You Can Trust Me: A Novel

by Sophie McKenzie

  “Shall we?” Damian raises his eyebrows.

  I nod and he starts the engine.

  We don’t speak much for the next few minutes. Damian drives fast with dance music blaring from his surround-sound speakers. He asks if I’d prefer silence, or if I’d rather choose what we listen to from the selection on his MP3 Player. I tell him I’m happy with whatever he picks.

  And I am.

  It’s crazy, but driving with the sun on my face and the furious bass of Damian’s music pulsing through my body, I feel in some kind of limbo, away from everything real: the messenger in Shannon’s flat, Will’s affair, and my fears about Julia.

  The feeling ends as soon as we approach Lympstone. Damian turns off the music so I can direct him to Julia’s cottage, which is half a mile or so outside the village. It’s another beautiful July day: dry and sunny, but as we pull up along the road from the little seafront terrace, I shiver. Will Shannon be here? Or have we come on a wild goose chase? I get out of the car and stretch my limbs. Damian’s sports car might look amazing, but it’s actually not that comfortable.

  Damian walks along the sunlit sidewalk to Julia’s cottage. The name, MAGALAN, is painted in fading blue over the front door. The front garden is a riot of color and bloom, yet the overall effect is contained. Someone has worked this garden hard; it takes a lot of effort to make wildflowers look so good without letting them overrun the place. Julia must have paid a gardener to do it, she certainly didn’t have green fingers herself.

  I kill all plants, Liv, she used to say. I’m the Angel of Death for foliage.

  “Pretty,” Damian says.

  I peer in through the window. The cottage is smaller than I remember. The front door opens straight into the living room which is dark and cool, set with the plain, simple furniture Julia loved, plus some flowery cushions as a sop to the chintzy quality of the house itself. The kitchen lies beyond and I know from memory there’s a tiny backyard leading directly onto the beach out back. There’s no sign of anyone inside.

  I ring the doorbell. Its musical chime echoes through the house beyond. Nobody comes to the door.

  I sigh. “Looks like it’s empty.”

  “Bloody hell.” Damian sounds as despairing as I feel.

  A click sounds behind us. I spin around.

  She’s there, at the garden gate. Shannon Walker. Two grocery bags are in her hand and a look of utter shock is on her face.

  “What are you doing here?” She takes a step away from us.

  “Wait.”

  “Please.”

  Damian and I speak at once.

  Shannon eyes us warily. She’s wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt with silver Chanel earrings. Her blond hair is tied back in a ponytail. “You were in Aces High that night,” she says. “You both were.”

  “That’s right,” I say quickly. “I went because you had a meeting with Julia. She was my friend.” I glance at Damian. “Our friend.”

  “How did you find me?” Shannon asks.

  I hesitate, not wanting to admit we broke into her flat and snooped around for clues.

  “I told you, I was Julia’s friend. I remember Alan Rutherford—” I point to the MAGALAN sign above the front door. “—the guy who left this place to her.”

  Shannon keeps her eyes fixed on me. I sense that she’s weighing up the situation, trying to decide whether or not to trust us.

  “Did Julia tell you to come here?” I ask.

  “Do you know who killed her?” Damian blurts out.

  He’s tense, all repressed energy and powerful presence. Shannon casts a wary look at him, then back to me.

  “You said your name was Livy Jackson, right?”

  I nod. “Did Julia tell you about me?” I think of Will’s name on the Honey Hearts form. “She asked you to go after my … Will Jackson, that was the man she told you to … speak to, wasn’t it?”

  Shannon frowns; then she walks toward us through the gate and up the little path. She’s in high-heeled sandals that pat softly along the brick. “That guy, your husband, Will Jackson … he was just a cover,” she says. “The whole Honey Hearts thing was a cover.”

  Confusion swirls inside my head.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Exactly what I say.” Shannon reaches the front door and I stand back to let her pass. “Julia just pretended to hire me.”

  “Why?” Damian demands.

  Shannon shrugs. She fishes in her Vuitton handbag and draws out a set of keys.

