Her Deadly Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with twists that will take your breath away

Neither Rosie nor Oliver could understand what had happened. Oliver said the old man must have spun Marion some line. She said he looked terrible, so maybe a mixture of pity and guilt had made her willing to believe any rubbish he told her.

But what on earth had made Rosie agree to come? The complete change in her mother’s attitude baffled her, but she knew nothing her father said could make a difference to the way she felt. She scrabbled in her bag for a bottle of water and swigged at it, making Marion wait to lock the car.

Rosie’s legs felt weak as they toiled up the three flights of familiar stairs to the flat, and outside the door, as Marion fumbled with her key, she had to steady herself on the wall.

The door opened straight into the living room. And there he was.

His eyes were closed, thank God, so she could look at him before he saw her. What she’d expected she wasn’t sure, but he seemed hardly to have changed. His shoulders filled the winged armchair and his long legs, clad in jeans, were stretched out in front: just the way he always used to sit.

He was 63 and her mum said he’d been ill, hinting he might even be dying. Although he was thinner he looked healthy enough to Rosie. Except for his hands, which had been turned into swollen-knuckled claws by the arthritis. The arthritis that forced him to retire from playing the violin and leave the orchestra. The start of all the bad times.

Marion gave his arm a gentle shake. ‘Look, dear, it’s Rosemary come to see you.’ She spoke as if to a child, or someone senile, as she plumped a cushion on the sofa facing his chair. ‘Sit down, love, and I’ll get us all some tea.’ Rosie carried on standing, arms crossed.

When Bernard opened his eyes, she could see changes there. They looked opaque, as if he had cataracts, and a web of fine lines covered his face. But he pushed himself up to sit higher in the armchair with a vigorous movement.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’ His voice brought the past back so vividly that Rosie felt herself flinch.

‘Hello, Dad.’ What else could she say?

He had the grace to look down and run his crooked fingers through his hair. He still had hair, she noticed, although it was thinner and iron-grey with no traces of brown.

‘Rosemary, it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect …’ He glanced towards the kitchen where water splashed and crockery clattered.

Rosie tried to slow her breathing. She told herself she was an adult now. ‘I just came to ask what you’re playing at. You see, I’m confused. First, you spend years denying everything, letting me and Mum go through all kinds of agony, then you admit it. And now you’re saying you were innocent all along. It just doesn’t make sense.’

He shifted in the armchair. ‘It’s been hard on the two of you, I know.’

Rosie felt his eyes on her, but refused to look at him, gazing instead over to the picture window at the silhouette of a boat moving across the grey sea. She was tired and longed to sit down, but – no – it wouldn’t do to come down to his level.

The view was the only thing she had ever liked about the flat, but today the sea was still – a strip of corrugated metal – and when the boat moved out of view there was nothing else to look at. She stayed where she was as her dad kept talking.

‘You see, at the end, when your mother came to visit me, I realized I had to get out. And if you keep maintaining your innocence, they say you’re in denial and the parole board won’t even consider recommending you for release.’

Rosie couldn’t hold back a tiny laugh. That tone, so superior, how well she remembered it. She forced herself to look hard at him. ‘You told them you did it so you could get out, but at the same time you were saying you were innocent to Mum? I don’t suppose that had anything to do with the fact that she wouldn’t take you in if she still thought you killed Alice?’

As he shook his head she realized there had been a slight tremor there all along, so maybe he was ill. She stopped the thought. His health has nothing to do with any of this. ‘With Mum going on about it these last weeks, I’ve been thinking back and I remember worrying because I might have got you into trouble, somehow, by saying the wrong thing. You seemed very keen to make sure the police thought we’d got back home at more or less the same time. Why was that?’

Marion was beside her, sliding a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits onto the glass table in front of Bernard. She sat on the armchair next to him, so close their knees touched, reaching out to take his hand.

But he carried on looking at Rosie: unblinking. His only movement was that gentle shake of his head. The silence and the look seemed to go on forever as if he wanted to read Rosie’s mind. ‘I was trying to protect you. To make sure they didn’t upset you.’

