The Lies We Told: The exciting new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of Watching Edie

‘Shopping for a new toy?’

She shrugged.

‘Shopping it is then!’

We drove to the nearest town with a large toy store in its centre. ‘We can go for tea and cakes first,’ I suggested. ‘Isn’t this fun? Us girls together? You’re such a big girl now, perhaps we can choose a pretty dress for you.’ She just stared out of the window while I prattled on.

The shop was one of those lovely old-fashioned ones selling tasteful and expensive handmade toys for the sort of parents allergic to plastic. It wasn’t the kind of place I usually shopped in, but I’d wanted to buy Hannah something really special and original. We wandered the aisles, but though I pointed out countless dolls, games and stuffed toys, she barely glanced at them, staring back at me with undisguised boredom. I began to lose my patience. ‘Come on, love, you can have anything you want, just take a look!’

It was at that moment that I spotted, at the far end of the shop, someone I used to know from the village I grew up in. I completely froze, my heart pounding at such a strange and unexpected shock. I ducked my head and turned quickly away, hurrying along another aisle. I couldn’t face the questions that would have been asked, the inevitable fishing for details as to why Doug and I had left so suddenly all those years before.

Hiding behind a display of teddy bears I looked around for Hannah, my heart sinking when I realized she wasn’t there. ‘Hannah!’ I hissed, ‘Where are you?!’ At last I spied my former neighbour leaving and heaved a sigh of relief. At that moment Hannah appeared from around the corner.

‘I want to go home,’ she said.

I was too drained to argue any longer. ‘Fine. Have it your way.’

It was as we were leaving that I felt the hand on my arm. I turned to see a middle-aged woman glaring at me with obvious distaste. ‘You’ll have to pay for these,’ she said, tight-lipped.

It was then that I noticed her ‘Manager’ badge. ‘I’m sorry?’ I asked.

She held out her hand, filled with what looked like tiny wooden sticks. ‘She did this, I saw her,’ the woman said, nodding at Hannah. ‘You’ll need to pay for them. Would you come this way, please?’

I realized then that what she was showing me was the beautiful set of hand-painted wooden dolls from the eye-wateringly expensive doll’s house I’d pointed out to Hannah when we’d first arrived. Every single one of them had had their heads and limbs snapped off. I looked at Hannah who gazed innocently back at me.

We drove home in silence. When I unlocked the front door I all but ran to Toby, grabbing him from Doug’s arms and burying my face into his comforting, warm little neck, hurrying up to my bedroom and shutting the door behind us.

From the beginning, Doug and I dealt with Hannah’s behaviour very differently. I still had the faint scar at the corner of my eye, the sight of Lucy’s empty cage stashed forlornly in our garage to remind me what she was capable of. Toby was a very clingy baby who hated to be put down, and occasionally I’d glance up to see Hannah watching us together, gazing over at us in such an unsettling manner that it made me shiver.

So, yes, I guess I was a little over-protective of my baby son, wary and watchful of my daughter whenever she was near. As he was breastfed I always had an excuse to keep him close by me, but soon Doug began to resent me for what he saw as me monopolizing our boy. ‘You’ve made him clingy,’ he’d complain when Toby would cry for me the moment he tried to pick him up. It was as though he thought I was deliberately keeping his son from him, but that just wasn’t true.

Doug’s way of dealing with Hannah was to lavish her with attention, no matter what she did, as though he hoped the force of his love alone might steer her on the right track. If he came home from work, for example, and found her on the naughty step, he would – much to my annoyance – scoop her up and give her a biscuit, taking her with him to the living room to watch her favourite cartoon on TV, while I played with Toby in a separate room. Slowly our family began to divide into two, with Toby and me on one side, Doug and Hannah on the other. It was true that she was much better behaved when she was with her father, but I sensed that she enjoyed the growing rift between Doug and me. I saw the spark of pleasure in her eyes when we argued, how happy she seemed when we ate our meals in offended silence.

A few months before Hannah turned seven Doug and I were summoned, yet again, to the school to talk about her behaviour. We’d had a row earlier that morning and drove there in almost complete silence, Toby sleeping in his car seat behind us, Doug staring grimly at the road ahead. As we drove I brooded over Hannah. Had I caused it, whatever ‘it’ was? Had the pain of those years of childlessness affected how I’d bonded with my first child? I had felt so broken, so utterly alone back then; nobody had understood, not really – not even Doug. In my misery and isolation had I put up such a self-protective wall between myself and the world that it’d made my heart harder, incapable of fully loving and accepting my daughter when she finally came along? Is that what she sensed and railed against? I stared out of my window, trying to fight my tears, until we drew up in front of West Elms Primary.