  “How come you’re staying here?” I ask.

  “Julia told me she was having it painted between renters, and where the spare key was. She said if anything happened to her, if she didn’t make it to our second meeting, I should come here and tell no one. That’s what I did, straight after I saw you in Aces High.”

  “Why did Julia think something might happen to her?” Damian asks.

  Shannon’s gaze flickers over him. I watch her appraise him, taking in the strong lines of his face and his black shirt. My heart is in my mouth.

  “Because of me,” Shannon says. “Because of what I told her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “You better both come in,” Shannon says.

  I’m numb as I follow her and Damian through the front door and into the living room. She seems to be saying that Will and the whole Honey Hearts entrapment was some kind of ruse. But to what end?

  “Just give me a second.” Shannon puts her keys on the side table, then takes her shopping into the kitchen. She sets the bags on the floor beside a pair of sneakers.

  Damian goes after her. I look around the living room. The shelves on one wall are empty and sanded down. A pot of paint and two large bottles of mineral spirits stand on the floor beside them ready for the repainting job. The shelves on the opposite side of the room sparkle with fresh cream paint. So does the dresser in the corner, I recognize it from my childhood home. Mum was having a clear out—years ago—and she let Julia take some of the furniture. I’d forgotten this was here. I wander over and run my hand over the wood. I’m not prepared for the unframed photo that’s lying flat on the middle shelf. It’s of Julia and Kara, laughing, their arms wrapped around each other. Kara is wearing the locket Julia gave her, the one that went missing when she died. God, they look so young. And so beautiful.

  A lump lodges itself in my throat as I pick up the photo.

  “That’s your sister, isn’t it?” Shannon asks.

  I turn around. She and Damian are standing behind me.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  Damian looks at the picture. “Is that Julia when she was a teenager? She never showed me any photos.” His voice is hushed.

  “It must have been taken just before Kara died,” I say, trying to keep my own voice steady.

  “Julia gave me the photo when she met me,” Shannon explains. “She wanted to show me Kara. She told me how she was murdered. And … and she wanted to show me Kara’s locket.”

  “I don’t understand,” I stammer. “Why did Julia want you to see the locket?” My head is still spinning. What on earth does Honey Hearts have to do with this? Why did Julia pretend to hire Shannon? What was Will a “cover” for?

  Shannon frowns. “Kara’s locket was how she found me,” she says.

  “Sorry.” I clear my throat, my mind spinning. “I still don’t understand.”

  I can feel the tension radiating off Damian in waves. “Please,” he says. “Tell us what Julia said to you.”

  “She said the locket was taken when Kara was murdered. She gave me the photo as … as proof.”

  “But why?” I say. “Proof of what?”

  Shannon sighs; then she pulls the neck of her T-shirt down to reveal the chain around her neck. She walks right over to me as she takes off the chain and hands me the locket that hangs at the end.

  I prize it gently open. The photo booth pic of Julia and Kara, smiling, their eighteen-year-old faces cheek-to-cheek, stares back at me. I hold it tightly, a
tiny piece of Kara back in my hands after all these years.

  “This was my sister’s,” I say, barely able to breathe. “This belonged to Kara.”

  I flip the locket over. There is the minute scratch, just to the left of the hinge, where Kara dropped it in a pub parking lot one cold day in January, the month before she was killed. It was Dad’s birthday, and he and Mum had driven to Exeter to spend the day with us. It was the last time the four of us were together.

  I look up, into Shannon’s eyes. Her expression is sympathetic. She takes the locket back from me and sighs.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

  Shannon’s expression grows more fearful. Instinctively I can tell she feels she’s said enough.

  “Please,” I realize I’m holding my breath and take a gulp of air. Wild thoughts run through my head. Shannon can’t have been more than six or seven years old when Kara was murdered. “What do you know? Were you there? Did you see my sister? What about Julia?”

  “Where did you get the locket?” Damian urges. He drops his pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. His voice is strained.

