Her Last Secret
A gripping psychological thriller
Barbara Copperthwaite
To Ellen, my big sister. We used to argue over everything, now we just argue over who should buy the drinks.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
The Darkest Lies
Hear More From Barbara
Also by Barbara Copperthwaite:
A Letter from Barbara
Acknowledgements
Prologue
A lifetime can flash by in a moment. A moment can last a lifetime.
Right now, everything seemed cradled in the pause between breaths. It wasn’t so much that the world was in slow motion, more that Dominique’s senses were so heightened that she could note every detail: the look on her eldest daughter’s face; the desperation that made her husband’s voice hitch; the squeak of her youngest child when she got excited or scared. She thought of all those things, examining them. Wondering whether to smile or cry at their memory.
Dominique had spent most of her life hiding from herself, from others, from her past. Now, she felt secreted in a between-world, like the moment before waking. She needed to make a decision. Should she remain and carry on hiding, her life sliding away like water through cracks in the pavement; or should she act?
There were consequences to actions, though. Prices that must be paid.
She exhaled. Decision made.
The time had come to expose all the secrets, no matter what.
If only she had the courage to do so. If only the family was strong enough to survive it. If only she didn’t do something stupid herself.
One
CHRISTMAS DAY
Squad cars blocked the normally peaceful Burgh Road, in Blackheath, London. The blue lights were switched off but, had they been on, wouldn’t have looked out of place among the festive illuminations strewn over trees in many front gardens, lighting up the dark hours pre-dawn. The handsome red-brick houses were all large, neat, detached, built for affluent Victorians during the heady decades before the First World War. The period properties were what kept Blackheath such a desirable address still.
Along the tree-lined street there were few net curtains to twitch at the gathering crowd of police officers. Instead, neighbours peered, bleary-eyed, around blinds, or pulled back wooden shutters that matched the original sash windows of their homes. Adults shooed their little ones away, but stayed rooted to the spot themselves, clinging to each other for safety behind the glass. The children probably didn’t need much persuading to stay away, overjoyed at an excuse to unwrap their presents without their parents wearily trying to go back to bed just a little longer.
Christmas had indeed come early for them.
Chief Inspector Paul Ogundele checked his watch – 3.47 a.m. – and got out of his car to take charge of the scene. He noticed how some neighbours, bolder than their counterparts, edged to their front door and stood watching, poised to bolt at the first sign of trouble. He’d have to remind uniformed officers to send them back inside for their own safety.
According to a laminated poster still attached to a fence, Burgh Road had been closed a fortnight earlier, too; that time for a festive street party for neighbours to get to know one another and to allow youngsters to play in the road without fear. Cheery, multicoloured bunting still hung from lamppost to lamppost, dripping in the pouring rain. Below it, in swags, was yellow police tape.
Outside the cordon, paramedics hunched in their ambulance, steaming up their windows as they waited to be told when it was safe to do their jobs. They wouldn’t be setting foot anywhere until the police’s armed response unit had finished securing the place and given them the nod.
Chief Inspector Ogundele took it all in in a second. He ducked under the tape and strode over to a uniformed officer standing stoically, pretending she didn’t notice the waterfall running in front of her face from her hat.
‘Sergeant Hussain. What’s the situation?’
‘Gunshots were reported at 3.20 a.m. by a Mr Alan Jackman, of 17 Burgh Road. At least two shots fired within his neighbour’s home at number fifteen. Mr Jackman told the control room during his 999 call that his neighbour has a shotgun and regularly goes clay pigeon shooting. He also says he heard “shouting and one hell of a row” which woke him immediately before he heard gunfire.’
As the officer spoke, she indicated over to a man in his early fifties whose pallor matched his prematurely grey hair. He was still in his blue towelling dressing gown and matching pyjamas, but stood defiantly to attention at his front door, as though afraid of showing weakness. Especially in his new, bright yellow Simpsons slippers.
