Liar

by K. L. Slater

  Liar

  A Gripping Psychological Thriller with a Shocking Twist

  K.L. Slater

  Contents

  The End

  The Beginning

  1. Amber

  2. Judi

  3. Judi

  4. Amber

  5. Judi

  6. Judi

  7. Judi

  8. Amber

  9. Judi

  10. Judi

  11. Judi

  12. Judi

  13. Judi

  14. Amber

  15. Judi

  16. Judi

  17. Judi

  18. Amber

  19. Judi

  20. Judi

  21. Judi

  22. Judi

  23. Judi

  24. Amber

  25. Judi

  26. Josh

  27. Judi

  28. Judi

  29. Judi

  30. Amber

  31. Judi

  32. Judi

  33. Judi

  34. Judi

  35. Amber

  36. Judi

  37. Noah

  38. Judi

  39. Judi

  40. Judi

  41. Judi

  42. Amber

  43. Judi

  44. Judi

  45. Judi

  46. Judi

  47. Judi

  48. Amber

  49. Judi

  50. Judi

  51. Judi

  52. Judi

  53. Judi

  54. Amber

  55. Judi

  56. Judi

  57. Judi

  58. Judi

  59. Judi

  60. Judi

  61. Amber

  62. Judi

  63. Judi

  64. Judi

  65. Judi

  66. Judi

  67. Judi

  68. Judi

  69. Judi

  70. Judi

  71. David

  72. Judi

  73. Amber

  74. Judi

  75. Judi

  A Letter from K.L. Slater

  Blink

  Safe With Me

  Also by K.L. Slater

  Acknowledgements

  To my husband, Mac

  Thank you for everything…

  I couldn’t do it without you x

  The End

  She stands very still, holding the knife. Her fingers press into the moist, sticky mess that covers the handle and thins to a trickle down her wrist.

  The house is quiet and still, as if it’s holding its breath. She can hear the ticking of the wall clock and a low rumble now and then as a large vehicle passes by on the road outside.

  She stares down at the woman crumpled on the floor before her. They have despised each other for so long, and towards the end there have been times she simply could not bear to look at her. Now, she cannot tear her eyes away. She is transfixed by the blossoming ruby-red halo that seeps from the dying woman’s head.

  It couldn’t continue, this silent war between them. In the end, one of them had to go.

  She feels calm inside now, calmer than she has felt for a long, long time. How she has hated this woman. Hated her for so long, and yet now … she feels nothing.

  The woman’s eyes are closed, but there is slight movement in her chest. Every few seconds, there is a quick, desperate pulsing underneath the thin fabric of her soaked red breast. A blouse that used to be pure white.

  Who killed Cock Robin?

  I, said the Sparrow,

  With my bow and arrow.

  I killed Cock Robin.

  She whispers the words of the nursery rhyme and smiles as she remembers how it was one of her own favourites as a child. The boys have a book at home with the rhyme in it, and sometimes she reads it to little Josh.

  The boys.

  How happy they’ll be that finally they are hers alone.

  The one thing she has always been certain of is that the boys will be hers.

  And the most beautiful thing of all is that now, nobody can ever take them away from her again.

  The Beginning

  1

  Amber

  Present Day

  The job and the flat had been sorted for a while, and finally the story of her past was in place. She had rehearsed it all in her head until it had felt real.

  The waiting had been hellish but she knew it was essential that any loose ends were eradicated. That had been completely necessary to ensure the success of this, the final, glorious stage.

  The last three years had been tortuous and long. She’d felt so impotent and hopeless, but that was all behind her now. The jagged pieces would start to slide together, slowly and smoothly, like an exquisite jigsaw.

  For a time, Amber had considered engineering a situation where she might bump into Ben Jukes as if by accident, but in the end, there had been no need for that. She happened to call in at the newsagent’s around the corner from work one morning and there he was. Standing on his own, browsing the newspaper shelf.

  Slipping behind him in the queue, she’d self-consciously clutched her own tabloid newspaper and a breakfast bar. He’d smelled of soap and sandalwood, pleasant scents to most people but she’d felt her stomach twist slightly.

  Oblivious to her presence, he had continued to stare out of the window as the queue shuffled forward, his jawline stark and pale in the unforgiving morning light. She took a small step to the side so she could see more of his face, watched how his unfocused eyes betrayed that he was lost in his thoughts. Possibly thoughts about his cold, dead wife. She smiled to herself.

  The beeping of the card machine and murmur of customer voices had buzzed around her like irritating insects, yet on another level she began to feel like it was just her and Ben standing there.

  ‘Next, please,’ the sales assistant barked.

  Ben had suddenly snapped out of his trancelike state and stepped forward. She realised he wasn’t going to glance her way after all and felt the spark of anticipation fizzle out in her chest like a spent match, but she quickly caught herself.

  It was just a blip, that was all. They would be together, of that she was certain. It was fate, after all.

  Nothing could stop it happening. She simply wouldn’t allow anything to stand in her way.

  The day after their initial near-meeting, Amber had set the alarm for six, styled her hair and even taken the time to put on make-up before leaving her poky studio flat.

