Cross Her Heart: A Novel

by Sarah Pinborough

  If I agreed. I nearly fell to my knees in joy. Of course I wanted the contract. I was still blubbing my thanks when he walked away. And now here I am, flopped back on my big hotel room bed, a huge mixture of emotions. Relief. That’s what I’m feeling mainly. I don’t care if he’s offered the work out of pity, I’ll be good at it, and Lisa already had things under way.

  Lisa. The day has been too full to think about her and I’m damned if I’m going to start now. This is my fresh start. Simon Manning has given me an out. My job is safe and I don’t have to worry about finding somewhere to live yet. If the bank takes the house because the mortgage hasn’t been paid, I can still survive. I need to get more of my things but that can wait and I don’t want to go on my own. No Lisa to go with you anymore.

  I’m about to strip down for a shower before opening the bottle of wine and eating the sandwich and crisps I picked up on the way home—funny how quickly home changes—when there’s a knock on the door.

  The police. Three of them. Bray front and center.

  “What’s happened?” My stomach turns to water. “Is it Ava?” My first fear is they’ve found her and it’s not good, but I realize Bray’s expression is too hard for that. I let them in.

  “Lisa’s escaped.” Blunt.

  “Escaped?” I say. “I didn’t realize she was a prisoner.” There I go, defending her again, as if on automatic pilot.

  “She’s not.” She corrects herself. “At least, she wasn’t. But she’s attacked her probation officer and run. We need to know if she’s been in touch with you. Called you or e-mailed you. Anything.”

  “Why would she run?” I sit back on the bed.

  “Have you heard from her?” This time Bray’s sharp and I shake my head.

  “No. Nothing. Go through my phone if you want. What’s going on?”

  “Do you have a diary or calendar for the past year at home?”

  “No. My life isn’t that busy. Why do you want to know what I’ve been doing?”

  “It’s about pinning down Lisa’s movements. I’m going to need you to try your best to give us a list of times and places you’ve been with her.”

  I bark out a laugh. “I can barely remember what I did last week, let alone every day for the last year.”

  Bray doesn’t crack a smile and a weight drops in my stomach. “Why are you so worried about Lisa?” What’s she done? The question I’m too afraid to ask hangs in the air.

  The policewoman sits on the bed beside me and I don’t know if that’s some attempt to befriend me or whether she’s simply exhausted too.

  “We searched their Elleston house again for any clues to where Ava might be now,” she says. “We found Jon’s laptop there, hidden under Lisa’s mattress, and a set of keys we believe belong to a rented property in Wales.”

  I glance from her to the two officers with her and they’re all looking at me as if this is supposed to make sense. I frown. “Jon was in their house? God. When? After all this . . . happened? How could he have . . . ?”

  “No.” Bray cuts me off. “We don’t think Jon was there at all.”

  “Just bloody tell me whatever you’re trying to tell me!” I snap. “In plain English.” I’m too tired for this and now my brain is spinning all over again.

  “Jon hasn’t been seen at his home for months. Neighbors say they thought he went traveling. He was made redundant two years ago. Only did odd jobs for a bit of extra cash now and again. He was quiet and no one really noticed him. He doesn’t have a mortgage, as he sold his mother’s house and bought a flat outright when she died. Inherited a tidy sum too. His bills all go out by direct debit.”

  “And?” Why can’t she get to the point? How bad is the point if it needs this much explaining?

  “A neighbor said he’d had a female visitor before he left. They thought he’d met someone or had got back together with an old girlfriend. He seemed happier. More bounce in his step.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “They didn’t get a clear look. Only said she’d visited a couple of times. We found a cottage rental transaction on Jon’s laptop and we’ve got officers on their way there now. Hopefully we’ll find Jon and Ava there. Maybe Lisa too.”

