Where the Memories Lie

by Sibel Hodge

  ALSO BY SIBEL HODGE

  FICTION

  Look Behind You

  Butterfly

  Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave

  Fashion, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mystery No 1)

  Money, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mystery No 2)

  Voodoo, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mystery No 3)

  Chocolate, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mystery No 4)

  Santa Claus, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mystery No 4.5)

  Vegas, Lies, and Murder (Amber Fox Mystery No 5)

  Murder and Mai Tais (Danger Cove Cocktail Mystery No 1)

  The See-Through Leopard

  Fourteen Days Later

  My Perfect Wedding

  The Baby Trap

  It’s a Catastrophe

  NON-FICTION

  A Gluten Free Taste of Turkey

  A Gluten Free Soup Opera

  Healing Meditations for Surviving Grief and Loss

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Sibel Hodge

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503947467

  ISBN-10: 1503947467

  Cover design by bürosüdo München, www.buerosued.de

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  ‘What lies have you told recently, Mum?’ Anna walks into the kitchen and slaps some textbooks down on the table.

  In the middle of cutting up some peppers on a chopping board, I swing around with fear, my heart banging.

  What does she know? She can’t have found out the truth, surely.

  ‘Mum, you’ve cut yourself!’ She points to my finger.

  I glance down. ‘Oh.’ I turn on the cold tap and run my finger under the flow of water. It’s only superficial. ‘What do you mean?’ I swallow and lick my lips, aware that my voice is shaky. ‘What lies are you talking about?’ I inhale a sharp breath and brace myself for the worst.

  ‘It’s for my Religion and Ethics homework.’ Anna sits down at the kitchen table, picks up a notebook from on top of the pile of books and taps it with a pen.

  The relief hits me like a cold rush of air to my skin, sudden and hard. Thank God. I even manage a small laugh, although where I summon that up from, I don’t know.

  ‘Well, we all tell lies, don’t we?’ I say, forcing myself to sound casual.

  She thinks about that for a moment, chewing on her lip. ‘Even religious people? I mean, what about . . .’ She waves the pen in the air. ‘Priests and vicars, for example?’

  I think about the horrific stories that have come to light over the years in the Catholic orphanages. About vicars sexually abusing their choirboys. Nuns physically abusing their charges. ‘Especially them.’

  ‘But that’s hypocritical.’

  I know all about being a hypocrite.

  ‘Religion isn’t supposed to be about lying, is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Absolutely right.’ In fact, I’m a staunch atheist. I don’t believe in something that tries to oppress people − women in particular − and control the masses. I don’t particularly like the idea of religion being a compulsory subject at school, either, but Anna loves the ethics side of things, and she’s good at debating. Maybe she’ll become a lawyer.

  Her smooth forehead scrunches up in a frown as she scribbles something down. ‘But there could also be some good reasons for lying.’

  If only she knew just how good.

  I turn off the tap and pat the small cut with kitchen roll before wrapping it around my finger and squeezing.

  ‘I have to examine the pros and cons, you see.’ She scribbles something in her book with neat, precise handwriting. ‘So, what lies have you told lately?’

  ‘I think I should ask you that instead.’ I try to grin but my mouth won’t cooperate properly and probably makes me look as if I have severe constipation. Luckily Anna doesn’t seem to notice.

  She gives me a cheeky grin. ‘Maybe we should do hypothetical lies.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Wow! Is it that bad, then? What did you lie about?’ I’m sure it will only be something ridiculously small. Anna is a good girl.

  She blushes. ‘No, it wasn’t anything, really.’

  ‘OK, hypothetically.’ I turn my back to her and carry on with the peppers. ‘This is your homework so you tell me.’

  ‘Um . . . What about when you’re planning a surprise party for someone and you lie about it because you don’t want to ruin the surprise? That would be a good thing. A pro.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a white lie could also be a pro. To spare someone’s feelings and stop them getting upset.’

  White lies. I’ve tried to convince myself this is just a white lie I’m carrying around inside.

  ‘Very good. We might tell lies with good intentions in mind.’ My voice cracks slightly. I scrape the peppers from the chopping board into a frying pan and grab some mushrooms and an onion from the fridge.

  ‘Does that make them acceptable, though?’ Anna asks.

  I hesitate, going over the same things I’ve been asking myself. ‘I think if you’re trying to spare people’s feelings − trying to protect them − then that’s OK.’

  ‘But what if the person you’re trying to protect should know the truth? What if they would want to know whatever you’re trying to spare them from?’