The school tried its best to be understanding, Hannah’s young teacher earnestly offering us strategies and action points to help deal with our delinquent, troubled daughter, giving us leaflets to read, suggesting counselling – before quietly intimating that Hannah would eventually be asked to leave if it continued, that they had the other children to consider, after all. ‘Does she have any friends?’ I asked miserably.

Miss Foxton sighed. ‘She tends to select a certain type of child with whom to attach herself; the more vulnerable and easily led types. Hannah can be very persuasive when she puts her mind to it. She’ll allow that child to be her ally for a time, and then she’ll grow bored and turn on them completely. It’s a pattern we’ve witnessed repeatedly.’ Her eyes slid away to the pencil she was fiddling with. ‘Daisy Williams is one example, of course. But no, I’ve never seen her truly befriend anyone as such.’

I nodded, remembering Daisy. Shy and eager to please, she was a very pale, thin child with white-blond hair and red-rimmed eyes who reminded me a little of a skinned rabbit. Hannah had homed in on her during the previous school term, enjoyed her new friend’s admiration and slavish devotion for a few weeks, before Daisy had been found, tied up with her own skipping rope and soaking wet, in the playground toilet block. Hannah, all wide-eyed innocence, had maintained that they’d merely been playing a game of cops and robbers, and Daisy had eagerly backed up this claim, but from then on the school had done everything they could to keep the two girls apart, at the insistence, I was sure, of Daisy’s mother, who glared at me with open hostility whenever we crossed paths in the playground.

After our talk with Hannah’s form teacher we walked back to the car in miserable silence. ‘Oh, Doug,’ I said when I was sitting in the passenger seat.

He looked at me and sighed. ‘I know.’ He reached over and took my hand, and for a second something of the old closeness between us flickered. He opened his mouth to speak but at that moment Toby woke and began to cry.

I glanced at Doug and began to open my door. ‘I’d better sit in the back with him,’ I said. Doug nodded, put the key into the ignition and we drove home without another word.

A few days after the school meeting we sat Hannah down and told her what her punishment would be. It was always hard to discipline her because it was difficult to find anything – any treat or toy – that she was genuinely attached to: she literally didn’t care if I confiscated any of her belongings. The only thing she really liked to do was watch television. So on that occasion we told her there’d be no TV for a week. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look of fury, of pure venom on her face when we gave her the news.

I found the bruise on Toby’s arm the next day. Earlier in the morning I’d left him sitting in his little bouncy chair while I got Hannah ready for school. It was as I was fetching her some clean socks from the tumble dryer that I heard his howl of pain. I raced back up the stairs and there he was, red-faced and hysterical, though moments before I’d left him cooing happily. When I went to find Hannah she was sitting in exactly the same spot on her bedroom floor, placidly doing a jigsaw puzzle. She didn’t even look up when I came in. It wasn’t until later that I found the bruise; a small, angry, purple mark on Toby’s upper arm – as though, perhaps, he’d been pinched very hard. I couldn’t prove it was Hannah, but I knew that it was. Of course I did.

6 (#ue70a4556-8226-543c-897a-85987657e7d8)

London, 2017

Shell-shocked, Clara and Mac walked back from the police station. When they’d arrived and told their story to the young officer at the front desk, he’d appeared unimpressed at first, listening with studied patience as Clara haltingly went through her story. His attitude had changed, however when, putting Luke’s laptop on the desk in front of him, she described the hundreds of threatening emails, the break-in a few months before, the letter and the photographs stuffed through their door.

‘I see,’ he’d said. ‘If you’ll just come with me please.’ She and Mac had been ushered through to a small, windowless room and told to wait. They’d sat in nervous silence as they listened to footsteps come and go in the corridor beyond the closed door.

When it opened they were greeted by a slender black woman who introduced herself as Detective Constable Loretta Mansfield. Briskly she approached them and shook their hands with a firm dry handshake, her eyes quickly searching theirs as she smiled, before sitting down and placing Luke’s laptop on the table between them. ‘Right, Clara,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a chat with my colleague about Luke, and what we’re going to do next is fill in a missing person’s report.’

Clara swallowed hard, her mouth dry with nerves as she went over again what she’d told the officer on the front desk, DC Mansfield’s calm, almond-shaped eyes flicking up to meet hers at various points in her story.

‘And there’d been no arguments between you recently,’ she asked, ‘no indication that Luke might want out of the relationship?’

‘No! And as I said, he’s left his mobile and credit card, and he had an important interview at work he’d prepared hard for. We were … happy!’ she heard her voice rising and felt Mac’s hand on her arm.

