‘Forget it. It’s a crazy situation. I shouldn’t have asked you that, about . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘About Erica. It’s just – who the hell is this guy? How does he know so much? And what does he want? I’d never thought for a second that Erica’s death was anything more than a stupid accident. Now I’m asking my neighbours if they fucking killed my wife like some paranoid conspiracy theorist. It’s just fucked up, is all.’
Marcus did something then that Karla had never seen him do to another man, apart from his son. He stepped forward and pulled Jack into a hug. A manly one, but still a hug.
‘We’re really sorry, Jack,’ Felicity spoke up, ‘that we accused you, and that we didn’t invite you. We were just . . .’
We were just worried about what you might hear , Karla thought as her friend’s sentence broke off. We were worried you’d find out what really happened to Erica.
34
‘Come on, Charity, I’ve asked you to get in the car, so will you just put that down and . . . no, for goodness’ sake, I don’t know where the bloody unicorn is!’
Six-year-old Charity’s face crumpled and Miranda sucked in a breath. Holy shit, the last thing she needed this morning was an epic breakdown over a horse with a stick on its forehead. ‘I tell you what,’ she spoke quickly and quietly, as though there was bound to be someone listening to this display of awful parenting, ‘if you get in the car and strap in without a fuss I will buy you two unicorns as soon as you get home from school.’
Charity raised a blonde eyebrow and Miranda was struck by the sudden realisation that she was raising the spawn of Satan. She was just like her fucking father.
‘Three unicorns,’ she stated. ‘And a Slush Puppie.’
Miranda let out a breath. ‘Okay, fine.’ At this point her daughter could have asked for a pony and a holiday home in the Bahamas and she’d probably have acquiesced. Anything to get her in the car.
It was the first day back at school, the night after the third awful podcast and that horrific showdown with Jack Spencer that her bloody husband had loved every second of. He’d been practically gleeful when they’d finally got back into the house, grinning as though he’d just come out of a Bruce Willis movie – Alex loved Bruce Willis.
‘Best entertainment I’ve had in a while, and I didn’t have to remortgage the house to get it. No hotdogs, though.’ He frowned, looking genuinely disappointed that there hadn’t been hotdogs at the highly embarrassing street brawl Marcus Kaplan had almost had with a grieving widower. God only knew what the rest of the street thought of them. Perhaps they’d be kicked out of Severn Oaks, the Severn Oaks Six shunned by the community and sent to live Beyond The Gates. It would serve her right, after what she’d done.
It had taken every ounce of strength she’d had to sit there and listen to that podcast with the others, as that frightful man talked about what had happened after the other guests left, as if perhaps they were a bunch of cultists just waiting for the ‘normal’ couples to leave before they sacrificed one of their members. It was an accident, everyone knew Erica had been drunk – they all saw her, taunting poor Felicity and Peter, sniping at Karla. And she was all over Marcus, not that Jack had seemed bothered. Not that Miranda herself could remember too much at all after that point – she’d drunk a little more than intended, especially after Marcus brought out those disgusting purple shot things.
She swung into her usual space outside the school and killed the engine. Twisting herself around to help Charity unclip, there was a bang on her side window. The round, pink face of Jean Whittleby, Severndale Primary’s parking enforcer, gate unlocker and fount of all knowledge, was pressed up against Miranda’s driver’s side window. Miranda forced herself into school mode, something she’d been practising for years. She plastered on a huge smile and flicked the engine back on to open the window. ‘Jean! Morning! We’ve missed your smiling face every morning, haven’t we, Charity?’ Without waiting for her daughter to say that actually she’d never seen Jean smile, she launched into a second charm offensive. ‘Did you have a nice summer? At least we had some decent weather this year, although it always goes too fast, doesn’t it? Charity dear, are you ready?’
Switching to an apologetic smile, Miranda motioned towards the back seat. ‘Better get her in then – don’t want to be late on her first day in a new class, do we, sweetheart?’
‘You can’t park there.’
The words were so unexpected that for a second Miranda didn’t even register what the other woman meant. Was she wonky? Did she need to straighten up?