  “But why were his things in Lisa’s house?” I know what she’s driving at but I can’t quite grasp it. “You think Lisa was this woman? The old girlfriend? You think she and Jon have been in touch? That’s why his laptop is there?” For a second, it makes a weird sense. Maybe they somehow rekindled a romance—How, when she didn’t have social media?—but then I remember the messages Jon sent to Ava. The kind of messages. Lisa wouldn’t let Jon send those. That’s not the work of someone wanting a family reunion. Or didn’t she know? Maybe Jon was sending them without Lisa knowing? It’s tenuous at best, but I can’t see Lisa going along with that. Hiding her past, yes, but this. This is madness.

  “But it doesn’t make sen—”

  Bray’s phone rings out, cutting me off, and she’s straight on her feet, turning away to answer. I take a long breath, my temples throbbing. I saw the state Lisa was in when Ava went missing. She’s broken. All the Katie stuff she said. She couldn’t have known where Ava was. And those Facebook messages. She couldn’t be part of that. She just couldn’t. Could she?

  “Jesus,” Bray says, quietly. “I’ll call you in five when I’m on my way.” Another phone starts ringing and Bray, her face grim and body stiff with energy, nods at her colleague to take it outside.

  “What?” I ask her. “What’s happened? Oh God, are they . . .”

  “Jon Roper is dead. His body was found in the cottage. There’s no sign of Lisa or Ava.” Her words are blunt but they bounce off my tired brain.

  “Dead? And Ava’s not there?” I’m like a character from some cozy crime show, sitting there stunned, repeating words until they make sense.

  “It’s imperative you call me if you have any thoughts on where Lisa could have gone or if she makes any attempt to contact you.”

  “Of course,” I say. “But surely she wouldn’t have . . .”

  “Jon Roper’s body is apparently in a state of extreme decomposition. He’s been dead for months. Maybe even a year. Certainly longer than Ava’s been getting those Facebook messages.”

  “Was he . . . ?”

  “Murdered?” She says the word for me. “Yes. It would appear so.”

  The world doesn’t spin exactly but the straight edges of the bed and walls curve slightly as all the colors brighten. I frown. “But then who was sending Ava the messages? If Jon was dead?”

  She looks at me as if I’m stupid. “Charlotte was. Lisa. Whatever you want to call her. The laptop was in her house. Even before this development, we were working on the assumption it was her.”

  I feel like I can’t get enough air into my lungs.

  “I know it’s hard to take in, but the most likely conclusion is that this is all her doing.”

  “But why?” Oh God, Lisa. Did I know you at all?

  “We think she’s had some sort of breakdown. She’s phoned Alison—the probation officer you met—at least twice in recent weeks paranoid she was being watched. The money theft at work could be symptomatic of her mental instability. We won’t know until we find her. And until we do, we can’t be sure Ava is safe. In fact, we consider Ava to be very much at risk. Do you understand, Marilyn?”

  “But how could she—”

  “When Ava ran away she’d been alone in the flat with Lisa. Lisa reported her missing the next morning when she woke up. Anything could have happened in those hours. Lisa could have left first to set up the meeting. Anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I nod, slowly, my skull heavy. “Lisa’s dangerous.” I pause. “Fucking hell. She’s gone mad.”

  Bray looks relieved that her point has finally sunk in. But this is easier for her. She didn’t know Lisa. But then did I? Ever?

  “I’ll call you straightaway if I hear from her.” My hands are trembling. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is insan
e. “If I think of anything else you might find useful, I’ll ring.”

  “Thank you. I know this is difficult.” Bray stands, eager to leave me and get to her crime scene.

  “Ava’s the only thing that matters.” My throat dries, as, in the midst of all this, a selfish thought strikes me. And why not? I should get something out of this shitstorm. “Oh,” I say. “There’s one more thing, if that’s okay.”

  “Yes?”

  “My husband. If you speak to him, be careful what you say. He’s been trying to get me to sell my story to the papers. I wouldn’t trust him with any vital information unless you’re ready for it to be shared.”

  “Thank you. We were planning on seeing him, in case Lisa turns up there, so that’s useful to know.”

  “When you go there,” I try to sound casual, “could you tell him to stay away from me and my work? It would be helpful. Until I start divorce proceedings. He can be . . . difficult.” I don’t need to say more. She’s a woman. We have an implicit understanding of what sentences like that really mean.

