Little Liar: A nail-biting, gripping psychological thriller Read online

  * * *

  This is how it WENT DOWN:

  I went outside to get my school bag from the car (CHECK). SUDDENLY I saw the hole in the hedge that Noah uses to get his football (CHECK). Then SUDDENLY I was in her garden (CHECK) and then SUDDENLY I saw Mrs E in her bedroom window (DOUBLE CHECK).

  * * *

  In Noah’s Charles Dickens pop-up book Pip in Great Expectations is very brave when he visits Miss Haversham. She looks scary in the picture with a pointy nose and grey hair but she is nice really. Mrs E has grey hair too but it is short and sticks up at the front. I am not brave at all. Noah would say I am a big fat poo-head for not telling that police woman that you are a lovely mummy and that you didn’t mean to hurt my wrist.

  * * *

  Daddy says butt-head and wee-wee brain to make Noah laugh. When he thinks I am not listening he says shit a lot, like ALL THE TIME. I bet he would call that police woman MRS SHIT-HEAD.

  * * *

  Love you,

  Rosie.

  xx

  * * *

  P.S. When I go round to Mrs E’s house I hope she will have Mr Kipling battinburger cake. YUM YUM IN MY TUM.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Peter breathed slowly and heavily over my shoulder as we read:

  * * *

  PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

  South East Assessment Hub

  Silway Centre

  Greyswood

  GU52 92L

  * * *

  Dear Mrs Bradley,

  * * *

  RE: Police response visit to 4 Virginia Close, 16 October 2016

  * * *

  I am writing to inform you that Social Services have been notified about the above incident that followed a concerned call from your neighbour. PC Connolly and PC Yorke made an assessment, after speaking to you and your children at the above address, concluding that there was no immediate cause for concern.

  * * *

  To ensure you feel appropriately supported, you can contact me at Children’s Services on the above number with regards to your child/ren.

  * * *

  Yours sincerely,

  * * *

  Miranda Slater

  * * *

  Social Worker South East Assessment Team

  In an oddly disconnected moment, I inspected the outside of the envelope for signs that would give away its sender, like an ink stamp or a sticker, worried the postman would have guessed at its contents.

  The gossip mill of a small town could be toxic. I imagined the mothers at school finding out. After all the years Rosie had been at that same school, I wasn’t friendly with any of them, except Vics. I liked them when I joined them for pub drinks at the end of each term, but I often came away paranoid that they judged me for my absence at the school gates. They seemed to know so much more than me about the ins and outs of school politics. Some of them were so involved in their children’s school careers they should have been on salaries. There were times when I had to repress the compulsion to tell them that my dedication to my children was as authentic and loving as theirs, just exposed differently. I was certain that I would be on Prozac or permanently drunk if I had stayed as a full-time mother. What would they make of this letter? No doubt, it would light up their school pick-up chatter.

  The faded blue borough council stamp was the only clue to its contents. It could have been about council tax or the electoral role or any number of things. The fact that it wasn’t thudded in my gut.

  ‘What does this mean?’ Peter said.

  The base of my spine ached with its new load and I rubbed there, pressing the stress away.

  The memory of PC Connolly’s parting words resurfaced. ‘It’s standard procedure, apparently,’ I informed Peter, anger rattling through my voice.

  ‘Is it? They didn’t say anything about getting social workers involved, did they?’

  ‘I told you, PC Connolly specifically said there’d be no further action.’

  I skimmed to the bottom of the letter to the name at the bottom. This Miranda Slater woman can fuck right off with her offer of help, I thought.

  ‘Maybe they searched their files at the station and found records of your stint in Holloway?’

  I couldn’t laugh. I re-read the letter and it riled me further. ‘Appropriately supported? Jesus. I don’t feel very supported when two police officers turn up on my door accusing me of abusing my children. I feel totally unsupported.’

  Peter gulped back his wine like water.

  ‘A hangover isn’t going to help anything,’ I snapped.

  ‘Don’t use this to have a go at me.’ Peter took the letter from me. ‘Let me read it again.’

  I moved over to the window, peering out through hedge to the Entwistles’ house.

  ‘The thought of having to call a social worker makes my blood boil, seriously, don’t you think it’s insulting?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this kind of thing. Can we ignore it?’

  The flimsy inanimate letter in front of us seemed to be alive, radiating trouble.

  ‘I don’t need their help.’

  ‘Will it look bad if we don’t get in contact?’

  ‘Who cares?’ I snatched up the letter and crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the bin.

  Peter and I looked at the bin for what seemed like a long minute, before he said, ‘That was a bit rash.’

  We both burst out laughing.

  ‘A bit hasty, maybe,’ I snickered.

  Gingerly, I picked it out and smoothed it onto the table.

  Peter chuckled, peeling off an old piece of grated carrot. ‘And you didn’t even put it in the recycling.’

  I searched his smiling eyes for that reassuring connection between us. It was there, but I also spotted my anxiety reflected back at me.

  Our mirth subsided.

