My Mother, The Liar: A chilling crime thriller to read with the lights on

Much in the way that she needed to squint at Frances through the billowing smoke. She was prodding the fire with the end of a garden hoe, her eyes glinting and flickering with reflected flames, making her look like a reject from the legions of hell. The fire had brought out a demonic glee that made Rachel instinctively shudder despite the heat that rolled across the neglected lawn.

‘Right, that’s going nicely,’ Frances called. ‘Stephen, you come with me and we’ll tackle the outbuildings and, Sidney, you can go with Rachel and make sure there’s nothing of value left inside.’

A brief flicker of panic crossed Steve’s face as he looked at Sid. Sid had quietly confided to Rachel that both men had fallen foul of Frances’s imperious temper over the past few days and it was considered the short straw if one of them had to work alongside her. ‘Come on, chop chop!’ she shouted, clapping her hands as if Steve was a refractory Pekingese.

Rachel watched them go. ‘I suppose we’d better follow orders,’ she said to Sid, preparing herself to go back into the near-naked house.

Free of its clutter, the house was even more cavernous than she remembered, all its strident objections to old age and infirmity amplified by the lack of furnishings. With nothing to soak up the sound and attract the eye, it looked bare and ashamed of itself. Rachel almost felt sorry for it. Nobody loved it, and she couldn’t remember anybody ever having been happy there. As a home its heart had been hollowed out by acrimony and now it was being finished off by arch indifference.

She and Sid ascended the stairs, the bare treads creaking in protest now that they had been stripped of carpet. They checked the bedrooms, finding them damp and empty, until they entered Valerie’s room.

Their mother’s room had always been sacrosanct, an oasis of calm and solitude that Valerie had often retreated to – usually complaining of a headache and clutching a medicinal bottle of sherry. Rachel couldn’t recall ever having been allowed inside, and it surprised her that she’d never thought it strange before that moment.

Now only a few black sacks stood against the wall ready for Sid’s next run to the tip. This first and final ingress into her mother’s secret chamber – the room that had been the inner sanctum, the room that had been the container of Valerie’s personal misery – was a frank disappointment for Rachel.

As a child, she had often spied by squinting through the keyhole like a woebegone urchin, imagining that beyond the locked door lay another realm. The wardrobe in the corner might have been the entrance to another dimension, where Valerie existed differently and found the peace she had so often demanded before shutting the door against the needs of her family. Although, in Rachel’s imagination the White Witch had always had much more of a resemblance to Valerie than had been entirely comfortable. Stella’s books had stirred some lonely and uncomfortable memories.

Though Valerie’s presence still echoed in the hollow room, Rachel could not for the life of her imagine what peace of mind her mother had ever found from lying on the bed staring drunkenly at the blowsy roses scrambling across the wallpaper beneath the dust and cobwebs. Those keyhole-shaped memories had suggested something exotically different from the chilly, mildewed reality she now faced.

The only piece of furniture not yet consigned to the tip, or dispatched to be consumed by the flames of Frances’s blaze, was the wardrobe.

Rachel walked over to it and touched its mirrored door, which opened with an ominous creak. She gave it a wry smile, unsurprised that it wasn’t filled with fur coats and melting snow after all.

‘She said I could have that,’ Sid said, apparently afraid that Rachel might condemn it to the fire. ‘I was saving it for when we finished. That way I can put it on the van and take it straight home.’

The faintest aroma of mothballs belched out as she shut the door. ‘I’ll lock it so it’ll be easier to move. You should hang on to the key. They’re always better when they still have their keys.’ The door was a little warped, and she had to shove it hard to make it fit properly, promptly dislodging the prized key in the process. ‘Bugger!’ she said. The key had bounced on the bare floorboards and hidden itself underneath the wardrobe. On hands and knees, Rachel peered into the murky spider graveyard that lay beneath. ‘I can’t see it. We’ll have to pull the bloody thing out.’

Sid obliged, and together they coaxed it into a reluctant slide across the wooden boards. As Rachel bent to retrieve the key, something prodded at the edges of her awareness. ‘I didn’t know that was there,’ she murmured, standing up and looking at a door that had been hidden from view.

