‘Stay where it’s shallow, sweetheart,’ I called.
Letting her go into the water raised my anxiety levels, but I had never inflicted my fear on her. She was a strong swimmer – I’d made certain of that.
I sat nearby, the sun beaming down from a clear blue sky on the quiet stretch of beach. Pastel-coloured houses in Aldeburgh looked like a picture postcard in the distance, and in the other direction the ‘House in the Clouds’ at Thorpeness towered above the trees, as though hovering above the ground. My mind drifted.
What will I tell Grace about her family, when she’s old enough to understand? Do I tell her that Laura was never her real grandmother? That her real grandfather murdered her real grandmother, that her aunt is a killer? Do I tell her what my mum – Laura – did? If I shelter Grace from that, am I no different than Laura was? The truth always comes out, eventually – but for now, at least, I have time on my side.
A seagull flew low, squawking, bringing me out of my reverie. I still hadn’t come to terms with all I’d lost, and it was fair to say I was lonely. The doctor had prescribed anti-depressants – just temporary, a low dosage to help get you through, she’d said. And I was determined I would get through, and come out the other side.
We’d been living in Mum’s old house for two months, and we would stay for now at least, living off my inheritance until I felt I could move on with my life. My mother had spent little money over the years, and made a lot from her paintings. Even after the care homes costs, there was enough for Grace and I to live on for a while.
But the truth was, I now understood how lonely my mother must have been, tucked away in the Suffolk countryside with her terrible secret, and I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t end up the same way – for Grace’s sake.
I fiddled with Mum’s locket hanging around my neck. The police had returned it to me, and I wanted to honour my mum’s and Rachel’s memory by wearing it – always. It had never been a photograph of me. It had always been of the real Rachel – the little girl who, due to a dreadful accident, lost her young life. But she had always lived on in my mum’s memory, and I would carry that baton onwards. Something of that child had been lodged inside me since that awful day at Lough End Farm, and she would never be forgotten.
As I watched Grace playing in the sea, I thought about how many years I’d spent wondering who my father was. How many moments dreaming I’d one day meet him – that, when I did, he would be amazing. The old saying, ‘Be careful what you wish for’ couldn’t be more apt.
My phone rang. It was Dillon.
‘Rachel,’ he said, when I answered – and it hit me for the first time, that I would always be Rachel. Discovering the truth hadn’t changed who I was, how much my mother had loved me.
‘Yes.’ I was cautious. We’d ended things so badly when we spoke in May.
‘I looked at the handwriting.’
I rose, wondering what he was going to tell me. ‘You did …? And …?’
‘I should have been honest with myself years ago, Rachel. I’d always known it was similar – just couldn’t face comparing it. I buried the fear. Told myself I was wrong to doubt my father. But when you called …’ I heard him catch his breath. ‘It’s the same, Rachel. You were right.’
I let out a breath I felt I’d been holding for months. ‘I’m so sorry, Dillon.’
‘Me too.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘It’s done.’ A long pause. ‘He’s in custody. I told the Guards about the apple tree and …’
‘Dillon?’
‘They found my ma,’ he said, his voice breaking into a sob. ‘That bastard killed my ma, Rachel.’
I closed my eyes for a moment, and a tear slid down my cheek. I’d hoped I was wrong. ‘I’m so sorry, Dillon,’ I said again, dragging my fingers through my hair, trying to hold back more tears. But I knew sorry was nowhere near enough.
‘How did you know?’ he said through a sob.
‘I remembered. It all came back to me – memories of Imogen and Tierney fighting in the kitchen on that awful day. Everything.’ I paused for a moment, before quietly adding, ‘Listen, why don’t you come to England? Stay with me for a while. I’ve got lots of room.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ he said. ‘Can I bring Duke?’
‘Of course, Grace would love that. Shall I text you some dates?’
‘That’ll be grand.’
‘Mummy,’ Grace called, and I looked up to see her running up and down, splashing her feet in the water.
