Felicity cringed, thinking of the run-in with Jemma at the holiday club, suddenly feeling certain it had something to do with last night’s podcast. A local businesswoman – well, she knew very well that she was the only ‘businesswoman’ who lived within the walls of Severn Oaks, unless you could count Kelsie Major’s Avon catalogues as a business. Was that why they didn’t want her on the trip? Had someone complained? Perhaps there wasn’t a tick box on the risk assessment for ‘risk of murderer in volunteer pool’.
Felicity sank down into one of the seats in the corner, farthest away from the girls talking about the podcast. She didn’t feel like going back to Severn Oaks yet, she just wanted to forget all about it, but everywhere she went people had been listening. Severndale was a small place, Severn Oaks even smaller. She wondered how Karla was coping – if she thought the reference to her was thinly veiled, it was nothing compared to the guy practically calling out Karla and Marcus by name. Cheshire had its fair share of celebrities, of course, with the Real Housewives and footballers by the score, but only two of them resided inside the walls of Severn Oaks. And what had he said about Mary-Beth? A best friend who is a little too good to be true. And her husband – Peter, obviously – featuring heavily in Erica’s diary. And why was Erica keeping a diary about them anyway? The lives of the Severn Oaks residents hardly seemed the most thrilling; occasionally the men would all gather at one of the houses to watch the odd football match, maybe they talked about something interesting but Felicity doubted it. Maybe the barista and her friend were on to something when they said it could be Jack – Erica’s husband would be best placed to find her scrawlings on the comings and goings of her neighbours. But surely that was crazy. Jack was just an ordinary guy, a nice guy – not the type of person who would start something like this. Felicity sighed. It was too much to even think about.
Was this how it was going to be from now on? Constantly wondering who knew what about her life? And what had Erica written about her in that goddamn diary of hers? Then there was the best friend’s husband who featured heavily in Erica’s log. So what had she written about Peter?
Pulling out her phone, she dialled Mary-Beth’s number. She had been oddly silent throughout this whole thing – it was unusual for her not to have contacted at least one of them since the post appeared two days ago. Karla had managed to get hold of Steph – the school administrator – who had promptly removed all trace of the post from Facebook, but that apparently hadn’t stopped people finding out. Mary-Beth must know.
The phone rang and rang with no answer. Why wasn’t she answering?
She slammed the phone down on the table, ignoring the stares of the customers around her. Did they already know who she was? Felicity imagined them going back to their friends or husbands, telling them how that woman from Severn Oaks had been acting so suspiciously in the café that morning.
Felicity jumped as the phone buzzed in her hand, but it wasn’t Mary-Beth returning her call, it was Karla.
‘What’s up?’
Karla never called her in the day – she knew that Felicity wouldn’t take personal calls unless it was from the holiday club. So if she needed something, she would email – the only way to get added into Felicity’s busy schedule.
‘Sorry, Fliss,’ Karla’s voice was urgent. ‘I know you’re working, but I had to talk to someone. I’m going crazy sitting here thinking about this whole Erica thing. Will you come over?’
‘I thought you said not to worry? That your lawyer—’
‘I know what I said, but it’s easier said than done, isn’t it? Marcus spoke to our lawyer last night, and he said that until this guy names us, or says something that specifically points to the two of us being implicated in an actual crime, there’s nothing we can do, and to try and do something at this stage would make us look like we have something to hide.’
‘That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?’ Felicity replied, biting the inside of her lip. ‘We do.’
13
Miranda’s delight at being a badass lasted all the way to the end of the street before she pulled over and crumpled against the steering wheel. What the fuck had just happened? Why would Cynthia lie to her face? Why didn’t she want Charity at her house?
