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

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СКАЧАТЬ he shook his head she realized there had been a slight tremor there all along, so maybe he was ill. She stopped the thought. His health has nothing to do with any of this. ‘With Mum going on about it these last weeks, I’ve been thinking back and I remember worrying because I might have got you into trouble, somehow, by saying the wrong thing. You seemed very keen to make sure the police thought we’d got back home at more or less the same time. Why was that?’

      Marion was beside her, sliding a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits onto the glass table in front of Bernard. She sat on the armchair next to him, so close their knees touched, reaching out to take his hand.

      But he carried on looking at Rosie: unblinking. His only movement was that gentle shake of his head. The silence and the look seemed to go on forever as if he wanted to read Rosie’s mind. ‘I was trying to protect you. To make sure they didn’t upset you.’

      Marion broke the silence. ‘Go on, Bernard, love, tell her.’ Then, without waiting for him to speak, she turned to her daughter, eyes wide, lashes flicking furiously. ‘He’s got proof. He can show you.’

      Bernard placed his other hand on top of Marion’s for a moment. Then moved both hands away and folded them under his chin, the way he used to when she or Alice asked for extra pocket money. ‘I’m sorry, Marion, my love. I’m sorry, Rosemary, but I don’t think I should say anything more.’

      Rosie turned to leave.

      ‘No, darling, don’t go … Bernard, tell her,’ Marion said. ‘About the letters.’

      Her mother was pulling at his sleeve like a little girl, but his eyes were still on Rosie. He spoke slowly and steadily. ‘I got a series of letters, while I was inside. As time went by it became clear they were from someone who knew the truth.’

      Rosie allowed herself to meet his eyes. A long moment passed. ‘OK, let me see them.’

      His voice was very soft. ‘Can’t you take my word? Mine and your mother’s?’

      Marion’s head jerked round to look at her. ‘I’ve seen them. It’s true. You’ve got to believe us.’

      This was ridiculous. ‘But they censor mail in prison. Someone would have seen.’

      He smiled at her very gently. ‘They were brought to me by my solicitor and, anyway, they were too vague for anyone who wasn’t involved to understand the subtext.’

      Subtext, Christ, he was giving her a lecture. ‘But not too vague for you or Mum?’

      Marion, now, her voice breathy. ‘That’s right. The final letters anyway. It was obvious to me.’

      Rosie’s throat seemed to have closed up, but she managed to say: ‘What was obvious?’

      ‘That whoever wrote them could prove your dad was innocent.’

      It had felt draughty where Rosie stood near the door, but suddenly the room seemed stifling and she wanted only to get out, to get away from here, but she had to go on. ‘So who wrote them? Who did they say did it?’

      Instead of answering, her mother made a little noise and turned away. Her husband touched her hand, looking steadily at Rosie. ‘The letters were anonymous, and they didn’t identify the killer.’

      Her mother’s voice was gruff. ‘But it was clear they knew. And yet he’s prepared to leave it like that. Didn’t even want me to tell you.’

      Her dad’s eyes were unwavering. ‘Your mother got herself into a bit of a state. And I don’t want you to go through that.’ He looked back at Marion and rested his clawed hand on her knee. ‘It’s past history and digging it up will do more harm than good.’

      For some reason Rosie wanted to cry. Why were they still keeping things from her? What did they have to hide? ‘Is that it? Well then, I’m sorry, Mum. If that’s the best there is …’ She willed him to meet her eyes again, but she might have been invisible. ‘It’s just not enough.’ As she turned there was a whimper from her mother.

      Before she closed the door she heard her father’s voice, not a tremble in it. ‘It’s all right, darling. Let her go.’

       Chapter Eight

       Loretta

      This was the first time Loretta had been able to cook a proper meal for the kids, and eat it with them, for days. The kitchen table was covered with Pearl’s books and papers, and Loretta had to stop herself from moaning that there was no space to unpack the shopping.

      It was her fault, not Pearl’s. The kitchen was too small, with hardly any work surfaces. After her divorce, she and the kids had moved from the rambling old place they all loved to this modern box on a bare new development: the best she could get close to their schools. It was soulless and cramped, but at least it was easy to keep clean.

      As if she knew what her mum was thinking, Pearl began to tidy her things, the coloured beads at the end of her black braids clicking together. Her friend, Jade, had done her hair a couple of weeks ago and Loretta felt a pang when she saw it. She had always been in charge of Pearl’s hair. Doing it in plaits or a stiff little ponytail when she was young. Still, she had to admit it looked good and she’d made a point of telling Pearl so.

      She unloaded the mince and bread, but first, oh yes, a big glass of red wine. She took a gulp then got to work on the garlic and onions. Pearl looked round at the sound of the knife. ‘Spag bol all right, Pearl?’

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