‘Bye, Rachel,’ Dillon said, and was gone before I could reply. But this time I knew I would see him again, and it may have been the hot sun on my neck, the beauty around me, but a feeling of peace washed over me.
Waves crashed against the stony beach, but instead of my usual anxiety, I found the sound oddly soothing, and I knew to move forward I had to face my demons.
‘It’s a bit cold,’ Grace said, grinning into the sun, as I approached her. ‘But it’s really, really fun.’
‘It looks it,’ I said, smiling. ‘But you may need to hold my hand.’
Grace held out her hand, and taking a deep breath, I kicked off my flip-flops, ventured over the pebbles to the water’s edge, and dipped in my toe.
Acknowledgements
First thanks must go to my outstanding editors, Nia Beynon, Genevieve Pegg, Helena Newton and Dushi Horti, who inspired me with their brilliant suggestions, and provided me with excellent edits. Thanks too, to Anna Sikorska for her amazing cover design. I’m in awe of her talent. And huge thanks to everyone at HQ for all their fantastic support.
My acknowledgements wouldn’t be complete without a massive thank you to Hannah Smith for signing me with HQ, and for giving me such a huge opportunity.
To Karen Clarke, Joanne Duncan and Diane Jeffrey for being absolutely marvellous. I can’t thank them enough for all their help and support with Tell the Truth. And to Desiree for her brilliant suggestion of the spa setting – I loved writing those scenes.
Big thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed my novels – you make it all worthwhile. And thanks to the brilliant bloggers, amazing writers and to everyone I know on social media who have given me such support over the last year. And thanks to my fantastic friends and extended family. You know who you are – I love you all.
Finally, my biggest thanks go to my close family. My sons: Daniel for his encouragement and brilliant support on social media, and Liam and Luke for fun brainstorming sessions, and suggestions that kept me on track.
And thanks to my daughter-in-law, Lucynda for reading an early draft of Tell the Truth, and for giving me great feedback.
To my mum, who tells everyone she meets that her daughter writes novels, whether they want to know or not, and to my dad and sister, no longer with us, but I like to think are still out there somewhere cheering me on.
And last but by no means least, to Kev. I couldn’t do it without you.
I love you all so much.
The next book from Amanda Brittany is coming in 2019
Turn the page for an extract from Amanda Brittany’s thrilling Her Last Lie …
Prologue
Saturday, 23 July
NSW Newsroom Online
Serial killer Carl Jeffery convicted of triple hostel killings, granted appeal.
Six years ago, the so-called Hostel Killer, Carl Jeffery, now thirty-one, was found guilty of the murders of Sophie Stuart, nineteen, Bronwyn Bray, eighteen, and Clare Simpson, twenty-six. He got three life sentences.
Now his younger sister, Darleen Jeffery, hopes to get him acquitted.
Mr Jeffery was accused of targeting women travelling alone in Australia. He would gain their trust, and when the women ended their relationship with Jeffery, he would tap on their window in the dead of night, wearing a green beanie hat and scarf to disguise his appearance, striking fear. He later killed them.
The main prosecuting evidence came from his intended fourth victim, Isla Johnson from the
UK, who survived his attack and identified him as her assailant. She suffered physical and psychological injuries. Following Mr Jeffery’s trial, she returned to England where she now lives with boyfriend Jack Green.
During his trial, Jeffery broke down when questioned about his mother, who left the family home when he was eleven, leaving him and Darleen to live with their abusive father, who died three months before the first murder.
Darleen, who penned the bestseller My Brother is Innocent, has campaigned for her sibling’s release for almost six years. She claims her brother’s DNA was found on Bronwyn Bray’s body because they had been in a relationship, and that this wasn’t taken into account fully at the trial. She also insists the court should re-examine Isla’s statements of what happened the night of her brother’s arrest, suggesting there is no proof that he started the ‘bloodbath’ that unfolded that night.
Canberra’s High Court granted permission today for an appeal, agreeing there are sufficient grounds for further consideration of the case. The hearing will take place on 30 September.
