Her Last Secret: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Sleep didn’t come to Benjamin for a long time. He stared into the darkness, wondering what the hell he was going to do. There had to be an option he had overlooked.

  Seventy-Eight

  CHRISTMAS DAY

  What a waste. What an awful, tragic waste. What the hell had happened in the family to cause this? But Chief Inspector Ogundele knew there weren’t always easy answers to such questions as why.

  The team still worked to check the house for booby traps, other firearms and the like, then he could bring in the paramedics.

  ‘We’ve another body out here,’ came a shout.

  The cop resisted the temptation to rub at his face in despair, but did heave a heavy sigh. He moved carefully but quickly to retrace his steps, then go through the house until he stood on the stone flags of the patio.

  Only the closest of observers would have noticed his Adam’s apple bobble momentarily. Even the most hardened officer couldn’t help reacting to sights such as this, and Ogundele was experienced enough to neither beat himself up about it, nor show it too much to his more junior colleagues.

  The body of a child, of around eight or nine lay, face up, eyes closed, as though in the middle of making a snow angel.

  A firearms officer cautiously stooped over her, feeling for a pulse.

  ‘Anything?’ Ogundele asked. Please, let her be alive. Please…

  A shake of the head. ‘No, sir, nothing. She’s gone.’

  Seventy-Nine

  FRIDAY 24 DECEMBER, CHRISTMAS EVE

  ONE DAY TO GO

  Jazmine had left her dodgy Dagenham roots behind many years ago, and worked bloody hard to do so. The only reminder was her accent. As such, it was easy to look at her delicate frame and forget her origins. But the fact was, Jazmine would never forget her childhood. She had learned hard but valuable lessons watching her family of criminals run the estate they lived on: who to trust and who not to when your life depends on it.

  She had always had a soft spot for Benjamin. Beneath his cocky talk was a good man, with sound business sense. He pushed her to take chances; she kept his feet on the ground. They were close.

  But she had a bad feeling. The instincts honed on the estate – which her family still controlled with patriarchal efficiency that sometimes required a spot of punishment – were screaming at her. Benjamin was hiding something.

  He was twitchy and sweaty. He was getting brasher and cockier, and when men like that hid further and further behind bravado, it generally meant something catastrophic was on its way. Something they were terrified of.

  And, of course, rather than acknowledge it, they went into total denial. Burying themselves further into the mire.

  Problem was, if Benjamin went down he might take the business down with it. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Which was how she found herself in Benjamin’s home, uninvited, at four a.m. on Christmas Eve. She didn’t like that she had been reduced to breaking and entering, but if that was the only way to get to the truth, then so be it.

  Benjamin’s move into this house was what had really made her suspicious of her partner. Their business was doing well, yes, but the lifestyle he led was noticeably more opulent than her own. The watches, the car, now the house. Individually they could all be written off, but together they added up to a big fat pile of suspicion.

  Benjamin was doing something dodgy.

  For the past few months she had been trying to find proof to back up her instinct. She had checked his office, gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb. The more she had dug, the less she had discovered – which just went to prove that Benjamin was covering his tracks. Missing files, their own business accounts suspiciously unavailable for her to look at. She had started to dig deeper, and a fortnight ago she had finally discovered some discrepancies. Benjamin claiming money from HMRC on behalf of clients, but no evidence of it being passed on. The evidence dating back years – skilfully hidden but there nonetheless, if you knew what to look for and how Benjamin operated.

  He was stealing. If he was doing that to the taxman, what was he doing to her?

  She had a computer expert looking for files which had mysteriously ‘disappeared’. Jaz was convinced Benjamin was up to his neck in do-do, and she was going to get covered in his stink. She had only asked Benjamin about the files that day to see if he had the cheek to lie to her face. He had.

  Thanks to her dodgy past, Jaz knew a bit about breaking and entering. It had been a hobby her dad had encouraged until, aged twelve, she realised she wanted more to her life than being the next in line to a ‘family business’. From that moment, she had trodden only on the side of the law, but now she was crossing a line by breaking into Benjamin’s house. She had been ready to pick the locks, if necessary, but had discovered the latch on the downstairs loo’s window was still broken – she had noticed it when she had come over back in July, and unsurprisingly, Benjamin still hadn’t got round to having it fixed.

  She crept through the house, to his study. No one stirred as she looked through paperwork, peered into drawers.

  Finally, she found a crumpled piece of paper shoved into the back of the bottom drawer, hidden behind a bottle of expensive brandy. She smoothed out the letter and read it in the light of her torch.

  Then crumpled it back up, nostrils flaring in anger

  She was going to kill him. She was going to fucking kill him.

  Jazmine realised she had taken a step towards the stairs, as if to confront him right there and then. He had completely screwed her over.

  Now was not the time for confrontation, though. She needed to box clever.

  As she slithered back through the window, she couldn’t help thinking that her dad knew some exceptionally dodgy people; she could get someone else to kill Benjamin for a couple of grand, and her hands would be clean. No one would ever know.

  Now that was a tempting thought.