‘Excuse me?’ Never let the smile falter. You can say what you like to people if you smile, she’d found over the years. Even if you felt like you would rather poke someone in the eye with a Pritt Stick, you could win them over with a smile and some eye contact.
‘It’s for taxis and the school bus . . .’ Jean faltered. ‘You need to park somewhere else, Mrs Davenport.’
So it was Mrs Davenport now? Jean had always called her Miranda before, and although she knew she technically shouldn’t park in this spot, the school bus had already dropped off and she had always parked there.
‘It’s never been a problem before. Everywhere else is full now, we’ll be late.’
Jean’s expression faltered for a split second, then her face hardened again. ‘I’m sorry, but it was brought up at a meeting. The head’s orders. You’ll have to move.’
A meeting? But Miranda was a parent governor – they didn’t have meetings without her! She took one last look at Jean’s determined expression and sighed. The last thing she needed today was an argument outside the school gates. ‘Fine,’ she said, her face burning as she pressed the button to close the window. With a satisfying whirr it zoomed up, closing Jean out before she could launch into any kind of Jobsworth speech. Miranda’s face burned as she pulled out of the space, noticing the passing mums watching with interest as she drove away.
‘Where are we going, Mummy?’ Charity asked. ‘Don’t we have to go to school today?’
It crossed Miranda’s mind to say no, there was no school today, to drive straight back to the safety of Severn Oaks and slam a few doors. Fury built up inside her. It was what the old Miranda would do. That or drive straight onto the school playground and fuck the lot of them. But she didn’t have the energy to fight today – not after last night – and besides, she couldn’t let Charity blot her attendance record on the first day because of her mother’s stubbornness. Pick your battles was another rule she’d learnt about keeping up appearances. She wouldn’t let that bitch Jean know that she had ruffled her. She’d just report her for smoking in the toilets – poor Jean thought she was the only one who knew things.
‘We just have to park down the road today, darling, they need that spot today. It’s just a little walk.’
But as predicted, the rest of the road had filled up almost completely and Miranda found herself having to park almost two streets away. By the time she’d got Charity, complaining about having to actually walk to school, out of the car, along with her bags, PE kit and Forest School attire, it was three minutes to nine.
‘Come on, Charity, hurry up, darling! I know, but it’s not that far and we don’t want to be late on the first day!’ Miranda was never late. She would usually pull up right outside the school and stride Charity through the door in under two minutes flat. When she got back to the school Jean didn’t even look in her direction. Enjoy your job while it lasts, Smokey Joe.
She heard the bell ring from the entrance to the school gates. Shit! Now she would have to go through reception, the walk of shame she’d seen so many other parents do as she looked on, judging them for not being more prepared, or not having the presence of mind to park closer to the school.
‘Morning, Mrs Davenport.’ Gina on reception had obviously been informed of the change in title. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been addressed at the school by her full name. She had become as much a part of the school in the last year as Gina, or bloo
dy Jean. ‘Running a little late today?’
Miranda bit back the angry tirade threatening to spew from her lips and forced a smile. Gina had better be careful, or she’d find her violation of the ‘no phones in school’ rule making its way to the head. ‘Just a few teething issues, getting used to the new regime,’ she said, hoping that was enough to make the point that her daughter’s tardiness was through no fault of her own. Charity seemed oblivious at least, and ran off happily towards her new classroom. Her teacher held up a hand and gave a weak smile as the little girl went to join her classmates.
There was one positive about Charity being late, Miranda supposed. There would be no bumping into the other mums at the back gat—
Miranda’s heart sank as she left via the reception only to see three of the mums from Charity’s class huddled together chatting.
Just breeze past , Miranda told herself. Just keep walking, head up, smile and . . .
‘Morning!’ she beamed, certain that she was going to make it right past without bursting into tears. See? She had it all under control.
‘Miranda!’ In unison the three women split apart and spread themselves across the path, almost blocking her route entirely. If she hadn’t felt such a sinking feeling of despair, she would have laughed at how perfectly choreographed it all looked. Perhaps they should try out for the school talent show – or the school ‘no talent’ show, as she privately referred to it.
