Beautiful Liar: a gripping suspense thriller

  Table of Contents

  ERICA

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  (Untitled)

  ERICA

  (Untitled)

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  ERICA

  JOEL

  JOEL

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  Joel

  ERICA

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ERICA

  JOEL

  ROSE

  ERICA

  ERICA

  LILY

  A NOTE FROM BLOODHOUND BOOKS

  AUTHORS NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BEAUTIFUL LIAR

  LOUISE MULLINS

  Copyright © 2016 Louise Mullins

  The right of Louise Mullins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  'When a sinister person means to be your enemy,

  they always start by trying to become your friend'

  William Blake (1757-1827)

  'Perception is not always a reflection of the truth,

  but more about the context of the moment in a small window of time'

  Unknown

  PRESENT

  Joel kneels down in front of the car, ensuring the jack is in place. He tests the strength of its position, and slides it beneath the engine, head-first, with a small torque in his hand.

  From here, he cannot see me standing behind the door, watching him through the gap. I wait until three-quarters of his body are beneath the car, before I silently creep up to the left wheel arch. I bend down, and slowly begin to loosen the jack, with sleeve-covered fingers. Each nut unwinds, until the jack is loose enough. If I apply my entire weight to the top wheel arch, the jack will lose its grip—collapsing beneath the weight of the car.

  I take one long deep breath to reassure myself this is the best thing to do. Once the job is complete, I will never have to set eyes on him again.

  I stall when he shifts his legs slowly out from under the car, and rearranges his position, without glancing to where I am standing.

  My legs feel as if they are going to give way. I'm not sure what he's doing now, and have convinced myself he can sense me here, waiting. I pause, until he scoots his body back beneath the car.

  I almost talk myself out of it. There must be another way; another option I haven't yet thought of, but I've been constantly mulling over everything for the past week. I've run out of options. He isn't going to leave, and there's not going to be any walking away from him. I have Lily to think of. Her innocent little face zooms in front of my eyelids, and I push the image away. This is for her.

  He's concentrating hard on what he's doing, oblivious to my presence. Now is my chance.

  I raise myself up on tiptoes to glance down at his feet, ensuring enough of him is beneath the car so when it falls, it will most certainly crush him.

  My hands are shaking, and I force myself to still them, as I lean forward and compress my full body weight against the bonnet of the car, with my foot pressed onto the top of the jack.

  I hear a snap and a crunch, as the car slams down onto him. He makes a strange sound, like an injured animal; his body rocking from side-to-side in quick movements, fighting for his life. His feet swipe the tool box on the ground beside him, and I have to jump aside to stop the spray can from rolling into my foot.

  No matter what, I don't want him to know I'm the one who killed him. I can't risk leaving any trace of myself in the garage. If this is to look like a convincing accident, then I cannot ever have been in here.

  I stand back and watch, as his limbs still. It takes longer than I thought it would for him to die. I stand there waiting, for several minutes. It's only when I'm sure he's ceased breathing do I walk around to the front of the vehicle. That's when I see the slowly forming puddle of blood seeping from the wound, where I assume the torque has entered his flesh.

  Of course, I can't be sure what killed him. It may have been the sudden, blunt force of the car crushing his chest, or the torque may have pierced his face, as he held it above him, with his eyes on the lower body of the car. I don't stay there long enough to find out. I don't even check his pulse. I know he's dead, and that's all that matters.

  ERICA

  As I enter our Bristol home, careful to leave my shoes on the mat, I glance around the house in search of Joel. I had no intention of killing my husband. But, now, he is dead.

  I am staring at his body lying beneath the car; the pool of blood spilt across the concrete floor. I prise my fingers away from the doorframe, unable to believe the sight lingering in front of my eyes, even as I leave the garage. I tread the staircase, and enter the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and listening out for the tell-tale click, as the latch falls into place, locking me inside. I've deliberately left the key to the room downstairs, where it always hangs on the hook behind the front door.

  I know our neighbours are at work, so I've already prepared myself for a long day, left alone in the bedroom, with nothing to eat or drink. It will appear more realistic then. When the police come, I will be genuinely hungry, thirsty, cold, and tired.

  At 5:30pm, when our neighbours return, I will begin to pound the walls and scream at the top of my lungs. I will cry, and beg to be let free. I will do everything I can to find a way out of here; this house.

  I won't be questioned, until someone finds me. That gives me plenty of time to construct my story. I haven't decided yet if I'll tell them this house has been my prison for the past four years, or if that will make me appear more suspicious; make the police think it was self-defence. I could tell them what a good husband he is, and how distraught I am the day I accidentally locked myself upstairs is the day Joel tragically died whilst working on his car. But, there is plenty of time to figure something out. I have hours yet.

