The Darkest Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  ‘Oh, Jacob, honey.’ There was nothing I could say. No words of comfort I could give when my own heart was breaking too.

  ‘How can I let her go?’ he sobbed, sinking to his knees, still clinging to your hand. I went with him, kneeling by his side and taking his face in my hands.

  ‘We’ll do it together, Jacob.’ My voice was soft but steady. I was amazed by the certainty that I felt, despite the pain. But even that was a facade, and suddenly I was shaking too. My face was soaked, the words choking me. ‘We’ll draw strength from each other, for Beth. We… we have to do this right. We can’t let her suffer any longer, because God knows she has suffered enough already.’

  He held me then. Kissed the top of my head and stroked my hair. When you were tiny, he’d stroked your hair to help you go to sleep. But every time he had tried to stop, you had stirred and woken. Sometimes he had been at it for hours. At the memory, my hands fisted in his jumper, pulling him even closer.

  ‘Do you think she is suffering?’ His voice was so tiny that only I, with my ear so close to his mouth, would hear it.

  ‘I’m scared she is. I can’t stand that thought. We need to set her free.’

  ‘What, to be on the marsh?’ He asked with no recrimination.

  ‘If that’s what she wants. Her soul can, I don’t know, go on. Go to something better. I truly believe that.’

  ‘But she might improve…’ There was no hope in his voice.

  I pulled back and looked into his eyes, at a soul as broken as my own.

  ‘I’d kill for her if I thought it would bring her back. But nothing will.’

  Minutes passed. Jacob wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Lifted us both off the floor, then sat down and took your hand again.

  Suddenly I had an idea. I climbed up onto the bed and lay alongside you, carefully hugging you. A proper, full hug, only possible now that all of the machinery, wires and tubes had gone.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been longing to do this for a month. You love your hugs, don’t you, eh? Yeah…’ I sighed, breathing you in, marvelling at how soft your cheek was. Would I always be able to remember the exact feel of it? ‘Beth, my love, we’ve called everyone – your aunts and uncles, and your grandparents – they’re all on their way. But if you can’t hold on for them, don’t worry. Don’t be afraid. It’s okay to let go.’

  Your chest trembled rather than rose and fell.

  ‘We’re here, so there’s no need to be afraid. We’ll always, always be here for you, my love. But it’s time for you to leave us.’

  Jacob lay his head on your chest. ‘All the pain will be over soon. And you’ll be free.’ His voice gave the slightest hitch at this last. ‘Don’t you worry about us. We’ve got each other, and we’ll think of you every single day. Every day.’

  ‘We love you to bits and whole again,’ I whispered.

  * * *

  Time slipped by. Relatives came and went. Shuffling past, bending over you, crying, whispering farewells, patting us. Your dad and I didn’t move, too hypnotised by your breathing.

  We were alone when Jacob lifted his head from your chest. His eyes were devastated hollows, his pupils huge. I cupped my trembling hand under his chin and nodded.

  You had gone.

  I settled back to holding you. I didn’t want you to get cold. You always hated the cold.

  Seventy-Eight

  BETH

  FRIDAY 22 JANUARY

  The pain in her head shattered through her whole body. Her teeth chattering with it. Her legs gave way. Body folding.

  Starbursts of information broke through the agony.

  Chloe leaning over her. ‘Shit, fuck, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Fuck it, Beth. Get up!’

  Blink.

  Chloe lit up by the light of her mobile phone. ‘Help me! I… I don’t know what to do! I’m so s-s-sorry. She isn’t moving, Mum!’

  Blink.

  Ursula’s perfectly manicured hand trembling as it touched Beth’s neck. Voice floating towards her on treacle.

  ‘… can’t find a pulse. Nothing…’ Swearing. Crying.

  Blink.

  A sensation of movement. The sound of grunting and tears.

  Blink.

  She was so, so cold.

  The full moon looked down on her, all-seeing, all-knowing, timeless and patient. The wind caressed her skin, as gentle as her mother when she used to check for fever.

