The Liar's Sister (ARC) Page 11

  ‘It wasn’t a huge fight. I’ve seen her lose her temper before and this wasn’t anything like that. Even though she was upset, she didn’t seem out of control. Her taking the gun doesn’t make much sense. Unless …’ My fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel. ‘Unless she just wanted to get rid of it. Before we left the house, we were sorting through Mum’s things, arranging them into piles. Rosie found the gun at the back of the wardrobe. It’s the same gun that Dad …’

  ‘Oh,’ Peter says as he realises what I mean. ‘Well, that makes sense. Seeing the gun must have been upsetting for you both. Maybe she wants some space to sort through everything.’

  I pause. ‘Maybe she’s just left. I keep trying to fit the gun going missing and the note and Rosie together, but maybe she just decided to take off.’

  ‘If she’s run away, the train station at Ingledown might be a good place to start. She could’ve booked a taxi to take her there. Did she pack anything?’

  I shake my head. ‘Her room was exactly the same.’ Before I walked over to the Campbells, I’d thoroughly checked her room, lifting out drawers and even opening her suitcase. My heart feels heavy as I take the turning towards the town. Is my relationship with my sister damaged enough that she would leave all her belongings behind in order to get away from me?

  Fifteen

  Rosie

  Then

  At that time, I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted from Samuel. I was attracted to him, despite the fact that he was bullied at school by the popular kids. A relationship would have been impossible, given who my school friends were and what they thought of him. There wasn’t anything particularly handsome about him anyway. Emily always called him Weasel Boy, because he had such small features. I had to admit, though, he did have beautiful eyes – almost the opposite shade of blue to mine, dark as the bottom of a well – and a gentle way about him. That day he caught me making a bow in the woods, he winced when I mentioned hunting. He was always kind to the animals on his farm, and I once caught him arguing with his dad when Mr Murray wanted him to help slaughter a fox caught in the barbed wire in one of the fields.

  I came to anticipate the summer holiday excitement because I knew it would mean spending every weekday at the farm with him, Heather and Peter. There was a sense of belonging and a sense of being wanted when I was there. Samuel practically begged us to come back once Mr Murray stopped paying us pocket money. Together we were a team, and we meant the world to each other. Well, except maybe Peter, who was mostly just annoying.

  However, when I turned fifteen, I started dating boys, eventually losing my virginity to Rhys Turner. It was expected of me as part of the group I was in, and I did it without much thought or care given. Emily and Rhona had already done it at a house party a few months before. I decided to get it over with, and that was how the whole thing felt. Afterwards, I couldn’t help thinking that had it been with someone I actually liked, someone like Samuel, it might have been different. Better. It might have meant something.

  That afternoon on the farm, I’d slapped him because he’d disrespected me. I’d slapped him because he’d insulted me by putting Heather first. And I’d slapped him out of fear because of what it all might mean. Because I wasn’t sure then. I didn’t truly understand my feelings for Samuel or his feelings for Heather. It felt so forbidden to be with him that despite the gut attraction I had for him, in my head I kept repeating the word friendship. I was jealous of his friendship with Heather. In fact, I even told Mum about it once.

  ‘Rosie, honey,’ she’d said. ‘Keep an eye on your sister. She’s fragile.’

  What about me? I’d thought. Am I not? What am I?

  It was Dad who said we shouldn’t go back to the farm unless we were receiving some pay. Mum agreed, but Heather whined, and in the end I joined in with her until Grandad couldn’t stand the sight of our moping. The compromise was that we went three times a week instead of five – much to Heather’s annoyance – and Mrs Murray had to feed us lunch. The Murrays also had to throw in the occasional pint of milk or carton of eggs from the farm shop when they could spare it. The day it was agreed, Mum had one of her migraines and was in a mood all day, or so Heather said. I was out with Emily in Ingledown the evening it happened. She said that Mum claimed we were too old to be spending our summers with the Murray boys.