Mansfield nodded, then opened the laptop and read through the emails. ‘I see.’ When she looked up again, she cleared her throat decisively. ‘OK, Clara, I’m going to hang on to this for now, and talk it over with my sergeant in CID. What I suggest you do now is go home and wait for us to get in touch, and in the meantime, if you hear from Luke, or if anything else suspicious happens, please call us straight away.’ She got up and with another brief smile and a nod of her head, indicated for Clara and Mac to follow her.

But Clara remained seated, staring up at her in alarm. ‘CID? So you agree those emails could be linked to his disappearance?’ She had half hoped to be fobbed off, to be told she was overreacting, that there was clearly an innocent explanation for it all. The seriousness with which Mansfield was taking her concerns caused darts of panic to shoot through her.

‘It’s possible,’ the DC said. ‘There could be any number of reasons why he’s taken off for a bit. He might have gone out and had a few drinks and not made his way home yet – that happens. Hopefully there’s nothing to worry about. But as I said, go home, and someone will be round to see you as soon as possible. We have your address.’ She went to the door and held it open, and reluctantly Clara got to her feet.

‘Are you all right?’ Mac asked as they trudged back down Kingsland Road towards home.

‘I don’t know. It all feels so strange. You see on the news and stuff about people disappearing, you see those Facebook appeals, and I can’t believe he’s one of them, it’s too surreal. Half the time I’m telling myself there’s some rational explanation and I should just chill out, the other half I feel guilty because I’m not tearing through the streets searching for him. I don’t know what to do.’

He nodded gloomily. ‘He’ll turn up. It’s going to be OK. They’ll find him,’ but she could hear the worry in his voice. As they walked she thought about Mac and Luke, and the friendship they’d had for so many years. Of the two of them, Luke had always had the loudest personality, Mac with his quiet dry wit the straight man to Luke’s clown. And if Luke’s love of the limelight meant he sometimes didn’t know when to quit, ensuring he was always one of the last to leave any party, Mac was invariably there to keep his friend out of trouble, bundling him into a cab when he’d had too much to drink, ensuring that he eventually made it home in one piece. Instinctively now she reached out and linked her arm through his, more grateful than she could say for his calm, steady presence. He glanced down at her and smiled, and together they walked on in silence.

She felt desolate when they returned to the empty flat. There was Luke’s leather jacket hanging on its peg; on the table by the window was a half-completed Scrabble game they’d abandoned two nights before. The last record they’d been listening to sat silent and still on the turntable. It was as though he’d stepped out only moments before, as though he might reappear at any second with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, smiling his smile and calling her name. He hadn’t taken anything with him – not one single thing a person who was intending to leave home might take.

Mac came and stood beside her. ‘Would you like me to stay over?’ he asked. ‘I could sleep on the sofa.’

She smiled gratefully, suddenly realizing how much she’d been dreading another night alone. ‘Thanks, Mac,’ she said.

She was awoken by the sound of her intercom buzzing. Groggily she sat up, looking about her in confusion, surprised to see that she was still wearing her clothes. The fact of Luke’s disappearance hit her like a train and she gasped in distress. She remembered she’d gone to lie down while waiting for the police to come, had put her head on Luke’s pillow, breathing in the scent of his hair and skin, a feeling of utter hopelessness filling her; nervous exhaustion rolling over her in heavy waves. She must have fallen asleep.

Dazedly she stumbled to her feet and going into the living room saw Mac blinking awake on the sofa. She glanced at the clock: eight a.m. Again the intercom buzzed loudly and she hurried over to answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Miss Haynes? DS Anderson from CID. Can I come up?’

He was a large man, Detective Sergeant Martin Anderson. Mid-thirties, a slight paunch, small blue-grey eyes that regarded her from the depths of a ruddy face. A proper grown-up, with a proper grown-up job: even though he was less than a decade older than Clara and Mac, he might as well have belonged to an entirely different generation. She clocked his wedding ring and pictured a couple of kids at home who idolized him. A very different sort of life to the ones led by her and Mac and their friends, with their media jobs, their parties and endless hangovers. He was accompanied by DC Mansfield, who nodded at her and flashed her brief, impassive smile.

‘This is Mac, Luke’s best friend,’ Clara explained nervously as the four of them sat down in the living room. The flat felt very crowded suddenly; a dark cloak of authority and gravity descending upon her home that gave her worst fears credence and made fresh anxiety twist in her belly. Outside on the street someone gave a long, low whistle, a car engine stuttered into life; the world continued as usual, oblivious to the tense, waiting silence of this room.

‘I’ve been passed on the information you gave DC Mansfield yesterday,’ Anderson began in a voice that was deep and measured, a faint accent curling around its vowels that Clara’s London ears identified vaguely as Midlands.

‘I take it you’ve had no contact from Luke since then?’