The Liar's Sister (ARC) Page 6

  My mother’s name was Iris. She named us both after flowers in the same way her mother had named her girls. I’m not sure how far back the naming ritual extends, but I know it’s at least three generations of Lily and Iris and Hyacinth and Daisy and Rose and Azalea. Thank goodness I’m not a Daisy or an Azalea. No, I’m Heather, though that has always felt wrong for me, evoking the wild and windy moors of a Brontë novel.

  I straighten up from my crouched position and examine the bluebell in my fingers. It calms me at first, because it reminds me of walks with Mum, where she’d identify the different kinds of flowers to me. Snapdragons and bluebells were my favourite, but daffodils were Mum’s. Rosie claimed her favourite flower was a rose, but that was only because of her name. Her secret favourite flower is the orchid. It’s as I think about Rosie that the cold seeps in under my jacket. Yes, it is spring, but the nip of winter hasn’t left the air just yet. Also, this is where I found Rosie’s bracelet all those years ago, and that chill has never gone away.

  She’d gone to bed wearing that bracelet and woken up without it, and I’d found it in the woods on the same night Samuel disappeared. I’ve never told a single person.

  As I leaned in to Mum at the hospital and heard her whisper her dying words to me, I had a thought that I kept to myself. On the way home, as Rosie and I talked about our last moments with Mum, I chose not to tell my sister what had been going through my mind as Mum uttered those last words.

  She told me she didn’t have any regrets, but I do have a regret. I wish I hadn’t ignored what Rosie did the night Samuel went missing. I wish I’d at least tried to find out where she’d been.

  But it isn’t too late. We’re here together in Buckthorpe for the first time since Dad died. I don’t want to live my life with regrets; I want to finally find out what happened. Maybe it can be the last thing I do before I leave this place forever.

  * * *

  The hastily scribbled note on the fridge tells me that Rosie has gone out for eggs and bacon. When I check the back of it, I see that she tore the scrap from a bill I need to pay. No doubt she picked up whatever was to hand and scrawled on it without thinking. My sister never changes – always living the whirlwind approach to life, rarely slowing down to see how her actions affect the world around her.

  It’s ridiculous to resent her for that, but part of me does. When we were children I was forever righting her wrongs, clearing up what she’d spilled, fixing the clothes she’d torn and didn’t want Mum to see.

  Until I stopped doing those things for her and she fell apart.

  I put the note back underneath a magnet of Blackpool Tower and make my way into the living room. There, atop the side table, is the phone. The sight of it reminds me of my tasks. The funeral home. My boss. The flowers … I can’t. Instead I take myself up to Rosie’s room, where Grandad used to sleep. Outside, I hesitate. Should I go in? The door is open a crack, with morning light filtering out onto the corridor. What would rummaging through her things even accomplish? She wouldn’t be stupid enough to have kept any convenient evidence of a ten-year-old crime.

  I lean away from the doorway and close my eyes for a moment. Impulsively diving into someone’s belongings isn’t who I am. As far as I’m concerned, rules exist for a reason. If I’m going to find out what happened to Samuel, I have to do it right, and I have to be logical. For one thing, he might have run away, or been killed by someone else, or even committed suicide. I roll my shoulders, uncomfortable with all of those thoughts. I open my eyes and hug my body for warmth.

  Rather than trespass into my sister’s space, I cross the landing and enter Mum’s bedroom. The place is a mess. Boxes of medication are stacked in precarious towers along the top of the chest of drawers. They were all over the kitchen, but I moved them here when she went into hospital for her final weeks. The bedding is rumpled, though I did straighten it up a little last time I was in here. Everything clashes. The newish IKEA bed is an odd juxtaposition with the enormous antique wardrobe. I run my fingers along the dark mahogany. This wardrobe has been here forever. It was here before me, and I hate to imagine how it could ever be removed.

  Opening the wardrobe for the first time since Mum died is something I should be doing with Rosie, but once it’s done, it’s done. My fingertips trail the length of Mum’s clothes, as well as some of Dad’s shirts. On the shelf above the rail are messy piles of jumpers and trousers. I reach up and touch the soft wool, then drop to my knees and part the dresses and shirts, because there is one item of my mother’s that I’ve always wanted to see but was never allowed to as a child.

  Beyond the sea of cotton and polyester, right at the back of the wardrobe, are several shoeboxes piled on top of each other. I pull out the first one and lift the lid. Inside are bundles of old photographs, which I thumb through quickly. Grandad with Rosie on his lap. Dad with a hammer in his hand fixing the fencing around the paddock. Mum wearing her glasses, a pen twisted into her hair. This is not the box I’m searching for. I delve back into the depths of the wardrobe to bring out more boxes. Once I have them all, I spread them out on the bed and begin removing the lids. I’m sure I’ll want to examine all of these old photographs at some point, but for now I’m looking for something else.

  The fourth box is filled with notebooks. Slim pocket notebooks that Mum used to slip into her old-fashioned farmer’s-wife-style skirts. I begin opening them and reading. This is what I wanted to find – Mum’s poetry.