  Hush, hush, everything will be all right. You’ll feel better soon.

  Let go.

  I love you to bits and whole again.

  Bits.

  Beth could feel herself breaking apart and floating away on the wind. Cradled. Loved. Warmed. Cherished.

  Gone.

  Seventy-Nine

  The village grapevine was fast and efficient. News of the arrests spread quickly. People pretending to be in shock when secretly they had known at least part of it all along. Bunch of lying bastards – they deserved to have someone like me living among them.

  The criminals got their comeuppance, though. They were amateurs, with no idea they had a professional in their midst.

  I’d have to wait a little while for the furore to die down, but then I’d be free to strike again. These country bumpkins were no match for me.

  Not long before I could finally kill.

  The smash of a skull. The huff of breath. The mottling of skin.

  I couldn’t wait.

  Eighty

  Beth, you died at 5.03 a.m. on Thursday 18 February. I will hate that date, that time, for the rest of my life.

  There should be a special word to describe the weariness of the bereaved. It was far beyond exhaustion, yet I couldn’t rest. No sleep would come, apart from snatched moments which left me fuzzier-headed and more exhausted than before. Eyes hurt, muscles ached, stomach churned.

  Time meant nothing. Doing the simplest of tasks, such as making tea or cleaning my teeth, seemed to take an eternity. Other times I stared out of the window and realised that a couple of hours had disappeared in a blink. People came to visit, talking in low voices, patting my hand.

  Mostly, Jacob held me, and I held Wiggins. Our little family of three, no longer four. But together we had more strength than apart, and it was a revelation to me. How had I managed for so many weeks without my husband?

  The rare times I did glance at the clock I found myself thinking: this time yesterday Beth was still alive. This time last month Beth was up and about and… what? What exactly were you doing? I didn’t even remember, and panic flooded through me. You see, I hadn’t realised I needed to memorise every second. I’d had no clue that time with you was running out.

  Did you know, Beth?

  I ran to the calendar on the wall, and flipped back to the date exactly one month ago: 18 January. A Monday. The Monday before you were hurt…

  Think, think, think!

  All that came was routine: getting you up; you getting ready for school and running across the road for the bus out of the village and into Wapentake; you coming home at night. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Was that the night you ranted about how people should make holes in their fences, to help hedgehogs?

  ‘It’s so easy. Just a tiny five-inch hole so that the hedgehog can travel around. Why don’t people do that, Mum? It wouldn’t make any difference to them, and they could help save hedgehogs. They’re dying out, you know!’

  You had emanated fury at the injustice of it.

  ‘Well, maybe they don’t realise…’ I’d offered, reasonably.

  Your eyes had boggled at me. ‘Well, I’m going to make a hole in our fence right now.’

  I’d laughed, watching you grab the torch then stomp outside in the dark and carefully make a hole on one side. Then the torchlight bobbing up and down as you trudged across to the other side of the garden to make one in that fence too.

  But maybe that hadn’t happened in that final week of normality. Perhaps it was the week before. The more I tried to be certain, the more
ambivalent I became.

  Friday morning dawned bright and cold. You seemed reflected back at me in each twinkle of frost, then you hung in the air with the mist as it melted, enveloping me. Daffodils nodded their heads in the gentle breeze, reminding me of your golden hair. I would never see you again.

  I clutched my stomach and ran to the loo, only just making it before the breakfast Jacob had cajoled me to eat made a return visit. Ever since your death, I had barely been able to keep anything down. You might think I had turned to booze again, but the smell of it was enough to put me off.

  Wiggins, Jacob and I went for a long walk. We passed the Seagull’s Outlook and the Picky Person’s Pop In, which were both closed and looked forlorn. On the marsh, even the wind seemed quieted in grief, and the huge sky wept light tears for you in a constant patter. But I didn’t feel you, Beth. Not in the shifting of the tide. Not in the susurration of the long grasses, or the splash of water, or even in the haunting cry of a lone seagull wheeling above. We walked around the creeks I knew off by heart; the ones that stayed permanent, and the ones that shifted subtly day by day. There was no sign of you.

