The Deadly Truth

by Valerie Keogh

  Knowledge of what had woken her didn’t wipe away the fear; her heart was racing, an acrid smell of terror drifting up from the open neck of her shirt. Her phone was on the hall table. With slow steps, she went out and picked it up. She knew with a terrifying certainty who it was and what it would say.

  She was only half right.

  5

  Melanie opened the email and read the message. She was so sure she would see Anne Edwards that she was confused when she didn’t. Her eyes flicked back to the sender. Yes, it was from nobody. But instead of the name she’d expected to see, there were two words. It’s time.

  Fear was a strange emotion; she’d experienced it in a variety of ways over the years but it was always defined by something more understandable – the fear of being found out, of failure, of losing, of people knowing her secret, of her mother’s cutting words – but this gut-wrenching fear was something different. It’s time. For what? To pay for what she had done all those years ago? Was that what this was all about? Someone had found out about her past and wanted payment to keep quiet. Simple blackmail? Perhaps it was time to ask. Moving into the kitchen, she sat at the table and stared at the screen. She took a deep steadying breath and before she could change her mind, tapped out a two-word question, What for?

  She waited, staring at the screen till her eyes became dry, blinking quickly as if she were afraid to miss the reply. But her phone stayed obstinately silent. Exhaustion and a deep sense of despair sent her to bed where she tossed and turned until her alarm sounded at six. She lay there for a while, one thought chasing another’s tail in a foolish game without a winner, before she groaned in frustration and pushed back the duvet. A cool shower refreshed her, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw it hadn’t done much for her face. Worse than yesterday, dark circles under her eyes stood out in stark relief against the unusual pallor of her skin. She thought of the series of meetings she had lined up and groaned. It was important to look her best even if she didn’t feel it. The careful use of a concealer and heavier make-up made her look a little better – although perhaps a little clownish. She blotted her lipstick and smoothed the make-up along her jawline, took a final look and gave a wry smile. It would have to do.

  The day was a nightmare. She struggled with decisions that normally came as second nature to her; the meetings all took longer than expected, and she had a vague idea that she didn’t look or sound as confident as she should have done. There were pages and pages of reports to work through, a job she normally enjoyed as she searched for any anomalies but that day she found she needed to read the same paragraph several times before it made sense. The constant need to check her emails didn’t help. Despite the notification that came up on the side of her computer screen, every twenty minutes she’d go into the email page on her phone and refresh the screen, just in case. But apart from the usual business emails, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Nobody was contacting her on her business email address not her personal one. It crossed her mind that she could change it. Belinda, their IT specialist would be able to assign her a new one immediately. But she’d want to know why and any answer Melanie gave, made-up or true, would give rise to the kind of questions she didn’t want to answer. She could, of course, remove emails from her phone and wait until she came into work to read them, but she guessed it wouldn’t make her life any easier, imagining something was often worse than the reality. Except this reality was bad enough.

  With a sigh of frustration, she tried to focus on the reports, scribbling down key points, becoming absorbed in what she was reading despite her worries so that when her phone rang twenty minutes later, it startled her. The junior partners shared an administrative assistant, Rona, an efficient if humourless woman who was skilled at fielding and dealing with calls. If she was putting one through it had to be something work-related, nothing to make her nervous.

  Lifting the receiver, she held it to her ear, and said a hesitant, ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Mr Randall for you.’

  ‘Randall?’ The name rang a bell but the sound was faint.

  ‘Harry Randall… Fanton’s chief accountant.’

  She heard the surprise in Rona’s voice, the slight note of criticism that Melanie hadn’t known the name of someone who would be a major player in the merger negotiations. It was justified censure; every name should be on the tip of her tongue. They normally would be.

  The conversation with the accountant was brief and to the point. She hung up, dropped her head into her cupped hands and gave in to a wave of tearfulness before straightening, dabbing her eyes carefully with a tissue and getting on with reading the endless reports. But before she did so, she checked her emails again.

  By the next day, she needed to get all the reports read. Everything else was in hand and there was nothing in her diary to distract her; a couple of minor things that needed doing could be done by the two junior associates who were working with her. She quickly emailed both and gave them a rundown of what was required, then sat back, manicured nails tapping on the desk.

  An idea had been simmering in the back of her head, it took form and solidified. She could work under pressure; she was used to that, but what she couldn’t do was work with this axe hanging over her head waiting to drop and decapitate her at any moment. Overdramatic, maybe, but it was exactly how she felt. She needed to get rid of it and there seemed to be only one way to do that.

  Someone knew about her. About Anne Edwards.

  She had to go back to where it had started.

  Go back to Wethersham and face her past.

  6

  Melanie had only one day to make her plan work. Before she left the office, she sent an email to Richard Masters telling him that everything was organised and she was going to work from home the next day so she could give her full concentration to reading the various reports. It was acceptable practice; she’d done it as a senior associate but she felt bad that she was lying to him. He’d never know but it didn’t make the lie sit any easier.