  “No problem,” she says. And then they’re gone.

  I forget about the shower and the sandwich and go straight for the wine. I don’t want to get drunk, but I definitely need one glass. My hands are trembling as I pour it and take the first sip. Lisa. Has Lisa done all this? I remember Ava’s sixteenth birthday, only a few weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I’d asked Lisa about Ava’s dad and if she ever heard from him. She’d shut me down as she always did. Had she already killed him?

  This is different from trying to accept that my best friend had once been Charlotte Nevill. That was past. This is present. She did this while going to work with me, eating Chinese takeaways, idolizing my perfect marriage, and worrying about Ava’s exams. How could she have been sending those messages to Ava? Killing Jon? All that while? Am I that stupid?

  Someone isn’t who they say they are.

  Katie’s body was never recovered.

  No. No. No. Those thoughts will make me as crazy as Lisa, and she is crazy. Maybe she’s had some kind of schizophrenic breakdown and is having episodes as Katie? Maybe living as a different person for so long, always afraid of being discovered, has snapped her? Maybe she’s created a Katie to deal with the bad shit. Maybe it’s one of those psychotic breaks like in the films, and she doesn’t know when she’s being Katie?

  I like that thought. It gives me a little wave of relief. It’s better than the alternative—that I didn’t notice my sweet best friend was batshit fucking dangerous crazy. I can’t get my head around the alternative at all. She couldn’t have done it consciously. Could she?

  It all pummels at my skull until I realize it’s getting dark outside. It’s ten p.m. and I’m still sitting here, holding the same glass of warm wine.

  Fuck the shower. Fuck it all. Without even brushing my teeth, I crawl into bed.

  46

  Lisa

  I pretend to be playing solitaire with an old deck of cards, but my ears are locked onto the quiet sound of the TV in the corner of the communal sitting room. There are only two other people in here, sipping coffee and reading the papers. I figure everyone else has gone into town for the evening. That’s what young people do, after all.

  The truck dropped me in Calthorpe and I got the bus to Ashminster from there, checking into this youth hostel for three nights, and paying the extra for a private room with a shower. First, I scrubbed myself clean, washing him off me until my skin was red raw, and then, despite the fear and nerves that have turned my guts into a painful acid tear in my belly, I fell asleep for hours, a bleak, black, empty sleep of nonexistence.

  When I eventually woke it was evening and I sprayed fresh color into my hair, painted my face on, and became Lily again. I think about the name. The flower of death. A mourner’s bloom. Please don’t let me be mourning Ava. Please let me have bought some time.

  I’m on the news. Not Lily, but those other mes, Charlotte and Lisa. I was Lisa for so long, it should hurt more that she’s gone, but I’ve shucked her off like a snake’s shed skin. After the last time I changed my name, after what happened with Jon, I think I knew she wouldn’t be forever. Charlotte is harder to shake off. I have to die to truly end Charlotte. Maybe that’s what this will come to, this battle of wits. But I’m not ready for that yet and Charlotte definitely isn’t. I’m reclaiming the game as best I can.

  It’s the second time the news report has been on and this time I’m calmer and listen properly, pushing aside my grief for poor Jon who never did anything wrong apart from fall in love too young with someone who wasn’t lovable. I try not to look at my face as it stares back at me from the screen, all Home Office anonymity deals off now I’m once again a murderer. I look so meek. So invisible. They’ve used the photo from my work pass. The newsreader says I now have shorter, blond hair, and then there’s a farcically bad police Photofit that looks like a very nonsexy blow-up doll version of me with blond hair added. It almost makes me laugh. It almost makes Lily laugh. She’s tougher than me, whoever the hell I am. Lily’s more Charlotte than Lisa. I’m only the husk they inhabit.

  I glance at the photo on the screen again. It’s nothing like me. Is that really the best the police can do? I wonder if she’s watching. What’s she thinking? This won’t be how she expected it to go. She thought I’d be locked up by now. Game over.

  The newsreader tells the world I’m wanted in connection with the murder of Jon Roper, whose body has been found in a rented property in Wales. After an overhead shot of the isolated cottage, the local reporter shares what they know.