‘Residents have been warned to stay indoors, sir,’ added Sergeant Hussain.
The chief inspector made a noise of impatience. People so rarely listened to orders, curiosity generally overcoming fear. Some residents even held up their mobile phones, filming the excitement and no doubt live-streaming it on Facebook, Twitter, and any other social media they could think of.
�
�What do we know about who lives in the building?’
‘Number fifteen belongs to Mr Benjamin Thomas, forty-eight, and his wife Dominique, forty-four. According to the neighbour, they have two children, Amber, who is between seven and nine – the neighbour isn’t sure, and Ruby, a teenager of about sixteen. Checks have confirmed that Mr Thomas has a licence for a shotgun, which is kept on the premises.’
Had Benjamin Thomas had an accident? Discovered burglars and taken a potshot? Or perhaps been shot at by armed thieves? Did the gun go off by mistake? Or had he gone crazy and killed or injured his wife, children and himself? Murder/suicide was a terrible thing, and rare, but not unheard of by any stretch of the imagination. At this time of year there was generally a spike in domestic abuse, due to people being in close proximity for longer periods than they would be at other times of the year.
Just what happened to the family inside number fifteen?
Two
EIGHT DAYS TO GO
Mouse loved this time of the day best of all. Everyone she loved the most in the whole wide world were all together, happy and peaceful, and still in bed, sleepy tired. Outside, darkness paled, which made her brave, so that she knew the shadow of the monster terrifying her every time she woke at night was really her dressing gown hung on the back of her door. The house had even stopped making creaking noises like a ghost.
She loved first thing in the morning for all of those reasons – and also because she could read quietly for a little while before Mummy came to say it was time to get up.
With a contented sigh, she turned on her torch and pulled the duvet, with its Big Friendly Giant cover, over her head to read. She didn’t really need to; if she had put her bedside light on it wouldn’t have disturbed anyone. Not now she had a bedroom all to herself.
She hadn’t wanted her own room. She had preferred it when she and Ruby shared. Mouse hadn’t got so scared then when she woke, instead she had been able to prod her big sister awake and climb into bed with her. But since she got her own room Ruby had started locking her bedroom door, forcing Mouse to come up with a different solution. She would burrow under her duvet and make herself read, forcing herself to concentrate on the words really, really hard until she forgot about the scary dreams and imaginings and was whisked off to magical places. It didn’t always work, but mostly it did.
And when things got really bad, she hid in the wardrobe.
But right now, she pulled the duvet over her head purely to enjoy the warmth, breathing in the comforting aroma a little like fresh-baked biscuits. She started to read her book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, but more thoughts about her sister crept in around the edges of her mind.
She wished she could do something lovely for Ruby, to cheer her up. When they shared a room, Ruby used to smile all the time, a hidden gem gifted only to Mouse. But now Ruby kept everything but her scowl locked away.
Having an idea, Mouse threw back the covers and padded over to her desk. Pulled out a drawing pad and some crayons, and started to copy the cover of her book. A lion with a huge mane and sad eyes. His face seemed a lot wonkier than on the cover, but she was pleased with it anyway. She ran her fingers over the crayons, thinking. The picture needed something else. Red love hearts kissed the page. Much better.
Holding up her effort, she turned her head on one side as if to look at it from all angles.
A soft bubble and chug sounded from the water pipes. Daddy was up and having his shower. Mouse smiled and hugged herself tight, lulled by the sounds of everyday life.
Mummy’s gentle knock came. The door opened.
‘You up, Mouse?’
‘Up and at ’em.’ She jumped and did a kick in the air like Kung Fu Panda.
‘Oh, you are raring to go. See you downstairs for breakfast in a minute, eh?’
Mouse grabbed up the drawing again and dodged past Mummy, scurried along the hallway, pausing for a moment to wriggle her toes in the thick cream carpet and enjoy the feeling. She slipped the drawing under her sister’s bedroom door then ran into the bathroom they shared, as her mum rapped to wake Ruby.
‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine,’ Mummy called. Silence. Another knock.
‘All right. I’m awake.’
Ruby sounded grumpy. Of course.
Mouse carefully turned the knob of the shower – a hard task with her fingers crossed. She hoped her drawing did the trick with her big sister.
* * *
Dominique stared, unseeing, at the steam rising from the kettle. Didn’t hear the click as it switched itself off. While Mouse and Ruby got ready upstairs, it left her free to think about the state of her marriage.
She felt so alone. Benjamin had turned away from her last night when she tried to have sex with him. It had been months now, and it wasn’t like him. He could deny it all he wanted, but something was on his mind. Something big.
When he wasn’t working late, he hid in his study, only coming into the lounge after she had gone to bed, and waiting until she was asleep before joining her. When they were in a room together, there seemed to be nothing to say. If she asked about his plans for the day, he would give a noncommittal answer; ask how his day had been, she got a grunt.
His rejection of her efforts hurt more than a slap. What did she have to do to get her husband to notice her? What did she have to do to win him back?
Whatever it was, she wasn’t sure she had the strength for it.
She rubbed at her right forearm fretfully. When she realised, she snatched her hand away. Pulled down the sleeve of her dressing gown.
The twin silvery scars that ran beneath the long sleeve were hidden now. Still, they shimmered in her mind’s eye, taunting her. Reminding her of a past she would rather forget.
Trying to banish the thoughts, Dominique dived into the inexorable morning routine. Poured the scalding water into the cafetière, cracked eggs into a dish, put on the toast for everyone…
A howl of rage rang through the house.
Dominique ran.
On the landing stood Ruby, glaring down at her black jumper as though someone had murdered it. The fifteen-year-old’s face screwed up in disgust as she gave another moan, and pointed at her little sister. J’accuse.
‘Mouse, this is your bloody fault—’
‘Don’t swear at your little sister. Now, what on earth has happened?’
‘Look. There’s a hole in my brand-new top. I caught it on that nail—’
‘Well, that’s hardly your sister’s fault, is it?’
Dominique looked at her youngest. Her eyes were wide with hurt and protest, but she didn’t say a word. Despite being highly intelligent, and articulate when she wanted to be, she always came across as being both old before her time and younger than her eight years. Her name was Amber, but no one called her that; instead, she was known universally as Mouse, thanks to her habit of finding small spaces to squeeze into so she could read undisturbed.
Beside her, Ruby huffed. ‘Why are you always taking her side? I hate you.’
I hate you.
The first time Ruby had flung those words at Dominique she had flinched as if struck. The verbal blows were no longer unexpected, but they still hurt, and she still wondered what on earth she had done to deserve them. From the outside, her family seemed perfect. She and Benjamin made a good-looking couple, they had two intelligent, beautiful children, Benjamin was a successful businessman, running his own accountancy firm, they had regular holidays both home and abroad, and lived in a lovely home. They enjoyed all the trappings of success.
But as she looked at Ruby’s fury, she wondered if it were all starting to disappear, like a dream on waking.
* * *
Benjamin’s hand made a squeak as it swiped across the bathroom mirror, clearing the condensation. The extractor fan wasn’t working properly, which was infuriating. He’d have to get someone in to look at it. At some point. He had enough on his plate for the time being.
Despite standi
ng under a too-hot shower for ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to step out again, he still felt exhausted. Tired, bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the clearing he had created in the mirror. Puffy skin stretched as he shaved but didn’t ping back the way it had when he was younger. Scattered here and there on his cheeks and beside his nose were broken veins, hiding beneath the sunbed tan that faked the fact he hadn’t afforded as many holidays in the sun this year as success dictated. The red spider veins were tiny, almost invisible, but enough to taunt him every single day. You’re getting old. You’re past it. You’re not the man you were.