‘How are you doing?’ Cynthia Elcock’s voice was dripping with concern, her head tilted to one side the way people do when you have some sort of incurable disease.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Miranda took a step forward but couldn’t get any further without shoving linebackers Pria Hamilton or Stephanie Green off the pavement. ‘In a bit of a rush, actually.’
‘Yes, I was just saying it’s a surprise to see you run in so late. Where’s your car?’
‘It’s down the road – Charity wanted to walk today, bless her. She’s spent all summer going on about fitness – must be their age.’ Miranda was almost certain Pria had been going through the gates when Jean had banished her from her usual spot, but if she’d seen the encounter she was saving the story for when Miranda was safely back in the car.
‘Oh, well done, Charity.’ Yep, they definitely already knew. ‘Listen, we were wondering if there was any news on Mary-Beth? We saw their nan dropping the kids off earlier and didn’t want to ask . . .’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Miranda said flatly.
‘Oh.’ Cynthia looked distinctly put out but recovered quickly. ‘And how are you coping with all these silly rumours about Erica’s death? We wanted you to know that, of course, none of us believe you had anything to do with it.’
The implication clearly being that some people did. Miranda swallowed down her fury. They are just looking for a reaction. The next bit of gossip. It’s nothing personal.
‘I should think so, you all being far too intelligent to listen to someone’s idea of an extremely sick joke.’ Miranda watched Stephanie’s face falter. Had Cynthia not been there, she’d have won the room with that remark and been able to walk off safe in the knowledge that they felt appropriately chastened. But Cynthia was like a pit bull – simple psychological warfare would get her nowhere with this one. Her face had taken on this smug glow, as if she was thoroughly enjoying Miranda’s discomfort.
‘Joke, yes. It’s just that it’s not very funny, is it? And what this person knows . . . well, it seems like they’ve certainly done their research.’
‘Yes, well, you did your research on Brexit when you shared all those pictures on Facebook of Boris’s bus – and look where that got you. A bus full of horse shit.’
Stephanie and Pria recoiled, looking both horrified at the turn the conversation was taking and fascinated all at once. Cynthia gave a smile and her eyes flashed, the way a python’s might before it struck you dead.
‘I just can’t imagine being accused of murder .’ She elongated the word as far as it could be stretched, complete with breathy Hollywood-style voice.
Miranda resisted the urge to insult the limits of Cynthia’s imagination.
‘It’s really not as awful as you think,’ Miranda replied with a smile. ‘It makes it much easier to get a seat in the coffee shop.’
‘But not a parking space.’
Miranda gave a tinkly laugh. ‘This was so much fun, Cynthia, but I really have to get going. I left the arsenic brewing on the stove.’ She moved past Pria, who sidestepped quickly, clearly realising she was out of her depth here.
‘Just one more thing?’
Miranda turned to see Cynthia practically glowing.
‘Is it true what people are saying about the baby? That it wasn’t Jack’s? That the father was someone very close to Erica?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Wouldn’t it be just horrific to find out your husband had fathered a baby by one of your friends? I’d just want to die. Or kill them, maybe.’ And with a smirk she pushed past Miranda, leaving her feeling like she’d been punched in the stomach.
35
‘Okay, thanks for being here,’ Detective Sergeant Harvey’s voice brought everyone to attention and dimmed the hum of noise in the room. Three faces looked up at him – not a large number for a search team but as many as the budget for Mary-Beth King’s disappearance could afford. On the board to his left the information was sparse; there had been no leads since Mary-Beth’s car had been found at the side of the River Dee nearly two weeks earlier. Until today.
‘I’ve called you here today because, as you’ve probably heard, there has been a tip come in via the hotline regarding Mrs King’s movements on the 20th of August – the day she disappeared. The call came from a taxi driver who saw Mrs King’s picture on the TV and says he believes he had her in his taxi at approximately seven p.m. on the evening of her disappearance.’
‘Why’s it taken him so long to come forward?’ DC Allan asked.