Or, more accurately, Miranda at her house. Because that’s what that little show had been about, hadn’t it? The alpha mum who had slid seamlessly into Erica’s place – well, they all knew who that was referring to. There was no way she could go back to that house, despite how insistent she’d been that she would. Alex would just have to go and get Charity after work, presuming he wasn’t working late again. Her cheeks burned as she thought of Felicity’s smug face when she’d insinuated that her husband might be doing something other than working when he wasn’t home until 8 p.m. some nights. She knew what they all thought of him, the mischievous joker with the wandering eye. If they had a Severn Oaks Yearbook, Alex’s name would be under ‘most likely to cheat on his wife’. And yet Miranda had never managed to find even the smallest shred of evidence that he’d strayed, despite checking his phone, emails and every photo in his iCloud storage. Once she’d found a phone hidden in the cloakroom that she’d spent an hour charging, in tears, only to find out it was an old one she’d given to Logan about three years ago to play games on.
The houses in Severn Oaks were mainly four-bedroomed detached. There was a row of three-bed terraces in the far corner, but as none of them had children . . . Or did number six have a new baby? – Miranda had never really noticed. Erica used to do all the welcome calls, she’d have known. She’d have known its name and birth date too. And, of course, there was Karla and Marcus’s five-bed in the middle of the court, with its huge expanse of a garden and a conspicuous space where the offending tree-house used to be. Miranda and Alex occupied the third house in on the left, with a perfect view of Erica, Mary-Beth next door and Felicity, as well as everyone who drove in. Miranda often thought Erica would have loved her vantage point, although the Spencers’ house was up the bank slightly and therefore best placed to look down on the other houses and their inhabitants. All the better to see you with. But it was Miranda, now, who could keep an eye on the comings and goings, and so it was Miranda who saw Karla and Felicity drive back into Severn Oaks, in separate cars but at exactly the same time, and pull up Karla’s never-ending driveway. They disappeared from view then, but she could imagine them getting out, going into Karla’s state-of-the-art kitchen and pouring themselves wine, sitting at the breakfast bar picking at cheeses while they gossiped.
Miranda longed for a friendship like that, but she’d never met anyone she just gelled with in that way. Mary-Beth had Erica – well, she’d had Erica. Miranda had hoped that perhaps now Mary-Beth was as lonely as she was they would become better friends. They had plenty in common, children the same age, husbands who couldn’t keep their eyes or hands to themselves. But Mary-Beth hadn’t been interested in replacing Erica. In fact, in the last ten months, she hadn’t been interested in socialising with any of them at all. It was almost as if she blamed them for Erica’s death, by virtue of them all being present on the night it happened. Or perhaps she was trying not to let slip secrets of her own – according to the podcast, she had as many as the rest of them.
She was debating calling Mary-Beth, under the guise of seeing how she was; perhaps this could be a bonding experience for them – maybe some good could come of it all. They would drink wine and confide in each other, sharing secrets and how they were worried about what this awful man might say next. Perhaps Karla and Felicity would invite them over to their next get-together, and they could all remember poor Erica and how much she loved a party, how she was the one who kept them all coming together, but it was okay because they had each other now.
And then you’d say something matter-of-fact that would upset one or all of them, without even realising and you’d have to move house. Remember that time you asked Felicity who did her Botox? There’s a reason you have no friends, Miranda.
; There it was, that little voice again that made an appearance every time she even considered going to that get-together, or crossing the road to have a chat with someone she knew. It had got worse since she’d given up her job – at one time she was sure she could hold a conversation without the little bastard in her brain assuring her afterwards that she’d spoken too loud again, been too opinionated – and couldn’t she stop speaking long enough to listen for a change? What made her think that people wanted to hear what she thought about everything? Never mind that she barely ever got more intelligent conversation than which ‘LOL Surprise’ doll was the best, which is what made her want to discuss anything and everything with anyone who stood still long enough to listen.
She straightened up from rummaging in her bag just as the car pulled in through the gates, and her jaw slackened. So, this was it, then? The news had said that the police had decided not to pursue a new investigation of Erica’s death, but they had apparently changed their mind. One by one, they would all be questioned, and the cracks would show. And judging by the fact that it was Mary-Beth’s house they were pulling up to, they had decided to start with her.
