Shaking the memories from my mind, I thought back to the strangers in the village. Who were these people who seemed to know me? I was beginning to imagine a conspiracy against me. Feeling another rush of fear, I went back through every room, rechecking all the windows, pulling the curtains closed. Shivering, realizing how cold I was, I went to the den and lit the wood burner, packing it with logs, then settling into one of the armchairs.
I don’t know how much time passed, but the next thing I was aware of was waking from a deep sleep. Gibson was barking, and a banging sounded outside, first on the back door, then on the front. It was followed by a male voice shouting. Disoriented, I imagined the man I’d seen earlier. Just as I’d dreaded, he’d come here. Stumbling through to the kitchen, I searched for my phone to call the police, but then the voice called out again.
“I can’t get in.”
Abe. Thank God. Relieved, I hurried to the back door, trying to pull myself together as I unbolted it. “I’m so sorry. I lost track of time—I think I must have fallen asleep.” Trying to sound calmer than I felt. As he came in, I closed the door behind him and slid the bolt across, then noticed the frown on his face as he watched me. “Did you notice anyone hanging around on your way back? There was a man earlier. He freaked me out. I’m sorry . . .” I shook my head, realizing how lame I sounded. “It’s why the door was locked.” I looked at him expectantly.
He stared at me, clearly irritated; then I noticed rain dripping from his hair. “Oh no . . . It’s raining again . . . I’m so sorry. You’re soaked, Abe. You should get changed. And bring me your wet clothes. I’ll dry them for you.”
“It’s OK.” He pushed past me, and I heard his footsteps on the stairs. If he’d noticed I’d closed all the curtains, he didn’t say anything. I glanced at my watch. I needed to get myself together for my first student.
* * *
Teaching took my mind off the events of earlier, and by the time my last student left, I was the calmest I’d felt all day, until a phone call early that evening took me by surprise. It was the mother of one of my longest-standing students, Laura, very apologetically telling me that Laura wouldn’t be continuing her lessons with me.
I was dumbfounded. Laura had been coming to me for five years, and I’d taught her to play both the piano and guitar. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was getting on so well and has so much talent . . .” It was so sudden. Just last week, we’d been discussing the next pieces she wanted to learn. She’d given no indication that she was thinking of giving up.
Her mother told me that Laura needed to devote all her time to her schoolwork, but I had a churning feeling in my stomach. From what she’d told me, Laura had always been an A student. Something about her mother’s words didn’t ring true.
Over the next hour, that call was followed by two more from the parents of long-term students. As I hung up on the second, I knew something was going on. It wasn’t coincidence. Over the years, I was used to the natural dropping out that occurred with the students who weren’t gifted musically or simply lost interest, but it had never been among the more talented, and nothing like what was happening now.
When my phone buzzed again, I knew that this time I needed to try to find out what was happening; only this time, the call wasn’t about a student.
It was DI Collins. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but we’ve received the pathologist’s report, and I thought you’d want to know. It confirms that your sister was killed by a blow to the back of her head. When she fell, she hit the side of her head on the chest of drawers in her room. That was the injury you would have seen when you identified her body. We’re working on the assumption that her killer was someone she knew. There were no signs of a break-in and no sign either of a murder weapon. It’s possible she’d been out and left the door open, but otherwise, whoever killed her either had their own key or she let them in. The report also confirms that she had been drinking, though not heavily enough to be a factor.”
“Did anyone see who it was?” I was thinking of when Abe and I went back there, of the neighbor who’d had the key, whose sharp eyes had watched my every move.
“We’ve spoken to her closest neighbors, and none of them saw anyone. We’re still going through CCTV footage.” DI Collins paused. “We also found the AA group she attended, and I’m going along to their next meeting. It’s in a couple of days’ time.”
“What about Abe’s laptop?” Guiltily, I thought of the second one I thought I’d seen, but I could hardly tell her about it now. Not when Abe flatly denied its existence.
“I’ll need to check, but I think we’ve nearly finished with it. I believe there were a few e-mails from Nina, possibly to other members of her AA group, but nothing more than that, as far as I know. Once forensics has finished with it, I’ll arrange to have it sent to Abe. I believe his phone is on its way to you.”
That must have been the delivery I’d taken earlier. I’d forgotten to tell Abe. “I think it arrived earlier today.”
“How is he?”
“Much the same. Doesn’t say a lot. Goes to school and comes home. There’s not much more to say.”
“He’s grieving,” she said simply. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to organize the funeral just yet, which won’t help him. The death certificate won’t be issued until after the inquest, but the coroner may be able to issue an interim certificate so that you can deal with your sister’s estate.”
“Right.” If Nina had made a will, I hadn’t found it yet. It reminded me that I still hadn’t looked into the paperwork in the folder I’d picked up. I’d been aware of utility bills, bank statements, but I hadn’t been through them in detail. “How long before the inquest?”
“It could be up to a couple of months, maybe longer. But the coroner’s officer will keep in touch with you and let you know what’s going on.”
I was silent for a moment. “Do you think the press would be interested in the case?”