Leaving court today, Darleen, wearing a two-piece royal-blue skirt suit, told reporters, ‘I’m over the moon. I believe we have a sound case, and I can’t wait for my brother to be released.’
We contacted Isla Johnson in her hometown of Letchworth Garden City, England. She told us she wouldn’t be attending the hearing. ‘They have my original statements, and I’ve no more to offer,’ she said.
PART 1
Chapter 1
Tuesday, 26 July
It was hot.
Not the kind of heat you bask in on a Majorcan beach. No tickle of a warm breeze caressing your cheek. This was clammy, and had crept out of nowhere mid-afternoon, long after Isla had travelled into London in long sleeves and leggings, her camera over her shoulder, her notepad in hand.
Now Isla was crushed against a bosomy woman reading a freebie newspaper, on a packed, motionless train waiting to leave King’s Cross. The air was heavy with stale body odour and – what was that? – fish? She looked towards the door. Should she wait for the next train?
She took two long, deep breaths in an attempt to relieve the fuzzy feeling in her chest. She rarely let her angst out of its box any more – proud of how far she’d come. But there were times when the buried-alive anxiety banged on the lid of that box, desperate to be freed. It had been worse since she’d received the letter about the appeal. Carl Jeffery had crawled back under her skin.
She’d hid the letter, knowing if she told Jack and her family they would worry about her. She didn’t want that. She’d spent too much time as a victim. The one everyone worried about. She was stronger now. The woman she’d once been was in touching distance. She couldn’t let the appeal ruin that.
She ran a finger over the rubber band on her wrist, and pinged it three times. Snap. Snap. Snap. It helped her focus – a weapon against unease.
‘Hey, sit,’ said a lad in his teens, leaping to his feet and smiling. Had he picked up on her breathing technique – those restless, twitching feelings?
I’m twenty-nine, not ninety, she almost said. But the truth was she was relieved. She had been on her feet all day taking pictures around Tower Bridge for an article she was working on, and that horrid heat was basting the backs of her knees, the curves of her elbows, making them sweat.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and thumped down in the vacated seat, realising instantly why the bloke had moved. A fish sandwich muncher was sitting right next to her.
Her phone rang in her canvas bag, and she pulled it out to see Jack’s face beaming from the screen.
‘Hey, you,’ she said, pinning the phone to her ear.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, just delayed. Train’s rammed.’ It jolted forward, and headed on its way. ‘Ooh, we’re moving, thank the Lord. Should be home in about an hour.’
‘Great. I’m cooking teriyaki chicken. Mary Berry style.’
She laughed, scooping her hair behind her ears. ‘Lovely. I’ll pick up wine.’
The line went dead as the train rumbled through a tunnel, and Isla slipped her phone in her bag, and took out her camera. She flicked through her photos. She would add one or two to Facebook later, and mention her long day in London.
Your life is so perfect, Millie had written on Isla’s status a few months back, when she’d updated that she and Jack were back from France and she was closer to finishing her book. It had been an odd thing for Millie to say. Her sister knew Isla’s history better than anyone. How could she think Isla’s life was perfect, when she’d seen her at her most desperate? Felt the cruel slap of Isla’s anger.
Eyes closed, Isla drifted into thoughts of Canada. She was going for a month. Alone. Canada. The place she would have gone to after Australia if life hadn’t forced a sharp change of direction. Going abroad without Jack wouldn’t be easy. But then he couldn’t keep carrying her. She had to face it alone. And it would be the perfect escape from the pending appeal.
With a squeal of brakes, the train pulled in to Finsbury Park, and fish-sandwich man grunted, far too close to Isla’s ear, that it was his stop. She moved so he could pass, and shuffled into the window seat.
Through the glass, overheated people poured onto the platform, and her eyes drifted from a woman with a crying, red-faced toddler, to a teenage boy slathering sun cream onto his bare shoulders.
‘Isla?’ Someone had sat down next to her, his aftershave too strong.
