Her Last Secret

by Barbara Copperthwaite

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

There are some secrets you can never tell. The last thing to go through Dominique Thomas's head was the image of her teenage daughter's face and her heart lifted. Then the shot rang out. They were the perfect family. Successful businessman Ben Thomas and his wife Dominique live an enviable life, along with their beautiful children: teenager Ruby and quirky younger daughter Mouse. But on Christmas Day the police are called to their London home, only to discover a horrific scene: the entire family lying lifeless, victims of an unknown assailant. But when Ruby's diary is discovered, revealing her rage at the world around her, police are forced to look closer to home for the key to this tragedy. Each family member harboured their own dark truths - but has keeping their secrets pushed Ruby to the edge of sanity? Or are there darker forces at work? This dark, gripping psychological thriller will have you holding your breath until the very last minute. Fans of Behind Closed Doors, Sometimes I Lie, and The Girl on the Train will be captivated.

Release date: October 13, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Squad cars blocked the normally peaceful Burgh Road, in Blackheath, London. The blue lights were switched off but, had they been on, wouldn’t have looked out of place among the festive illuminations strewn over trees in many front gardens, lighting up the dark hours pre-dawn. The handsome red-brick houses were all large, neat, detached, built for affluent Victorians during the heady decades before the First World War. The period properties were what kept Blackheath such a desirable address still.

Along the tree-lined street there were few net curtains to twitch at the gathering crowd of police officers. Instead, neighbours peered, bleary-eyed, around blinds, or pulled back wooden shutters that matched the original sash windows of their homes. Adults shooed their little ones away, but stayed rooted to the spot themselves, clinging to each other for safety behind the glass. The children probably didn’t need much persuading to stay away, overjoyed at an excuse to unwrap their presents without their parents wearily trying to go back to bed just a little longer.

Christmas had indeed come early for them.

Chief Inspector Paul Ogundele checked his watch – 3.47 a.m. – and got out of his car to take charge of the scene. He noticed how some neighbours, bolder than their counterparts, edged to their front door and stood watching, poised to bolt at the first sign of trouble. He’d have to remind uniformed officers to send them back inside for their own safety.

According to a laminated poster still attached to a fence, Burgh Road had been closed a fortnight earlier, too; that time for a festive street party for neighbours to get to know one another and to allow youngsters to play in the road without fear. Cheery, multicoloured bunting still hung from lamppost to lamppost, dripping in the pouring rain. Below it, in swags, was yellow police tape.

Outside the cordon, paramedics hunched in their ambulance, steaming up their windows as they waited to be told when it was safe to do their jobs. They wouldn’t be setting foot anywhere until the police’s armed response unit had finished securing the place and given them the nod.

Chief Inspector Ogundele took it all in in a second. He ducked under the tape and strode over to a uniformed officer standing stoically, pretending she didn’t notice the waterfall running in front of her face from her hat.

‘Sergeant Hussain. What’s the situation?’

‘Gunshots were reported at 3.20 a.m. by a Mr Alan Jackman, of 17 Burgh Road. At least two shots fired within his neighbour’s home at number fifteen. Mr Jackman told the control room during his 999 call that his neighbour has a shotgun and regularly goes clay pigeon shooting. He also says he heard “shouting and one hell of a row” which woke him immediately before he heard gunfire.’

As the officer spoke, she indicated over to a man in his early fifties whose pallor matched his prematurely grey hair. He was still in his blue towelling dressing gown and matching pyjamas, but stood defiantly to attention at his front door, as though afraid of showing weakness. Especially in his new, bright yellow Simpsons slippers.

‘Residents have been warned to stay indoors, sir,’ added Sergeant Hussain.

The chief inspector made a noise of impatience. People so rarely listened to orders, curiosity generally overcoming fear. Some residents even held up their mobile phones, filming the excitement and no doubt live-streaming it on Facebook, Twitter, and any other social media they could think of.

‘What do we know about who lives in the building?’

‘Number fifteen belongs to Mr Benjamin Thomas, forty-eight, and his wife Dominique, forty-four. According to the neighbour, they have two children, Amber, who is between seven and nine – the neighbour isn’t sure, and Ruby, a teenager of about sixteen. Checks have confirmed that Mr Thomas has a licence for a shotgun, which is kept on the premises.’

Had Benjamin Thomas had an accident? Discovered burglars and taken a potshot? Or perhaps been shot at by armed thieves? Did the gun go off by mistake? Or had he gone crazy and killed or injured his wife, children and himself? Murder/suicide was a terrible thing, and rare, but not unheard of by any stretch of the imagination. At this time of year there was generally a spike in domestic abuse, due to people being in close proximity for longer periods than they would be at other times of the year.

