Beautiful Liar: a gripping suspense thriller Read online

  A few minutes later, an ambulance arrives. Two paramedics confirm Joel is dead, and I am not in need of medical attention.

  PC Stone approaches. 'Do you feel able to accompany us to the station to answer some questions?'

  'My husband is . . . dead.'

  'I'm sorry,' she says, paying little attention to my lack of distress. Which is good really, because now I'm going to have to break into a fit of hysteria. I force myself to cry, and when I do, I try to remember something sad, which works. In a few seconds, I'm a hot, sobbing mess.

  Perfect. Nobody will suspect a thing.

  I'm left alone in the car, as PC Stone turns her back to me to speak to the two detectives who've just arrived. They leave their steel grey BMW in front of the police car I'm expected to remain inside of, until I'm told I can leave.

  'Erica?' says PC Stone, as her partner exits the house, coming to stand two feet behind her.

  I haven't been called by my own name for so long, it doesn't sound as though it belongs to me anymore. It's been months, if not years, since I've heard it spoken by anyone. But, it isn't just my name which feels wrong. It's the whole situation. Though I've mentally prepared for this moment, somehow knowing this day would eventually come, now it's here, I can't quite assemble it in my head.

  'Does anyone else live with you?'

  'My daughter. Lily. She's staying with her aunt.'

  'Those detectives,' she says, pointing toward them, 'would like to speak to you. I'd like to take you to the station.'

  I can only nod my agreement.

  My thoughts are fragmented. The image of Joel's lifeless body, and the way he looked on our wedding day, are all jumbled in my head, creating a foggy mess. I almost manage to convince myself this is a nightmare, and I'll soon wake up, back in my comfortable bed. I shake the idea away.

  I'm unsure if Joel's death appearing nothing more than an accident makes things worse for me, or if I should have claimed self-defence after all. But, it's too late now. It's been taken out of my hands. It's up to the police to state what they believe. I'm not going to lead them into a confession, but instead, hang on to learn their verdict.

  The worried glances of the neighbours who saved me are framed in the open doorway, where the door has collapsed just inside the house. The male police officer glides into the passenger seat, and the engine fires up. The car pulls away, and makes its way down the narrow road.

  I watch as we pass trees, swaying gently in the light breeze of a hot summer's day, and notice the streets are clogged with cars. Any one of these people might be hiding their own secrets. Nobody ever knows what goes on behind closed doors, least of all the house on the corner, with its well-manicured lawn and paved driveway. If they'd have looked closer, they might have seen the shadow of a woman's figure, crossing the light emanating from the hallway into the porch.

  It's been so long since I travelled anywhere by car, I'd almost forgotten a life exists beyond the confines of the house; the place I've occupied for the past four years, hardly daring to leave.

  I've convinced myself Joel's death was a necessary evil. Damage limitation. I almost believe it to be true. Only as the car parks up in the forecourt of the central police station, and the two officers leave the car—PC Stone opening the door for me to step out and follow them both through the automatic double doors—do I run over my story one final time in my head, making sure there are no gaps; no holes they will pick at, and try to fill with their own thoughts of what happened in the house today.

  I try to reassure myself the police deal with this kind of thing every day, and they're trained to believe an individual is innocent until proven guilty. I'm positive they will be sensitive toward me, and try to understand everything from my point of view. But, I have to ensure I play an authentic and passive recipient, not a victim, because if they don't believe me, I don't know what I'll do.

  JOEL

  I wasn't expecting it, I must admit. I had no idea what a cruel, callous bitch I'd married.

  Erica had always seemed quiet, controlled, and kind. Now, I know different. It wouldn't surprise me to learn she'd done it to benefit financially from my death—ever the one to enjoy the nicer things in life.

  I don't think I noticed her distance, not until recently, anyway. She'd always been so open and honest with me. The fact I had no idea what she was planning to do the moment I told her I was going to start working on the car, angers me.

