Page 87 of You Lied First
‘Oh, fine,’ I lie. ‘You?’
He talks for a moment or two then gets to the point. ‘Look, I want you to know it’s not from my end, but Liv’s asked me to let you know that she won’t be coming to yours this weekend.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I mean, I knew she wouldn’t, but it still hurts to hear it out loud. Then a more pressing concern. ‘Did she, umm, say why?’
Michael sighs. ‘Not really. She said something about wanting to work and being able to concentrate better at ours. But I’m not sure. She was very vague and she hasn’t been herself the last few days. Really quiet, just in her room. Has anything happened?’
I swallow. ‘Nothing I can think of. Maybe problems with Flynn? Or just school pressure? It’s a tough year.’
‘Hmm. Maybe. Anyway, look, thanks for understanding. Hopefully we’ll be back to normal by next week.’
‘Yeah. I hope so. I miss her. Give her my love.’
I hang up and then the tears come. My baby doesn’t want to see me. If only she knew that everything that’s happened has happened because I love her. Meeting the Forrests and going to Oman. My fight with Celine. Us covering up Celine’s death – everything was done for Liv yet all I’ve succeeded in doing is driving her away. She’s moved out and she doesn’t even want to see me. My efforts to love her, make her happy and protect her have left me in a worse position than before the stupid holiday.
Everything I’ve been bottling up since the moment I pulled that scarf around Celine’s neck and ground her hateful, drunken face into the sand comes out – everything. The pressure, the worry, the anxiety, the nightmares. The ever-shifting sands of the cover-up and the stress of living in a world of murder and subterfuge. It all comes out in one huge, sobbing mess.
And, when I can cry no more, I open a bottle of wine and sit staring mindlessly at the television, balled-up tissues scattered around me as my body calms back down after the maelstrom. I’m not aware of what’s on the screen. I mute the sound and I drink and think, and drink and think, while my mind runs in circles.
That meeting on the hill was weird. Something was really off. Maybe I’m paranoid, or maybe it’s my suspicious nature but, despite all their talk of sticking together and keeping quiet, I don’t think I can trust the Forrests not to hand me in if it gives them a chance to save themselves. If that’s the case, my best chance of coming out of this with the least possible damage is if I go to the police with my own story before they get there. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail, and neither do I want to abandon Liv, but what choice do I have? It’s the best thing I can do for Liv. If I step forward, she’ll be free to get on with the rest of her life. Margot will get the end she’s craving – and Liv, eventually, might even come to thank me. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I actually have no choice but to go to the police.
Tomorrow, I think.
Tomorrow I will.
70
MARGOT
Home from Cleeve Hill, Margot and Guy go their separate ways. When she hears him start to work through the list of phone calls on his to-do list, she grabs her keys and nips into town to pick up her parcel at the lockers. It’s an incongruous place to collect an item, especially one that could prove to be her husband’s downfall. Still, she doesn’t want Guy to know that she’s contacted Di and asked her to look through the camping gear for a camera that may or may not have got tangled up with the other stuff. That may or may not prove that he killed Celine. Guy’s no stranger to opening Margot’s mail. Heaven forbid he were to open the package with the camera and watch the footage before her.
The package is an encouraging weight, and she smiles to herself as she slips it into her shopping basket and buries it under a loaf of sourdough and the flowers she picked up in Marks. The bag swings on her arm as she hurries back to the car. Thank goodness Di’s such an innocent. She’d swallowed the story that they hadn’t gone to the desert and she hadn’t put two and two together when Margot asked her to look for, ‘anything that may have got tangled up with the camping gear in the boot of the car including – maybe? – “Flynn’s” camera?’ All Margot had to do was intimate that Guy was furious that Flynn had lost it, and Di was on board and happy to keep the secret. Maybe others notice his temper, too.
Back home, Margot arranges the flowers and tries to get on with her work but her mind’s racing. Will there be any footage at all? Was the camera running that night? Did the battery last long enough? What will the footage show? The biggest question of all: what will she do with any information she discovers?
Finally, Guy shouts across the landing that he’s going to the gym. Margot hears him clatter down the stairs and then the front door clicks shut. She listens as his feet crunch over the gravel, then the car door slams, the engine rumbles and the gravel scrunches more consistently as he drives away, pausing at the gates. She peers out of the window to check the gates close behind him then springs into action.
She opens the parcel with shaking hands then turns the camera this way and that, confused: it doesn’t have a viewing screen. Quickly, she googles how to view the footage on the damn thing. Aware of the fact she has less than two hours – and that’s only if Guy stays at the gym for a shower – she researches how to access the content, locates a USB cable and manages to connect the camera to her laptop.
After a false start, she manages to get the file transferred over to her laptop, and gasps as she sees the date is December and the opening image is in darkness. Could it really be?
‘Breathe, Margot,’ she says. ‘Be methodical.’
Her heart skitters like a goat on a mountainside. The answer to everything could be right there. She doesn’t even ask herself now if she wants to know. There’s absolutely noquestion of her not looking at the footage. It could be the only way out of her marriage. With a trembling finger, she clicks on the first video and, oh, God, there’s the campsite. She’d fixed the camera to a table where it gives a view of the area where they’d eaten and danced, one of the four-wheel drives and the entrance to one of the single tents, which Margot remembers is Celine’s.
Eyes peeled, she scrolls through the short clips of video, as the camera’s triggered by little scurrying things, with eyes lit up white, in the night-view vision. She realises she’s going to have to work more quickly, so she fast forwards in bursts, trying to find something that looks larger. Then there it is, on the screen in front of her, clear as day: Celine emerging from her tent, stumbling about, opening a beer and slumping into a chair. In the next burst of video, a figure crosses the sand and joins her. She watches as the two figures interact and then, with her heart battering her chest, Margot sits back in disbelief.
Well, well, well.
She finally knows who killed Celine Cremorne.
71
SARA
Iwake just as determined to go to the police as I was the night before. I’ve never liked being in a state of indecision. Knowing what to do is always better than not knowing, even if the way forward won’t be easy. But I’ll explain. Tell them it was an accident. That I panicked and covered it up. Yes, ultimately, I’ll probably go to jail, but Michael is a good dad, and, after the initial shock, my sweet Liv will be able to get on with her life without looking over her shoulder. Just living in fear of the police for these miserable weeks has worn me down. I can imagine the relief the others will feel if they’re no longer suspects.
I get up slowly and take time to savour my last coffee in my own home. I make myself a breakfast of Greek yoghurt and fresh fruit – things I doubt I’ll get in prison – and tidy up the house so it looks presentable for whoever comes in next. Who will that be? Liv? Michael? I flick though the folder I’ve made with all the house and banking information for Liv, checking I’ve included everything because I know I’ll fret in jail that I’ve missed out something significant, like the code to the safe or the PIN for my bank cards. Then I place it on the kitchen table where it’ll be easy for Liv to find. I clear the fridge ofperishables and empty the bins, the task reminding me too horribly of when we’d fled the Muscat villa.