  At her low point, she’d had no interest in grooming or her appearance. So, titivating herself before work had made a change from her usual rushing out of the house in a morning with minutes to spare, complete with bare face and damp hair.

  She’d been surprised how much difference a little effort made to her appearance. With a mere corner curl of liquid eyeliner and a brief lick of mascara, her unremarkable dull grey eyes were transformed into a sleek almond shape, almost feline.

  Once she’d applied a slick of hair gel and a good dousing of inexpensive hairspray, her greasy blonde mop quickly morphed into the chic feathered crop the hairdresser had intended it to be.

  Food was now an inconvenience to Amber. Her appetite had long been poor, marred by the troubled thoughts that seemed to seep into everything she did. She’d learned to deal with it by simply eating something when her stomach growled in protest.

  Likewise, over the years she’d gleaned no pleasure from clothes shopping; it all seemed so futile and shallow. Still, when she opened the wardrobe doors, she saw there were still a couple of outfits there that didn’t look too tatty, so she selected one of those.

  It had taken her a long time to get this close to speaking to Ben Jukes, and now that there was a strong chance she would see him again, she knew that planning was key.

 
The years spent grappling with a fire inside that all but threatened to consume her, the relentless planning and then the seemingly endless wait for her opportunity … she certainly had no intention of messing things up now.

  After that first fortuitous sighting of Ben, Amber made certain to arrive at the newsagent’s ten minutes earlier than usual each subsequent morning. People tended to develop a habit of dropping into small shops like that, so she knew it was highly unlikely he’d used it just the once and would never return. Besides, she knew it was the closest shop to his workplace.

  So she resolved to stick religiously to her new routine. Sure enough, three mornings later, there he was again. And this time, she vowed silently, she would make it count.

  She hovered near the biscuits and crisps, and at the last moment picked up a carton of milk from the small refrigerated section near the door. She moved effortlessly to the counter the exact same time as he did. But just before he joined the short queue, she stumbled slightly in front of him, dropping her car keys near his foot.

  ‘Sorry! I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I’m such a clumsy clot.’

  She bent forward at just the right angle, knowing full well he couldn’t avoid catching a glimpse of her smooth, lightly tanned cleavage.

  Up she stood again, fumbling with the carton of milk, her purse and keys. She smiled without quite meeting his eyes. Finally, just as she feared he might turn away without acknowledging her, he spoke.

  ‘Always busy in here, isn’t it?’ He smiled, and she noticed that his teeth were clean and even. ‘I keep threatening to call in at the Tesco on Palmer Street instead, but that’s probably even worse.’

  ‘I work just around the corner,’ Amber explained, pulling herself up to her full height. ‘So it suits me to come here.’

  She stood only a couple of inches short of his own six foot one. Close up, she could see his eyes were a hazel shade. She could smell the sandalwood scent again and she tried to keep her breathing shallow.

  ‘Where is it you work, then?’ Ben’s forehead creased as he made the connection. There wasn’t much else around here, aside from the newsagent’s and the housing estate. ‘The school?’

  ‘The children’s centre,’ Amber replied. ‘We’re tucked away just behind the school.’

  ‘You’re a teacher?’

  She laughed, shaking her head. ‘I’m a family support worker.’

  ‘Small world.’ He grinned and offered her his hand. ‘Ben Jukes. I teach at the school.’

  ‘No way!’ She widened her eyes in pleasant surprise as she grasped his fingers. She wanted to laugh. ‘Small world. I’m Amber Carr.’

  She’d known for months exactly where Ben worked.

  She knew the name of the road he lived on and at which local supermarket he did his weekly food shop.

  She knew that his mother came over to do his cleaning on Wednesdays and Fridays.

  And most importantly, she knew the names of both his sons.

  2

  Judi

  Everything is ready.

  The pork is in the oven with the foil off now, and a quick satisfying peek confirms that the crackling will be done to perfection. Just how Ben likes it.

  The apple crumble, with my own special oaty topping, sits on the side, and I have a big carton of Marks and Spencer’s vanilla custard stowed away in the fridge. I find nobody notices a little cheat, so long as it’s just here and there. The trick is not to overdo it.

  I’ve always enjoyed cooking; it’s one of the few things I genuinely feel good at. In recent years, I’ve become engrossed in programmes like Masterchef and The Great British Bake Off and my enthusiasm has grown in direct relation to my family’s love of eating my food. My Sunday lunches have become quite the family tradition.

  I glance at the clock. Half an hour and my boys will all be here.

  The back door opens and Henry’s grinning face appears.

  ‘Something smells good.’

  He shuffles into the kitchen, his old leather boots shedding ridges of freshly mowed grass on to the newly swept kitchen tiles.

  ‘They’ll be here in about thirty minutes.’ I turn away, plunging my hands into a sink full of scalding-hot soapy water. ‘You were going to show the boys some photographs after lunch, remember?’

  ‘Ah yes, so I was,’ he says. I hear him kicking off his boots in the utility room. ‘I’ll scoot up to the attic right now. Any chance of a cuppa?’

