Tiffany huffed. Put the phone down, turned off the light and closed her eyes. No way was she going to reply. The compliment had infuriated her, sarcastic thoughts ricocheting round her brain. Gorgeous? Peng? Yeah, right. With her puppy fat still clinging to her like a rabid Rottweiler, and acne that Clearasil struggled to cope with, she reckoned she was a real catch.
The waspish buzz of her phone came again. She ignored it. Screwed her eyes shut even tighter, trying to block out World of Warcraft too. At least the television was silent downstairs; her mum must have gone to bed.
Another buzz.
‘Grrr! Go away!’ she huffed. Then threw off the duvet and turned her bedside lamp back on. Read the two messages.
Hey, where’d u go?
Please, I only want 2 chat. Wots the harm? Tell me ’bout yourself.
Yeah, what was the harm? Wasn’t like she’d be getting any sleep anyway. And how often did anyone ever ask her about herself?
Right, you might regret asking that. What you want to know?
It wasn’t long before the phone went again. Tiffany laughed at the image Justin had sent. One of the Minions, dancing for joy.
Yeah, funny guy. I prefer vampires.
She shot back.
Soon they were batting texts back and forth. In between, Tiffany doodled idly. A phoenix with a long plumed tail. A stack of books, with a flower growing out of the top. She didn’t know why she liked that image so much, but she did, and drew it in all her notebooks. It gave her something else to think about as she tried to play it cool with Justin, almost kidding herself that she wasn’t interested in trying to make a new friend. Even in a large school, people like her were few and far between.
Eighty-Six
The newspaper article lured me back again. I was drawn to this mother’s pain, so similar to my own, although the circumstances were very different.
There were some photos of Tiffany clustered together at the far left of the page. As a toddler, all gorgeous rolls of flesh and cherub-faced. Older, on her bike, posing awkwardly. Then the school photo, obligatory and now made famous because it was the one which was used to accompany every news report on television and in print. This girl looked more serious. Her round glasses gave her a slightly owlish and studious look, but they suited her. Glossy dark brown hair was centre-parted and fell to her shoulders.
She was pretty, but clearly wasn’t aware of it; she had that hunch-shouldered, slightly apologetic set to her body that gave it away. A couple of spots marked her face, but nothing more than the average teen.
Almost despite myself, I read on.
‘She always had her head in a book,’ Tiffany’s mother told the reporter. This girl sounded a lot like you, Beth.
‘Her dream was to be an author, and she was constantly scribbling ideas in her notebooks. They had to be the same brand, too; bright pink Moleskine ones. Reading her stories gives comfort to me. But the one she had just started was never found. The killer must have taken her notebook from her – she wouldn’t go anywhere without it. It probably only had a couple of pages of her story in it, but I hate the idea of him stealing her dreams along with her life.’
A bright pink Moleskine notebook. Like yours. Like the kind Glenn incongruously always wrote in.
I pulled the bottom of the newspaper closer to me to stare at a photograph in the far bottom right of the article. There was a little pile of Tiffany’s pink notebooks, one of which lay open, showing her neat, round writing. Tucked away at the top of the notebook’s page sprouted a funny doodle of a flower growing from a pile of books.
The same doodle I’d seen so recently in another bright pink notebook.
The room seemed to tilt, and I sat down hurriedly. Wrapped my arms around myself to keep out the sudden cold. I was imagining things. If I had Glenn’s notebook to compare, I would see that his doodle looked entirely different.
Only…
It wasn’t his doodle, was it? It wasn’t his handwriting, either. He’d told me it was his daughter’s… but he didn’t have a daughter. Katie was the child of his former neighbour.
Shivers ran through me.
Suddenly a memory of a drunken conversation burst into my mind. Me clinging to Glenn to stay upright as we stared at the stars on the marsh. Him saying how he had seen September’s blood moon while travelling in Sydney, and thought it incredible.
Bloody great red moon. In Australia. In September. Supercool.
