Trust Me: An absolutely gripping and unputdownable psychological thriller

by Sheryl Browne

  She really had been naïve, hadn’t she? How much had it turned him on, using her the way he had? He probably hadn’t even wanted to have sex with her. Her heart plummeted at the thought that she might have repulsed him. He was using this woman too, though, she would bet her life on it. She was tempted to text her and tell her just how much of a bastard he was, but that would only alert him to the fact that she knew.

  What had she got herself involved in? Why had she? Humiliation rising hot inside her, she swallowed back the bile in her throat and got to her feet. She wasn’t going to face him with it. She’d thought she was, but he wasn’t worth wasting the emotion on.

  Disgusted with herself more than anything, she tossed the phone onto the bed, then hurried to retrieve it as it slid off the edge of the duvet onto the floor. Cushioned by the carpet, it hadn’t made any noise – thank God.

  As she bent to pick it up, her eyes snagged on something under the bed. His Banksy Ratapult T-shirt. She’d bought it for him online from the Banksy Shop. It had a stain on it, deep crimson, stark against the white cotton. Her eyes sliding once again to the door, she reached tentatively for it and shook it out. And her heart somersaulted in her chest.

  Dropping it as if it might bite her, she tried to imagine where the blood had come from, but couldn’t. He’d had no visible injuries recently. Had he? Nerves knotted her stomach as, taking another breath, she peered back under the bed, sure she would find something terrifying there. There was nothing apart from an old laptop gathering dust, and a box. A shoebox-size box. The sort in which he kept the medication she’d helped him to steal.

  Hesitating, she went over to the door to listen, then, hearing him shaving, eased the door to and went back to the box. She couldn’t just take it. He’d know it was her. But she could maybe take a photo of what was in there, one of the shirt too. She might need to. He’d worn gloves at the surgery. She hadn’t. She was sure she hadn’t touched anything near the safe, and her fingerprints would be around the place anyway since she’d been there many times with her dad. But what if she’d left some piece of DNA that would alert the police to her involvement? He would deny everything, probably that he even knew her, and where would that leave her?

  Dropping to her knees, she held her breath and prised the lid off the box, a deep furrow forming in her brow as she studied the contents. It was full of old photographs. She recognised him in some of them, unmistakable with his twinkly eyes and sex-loaded smile, cultivated to reel women in. He was wearing a biker jacket and motorbike helmet in some, his hair, dark and long, like Ben’s, escaping from beneath it. Looking like a poser astride his bike in others. But it was the girl straddling the bike in another photo that really caught her attention.

  She squinted at it, her heart almost stopping inside her. It wasn’t. Was it? It couldn’t be. Her heartbeat a sluggish thud in her chest, she picked up another photo, of the same girl. Wearing jeans and a strappy vest, she was sitting cross-legged against a graffiti-covered brick wall, sticking her tongue out, cheeky, confident. Confused, Millie picked up another photo. The girl looked nervous in this one. She was standing, her shoulders slightly slumped, her hands tucked behind her back. She was the same, but not. Wearing the same strappy top, but not. It was a different colour.

  Hands shaking, Millie compared the two photos side by side. The girl was wearing a locket, a distinctive gold-embossed locket. They both were. Her mum still had hers, a tiny photograph of a blonde-haired girl in it. She’d told Millie her twin sister had been buried in hers.

  Her mouth dry, she pushed the photographs into her jacket pocket and delved further into the box, extracting an envelope; a white self-seal envelope, the sort she’d heard had been stuffed through people’s doors. With trembling fingers, she extracted the letter from inside it.

  Does your husband know about your son? she read. You belong to me, Emily. You can run. You can hide. I will find you. YOU’RE MINE.

  Her head snapped up as she heard the door creak open.

  ‘Find anything interesting?’ Louis said behind her.

  Forty-One

  Jake

  ‘Natasha Jameson?’ Jake shook his head, his heart still pumping with shock. ‘But who …?’ He brought his gaze cautiously back to DS Regan’s. ‘How?’

  ‘We’re treating it as a hit-and-run,’ she said, ‘for the moment.’