‘Built-in cupboard,’ Sid pronounced knowledgably. ‘What d’you need a wardrobe for if there’s a built-in cupboard?’

Rachel shrugged. ‘More junk for you to get rid of I expect,’ she said, prising open the cupboard door and cringing as the hinges squealed in protest.

The cupboard was surprisingly empty given the rubbish that had always cluttered the rest of the house. A faint flurry of fetid air wafted into their faces as they peered into its dark recesses. On the lone shelf, there stood a biscuit tin and on the floor stood a metal box. Rachel took down the biscuit tin and levered off the lid. Various bits of paper and old photographs nestled there – mostly showing Frances as a young child. The papers proved to be old school reports, all describing Frances’s attributes in glowing terms.

Rachel couldn’t recall Valerie keeping a record of either her or Stella’s school records – though Frances probably would have burnt them if she had. As Rachel rifled through, it occurred to her that she had never seen a photograph of herself as a child anywhere in the house. Probably because there weren’t any to see.

Under the photographs was a small red book: the type that had a tiny lock. She took it and the photographs and stuffed them into her back pocket. Maybe Frances would want them, maybe not. The rest she put back in the tin and threw the whole thing into one of the black sacks that flanked the room.

Sid grabbed the metal box. ‘Bloody hell, this is heavy. Hey, perhaps we’ve found the family jewels!’ he quipped.

Rachel responded with a sardonic smile. The box was little bigger than a bread bin but looked like it weighed a ton. Sid placed it at Rachel’s feet, grunting with the effort.

‘Want to do the honours?’ he asked.

She shook her head, watching as Sid attempted to release the lid. Though the metal had been galvanised, some substance had affected it, causing rust to scab the edges and eat into the structure. Sid took out a Swiss Army knife and used the screwdriver bit as a lever, giving a satisfied grunt as the orange crust gave way. He lifted the lid, revealing the contents. ‘It’s full of sand,’ he said, puzzled.

‘Sand?’

‘Hang on, there’s something poking out of it.’ He tugged, dislodging a torrent of dry, gritty matter as the object shifted.

It was some kind of parcel, wrapped in dirty cloth. Sid unwound the material, causing more sand and grit to fall and litter the floor as each layer of fabric came away and disintegrated in his hands.

‘What is it?’ Rachel asked, peering over his shoulder at what appeared to be some type of shrivelled, leathery doll.

Sid didn’t speak. His skin had turned a ghastly shade of grey and all Rachel could see as she peered at his stricken face was his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a fishing float as he fought for the words to describe the thing that was now lying on the floor.

***

Frances’s scream was so piercing it rattled the glass in the rotten window frames, buffeting Rachel’s eardrums and snapping Sid out of his shocked stupor as effectively as if it had taken tangible form and slapped him in the face.

Once the sound receded, everything became horribly quiet as if there had been a sudden solar eclipse and the birds had stopped singing in deference to the dark. Time became elastic as seconds extended themselves into blurry, suspended pockets of disbelieving minutes.

Sid’s mobile phone began to ring, the tinny, incongruent tones of ‘My Way’ shattering the silence and stirring him into action. When he finally answered the thing after fumbling for it in every pocket, Rachel could hear Steve’s high-pitched voice. With escalating panic, he told Sid about the scene outside. Rachel doubted that Steve had ever uttered so many words in one hit before. Which was probably why he sounded confused.

She could have sworn she heard him say that they’d found a dead body in the shed.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_f7639ce8-2610-5cc5-8932-70d6769d2c2a)

Rachel didn’t know who to deal with first: the paramedics who had arrived by speeding up the drive, sirens blaring, or the police who were wandering around shouting things into their radios and telling everyone what to do.

Sid still didn’t look a good colour and was being tended to by a pretty detective constable, who had given him a blanket and a cup of tea. Steve wasn’t faring much better. He was standing in the middle of the melee staring at his bloodstained hands like a confused Lady Macbeth. Frances was out cold and was being loaded into the back of an ambulance and all Rachel felt able to do was watch the barely credible scene unfold.