  A man’s decomposed body found on the premises is believed to be that of Jon Roper, the ex-partner of child murderer Charlotte Nevill and father of her sixteen-year-old daughter, Ava. As we heard earlier, police had been looking for Roper in connection with Ava’s disappearance from a safe house where she and her mother had been staying after Charlotte Nevill’s new identity and location had been exposed. But now, with Jon Roper dead and Charlotte Nevill having absconded, it seems this is a much murkier situation than at first thought and there is a real sense of concern here for the missing sixteen-year-old, who only last month saved a child’s life.

  It’s Bray’s turn to take to the cameras, and she stands in front of the cordoned-off house, the wild wind blowing her hair around her face, dragging strands free from her sensible ponytail. She says I “should be considered dangerous.” She says if anyone sees me they should call the number at the bottom of the screen but should not approach me.

  She’s not telling the whole story. She’s got something that very firmly makes them think I killed Jon. I saw it in the stiffening of Alison’s spine in the flat and I can see it in the serious guarded expression on Bray’s face. I have survival instincts second to none. And I know my enemy. My best friend. Two sides of the same coin. Where are you, Katie? Where have you taken my baby?

  I clear up the cards as if I’m bored and throw the young couple on the other side of the room a smile as I get up. They give me a polite smile back, but there’s no recognition. Nothing. How easy it is to become someone else. How easily people see only what they want to. All those years of fear that I’d be recognized were wasted time. No one sees anything at all. There was no anonymous caller to give me away after the photos in the papers. That was Katie. I know it. She set the whole thing up.

  I go back to my room and lie on my bed. I can’t do anything until tomorrow, except think. I’ve been blind too. I’ve missed someone right in front of me. I felt something, sure, and alarm bells were ringing deep inside me, but I didn’t see you, Katie. Who are you? Anxiety bees buzz in my head and I want to curl up and cry for Ava, to scream for someone to get my baby back, but the only person who can do that is me, and I need to stay tough. To stay Charlotte.

  Peter Rabbit. “Drive Away, Baby.” The missing photo.

  Penny? No, Katie can’t be Penny. Penny’s been there forever. Marilyn? No. I can’t even countenance that thought. Marilyn is my best fr
iend, even if she hates me now, and as with Penny, ten years is a long waiting game for this. To have me in her sights all this time and do nothing surely isn’t Katie’s style. Katie was impetuous. Impatient.

  But who else can it be? A stranger? No. She has to be someone I know. I think of the photos. Whoever it is has been in my house. Ava probably left the back door unlocked a million times. Maybe they found out about the spare key and took it? I think about all the occasions I’ve left my bag unattended at work. Or on the back of a chair in a pub. Could someone have copied the keys and put them back before I noticed? Stolen them temporarily from my handbag?

  The thought of someone stealing from my bag makes me sit bolt upright. Julia. The thoughts follow in a succession of quick-fire bullets. She stole from Penny. She’s new. She’s sneaky and snide. She’s older than she’s made herself look. She’s determined to turn people against me.

  My breath comes in sharp pants and I take deep breaths to ease the pain in my gut. Is Julia Katie? Is this what she wanted? To make me a murderer all over again and then kill my baby, leaving me with all that grief? It should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Deep down, I’ve always known she’d come for me.

  Cross my heart and hope to die.

  Part Three

  47

  Her

  Child B. I never liked it. Sounds so second best. A tagalong. A pitiful runner-up. Like being the lesser half of a whole. Ironic, given how I’m the brains in this outfit and always was. Charlotte? God, how to describe her? She was brave. Strong. Wild and wicked. Yes, she was all those things, but I was always that bit smarter. I still am. But I haven’t changed. Not like her.

  You know what? I’m actually pleasantly surprised she’s got this far in my game. I wasn’t sure she had it in her to run. I’d hoped she would, I hoped those old instincts would kick in, but I wasn’t banking on it. People change as they get older. That’s the dull part of growing up. But there’s changing and then there’s Lisa.