Maybe Miranda would look for a new candidate for a best friend.
‘So I’m thinking that this guy just named us because we were all there that night. If you think about it, it’s the only possible way he could have gone with it. It’s a classic murder mystery set-up. A Halloween party – I mean, you couldn’t get more perfect really, that bit sort of just fell in his lap – the suspects are obviously going to be the people at the party. I mean, if he’d called out six random people who hadn’t been anywhere near Severn Oaks that night, it would have presented him with a load more difficulties. Like how they got in, for example. Plus it’s much more exciting this way. The killer is inside the walls and all that crap. He’ll come out at the end and say it was all fiction and we’ll sue for emotional distress.’
‘I thought your lawyer said—’
‘Yeah,’ Karla interrupted, and Felicity let her go with it. She seemed on a roll now, almost as if she wasn’t discussing their lives but an episode of some soap or crime drama. If this was how she wanted to deal with things, fine. Felicity kicked off her pumps and bent down to rub her foot. ‘He said we couldn’t sue until the guy gave something away to indicate he was talking about us. Me and Marcus, I mean. Well, he’s going to have to, isn’t he? The party was at our house. He’s not going to be able to talk about us as suspects without mentioning it was our house the party was in, and Bingo! He’s implicated us.’
Karla pulled open her sizeable American-style fridge freezer and pulled out a tray of hors d’oeuvres wrapped in cling film and labelled ‘Karla for book six’.
‘Try these,’ she urged. ‘I need to know if they taste like crap before I add the recipe to my latest book.’
‘Looks yum,’ Felicity said, picking up a slice of cucumber covered in cream cheese with a roll of salmon on top and shoving it in whole. She chewed, nodded enthusiastically and swallowed. ‘Those are lush. But what if he doesn’t come out at the end and say it’s fiction? People will always wonder. Look at all those Netflix documentaries about true crimes, just mentioning people’s names in the same sentence as the word murder is enough to make people wonder. Our lives will be ruined.’
‘You’re being dramatic. No publicity is bad publicity, remember? Look at Queen Martha. She went to jail, and it didn’t stop her. There might be a film. I’d be played by Charlize Theron. You’d probably be played by someone ten years younger. George Clooney would be Peter, Marcus would be the sexy one from Breaking Bad . Worst-case scenario we could start a tour. “And this is where she hit her head . . .”’ Karla grinned at her friend’s gaping mouth.
Felicity threw a grape at her. ‘I’m glad you can joke about it. What if the police reopen Erica’s case?’
Karla’s grin froze. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Well, because he’s saying there is evidence. What if there is? What if one of us killed Erica?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Felicity.’ Karla wasn’t used to seeing her best friend like this, and it was unnerving. Felicity was usually so together – the calm, collected one who had a list of goals for every day and an hourly plan on how to achieve them. She was the kind of person Karla thought she herself should be – maybe if her agent was a bit more like Felicity she would be on Real Housewives by now. ‘This guy can’t possibly have evidence that the police don’t know about. If he has then he’s been obstructing the course of justice, and revealing it puts him in the frame as much as any of us.’
‘Except no one knows who he is.’
‘You heard the news. The police aren’t looking into the case.’
‘They’re not?’ Felicity asked, gazing out of the double patio doors. ‘Then why have they just pulled up at Mary-Beth’s house?’
14
DS Harvey looked steadfastly ahead at the path leading up to Peter and Mary-Beth King’s home, trying to force himself not to look left at where the Kaplans’ house stood, imposing and equally as determined not to be ignored. The memory of that night ten months ago sat on his shoulders as if he had just woken from the night shift, an eager trainee ready to present his findings to his DCI, desperate to impress. He shuddered to shake away the memory of that meeting now. The words imprinted on his mind. We don’t need a scandal involving the Kaplans.
‘You were here that night, weren’t you, sir?’