  Of course, she could have told him that she intended to read them on the train. But he’d have asked where she was going, then he’d have asked why. Why would anyone choose to go to the Yorkshire town of Wethersham in February? If he had ever been there, he’d wonder why anyone would want to go there at all. She certainly didn’t. Since she and her mother had left, she’d never gone back and when people asked where she was from, she said Shoreham-by-Sea, the West Sussex town they’d fled to almost twenty-five years before.

  It had been her mother’s decision to leave. She was a small nervous woman, widowed in her early thirties and left with a young daughter for whom she’d never developed any maternal feelings. Following what she referred to ever after as Melanie’s disgusting behaviour, she’d been unable to face the neighbours or handle the snide remarks, sideways looks and outright venom from the people in the town. She’d never really forgiven Melanie for the disgrace and embarrassment, nor had she ever settled into the much smaller house they’d been forced to buy in Shoreham. Worse, she’d never let her daughter forget the sacrifices she’d had to make.

  But Melanie wasn’t going to let anything mess up her promotion. And if going back to that God-forsaken place got her the answers she needed, well then, back she’d go. It might be a complete waste of time but she had to do something, today’s gruelling day told her that. This was only the start of the merger process; it was going to get a lot more complicated and difficult once the actual negotiations started and she needed to be able to focus.

  Having missed lunch, she was starving by the time she reached home but also too exhausted to think about cooking. She dropped her bag in the hallway and headed out again to the Indian restaurant a few minutes’ walk away to pick up a takeaway and a short while later was sitting in her kitchen with aromatic food on a plate in front of her. She’d only eaten a few mouthfuls when she heard the ping from the hallway. It was like a magic spell, she instantly froze with the fork laden with fried rice h
alfway to her mouth. Then she was released, the fork falling from her fingers, rice tumbling to speckle her navy blouse with spots of grease as it fell. She pushed the plate away. Would nobody have answered the question or would this be a new comment to torture her?

  She picked up her bag, took out the phone and put it down on the table, sitting to stare at it with worried eyes. Her throat was dry, reaching for her water glass she took a mouthful, swallowing with a loud gulp. The glass rattled on the table as she placed it carefully to one side and reached for the phone with both hands, inhaling noisily as she turned it on and pressed the email icon.

  The email didn’t say, as she’d almost hoped, time to pay me a squillion pounds. Hadn’t she known in her heart that it wasn’t going to be that simple? It did, however, answer her question. In capitals. Like a scream. YOU KNOW WHAT FOR ANNE EDWARDS. The anger in the words was palpable. It made her shiver but at least now she knew exactly what this person wanted.

  Revenge. They wanted revenge for what had happened in Wethersham.

  It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear but at least they had replied so she chanced another email, another question. There didn’t seem to be much point in asking who it was, they were hardly going to tell her, instead, keeping it short she tapped out, Why now? Without any real expectation that they’d answer she sat with her eyes glued to the phone for several minutes before dropping it on the table. It wasn’t until she’d scraped the food into a bin and put the plate in the dishwasher that she heard the ping. Spinning around, eyes wide, she looked at it. This time there was no hesitation, she switched it on and went to email.

  Her eyes widened further when she saw the reply. Why not. Not in capitals this time, no, this was a quiet, cruel answer. There had been no reason to reply. Psychological torture. They thought she’d be frightened, that she’d be falling to pieces. They were right about the first, she was damned if they were going to be right about the second.

  The answer had to lie in Wethersham.

  7

  Melanie made the 6am train from King’s Cross by seconds, dashing along the platform and climbing in the first open door. The seat she’d booked was the other end of the train, forcing her to struggle through all the carriages, her briefcase bumping her thigh as she negotiated the passageways. Finally, she reached her pre-booked seat only to find someone ensconced in it, a man in such a deep sleep it took strenuous effort to wake him. He wasn’t pleased, grunting, groaning and attempting to turn away from her to snuggle back into her seat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, using her knuckles to push his shoulder harder this time. She could have sat in one of the other empty seats but they were all sporting reserved tickets so somebody could get on at the next station and ask her to move. She didn’t want to be disturbed; this might be her only opportunity to get those reports read. ‘This is my seat,’ she said, when the man reluctantly opened his eyes. She waved her ticket inches from his nose.

  Seeing she wasn’t going to give up, he huffed and puffed as he shuffled to his feet, giving her filthy looks from under shaggy eyebrows and mumbling imprecations under his breath. He was still muttering, and she would have sworn she’d heard the word bitch, when he sat in a seat a few rows further down the carriage. Ignoring him, she settled down, took out her laptop and started to read the reports. It was easier to concentrate on them, not only because she was away from the distractions of the office but because the alternative was to think of Wethersham and the woman she hoped to meet there. Her old friend, Cherry Dunsdale.