  Jake noted her dubious expression. ‘I take it you’re not convinced that it was.’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind. It was dark. She was wearing black, not easy to see on a secluded country lane. From the location, we’re surmising she may have climbed out of a car. It may have been an unfortunate accident, the driver running scared, thinking he or she had hit an animal, possibly, but …’

  ‘You think she may have argued with someone.’ Jake read between the lines.

  Regan shrugged non-committally. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Michael?’ Jake eyed her warily.

  ‘It seems her husband has an alibi, which can be corroborated,’ Regan answered. ‘We’ll know more when Natasha regains consciousness, which we’re hoping she soon will. We’ve been doing some digging around meanwhile, and it appears the general consensus is that she might have been cheating on him.’

  Jake’s eyes slid to Emily. She looked deathly pale, clearly as shocked as he was. Before Regan had told them who the young woman was, it would have been Millie she’d seen lying in that lane. Jake had felt the fear emanating from her in palpable waves. This wouldn’t help her state of mind.

  ‘So rumour would have it,’ he said, his gaze gliding after Ben, who, also visibly shocked, was heading for the kitchen.

  ‘They split up for a while after her husband received one of the letters that have been circulating,’ Regan pressed, ‘which suggests that there might be some truth in it.’

  Jake could sense Emily watching him steadily and prayed this wasn’t going to cause more friction between them. ‘I really couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘They got back together. I hoped, for her sake, she’d made the right decision.’

  ‘I gather from your frown that you don’t approve?’ Regan commented.

  Jake hadn’t realised he was frowning. ‘It’s not my place to approve or disapprove,’ he said, with a short smile. ‘I have to remain impartial. Michael Jameson is one of my patients too.’

  DS Regan arched an eyebrow curiously.

  ‘I can’t say more,’ Jake said, holding her gaze. ‘Not unless I’m obliged to. I’m sure you understand.’

  Regan conceded the point with a small nod. ‘We’ll be making further enquiries locally, obviously, trying to trace anyone she might have been involved with. A man driven by jealousy can just as easily be a lover as a husband, after all.’

  ‘Assuming it was a man,’ Jake suggested. ‘Also assuming it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Assuming both of those things.’ Regan smiled enigmatically. ‘I’m sorry, but I do have to ask … Rumour being what it is, I’m sure there’s no truth in it, but one or two people have speculated about whether you might have been involved with her.’

  Jake glanced down and then back to her with a wry smile. ‘There’s no truth in it,’ he stated categorically. ‘I’ve never been involved with Natasha.’

  Regan scanned his eyes quizzically for a second. Then: ‘There was also a suggestion that your father might have been,’ she said, watching him carefully.

  Running a hand over his neck, Jake laughed cynically. ‘I really don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Maybe you should ask him.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to him. He says not,’ Regan informed him. ‘Just out of interest, can you confirm where you were last night, Dr Merriden?’

  Her tone was devoid of any particular inflection, Jake noted. He was about to ask why she wanted to know, but guessing that would make him sound defensive, thought better of it. ‘I was here,’ he provided. ‘We’d been at Edward Simpson’s party. There was an incident there, as you’ve no doubt realised. Edward left upset, and we – Emily
and I – went in search of him and took him home.’

  Regan had the good grace to look sympathetic. ‘You do understand we have to ascertain people’s movements around the time of the incident?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Making a conscious move to show her to the door, he wished to God she’d chosen to do her ascertaining when Emily wasn’t present.

  ‘So you were here all night?’ Regan continued, to his dismay. He’d hoped she would just leave it there and go. He needed to check on Ben and talk to Emily, whose expression, he noted, glancing in her direction, was one of bewilderment. ‘You didn’t have any reason to go out in your car. No call-outs?’

  Recalling that Ben had been using his car, Jake answered cautiously. ‘No, not until Joyce called,’ he said, willing his eyes not to stray towards the kitchen as he heard the back door open and close.

  ‘Right. Thank you.’ Regan turned to go at last, to Jake’s immense relief.

  He opened the front door for her. ‘Do you have information regarding vehicles in the vicinity?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

  Her eyes flicked curiously to his.

