The Deadly Truth

by Valerie Keogh

  Rather than answering, the woman waved her into the small office behind. ‘Please, come in, sit down. This is obviously a shock.’

  Doing as she was bid, feeling too numb to do anything else, Melanie followed her and sat onto the chair indicated, dropping her bag at her feet and folding her arms across her body. Cherry was dead. Regret flooded her, bringing tears to her eyes, a lump to her throat.

  ‘My name is Imelda Lee,’ the woman said, taking her seat behind the desk. ‘I’m the school administrator. I knew Cherry for a long time, her death was quite a shock.’ She struggled to smile. ‘It still is, if I’m honest.’

  Melanie was used to thinking on her feet, to being faced with seemingly insurmountable problems and she was rarely fazed by anything that was thrown at her, but this had her searching for words in a brain that seemed to have stalled.

  It must have been obvious, Imelda stood and moved to where a small kettle sat on top of a metal filing cabinet. With a quick shake to check there was water in it, she switched it on. ‘Tea always seems to be a good idea at times like this,’ she said gently and said no more until the tea was made. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  Melanie had been lost in regrets, remembering the pale-faced auburn-haired friend of her youth, wondering if they would have remained friends had things been different. She looked up with a blink when the question was repeated. ‘Sorry, milk please.’

  ‘It’s UHT, I’m afraid,’ Imelda said, putting a mug of tea in front of her and two sachets of milk beside it.

  Melanie hated the stuff, would have preferred black coffee but it was too late… it was all too late. She tore the top off one sachet and poured it in. It barely coloured the tea so she added the second. Maybe she should have asked for sugar. Isn’t that what they recommended for shock or was that an old wives’ tale?

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Was she? She wasn’t sure, her head was spinning. She’d come seeking answers, hoping that Cherry would be able to help. Sadly, she wasn’t sure if the sorrow she felt was for her old friend or for herself. ‘It’s a shock. What happened to her?’ She saw Imelda’s hesitation and added, ‘We were friends, a long time ago. We’d lost touch but I was coming to surprise her.’ It was almost the truth. Twenty-five years since she’d last seen her. She guessed Cherry would have been shocked rather than surprised.

  ‘I may as well tell you because you could find out easily enough from others. People,’ Imelda sniffed disparagingly, ‘are always willing to gossip and to believe the worst, but it wasn’t true, none of it.’

  Melanie, expecting to hear a story of a long illness bravely fought, a sudden diagnosis and quick death or a tragic accident, was taken aback. ‘I don’t understand.’

  A deep breath, then on an exhale, three shocking words. ‘She committed suicide.’ The words fell into the room and floated in the silence before fading. Imelda brushed away the tear that ran down her cheek and sniffed. ‘It was a terrible time. She’d worked here as a teacher for over ten years before being promoted to head of department, then before Christmas the school principal retired and she was offered the post.’ Imelda lifted her mug and drank deeply before continuing. ‘She was so excited, you know, it was her opportunity to make the changes she’d wanted to for years, to build the school up. Ofsted rates us as good.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Cherry’s aim was to bring us up to outstanding.’

  The sadness of loss swept over Melanie. She’d known Cherry the child, she’d never known the woman. She sounded like the kind of person she’d want for a friend, what a shame she’d waited too long. ‘What happened?’ she asked when the silence stretched uncomfortably long.

  Imelda’s eyes glistened. ‘She was only in the role a few days when it started.’ She sighed and cleared her throat noisily. ‘Someone posted on Twitter that she’d been seen kissing one of the students. One of the female students,’ she added as if that made it, somehow, so much worse. ‘Within a few days, graffiti appeared in the students’ toilets alleging…’ Imelda gulped. ‘…all kinds of disgusting sexual acts. The maintenance department couldn’t keep up with removing them. Cherry laughed it off at first but then the graffiti started appearing around town, on the side of buildings, on the bus shelters. When emails were sent to the board of governors alleging a cover-up, all hell broke loose and she was suspended.’

  Tentacles of horror circled Melanie and tightened as she listened. ‘A whispering campaign,’ she said quietly.