  But the year went on, and I turned sixteen. We resumed our friendships. We still did the same silly stuff we did when I was thirteen. Building a fort out of hay. Timing Peter as he sprinted round the paddock on foot, laughing when Midnight decided to chase him. Everything fell back into place, and even our parents relaxed.

  I had decided to stay on and take my A levels at the village school, and after the summer holidays, normality resumed. I kept out of Samuel’s way. Rhys Turner asked me out, and then I dumped him a couple of months later when he asked Rhona out behind my back. I ended up getting embroiled in this love triangle and forgot to keep an eye on my sister.

  The next summer, I did feel too old to be building hay forts with the others. I decided to quit, but Mum forced me to continue going. Every day I snapped at Peter and groaned whenever a sweeping brush was shoved into my hand. I would wander off to ride Midnight on my own around the paddock.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Mr Murray said to me one day.

  I was standing next to the paddock with one foot on the five-bar gate. He strode over, sweat on his brow, damp, thinning hair stuck to his head. Age seventeen was the height of my teen angst. I couldn’t stand adults and the way they lauded their superiority over my generation. Mr Murray represented every authority figure I couldn’t stand. That alpha-male stance. The brooding expression. There were rumours that he bullied his family, and I’d certainly seen snippets of evidence myself, often hearing his booming voice yelling at his sons from some other part of the farm.

  ‘Don’t want to be here,’ I said honestly.

  ‘Why are you, then?’

  ‘Mum makes me watch my sister,’ I said. ‘I have to keep an eye on her.’

  A smile played on his lips. ‘Your sister can take care of herself, can’t she? What’s your mother worried about anyway?’

  I just shrugged.

  He allowed his gaze to roam casually up and down my body, then said, ‘You remind me of your mother when she was young.’

  I pulled away from the gate and faced him. ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘There was a group of us all friends at school.’

  ‘What was she like?’ I asked.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘Just another lost little girl.’

  My jaw dropped stupidly as I reached for a reply and found nothing.

  ‘Keep dressing like that and no man will ever marry you,’ he said as he walked away. ‘You’ll be meat to them.’

  I stared down at the strappy top that revealed a hint of midriff and tried to pull it down. Later, when I got home, I threw it in the back of my wardrobe and never wore it again.

  Sixteen

  Heather

  Now

  Peter and I arrive at Ingledown train station about ten minutes later. It’s a small station with two platforms and a tiny ticket office. Aside from the small block of toilets, there isn’t anywhere to hide. I’ve spent many an evening here, huddled up on a bench in the freezing cold waiting for my train.

  It takes me less than ten seconds to see that Rosie is not on the platform for departures. Peter stays close as we check the ticket office, and then I head into the women’s toilets and search each cubicle. She isn’t here.

  Peter sees the dejected expression on my face when I return. ‘We’ll try somewhere else.’

  ‘Unless her train has already gone.’

  He nods his head quietly.

  Before we go, I describe my sister to the guy behind the counter at the ticket office, but he says he can’t remember anyone tall with dark hair and light-blue eyes. He reminds me that she could always have bought her ticket on the train and might not have come into t
he office at all. It’s not a particularly comforting thought.

  I stare out across the car park to the pub opposite. The White Hart. We used to come here underage with ridiculous fake IDs. The staff didn’t particularly care and served us our vodka and Red Bulls anyway. Then we’d pile into a taxi and attempt an imitation of sobriety when we stumbled back into Ivy Cottage.

  ‘What is it?’ Peter asks.

  I nod towards the pub. ‘Maybe she’s in there.’ Warmth floods through my veins. Those memories of the White Hart make me feel strongly that I’m right. What if she came to the train station with the intention of leaving, but lost her nerve and went across the road instead? This is definitely something Rosie would do. ‘Do you mind waiting here?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  I hand him the car keys and walk towards the pub. There are tingles like pins and needles working their way up and down my arms. Please be here, Ro.