  Why didn't I know? How could I have known?

  These questions circulate through my head, as my body gives up on me, just as she has done. She didn't even give me a chance to redeem myself. I would have. I could have. If only she'd given me time. And time is something I don't have, as I feel my energy slip away. My heart ceases to beat, my limbs grow still, and my organs cool.

  When I think back on the time we shared together, I suppose I can see things a little clearer from up here. As I gaze down at my body, my chest soaked in blood, I can remember things. Stupid things, really, like the way she brushed her hair, taking her time to get her parting just right. The way she hid behind the window, thinking I couldn't see her, as she watched me leave for work each morning. Now, I know she wasn't lovingly thinking of me, as she watched me drive away, but instead, she was calculating her revenge.

  When I think of the effort I put into our marriage, I can see it wasn't equal. I tried harder than her to make it work. Maybe that's when she began to change. I know I haven't.

  It was the subtle changes to our relationship which annoyed her most. I always seemed to be chasing after her, trying to rein her hysteria in. But, it worked—eventually. I was able to make her see being a married woman meant spending less time with your family and friends, and doing more together—alone.

  It wasn't easy to convince her married life wasn't always going to be hearts and flowers—rosy on the inside, as well as out. And I thought once or twice I'd made a mistake, trying to make it work with her. Another notch on the post of mistakes I seemed adept at making. But, the harder I pushed, the more it paid off, in the end. She soon came around to my way of thinking.

  I never asked her to give up her job. She wanted to. She felt she owed me for the lifestyle I provided for her. I only thought it was fair. Spending most of her days at home, it seemed only natural to want a cooked meal when I came home, and the bed ready-made for when I felt it was time to join her upstairs to sleep.

  I'm sure she'd have grown used to our little set-up, if it wasn't for that day when I stupidly invited friends over for a dinner party.

  I thought it would help if we appeared like any other normal couple, sharing a meal and conversation with other like-minded individuals, but Rose wouldn't let go. It was as if she had a hold over Erica. She was obviously jealous. She wanted what we had—a lovely home, a perfect marriage, a charming daughter, a flash car, and enough money we didn't need to worry about anything. But, appearances can be deceptive.

  Rose wanted more and more contact with my wife, and I wasn't sure I could allow that kind of extreme intimacy into our lives.

  Some might say Rose had become infatuated with Erica. She couldn't let go of her need to be accepted. Her childhood had made her into an interfering bitch, who grew increasingly obsessed with the time Erica spent with me—her husband. Others empathised with her, and acknowledged it did appear a little strange Erica never answered the phone when she was at home alone all day, or she made excuses not to have to visit anyone, or go anywhere, without her doting husband. But, I had to tell them why.

  Others thought it strange Erica—being a placid, well-mannered woman—had suddenly become rude, and appeared to be having some kind of mental breakdown over dinner. Either way, it didn't really matter what anyone thought in the end, because I never had to see Rose again—not after what Erica had said, as we sat opposite one another at the dining table.

  The words she spat at her one and only friend proved only what I had been saying for the past year was true. Erica was suffering from some kind of psychol
ogical decline, and had a tendency to lie in order to make her life sound more interesting. Beautiful though she was, nobody doubted beneath her warm, caring attitude lay a stiff, vicious bitch.

  I remember that day, as if it was yesterday.

  I had closed the door on our friends, and as I lifted the ice-cold glass of whiskey to my lips, I could feel her gaze sweep the room, questioning whether her tidying was quite up to scratch. Her insecurities were endearing. I had suggested she give the floor another mop.

  She didn't seem to mind being given things to do. In fact, I think she craved the structure. It was a change of routine, or an unexpected event, which caused disorder in Erica's world, and sent her spinning out of orbit. I'm sure that's why as soon as she'd finished mopping the floor, she came and stood beside me, her face timid, asking if there was anything else she could do. To make her happy, I said yes.