Just what happened to the family inside number fifteen?

EIGHT DAYS TO GO

Mouse loved this time of the day best of all. Everyone she loved the most in the whole wide world were all together, happy and peaceful, and still in bed, sleepy tired. Outside, darkness paled, which made her brave, so that she knew the shadow of the monster terrifying her every time she woke at night was really her dressing gown hung on the back of her door. The house had even stopped making creaking noises like a ghost.

She loved first thing in the morning for all of those reasons – and also because she could read quietly for a little while before Mummy came to say it was time to get up.

With a contented sigh, she turned on her torch and pulled the duvet, with its Big Friendly Giant cover, over her head to read. She didn’t really need to; if she had put her bedside light on it wouldn’t have disturbed anyone. Not now she had a bedroom all to herself.

She hadn’t wanted her own room. She had preferred it when she and Ruby shared. Mouse hadn’t got so scared then when she woke, instead she had been able to prod her big sister awake and climb into bed with her. But since she got her own room Ruby had started locking her bedroom door, forcing Mouse to come up with a different solution. She would burrow under her duvet and make herself read, forcing herself to concentrate on the words really, really hard until she forgot about the scary dreams and imaginings and was whisked off to magical places. It didn’t always work, but mostly it did.

And when things got really bad, she hid in the wardrobe.

But right now, she pulled the duvet over her head purely to enjoy the warmth, breathing in the comforting aroma a little like fresh-baked biscuits. She started to read her book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, but more thoughts about her sister crept in around the edges of her mind.

She wished she could do something lovely for Ruby, to cheer her up. When they shared a room, Ruby used to smile all the time, a hidden gem gifted only to Mouse. But now Ruby kept everything but her scowl locked away.

Having an idea, Mouse threw back the covers and padded over to her desk. Pulled out a drawing pad and some crayons, and started to copy the cover of her book. A lion with a huge mane and sad eyes. His face seemed a lot wonkier than on the cover, but she was pleased with it anyway. She ran her fingers over the crayons, thinking. The picture needed something else. Red love hearts kissed the page. Much better.

Holding up her effort, she turned her head on one side as if to look at it from all angles.

A soft bubble and chug sounded from the water pipes. Daddy was up and having his shower. Mouse smiled and hugged herself tight, lulled by the sounds of everyday life.

Mummy’s gentle knock came. The door opened.

‘You up, Mouse?’

‘Up and at ’em.’ She jumped and did a kick in the air like Kung Fu Panda.

‘Oh, you are raring to go. See you downstairs for breakfast in a minute, eh?’

Mouse grabbed up the drawing again and dodged past Mummy, scurried along the hallway, pausing for a moment to wriggle her toes in the thick cream carpet and enjoy the feeling. She slipped the drawing under her sister’s bedroom door then ran into the bathroom they shared, as her mum rapped to wake Ruby.

‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine,’ Mummy called. Silence. Another knock.

‘All right. I’m awake.’

Ruby sounded grumpy. Of course.

Mouse carefully turned the knob of the shower – a hard task with her fingers crossed. She hoped her drawing did the trick with her big sister.

Dominique stared, unseeing, at the steam rising from the kettle. Didn’t hear the click as it switched itself off. While Mouse and Ruby got ready upstairs, it left her free to think about the state of her marriage.

She felt so alone. Benjamin had turned away from her last night when she tried to have sex with him. It had been months now, and it wasn’t like him. He could deny it all he wanted, but something was on his mind. Something big.

When he wasn’t working late, he hid in his study, only coming into the lounge after she had gone to bed, and waiting until she was asleep before joining her. When they were in a room together, there seemed to be nothing to say. If she asked about his plans for the day, he would give a noncommittal answer; ask how his day had been, she got a grunt.

His rejection of her efforts hurt more than a slap. What did she have to do to get her husband to notice her? What did she have to do to win him back?

Whatever it was, she wasn’t sure she had the strength for it.

She rubbed at her right forearm fretfully. When she realised, she snatched her hand away. Pulled down the sleeve of her dressing gown.

The twin silvery scars that ran beneath the long sleeve were hidden now. Still, they shimmered in her mind’s eye, taunting her. Reminding her of a past she would rather forget.

Trying to banish the thoughts, Dominique dived into the inexorable morning routine. Poured the scalding water into the cafetière, cracked eggs into a dish, put on the toast for everyone…

A howl of rage rang through the house.

Dominique ran.