  It has always been a loud place at all times of the day. Ingledown isn’t a tourist town, but people do tend to stop here once they’re off the train. When I step in, I feel swallowed whole by the sounds of people chattering to each other.

  I scan the place, starting with the bar, moving over to the seats by the window. Rosie isn’t there. Unless she’s hiding away where it isn’t as loud; there’s another room around the back, one that’s much quieter. I hurry through, barely able to stand the suspense, every part of me hoping to be right.

  Picking my way around the tables and chairs, I make my way to the back of the room, and relief floods through my body. My sister sits alone, her body hunched over the table, a full glass of white wine before her. She has her long hair pulled over one shoulder and the light catches the fluidity of it, making it shine. When I approach, she lifts her gaze before I even open my mouth to speak, as though she sensed I was there.

  ‘I haven’t had any,’ she says, gesturing to the wine. ‘I ordered it and then sat here staring at it for an hour …’

  When I throw my arms around her neck, she stiffens, and then finally relaxes into the hug. ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ I ask, letting her go. I grab a stool and pull it close to her, sinking onto it, my clenched muscles finally beginning to relax. The relief almost takes me by surprise, making me realise just how worried I was about her.

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ she says. ‘I reached the station all in a huff, ready to get on a train, any train, but then I stopped and came in here instead.’ One side of her mouth lifts in a crooked smile. ‘I half expected someone behind the bar to recognise me from all those nights we used our fake IDs. But it’s different staff.’

  ‘I guess ten years is a long time. People move on.’

  ‘But not me.’ She sighs. ‘I’m still stuck where I was ten years ago. What have I done with my life? Nothing.’

  ‘You’ve come a long way,’ I remind her. ‘You’ve beaten addiction. You didn’t drink that glass of wine and that is a massive achievement.’

  ‘Whoop de do.’ She rolls her eyes.

  I don’t take it personally. Instead I pick up the glass and return it to the bar. ‘There. Now it’s gone,’ I say when I sit down again.

  Rosie’s wan expression relaxes into a slight smile. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say. The note is burning a hole in my pocket. I decide to just show it to her. ‘I found this at the house.’

  She takes the paper and scans the words, her brow furrowed. I watch her read it twice and then throw it down on the table in disgust. ‘This has Ian Dixon written all over it. I bet he wants to buy the cottage.’

  ‘He already has a decent house, doesn’t he?’

  Rosie’s fingers clench and unclench. If this is an act, it’s a good one. ‘All I know is that I don’t trust him. He’s probably trying to frighten us, but it’s not going to work. We’re going to take our sweet time and I don’t give a shit if everyone hates me.’ She stares at the wall, her eyes burning fiercely. ‘It should be Samuel they hate, not me. This is all his fault.’

  ‘Samuel isn’t here,’ I remind her.

  ‘So what?’ She turns and fixes her ice-blue eyes on mine. ‘It’s still his fault.’

  ‘I know,’ I say quietly.

  ‘It’s not fair. Nothing has been fair since …’ She drifts off and clenches her fists again.

  ‘Do you think Samuel is dead?’ I ask, sensing that part of her guard has dropped.

  But she hesitates before answering, and her defences come back up. ‘All I think is that I hope he got what he deserved.’

  ‘Rosie,’ I say, keeping my voice calm. ‘Did you take Dad’s gun?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I went back to the cottage, the door was wide open and some of Mum’s things were gone. Dad’s shotgun wasn’t in the wardrobe.’

  She seems as shocked as I was when I discovered the missing items from the house. ‘Heather, it wasn’t me. I didn’t even go back to the cottage. I got in a taxi and came straight to the train station. Was someone in our house? Oh my God, someone broke in!’

  Hearing her say it makes the realisation that someone broke into our house finally hit home. Dread spreads through me, leaving me cold.

  ‘Should we call the police?’ I suggest. ‘I didn’t when I thought it might be you. I just went out and started searching for you.’