  Imelda gave a brief smile. ‘Prior to social media that’s exactly what it would have been called. The odd whisper here and there gathering momentum, spreading like a nasty fungus. But now, between Twitter and Facebook trolls it is so much more vicious.’

  ‘But there was no truth in any of the allegations?’

  Imelda shook her head angrily. ‘Of course there wasn’t, and when an attempt was made to discover who this girl was that she’d supposedly kissed, well, you won’t be surprised to hear that nobody knew, it was all smoke and mirrors. We were able to identify some of the people who tweeted but when questioned, they said they were simply retweeting stuff they’d seen.’ Imelda’s voice wobbled as she finished, her chin sinking into her polo neck.

  ‘She was fired?’

  ‘Yes. The board of governors said they’d lost confidence in her. They told her that even if the allegations were disproved, people would always wonder, and there would be those who would maintain that there was no smoke without fire. I think,’ Imelda said, her voice thick with tears, ‘that it was the even if that finished her. She told me later that her heart had ripped in two when she heard the doubt in their voices.’

  Melanie stared at Imelda without blinking. ‘So, she killed herself.’

  ‘Sleeping tablets. She had a problem with occasional periods of insomnia and had been taking them on and off for years. It seems she’d built up quite a collection; when they found her there were several empty packets beside her.’ Imelda didn’t brush away the tears this time, they ran down her cheeks and dropped to her jumper. ‘Cherry was a dedicated teacher who really cared about the pupils. It was a shocking, tragic waste and I hope whoever started those rumours rots in hell.’

  Melanie wanted to leave, wanted to run from the school and from Wethersham, much as she had done all those years before, but she wasn’t sure her legs would support her. Luckily, Imelda seemed to understand. ‘You’ve had a bad shock.’

  A worse shock than she realised. Melanie kept her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her, afraid to look up in case Imelda saw the terror in them. Because, of course, she knew who’d started the rumours about Cherry, the same person who was sending her the emails. She’d been right, somebody wanted to exact revenge for what happened twenty-five years earlier.

  ‘Are you feeling okay, you’ve gone terribly pale.’ The words broke into her thoughts.

  Melanie looked up. She guessed what she was feeling showed on her face because Imelda suddenly looked worried, her eyelids fluttering nervously as she looked at her, then down at papers on the desk. ‘I really need to get back to work,’ she said, picking up a letter.

  ‘Yes, of course, thank you for your time.’ Melanie stood and gave a shaky smile before turning and walking from the office.

  Outside, the day had turned grey and chilly, dark clouds low in the sky hinting at heavy rain to come. It matched a mood that had swung from horrified to angry determination.

  Whoever was doing this, whoever had broken Cherry, Melanie was damned if that person was going to break her.

  8

  Melanie wasn’t tempted to visit any of her old haunts. There was nothing in Wethersham she wanted to see, the good times of her early youth had been devoured by those last agonising months of pointing fingers and hostility. And yet, as she trudged the twenty-minute walk to the town centre, she imagined she heard innocent and hopeful childish voices floating on the breeze, hers and Cherry’s, echoes of those early times she’d forgotten. A heavy weight of regret weighed her down; not only for what she’d done but for
what she hadn’t, for the friendship she’d let go too easily. Now it was too late.

  She half expected the town centre, like the train station, to have changed, but it looked exactly the same, if maybe a little smaller, a tad shabbier. The town hall too, looked less imposing than she remembered but she was pleased to see the taxi rank was still outside, and more than relieved to see a taxi waiting.

  ‘York train station,’ she said to the driver and slid into the back seat. She shut her eyes as it pulled away, relieved to be leaving Wethersham and making a silent promise never to return.

  The roadworks seemed to have mysteriously disappeared so within twenty minutes the taxi was pulling up outside the train station. Melanie checked her phone and was stunned to see it was only eleven forty-five. She’d expected to be in Wethersham for most of the day, maybe having lunch with Cherry, catching up, sorting out her dilemma. Now, Melanie’s heart twisting with remorse, she stood outside the station wondering what she was going to do. She’d booked tickets on the five o’clock train home but she had no reason to hang around. Inside, she peered up at the timetable, relieved to see there was one she could catch in an hour.