  ‘Well, take you, for example. I would want to protect you from harm. If I knew something that could potentially upset you or have a negative impact on your life, as your mother, it’s my job to protect you. I would think of it as a necessary good in some situations.’ I peel the onion and begin chopping, glad for once that it’s making my eyes stream. I want to cry again as I think about the enormity of everything that’s happened, and the onion will mask it. I sniff. Wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘What else can you think of?’

&nbs
p; ‘Don’t women lie about their age?’

  ‘Some men do, too. Let’s not be sexist here.’

  ‘Is that good or bad, then?’

  ‘Probably pretty inconsequential, unless it affects someone else.’

  ‘So, there are harmless lies.’ She writes that down and underlines it a few times. ‘And politicians lie, don’t they?’

  ‘Probably every time they open their mouths.’

  ‘Well, that’s definitely a con.’ I hear her scribbling furiously behind me. ‘They’re supposed to be working for the benefit of their people and they’re lying about a lot of things. That is so hypocritical, too!’

  My daughter has strong ethics. She’s intelligent and inquisitive. Old and wise beyond her years. I was glad we’d moved on from the Capital Punishment homework she’d had recently because Anna becomes a little obsessed about things sometimes. She works hard at school. Reads a lot of books that are probably beyond her years, but if she feels strongly about something, she’ll go on and on about it. Read about it. Research it on the Internet morning, noon and night. I’d been forced to watch documentaries and films about prisoners on death row for weeks on end. I can now envision being bombarded with research about lying, and I don’t need to be reminded, thanks all the same.

  ‘Don’t people lie on their tax returns?’

  I smile, despite myself. ‘Yes. And their CVs.’

  ‘That could be an offence, though, couldn’t it? The tax return, I mean.’

  ‘It’s actually how they caught Al Capone in the end.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  I wave the knife around. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘OK, so, that’s actually a bad one, then. If you know your lie is covering up a crime?’

  My stomach twists. I transfer the onion to the frying pan, put the lid on and wipe my eyes again with my knuckles.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Anna prompts me again, jerking me out of the thoughts I’m lost in about her. About what happened. How it only takes one split second. One wrong move to make everything implode.

  I think again about how far I’d go to protect my daughter, my family. The lies I’d tell. And I convince myself again that not all lies are the same.

  And when the memories lie, sometimes it’s best to let the truth stay hidden.

  Chapter One

  By the time they found her remains, I hadn’t thought about her for years. I’d been too busy getting on with my life. A life I thought was normal.

  Normal for me that week was trying to get out of the house on time in the mornings. I’d been expressly forbidden by Anna to walk her to the bus stop now she was twelve. I’d tried to tell her that I wasn’t really walking her to the bus stop at all, that I was just meeting Nadia there so we could walk the dogs together, but she wasn’t having it. I knew that Anna could quite easily go down our path, out of the gates, and walk two hundred metres to the bus stop without anything happening to her, but it didn’t stop me worrying. Luckily, Anna hadn’t turned into the usual pre-pubescent, difficult monster yet, despite being twelve years old and nearly at the end of her second year of secondary school. And we still had a very close and loving relationship. When we were at home she still followed me everywhere most of the time, as if she could never bear to be that far away from me. She even followed me to the toilet sometimes, chatting on about stuff! I jokingly called her my little Klingon. Maybe I was too overprotective, but I’m a mother: it’s my job. Plus, Anna nearly didn’t arrive in the world. After six miscarriages, it was touch and go whether she’d make it to full term. She was my little miracle baby, and you don’t go taking miracles for granted. You appreciate them every day. Take that extra effort to make sure nothing happens to them.

  Our house was set back from the road, with a big front garden and a tiny rear one. I didn’t mind having all the space at the front as it was completely private from prying eyes with the seven-foot-tall laurel hedges. Plus, the views at the back were amazing, looking out onto the woods behind that led onto sprawling hills of green Dorset countryside.

  I unlatched one of the six-foot wooden gates and pushed it open. Poppy, our crazy golden retriever, escaped out first, dribbling with excitement at the prospect of a walk. I headed the short distance up the road, past the Kings’ Arms pub towards the bus stop on the opposite side. Anna was chatting with a few of the other village kids already waiting for the bus to drive them the nine miles to their school in Dorchester. No Nadia or Charlotte yet, which was strange. My sister-in-law Nadia was an organised control freak who was always on time. Some might even call her anal. For once, I’d beaten her. Go, Olivia!

  I carried on walking, scanning the road, looking for them. Hopefully Charlotte wasn’t sick again. She’d had some kind of virus a few months ago that she couldn’t seem to shake, and she always looked tired lately. Mind you, she was studying really hard for her GCSEs. All twelve of them. Yes, twelve! I thought they worked the kids much too hard these days. Charlotte barely had any spare time with the amount of homework she’d been given in the last few years.