  ‘From what you’ve just said, I’m presuming you do,’ he added.

  ‘Could be,’ she answered evasively. ‘I’d better get on. A police officer’s work is never done.’ She glanced back at Emily with a small smile, and then at Jake. ‘No doubt we’ll have a few more things we might need to clarify with you.’

  Jake nodded. ‘Anything I can do to help,’ he offered, ‘providing it doesn’t breach client confidentiality.’

  ‘We’ll make sure we have the requisite paperwork should we need it,’ she said, stepping out – and almost into Tom, who was coming up the drive.

  ‘We meet again.’ Tom offered her a guarded smile. ‘Any further news?’

  ‘Nothing yet. We’ll keep everyone informed as deemed necessary,’ she replied, giving both Tom and Jake a long, searching look.

  Tom shook his head. ‘Nasty business,’ he said with a despairing sigh.

  ‘Very.’ Regan drew her gaze away and headed onwards to her car.

  Tom watched her go, then turned to Jake with a worried smile.

  Jake eyed him quizzically. Tom might do the odd house call, but this wasn’t a house he was generally welcome in.

  ‘I came to apologise,’ Tom said, confounding him completely.

  ‘For?’ He furrowed his brow.

  ‘Pranging the front of your car,’ Tom said, running a hand sheepishly through his hair and nodding towards where it was parked on the drive. ‘Damn silly thing to have done. I was in a bit of a rush coming out of the car park the other day. Pushed my foot a bit too enthusiastically on the accelerator and went straight into yours, I’m afraid.’

  It took a second for Jake to digest what he’d said. When he did, his heart skipped a beat. The police were showing an interest in his car, which was newly dented around the same time as a hit-and-run – and around the time Ben had been driving it. Christ, how was that going to look to them?

  Forty-Two

  Millie

  Her heart banging, Millie stuffed the letter hastily into her pocket and got shakily to her feet. ‘I was looking for paracetamol,’ she improvised, walking towards him. ‘I wondered whether you might have some in your bedside cabinet.’

  A frown crossing his face, Louis looked her over thoughtfully. ‘In the bathroom,’ he said, nodding in that direction, and then looking past her to the bed.

  ‘Thanks.’ She cursed the tremor she could hear in her voice. ‘I’ll just go and grab some.’

  His eyes narrowed, he nodded again and she took her chance. Her instinct was to run, but he was much taller than her, his stride longer. He would be on her in an instant.

  Her nerves jangling, she willed herself to stay calm as she walked to the hall. She’d made it past the bathroom door, the front door almost in reach, when he said quietly behind her, ‘Where are you going?’

  She froze. ‘Just outside for some fresh air,’ she said, trying hard to sound casual. ‘I have a really bad headache. I—’

  ‘You’ve been going through my things,’ he stated flatly.

  Her heart lurched. ‘No I haven’t,’ she denied quickly. Too quickly. ‘I was just looking for the paracetamol. I wasn’t—’

  ‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ he said, an intrigued edge to his voice.

  Sensing him walking towards her, every hair on Millie’s body rose.

  ‘Wondering about the blood?’ he said, right behind her.

  Fear constricting her throat, Millie launched herself forwards.

  ‘It’s mine,’ Louis growled as she grappled with the ancient Yale lock on the front door. ‘It’s my blood, you silly cow.’ He slammed his hand against the door. ‘What? Did you think I’d murdered someone?’

  ‘I need to go.’ Millie caught a sob in her throat. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘It’s my blood,’ he repeated, pressing his other hand to the door, one now either side of her head. ‘I cut my leg on some scaffolding. I wrapped the T-shirt around it, forgot where I’d left it. I’ll show you the scar if you like.’

  He wasn’t going to let her out. Millie’s heart thrashed wildly. Even if she pretended to believe him, he probably wouldn’t. Her mind racing, groping for a way to make him move away, she stopped struggling with the door and turned slowly. His face was inches from her own, his breath sweet with mouthwash, his eyes … They were frightened. Her blood pumped. He was as scared as she was.