  An hour. She headed back out to the street and looked around. Away from the deadening influence of Wethersham, she was able to concentrate on the chilling thought that someone had deliberately and callously destroyed Cherry. Was that what they were trying to do to her now? Shivering, she pulled the collar of her coat up and shoved her hands into her pockets. It was a bitterly chilly day but she knew it wasn’t the weather that was making her cold inside.

  A pub sign caught her eye. A drink seemed like a good solution. It would warm her up, take the edge off the tension and might help clear her mind. She waited for a gap in the traffic and dashed across.

  Inside the pub it was warm and cosy. There was only one other customer in the far corner with a pint of something dark in his hand, a newspaper spread out over the small table in front of him holding his attention. A lone bartender stood behind the bar, lazily polishing the gleaming surface, a slight smile indicating his mind was elsewhere. He looked up and raised an enquiring eyebrow when she approached.

  Melanie frowned and eyed the bottles behind him before deciding to throw herself on his mercy. ‘I’ve had a bit of a shit morning and need something to take the edge off it all,’ she said bluntly.

  Maybe it wasn’t such an unusual request because he stared at her for a moment before turning to scan the row of bottles behind him. He reached for one, took a small glass and poured honey-coloured liquid into it. ‘Lagavulin,’ he said. ‘It’s whisky, designed to hit whatever ails you.’

  She paid what seemed to be a large amount of money for a short drink and took it to a seat near the open fire. Lifting it to her nose, she sniffed. It smelt of smoke and peat. Tentatively, she sipped, surprised to find it tasted the same. It didn’t exactly hit what ailed her, but a few sips took the edge off the despair that was washing over her in waves.

  Somebody wanted revenge. Melanie had hoped Cherry would have been able to help her but it seemed she couldn’t even help herself. She wondered if along with the tweets and the scurrilous graffiti, Cherry had received emails similar to those she’d had. Her eyes narrowed in thought before she shook her head. No, she didn’t think so. Cherry wasn’t stupid; if she’d got the emails, she’d have done exactly what Melanie had done, she’d have gone looking for her. Melanie had made herself hard to find, but not impossible.

  With the whisky an antidote to the chill inside and the fire warming her fingers and toes, she considered her options. There weren’t many. In fact, only one. There was one other person who might be able to help. Not a friend and someone she hadn’t seen since she left Wethersham. She hadn’t ever wanted to see him again. But she seemed to be out of choices.

  Eric Thomas. The mere thought of the name poured icy water on the whisky warmth, quenching it in an instant. She looked at her almost empty glass and was tempted to get another, wondering vaguely if this was how it would end with her, a drinking habit to enable her to cope. Shutting her eyes briefly, she sighed. Eric Thomas. She barely knew him; his family had moved from Leeds to Wethersham only a few months before everything had fallen apart. He’d been a year above her in school, a year at that tender age making a big difference. Taller and broader, she remembered he’d seemed like a man in comparison to the boys in her year.

  After she and her mother had fled Wethersham, she’d heard nothing of him or of anyone she’d left behind. Her mother refused to maintain contacts with old friends or neighbours; too embarrassed and ashamed, too mired in bitterness that soured her until the massive heart attack that had taken her suddenly, leaving Melanie, despite everything, bereft.

  When she’d found Cherry on Facebook, years before, Melanie had peered at the photographs that were there for all to see. Cherry with friends, in the school, at various functions. Melanie had scanned the other people in the group shots, seeing nobody familiar until she saw Eric in the background of one taken at a sponsored charity run. She’d recognised him straight away, the same neat, rather old-fashioned haircut, the same intense stare as he looked into the camera. Curious, she’d done a few internet searches and discovered he lived in London, in Edgware which wasn’t that many miles from where she’d lived at the time. She’d liked to have known more about him but didn’t risk doing a friend request. He wouldn’t have recognised her name but she’d worked too hard to separate her past from who she had become, she wasn’t willing to risk blending the two together again. As a result, she hadn’t found any personal details, only that he worked as a car salesman in a local dealership. She’d not bothered to narrow it down to one, she’d no idea then that she’d ever need to know.