  “I was given the locket,” Shannon says. She backs away from us. The patch of wall behind her is freshly painted, just like the furniture. “The person who gave it to me owed me money. I got a couple of the guys at Aces High to put some pressure on—”

  She catches the look in my eye and frowns. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re pussycats, those guys, but they look tough. Anyway, it worked. The loser who owed me eventually coughed up some cash and a few bits and pieces, like the locket, to sell.”

  “Who?” I ask. “Who owed you money, who gave you the locket?”

  Shannon ignores me. “I tried to sell it on eBay. That’s when Julia saw it. She contacted me, but … but her message sounded weird. She was offering way more than it’s worth and she wanted to meet me. In person. I thought it was a trap, like maybe the locket was hot … so I made her meet me at Aces High, where I know people, so I’d be safe and I didn’t take the actual locket with me, so—”

  “Wait. Slow down.” I’m still completely bewildered. “What about Honey Hearts? How does that fit in? You said that Julia hiring you to talk to Will was a cover. What did you mean? Cover for what?”

  “Who gave you the locket?” Damian persists. He turns to me. “Don’t you see? This is what Julia found out. She worked out that whoever gave Shannon the locket was Kara’s killer.” He turns back to Shannon. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of,” Shannon admits. “Julia knew there was a link between the locket and the killer. That’s why she told me to come here if anything happened to her—or if anyone threatened me.”

  “We were threatened earlier too,” I say. An image of the STOP letters stuck to their piece of paper flashes before my mind’s eye.

  “You were threatened?” The color drains from Shannon’s cheeks. “Where? When?”

  I look away, not wanting to admit to breaking into her flat. “This morning,” I explain. “A guy was sent to give us a message to back off.”

  “Was someone following you?” Shannon’s voice rises.

  “Er, yes.” My heart drums against my ribs.

  “Did he see where you went?” I can hear the panic in Shannon’s voice. “Could he have followed you here?”

  “We got away in Damian’s car,” I say. “I don’t think—”

  “Which is here?” She turns to Damian. “Your car is here? Now?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Please, Shannon—”

  “Oh my God.” Shannon blinks. “I have to go. Right now. God, I can’t believe you’ve risked—” She turns and runs up the stairs.

  “Wait.” Damian charges after her. I follow.

  The cottage upstairs is even smaller than I remember. Just two tiny bedrooms and an even smaller bathroom. The woodwork here is far shabbier than downstairs, though a couple of cans of paint stand ready to use. Shannon rushes into the bedroom on the right. She pulls a Louis Vuitton suitcase out from under the bed, hurls it on top of the comforter, then pushes past me to the chest of drawers.

  “Please, Shannon, you have to talk to us,” I insist. “Who do you think might have followed us? Who’s threatening me? Did he give you the locket?”

  “Tell us,” Damian demands.

  Shannon ignores us, just carries on hurling clothes into her suitcase.

  “Please.” I’m almost in tears.

  “Enough.” Damian strides to the bed and slams the suitcase lid shut. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, but you have to tell us where you got the locket.”

  There’s a pause. The silence drums in my ears.

  “Okay,” Shannon says at last. “But we have to get out of here first. You could have been followed.” She points to the case. “I’m done.”

  “Fine.” Damian clicks the locks and hauls the case off the bed. “Let’s go.”

  I follow him and Shannon back downstairs. The photo of Julia and Kara is on the sofa, where Damian dropped it earlier. I pick it up and place it carefully into my handbag. The three of us leave the cottage.

  Shannon pulls the front door shut, locking it with trembling fingers. Damian’s already halfway to his car. I follow, impatient to get away.

  “Oh, shit,” Shannon mutters. “I forgot something.” She unlocks the door again. “I’ll just be a sec.”

  She disappears inside. I wait, halfway along the sidewalk, tapping my foot. Damian is loading the suitcase in the trunk. There’s something in the way, a bottle. I stare as he pushes it aside and the label rolls forward: it’s whisky, Talisker.

