents, but some walk, catch a bus or drive. Alicia’s parents live away from the school, but I happen to know that she usually heads into the village and buys a coffee to take home with her. Knowing this, I position myself where I can see the road, sinking down in my seat, waiting for that flash of silver hair. As I do so, I realise Grace would find this hilarious. She’d giggle her head off, unable to remain quiet for long enough to complete the mission.

  I hear the students’ loud, excitable voices before I see them. Footballs bounce against the pavement. Rucksacks hang from shoulders. Nearly all the kids are in school uniform, with a few sixth forme
rs in regular clothing. The sixth formers with cars tend to drive themselves around, but Alicia hasn’t passed her test yet. She recently started to learn, passing her theory three weeks ago, something Grace never had the opportunity to do.

  Five minutes into my surveillance, a glint of silver catches my attention. It also catches the attention of all the younger lads in uniform, who whisper behind hands, subtly nudging their mates to get a glimpse. Her long, languid limbs must seem goddess-like to these twerps. I imagine the mystery that surrounds her – an untouchable aura. Now I see Alicia’s power at Lady Margaret’s.

  The sea of children parts for her, giving me a better view of who she’s with. There’s a boy – of course there’s a boy – glued to her side, one arm slung around her waist. Her face is relaxed, almost triumphant, as she makes her way through the group. Alicia is obviously part of a secondary-school power couple. I watch them carefully from my car, not at all shocked by who she is with. She passes the car, her hand pressed deep into the back pocket of her boyfriend’s jeans. Her head tips back as she laughs at his joke, that silver hair catching the afternoon sun. The tears are gone. The act is gone. This is Alicia without any pretence. This is her with her beau, at ease and happy.

  But the boy is Ethan, which means they’re both liars.

  Sixteen

  Who was I at seventeen? Was I Alicia? By that point I’d left school with mediocre GCSE results. I was living in a flat above a fish and chip shop and I waitressed at catered events for rich people. To buy my waitressing uniform, I’d had to steal money from my mother’s purse, practically while I was stepping over her crap to get out the door. The deposit for the rent had come from saving the few pounds she gave me for dinner money every day, the theft of a few fivers here and there, and the sale of the two items of worth I’d owned – my Discman and a locket given to me by my uncle a few years before he died.