  Melanie had promised to keep in contact when they’d moved and she had planned to. But as soon as she’d crossed the county line from Yorkshire, as soon as she got away from the condemning eyes and hateful remarks, she’d tried to put Wethersham and all that had happened there behind her. And that included Cherry. She hadn’t forgotten her though, and thanks to social media, Melanie knew she still lived in the town. There had, of course, been no need for her to move away because despite some rumours about her involvement in what had happened, Cherry had never really been implicated. Her name hadn’t appeared in the local paper. Accusing, condemning fingers hadn’t pointed in her direction nor had vicious tongues lashed out at her. Melanie could have told them that the idea had been Cherry’s, but young as she was she knew a pathetic it was her idea wouldn’t have helped her cause. Anyway, it might have been her friend’s idea, but Melanie had been the one who’d made it work so beautifully, so damn destructively. Even now, it still made her cringe to think of what she had done.

  She’d seen Cherry’s Facebook page years before and had been tempted to send a friend request, stopping herself at the last moment. The past, she’d thought at the time, was better left where it was. Unfortunately, now it was leeching into her present and poisoning it. She needed to speak to her to see if she could throw any light on who was responsible.

  A little over two hours later, the train reached its destination. York. Melanie grabbed her bag, shoved her laptop inside and edged her way to the door behind a line of travellers. On the platform she looked around with a puzzled frown feeling strangely disorientated. This was the nearest station to Wethersham, she’d been here many times, but either the years had interfered with her memories or it had changed considerably. It was bigger, grander than she remembered; she’d no recollection of the many shops on the concourse or of it ever being this busy.

  Outside, there was a queue for the taxi. She stood in line, glad of a day that was cold but dry and bright. She’d worn a warm jacket and comfortable walking shoes, ready for whatever her hometown wanted to throw at her. She wasn’t fifteen anymore; she might be nervous, even scared, but maturity had its advantages. Over the years, she’d learned how to slip on a professional façade, a carefully neutral expression that hid the emotions that rolled and surged behind. It would get her through what lay ahead.

  It was only fourteen miles from York to Wethersham but roadworks on the way made it a longer journey and it was forty minutes before the taxi dropped her outside the community college where Cherry taught English and French. Or, at least she had. Melanie wasn’t sure how up to date the information she’d read online was. She’d soon find out, but first she had to deal with the sting of old memories as they came flooding back.

  The grim, red-bricked building hadn’t changed since she’d been a pupil there. Some effort had been made to prettify the entrance; neat, clipped box balls sat in tall pots on either side of the double doors but it was the only bit of greenery around. In her day there had been trees, hedges and flower beds. All had been sacrificed to provide extra parking. The playing fields weren’t visible from the front of the long two-storey building and the overall impression was of a bleak institution but she remembered being happy there… until she wasn’t.

  Feeling suddenly nervous, she turned from the entrance and walked toward a service station she could see a few hundred yards down the road. They were sure to have coffee. She’d buy a cup and gather her thoughts.

  The station was busy. In the way of a lot of small towns, it served not only as a petrol station but also as a mini supermarket. She bought a takeaway coffee and stood outside drinking it, her eyes searching for something familiar in a street she would have walked down so many times. But her memories of Wethersham were only ones of pain, nothing else had survived. Finally, when she could delay no longer, when she had to move on and do what she’d come here to do, she dropped her empty cup into the rubbish bin and headed back to the school.

  This time, she didn’t hesitate, she grasped the long metal handle of the front door and pushed. It had never been locked in her day and, despite changing times, it wasn’t now, the door moving easily under her hand. She stepped inside, unable to stop a gasp of disbelief as the time warp made her head spin. Nothing here had changed. The large, high-ceilinged entrance hall, with the reception office to one side, was still covered in the same green-and-cream tiles. Black-framed pictures of graduating classes and former teachers still hung in long rows from the pictu
re rails. She didn’t examine them too closely; she didn’t want to see a photo of her classmates, or that they hadn’t put one up because of her. Or maybe there’d be one with her face photoshopped out. The thought made her shiver.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Dragging herself back to the present, she turned to see a middle-aged woman in a heavy tweed skirt and polo-neck jumper standing in the doorway of the office looking at her suspiciously.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Melanie gave a suddenly anxious laugh. ‘Hi, sorry, I was admiring the photographs.’ It was such a patent lie that she wasn’t surprised when the woman’s eyebrows rose in mistrust. ‘Actually,’ Melanie hurried to explain, ‘I was wondering if it would be possible to see Cherry Dunsdale?’

  The change in the woman’s expression was shocking, disbelief morphing instantly to deep sadness. Only one thing could cause such an expression of sorrow. Melanie’s hand rose automatically to her mouth and she held it there, reading the truth in the woman’s eyes. The question was almost redundant but Melanie asked it anyway. ‘She’s dead?’