On the landing stood Ruby, glaring down at her black jumper as though someone had murdered it. The fifteen-year-old’s face screwed up in disgust as she gave another moan, and pointed at her little sister. J’accuse.

‘Mouse, this is your bloody fault—’

‘Don’t swear at your little sister. Now, what on earth has happened?’

‘Look. There’s a hole in my brand-new top. I caught it on that nail—’

‘Well, that’s hardly your sister’s fault, is it?’

Dominique looked at her youngest. Her eyes were wide with hurt and protest, but she didn’t say a word. Despite being highly intelligent, and articulate when she wanted to be, she always came across as being both old before her time and younger than her eight years. Her name was Amber, but no one called her that; instead, she was known universally as Mouse, thanks to her habit of finding small spaces to squeeze into so she could read undisturbed.

Beside her, Ruby huffed. ‘Why are you always taking her side? I hate you.’

I hate you.

The first time Ruby had flung those words at Dominique she had flinched as if struck. The verbal blows were no longer unexpected, but they still hurt, and she still wondered what on earth she had done to deserve them. From the outside, her family seemed perfect. She and Benjamin made a good-looking couple, they had two intelligent, beautiful children, Benjamin was a successful businessman, running his own accountancy firm, they had regular holidays both home and abroad, and lived in a lovely home. They enjoyed all the trappings of success.

But as she looked at Ruby’s fury, she wondered if it were all starting to disappear, like a dream on waking.

Benjamin’s hand made a squeak as it swiped across the bathroom mirror, clearing the condensation. The extractor fan wasn’t working properly, which was infuriating. He’d have to get someone in to look at it. At some point. He had enough on his plate for the time being.

Despite standing under a too-hot shower for ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to step out again, he still felt exhausted. Tired, bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the clearing he had created in the mirror. Puffy skin stretched as he shaved but didn’t ping back the way it had when he was younger. Scattered here and there on his cheeks and beside his nose were broken veins, hiding beneath the sunbed tan that faked the fact he hadn’t afforded as many holidays in the sun this year as success dictated. The red spider veins were tiny, almost invisible, but enough to taunt him every single day. You’re getting old. You’re past it. You’re not the man you were.

Shoulders back, he strutted out of the bathroom, naked, dick swinging like a pendulum between his legs. Dominique wasn’t there to see his act, though, so he let his posture slump. He could hear her arguing with their teenage daughter, Ruby. He ground his teeth and he yanked on a pair of boxers, then trousers, as the conversation grew louder.

‘I hate you,’ Ruby shouted.

Right, he wasn’t putting up with that. He would have respect in this house. Not bothering to do himself up, he flung the bedroom door open and glared down the landing at the frozen tableau.

Ruby glowering. Jaw set, fists clenched as she leaned forward. Dom glancing at him apologetically. Hands open in a gesture of peace towards her daughter.

‘What the hell is all this racket?’ he growled.

‘It’s nothing. Ruby and I were discussing what she should wear to school today. It’s sorted now.’

Ruby looked from one parent to the other, then flung up her hands.

‘Fine.’ With a huff, she shut the door so swiftly that she almost, but not quite, slammed it – close enough that Benjamin took a step out of his own doorway to tell her off.

‘Leave it. Please,’ begged Dom. ‘It’s too early to have a row.’

He didn’t want to give in. It showed weakness, and he already felt fragile enough in the rest of his life. But he had other things he needed his energy for. With a dismissive wave of a hand, he too closed his door.

He was turning into his own dad, he knew. Being a complete boorish arse. It made him hate himself even more. He’d try to make it up with Ruby later, if he had time. But not right now. If he did it immediately, he’d look feeble.

The last thing Ruby wanted was to have breakfast with that bunch of hypocrites. But if she didn’t, World War Three would break out, and it totally wasn’t worth it. Dad was such a control freak.

It was Mouse’s fault. If she hadn’t darted in front of her as Ruby was about to go downstairs, she wouldn’t have had to sidestep suddenly and catch her top on the nail that stuck out near Mouse’s bedroom door. It had pulled a hole. And Mum had no sympathy. Of course. It wasn’t fair. If it had been something of Mouse’s, she’d have been all over the kid. But Ruby was, what, supposed to just take it? Just do like Mum and quietly accept everything? No way.

It was a new top, too. And now she couldn’t wear it to school, not with a massive great hole in it.

She threw herself onto her bed and hot angry tears spilled, making the dove grey walls blur and the members of My Chemical Romance bleed into each other on the poster over her headboard. It was so unfair. Life totally had it in for her, and no one understood. No one, except Harry.