Steve was trying to explain that Frances had taken one look at the contents of the trunk in the shed, had staggered backwards, tripped over a black bag, fallen backwards, and bashed her head with a sickening thud on the edge of the door. Only when he’d dragged her out and put her in the recovery position had he realised that the blood on his hands was coming from a patch of her exposed skull. He had finally lost the plot when he had spotted a piece of hairy scalp dangling neatly from the latch of the shed door. At that point, he had regurgitated his lunch all over Frances’s cashmere sweater.

Incongruously, all Rachel could think of was that it was a good thing Frances had been unconscious at the time; she could be a bit obsessive about things like that.

Apparently spotting Rachel’s bemused demeanour, the DC left Sid and gently led her into the kitchen. ‘You’ve had a bit of a shock, love. Let’s get you a cup of tea,’ she said, her voice soft as she took Rachel’s trembling hand. Rachel never drank tea, but accepted a cup anyway, and sat there in the tired kitchen staring into the tea’s murky depths as if scrying for an improved view of her world.

***

The last time DC Angie Watson had set foot in a house like this had been ten years before when her history teacher had dragged a group of them around some National Trust pile. Angie had found the whole thing so stultifying that she couldn’t even remember the name of the place now, but she did remember that it had been a lot like this, only bigger and much, much cleaner.

The only nod towards the twentieth century in The Limes was the kettle she had used to make the tea. Everything else in the room was straight out of a museum. Angie’s taste in kitchens and furniture leaned more towards IKEA than Antiques Roadshow and she looked around the room with barely disguised distaste. No wonder these people always appeared to have money – by the looks of it they never bloody spent any.

She had recently taken out a ten grand bank loan and had used every penny of it to have a new kitchen put in, and if the look of this one was anything to go by, it would be money well spent. There was no way that she would ever stand at an old stone sink doing the washing up and dumping it on a wooden draining board, not when some genius had invented the dishwasher.

Finished with critiquing the kitchen, she turned her attention to the woman at the table, who was trying to read her own tea leaves without realising she had to drink the stuff first. Other than giving her name as Rachel Porter and her date of birth, she hadn’t spoken since they’d arrived and had just stood there, staring at everyone as if she was a bit vacant.

When they’d got the call Angie hadn’t expected to find herself babysitting a spaced-out, scruffy forty-year-old woman who didn’t know what to do with a cup of tea other than stare at it. It was hardly the cutting edge of crime fighting and for her first foray as a fully-fledged DC she found herself frankly disappointed. This case had all the flavour of Murder, She Wrote rather than Criminal Minds. Not quite what Angie had had in mind when she’d joined the team.

God, she hoped she didn’t end up looking like Rachel Porter by the time she was forty: no make-up, shapeless clothes, and hair that hadn’t seen the good edge of a pair of scissors for God knows how long. It was a nice colour though – brown, the shade of conkers. Those split ends needed to go, she thought, absently running a hand through her own straightened and highlighted hair. She might get the shit jobs, but at least she could look smart while she did them.

Rachel was skinny, as if she hadn’t had a decent meal in years, which always made women look haggard and drawn in Angie’s opinion. This observation made her feel better about her own propensity to gain weight by merely thinking about food. It might at least save her from looking a wreck in years to come. Christ, that was a shallow thought – she was on a case and thinking about the size of her arse in comparison to another woman’s. She straightened up and tried to look professional.

She supposed that she ought to try to get Rachel talking, but considering that Ratcliffe would be in here any minute, there didn’t seem a lot of point. Might as well leave it to the boss to sort out. It was hardly as if she was going to crack the case in five minutes flat. Besides, looking at the state of Rachel Porter, the only thing she looked like she was capable of murdering was a good meal.

As if on cue, DS Ratcliffe strode into the kitchen and sat down on a kitchen chair. Angie pretended not to notice his blush as the chair groaned under his weight. He was well built, her boss. He smiled at Rachel and introduced himself. ‘Miss Porter, I’m Detective Sergeant Mike Ratcliffe. Would you like a fresh one of those?’ He looked hopefully at Angie whilst nodding towards the kettle.