  And then I saw them both, hurrying towards me as the school bus pulled up at the kerb. I waved. Charlotte waved back, her fine long hair fanning out over her shoulders as she ran towards us. She looked pale still, with dark rings under her eyes.

  The other kids and Anna climbed aboard. I wanted to kiss her goodbye but even though she’s still a model child and not a terrible, hormonal teenager, I know public displays of affection are definitely ‘uncool’.

  I settled for a wave instead. ‘Have a good day.’

  ‘Hi, Aunty Olivia. Bye, Aunty Olivia.’ Charlotte rushed past and swung herself aboard.

  With a whooshing sound the bus doors closed and they were off.

  I turned in Nadia’s direction and waited for her to catch up with her chocolate brown Labrador, Minstrel. She looked wrong. Usually, she’s immaculately turned out. She doesn’t even go to the corner shop without her full makeup on and her wavy blonde hair perfectly straightened and hanging down her back like a sheet of smooth, shimmering metal. This morning, her hair was pulled on top of her head in a messy bun. She wore old tracksuit bottoms that she normally wouldn’t be seen out dead in. Her face was as pale as Charlotte’s. Her eyes puffy and red. She had a lump of mascara caked in the corner of one of them.

  Poppy tugged on the lead as they got closer, and then the dogs were involved in full-on sniffs and licks of fur.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I put a hand on Nadia’s arm. ‘Aren’t you feeling well, either?’

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if steeling herself for what she was about to say. When she opened them again they were wet.

  ‘Not here. Let’s talk on the path.’ Nadia walked ahead of me, back along the direction I’d just come from.

  My house is the last one at the edge of the village. It’s an old barn that my father-in-law Tom beautifully renovated and converted twenty-five years ago into a family home. Nadia, Ethan and Chris had all lived in it with their Dad until they left home. Then when Tom got Alzheimer’s, Ethan and I bought the house from him. I’d always loved it, you see, so I jumped at the chance. It was rustic and country with exposed brick walls, original quarry-tiled floors, thick wooden beams and trusses, oak-framed windows, earthy tones and bags of cosy charm. Nadia and Lucas prefer new, modern spaces, not something rustic and quirky, so they didn’t want to buy it, and it was far too big for Chris on his own, so that was that. Tom lived with us there for a while before things became . . . well, let’s just say difficult. Unsafe, actually. And upsetting. None of us wanted to see him in a nursing home. It was an awful thought. But I had Anna to consider, and Tom almost blew the house up one day by leaving the gas hob on and lighting his pipe in the kitchen when Anna was upstairs. Nadia did a lot of research to find the nicest nursing home with the best reputation, and that’s how Tom ended up at Mountain View Nursing Home. Not entirely sure why i
t was called Mountain View − there are no mountains in Dorset − but anyway, we couldn’t ask for somewhere nicer, really. The staff were so good with him.

  Along the side of Tate Barn is a public footpath that takes you through a canopy of trees onto woods. On the other side of the woods are sprawling hills and fields that eventually lead to the next village of Abbotsbury.

  ‘So, what’s wrong?’ I asked again as I let Poppy off the lead. She bounded off, then realised her playmate wasn’t with her and bounded back again, tongue lolling to one side.

  Minstrel, named by Charlotte after the chocolates she loved, barked back at her as Nadia stood there, staring off into space.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Nadia?’

  She let Minstrel off her lead and the dogs ran away together, ears flapping.

  ‘It’s Lucas. He’s having an affair.’ Her eyes welled up again. She closed them and pressed her fingertips against the lids.

  I gasped. ‘No. No way. Why do you think that? Has he told you?’

  ‘No, but I found some texts. To this woman!’ She spat the word out as her eyes flew open.

  ‘What woman?’

  She started walking along the path. Marching, actually. I marched alongside her.

  ‘She works with him. She’s an air steward.’

  Lucas was a long-haul pilot and was often away for a few days at a time.

  ‘No! Are you sure? What did the texts say?’

  ‘That she was missing him. That she couldn’t wait to fuck him. That she was looking forward to a night together in Jamaica.’

  ‘Where is he now, then?’

  She wiped her eyes. ‘Jamaica.’

  ‘Oh.’ For once I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I thought he’d been acting a bit weird lately. Secretive. Whenever a text comes through he’s fiddling with his phone for ages so I thought I’d check it, but he’s started deleting his texts as soon as they come in, which he never used to do. Then yesterday, when he was in the shower, I heard a text arrive so I looked at it. Her name’s Patty.’ She snorted. ‘God, Patty sounds like a bloody dog, or a hamster or something.’ She stopped and turned to me, looking like a shell of herself.