Читать книгу: «Those Who Lie: the gripping new thriller you won’t be able to stop talking about»

For my grandmother, Carrie. We still miss you.

~ Part One ~

Chapter One

~

Oxford, August 2014

Emily Klein doesn’t know she has killed him until the day of his funeral. Her loved ones, including, of course, her husband, are all at the church rather than at her bedside. That explains why there are no familiar faces around her this time when she regains consciousness.

The room swims in and out of focus, and, at first, she has no idea where she is. But then it comes back to her. She’s trying to remember why she’s here when a cough to her right startles her. She isn’t alone. Her neck hurts as she turns her head, expecting to see Greg, or her sister, or at the very least her mother. Instead, her eyes rest on the broad chest of one of the two strangers sitting beside her bed.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Klein,’ the stranger says in a deep voice.

Emily looks up into the kind face of a burly man. He appears to be around the same age as her. He has a bushy moustache containing far more hair than he has on his balding head. He’s smiling at her a little lopsidedly. Emily attempts to smile back, but her lips feel as if they’re glued to her teeth.

Next to him sits a thin woman who also seems to be in her mid-thirties. She has a dour expression on her pretty face, and her hair is cropped very short and dyed a copper-red. She inches her chair forwards, closer to Emily’s bed. The legs of the chair make a scraping sound on the floor. Emily feels intimidated.

‘I’m Sergeant Campbell,’ the woman says, fixing her piercing, green eyes on Emily, ‘and this is my colleague.’ She waves her hand towards the robust man as she introduces him by name, but Emily only catches the word ‘Constable’.

Emily must look bemused because the constable smiles at her again from beneath his impressive moustache. He means this reassuringly, she supposes, but the right side of his face appears more animated than the left, and Emily finds his crooked grin rather unsettling.

What’s going on? What do the police want? Emily can’t shake off the unnerving impression that something is very wrong.

‘What can you tell us about your movements on Friday the first of August?’ asks the redhead officiously, whipping out a notebook and a pen from a pocket in her uniform. She has a lilting Scottish accent that mitigates the hard edge to her voice.

Emily tries to speak, but she’s very thirsty and no sound comes out. She clears her throat.

‘May I have a drink of water, please?’ she asks.

Her head is pounding.

The constable pours some water from the transparent, plastic jug on the cupboard and presses a button on the remote control to raise Emily’s bed. Then he gives her the glass. He watches her, a concerned look on his face, as she takes a few tentative sips before handing back the glass.

‘The first of August, Mrs Klein,’ the sergeant repeats, ‘what happened on that day?’

‘Well, that’s my mother’s birthday,’ Emily begins. Her throat is still dry and her voice sounds strange. ‘Oh, that’s right; I’d sent her some flowers and bought her a necklace. I rang to wish her a happy birthday. She turned sixty-five.’ Emily plucks at the stiff, white sheets before she adds, ‘She is…um, she has been ill recently, for a long time really, and…well, she’s doing a lot better at the moment. We’re so proud of her.’

‘We?’ the sergeant echoes.

‘My sister and I,’ Emily says, and then the thought strikes her. ‘Where is she? Where’s my sister?’ she asks. Amanda was there last time Emily opened her eyes, she’s sure of it.

The sergeant ignores Emily’s outburst. ‘What happened after that?’

Emily shifts her gaze to the friendlier face of the constable. Are these two police officers real? They seem like caricatures, characters from a bad television series.

‘I met my husband for lunch,’ she answers, wondering where Greg is.

The constable doesn’t give her a chance to voice her concern. ‘Where?’ he asks, sounding genuinely interested.

‘At Gee’s. It’s not far from my husband’s shop.’

‘Oh, I know that restaurant,’ the constable says. ‘The one on Banbury Road? I’ve only eaten there once, though. It’s a bit pricey, isn’t it?’

Emily isn’t sure if she’s meant to reply, so she remains silent, trying hard to think. She’s in hospital. She’s groggy. She’s in pain. She knows all that. But she can’t get beyond that. She’s having difficulty associating her two new acquaintances with her surroundings. Shouldn’t there be doctors and nurses or family and friends by her bed rather than police officers? What on earth am I doing here?

Emily’s gaze flits from the constable to the sergeant. She scans as much of her room as her neck will allow. Hers is the only bed, so she’s in a private room rather than a hospital ward. There are flowers and fruit next to the water jug, so she’s had visitors. Greg and Amanda, probably. But for some reason, they’re not here now.