  I gasp. What’s a recovering alcoholic doing with a full bottle of whisky in his trunk? Damian straightens up and looks around. He clocks me along the sidewalk and heads over.

  “Where’s Shannon?”

  I point to the cottage, still thinking about the whisky. “She forgot something.”

  Damian frowns.

  I have to ask him.

  “Why do you have whisky in your car if you don’t drink?” I ask.

  Damian’s face flushes. “It helps to know it’s there and I’m not touching it.”

  I stare at him.

  “Seriously,” he says. “If I have it, then I’m in control of whether I drink it or not. I keep it in the car, out of sight, because it’s not actually in my face that way, but I know it’s there.”

  “Right.” I don’t know what to say, whether or not to trust what he is telling me, so I say nothing. We watch Shannon’s front door, waiting for her to reemerge. And we wait.

  A minute passes. Two.

  “Something’s happened.” Damian strides to the front door. He hammers on it. “Shannon!” he yells.

  No reply. We exchange a worried glance. I press the doorbell, leaving my finger pressing down hard. The bell inside rings on, high-pitched and insistent.

  “Fuck!” Damian pushes at the front door. It’s locked. “Fuck.” He hurls himself at it. Again. Harder. Again. The door snaps and flies open. I follow him inside, a sense of déjà vu washing over me. Another break-in. It feels surreal.

  The cottage is still. Silent.

  “Shannon!” Damian yells. He rushes up the stairs.

  I stand by the tray of gloss paint cans and mineral spirits bottles in the living room, listening to Damian pounding across the small landing, into Shannon’s bedroom. The door to the kitchen is closed. I cross the room and open it. A carton of milk from one of Shannon’s shopping bags has been upended over the floor. Shannon’s high-heeled sandals rest on their sides beside it. The running shoes that were lying here before are gone. The back door out to the beach is open. A breeze bangs it against its frame. I rush over and peer outside. The stony beach beyond is deserted. I look up and down, past the breakers on both sides. All I can see is an elderly couple in the far distance, both walking slowly, with sticks.

  There is no sign of Shannon.

  A moment later, Damian rushes outside. He skids to a stop and peers
up and down the beach, as I have just done.

  I point to the sandals. “She changed into shoes she could run in.” The realization settles on me like a deadweight. “She’s gone.”

  “No.” Damian pounds along the path that separates the backyard from the pebbles of the long beach. He runs hard, fast. After a few seconds he swerves left and disappears through what must be a gap between the houses. I can’t see from where I’m standing. I look up and down the beach again. A group of mums with strollers are walking along the path, laughing over some shared joke.

  I go back into the cottage. Shannon is gone. Our only lead to the truth about Julia’s—and Kara’s—death has vanished. Despair seeps through me.

  I try to take comfort in the fact that Shannon said Will had nothing to do with any of it. Then I remember what Martha told me. Julia’s Honey Hearts visit may have been a red herring, but Will still slept with Catrina. I put down my handbag and sit on the sofa, my head in my hands. The pain of his betrayal is unbearable.

  A minute later Damian is back. He’s out of breath, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “Couldn’t—see—her,” he pants.

  I step back to let him in. He knocks over a bottle of mineral spirits as he collapses on the sofa with a groan. I absently set the bottle upright and look around the room.

  “Why did she run away? We’ve got her suitcase, all her things are here.…” Damian looks up at me. He takes a cigarette out from the pack he dropped earlier on the coffee table and rolls it between his palms.

  “She must have been really frightened,” I say. “You heard her. She thinks we were followed here.”

  “By Julia’s killer,” Damian says.

  “Maybe Kara’s killer too.”

  We’re silent for a moment. Suppose Shannon is right? Suppose he has followed us.

  “If Shannon was scared, maybe we should be.”

  Damian raises his eyebrows. “You think we should leave? Surely Shannon’s got to come back at some point for her stuff.”

  “I don’t know.” I look around the room. “I can’t see her handbag, so she probably took that with her, which means she’s got money.” I sigh, feeling defeated. “I can’t see why she would come back. Not soon, anyway.”