  Rosie drums the table with her fingernails before she answers. ‘What if Ian Dixon takes the call?’

  ‘I know he doesn’t like us, but surely he would still investigate a crime,’ I reply.

  Rosie points to the letter. ‘He’s been nothing but nasty to us since Mum died. What if he wrote that note? What if he was the one to break into the cottage?’

  I lean back. ‘I dunno, Rosie. That seems … extreme. He’s an arsehole but I don’t know about breaking and entering. And theft. It would put his career at risk.’

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ Rosie says again.

  ‘Why not? Has he upset you? What’s going on, Ro?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t stand the cocky bastard, that’s all.’ And then she rubs her finger with her thumb.

  * * *

  The drive home is somewhat awkward, especially when I have to drop off Peter at the farm. As soon as he jumps out of the car, Rosie raises her eyebrows, an unspoken question on her lips.

  ‘What?’ I say defensively.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shrugs dramatically and smiles, but I know my sister, and I know that the smile isn’t genuine.

  When we arrive back at Ivy Cottage, the quiet of the house has a threatening feel to it. Someone has been in our home, touched our things, stolen from us and invaded our space. Thankfully, the front door is still locked this time. I open it and step cautiously in. Now that it’s been established that someone broke into our house and stole a gun, I can’t stop thinking about all the hostile stares and words that have come our way since Rosie arrived in Buckthorpe. It could have been any of them. It could have been more than one, if I’m to take the letter at face value. Sincerely, Buckthorpe Village.

  ‘Whoever it was stole a photo album and a gun, but they left the television, laptops and jewellery.’ Rosie steps gingerly through the house and I follow behind.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then it was motivated by some reason other than money. Those items were chosen specifically.’

  ‘The only place they touched was Mum’s bedroom. Everything else is exactly the way we found it, except …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I checked your room. I basically ransacked it. I thought it might help me find you.’

  ‘You went through my things?’ For the briefest of moments, she seems sixteen again, an incredulous expression on her face, hand on her hip. Stop borrowing my clothes! I almost laugh.

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’

  She waves a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s try and work out which album they took. If we know what’s in it, we might be able to work out which sack of shit in Buckthorpe wants us dead.’

  ‘Don’t,
’ I say.

  ‘What? It’s true, isn’t it? Why else would someone steal a gun?’

  Though her words make my blood run cold, I try to keep a cool head to help us think through all the possible options. ‘They could’ve just waited for us to come home and killed us.’

  ‘Good point,’ Rosie admits. ‘Yeah, none of this makes sense.’

  ‘I already know which album it was. It was one of the big leather-bound albums with old photos in it. I don’t think we’d looked at the photos inside yet.’

  ‘Weird. I guess there was something inside it that someone didn’t want us to see.’

  ‘And the gun?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. They didn’t want us to have it for some reason.’

  ‘They don’t want us to be armed?’ I suggest.

  I follow Rosie up the stairs and into Mum’s bedroom, where she sinks down onto the bed. ‘Just because they didn’t try to kill us today doesn’t mean they won’t.’

  ‘Maybe we should leave,’ I say. ‘Or maybe we should take a chance with the police.’

  But Rosie shakes her head. ‘No way. I’d say the police are the most likely suspects.’

  ‘What’s going on between you and Ian Dixon?’ I’m not sure what’s bothering me the most, that Rosie is obviously aggravated by the sergeant, or that she won’t tell me why. What is she hiding?

  ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘But he as good as told us to get the fuck out of Buckthorpe. He hates us being here.’

  ‘Enough to want us dead?’ I raise an eyebrow sceptically. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then he just wants to scare us. That’s what all of this is, a scare tactic. The letter, the gun … it makes sense,’ she says.

  ‘Except for the photo album,’ I remind her. ‘Anyway, how would he know we were out of the house? He works in Ingledown most of the time.’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘Maybe he hired someone to watch us.’