Our Little Lies: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist

by Sue Watson

  ‘Now, we’ve been talking to your husband,’ Cornell says. ‘Do you have anything else you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you categorically say that you didn’t do this?’ I’m surprised at this sudden question.

  You’ve told them you think I did it, haven’t you, Simon?

  I pause. It’s time to be totally honest. ‘Not one hundred per cent, no.’

  ‘Really?’ she says, sitting up like she’s about to get a confession.

  ‘Look, I’m just telling you the truth,’ I say, and go on to explain my medication, how it makes me woozy, which is why I can’t remember leaving.

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ she asks, monotone, like I’m using my lack of memory as an excuse, a defence even if I end up in court.

  ‘I was confused… it might be the illness, or the medication… but I just can’t remember sometimes. I don’t trust myself.’ I hear these final words and know I’m only compounding the problem. Richard Black shifts in his seat, and we both know that ‘no comment’ would have been so much wiser.

  I’m ninety-nine per cent sure I didn’t kill Caroline, it’s just the bloody medication that provides that one per cent of doubt in my head, and after a lifetime with someone like my husband I think I’m more suggestible than I should be. If Cornell tells me she has evidence I did it and I’m being ‘banged up’ for life – or whatever catchphrase they use at times like this – I would probably go along with it.

  Cornell’s now asking me to go over everything again, and I explain about the emails and my suspicions and how Simon tried to convinced me it was all in my head.

  ‘I just think… if I didn’t do it, then who did? I wonder if my husband knows?’

  ‘Really? Why?’ She sounds intrigued.

  ‘Well… when I saw Caroline she told me she’d ended it with him. I doubt he’d have been too pleased about that. I think he loved her in his own twisted way and he’d be hurt to think she’d leave him, especially as she was pregnant. And I told you, she had a bruise on her wrist. Simon can be violent… in the bedroom, but also if he doesn’t get what he wants.’

  ‘Did she actually tell you Simon hurt her, that he gave her the bruise?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I feel that she was trying to tell me…’

  ‘What you feel won’t stand up in court.’

  ‘I’m just explaining to you honestly what I think. I’m hoping you or your forensics people… can come up with something more tangible. I know one of us did it and I think it was him,’ I blurt.

  ‘Forensics are currently going through stuff but that could be days away,’ she says, ignoring my last comment. ‘We also have to look at other elements. Yes Dr Wilson had a motive if she was dumping him – he may have been angry about that.’

  I nod vigorously in agreement.

  ‘Tell me, Marianne, what’s your height?’ she suddenly asks, which seems a bit odd. I’d hoped she’d ask me more about Simon’s motive.

  ‘I’m five foot three.’

  She writes this down, then looks up from her paper. ‘Right-handed or left?’

  ‘I’m right-handed…’ What?

  She nods. I have no idea of the relevance of these questions, but feel if I answer honestly the truth will out.

  ‘Can you tell me anything at all?’ I ask. ‘It’s the not knowing… and I’m worried about the children.’

  Cornell is shaking her head and my heart drops. ‘It’s early days yet – and the CPS won’t authorise a charge without enough evidence. I’ve worked on cases over the years where we’ve been so sure we knew who the perpetrator of a crime was, and we didn’t even want to go through the tortuous interview process… but sometimes, just sometimes, we’re wrong.’ She looks up from her papers and her eyes drill into me.

  You think I did it.

  ‘Now, you said your husband left your home on the night Dr Harker was killed?’

  ‘Yes, he left about three in the morning and he’s never really said where he went, just that he drove around and ended up staying at his friend’s place.’

  ‘Mmm, yes, and his friend has confirmed this to us, so he does have an alibi for the night,’ she concedes.

  ‘Well, he would. His friend’s his solicitor. He knows the score – they’ll be in it together.’

  ‘Solicitor?’ She looks at Faith, puzzled. ‘I wasn’t aware Mrs Moreton was a solicitor.’

  ‘No, not Jen, I mean David. That’s who Simon stayed with.’

  ‘Not according to your husband – it seems Mrs Moreton was kind enough to offer him a bed for the night.’ She’s looking at me now, waiting for my reaction to this.