  She had given me a half-hearted smile, and I reciprocated. Waiting until she'd convinced herself today might be different, before I told her what I wanted her to do.

  'Go upstairs, and wait for me in the bedroom.'

  Her smile had faded, and the familiar glaze I'd now grown accustomed to crossed her eyes for a fraction of a second, before she obeyed, and silently turned away, taking the stairs, one step at a time, until she had reached the top.

  The carpet was so thick I couldn't hear her footsteps, as she reached the landing, making her way into the bedroom. I didn't need to hear her to know what she was doing. She would be getting undressed and waiting for me, sat naked on the side of the bed, wondering what I'd planned to do to her.

  She was less feisty these days. Nothing like the woman I'd married. She was still generous and submissive, but she'd lost her confidence. I had wondered why, as I stood up from the sofa, and made my way up the stairs and into the bedroom, where I found her in the exact position I knew she would be in.

  She didn't speak, nor did she question why I hadn't yet begun to undress. Her eyes skimmed the floor, finding their way to my feet, when I stood in front of her.

  I noticed her fingers trembling, as she leaned forward, and began to undo my belt, looping it free so it hung on either side of my jeans. She swallowed hard before she tugged down the zip, closing her eyes at the sound.

  But, I don't suppose you'll be able to understand all this, unless we go back to where it all began.

  ERICA

  PC Stone walks me into a small room at the end of a long corridor. The male officer has disappeared, leaving us alone. She shows me to a seat, and departs. A few minutes later, a female detective enters the room, closing the door behind her. I vaguely recognise her as being the one standing outside my house, just a half an hour ago.

  'I'm DC Judd,' she says, taking the seat opposite me. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may?'

  I can only nod, gulping back the panic rising up in my chest.

  She tells me the machine on the table is recording our conversation, and she is going to take notes on the pad of paper in front of her. I confirm I understand what is happening, and give her my consent to continue the conversation.

  'What happened this morning?' she says.

  I reiterate my escape, in as much detail as possible, explaining for the past four years, I've never been left alone in the house for more than a couple of hours, and I knew something was wrong.

  'Did you know that your husband was dead?'

  'No.'

  'Have you been in the house all day?'

  'Yes.'

  'Has Joel ever hurt you?'

  Though I've been prepared for this question, I cannot hide the surprise in my voice.

  'No.'

  She leans forward, peering into my eyes. 'Has he ever threatened you verbally, made you afraid to try to leave before?'

  'No. My husband is a good man. He's kind and considerate. He would never hurt me.'

  'When we entered the house, your neighbours stressed you'd been begging for help. That you were shouting and banging on the wall, trying to get out.'

  'I locked myself in the bedroom. It was a mistake. I panicked.'

  She looks at me quizzically.

  'I suffer from agoraphobia. I rarely leave the house. But, locking myself in the room was almost as terrifying as if I'd locked myself out of the house.'

  Her eyebrows raise slightly, then she leans forward. 'But you seem fine now. In here.'

  And that is when I almost lose my resolve. She's right. I should have made more of a show of not wanting to come here.

  Then, she tries to hide her surprise when I ask her, 'What happened to him?'

  She pauses a few moments. 'It looks like an accident, but we won't know until we investigate further.'

  'I can't believe it. He's my rock. What am I going to do without him?'

  When my eyes fill with tears, she passes me a tissue, and I blow my nose loudly, hoping she'll think I'm too upset to carry on, but she presses me further.

  'We'll have to complete an autopsy to determine the official cause of death. Is there anything you can tell us which might help?'

  I shake my head, and slump back in the chair, biting my fingernails, a habit I've developed since having to spend many hours alone in the house, wondering when Joel will return home, and whether or not I should have made him something to eat before he does.

  'Erica, is there anywhere safe for you to stay tonight?'

  'Yes.'

  'We'll need to take a formal statement from you. Do you mind going through everything in more detail?'

  'Not at all.'