  Please don’t leave me, Beth.

  When we got home from the walk, we started to arrange your funeral. The numbing pain lifted for a while then, because I got angry. I welcomed it back like an old friend. No parent should ever have to arrange their child’s funeral.

  And it was another child’s fault. It didn’t seem possible. I wanted to hurt Chloe, or steal her away from her mother so that Ursula would know exactly how I felt. Instead, I chose a coffin and music and what you should wear.

  ‘I’d like Beth to be buried with this. What do you think?’ Jacob asked, hesitant. He held the wooden egret he had carved for your birthday; the one you’d never seen.

  It took a couple of deep breaths before I trusted myself to speak. ‘Perfect.’ A little bit of nature to fly with you on your journey.

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Jacob’s mum enveloped him in a hug. My mum did the same with me. It felt good, comforting.

  ‘That Chloe should burn in hell for what she’s done,’ Mum sobbed.

  In his mother’s arms, Jacob stiffened but said nothing. He and my parents had already agreed to disagree on this subject. A knock at the door saved reopening that can of worms.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ sighed Jacob.

  ‘Another person come to give their condolences,’ Mum said.

  There was a hint of pride in her voice that your tragically short life had touched so many people. Despite the steady stream of cards and flowers, Jacob and I had already agreed that we wanted family only at your funeral. No one else in the village could be trusted. So many people must have known about that rave. Parents covering for their children, teenagers covering their own backs, the DJ, the bouncers, innumerable liars and hypocrites. The Daughtrey-Drews had already sent a huge bouquet of flowers and offered to write a cheque to Beth’s favourite charity. I wouldn’t be bothering to reply to that.

  Jacob traipsed back into the room. ‘It’s for you, Mel.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Jacob’s face clearly wasn’t keen, but he looked resigned to his fate.

  ‘Glenn.’

  Ah; that one name explained everything.

  My friend waited outside, dancing from one foot to the other as if to keep warm, even though the day was relatively mild now beneath the bleak blanket of clouds. He glanced at me shyly.

  ‘I didn’t know whether to come or not. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You can come in, if you want.’ I held the door wider, gestured.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t want to intrude; I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you – of you all. If there’s anything I can do…’

  Bone-weariness robbed me of the strength to speak. But for him I made the effort.

  ‘Thank you. And Glenn, I’m so, so grateful for all you’ve done to support me and help me. I couldn’t have got through this without you.’

  He held his hands up. ‘Happy to help. Least I could do. So… bloody stupid question, I know, but how are you feeling?’

  I heaved a sigh as I tried to describe my emotions.

  ‘You know, after Beth died I stood outside the hospital for some fresh air before going back to sign paperwork. So much paperwork. There was a woman visiting her elderly mother, and I simply let her words wash over me. It was comforting not to have to think for a while, you know? To pretend that I was a normal woman, chatting.’

  Glenn nodded. Settled against the door frame to listen closer.

  ‘So we did the usual getting-to-know-you questions: where do you live, what do you do, are you married… do you have children? When she asked that I just stood there, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish, no idea what to say.

  ‘I ran the whole future conversation in my head. If I said yes, she was bound to ask details: what’s Beth’s name, how old, where is she tonight? You know the kind of thing. My options were to spare her feelings and lie; pretend everything was fine with Beth, that she was at home, practising the guitar or learning about animals. Or say that my daughter was fourteen, and would stay that age forever because she was dead. Or say, no, I don’t have children. Because that’s technically the truth now – but saying no simply isn’t an option.’

  ‘No matter what you say, it’s wrong,’ muttered Glenn. ‘I’m so, so sorry for your loss. God knows how you’re feeling right now. I mean, I miss Katie like crazy, but at least I know that she’s out there somewhere, enjoying life.’