‘Can we get back to the interrogation?’ Sergeant Campbell reprimands her colleague, clicking her pen off and back on.

‘Is this an interrogation?’ Emily asks, bewildered. She almost asks what she has done wrong, but stops herself just in time. She wonders if she’s dreaming. She certainly feels sleepy.

The sergeant looks vaguely uncomfortable and squirms in her seat. ‘No, not really,’ she says, her voice softening a little. ‘That wasn’t the right word.’

‘Not at all,’ the constable says. ‘It’s a routine investigation after—’

‘Mrs Klein…Emily, we just want to know what happened that day,’ Campbell interrupts. ‘For our report. Did you drink anything with your meal?’

Something doesn’t feel right. Emily’s mind is even foggier, and she’s struggling to organise her thoughts. What had the constable been about to say? A routine investigation after what? Into what? It must be serious if these police officers have been waiting for her to wake up. Or are they here for her protection?

Campbell repeats her question.

‘Yes. A Perrier water, with a twist of lemon,’ Emily replies. ‘That’s what I always have.’

‘I meant, did you have any alcohol? A glass of wine, for example?’

‘Oh, no. I don’t drink. And anyway, I was driving.’

‘Yes, you were,’ the sergeant says. ‘Why was Mr Gregory Klein, your husband, in the car with you?’ Her voice is silky now, but Emily gets the feeling she’s hiding something.

‘Well, he wanted to have a look at an Edwardian inlaid satinwood wardrobe.’

Now it’s the sergeant’s turn to look perplexed.

‘An antique wardrobe,’ Emily explains, seeing Campbell’s expression. ‘The owner lived in Staunton Road, in Headington. I didn’t have any urgent work that day, so I drove Greg there.’

The policewoman seems temporarily at a loss for words and purses her lips as she digests this piece of information. Her pale pink lipstick has been applied rather haphazardly, which makes Emily wonder if she had difficulty colouring inside the lines as a young child.

‘Did you need new bedroom furniture?’ the sergeant asks after a few seconds.

‘Oh, no.’ Under different circumstances, Emily might have found the question funny. ‘My husband’s an antique dealer. The wardrobe was for his shop. It’s odd, but I’m not sure whether he bought it or not.’

Before Emily can reflect any more on that, the sergeant resumes. ‘What did you and Mr Klein talk about in the car?’

‘I think we had an argument.’ A vague memory stirs and Emily tries to grasp it, but it fades away. Talking is making Emily’s head thump even more, and so is trying to call to mind the conversation they had in the car. ‘Greg told me something. I’ve forgotten exactly what it was he said. But I do know I was very angry about it.’

Emily pauses. Sergeant Campbell waits for her to continue. The constable gives her what is no doubt intended to be an encouraging look. ‘I just remember Greg asking me over and over: “Who was it, Emily? Who was it?” He was shouting.’

Emily has a sudden image of her husband’s furious face.

‘Who was what?’ asks the sergeant, somewhat impatiently.

‘I don’t know.’ Emily frowns.

‘Do you recall your answer to your husband’s question?’

‘Yes,’ Emily replies, surprised, ‘I do. The answer was: “My father.” I told him that it was my father.’ The mere thought of him makes her shudder.

‘So, you remember you were arguing,’ the sergeant recaps, looking down and pointing her index finger at the notebook on her knee, ‘but not what it was about.’

Emily glances at the sergeant’s pad. Although for her the notebook is upside down, Emily can clearly see that the police officer has taken no notes whatsoever. She has merely doodled a series of dots in a circular pattern, which reminds Emily of the recurrent spiral motif she uses in her own artwork.

‘That’s right.’ Emily nods, and then scowls as the pain in her head intensifies.

‘If it comes back to you, will you contact us?’

‘How do I get in touch with you?’

The policewoman produces a card from a pocket in her uniform and hands it to her. Emily looks at it and sees a series of addresses, telephone numbers and a shoulder number under the heading Sergeant Campbell, Roads Policing Unit, Thames Valley Police.

‘What’s your name again?’ Emily addresses Campbell’s colleague, thinking it would be infinitely preferable to deal with him than the scary sergeant.

‘PC Constable,’ he replies.