The voice of Detective Constable Allan at his side reminded him that he was Detective Sergeant, someone’s ‘sir’ now – no longer the lowest in the CID food chain. Ordinarily he wouldn’t even be here at this early stage but the minute his boss had got wind of a disappearance from Severn Oaks, Barrow had summoned him into his office to insist he accompany DC Allan. Which is why what would usually be a job for a police constable had become a two-CID-ring circus.
‘Yes.’
Not put off by his superior’s curt response, Allan pushed on. ‘What were they like? The people here?’
Harvey restrained himself from groaning. This one was keen.
Untouchable had been the first word to come to his lips as he remembered them all, standing in the Kaplans’ garden, tears running down the women’s cheeks, and yet when they looked at him it was with defiance. You won’t find the truth here . Had it really been less than a year? It felt like a decade ago. A lot of good things had happened to his career since then, thanks to DCI Barrow. None of them had sweetened that sour taste he got when he thought of Severn Oaks.
‘Distressed,’ he replied, realising Allan was still waiting for an answer.
‘Understandable, I suppose. What do you reckon to this podcast then? The one that’s saying it wasn’t an accident?’
Harvey pushed open the gate, aiming a glower at DC Allan, hoping it would shut him up – suspecting it wouldn’t. He couldn’t blame the young trainee for being inquisitive, really. But that didn’t mean he had to indulge him. The truth was that the minute he’d listened to that podcast last night he’d got in the car, gone to the gym and worked out until he’d thrown up.
‘You should take the lead on this,’ Harvey replied after a silence. ‘Are you okay with that?’
‘Yes, sir, I appreciate the opportunity, thank you.’
‘Remember that seventy per cent of runaways turn up absolutely fine in a few days. She’s more than likely to have taken off with the plumber, but he’s not going to want to believe that.’
DC Allan’s hand froze halfway to the doorbell. ‘Do you believe that? Even given the timing?’
Another glower. ‘Yes, I do. I’m sure you’ve been waiting for some big exciting case to come along, and I understand that, but this isn’t it. Don’t try and make this into something it isn’t.’
He heard himself speak the words and at the same time heard them coming from someone else, in another place and time. Harvey screwed up his nose. It was the truth, this time. He wasn’t turning into Barrow. He wasn’t.
&nbs
p; 15
Peter took a deep breath in and wiped his hands on his grey suit trousers before opening the door. From the moment he’d seen the police pull through the gates he knew that this could be it. It could all be over. People would be gossiping already, but let them. This wasn’t some sordid tale you could tell over appetisers, this was his life. Today he looked every one of his forty-eight years, stubble shading his usually smooth face, angry purple triangles under his bright blue eyes. Peter knew he was attractive and usually he took the utmost pride in his appearance, regular facials, a personal trainer three times a week. Right now he looked like shit and for once in his life he didn’t care.
‘You’ve found her,’ he announced, not waiting for either of the officers to speak.
They shared a ‘look’ that Peter would analyse for at least an hour after they left.
The younger of the two men cleared his throat. He looked nearly as nervous as Peter felt. ‘No, Mr King, I’m afraid we haven’t, and I’m really sorry to worry you. Can we come in?’
He was perhaps late twenties, which immediately put Peter at ease. Surely if they thought he was some kind of wife killer they would have sent someone whose mum didn’t still iron his trousers? He looked like a nice enough lad, though, with his ginger hair cut short and spiked, a smattering of freckles dusted across his nose and a redness in his cheeks that made him look more like a boy scout collecting donations than a police officer. His colleague, older, harder faced, stood with his hands in his pockets, his face clearly stating that he couldn’t care less if they were invited in or not.
‘Yes, sorry, of course.’ Peter moved into the house, gesturing them to follow him. ‘We can talk in here. The children are upstairs, probably both with headphones on. I haven’t told them anything – I don’t know what to tell them.’
He led them through to the room that his wife reserved for fancy guests, glancing around to check there was nothing the police officers shouldn’t see. He wiped his palms against his suit trousers and gestured at the sofa. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’
Someone Is Lying Page 5