“Not especially.” DI Collins sounded surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“There was a woman in the village this morning. Joe—in the local shop—said she’d been asking about me. She told him she was an old friend of mine. He described her, but I didn’t recognize her—she didn’t give him her name.”
“It could be the press.” DI Collins was thoughtful. “Unless it’s one of your sister’s old friends. Maybe she’d heard about your sister’s death and decided to track you down.”
I doubted it. Nina’s friends had been short-lived acquaintances, rather than friends.
She went on. “But whoever she is, if she knows where you live, it’s odd she hasn’t been to the house.” DI Collins frowned. “If anyone does get in touch—anyone who knew your sister—could you let me know?”
* * *
That evening, it wasn’t long before the rain had blown through, leaving the kind of skies that drew Abe outside like a magnet. It was later than usual, but it didn’t surprise me when he came into the kitchen and pulled on a coat.
“I forgot. There was a delivery for you earlier. It’s probably your phone.” I fetched the parcel from the windowsill and gave it to him, watching him tear it open, then turn the phone on and play around with it for a moment. “OK?” I asked.
He nodded, putting it in his pocket.
“Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?” I could feel a draft of cold air from the window that didn’t close properly.
Nodding briefly, he went outside as my phone buzzed again. Glancing at it, my heart sank when I saw Natalie Barnes flash up on the screen. Natalie was another parent of one of my pupils. I could guess what was coming.
“Hannah, I’m sorry. Is this a good time?” She sounded hesitant.
“Of course. How can I help?”
“I’m not sure how to say this . . .”
Impatient, I interrupted her. “You’re calling to cancel Lucy’s lessons. Am I right?”
“Oh God.” She faltered. “Actually no. I’m really not, I promise you.”
“It’s a bit of a strange one—but I’m guessing from what you’ve just said, you’ve had a few phone calls this evening—cancellations?”
“I’ve had a couple.” I didn’t want to give too much away. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, Hannah, so I’ll just come out with it. There was a Facebook post a couple of days ago. Some of the kids have got hold of it. It was about you.”
I felt my face grow hot. “What did it say?”
She hesitated. Then when she spoke, she sounded embarrassed. “If you really want to know, it said you had a drinking problem.”
“Jesus . . . Who said that?” I tried to sound indignant, but I was mortified.
“I know . . .” She sounded sympathetic. “I took a screenshot, just in case they removed it. It was posted by a girl called Cara Matlock.”
“I’ve never heard of a Cara Matlock.” I was baffled. “Why would she post something like that about me?”
“You really don’t know her? How bizarre.”
“Probably someone’s idea of a joke.” I was trying to make light of it, but it was anything but funny. “In case you’re wondering, there isn’t an ounce of truth in it.”
“Oh God, absolutely. I wasn’t suggesting there was—far from it.”
“So, as far as Lucy’s lessons . . .”
“I wouldn’t dream of her going anywhere else,” she said matter-of-factly. “In fact, I’ll write a post that states exactly that. Maybe I’ll tag Miss Matlock—if I can manage to . . . Whatever, I’ll get Lucy to help me.”
“Thank you.” Self-pitying tears filled my eyes. “I’m grateful you let me know.”
“Whoever she is, she clearly has an ax to grind. I reported the post, by the way, but I’ll e-mail you the screenshot. Just in case.”
Just in case of what? Did she think there’d be more?
“And I wouldn’t respond, if I were you,” Natalie went on. “Don’t give this Cara Matlock the satisfaction of seeing it get to you.”
After Natalie’s call, I went straight onto Facebook. As I searched, I found a number of Cara Matlocks, none of whom looked familiar. I was still scanning through the profile photos as Natalie’s e-mail came through. Opening the attachment, my stomach churned with anxiety as I zoomed in on the face of a girl I’d never seen before, astonished when I saw she’d found an old photo of the Cry Babies from somewhere. As I read her post, I felt sickened.
The real reason former lead singer Hannah Roscoe is a music teacher!!!!
There was a second photo, taken more recently, in the pub—I remembered the night in question. I’d been there with Matt, and we’d had an argument—for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what about. I studied the photo more closely. I couldn’t blame anyone for assuming I’d been drinking. It wasn’t flattering. Underneath, someone else had posted a photo of a half-full wineglass and a pile of empty bottles. The post had fifty-five likes and a number of comments that I couldn’t bring myself to read. Why would a stranger spread lies? It made no sense. My pupils enjoyed their lessons with me, as far as I knew. And I hadn’t upset anyone, not to my knowledge. I had no idea why anyone would do this—but someone had. Suddenly, I felt suspicious of everyone.
My hands were shaking as I picked up my glass of wine, staring at it. I drank no more than most people. I put it down again, then got up, trying to busy myself tidying the kitchen, but my mind refused to settle. I was thinking about the woman in the village, telling Joe she was an old friend of mine. There was the man I’d met walking, who’d known my name. And now tonight, the post on Facebook.