‘Police Constable Constable?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ he says wryly. ‘I desperately need a promotion.’

Emily tries again to smile at him, but yet another bolt of pain shoots through her head and she suddenly finds him far less amusing. She still can’t work out why she’s here. She seems to recollect being told last time she woke up that she’d been involved in an accident. A growing sense of alarm overcomes her initial disorientation.

Sergeant Campbell’s next question does nothing to reassure her. ‘Mrs Klein, do you know what caused you to crash the car?’ The police officer clicks her pen again.

Emily has a vision of her car hurtling off the road towards a tree. She feels a wave of panic break over her. Is this what really happened? Or is her imagination running wild? She takes a deep breath. So, she crashed the car. That makes sense. It would explain why she’s in hospital and why her head, neck and side hurt so much. But she can’t think straight. And she’s far too tired to answer any more questions.

At that moment, the door to her hospital room opens and in strides a tall, plump woman wearing a badge that identifies her as Staff Nurse Peterson. She reminds Emily a little of Chummy in Call the Midwife. Emily is now almost convinced she’s trapped on a TV studio set in a bad dream.

But then the nurse says, ‘Oh, Mrs Klein, you’re awake again.’ She puts her hand on Emily’s arm. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Very confused,’ Emily replies, ‘and in pain.’

Staff Nurse Peterson checks the drip, and tells Emily that she’ll administer some more painkillers. As the nurse completes her clinical checks and records the data on Emily’s chart, Sergeant Campbell drops her bombshell.

‘I must say, Mrs Klein,’ she says, ‘you’re taking the news of your husband’s death incredibly well.’

Emily senses Staff Nurse Peterson freeze at Campbell’s remark. Words swirl round in Emily’s head. Argument…my father…car crash…husband’s death. She tries to suppress the scream rising inside her, and it erupts as a strangled whimper. That’s the only sound audible in the room. It seems to resonate in Emily’s ears. She cradles her sore head in her hands.

‘Mrs Klein hadn’t been told yet that Mr Klein was killed in the accident,’ the nurse hisses at Sergeant Campbell, who looks unperturbed.

Campbell’s mobile phone rings out and shatters the silence that ensues. The police officer takes the call.

Staff Nurse Peterson glares at the redhead while talking soothingly to Emily whose eyes dart from one woman to the other. The sergeant, impervious to the nurse’s disapproval, continues to mumble into her phone. When she has ended the call, Campbell taps her colleague on the shoulder.

‘Let’s go,’ she says to Constable. ‘I am sorry,’ she mutters to Emily who isn’t sure if Campbell is apologising or expressing her condolences. Then she turns and heads for the door without so much as a cursory glance in Staff Nurse Peterson’s direction.

PC Constable gets up from his seat, and tells Emily how sorry he is for her loss. Then he leaves the hospital room before his superior, who is holding the door open for him.

Emily clearly hears Campbell’s words as she follows Constable out: ‘The witness has finally turned up at the station to give his statement.’

Just as Emily is wondering if Campbell’s phone call and witness have anything to do with her, Staff Nurse Peterson hangs the chart up on the end of her bed and says, ‘Don’t worry. You concentrate on getting better. You’ll be home in no time.’

But Emily barely registers what the nurse says. Greg is dead, Emily thinks. I was driving the car. I didn’t kill him. I can’t have killed him. The thought of going home without Greg fills her with despair and dread.

Chapter Two

~

Devon, Christmas Eve, 1995

At half past nine, Josephine Cavendish was already snoring on the sofa in front of the television. Emily decided to go to bed although she knew there was no way she’d be able to sleep. Not tonight.

As she cleaned her teeth, she could hear Michael Stipe’s voice coming from the end of the corridor. Half a World Away. Amanda stayed up here a lot listening to REM. She also liked Pearl Jam and Nirvana. Even when she wasn’t listening to music, she seemed to spend as much time as possible in her bedroom. Perhaps she feels safe in hers, Emily thought.

Emily opened the door to her own room, which was larger than her sister’s. Through the window she could see it was pitch-black and wet outside. She switched on the lamp by her bed and drew the curtains to shut out the night. She smiled wistfully at the Sarah Kay design. Here the girl was cradling a puppy; there she was holding a basket of flowers. Everywhere she was carefree. The curtains had never been replaced even though they were faded from the sunlight and Emily had outgrown them long ago.