  What power it had over us all those years ago. Mum, cross-legged on the sofa, pen in hand, notebook on her lap, lost to her world. If we were desperate for attention during this time, we’d be shushed. She was entitled to a little peace and quiet every now and then, she would say, irritated and snappy. This was her way of de-stressing: to scribble words down in these books. There are dozens of them from over the years, each containing private thoughts that we were never privy to.

  My heart flutters, like wings against my chest. These are her words.

  Dreamlike light under green,

  Hazy, low sun wants to be seen.

  Our feet tread, crunch and slide,

  I loved to walk by your side.

  After all these years … after living with a woman who kept her thoughts and feelings tightly locked away, here they are. And I don’t know what to feel now that I’m faced with these private thoughts. All I know is that a dull ache forms in my abdomen as I continue reading.

  You were kind once,

  I remember that,

  Like an aftertaste

  Turned sour …

  Most of the poems are only a stanza or two. I wish I knew who she was writing about.

  I long for the days

  When regrets were simple.

  You killed me.

  Regrets again. What did you mean, Mum? Did you once have regrets but forgave yourself later? Did you come to terms with whatever you did? There are so many questions that can now never be answered. I mentally berate myself for not opening this box earlier. I was tempted to, of course, but that would have been sacrilege. I couldn’t have faced her if I’d snooped through her poetry while she was alive.

  But at the same time, if she hadn’t wanted me to read her poems, wouldn’t she have destroyed them when she found out she was ill? Why didn’t she tell me more about who she was, about who the people in these verses were? Were the poems about Dad? You were kind once. I read on, skipping over the short lines of text. Forbidden once and now lost, you were the one I wanted most. Mum loved fiercely, something I never realised when I was young. Have I ever loved a man with this fervour? My face flushes at the thought of my parents involved in a passionate love affair with each other.

  I dig deeper into the box and find a few scraps of paper with more verses scrawled on them. At some point Mum moved on to typing her poems on the computer, probably as arthritis set in, and one catches my eye:

  Blame the blue,

  Guilt the trees,

  Curse the sleep,

  We were complicit.


  * * *

  Yours to start,

  Mine to end,

  Dark to light,

  In death illicit.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  The sudden voice at the door makes me bite my tongue as I inhale a gasp. I twist my body to see Rosie with her arms folded across her chest and a deep frown creasing her face. As soon as I recover from the shock – and the tongue bite – a flush of guilt warms my face.

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘It didn’t take you long to start nosing through Mum’s poetry.’ There’s a hard note to her voice that I can’t ignore. And she’s right, of course: I am poking around in our mum’s personal belongings. Before I can say anything, though, she steps forward and leans over my shoulder. ‘Who knew Mum was such an emo?’ Her lips turn up into a half-smile, but I see a reticence in her expression. I didn’t notice at first because I felt caught out with the poetry, but Rosie’s skin is pale and waxy.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘Yes, but we have an unexpected guest.’

  Eight

  Heather

  Now

  Mum’s old-fashioned kettle begins to whistle as I follow Rosie down the stairs. She goes into the kitchen while at the same time giving me a sisterly shove towards the living room. She obviously doesn’t want to deal with our visitor. I find myself stepping into the lounge to see Sergeant Ian Dixon sitting on the sofa.

  He raises a hand. ‘Hi, Heather.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  He’s dressed in his uniform, which puts me on edge, but it’s not as though he has never visited before. I wouldn’t say he’s a family friend, but he is well known in the village, having grown up here before joining the police. The station is located in Ingledown, the main town a few miles over, but all the villagers know him well. I suppose it’s fair to say he’s an authority figure in Buckthorpe, especially after being promoted to sergeant.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here on official business.’

  I sweep stray hairs away from my face and find a spot opposite Ian in one of the old floral armchairs. It’s not the most comfortable seat in the house; in fact, as soon as I sit, a spring pokes through the fabric, prodding the flesh on my backside. Still, it’s less awkward than sitting side by side on the sofa.

  ‘Then what can we help you with?’ I ask, attempting to sound comfortable with him being in the house, forcing too much cheer into my voice.

  ‘Well, I heard that Rosie was visiting,’ he says, smiling.

  Right on cue, Rosie carries a tray of tea and biscuits into the room, and Ian watches as she places it on the coffee table. She kneels on the carpet and busies herself pouring the tea, not once glancing in his direction. I can’t help but focus on the tension between them.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘As you know, Mum has been ill. Actually, she passed away yesterday.’

  His smile fades, transforming into an earnest, sombre expression with lowered eyes. He shakes his head sadly. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t realise.’

  Rosie tilts her head in my direction, but I can’t quite make out her expression. As she hands Ian his cup of tea, she keeps her gaze low. Even though her expression is unreadable, I can tell by the anxious way she taps one nail against the porcelain that she’s hoping I’ll get rid of him quickly.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I reply. ‘Feel free to stay and finish your drink.’