  ‘Jen?’

  ‘Apparently. And she’s backing him up on this.’

  ‘Why would he go round there?’

  ‘Who knows? Does that seem odd to you?’

  ‘Yes. He hardly knows her…’ And then I think about her girlish giggles, the way she waited to see if he’d drive her home at the end of the party. The way she was always interested in anything to do with my marriage problems.

  Jen… what the fuck?

  ‘Do you believe your husband and Mrs Moreton are…’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe any more, but let’s put it this way, I can believe he spent the night with Jennifer Moreton. Her husband works away… and women find it hard to say no to Simon.’ I’d imagined all kinds of things with other women, but never seen that one – Simon and Jen.

  It didn’t take him long to find someone else to use. Jen’s bored of her husband, desperate for adventure, and it would explain the receipts for dinners and nights in hotels when I know from her online presence that Caroline wasn’t with him. It seems, then, that he’d had more than one mistress. Caroline and I had both been played.

  ‘She’s confirmed he was there and provided his alibi,’ Cornell continues. ‘His fingerprints are probably all over the deceased’s home, of course, but that isn’t damning, he’s not denying he spent time there.’

  Cornell’s looking straight at me, and I know exactly what she’s saying. Tears are filling my eyes. My heart is thudding. I’m about to be charged with something I’m increasingly sure I didn’t do.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘Can’t you see he is guilty? Jen is lying as much as he is… Yes he may have been there, but I bet she can’t account for all night.’ My frustration is boiling over.

  ‘Yes… she can.’

  God, I can’t believe it when I think about our girly conversations, the way I confided in her. She must have been running straight back to Simon; she played me as much as he did. And this also explains how he knew to delete his email account before I confronted him – Jen must have told him.

  Cornell’s looking at me, like I can provide a clue, a confession even, but I can’t. As much as I can’t say I didn’t do it, I certainly can’t say I did and until then I will try and stand my ground.

  ‘Jennifer Moreton has provided your husband with an alibi right up until the next day, when he took your sons to the cinema.’

  ‘I have an alibi too. I was home…’

  ‘But you told us you don’t remember saying goodbye, and being asleep with no witnesses is not an alibi.’

  ‘He must have drugged me.’

  ‘According to your husband, you drugged yourself… on a regular basis, and that was some strong stuff you were on – 45 mg of Mirtazapine… the usual dose is about thirty, according to our doc.’

  ‘My GP said to take the higher dose when I needed it, but Simon kept on at me and said to keep up the forty-five dosage. He told me it would help… he’s a doctor. I believed him.’

  She shrugs, allows me to continue ranting, but I’m not sure this is doing me any good at all.

  ‘I’ve had issues… I’ve done stupid things, I’ve even lost control sometimes – but wouldn’t you if your husband was constantly bloody cheating?’

  ‘Absolutely. Murder is usually madness in the moment, a loss of control, of re
ason – as I think you well know, Mrs Wilson.’

  Faith is nodding, in agreement with her boss. ‘Yep, one person pisses another one off and that’s it… and, like I say, this was frenzied… nothing premeditated about that scene.’

  Tears are now falling as my solicitor insists the interview is stopped because ‘my client is distressed’.

  I’m escorted back to the little cell, where I lie on the bare mattress, bring my knees up to my chest and curl into a ball and eventually fall into a restless and confused sleep. I wake every now and then, and an officer checks every so often presumably to make sure I’ve not come to any harm. After the fifth or sixth visit, I manage to drift into a deeper sleep and I dream.

  I dream about my children walking through a huge field. They’re alone, Sophie’s holding the boys’ hands and I can see a sinister figure dressed in black waiting for them, I’m shouting at them to come back, but they can’t hear me.

  * * *

  I wake up screaming my children’s names; someone is shaking me gently.

  ‘Marianne, Mrs Wilson… wake up.’

  I jerk and sit up suddenly to see a police officer standing over me. I’m in shock, caught between sleeping and waking, permanently alert waiting for news. ‘What? What? Am I going to prison… Are you here to take me away? I have to see my children.’