  ***

  A little while later, I'm leaving the police station, with no idea where to go, or what I'm going to do without money. I burnt all my bridges long ago. I don't know any friends who would be happy if I'd called them now, so instead of wandering around aimlessly, I walk back into the building, and ask the man standing on the front desk if he knows of anywhere I can stay.

  DC Judd, the detective I had spoken to earlier, appears from a side room, and waits beside me until the taxi arrives, which is taking me to a bed and breakfast for the night. In the morning, I will be back to square one, with no idea what to do.

  DC Judd asks me why I'd told her I had somewhere to stay, if I didn't, and where Lily will sleep. I know, in such cases, they have to inform social services, so I tell her she's staying with her aunt, and offer no more information. I don't want social workers sniffing around.

  'I thought I could go back to the house.'

  She offers me a quizzical look, before smiling. The first time she's shown any emotion since I've been here.

  'That house is all I've known for so long. I'd almost forgotten there is a life outside of it,' I say, hoping she won't see through my words.

  She offers me a consolatory smile, and places her hand on my shoulder. I shrug her away, and head outside to the blue taxi, which has pulled up outside the front of the building.

  I sit down, and close the door behind me, wondering how I'm going to feel when the car pulls away. My journey is filled with feelings of guilt and uncertainty. Have I done the right thing? Is there a right thing? What am I going to do about Lily? When the taxi pulls up outside of the small homely-looking house, which has been converted into emergency accommodation for other women like me—women who've found themselves alone and homeless—I choke back the tears threatening to fall down my face, and head inside.

  As I pass a large plant in the corner of a shabby but warm hall, I'm greeted by an elderly woman and her daughter. They must be used to people arriving at all hours without luggage, because they don't appear shocked I've come without belongings.

  I follow the older woman up the staircase, and into a spacious ensuite bedroom, with a shower in one corner, and a bed and kitchenette on the other side of the room. I stand in front of the window, overlooking the Bristol Bridge, where the city begins to hush. I flick the kettle on, and drift back to thoughts of Joel, and the day we met.

  PAST

  Four years ago

  ERICA


  I didn't believe in love at first sight, until I met Joel. I stand with a fresh cup of coffee in my hands, taking a tentative sip, as I wait for Deborah to reload the photocopier. I've been a bit ahead of myself lately, trying to fit in several hours of work into just a few. I've left myself with little else to do, other than take extended breaks and prepare worksheets for my next coaching session.

  It's difficult to teach your work colleagues, the people you spend almost every weekday with, but I think I've found my feet now. Everything seems comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable. Maybe that's why when Joel walks out of my manager David’s office, I find myself wondering what it might be like to fall in love with someone as suave and sophisticated as him.

  He doesn't look away as he nears me. In fact, he stands so close to me I can smell his skin; he wears a musky aftershave and a crisp ironed suit.

  His eyes are such a deep chestnut colour they almost appear black, even in the bright lights of the office.

  He smiles, and opens his mouth to talk. As he does, I notice his sharp white teeth, held together by a strong jawline. His features are angular. There is no softness in his face, but then, he winks at me, and I know he has me under his spell.

  'I'm Joel Heath.'

  I extend my hand to shake his. 'Erica Foster.'

  'What are you doing later?'

  'Going home.'

  I haven't been in a relationship for a while, and the idea this handsome stranger is asking me out on a date overwhelms me.

  'I have to get back to the office. Why don't you call me when you're free?' he says, pulling out a business card from his pocket, and handing it to me.

  'Are you always this forward?'

  'Actually, no. But, I've made a resolution not to waste time this year.'

  The confidence he exudes comes across as nothing less than seductive. I have to admit to myself he has a point. There's no time to waste. You have to grab life, and make it work for you. If you don't, then you're just getting by. Something I decided the moment I told Matt it was over. Not that he seemed to care, in the end. I suspected he'd already found someone else to keep his bed warm, when I refused to leave the flat and move in with him.