  When I pull my fingers out of the water, I see they are chapped and red. The once tight, smooth skin on the backs of my hands is on the turn; a little crêpey and slower to snap back when pinched. I used to be a stickler for wearing rubber gloves and using hand cream. I can’t recall when I stopped doing it.

  I close my eyes briefly and endure the steaming water, which continues to sting hard. I suck in air and hold it in for a moment or two.

  My heart is racing and my knees feel weak for no apparent reason. It keeps happening at the most inconvenient of times. It’s OK, I tell myself. It will soon pass.

  It’s the thought of everything I’ve still got to do. Lunch. That’s all it is, but the slightest thing just lately feels like there’s a mountain to scale.

  I always long for everything to be just perfect, but it hardly ever is.

  Soon the boys will be here and the house will be transformed into a home once more. Noisy, glorious chaos again, just like when Ben and David were young. Long before the bad decisions and the terrible consequences.

  Over a period of ten years, when we were first married, Henry worked his way up to the position of branch manager at the big National Westminster Bank in the centre of Nottingham. Some might say we had a staid, predictable life back then, but I’d never longed for the glitz and glamour of London that some of his colleagues had chased, or even, for that matter, a career of my own.

  I’d been happiest home-making: baking bread and spending school holidays with the boys, growing vegetables down at the allotment or during the summer at our little holiday cottage in Staithes, where Henry would join us at the weekends. We didn’t rent it out; it was for our own use only. Our wonderful little bolthole against the world.

  Now, I find it difficult to even think about those times.

  Henry appears at my side.

  ‘Penny for them?’ He presses a little closer to me, as if he can read my thoughts. I push the image of the cottage from my mind.

  Snatching my hands out of the water, I flick off the bubbles.

  ‘Just running through what’s left to do for lunch.’ I grab a tea towel and dab at my scarlet hands. Henry takes a step back.

  ‘I just asked if you wanted me to lay the table before I hunt out those old photos.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, thanks. I’ll do it.’ I reach for my glass of water and take a sip in a bid to relieve my dry mouth. ‘I’ve bought the boys some Thomas the Tank Engine napkins.’

  Henry begins to shuffle out of the kitchen, then hesitates, turns back. ‘I thought they were into all that superhero business now, Marvel characters and the like?’

  ‘That stuff is too violent. I don’t want to encourage it. Pass me a clean tea towel, will you?’

  I strain the potatoes, add butter and full-cream milk and begin to mash.

  After a few minutes, I hear Henry scrabbling around in the attic above my head, searching for the photographs.

  I heard him telling Noah and Josh, earlier in the week, about the things their dad and Uncle David got up to at the cottage. Silly stories the boys loved, about hunting dinosaurs and finding rare fossils beneath the cliffs.

  Stories that made my heart squeeze in on itself until it felt like a shrivelled prune hanging there.

  ‘Found them.’ He returns to the kitchen a few minutes later, holding a bulging carrier bag aloft like a trophy.

  The ghost of a smile flits over my lips, but it’s the best I can do.

  We both start at the sudden growl of a car engine and a skid of gravel on the driveway.

 
‘They’re here.’ Henry hurries into the hall.

  ‘They’re early.’ I glance at the clock as my heart rate picks up again.

  The front door bursts open and the welcome sounds of my grandsons’ arrival fill the hallway. Walls are clipped by buzzing light sabres and whirring plastic monsters that morph into elaborate vehicles at the touch of a button.

  Shoes are left on; I can hear them clomping across the laminate in the hall.

  Louise always shepherded the boys into the house in as orderly a manner as she could, but of course, Ben didn’t even notice and I loved him for that. It was just over two years since we’d lost Louise, and he was doing a sterling job of bringing up his sons alone.

  I replace the saucepan lid, leaving the potatoes half mashed, and wipe my hands on my apron as I walk to the kitchen door to say hello.

  I try to catch Ben’s eye, but he is busy unlacing his boots.

  It crosses my mind that perhaps he’s feeling a little unwell. He is usually singing or humming, and sometimes a combination of both. Today he seems unusually quiet.

  Right away my breath quickens. I try to remember what The Complete Book of Women’s Health said, the one that’s squirrelled away at the back of the wardrobe.

  Reach for better thoughts.

  Relax your shoulders.

  Breathe.

  I try.

  ‘Dad’s bought us the new Transformers Generation Leader,’ Noah tells me in one long breathless sentence. He pushes an aggressive-looking white and red foot-high plastic robot towards me. ‘Look, he’s got neutron blasters in his arms, Nanny.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ I prod cautiously at the contraption with a forefinger. ‘I do hope he likes my cooking; he looks as though he could get quite cross.’

  Ben finally looks up from unlacing his boots and winks at me.

  ‘Transformers don’t eat, Nanny.’ Josh hoots with laughter. ‘They’re missile robots.’

  ‘Of course they are.’ I offer my cheek to Ben. ‘How silly of me.’

  I grab Josh when he tries to run past and bury my face in his apple-scented hair. Ben has obviously started using the shampoo I bought for them last week, and although I know it’s silly, I feel inordinately pleased.