She thought about reading, and walked over to her bookcase. It was crammed with books, from the classics – Dickens, Austen, the Brontës – to modern bestsellers of different genres such as Jurassic Park, Diana: Her True Story, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and The Silence of the Lambs. Her novels allowed her to escape. And she desperately needed to escape. But she couldn’t choose one. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate, anyway.

From the top row of her bookcase, at least a dozen teddy bears observed her bedroom through kind, beady eyes. She hadn’t played with her teddies for years, and they looked tatty, but she didn’t have the heart to get rid of them. Throwing them away would somehow have felt like giving up her childhood. Or giving up on it.

She turned around, imagining what the teddies could see from up there. They seemed to be looking at her double bed. Her parents had given it to her the previous year for her fourteenth birthday, although her mother hadn’t really been happy about it. Emily liked the colourful spiral patterns on the duvet cover, but the bed was too big for her.

She pulled on her nightie and climbed into bed. She could still hear the music faintly, although she couldn’t make out the song. Another one from the same album, no doubt. Out of Time. It occurred to her that her heart was beating too fast; it was out of time with the song. Lying on her side, she brought her knees up and hugged them to her chest. She felt cold in spite of the bedcover. She was wide awake. She looked at her watch on the bedside table. Ten o’clock. She felt sick with nerves.

She’d always been afraid at night-time, although when she was younger, her fears were unfounded. It was just that she was terrified of the dark. Amanda would make fun of her for that, but she’d often sung to her or stroked her head until she fell asleep. Sometimes they would even drag Amanda’s mattress along the corridor so she could sleep on Emily’s floor. In the end, their father said it was time Emily grew up and he forbade the girls to sleep in the same room.

The music stopped suddenly and a door banged. Emily’s throat felt tight and she couldn’t breathe. It’s too early. I’m not ready yet, she thought, alarmed.

Then she heard a floorboard creak on the landing, followed a few seconds later by the rattle of water pipes. She heaved a sigh of relief. It was only Amanda. There was the noise of the toilet flushing, then a gentle knock at her bedroom door.

‘I’m awake,’ she called out to her sister. She sat up in bed.

The door opened and Amanda came in and walked towards her. She was wearing tartan pyjamas. Her long, mousy hair was loose and wavy from the plaits she always let out at bedtime. ‘Night, Em,’ she said.

‘Goodnight.’

Amanda sat on the edge of the bed and Emily looked into her eyes. They were a murky brown, the same colour as their father’s. Emily had inherited their mother’s pale blue eyes. Amanda gave her a hug. Emily could feel herself trembling.

‘You’re cold,’ Amanda said, sounding concerned.

That wasn’t the only reason Emily was shaking, and she thought her sister probably knew that. But she didn’t contradict her. What could Amanda do anyway? She rubbed Emily’s arms as if to warm them. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

Canned laughter suddenly erupted from the sitting room below, breaking the silence.

‘Mum still in front of the TV?’

‘Yeah.’ Emily didn’t need to add that she was dead to the world.

After a while, Amanda pecked Emily’s cheek and got up.

‘Don’t go,’ Emily pleaded, but her elder sister had already left the room.

The door to Amanda’s bedroom along the hallway closed with a thud, and Emily glanced at her watch again. Half past ten. She became aware of the sound of her own breathing over the indistinct din of the sitcom. She could also hear the wind howling outside and the rain beating against the windowpane. She was alone and helpless. A sob welled up inside her but she fought to contain it. I have to stay strong, she thought. She needed to calm her nerves. She decided to read after all.

On her bedside table was a huge stack of books that looked like it would topple over at any minute. At the top of the pile was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Emily’s middle name was Alice. Her father’s mother, whose memory was getting bad due to Alzheimer’s, bought her a copy of Lewis Carroll’s novel every year for Christmas and she dutifully reread the book each time. It had always been her favourite story, and she never grew tired of it. Her grandmother had given her this edition – her sixth copy – just two days ago. When she was younger, Emily had traced and copied the illustrations, and after that she’d created her own sketches for each chapter.