She turned, her chest tightening, squeezing as though it might crush her heart. ‘Trevor,’ she stuttered, suddenly desperate to get up and rush through the door before it hissed shut. But it did just that – sucking closed in front of her eyes, suffocating her, preventing any escape from her past.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said, as the train pulled away. He was still handsome and athletic. Gone were his blond curls, replaced by cropped hair that suited him. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a tie loose in the neck, his tanned face glowing in the heat.
Her heartbeat quickened. It always did when anything out of the ordinary happened, and seeing Trevor for the first time in years made her feel off-kilter. The man she’d hurt at university was sitting right next to her, his face creased into a pleasant smile, as though he’d forgotten how things had ended between them.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Still as beautiful as ever.’ He threw her a playful wink, before his blue eyes latched on to hers. ‘I can’t believe it’s been eight years. How are you?’ She’d forgotten how soft his voice was, the slight hint of Scotland in his accent. He’d always been good to talk to. Always had time for everyone at university. But the chemistry had never been there – for her anyway – and they’d wanted different things from their lives.
‘I’m good – you?’ she said, as her heart slowed to an even beat.
He nodded, and a difficult silence fell between them. This was more like it. This was how things had been left – awkward and embarrassing. An urge to apologise took over. But it was far too late to say sorry for how she’d treated him. Wasn’t it?
‘I’ve often thought about you,’ he said, and she tugged her eyes away from his. ‘You know, wondering what you’re up to. I heard what happened in Australia.’
‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ It came out sharp and defensive.
‘Well, no, I can see why you wouldn’t want to. Must have been awful for you. I’m so sorry.’
Quickly, Isla changed the subject, and they found themselves bouncing back and forth memories of university days, avoiding how it had ended.
‘You’re truly remarkable,’ Trevor said eventually. ‘You know, coming back from what you went through.’
After another silence, where she stared at her hands, she said, ‘It was hard for a time … a really long time, in fact.’ She hadn’t spoken about it for so long, and could hear her voice cracking.
‘But you’re OK now?’ He sounded so genuine, his eyes searching her face.
She shrugged. ‘His sist
er …’
Would it be OK to talk to Trevor about the appeal? Tell him about Darleen Jeffery? Ask him what kind of woman fights their brother’s innocence, when it’s so obvious he’s a monster? There was a huge part of Isla that desperately needed to talk. Say the words she couldn’t say to Jack or her family for fear they would think she was taking a step back. Vocalise the fears that hovered under the surface. The desire to tell someone about the Facebook message she’d received from Darleen Jeffery several months ago was overwhelming. ‘I need to discuss the truth, Isla,’ it had said.
‘His sister fought for an appeal and won,’ she went on, wishing immediately that she’d said nothing.
‘Jesus.’ He looked so concerned, his eyes wide and fully on her. ‘When is it?’
‘The end of September.’ The words caught in her throat.
‘Are you going?’
She shook her head. She’d contacted the Director of Public Prosecutions. Told them she wouldn’t be attending, that she didn’t want to know the outcome. Being in a courtroom with him again would be like resting her head on a block, Carl Jeffery controlling the blade.
‘I can’t face it,’ she said, her voice a whisper.
‘I don’t blame you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s sickening that he killed three women. Unbelievable.’
She thought of lovely Jack, knowing how hurt he would be if he knew she was keeping the appeal – and the way it was affecting her – from him. He would be hurt if he knew that within a few minutes of meeting her ex, she was confiding in him – letting it all out. But there was something oddly comforting in the detached feeling of talking to an almost-stranger on a train – because that’s what he was now. Someone she probably wouldn’t see again for another eight years.
‘I’ll be in Canada when it takes place. I can forget it’s even happening. And I’ve told them I don’t want to know the outcome.’ She pinged the band on her wrist, before turning and fixing her eyes hard on the window, a surge of tears waiting to fall. She needed to change the subject. ‘So what are you up to now?’
Tell the Truth Page 28