  My mind goes back to the first day I met him, when I first set eyes on the handsome man I fell in love with.

  I wonder when the cracks began to show, or even if I was aware of them at all. Had I chosen to ignore them? Some part of me must have known our marriage was only a fabrication. We weren't right for each other. We brought each other down. Just like anything, a marriage must be built on strong foundations. It takes work. Trust is everything. Without it, you are just two people living together, breathing the same air, and trapped by each other's shortcomings.

  Joel was a gentleman. I was attracted to the sophisticated air he wound around anyone he came into contact with. He was well-mannered, well-spoken, and charming. He was everything I wanted him to be.

  I still love him, you see. Despite what I have done, I still don't know if I can cope without him. Without the reg
ularity of our routines and the typicality of the days I spend in this house. Out there, beyond the confines of these walls, without him, I am lost.

  I lie down on the bed with my arms out wide, freeing myself of the tenseness in my muscles and the pounding in my chest, as well as the throbbing uncertainty in my temples. I try to think back to happier times; when my future was still unknown, and when everything carried the hint of pleasurable uncertainty. Something I've almost forgotten.

  I close my eyes, and try to remember what it felt like to be twenty-four years old and in love, but it's difficult. Not least because I've realised in the half-hour since locking myself in the bedroom no matter what, I will never be able to turn the clock back. My actions have sealed the end to our union forever.

  ERICA

  I hear a car pulling up in the driveway at the back of the house. I walk over to the window, and peer out of the glass. Between the blinds, I can see the woman leaving the car, heading toward the back door of the house next door. The man stops for a moment, listening, as he locks the car. Now is the perfect time for me to begin to shout.

  He must already think there is something odd about us, as he turns and looks up to the window, somehow knowing I'm here, and sensing something awful has happened in the silent house next door. But, he can't see me. I'm invisible behind the blind. I trace his footsteps, as he follows his wife toward the back door of their house, closing it behind him.

  I begin by pounding on the attached wall and screaming in a high-pitched wail, hoping this will be enough to convince them—if they can hear me—of my fear and panic. When there is no response, I raise my voice a fraction more, not daring to give up until my throat is sore.

  I hear footsteps tramping up the staircase then whoever it is stands stock still, listening to my fevered shouts on the opposite side of the wall.

  'Please, help me, I'm locked in. I can't get out. Please, somebody, help me!'

  I bang my fists against the wall until my knuckles are red raw. My shoulders ache from pummelling the plaster, but I don't care.

  I consider kicking the door, so when they come and find me, there will be evidence I've tried to escape. I drag the bed over to the window to make it look as though I at least tried to make a break through the window, even though it's locked tight. I slam my fists against the window, leaving smears of sweat streaking the glass. I dig my nails into the window frame to make it look as though I've tried to prise the plastic away from the triple-glazed window, but it doesn't look very impressive.

  I'm pissed off with myself for leaving my shoes downstairs behind the front door, but know without them, my incarceration looks more authentic.

  The footsteps bound down the stairs, and from here, I can only make out the faint murmurs of a hurried conversation.

  Minutes pass, before there is another sound. This time, a front door closing, and then someone tapping on our own. It doesn't take long for them to grow bored, or irritated there isn't an answer, because I hear our neighbours’ front door opening again, and then, it seems to grow quiet.

  It must have been several minutes before the loud hammering on the front door begins, and I think that surely it must be the police. But, I'm afraid it isn't. I worry our neighbours haven’t heard my pleas, when I hear the letterbox flap opening, and a man's voice bellowing through the house.

  'I'm up here. I can't get out. Please, help me. Please!'

  My frantic cries are heard. At last, I think I might escape. My real tears fall without force down my cheeks, spilling onto the lilac dress I'm wearing.

  I hear the sound of something heavy being shunted against the front door. The man is now attempting to break in.

  I slam my fists against the bedroom door, and scream as loud as I can.

  Minutes pass, until eventually, the door gives way. A loud crash emanates around the house, as the front door caves in, and then, comes the thudding of footsteps toward me; padding up the carpeted staircase. A woman's voice can be heard from below. 'Be careful.' Then, the man is standing on the other side of the bedroom door.

  'I'm going to get you out. Step away from the door.'

  I do as I'm told, and for the first time since the events of this morning, I actually feel the panic begin to rise up from my chest, spreading down my arms and across my neck. My limbs are shaking—with relief and fear.

  Finally, I will be free.

  There are one, two, three, and then a fourth loud bang, as something heavy meets the door. The wood splinters and the frame gives way, so when the door is forced toward me, it brings the frame with it.