  * * *

  The duvet felt heavy and clammy on top of Ruby. The bedsheet beneath her was rumpled and damp. Shame flooded her as she wondered if she had wet herself. But the whole of her body was soaked, even the roots of her hair.

  Sweat.

  It was six a.m., and she knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep. Fear stalked her constantly, but especially in dreams. There, she was naked of her mask of bravado and disdain, and terror’s barbs cut all the deeper into her soul. Her nightmares were vivid, as though she had been flung into an alternative reality, or, even scarier, a future she had yet to live through, where her tormentors carried out their threats.

  She needed Harry. Without him, the texts and bullying piled on top of her, suffocating her. The dreams overwhelmed her. She had to be with him, he was her lifeline.

  But her parents had snatched him away from her, leaving her to sink.

  She would make them pay for that.

  She picked up her diary and wrote down everything she and Harry had spoken of the previous day. Putting the plan down in black and white made it feel more real.

  Could she really go through with it? Scanning the notes gave her goosebumps. She did hate her family, she really did, but… But killing them was another matter. If they died in, like, a car crash or got run over or something, she wouldn’t cry, she told herself. She wouldn’t shed a single tear. She wiped at her face, removing the contrary evidence. No, if her parents just died it would be like fate stepping in to save her. But for her to actually murder them, and do the things she and Harry had discussed was a whole different level.

  What about Mouse? She was so young. She hadn’t meant to get Ruby into trouble. But there were more complicated things at stake with her. If Ruby were to end her little sister’s life, hate would not be the driving force. In fact, out of everyone in her family, her baby sister was the one person she was most likely to murder.

  If her courage held. She looked at the drawing of a lion Mouse had left under her doormat the other day. His slightly wonky, very sad face stared back at her. She kissed her fingers then touch
ed them to his cheek.

  Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, she told herself.

  The sooner she and Harry went through with the plan, the sooner she would be free of fear and indecision at last.

  Unable to resist, she picked up her phone and checked for alerts.

  * * *

  The mattress moving beneath her woke Dominique. She opened her eyes just in time to see Benjamin disappearing into the bathroom.

  He had four scratches across one shoulder. Clear as day even from across the bedroom.

  The bastard was rubbing her nose in it now. She wanted to scratch his eyes out for what he’d done to his family. She could kill him.

  Only for the sake of her children did she bite her tongue. All she had to do was get through Christmas, then she’d tell Benjamin exactly what she thought of him.

  Exhaustion was making her feel crazy, though. Her eyeballs itched, and red threads draped themselves over the whites. There were so many things to worry about: Ruby’s attitude, Benjamin’s affair, his strange behaviour, and her own fears about what insane thing she might do next once the sandman took possession of her body. Sleep was hard to come by, not least because she was so afraid of it. When it did come, it wasn’t restful.

  Dominique pulled herself up until she sat on the edge of the bed. Her leg jiggled up and down, creating a judder reminiscent of a diesel engine ticking over.

  Eighty

  Had he managed to sleep at all? Benjamin wasn’t sure. There had seemed no difference between the darkness of his dreams and lying wide awake, staring into his unlit room.

  Another of his hero, Ali’s famous quotes sprang to mind. The one where he pointed out life was a gamble, and that people got hurt or killed every day in accidents – and winners simply had to believe it wouldn’t happen to them. The boxer was absolutely right.

  What a shame that someone so clever and sharp, such a great orator, had had to earn his living hitting people and getting hit. But what a gifted boxer he had been. And what an inspiration. That had been the only thing he and his father had ever agreed on.

  The old man had never been satisfied with Benjamin; his son had never been good enough. Benjamin wondered what more he could have done. It wasn’t as though his father’s career had been that big a deal. He’d earned a good wage as a pilot, and it had always sounded impressive that he flew for British Airways, back in the day when that had been something to boast about. But he had never managed to make captain. Once, not long before he’d died, Benjamin had thrown that fact at his father’s face, and realised first-hand what a very sore subject that was.

  Just weeks later, he’d been dead. Everyone had thought Benjamin so generous when he had told Krystal and his mum to split his share of the inheritance between them. Kindness had been less of a motivation than the fact anything to do with his father sickened him. That was why his first flat with Dominique had been a freezing hovel. It hadn’t taken long for Benjamin to work his way up, though; Dom deserved better than that.

  Benjamin hadn’t allowed himself to be defeated then, and he wouldn’t now. He would keep on fighting.

  The decision instantly birthed an idea. He knew exactly what he was going to do. With renewed vigour, Benjamin got out of bed, before even the magpie was up.

  He hurried through breakfast, slurping down the dregs of his coffee as Dom came downstairs.

  ‘Morning. Right, I’m off.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek, looking at her only long enough to register she seemed in a bit of an odd mood. Presumably it was because of her weird sleepwalking.

  * * *

  Confident and full of optimism, he drove to the tax office and got out of the car, eager to spot Bernard Bairden and get their little chat over and done with. In the freezing cold, his breath spilled out in front of him and filled the air like exhaust fumes. The street lamps were still bright, glowing in the gloom of the foggy morning.