  ‘And the photographs?’ she asked, taking a gamble and praying hard.

  He pulled his hands away from the door as if he’d been electrocuted. ‘What photographs?’

  ‘My mother.’ She held his gaze, shaking inside as she watched his eyes grow thunderously dark, seething suddenly with contempt. For her. He didn’t want her. She’d been a means to an end, that was all. He’d been in a relationship with her mother. Was he still? Her mind reeled as she tried to make sense of it. No. He’d been stalking her. He was threatening her. He wanted to destroy her family. She wouldn’t let him. ‘I saw your phone too,’ she said, her fear giving way to the hatred bubbling up inside her. ‘You should know I dialled 999 on it and left the call open.’

  He squinted at her, sneering disbelievingly for a second. ‘Fuck!’ he spat, and spun on his heel, slamming his fist into the wall as he stormed back to the bedroom. Almost choking on the fear lodged in her throat, she whirled around, her survival instinct lending her the strength she needed to wrench the door open.

  She’d reached the steps when she felt his arm slide around her. ‘Let me go.’ Terror gripping her, she struggled against the hold he had around her neck.

  ‘Not until you give me my fucking stuff back,’ he hissed close to her ear.

  Millie squirmed. He only squeezed tighter, hauling her backwards. ‘I’ve done time in prison thanks to your mother,’ he snarled. ‘Suffered perverts and bullies, counted the days until we could be together. And what did she do?’ He paused, as if he expected her to answer. ‘She moved on. Made a nice cosy life for herself with your fucking perfect father and tried to forget me, that’s what she did. But she knows.’ He jerked his arm a fraction tighter. ‘She knows she belongs to me. I was her first. I’ll be her fucking last. Do you honestly think I would let some pathetic little schoolgirl rob me of that? Give me my stuff! Now!’

  He was deranged. Out of his mind. Millie’s stomach twisted. ‘All right,’ she rasped. ‘All right. Stop, please,’ she begged, gagging against the constriction in her windpipe. ‘You’re going to kill me.’

  He jerked her chin upwards, sending her a warning, then relaxed his grip enough for her to draw breath. ‘Piss me about and you will be dead, do you hear me?’

  She nodded hard.

  ‘Good,’ he spat, heaving her around by the scruff of her neck. ‘My things.’

  She fumbled in her pockets, tugging the photos out first, her heart jolting as one fluttered to the ground.

  ‘Carele
ss bitch,’ he muttered, bending to retrieve it – and Millie brought her knee up hard, a combination of satisfaction and nausea sweeping through her as she heard bone crack against bone.

  ‘Bastard,’ she seethed, thundering down the steps as, groaning and spitting blood, he dropped to his knees. Did he honestly think she was so pathetic she wouldn’t rather die fighting than allow him to do this?

  Forty-Three

  Jake

  His mind racing, Jake walked with his father to his car. His heart stalled, undiluted fear ripping through him as he looked the front of it over, noting the dent in the bumper.

  ‘I take it you hadn’t noticed it?’ Tom said.

  ‘No.’ Jake glanced at him cautiously. His father was studying the damage, a perturbed look on his face.

  Jake drew his gaze back to the car. Had he really not noticed the dent? He possibly wouldn’t have done this morning. He’d been in a rush, his thoughts on Edward. Had it really been there before, though? When Ben had taken the car? Surely he would have noticed if it had? Swallowing back the nausea climbing his throat, he looked again at his father, his eyes narrowed. ‘You know Ben had the car last night?’ he asked.

  Tom widened his eyes in surprise. ‘Did he?’

  ‘He was at a party in Malvern.’

  ‘In which case, I’m glad I came by. I wouldn’t want you thinking he’d been drink driving.’ Tom held Jake’s gaze for a second, then looked away. ‘I wasn’t drinking and driving when I bumped into your car either, incidentally, before you add that to my list of sins. I was on my way to a meeting, running late.’

  Jake nodded, his stomach twisting as he tried to work out what was going on here.

  ‘Anyway, I thought I would let you know I’m the culprit,’ Tom went on, ‘should the police wonder how you came by the dent.’