Those had been his exact words; I was sure of it. He couldn’t have been more adamant than that.
But now I was recalling the conversation, stone-cold sober, I realised the lie in it. Glenn couldn’t have seen the blood moon in Australia. Remember the research we did into it, Beth? The blood moon couldn’t even be partially seen in that part of the globe.
Glenn had lied; he had clearly been in this country at the time of the blood moon – when Tiffany was killed. And where had she lived? Feverishly, I scanned the newspaper article. There! Clifton, in Nottingham. Wasn’t that near where Glenn had lived? I grabbed my tablet and looked online. According to the map, Dunkirk and Clifton were next to each other.
I forced myself to breathe steadily. To slow my thoughts.
Perhaps Glenn had innocently stumbled across this notebook. Found it lying in the street, or something. If that were the case, then he needed to hand it in. It was probably way too late for forensics to get anything from it, but they could work miracles nowadays, couldn’t they, so it was worth a shot.
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, this was the first time the notebooks had been mentioned by the press. There was no reason why Glenn would know about it. No doubt the police had been holding back the fact they suspected the killer had kept it as a trophy, and had only just given permission for the information to be released.
But what about Glenn’s lies? I’d thought they were for my sake, a misguided attempt to help me, or because he fancied me. Suddenly I looked at them in a whole different light.
A crazy idea grew in my mind.
Grabbing my car keys, I rushed upstairs to Jacob. Knocked on your bedroom door. Jacob called me in. He was sitting on your bed, hugging your teddy bear.
‘You all right?’ I checked.
He sniffed, nodding. His red, puffy eyes told the truth, though.
This was stupid; I couldn’t abandon my husband because of some daft idea. I was obviously trying to find something to occupy my mind other than my own grief. Needing another puzzle to solve; imagining mysteries where there were none.
I would stay home with my husband. No more wild goose chases.
‘Want a cuppa?’ I asked.
‘You going out?’ Jacob tilted his head to one side and indicated with his chin towards the car keys dangling from my hand.
‘No. Well, I’d been thinking about going for a drive, just to get away from here for a while, you know? But I’d rather stay here, keep you company.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he protested.
He reached towards me and I stepped forward, allowing him to wrap his arms around my hips and rest his head against my stomach. I ran my fingers over the stubble of his head. After a minute, he spoke again.
‘I know we deal with things differently. I know you like to have your own space. If you want to go out, go. I want to sit here for a while.’
Bless him, I understood instantly. Jacob didn’t want to say as much, but he needed to be alone for a while. He found solace in your room, the way I found it on the marsh. I think it was your way of ensuring we both got time alone with you.
‘Well, in that case… If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. Go on, get gone.’
As I closed the door, he curled up on your bed, Jesus by his side.
Eighty-Seven
The keys were getting warm in my hand, I’d been gripping them for so long as I sat in my car, trying to decide what to do.
I could stop this silly paranoia, grab Wiggins and go to the marsh.
Or… I could nip over to G
lenn’s flat in Wapentake, though I wasn’t exactly sure which number he lived at because I’d never been there.
Or… I could text Glenn and meet up with him somewhere, ask to see the notebook. But I didn’t want to sound like I was accusing him of keeping something back from a murder investigation, when he was the person who had kept me sane the last few weeks. Although sick of his lies, I didn’t seriously think he knew who the killer was. There was no way.
Making a decision, I set off.
It felt so good to have something to think about other than you, Beth. When I thought of you, all my breath left my body and I felt so weak I simply wanted to curl up and die. But this mystery kept me going. I needed it.
For the entire journey I batted facts back and forth in my head.
The doodle in the newspaper looked identical to my memory of the one in Glenn’s notebook.
The stupid doodle probably wasn’t anything like Tiffany’s. I had a lot on my plate, and was remembering wrong.
Had he pretended to be out of the country during the blood moon so that I wouldn’t suspect him?