  ‘No, you’re not going to prison, and you can see your kids when they get out of school.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Today.’ He smiles.

  ‘Really?’ I’m crying. I don’t know what this means.

  ‘The Custody Sergeant will release you shortly, but DI Cornell is on her way – just wants a few words before you go.’

  I almost leap up. This is wonderful, amazing. Am I dreaming? Why?

  ‘Mrs Wilson, I see the sergeant has given you the good news. We have our perpetrator.’ Cornell is walking into the cell, rubbing her hands together. ‘Yep, while you’ve been languishing in your five-star hotel room here we’ve been busy. Good job too, because you’ve been here almost thirty-six hours and it means loads of paperwork for DS Faith to keep you a minute longer.’

  ‘Great, but trust me, it’s no five-star hotel.’

  ‘No… it’s more… boutique?’

  I shrug. I’ve had enough of her banter, I just want to get home to my children, but I need to know.

  ‘Was it Simon? Have you got him?’

  ‘Your husband has been charged with the murder of Dr Harker,’ she says to my great relief. ‘I have to say though, there was a point when it was a toss-up between you and him. Both of you had a motive, both of your fingerprints were lighting up that scene and we’re still waiting on DNA, but I suppose that’s academic now. At one point we even thought you’d both killed her in some ménage à trois murder. The papers would have loved that,’ she says half to herself. ‘But you don’t strike me as the threesome type – given your issues with jealousy.’

  I shift slightly in the tiny cell. I’m feeling claustrophobic after all this time.

  ‘Yeah, and you’ll be pleased to know we recovered the emails – torrid to say the least.’

  ‘Good… is that what finally caught him out?’ I ask.

  ‘As a matter of fact, he came in, asked to see us… and confessed.’

  I’m shocked. I knew if I hadn’t done it then he must be guilty, but I never expected him to actually confess – after all truth isn’t his forte.

  ‘You look surprised, Mrs Wilson?’

  ‘I am… not surprised that he did it, but just surprised that he volunteered himself.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what we thought, but the emails and the evidence tie in… He had a motive, and as you suggested, he was angry with Dr Harker because she wanted to finish things. He went over there the night she died; we’ve got his car on CCTV heading in the direction of Dr Harker’s cottage. On initial investigation the entrance wound and trajectory of the knife was at a downward angle which would suggest whoever stabbed her was at least three or four inches taller than the victim, and left-handed.’

  Simon’s left-handed, and I’d imagine he’s around four inches taller, so it all adds up.

  ‘So why did you think it might be me?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. After all, Mrs Wilson, even you thought it might be you.’

  I shrug. I’m saying nothing – if he’s confessed then I’m okay with that. No point in adding any more of my confused thoughts to all this.

  ‘So he just went round there and they argued and he ended up stabbing her?’ I say, pulling the blue blanket over me, chilled at the thought that it could so easily have been me. It’s difficult to imagine Simon doing something so rash, so unpremeditated, but there you go. I never really knew my husband.

  I’m so sorry, Caroline. After everything I wish I could have saved you and your baby.

  ‘He said it was her fault he’d lost you and the kids and wishes the whole thing had never happened. Funny, I never expected a man like him to be so…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frenzied… he seems so cool, and controlled. I was also convinced it was a woman. I don’t know… copper’s instinct?’

  The way Cornell’s studying my face for a reaction, I reckon she still thinks I know more than I’m letting on and this is some kind of code between husband and wife. Perhaps she thinks he’s confessing to save me, but I know he’d never do that – after all he was the one who wanted me out of the way. Prison would have been even better than some clinic.

  ‘Anyway, onwards and upwards,’ Cornell says, shuffling papers, keen to send me on my way. ‘Oh, I almost forgot, he asked me to pass on a message to you actually…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, he said he’d like you to be Sophie’s legal guardian while he’s away… I reckon he’ll be going down for a very long time.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d like to officially adopt her. It was something Simon never wanted. I think he liked to hold it over me.’

  I can barely comprehend everything that’s happening; it’s as if Simon has suddenly been overcome by his guilt. Perhaps he wants to make amends.