Thinking about him cheered her up. And made her dry her face and start getting ready for school. Actually, the top didn’t look too bad. The hole looked kind of cool after she’d pulled at it a bit more to make it bigger, and caused several runs up the knitted fabric. Yeah, nice. If Dad saw it, he’d have a fit and never let her out of the house, but she could hide it under her coat easy enough.

She traipsed through the streets, dragging her feet through clumps of sodden, rusty brown leaves that stuck together like congealed blood. Kicked them into the air and listened to the soft splat they made. Trying to kill time because she absolutely would rather die than go to school.

Her parents were determined to get her into a better one, closer to home, as soon as possible. At the time, though, they had just been glad that any school managed to squeeze her in in September – she had been a last-minute applicant after an incident got her booted out of the last. Now her parents were lobbying to get her into a different place again for the following academic year. Whatever. Ruby had every intention of dropping out as soon as she was legally allowed – if not sooner.

Clouds glowered from a metallic sky. Moisture in the heavy air plastered her dark blonde hair to her face as she walked. Her coat only covered her to mid-thigh, so from there downwards her damp skirt clung to her chapped legs, making her shiver despite her thick tights.

She should have gone to Blackheath station really; that was closer to her house. But the longer walk was worth it because Westcombe Park was on a different line. On this line, she got to meet up with Harry. As soon as she jumped on the train, in her usual carriage, she sat in her usual seat, then dug out her make-up bag in preparation. Caked foundation on her pale skin, blotted out freckles and imperfections, then drew on thick black eyeliner. Done.

She’d get another lecture off the teachers, of course. That put a smile on her face. It grew bigger when Harry jumped on.

It was weird to think that the first time she’d seen him, almost four months ago, she’d thought he was kind of funny-looking, with his braces, the green-framed spectacles, which stood out so bright against his dark skin, and crazily curly hair. They were what you saw before looking properly and seeing the real Harry.

At the time, she’d been stuffing her bag into the locker she had been allocated minutes earlier by some teacher who smelled strongly of onions. Ruby had been trying to decide if it was fried food or body odour that was causing it, when she’d received a tap on the shoulder and a cheerful ‘hello’ from this weird boy.

‘All right? I’m Harry. Harry Porter – get your jokes in now. What’s your name? You’re new here, aren’t you? Where you from?’

She screwed up her face at the barrage of questions, and decided he was taking the mick, because she hadn’t made friends yet. But she had high hopes, and didn’t want this geek ruining her chances. He looked the type who wasn’t in with the in-crowd.

‘Yeah? Well, my name’s Voldemort, so sod off.’

‘No, seriously. My mum was, like, a massive Harry Potter fan, so named me after him. She reckoned it was brilliant. I reckon it’s awful, man,’ he explained, with the patience of someone used to saying the same thing again and again to people. ‘You named after anyone?’

His thumbs were stuck behind his rucksack straps, and he swung from side to side a bit as he spoke. But at least he was actually talking to her, which was a step up from what she was used to. He actually looked interested in making conversation. Ruby had found herself softening.

‘No, think Mum just liked the name Ruby. Don’t know where she got it from. Then when she had my little sister, she didn’t have the imagination to come up with anything original and decided to name us both after precious stones, so called her Amber.’ She rolled her eyes for emphasis. Harry chuckled.

‘So how comes you’ve joined this school? You moved round here?’

‘I got expelled from my last school.’

His friendly eyes widened. Impressed. ‘Why?’

‘I got drunk. Downed half a bottle of vodka. When the teacher found me, I vomited so badly I thought I’d bring up my guts.’

Ruby laughed at the memory, and Harry joined in so that they almost butted heads. Which made them laugh harder.

‘My dad went, like, monu-mental when he heard. But I got my own way and came here.’ Telling Harry about it, it sounded funny and impressive, and like she was master of her own destiny.

The two teenagers had drifted to class together and sat side by side. Ruby hadn’t been able to believe her luck at making a friend already. That lunchtime, they shared headphones to listen to music, nodding in time to Royal Blood, Bad Religion, and NOFX, with some Arctic Monkeys and David Bowie thrown in for good measure. It was the perfect eclectic mix. Ruby felt close to him. The closest she had felt to anyone in as long as she could remember.

Within days they had become inseparable. Three-and-a-half months on, that still hadn’t changed.

Now, she undid her coat and showed him the holes in her jumper.

‘What do you think? Too much?’

‘It looks wicked sik,’ he smiled.

By the time she hopped off the train a few minutes later, she had gone the whole hog and torn a couple of holes in her tights, too. She got some funny looks when she got to school. Let them look.