  I didn't realise Joel had installed steel doors when he had this house built, until a foot comes through the gap in the wall, then the wood is forced toward me with strong hands, falling in a loud thump against the wall.

  The man stands in front of me, takes one look around the room, and steps back to allow me past, his expression weary.

  I tread carefully away from the door. Jagged pieces of splintered wood cover the carpet beneath my feet. I have to duck past the exposed steel sheet protruding from the door, to stop it snagging my skin. Once I reach the top of the staircase, I begin to shake.

  The man takes hold of my hand, without thinking I might not want to be touched by a complete stranger, but his main priority seems to be to get me out of there—fast.

  I allow him to run me down the stairs, until we're both standing at the bottom. The woman is trying not to look into my eyes. After all, this isn't an everyday situation. She doesn't appear to know what to say. She stands back to allow her husband to walk me out of the house, and onto the street, where a police car is parking alongside the kerb. Two uniformed officers depart the vehicle.

  Until now, none of this has seemed real. It's all been an illusion in my foggy head, but now, I can see the full scale of what I've done. My legs buckle, and I fall to the concrete path just a few feet from the house where, unbeknownst to them yet, my husband lies dead beneath his car.

  I crumple to the ground in a heap, and cannot halt the rising panic, as it begins to consume me. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and my limbs shake uncontrollably. I cannot move, or speak. I cannot stop crying. Nor do I want to. It will look more believable then.

  One of the police officers comes toward me, kneeling down, placing a hand on my shoulder. 'I'm PC Stone. It's okay now. You're safe.'

  I sob. Snot runs down the arm I use to cover my face. I don't think I've ever felt so ashamed.

  The male police officer calls her over to him, and she hesitates a moment, unsure whether to leave me, or not. When she does, the neighbours I've lived beside for the past four years, who I've never spoken to, come to stand at my side. The woman takes the place of the female police officer, emulating her position, with her hand pressed down gently onto my shoulder.

  I want to pull myself away from the woman, and shuffle back against the solid outside wall of the house, to burrow my body into the fabric of the building. I take her hand in mine and thank her, knowing from now on, all of my movements are being recorded, and accepting a stranger's touch is something that will be noted.

  Behind me, inside the house, I hear footsteps crossing down the hall. I feel my eyes begin to water, knowing what they are going to find in the garage, but I can't afford to make any mistakes. So, I force myself to become numb; something I'm used to.

  It's only when I hear the male police officer calling out to his colleague to take a look at something beyond the kitchen that my tears still. For a fraction of a second, I think I might not be able to cry. Only when PC Stone retreats back to where I'm crouched down onto the concrete, asking me if I can stand, and allowing me to lean on her for support, do I question whether, or not, I've done the right thing.

  The trouble is, if he hadn't been killed now, I may never have got the nerve to do it. It had to be then. I knew this the moment I'd grown so frightened of the outside world, rarely exploring beyond the confines of the house—my gilded cage—something drastic had to be done. There was no other op
tion.

  PC Stone shows me to the car, where the flashing blue lights glow silently. I sit inside the vehicle without a word.

  She takes out the phone from her vest, and dials someone. I hear snippets of a conversation I'm not supposed to. 'Guv, I need SOCO here now. I've got one deceased male at the scene,' she says, her eyes tracking me.

  'What? How? Joel? Joel!'

  She ignores my fevered cries, and continues her conversation.

  'Category one death . . . there's a female with me . . . yes, of course,' she says, leaning her head into the car to take my name. 'Erica Heath,' she says.

  My name sounds wrong coming from her lips.

  'No.' I shake my head. 'Joel? Joel?'

  'Is that your partner?'

  I nod.

  'I'm sorry, there's a man in the garage. I'm afraid he's unresponsive.'

  'But, how? I was only locked in the bedroom for a few hours.'

  She offers me an awkward expression.

  She offers me an awkward expression. 'What do you mean?'

  'It was an accident. I left the key downstairs. I was going to make the bed, but the door closed behind me. I got scared.'

  'You weren't locked in the room by anyone else?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'I'm sorry,' she says, glancing back to the front door of the house, where her partner is still rooting around inside. 'We need you to identify him.'

  I can only shake my head; frightened I might say something which could be interpreted as I knew he was dead before she told me.

  PC Stone ends the call, and leans into the open door of the car.

  'Erica, do you mind coming back inside to verify whether the man is your husband?'

  I follow PC Stone inside the house, and down into the garage, barely registering his lifeless body, as I begin to cry.

  'Oh, Joel.'

  'Is that your husband, Mrs. Heath?'

  'Yes,' I cry. But, it doesn't look like him. Just an empty carcass, devoid of a soul. Or has he always been like that?