  I folded the grubby sheet back into its envelope. ‘I’ll call her and tell her politely that we don’t need any help.’

  The smile fell completely from both of our faces after I said it. In the space of a few seconds, Peter looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a hundred years, as though the laughter had wrung him dry of every tiny last bit of optimism.

  He rubbed his face and sighed, ‘What are we doing so wrong?’

  ‘What am I doing so wrong, you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Mum and Jacs think I don’t spend enough time with her. Like it’s an attention thing.’

  He looked almost hopeful again. ‘Do you think they have a point?’

  ‘You and I both made the decision to have a joint income, Peter.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you.’

  ‘It seems like it.’

  ‘We’re on the same side.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I rubbed my fingers at my hairline, hearing the scratch through my skull. I didn’t want to be obstructive.

  ‘D’you think we should make some lifestyle changes?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We could sell the house? Reduce our overheads?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I moaned, feeling my brain hurting.

  Peter looked around him. ‘I love this house.’

  ‘The kids would be devastated. And Rosie might get worse.’ But I didn’t say what would sound selfish and un-motherly, that I loved my job, that I didn’t want to stay at home filling the hours before pick-up with tennis lessons and coffee mornings.

  ‘But at least Mira wouldn’t be listening next door.’ Peter shot a filthy look in the direction of Mira’s house.

  ‘That is not a good reason to move.’ However much I detested her being so close, I was not going to run away from the life we had worked so hard to create.

  Peter poured more wine and cleared his throat. ‘Maybe this social worker woman might be able to recommend someone to talk to?’

  ‘What kind of someone?’

  ‘A counsellor or something.’

  ‘No,’ I barked, sounding like my mother. My heart was beati
ng in my eardrums.

  ‘Don’t fly off the handle, okay? You always bloody fly off the handle,’ he snapped with a rare flash of anger.

  I breathed in, as though sucking back an unexploded grenade. ‘I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing our business.’

  He flashed his palms at me, surrendering, ‘Fine.’ He stood up, knocking the stool over, leaving it and weaving out.

  I wrapped my arms around my middle, and imagined the tiny curl of a baby there. Perhaps when it was born, Rosie would realise that the world didn’t revolve around her, that her tantrums wouldn’t get her anywhere. I might consider asking her to help me transform the spare room into the nursery. If she engaged with a project, she might forget about her own dramas for a change.

  In the meantime, if she had a tantrum again, I would put her in the television den, where the noise would bounce off Mr Elliot’s garage wall. We could fix a lock onto the door, take down the oil painting and cover the dangerous edges to keep her safe in there while she screamed it out. Or give her a cream egg. Anything to keep the police and the Social Services away.

  Deep down though, I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I hoped she had been scared by the police visit as much as we had and I hoped that our day out in London would heal us, temporarily at least.

  Chapter Twenty

  TOP SECRET

  * * *

  Dear Mummy,

  * * *

  INVISIBLE INK ALERT: I bet you a gazillion Monopoly pounds that Mrs E will come up to me and Noah on the rec tomorrow again. She comes every day. I don’t talk to her. I just run away with Noah. She told me not to be shy. On Monday I won’t be shy. I’m going to tell her that you are AWESOME and LOVELY and that I love you so so so so so much.

  * * *

  Love you (again),

  Rosie.

  * * *

  P.S. We are going to LONDON tomorrow!!!!! BIG THUMBS UP EMOJI. You are the best.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rosie pointed out of her side of the car window. ‘There’s Mrs E.’

  When Mira spotted us, she stopped, parked her shopping basket on the camber and waved. Rosie waved back.

  Resisting the urge to slap Rosie’s hand down, I sped on down the hill towards the station. Through the rear-view mirror, I could see Mira turn to watch us go. Had she really expected me to stop for a little chat?

  As soon as Rosie and I were standing on the train platform, hand in hand, I stopped seething about Mira and I felt a surge of eagerness and delight at the prospect of sitting in the auditorium with Rosie to watch the musical show, which my mother would think terribly lowbrow, a fact that added to my glee.

  We found two table seats on the carriage and sat down opposite each other with two hot chocolates in paper cups.

  I looked at her and saw how grown-up she was. Her white shirt was buttoned up to the neck, like the girls in the fashion magazines, and the necklace Peter and I had given her for Christmas rested on her collar. I was starry-eyed with pride. Without the stresses and distractions of daily life, I understood how I had lost sight of how fast she was growing up. I couldn’t believe we had never been to London together before, just the two of us.

  ‘Tell me about school. What’s the latest?’

  I had wanted to know about her friends. Or teachers. Or books she was reading.

  ‘I got thirty out of thirty in my spelling test, and a silver medal for the times table competition.’

  Knowing she had wanted a gold medal, I mustered up some enthusiasm to say, ‘Well done, darling! That is wonderful.’

  * * *

  ‘I only didn’t get gold because stupid Edmund distracted me. He says girls aren’t good at maths.’ She rolled her eyes to the heavens.