As I put it all together, I was convinced someone was out to get me. The question was who. And why. It had all started since Abe had moved here. An uneasiness came over me as I thought of the laptop he was hiding, then of his constant resentment toward me. Was there a reason for it? He was clearly hiding something from me. There was only one thing I could do. Tomorrow, when he went to school, I was going to search his room as I’d planned to. Then when I found the laptop, I’d confront him.
Too much stress was taking its toll, I knew that. Suddenly, I was anxious again. I had locked all the windows, hadn’t I?
Getting up, I wandered from room to room, checking them, then went back into the kitchen, sitting heavily at the table, thinking of Nina. I would never have imagined her being in danger. What about me? With everything that was going on, was I safe?
I had a glass of wine, and then another, until, at last, I stopped caring.
* * *
During the night, I woke up at some point, my mouth dry and head thumping. As I lay there, something niggled at me. Drifting in and out of consciousness, at last I slept, awaking the next morning to dazzling sun streaming through the open curtains, blinding me. Rolling over, I felt a stabbing pain in my arm.
Wide awake all of a sudden, I sat up, then recoiled as I looked at my bedsheets, spattered with blood.
12
In a panic, I leapt out of bed, the sudden movement making my head throb. Then I realized the blood had come from an inch-long gash on my arm. Then it came to me exactly what had been niggling at me last night. Abe had gone outside as it was getting dark, but I couldn’t remember him coming back. Grabbing a handful of tissues to hold against the wound, I hurried along the landing to Abe’s bedroom, where I knocked on his door.
“Abe?” When he didn’t answer, I tried again, louder this time. “Abe?”
There was no reply. I pushed the door open and went in. The window was open, the curtains blowing in the wind. His bed was empty.
“Oh God . . .” Still clutching the tissues against my arm, I ran downstairs, checking each room in turn, in case he’d crept in and fallen asleep on a sofa. But there was no sign of him. His jacket was missing. With a sinking feeling, I realized he must still be out there.
With my arm as it was, I couldn’t pull on my jacket. Instead, I slung it over my shoulders and slipped boots onto my bare feet, before I stumbled outside, Gibson at my heels, zipping up my jacket as I hurried across the garden. “Abe?”
I broke into a run, but the thumping in my head slowed me down as I checked each part of the garden, stopping now and then to call his name. I hesitated, scanning the fields beyond. There was no sign of anyone. Should I call the police now? Before any more time passed?
I felt in my pocket for my phone, but in my haste, I’d forgotten to pick it up. Running back to the house, I rehearsed what I was going to say to them. I had an instinct that something was deeply wrong.
* * *
Calling the police had done nothing to allay my fears. The person I spoke to made a note of Abe’s description, then my address. Afterward, I went upstairs, frowning as for the first time I realized I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Peeling them off, I showered, rust-colored water pooling around my feet as I washed the blood from my arm. I’d no recollection of how I’d been injured. After drying myself, I bandaged my arm, then quickly dressed, stripping the blood-stained sheets from my bed and taking them downstairs to wash them.
Now, waiting for the police to arrive, I was starting to panic. Out of the blue, I thought of the laptop. What if they wanted to search Abe’s room? How much trouble would he be in if they found it?
My mind was all over the place. I ran back upstairs, then along the passageway to Abe’s bedroom. On my hands and knees, I searched under his bed, but there was no sign of the laptop. Flinging open the doors to his wardrobe, I searched in there too, but apart from spare blankets and the few clothes Abe had hung in there, I found nothing. In the corner of the room was the box he’d brought from Nina’s house. I went through it, then, in desperation, peeled back his bedding and felt under the pillows.
Glancing out of the window, my heart leapt as I saw a police car making its way up the road toward the house. I was running out of time. Looking around the room, I quickly started rearranging everything so that it looked as it had when I’d come in. Th
en as I straightened the bedcovers, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something.
It was behind the wardrobe and only just visible. As I got closer, I saw what looked like a bundle of envelopes. Curious, I picked them up, and when I looked at the one on the top, my blood ran cold. It was addressed to Nina. Why did Abe have them?
I was desperate to know what they were about, but just then, the doorbell rang. I did what anyone else would have done. I couldn’t take any chances. Hurrying along to my bedroom, I hid the letters.
Back downstairs, I was out of breath and my arm was throbbing as I opened the front door. Two uniformed police officers stood there.
“Ms. Roscoe? I’m Sergeant Levigne, Hampshire Police.” He held out his ID, then nodded toward his colleague, a younger woman. “This is PC Marsh. May we come in?”
I held the door open. “Of course.” Standing back as they came in, I closed the door behind them.
“Is there somewhere we could take a few details?” Sergeant Levigne was tall, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
“Of course. Come through.” I led them into the kitchen, gesturing toward the table and chairs. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you.” They each pulled out a chair, while I hovered uncertainly. As Sergeant Levigne placed the notebook he was carrying on the table, I sat down opposite them, suddenly frustrated at their lack of urgency. “Abe’s my nephew. His mother—my sister—died a fortnight ago. I’m really worried about him.”
Her Sister's Lie Page 11