‘He was a bit cagey about that, but the extremely astute hotline operative managed to ascertain that his licence had expired and he waited until he had renewed it to call us – a fact that we are going to overlook if he remains helpful. Anyone free to go and speak to him today?’
‘I’ll go.’ DC Allan held up a hand again. Quelle surprise. Had he really been that keen once? He remembered his hand shooting up whenever DCI Barrow asked if someone would be willing. That was what had led him to Severn Oaks the first time. The first time he suspected there was a murderer within the gates.
‘Good, thanks. Before we wrap up, I assume everyone has been listening to our very own murder mystery podcast?’
Three heads nodded. Of course they had – it seemed like everyone in Cheshire, and probably beyond, was talking about The Truth About Erica . Even his mum had called him last night when it had finished to ask which of the Severn Oaks Six killed that poor woman. The Severn Oaks Six, for God’s sake.
‘Right, well, so have the country’s finest parasites, it seems.’ His blood pressure rose just thinking about the journalists sitting next to their smartphones, salivating over every salacious detail. It helped – or didn’t, as the case was – that the drama was taking place in Severn Oaks. It added to the mystery – murder behind locked gates, and all that – and it was always more tantalising when the people involved were well off. And for Marcus and Karla Kaplan to be involved as well – it was a tabloid jackpot. Just like Barrow suspected a year ago. ‘So I think it’s a good time to reiterate that no one speaks to the journalists – you can refer them straight to me so I can ignore their calls personally.’
‘Are we reopening the case, sir? Erica Spencer?’
He’d been waiting for the question and he might have known it would come from Allan. This man just— Did. Not. Give. Up. Ever since the podcast started, Harvey had been thinking of nothing but the night he had first visited Severn Oaks. They might not have recognised him straight away but he could remember each one of their faces: Karla Kaplan and Felicity Goldman looking
tear-stained, with expensive mascara smudged across their faces; Miranda Davenport staring straight ahead the whole time as if she was in severe shock. The men’s voices overly confident to mask how nervous they were. DCI Barrow’s voice as he made it clear that no one wanted a scandal involving the Kaplans.
Harvey tried not to sigh loudly. ‘No, we are not. Mrs Spencer’s death was ruled an accident and so far we’ve not heard one shred of real evidence that suggests otherwise. To reopen the case based on some true-crime junkie trying to be the next Sarah Koenig – don’t look so surprised, Allan, I am well up with the popular culture, innit? – would cast doubt on our original investigation, which was handled impeccably by yours truly. So while I’m not saying that Mrs King’s disappearance doesn’t have anything to do with the podcast, I am saying that Erica Spencer’s death was an accident and I don’t want anyone on this team so much as thinking out loud that we might have made a mistake. Those bastard journalists can smell police incompetence all the way from Fleet Street. Go on, meeting’s over.’
36
‘Wouldn’t it be just horrific to find out your husband had fathered a baby by one of your friends? I’d just want to die. Or kill them, maybe.’
The words had swirled around in her mind, smashing into one another until they failed to make sense any more. I’d want to die. Kill them. Fathered a baby. Kill the baby. Kill your friends. Horrific. Horrific. Horrific. I’d want to kill them.
Had she wanted to kill Erica? She didn’t think so, it had never crossed her mind to ever hurt anyone. Okay, so she’d done some things in her life that other people would consider bad, but only things that those same ‘other people’ would do in a heartbeat if they knew there was no chance they would ever get caught. Like that time she’d clutched her car keys between her fingers and dragged them down the side of that dreadful man’s car – the one who had called her a stupid bitch when she’d pointed out that he was parked in a parent and child space without a child in sight. The sound of metal against metal as the key gouged a deep silver crevice into the black paintwork had been more satisfying than any orgasm she’d ever had. And there was the phone call she’d made to the DVLA when a van driver had slammed his fist on the horn because she’d taken three seconds too long to turn into her street. She’d written his number plate down from her dash cam and checked his details online. Tut, tut, his MOT was overdue by six days.
Someone Is Lying Page 13