As she pulled a book from her locker, Ruby’s phone vibrated. Her hand clapped over it before she could stop herself. She glanced at Harry. The light reflected on his glasses so that she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew he would have noticed.

A blush crept over her cheeks in spite of herself.

‘Who is it?’ Harry asked, his voice insistent. ‘What do they say? Show me.’

‘Come on, we’ll be late for class.’

‘Show me. Now.’

‘Ruby Thomas.’ A voice rang out, loud, clear and indignant. ‘What on earth do you think you’re wearing? Come with me.’

The teenager closed her locker, threw Harry a shrug, then trailed after Mrs Simpkiss, the geography teacher. A lecture and a new pair of tights no doubt awaited her.

When she glanced back, Harry looked seriously annoyed. She mustn’t forget to delete the message after reading it.

‘Leave him.’

Fiona’s red face was caused by the passion of her venom more than the few sips of complimentary wine she and Dominique had drunk. She stared straight ahead, talking to Dominique’s reflection as they sat side by side at their hairdresser’s.

‘You deserve better than him, Dom, you know you do. He’s so cocky – he thinks he’s Mr Big, but he’d be lost without you. You’re worth ten times that man.’

‘Thanks. Why not tell the whole world?’ Dominique hissed.

She and Fiona had been friends since school. They had gone from sharing Sindy dolls, to Revlon lipsticks, to Louis Vuitton suitcases as their lives had experienced an upward trajectory. Fiona’s had come thanks to a career as a successful divorce lawyer with the sort of celebrity clients she wasn’t allowed to name; Dominique’s courtesy of her marriage to Benjamin.

Fiona’s vehement dislike of Benjamin could be traced back to a brief crush she had for him back when she was twelve and she had sent him a valentine he hadn’t acknowledged. She denied it, of course, but from that moment Fiona had bristled every time he walked into a room. Which had been often, because they were friends with his younger sister, Krystal.

So, her urging Dom to walk out on Benjamin didn’t come as a shock, but Dom would have preferred it if she weren’t so loud about it.

‘You worry too much about what other people think. No one’s taking any notice. Are you?’ Fiona asked Saul, the skinny man in skinny jeans and T-shirt, floating like a butterfly around her hair, primping it to perfection.

‘Hmm? Sorry, I was a world away. What did you say, my love?’ he asked with exaggerated care, putting his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to make a big show of listening intently.

‘See, far too discreet here,’ Fiona smiled, turning her head now. ‘It’s one of the reasons why we pay so much to come here.’

‘And I thought it was because of their incredible ability to make my thin, mousey hair look thick and lustrous.’ Dominique laughed in spite of herself.

‘Look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards? Go to John Robertelli and you’ll be red-carpet ready in minutes.’

‘Probably closer to four hours, once you’ve had the head massage, the deep conditioning treatment, the blow-dry…’

‘Hmm, don’t forget the massage chair. I love having my hair washed while that chair works its magic.’

‘Ooh, get you two. You sound like an advert for us,’ sighed Saul. ‘Can I give you two ladies a top up before Samantha starts on your manicure?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Fiona – as Dominique said, ‘No, thanks.’

Saul looked from one to the other. Dominique caved first, removing her hand from over her glass. Fiona smiled her approval.

‘Perfect. You only live once, and you know this is my big treat to myself.’

Dominique knew Fiona had a point. She worked all hours, thought nothing of working until midnight, then being up at four in the morning, when there was a big case on. Dominique didn’t know how she did it. It made the stay-at-home-mum feel inadequate, even though she knew her oldest friend would laugh if she were to tell her. It said a hell of a lot about their friendship that no matter what occurred in Fiona’s life, she almost always made time to keep this weekly appointment they shared at the hairdresser’s for a pamper, followed by lunch. Fiona often worked all the way through the weekend, so this truly was precious time to the lawyer.

When Dominique was younger she had wanted to be a West End star. She’d dreamed of being pampered constantly, of being the centre of attention. Weekly blow-dries were the closest she was ever going to get now. Besides, Benjamin wanted her to look good for him, and her hair was, she knew, her crowning glory. She multitasked by having a manicure too, so it was efficient use of time.

As Saul sashayed away, Dominique breathed a sigh of relief that his suggestion of more wine had stopped the conversation in its tracks. Gazing out of the window, she saw that the rain had turned to snow, tiny flakes gently zigzagging down to the ground on the breeze. She opened her mouth to point it out—

‘Right, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by your paranoia: you should leave Benjamin.’

She should have known Fiona wouldn’t be so easily distracted from her train of thought. Typical lawyer.

‘I haven’t even told you what he’s done yet.’

‘Don’t need to. I can tell you’re up. . .