Her Deadly Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with twists that will take your breath away. Chris Curran

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      It never happened and Lily was enough for both of them.

      How did he feel about Lily getting a boyfriend?

      Like he said before, he didn’t know, but he would have been OK with it.

      And on and on until they both became aware of a phone ringing inside her bag. She grabbed the bag, scrabbled to get the phone just as it stopped, took a quick look, and said, ‘Sorry about that, Joe.’ But it gave him the chance to get up and open the fridge, making it clear he had things to do.

      She sighed. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Then grabbed her coat, her bag and waved her phone at him as she dashed out. ‘Call me if you think of anything more, or if Hannah needs me.’

      They thought it was him. However concerned Loretta pretended to be, however many times the Chief Inspector or Detective Sergeant Davis told him the questions, and the DNA tests, the searches of his computer, his bank statements and whatnot, were just to eliminate them from our enquiries, it was obvious they wanted to catch him out.

      The sobs came then. And he stood with the water gushing over his face, washing his tears down the drain, which was where they belonged, for all the good they did. And that was the worst of it: the helplessness. It was all right for them. If they locked him up, put him away, they could say they’d got a result and could forget about Lily too.

      He switched off the shower, sitting, still wet, on the edge of the bath – ‘Oh, Lily’ – his hands clenched on the cool enamel as he swayed back and forth. He’d lost Hannah too, lost the woman he loved. Because the bastard who killed their lovely girl had destroyed them. Killed everything that mattered to them.

      He stood and pulled a big towel round him. Thinking like this was no use. He rubbed his hair and face. The towel didn’t smell too good; he’d have to do some more washing. Had to look after Hannah.

      He never wanted to come out of the bathroom when he’d finished. But then he would get into a panic, thinking Hannah might have done something desperate while he wasn’t there to keep an eye on her. But when he opened the door this time she was just outside, holding his towelling dressing gown.

      ‘Hannah, love, you gave me a shock.’ Please, don’t walk away. Talk to me.

      She was looking at the carpet, but she gave him the dressing gown. ‘Here, you need this.’ Her voice was barely there, but at least she was speaking to him and, as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, she stayed where she was. When he tied the belt, and let the towel slip to the floor, she picked it up. ‘Towel needs a wash. I’ve been leaving it all to you. I’m sorry, Joe.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I’m just so scared when you won’t talk to me.’ He swallowed. ‘Hannah, you don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?’

      Her eyes met his, her hand at her mouth. ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking? Oh, no, of course I don’t. Oh, Joe …’ And there, in the little hallway, with the bathroom door handle pressing into his back, she came into his arms and rested her head, where it fitted so naturally, into the hollow under his shoulder.

       Rosie

      As her mum pulled into the car park of the modern block of seafront flats in Bexhill, Rosie came back from her memories. This was where she’d lived with Marion in the years after it happened as they’d tried to make some kind of life and forget all about Rosie’s father. Marion said that was the only thing they could do. Remember Alice and forget her killer.

      But a few months ago, she’d announced she’d been to visit her ex-husband in jail, that he was getting out and that – unbelievably – he was coming to live with her. ‘Because, after talking to him, I realize he didn’t do it and now we’ve got the chance to make amends.’

      Neither Rosie nor Oliver could understand what had happened. Oliver said the old man must have spun Marion some line. She said he looked terrible, so maybe a mixture of pity and guilt had made her willing to believe any rubbish he told her.

      But what on earth had made Rosie agree to come? The complete change in her mother’s attitude baffled her, but she knew nothing her father said could make a difference to the way she felt. She scrabbled in her bag for a bottle of water and swigged at it, making Marion wait to lock the car.

      Rosie’s legs felt weak as they toiled up the three flights of familiar stairs to the flat, and outside the door, as Marion fumbled with her key, she had to steady herself on the wall.

      The door opened straight into the living room. And there he was.

      His eyes were closed, thank God, so she could look at him before he saw her. What she’d expected she wasn’t sure, but he seemed hardly to have changed. His shoulders filled the winged armchair and his long legs, clad in jeans, were stretched out in front: just the way he always used to sit.

      He was 63 and her mum said he’d been ill, hinting he might even be dying. Although he was thinner he looked healthy enough to Rosie. Except for his hands, which had been turned into swollen-knuckled claws by the arthritis. The arthritis that forced him to retire from playing the violin and leave the orchestra. The start of all the bad times.

      Marion gave his arm a gentle shake. ‘Look, dear, it’s Rosemary come to see you.’ She spoke as if to a child, or someone senile, as she plumped a cushion on the sofa facing his chair. ‘Sit down, love, and I’ll get us all some tea.’ Rosie carried on standing, arms crossed.

      When Bernard opened his eyes, she could see changes there. They looked opaque, as if he had cataracts, and a web of fine lines covered his face. But he pushed himself up to sit higher in the armchair with a vigorous movement.

      ‘Well, this is a surprise.’ His voice brought the past back so vividly that Rosie felt herself flinch.

      ‘Hello, Dad.’ What else could she say?

      He had the grace to look down and run his crooked fingers through his hair. He still had hair, she noticed, although it was thinner and iron-grey with no traces of brown.

      ‘Rosemary, it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect …’ He glanced towards the kitchen where water splashed and crockery clattered.

      Rosie tried to slow her breathing. She told herself she was an adult now. ‘I just came to ask what you’re playing at. You see, I’m confused. First, you spend years denying everything, letting me and Mum go through all kinds of agony, then you admit it. And now you’re saying you were innocent all along. It just doesn’t make sense.’

      He shifted in the armchair. ‘It’s been hard on the two of you, I know.’

      Rosie felt his eyes on her, but refused to look at him, gazing instead over to the picture window at the silhouette of a boat moving across the grey sea. She was tired and longed to sit down, but – no – it wouldn’t do to come down to his level.

      The view was the only thing she had ever liked about the flat, but today the sea was still – a strip of corrugated metal – and when the boat moved out of view there was nothing else to look at. She stayed where she was as her dad kept talking.

      ‘You see, at the end, when your mother came to visit me, I realized I had to get out. And if you keep maintaining your innocence, they say you’re in denial and the parole board won’t even consider recommending you for release.’

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