But why would he even think that I would suspect him? No, he’d simply wanted to impress me with his well-travelled-man act because he fancied me.
Why had he pretended to have a daughter?
Again, to impress me. To bond with me and help me. There was absolutely no other reason that offered itself.
But I kept coming back to the same fact.
The doodle in the newspaper looked identical to my memory of the one in Glenn’s notebook…
Eighty-Eight
TIFFANY
SUNDAY 27 SEPTEMBER
The second the minicab pulled up, Tiffany slipped out of her home. She had warned Justin to tell the driver not to beep its horn, for fear of waking her mum. Though Mum had taken sleeping tablets ever since she and Dad split, and generally the twelve-year-old could make enough noise to wake the dead and her mum would remain snoring. But Tiffany didn’t want to take the risk – and definitely didn’t want neighbours twitching their curtains at 3 a.m.
Justin had assured her that he would pass the message on to the taxi driver, and clearly he had. It comforted Tiffany, as it showed Justin was trustworthy. He had even told her not to bother bringing money, as he would pay the fare. In fact, he had organised the whole thing, taking her address so he could sort the pick-up.
With a taxi, u know u will be safe, he had texted. That was nice of him.
His parents were away, leaving him alone for the night. He reckoned he had cadged her number off someone at school, and decided to text her.
Tiffany felt flattered, but worried. Last time she had got caught sneaking out, her poor mum had been interviewed by social services. They had told her they would put Tiffany into care if she ran away again. Idiots. She had kept trying to explain that she hadn’t been running away, she simply liked being out. The students next door never seemed to sleep, and she got antsy trying to block out their noise. It helped her to go for a walk. Of course, her mum kept warning her that some pervert was going to try to whisk her away and take advantage of her in the middle of the night. Yeah, ’cos she was that dumb, Mum. If some weirdo came anywhere near Tiffany, then she would just scoot – simple as that. Honestly, her mum thought she was so unaware.
Anyway, sneaking out was no big deal. She would only stay an hour at Justin’s. She’d be back home before anyone realised she was gone. The students might be in bed by then, and she would finally get some sleep before school.
Tiffany couldn’t quite believe her luck at Justin getting in contact with her. Turned out he was into all the same stuff she was. Telling stories and stuff. He wasn’t like anyone else she had ever met. When he’d sent her a photo of himself, wow, he was buff. Dark hair, brooding eyes, like a vampire hero from one of her stories.
She clutched her pink notebook in her hand as she walked towards the cab. It had been a last-minute decision to bring it, to show Justin the latest story she had started. It was only a few pages, but he’d get the idea. Vampires. Werewolves. Dragons. It had got everything in it they both loved.
He was so utterly sick. Bare dank – or ‘cool’, as her mum would say. God, she was old.
Tiffany felt a bit nervous as she opened the cab door. The light didn’t come on inside, but the street light illuminated enough for her to see what she was doing as she clambered in.
‘The person who booked you gave you the address, right?’ she checked.
‘That’s right,’ said the driver.
He turned towards her slightly, but he had a soft, low voice that made her crane forward. In the dark she only had a vague impression of a round face and tight curls, slightly balding. He looked like an overgrown baby.
Then they were off, into the darkness, towards Justin’s house.
Eighty-Nine
I was reminded of the poem by Mary Howitt as I sat in my innocuous dark blue Ford Escort, the engine running. We’d studied it at school, and it had always stuck with me. ‘“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly’, that was how it went. When the door opened and the girl climbed inside – voluntarily – the fly came right into my web.
It was her fault for being such a gullible kid.
Justin, my alter ego, had informed her that she would be picked up by a taxi; and my car could pass for one if no one looked too closely. And what twelve-year-old did look closely? The idiot hadn’t even asked for Justin’s address, so had no clue where I was taking her.