  Rosie’s eyes narrow. She’s clearly pissed off that I’ve let a golden opportunity slip through my fingers. Why doesn’t she want him in the house? But rather than say anything, she picks up her own cup and sits cross-legged on the floor, leaving me to get my own. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes as I lean forward for the last teacup.

  ‘Your mum was a lovely lady,’ Ian says, taking a cautious sip. Steam rises from the hot tea, catching the sunlight. When he leans back against the sofa, the light falls across his face. He’s about ten years older than me and Rosie. When we were teenagers, he was a young PC living with his mum in the centre of Buckthorpe. She owned the newsagent before it was sold and converted into a café. ‘She’ll be missed around the village,’ he adds.

  ‘Thanks, we appreciate that,’ I say.

  ‘Why are you here, Ian?’ Rosie asks, a little too rudely. She juts out her chin and shuffles against the carpet. ‘You said you didn’t know about Mum, so I guess you’re not here to offer condolences.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says smoothly, as though not even noticing Rosie’s bluntness. ‘I just popped in to say hello to you, Rosie. You don’t visit often.’

  ‘Why, though? We’re not friends.’

  ‘Ro!’ I warn. Now she’s being blatantly rude.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Ian says, smiling. ‘I suppose we’re not. But Buckthorpe is small and news travels.’ He takes another sip of his tea. ‘I like to keep up with what’s going on in the village.’

  The more he talks, the more my interest is piqued. Surely a sergeant, even one in a quiet rural location, is too busy to call on acquaintances while obviously on duty. And why would he want to see Rosie in particular? Also, why does he want to keep abreast of local events? Is he that nosy?

  ‘I hear you’re running the team in Ingledown now,’ I say, attempting to change the subject but gather extra information while I’m at it. ‘What’s it called? A countryside initiative? I bumped into your mum a few weeks ago and she mentioned it.’

  ‘That’s right, Heather,’ he says. ‘We’re aiming to keep the countryside crime-free.’

  ‘Littering and loitering getting out of control, is it?’ Rosie snipes.

  I shoot her another warning glance. Rosie’s obvious hostility is setting me on edge.

  ‘Actually, there’s been an increase in violent crime over the last few years. And unfortunately, rural areas like this are always vulnerable to animal cruelty. The Murrays found a slaughtered cow a few weeks back. The poor thing had cigarette burns all over its body.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Even Rosie appears taken aback by Ian’s answer. She shakes her head sadly.

  ‘That’s horrible. Who would do such a thing?’ I ask.

  Ian drinks a little more of his tea, dragging out the suspense before giving us his professional opinion. ‘Isolation can do funny things to folk, and Buckthorpe definitely feels isolated with the woods on most sides. I’m sure it was just kids on drugs. I’ll be keeping an eye on the farm to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Have you got any animals at the moment?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re all gone now.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘It’s been a tough few years for you. You’ve said goodbye to a lot of family, as well as your pets.’ He picks lint from his sleeve before lifting his head to meet my gaze. ‘I suppose it means there isn’t much tying you to Buckthorpe any more. Neither of you have kept in touch with many school friends, have you?’ He picks up his teacup from the coffee table and sips again.

  It takes me a moment to realise quite how odd that statement is. Rosie also frowns, absorbing Ian’s words.

  ‘Well, I suppose not. But this is our childhood home.’ I glance up to the ceiling as though in explanation.

  ‘With happy memories …’ He raises his voice at the end of the sentence, making it into a question. Then he places his cup back down on the table. ‘Or not so happy?’ This time, he regards Rosie directly. ‘Because I remember some not particularly happy memories, don’t you?’

  I don’t appreciate the way he’s staring at my sister, and I find myself bristling in response. ‘We have many happy memories of our childhood home, Ian. The good outweighs the bad.’

  ‘Does Rosie think so?’ he asks, still staring at her.

  Abruptly Rosie climbs to her feet and leaves the room in silence.

  ‘I think you should go, Sergeant.’ I slam my cup down on the coffee table and rise to my feet. ‘We’re grieving and we need some space.’

  His eyes lazily find mine. �
��Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that … Well, the Murrays are acting a little agitated, what with Rosie back in the village.’

  I’m taken aback by that. ‘What did they expect? They know that Mum is – was – ill. Rosie has every right to come home and pay her respects.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But Rosie also accused their son of trying to rape her.’

  It’s been years since I’ve heard those words spoken out loud. They have the same power they did all those years ago. A jolt shoots up my spine and I let out a little gasp, and all the while Ian watches me carefully.

  I steady myself before saying evenly, ‘I know. I was there when she came home in tears, bruised and scratched.’

  ‘Well, we know what happened after her accusation, don’t we? They never saw Samuel again.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Heather.’ His voice softens. ‘I thought the world of your mum and dad, you know that. I don’t mean to be an arsehole, especially so soon after your mum has passed away. But at the same time, the Murrays are still hurting. Their son went missing ten years ago and they never got any answers. It’s been eating away at them for a decade, and Rosie being here is dragging it all up again. I’m just a copper, I know that, and it’s not my place to be sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted, but they might get antsy if you stay too long, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that we leave?’