Marion broke the silence. ‘Go on, Bernard, love, tell her.’ Then, without waiting for him to speak, she turned to her daughter, eyes wide, lashes flicking furiously. ‘He’s got proof. He can show you.’

Bernard placed his other hand on top of Marion’s for a moment. Then moved both hands away and folded them under his chin, the way he used to when she or Alice asked for extra pocket money. ‘I’m sorry, Marion, my love. I’m sorry, Rosemary, but I don’t think I should say anything more.’

Rosie turned to leave.

‘No, darling, don’t go … Bernard, tell her,’ Marion said. ‘About the letters.’

Her mother was pulling at his sleeve like a little girl, but his eyes were still on Rosie. He spoke slowly and steadily. ‘I got a series of letters, while I was inside. As time went by it became clear they were from someone who knew the truth.’

Rosie allowed herself to meet his eyes. A long moment passed. ‘OK, let me see them.’

His voice was very soft. ‘Can’t you take my word? Mine and your mother’s?’

Marion’s head jerked round to look at her. ‘I’ve seen them. It’s true. You’ve got to believe us.’

This was ridiculous. ‘But they censor mail in prison. Someone would have seen.’

He smiled at her very gently. ‘They were brought to me by my solicitor and, anyway, they were too vague for anyone who wasn’t involved to understand the subtext.’

Subtext, Christ, he was giving her a lecture. ‘But not too vague for you or Mum?’

Marion, now, her voice breathy. ‘That’s right. The final letters anyway. It was obvious to me.’

Rosie’s throat seemed to have closed up, but she managed to say: ‘What was obvious?’

‘That whoever wrote them could prove your dad was innocent.’

It had felt draughty where Rosie stood near the door, but suddenly the room seemed stifling and she wanted only to get out, to get away from here, but she had to go on. ‘So who wrote them? Who did they say did it?’

Instead of answering, her mother made a little noise and turned away. Her husband touched her hand, looking steadily at Rosie. ‘The letters were anonymous, and they didn’t identify the killer.’

Her mother’s voice was gruff. ‘But it was clear they knew. And yet he’s prepared to leave it like that. Didn’t even want me to tell you.’

Her dad’s eyes were unwavering. ‘Your mother got herself into a bit of a state. And I don’t want you to go through that.’ He looked back at Marion and rested his clawed hand on her knee. ‘It’s past history and digging it up will do more harm than good.’

For some reason Rosie wanted to cry. Why were they still keeping things from her? What did they have to hide? ‘Is that it? Well then, I’m sorry, Mum. If that’s the best there is …’ She willed him to meet her eyes again, but she might have been invisible. ‘It’s just not enough.’ As she turned there was a whimper from her mother.

Before she closed the door she heard her father’s voice, not a tremble in it. ‘It’s all right, darling. Let her go.’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_cc594248-05d8-576e-999b-6bfb13c41178)

Loretta

This was the first time Loretta had been able to cook a proper meal for the kids, and eat it with them, for days. The kitchen table was covered with Pearl’s books and papers, and Loretta had to stop herself from moaning that there was no space to unpack the shopping.

It was her fault, not Pearl’s. The kitchen was too small, with hardly any work surfaces. After her divorce, she and the kids had moved from the rambling old place they all loved to this modern box on a bare new development: the best she could get close to their schools. It was soulless and cramped, but at least it was easy to keep clean.

As if she knew what her mum was thinking, Pearl began to tidy her things, the coloured beads at the end of her black braids clicking together. Her friend, Jade, had done her hair a couple of weeks ago and Loretta felt a pang when she saw it. She had always been in charge of Pearl’s hair. Doing it in plaits or a stiff little ponytail when she was young. Still, she had to admit it looked good and she’d made a point of telling Pearl so.

She unloaded the mince and bread, but first, oh yes, a big glass of red wine. She took a gulp then got to work on the garlic and onions. Pearl looked round at the sound of the knife. ‘Spag bol all right, Pearl?’