Now, there she was, the aptly named Tiffany. Mummy’s little jewel, stolen away. She sat in the back of my car, staring out of the window or thumbing through her notebook as I drove. No idea what lay ahead of her. Didn’t appear worried until I pulled over in a lay-by near a wood, driving through a pothole full of water and smashing the reflection of the moon.
Ninety
Parking was a bit of a nightmare on Glenn’s old street in Nottingham, as it was bumper-to-bumper. I had decided to visit his ex, Marcie. Glenn would never find out because they didn’t have anything to do with each other. That would allow me to find out a bit more about his background, put my overactive imagination at rest once and for all. I had to park round the corner from his house, but walking to it gave me a chance to get a feel for the area.
The narrow road had been built for Victorian foot traffic, with no room to be widened. It was easy to imagine it cobbled, as it must have originally been. This was no tree-lined avenue. The terraced cottages faced each other, almost looking into one another. They didn’t have gardens, the front door opening straight on to a narrow pavement.
Some of the streets seemed quite affluent, but not this one. It had been missed for some reason by the changes that had swept through much of the area. The cars were rust buckets, the newest fifteen years old. Wooden window frames sported peeling paint. On the sill of one house, someone had left a used nappy. Open, so the contents could be fully appreciated.
Luckily Marcie did not live at that house, but a few doors down, at the opposite end to the one I had entered at. It was one of the better kept properties, the yellow paint on the door so new that it still smelled slightly.
I gave a timid knock at the door, cursing myself for this stupid idea. What the hell was I going to say? I hadn’t even rehearsed it first.
I’d just have to wing it.
After a minute I knocked again, harder. I started to have second thoughts. But what was the alternative? Let a murderer go free? Drive home and cry over the gaping hole in my life?
I’d knock once more. If no one answered, then I’d give it up as a bad job. Then I realised: of course, it was a Monday. Marcie was probably at work. Like normal people were on normal days. It was hard to get my head around the fact that the world was still functioning as usual, despite your death, Beth.
‘Just a minute,’ called a voice from inside. Thin and reedy, I recognised it from the phone. The door opened, revealing Glenn’s ex. She hung onto the door, a hint of wariness in her deep-s
et, ice-blue eyes.
‘Hi, umm, hello. We spoke the other day?’ My voice rose, as if I’d asked her a question. ‘I’m Melanie Oak.’
She looked blank. Then her mouth formed an ‘oh’ as realisation hit. ‘The lady whose daughter is in hospital?’
Don’t cry. Do not cry. I nodded furiously to try to disguise the rapid blinking of my eyelids.
‘How’s she doing?’
‘She’s fine.’ My voice sounded high-pitched and alien even to my own ears. Clearly Marcie had missed the tiny paragraph the national newspapers had written about your death. And I hadn’t said the words aloud yet, Beth; I’d never had to tell anyone that my beautiful daughter was dead. To say it for the first time would be a massive step, and one I wasn’t willing to take at that moment.
‘Come in,’ Marcie gestured.
Her thin face and sharp chin were transformed when she smiled. Everything about her was thin, in fact – her lips, the slightly beaky nose, the wispy blonde hair, feather-cut down to her shoulders. She had a startlingly high forehead, the pale skin covered in faint freckles. But that smile brought a lightness to her, making her eyes sparkle from beneath the heavy black kohl lining them top and bottom.
I found myself smiling back in spite of myself, warming to her as my nerves dissipated.
* * *
I stepped inside, straight into the lounge, as there was no hall, and sat on the squishy pink floral sofa, sinking lower than expected. I pulled myself forward a bit more, in danger of drowning in cushions.
‘Sorry to disturb you. Thought you might be at work, so it was a bit of a gamble.’
‘Ooh, I don’t work. Not with my back. Spondylitis. Would you like a drink? Kettle’s just boiled, so you’ve perfect timing.’
Was it awkwardness making me feel hot and cold all at once? Or was it because the electric heater was on full but the windows let in a nasty draught around my neck and ankles?
The Darkest Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist Page 29