  Chalk figures hurried along the street towards the office Benjamin was staking out.

  The atmosphere was erasing his confidence. The longer he waited, the more he stamped his feet not simply from cold but to stop himself from running. He slunk closer to the office and shrank into its shadow, suddenly ashamed of how low he was about to stoop.

  Benjamin was about to throw himself on the mercy of a man whom he had baited for eighteen months.

  Vehicles filled the car park. Finally, Bernard parked right in front of the building.

  ‘Please,’ Benjamin said, stepping from the fog.

  The tax inspector fumbled his keys in shock and had to scoop them from a puddle. When he straightened up he was trying to keep the frown of annoyance from his face, and having only marginal success.

  ‘Mr Thomas. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve had your letter. Please, don’t do this. Not yet. I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear.’

  The look the inspector gave him made Benjamin squirm.

  ‘Mr Thomas, I’m sorry, but you have had eighteen months to prove your innocence or comply. HMRC has no choice but to take action against you now.’

  ‘You’re making me sell my home. Think of my family, my kids – it’s Christmas.’

  ‘We have made careful calculations so that you and your family won’t be left in dire straits. Obviously, you need to keep a roof over your head, and afford heating, food, all the necessities of life. But not an excess, I’m afraid. This is out of my hands now.’

  ‘I could make it worth your while—’

  ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’m going inside now. Goodbye.’

  ‘You bastard, you’re enjoying this,’ Benjamin growled. Before he knew it, he’d stepped forward, fists clenched.

  Mr Bairden’s tone grew less reasonable. ‘Abusive behaviour will not be tolerated. Bearing in mind you have spent money that isn’t actually yours on the house and cars, I would say it is fair you have to get rid of them if needs must. And they must.’

  ‘I don’t have the money. My family will suffer for this.’ Benjamin was begging again.

  ‘I feel for them, I really do. However, it’s out of my hands.’

  A colleague walked over, hands in pockets, casual, but eyes sharp.

  ‘Is everything okay here, Bernard?’

  ‘It’s fine. Mr Thomas here was just leaving. Weren’t you, Mr Thomas?’

  Benjamin gave a jerky nod that stuck here and there like a rusty piece of machinery. He had failed. As he walked away, his steps were heavier than lead.

  ‘We could give him a bit of leeway, couldn’t we? If he’s a decent bloke,’ whispered Bernard’s colleague.

  ‘If he’s decent – but he’s a complete arsehole. He’s been arrogant, rude, and threatened me with a complaint a couple of times. I’m not inclined to bend the rules for someone like that.’

  His colleague gave a huff that hung in the mist. ‘In that case, call the bailiffs on him, they can clear his house out.’

  * * *

  Bailiffs on Christmas Day, clearing the house out, snatching presents from the hands of his sobbing children. Dominique’s expression one of complete disdain. Benjamin could see it all playing out in front of him.

  Just a bit more time was all he needed. He could land a big deal, get the money, be a winner again. With just a bit more time.

  But it had run out. What was he going to do now?

  Eighty-One

  Another day, another text message. Or ten.

  Ruby sat on her bed, gazing out of her window, trying to ignore the buzzing of alerts, but unable to. Each one was a piece of shrapnel she had to dig out of her soul, examine and discard. Some texts did put a smile on her face, though; the ones from Harry.

  ‘We can’t surrender. If we surrender, we will never see each other again,’ he wrote.

  It was them against the world, and Ruby had never felt happier.

  ‘We’ll get rid of them all, then it will be just you and me,’ she texted back.

  As she waited for his reply, s
he glanced out of the window, and spotted something strange under the sill. She got on her hands and knees, peered closer. It was a peacock butterfly hibernating.

  She’d rip its wings off.

  The teenager cradled the delicate insect in her hands. Felt its fragile wings flutter against her skin as it flashed its brilliant orange red display, and blue and black fake eye; there to strike terror into would-be predators. It barely tickled her skin, it was so light. Ruby braced herself, let the hatred and frustration fill her up and glared at the helpless creature. Gripped a wing between thumb and forefinger.

  Let go.

  Flicking her hand, she sent the beautiful insect flitting into the air, until it returned to its resting place.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hurt something that hadn’t hurt her.

  Mum. Dad. Mouse.

  The malevolence remained, though. The rage like a pounding drum inside her head. She would find another way to get rid of it. She might not be able to destroy something that hadn’t hurt her, but she no such qualms about the people who had made her life a misery and brought her to this terrible point in her life.

  As if in agreement, the phone chimed with a new message.

  * * *

  Benjamin walked the streets in a daze. His heart palpitated; he was going to have a panic attack or a coronary.

  Oh, no, it was his phone vibrating.

  He pulled it out. Stared at the screen. Seven missed calls from Jaz. Ten from his PA.

  They must have discovered the truth. Perhaps Bernard Bairden had made good on his idea, and sent the bailiffs around already. They would be stripping his office. His Montblanc pen would soon belong to someone else. Then they would arrive at his house and strip it like ravenous locusts.