  That again. His fake daughter. I looked at Glenn; really looked at him. And even though I knew he was lying, I still couldn’t see any hint of it. Not in his steady gaze, not in his confident posture, leaning against the door frame. His round face appeared as open as ever, only a frown of concern marring it.

  Confusion pierced my grief. Who was this person I’d allowed to become so intimate with my life? All in the space of less than a fortnight? Yes, I had known him as a kid, but we hadn’t been friends. He hadn’t truly been friends with anyone.

  I rubbed my face, sighing deeply. I couldn’t be bothered with any more lies, no matter how well intentioned. I could have called him out, told him that I knew there was no daughter. In gratitude for all he had done for me, I spared him the embarrassment. But I was done with liars.

  Without a word, I closed the door and walked back to what was left of my family. They were poring over the laptop, looking at photographs of you. I joined them. Holiday snaps, birthdays, Christmases, school plays, special occasions and everyday life – we lost ourselves in them for a few hours. Let laughter mingle with tears at the memories, jarred occasionally when your killer made an appearance here and there. There you and Chloe were, arms wrapped round each other, beaming identical smiles. She had taken your life. Another brick slotted into my wall of bitterness and anger.

  Eighty-One

  DS Devonport looked tired and brittle when she came over on Saturday afternoon. Her hands went in and out of the pockets of her coat, as if she didn’t know how casual or official she should look. It was quite good to know that even the generally together Devonport had been knocked by your passing. I felt bad for not warming to her, though, when she had worked so hard to untangle the village’s conspiracy and identify your killer.

  ‘Good to see you. Thank you for coming,’ acknowledged Jacob.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Oak. I’m so very sorry for your loss.’

  Wiggins put his silken head in the officer’s lap, and sighed in contentment as his ears were fondled.

  ‘I’ve come to let you know that Chloe Clarke has been charged with murder.’

  Murder. I hadn’t expected that. I felt a surge of triumph.

  ‘Is there any chance of it being plea-bargained down to manslaughter?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s possible she will offer to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter, but deny murder. In which case…’ The detective made a flip-flop gesture with her hand. ‘But we’re confident murder c
an be proved, so we’d be disappointed if that happened. Although there was no malice aforethought – the attack wasn’t premeditated in any way – by her own admission Chloe deliberately hit Beth with the branch to hurt her. She then left her out in the cold, and didn’t call for an ambulance. These are calculating acts. Even when you called her and spoke with her asking about Beth’s whereabouts, she didn’t tell you. Circumstantial evidence definitely corroborates murder.’

  ‘What sort of sentence will she most likely get if she’s found guilty?’

  DS Devonport pulled a face. ‘It’s not my job.’ She took in our expressions. ‘But, if pushed… Chloe is fourteen, and therefore deemed above the age of criminal responsibility. She knows right from wrong. The maximum sentence for manslaughter is life, but the term is at the judge’s discretion. It’s highly likely Chloe will receive a custodial sentence in a young offender institution until she is eighteen, when she will be moved to a prison to serve out the remainder of her sentence. I’d hazard a guess that she’ll get between three and ten years.’

  I should have felt happy. Justice was being done. Punishment meted out. But it wasn’t enough. Three measly years for killing you, Beth. For extinguishing the light in my life. That was it?

  Jacob looked stunned. ‘It doesn’t seem right. But… then again… I don’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  Although I had a feeling I knew.

  ‘Well, she’s a kid. She’s got to live her entire life knowing that a fit of temper caused the death of her best friend. It was a stupid, tragic mistake, and she’ll be punished for it her entire life. She’s a good kid, she just…’ He shrugged, the words failing him.

  ‘She’s a good kid?’

  I ducked from under his arm. Stood and grabbed the photograph that he had printed the night before. There you were, a six-year-old with sunshine glowing through your golden hair. A butterfly net in your hand, on the marsh, lips pouting with determination, eyes full of hope as you scanned the grasses for insects. I brandished the photograph now, like a weapon.