She flicked through the blue leather-bound volume to the part she liked best in the whole book: the Hatter’s Tea-Party. She read the bit where Alice was told that they took tea all day long since Time had stood still at six o’clock, in other words, at teatime. If only time could stand still for me tonight, she wished silently. But it was nearly eleven now. Her stomach was heavy with dread. She was terrified she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

It was hopeless. She couldn’t keep her mind on the book. She still felt cold even though the radiators hadn’t cooled yet. Shivering, she pulled the duvet up around her shoulders and contemplated getting out of bed to fetch some thick, woollen socks. Perhaps she should get up and hide. Somewhere he couldn’t find her this time.

It was too late. She could hear him swearing loudly from outside. The front door was directly beneath her bedroom window, and she imagined him fumbling with his key and then stumbling into the hall. There was a loud bang as the door was flung open against the wall.

Quickly, she replaced the book on her bedside table, switched off the lamp and lay down. She rolled over onto her side towards the wall, wrapping the quilt tightly around her. She pushed her hand under the pillow and groped around, holding her breath. Where is it? I know I put it here, she thought, panicking. Lifting her head slightly and sliding her hand further under the pillow, she found what she was looking for. Clutching it as if her life depended on it, she breathed out.

He’d turned off the television in the sitting room and for a moment there was an eerie silence in the house. She imagined him looking down at her mother disdainfully. He might even take a swig from her bottle of Jameson if there was any whiskey left.

But the silence was short-lived. She could hear his heavy footsteps making their unwieldy way up the stairs. Oh no, she thought. Please, no.

She sensed her bedroom door open. She heard him lurch into the room and flick the switch. The room was instantly flooded with light. Her heart began to hammer harder and faster. She huddled further into her covers, trying to gain a little more respite. Closing her eyes tight, she pretended to be fast asleep, although she’d tried that before and knew it wouldn’t work. She could visualise him looking at her from across the room. It made her skin crawl.

He weaved his way over to her bed, and practically collapsed on top of her. She lay still and tried to swallow down the lump in her throat even as the tears squeezed out from behind her firmly shut eyelids.

‘I love you so much, Emily.’ Her father’s voice was slurred and his smell – a mixture of sweat, alcohol and tobacco – invaded her nostrils and made her feel nauseous. ‘You make me love you so much.’

One evening, he’d passed out before he could begin. Perhaps that would happen tonight. But she realised this was just wishful thinking as he pulled back the covers, unwrapping the cocoon she’d enveloped herself in.

She didn’t move a muscle as he pulled up her nightie and opened the belt of his trousers. She remained immobile – there was no point in fighting. Instead, she concentrated on the place in her mind she always retreated to when this happened: the beach at Woolacombe.

In one of her happiest memories, she was at the beach with her sister, her parents and her mother’s parents. She was little then and this was long before she’d made her father love her too much. They must have gone to the beach often during the summer months and she was never sure if this was just one memory or a mixture of many trips to the seaside.

They were all eating Mr Whippy 99 ice creams with chocolate Flakes. Granny and Granddad said they didn’t like the Flakes so Amanda and Emily could have two each. Afterwards, the girls swam in the sea with Mum and Granddad. They stayed in until their lips turned blue and their arms and legs had goose pimples all over them. As the tide was so low, it was a long walk back to the place where their father and Granny were dozing on deckchairs. Their mum made them run to warm up. Panting with his tongue out like a dog, Granddad pretended to be too old to jog.

It was hard to find the right parasol at the top of the beach because they’d drifted along in the current while jumping over and ducking under the waves, and so they were several metres too far along the beach. Emily was the one who finally spotted the blue and yellow parasol. Granny wrapped a beach towel around her, and then another one around Amanda. Someone had taken a photo – it must have been their father because he was the only one not in the picture, and Emily had kept it. It was in a frame on her bedside table.

She turned her head and focused on this photo now as the familiar pain seared through her. She could almost feel the teddies’ cold, glassy eyes on her, and from the open pages of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, both the March Hare and the Hatter stared at her. It was as if they were all watching her, daring her to find the courage to put an end to this. Only the sleepy Dormouse had his eyes closed, as though averting his gaze out of consideration or turning a blind eye to what she was going to do.

As her father’s shudder and moan signalled that this was nearly the end for tonight, she reminded herself that there was only one way this would ever stop. She freed her hand from where it was pinned under her father. I have to do this, she thought. I have to do it now, or it will be too late.

Before she had time to think through what she’d really intended to do, the gun went off.

Long after her father’s lifeless body had collapsed onto her for the last time, soaking her in blood and almost crushing her beneath its dead weight, the shot continued to ring in her ears.