  ‘That’s annoying of Edmund. Was he told off?’ I said, possibly too aggressively, fighting the desire to get my phone out and email the school about this irritating Edmund who ruined Rosie’s chances of a gold medal.

  ‘Mum, don’t you dare talk to the teachers.’ Her blue eyes flashed.

  ‘I won’t, but it isn’t very good that he got away with that.’

  ‘He didn’t!’ she cried. ‘This is why I never tell you stuff. You just stress me out and then cause a fuss at school and then it is just so embarrassing!’

  Oh God, I thought, reel it in, calm down, put your own shit aside, Gemma. I talked myself down from my default competitive mode.

  I imagined a tantrum in this full train carriage. She didn’t often have tantrums in public, suggesting she had more control over herself than we gave her credit for. But she did have them. Her last public display of fury had been in the summer of this year. We had been enjoying a game of rounders on the recreational ground in the glittering sunshine. Before the game, Rosie had been edgy and moody. Rounders had been an idea to snap her out of it. When Noah had hit the ball into the hedges, Rosie had ordered him to get it for her, and I had reminded her that as a fielder it was her job to get the ball while Noah ran. She refused. I became insistent. She had thrown herself down onto the grass and rolled around, wailing in that high-pitched way. Her screams had echoed around the grounds. Dog walkers frowned, children stopped on their scooters to stare, mothers with prams stole sideways glances, families on their picnic rugs chewed on their sandwiches pretending it wasn’t happening, until I dragged her home by the arm, feeling rumpled, aggravated and humiliated.

  The train carriage was relatively quiet. I imagined her losing her temper; the day ruined before it had started. Strangers had little tolerance for noisy children, and even less tolerance for bad parents.

  I would do everything to make every second of her day happy today. If it came to it, I had her iPod in my handbag for emergencies.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out. I absolutely promise not to talk to the teachers. You are an absolute superstar for getting silver.’

  Rosie dropped her chin onto the palm of her hand and slumped towards the window, her mouth down-turned, her eyes barely registering the landscape that shot by outside the window.

  I was panicking. How could I bring her back? When she descended into this kind of a mood, it could be impossible to get her out of it. Her eyelids would hood and her shoulders would round and her answers would become monosyllabic.

  Then she said, ‘The new boy, Ben, is really cool, you know. He is literally like the funniest boy I have ever met.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Is he handsome too?’

  ‘Muuuum!’ She rolled her eyes and looked around her self-consciously. ‘I didn’t mean in that way,’ she said, but I could see she was blushing.

  She was back. Her small smile was like finding a gemstone in mud. If I could keep a cool head, there would be no reason for her to tantrum.

  ‘What does he say that’s funny?’

  ‘He just is. Like Daddy when he says, “Answers on a postcard”, Ben says, like, “Talk to the hand.”’ Rosie giggled, blushing more.

  ‘That’s quite funny,’ I chuckled, enjoying her amusement.

  And she began to talk more about this boy, Ben, and how he had asked every pretty girl in the class out except her, which his friend said was because he liked her best. She talked ten to the dozen; a long-winded, wonderful, barely intelligible story about how Charlotte and the other girls in her class were vying for his attention. Her eyes lit up and her hands gesticulated wildly and she overused the slang ‘I was, like...’ and ‘awesome’, which I studiously ignored. I assumed the whole carriage was listening and watching her with awe, impressed and charmed by this funny and enthusiastic child, so full of life and intelligence, and I listened hard to the details so that I could respond well.

  ‘What did Charlotte do when Noah laughed at your joke?’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.’ She crossed her arms over her chest.

  ‘Is everything okay between you and Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes, Mum! I know you don’t like her but she’s so, so, so nice, you know.’

  ‘Are you sure?�
��

  ‘I just can’t believe you don’t believe me,’ she cried, defensively.

  Again, the knife edge.

  ‘I really do believe you. I think Charlotte can be very lovely when she tries. I’m only responding to what you were telling me. It’s not very nice to ignore someone for a whole day.’

  ‘That was just one day. The rest of the time she is my best, best friend.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you two get on so well.’

  ‘We do,’ she said, staring out of the window again.

  We didn’t talk very much more for the rest of the journey. Plainly, she was still hurt by my scepticism about Charlotte. I didn’t push it this time. It had been a breakthrough to hear her talk about the social dynamics in her class, and the boy scandals. Slowly, slowly I would try to win her trust again over the day. Today was going to be a turning point. Miranda Slater’s patronising letter – all crumpled and stained – would gather dust, that much I knew.

  There was a buzz outside the theatre as we queued to get in. I bought her candyfloss and a souvenir key-ring. I clutched her hand to keep her safe in the throng of the theatre audience. Despite the many decades I had grown up and lived in London, I was nervous in the city with her. She was a country girl, ill-equipped to negotiate the pace of city crowds.

  During the musical I stole glances at her face: gripped, enthralled, absorbed. After the performance, we had shared a huge ice cream at Fortnum and Masons.

  In the taxi on the way back to the train station, she snuggled up to me.

  ‘I think we should do this again soon, don’t you?’ I enfolded her in my arms.