The Lies We Told

on earth was her problem? Glancing past her at the flat, Clara saw that it was a dump: clothes and plates and CDs strewn everywhere, a potent smell of dustbins coming from the kitchen. And who the hell listened to trance these days, anyway? “Yes,” she said with icy sarcasm. “Thanks so much.” She was about to leave when her gaze caught something draped over one of the armchairs. It was a sweatshirt. Luke’s sweatshirt. She stared at it in astonishment. A distinctive green and red design with an eagle on the back that he’d bought in New York a few years before. He loved it. She remembered how annoyed he’d been when he’d lost it. When was that, exactly?

The woman followed her gaze. Quickly she began shutting the door. “I’ve turned it down—now piss off!” she said, and for a few seconds Clara stood staring at the closed door in astonishment. She thought about how she’d said, Where’s Luke? the day he’d gone missing; the strange, knowing smirk on her face. “Open the door!” she shouted, hammering on it. “Open the fucking door right now!” But the music pounded on and the door remained closed. Eventually, with a cry of frustration, Clara ran back down to her own flat. When had the sweatshirt gone missing? Had it been around the time they were broken into? That sort of fit, she thought. They’d believed nothing had been taken, but . . . perhaps the reason why the police had no idea how the intruder had got in was that she’d been living among them all along. Had she been the one sending the e-mails?

“Are you okay?” Mac asked when she raced back into the flat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Without replying, she fetched her phone and found DS Anderson’s number. He picked up immediately. “Hi, it’s Clara Haynes,” she said. “I have something I need to—”

“Clara, I’m glad you called. I was about to ring you. We’ve discovered something interesting. How soon can you come to the station?”

NINE

CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1988

I made the phone call one afternoon while Doug was at work, my fingers shaking as I dialed the number. It began to ring and I felt such a rush of panic I almost hung up. Then I heard the click on the other end, the familiar voice saying, “Hello?” and the words stuck in my throat. “Hello? Hello?” A note of impatience now. “Who is this, please?”

So strange to hear that voice again after so many years, to know that its owner was standing in the house I’d once known so well. In my mind’s eye I saw the duck-egg blue wallpaper in the hall, the light falling across the floorboards in two vertical slants. For a moment I was back there again, smelling the familiar smell—a mixture of lavender furniture polish and fresh coffee, the bowl of potpourri on the windowsill—hearing the ticking of the clock above the stairs, looking into those familiar eyes, which used to cry so much in those days. I swallowed hard and then, at last, in a whisper, I said, “This is Beth Jennings.”

There was absolute silence. “Please,” I begged. “Please, please don’t hang up. I need to see you. I need to speak to you.” And then I burst into tears. “Can we meet?”

The voice was ice-cold, tinged with fear. “Absolutely not. We made a deal. You promised.”

“I know,” I said. “I wouldn’t call if I wasn’t desperate. I need to talk about what happened. I thought I could live with what we did, but I can’t. I just can’t. I think we need to put it right. I want to go to the police.”

“No! No, Beth.” There was a long silence, until finally it came. “All right, I’ll meet you. But not here. You can’t come here. Give me your address.”

—

Surreal to see that face again, that familiar figure sitting at my kitchen table. Within minutes I was crying again, my words spilling out of me. I talked about everything—about what we’d done, how the guilt had never left me. I talked about Hannah, my marriage, how I felt I was losing my mind. I realized how desperate I’d been to have someone to confide in, how much I’d missed having a friend. “What do you think I should do?” I asked when I’d finally run out of words.

But those eyes remained cold as they looked back at me. “If you tell the police, we will lose everything. You will lose everything. Don’t you understand that? What good can come from dragging it all up now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” I saw that it was useless. Nobody could help me; there was nothing to be done. I bowed my head and cried and cried. I didn’t even look up when I heard the chair scraping back, the front door opening, then closing once more. It was over. It had all been for nothing.

It was a while before I got to my feet. I made myself take long slow breaths. Toby would be waking from his nap soon and I needed to pull myself together. Slowly I went to the sink and washed my face; then I made myself walk toward the stairs, intending to go up to check on my son, trying to plaster on the necessary smile. I was desperate to see him, to feel his little body, smell his delicious scent. As I passed the telephone in the hall, I replaced the receiver in its cradle—I’d taken it off so we wouldn’t be disturbed—and almost as soon as I withdrew my hand, it began to ring.

I picked it up. “Hello?”

“This is West Elms Primary,” the briskly efficient voice said. “Is Hannah with you, Mrs. Jennings?”

“Hannah?” I asked in confusion. “No. Why would she be with . . . isn’t she at school?”

“I’m afraid she’s run away again. She must have slipped out of the upper school’s gate after lunch. When we couldn’t reach you, we called