  But she had to face it; with Cherry dead, he might well be her only hope.

  He might also be nobody.

  That thought came thundering out of the dark and jolted her. Strangely, stupidly perhaps, she’d not considered it, but of course it was true. Eric, after all, had every reason to hate her and plenty of reason to want revenge. But why would he wait until now? She threw back the last of the whisky. It was something she could ask him when she found him, because she was damned if she was going to sit around and wait to see what he was going to do. She’d find him and confront him.

  Tapping the side of the empty glass with a fingernail, she cursed herself for not having found out exactly where he worked. Edgware was a big place, there were likely to be several car dealerships and she didn’t have the luxury of time to enable her to trawl through them all. With one final tap on the glass, a thought came to her. She knew who she could ask for help. Masters used a small private investigation service to help with the more difficult traces and to investigate the dodgier of their clients with discretion. They could do, in a short while, what might very well take her hours, time she wouldn’t have to spare over the next couple of days.

  Thinking of work, a twinge of guilt hit her. She hadn’t checked her emails all morning and she wouldn’t have heard its alerts with all the surrounding noise. There might very well be some waiting for her attention. With a reluctant sigh, she fished in her bag for her phone and put it on the ring-marked table beside her empty glass. Another whisky would make looking at it a little easier. She shook her head at the thought and picked up her phone to check.

  There were three emails from the associates who were working with her on the merger. Simple questions that nevertheless required an answer. It didn’t take long, a simple, yes, please, a no, that’s fine, don’t worry about it and no, leave it and I’ll sort it when I get back. With work, for the moment, sorted, she scrolled through her list of contacts to find the private investigator’s number. This was the best course of action, wasn’t it? Gritting her teeth, she pressed ring. It was her only course of action.

  ‘Rabbie and Henderson.’

  No mention of what they did, such was their level of discretion. ‘Hi, it’s Melanie Scott from Masters Corporate Law, may I speak with Alistair, pl
ease?’

  Considering the amount of work they put their way, she wasn’t surprised when she was put through immediately. She’d met Alistair once, a short, skinny Scot, who was blunt to the point of rudeness but with an engaging smile that meant people weren’t quite sure if their leg weren’t being pulled, ever so gently. ‘Ms Scott, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I need information about someone,’ she said and gave him Eric Thomas’s name. ‘I know he works for a car dealership in Edgware, I need to know which one.’

  ‘E.R.I.C?’ He spelled out the name, his intonation rising in a question mark at the end.

  Did it matter? She bit back the words; he was giving the request the same amount of attention he always did; it wasn’t his fault she was more personally invested this time. ‘That’s it,’ she said.

  ‘Okay. I’ll put Liam on it.’

  ‘Liam?’ Another name, another person involved. ‘Can’t you do it?’

  There was an infinitesimal pause before Alistair replied. ‘Liam has done quite a bit of work for Masters since he started with us three months ago. He’s an ex-copper. Solid and reliable. If you’ve heard otherwise…?

  She hadn’t. But Alistair had put her on the back foot while skilfully avoiding her question. ‘No. Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, as if that was that. ‘I’ll fill him in and he’ll get back to you with the information you require as soon as it’s available.’

  And with that she had to be satisfied. ‘Send the invoice to me personally,’ she added. She didn’t anticipate her request being queried and it wasn’t.

  ‘Fine,’ Alistair said again, as if this was the norm.

  It was as simple as that. She put her phone back into her bag, gave a wave of thanks to the bartender and made her way back to the station with a few minutes to spare before her train was due.

  9

  Unfortunately, Melanie didn’t manage to get a seat with a table on the journey home and had to make do with a flip-down table that was hardly fit for purpose. Propping her laptop up as best as she could, she ploughed through the reports she needed to read for the following day, sighing as she lost focus after a few paragraphs, her thoughts drifting to Cherry and to what had happened.