  ‘He seems to have a lot to answer for. Anyway, social services will have to get involved in all that, but for now we’re more than happy to let you go. Oh, and he wanted me to give you this.’ She passes me a piece of paper which he’s scrawled something on, and I eventually decipher it.

  Marianne, you are right, I may not have been father of the year, nor have I been husband of the year. But I’ll do anything for my kids. Tell them I love them. I know you’ll look after them well, and Sophie will be safe with you. Simon x

  It seems this horrific act has finally focused his mind.

  Too little too late, Simon.

  ‘Does that help?’ she asks.

  ‘A bit of paper with a few words doesn’t help me or the kids recover from what he’s put us through. I don’t doubt he loves them, but words are easy, aren’t they, and he isn’t exactly going to be tested over the next few years as a father.’

  She shrugs. ‘Those kids have you and that’s enough… they’ll be fine. And you’ll be fine. Just take it easy. These things have a way of hitting you where it hurts further down the line.’

  ‘Thanks, DI Cornell,’ I say and go to shake her hand.

  ‘Call me Janet… I’ll keep in touch,’ she says.

  ‘Okay, speak soon.’ I smile as the police officer escorts me from the room to reception, where I’m given back my phone and keys and life. Then they call me a taxi.

  I walk out into the winter sunshine – the air is freezing. I’m still numb from everything that’s happened, but DI Cornell… Janet… is right, we’ll be fine. The kids are better off without a dad than with one like Simon Wilson. I climb into the waiting taxi ask the driver to take me to the boys’ school, then dial Sophie and tell her to meet me there. When I arrive I’ll sweep them all up into my arms, and we’ll go for burgers, plan our future, make silly jokes and sing rude
songs that Simon doesn’t approve of. Just because we can.

  Twelve Months Later

  This Christmas will be a very different one to last year, when Simon was charged. We still had the house and his salary was paid for a few more months, but soon after, we had to move to a small flat where there’s no European oak or Farrow and Ball walls. There’s no extra French tuition, no music or tennis lessons any more for the kids either. But there’s also no tension, no walking on eggshells, no violence – and I’ve weaned myself off the medication. Now I know that our relationship was a mess from the beginning. The flawed man and the vulnerable woman. That I was only ever allowed to feel what he wanted me to feel. That I was only ever happy when he chose for me to be. I believe my ‘obsessive behaviour’ was prompted by the fact that Simon was having the affairs he said I imagined. Sophie told me she’d seen him in a clinch with the barmaid. She’s also since told me that she felt his friendship with one of her friend’s mothers was ‘weird’ too. And then there was my so-called friend Jen, who I now know had been enjoying secret liaisons with him for a while, while constantly telling me she had my back. Perhaps some of Simon’s women were in my mind, but that wasn’t my madness, it was his manipulation. I don’t care any more. I’m just angry that not only did he lie about what he was up to, he turned it into my problem, my ‘illness’. I blame Simon for his first wife Nicole’s death – not directly perhaps, but in my view, Simon could turn a woman to suicide… and who knows what he was capable of? I’m just glad I got out alive.

  So with Simon out of our lives, I’m not anxious or obsessive, Sophie’s eating again, Alfie’s joined the school drama club and the only time Charlie gets wound up is on the football pitch, where he’s scoring goals for the junior school team.

  I moved the boys from the fee-paying school Simon had insisted on but I have a part-time job in a local shop and, with Joy’s inheritance, I’ll be able to send all my kids to university if they wish. Meanwhile, Sophie stayed on for the last few months of Year 13, as it’s what she wanted and in the middle of the madness I was keen to keep everything stable for her. At her age Sophie knew what was happening. It hit her the hardest, and she struggled emotionally for a long time. Many nights I would hold her as she cried herself to sleep and I think, even after all this time, in Simon’s absence, she allowed herself to finally grieve for her mother. She knew more about me and Simon than I’d realised and told me that her dad used to hurt her mum too, and she’s been holding on to all this hurt, both for her mother and for me. She says she feels guilty that she didn’t save her mum or stop him from hurting us, and I tell her she couldn’t possibly have made any difference, but I know she needs to work through that.