‘Did you know it was Tristan?’
‘Straight away. Something he said in the first post, something about her being a “local hero”. No one of us would describe her like that. I already knew they were having an affair, I knew he was obsessed with her. And when I asked him he didn’t deny it, but he refused to tell me what he knew.’
‘And then he kidnapped you and put you in a cellar?’
Mary-Beth looked around her as though the walls could absorb their words. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you really think Tristan Patterson was capable of kidnapping anyone?’
‘Then what . . .?’
‘He wasn’t listening. I had to shut him up and make him listen. I lunged at him . . . he was leaning over the balcony, he was off balance. I just, it was just a push.’
Felicity’s eyes widened. ‘You killed him? They said he jumped.’
‘It was an accident. I never meant for him to actually fall! His computer was there, awake. I tried to get into his hosting to stop the podcasts but they were password protected and if I’d guessed the wrong password it would be on record that someone tried to get in. I typed out a note saying I couldn’t go on without Erica, and ran.’
‘Did Peter know where you were?’
Mary-Beth’s eyes dropped to study the table in front of them.
‘Yes,’ she replied quietly. ‘But don’t be mad at him. I didn’t know what I was going to do. When the podcast went out anyway, without Tristan alive to upload it, we realised they must be pre-recorded and scheduled to upload at certain times. Without knowing Tristan’s hosting details all I could do was listen, horrified. Peter brought me food when he could – he almost got caught trying to warn me that the taxi driver had identified me. So stupid to use Erica’s name but I was in a state and it was the only one in my head. It was too risky to move but all the police did was shine a light in and bang on the door.’
‘So you were there the whole time?’
‘Until the last podcast aired. Peter called me to say that Tristan had confessed to pushing Erica.’ For the first time, tears began to form in the corners of Mary-Beth’s eyes. ‘He never even mentioned me. Anyone could see it was going to end badly – I just didn’t think this badly. He died for nothing.’
Felicity stared at the wall in silence. It was too much to take in. Mary-Beth had let Erica die, she’d known that much when she’d gone there. But this was different, wasn’t it? Or was letting someone die any worse than killing them by accident? Was what Mary-Beth had done to Tristan worse than what she’d done to Erica?
‘Was it Peter who tipped off the police?’
‘Yes. He said it was okay, Tristan hadn’t told everyone the truth and that he was going to ring in a tip-off of where I was. He’d found a bunker, I needed to climb in, and make it look like I’d been there a while. It wasn’t hard – I’d barely eaten anything since Tristan . . .’ Mary-Beth sighed. ‘He hated every single one of us, you know. He blamed me for Erica not wanting to be with him, he hated the way we were all so selfish, all lying to preserve ourselves. No one came forward after she died to tell the truth about what they had done. We all just kept lying to protect ourselves, and pretended we all loved Erica. Except I did love Erica. Right until the moment she threatened to rip apart my whole family.’
‘I still wonder how he knew so much about us,’ Felicity whispered. ‘It was like he could see through our very skins.’
‘Maybe he could,’ Mary-Beth replied. ‘May God forgive us for what he saw under there.’
Epilogue
Erica
It’s been two years since my death, a year since The Truth About Erica first aired. Severn Oaks has taken some readjusting. Jack and my children have moved away from Cheshire entirely, moving on in the only way he knows how. Karla and Marcus have moved as well, not because of the financial hit the revelations took on them – they were still more than wealthy enough – but because Karla insisted that she wanted to start again, to put right some of the mistakes they had made with their children. Brandon went away to college, using the name ‘Burgess’, and has managed to slip quite seamlessly and anonymously into normal student life. He visits his parents every few weeks but they have been instructed that under no circumstances should they ever set foot in his flat.
In the wake of the revelations about Miranda spiking my drink, she quit the PTA, the Parish Council and the Planning Committee. All of her resignations were declined. It seems that everyone likes her a lot more when she’s not pretending to be perfect. She even has a group of friends of her own now, although Cynthia Elcock isn’t one of them.
DS Allan – yes, a promotion and a commendation! – remains unconvinced by Mary-Beth’s story, only no one wants to listen to him. Everyone is more than happy to accept the gift-wrapped version that they were presented with. Tristan killed Erica, then killed himself, leaving Mary-Beth to die in a cellar. Everyone except DS Harvey, that is. The pair of them are quite the detective duo these days, and I don’t think they’re far off putting together the pieces.
Peter and Mary-Beth still live in Severn Oaks, next door to Felicity. Far from being the evil stepmother, they get on like anyone would expect two people harbouring a killer secret would. Felicity and the girls go over for dinner at least twice a week, and Mary-Beth cooks her famous soda bread for Mollie and Amalie to take to school. None of them have told Peter they know about his affair with me. Maybe if they had been honest with him, they would know by now that everything that happened on the night of my death, and everything since, was based on a lie.
Someone was lying that night and it caused my death. That someone was me.
In hindsight I never should have told Felicity that Peter was the father of my unborn child, but what’s a little white lie between neighbours? I didn’t think for a second that she’d believe that Peter would cheat on his beloved Mary-Beth a second time, and how was I to know that Mary-Beth could hear every word? I wanted to tell her the truth, as I lay there dying – that Peter would never have slept with me, nor I with him. We both loved her so much. I just wanted to hurt Felicity – beautiful, clever Felicity whose very existence caused Mary-Beth so much pain. I wanted her to feel like she wasn’t so special after all, that she wasn’t the product of forbidden love but a tawdry affair that her father would have with anyone. Even me. And yet it was that one lie that turned my best friend against me, one simple lie.
Only it’s not always that easy, is it? You see, I have it on good authority that someone in Severn Oaks isn’t happy with the verdict of suicide given to Tristan Patterson. Someone who has been doing a bit of digging of their own. And I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a few days’ time, Severndale Primary School’s Facebook page receives a mysterious posting. Because although people know some of the goings-on in Severn Oaks, only you know the truth. All of it.
Until next time . . . stay honest.
Acknowledgements
As always my first thank you goes to my agent and friend, Laetitia Rutherford. It’s been over five years since we first met and you have changed my life in ways I only dreamed of, you are always there to encourage and support me. Also to Megan, Rachel and the whole team at Watson Little.
To the wonderful team at Headline, firstly Jess Whitlum-Cooper who is everything you could ask for in an editor and more. Thank you for your unwavering support and brilliant advice. Thanks also to the rest of my Headline family, namely Jo Liddiard, Jenni Leech, Jen Doyle, my copyeditor Shan Morley Jones and everyone behind the scenes who make a book a success.
Over the last five books there have been so many other people who have kept me going in this writing game – too many to thank and I’d be terrified of forgetting anyone but please be assured that if you have ever sent me a message, tweet, email or carrier pigeon to tell me you’ve loved one of my books then this thank you is aimed at you. If you have left me a lovely review or included my book on your blog, spent any of your free time recommending me to friends and family – this thank you is for you. You keep
us going on the hard days.
To my crime writing family, without whom I could probably write four books a year – thanks for the procrastination. You know who you are.
And through all this there are the people who have to put up with me In Real Life. The people I can’t edit my comments to before I press send, the people who know when my deadline is from my CWPS (cuss words per sentence) and the ones who bite their lip if my jeans are on back to front. Thank you to mum, dad and Jen for everything you do for us, my Farrs family and Vicky for all the impromptu deadline week childcare and both my nan and gran who listen to every radio show, still call me to tell me they’ve seen me in magazines and still read my books even after the awkward sex scene incident.
And mostly thank you to my boys, Ash, Connor and Finlay for still living with me, still loving me and for pretending you don’t know where I hide my chocolate.
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My name is Emma Cartwright. Three years ago I was Susan Webster, and I murdered my twelve-week-old son Dylan.
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Someone Is Lying Page 25
