Page 84 of You Lied First
‘You know you can always talk to me, don’t you?’
‘But I did,’ Flynn says. ‘And nothing’s changed. Except we now know that one of you killed her! Mum! The autopsy results? She was strangled! How much longer are you going to ignore the fact that we’re living with a man capable of murder? What’s it going to take?’
‘We don’t know he did it,’ she says.
Flynn scoffs. ‘Who else? You? Sara? Get real!’
Margot looks at the duvet. He has a point, and she wants nothing more than to get away from Guy but she can’t see how. The autopsy results have only made it more difficult.
‘Gramps says you should leave him. We’ll get a place together, the three of us.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘If I leave your father, there will be consequences. Financial, lifestyle, the business. Everything. He’ll make it as difficult as possible for me.’
‘But you make the houses. You don’t need him for that. Do you? And we can get a small place. I’ll share a room with Gramps if I have to, or sleep on the sofa.I leave school in the summer. I can take a year out, get a job, save for uni.’
‘That’s sweet of you.’ Margot’s mind is whirring through the possibility of the three of them living in a small flat. No more Guy. The business her own once more. But then …
‘He’s a man who doesn’t like to lose face, Flynn. You know that. Appearances are everything to him. He would hate for it to come out that I left him. It’s what happens to other people, not to us. You know his motto:all for one and one for all. He won’t like it.’
Flynn shakes his head at her in disbelief. ‘Get over it, Mum. Seriously. That is not your problem. It’s his. People will admire you for getting out. They never admire the ones who stay with an abuser.’
‘Abuser?’
Flynn eyeballs her. ‘Gramps said it, not me.’
‘He said that?’ Shame creeps through Margot’s veins. She knew her dad didn’t like Guy, but that he thinks she’s putting up with an abuser?
‘He told me he’s already said you should leave. Is that true?’
‘Err, not in as many words … but, yes, I suppose he’s hinted at it.’
The door bursts open. ‘Who’s leaving who?’ Guy says. ‘Is this a conversation I should be in?’ He steps into the room and takes in the sight of them both on the bed. ‘Oh, look at this. A cosy mother-son chat. How lovely. What did I miss?’
Margot and Flynn remain silent.
‘Well,’ Guy says, ‘if what I just overheard is right, someone’s planning on leaving someone. And let me just say, Margot Forrest, if you ever entertain the idea of leaving me, I will be in that police station telling them the sorry tale of how mywife strangled the woman I was in love with.’ He glowers at her then at Flynn. ‘So I would think very carefully before making any decisions that might separate you from your son for life.’
He slams the door as he leaves, and Margot looks at Flynn. ‘See what I mean?’
67
SARA
Before I have time to think, instinct takes over. Fight or flight. I check my mirrors and reverse carefully back out of the street. Then I drive forward again, smartly past the end of my street and, like a machine, to the car park behind Sainsbury’s, where I collapse onto the steering wheel with my head in my hands. What would I say to the police? Would they come right out and accuse me? Or would they ask all those clever questions designed to trip me up and confuse me until I make an error? I’ve watched crime shows. I know how they operate. Will I be able to carry on with the lies, or will they smell the stench of guilt oozing out of me? Will it look worse if I try to cover it up but then break? It’s four o’clock; Liv will be on her way to Michael’s. Is there a police car waiting there, too? Should I warn her? Should I warn the Forrests?
I get out of the car and walk numbly down the narrow lane towards the shops, passing on my way the usual population – the elderly shuffling along on their daily errands; harassed mothers; kids just out from school, people walking their dogs – people who haven’t killed anyone.I walk among them, I think. Little do they know how closely they’re mingling with a killer. I stand on the street corner and take in the familiarshopfronts – the baker’s, the Cancer Research shop with its bright display of dresses pointing optimistically to spring, the Post Office with its piles of stationery supplies and the Co-op with a golden spaniel waiting patiently outside. I wander into the Co-op intending to look in the bakery baskets for a psychological pick-me-up, but my eye’s drawn to the display of newspapers.
Who killed this woman?the headline screams, with a headshot of Celine laughing, her long hair blown back by the wind.
The words are nothing more than black ink on white paper, but the pattern they’re in is one that threatens to see me incarcerated.
I can’t help myself. I pick up the paper and turn to the story. The police are trawling through the social media accounts of those Celine had known, looking for clues as to who she could have been with. In addition to the house calls in Muscat, they’re considering that the killer might have been a tourist. They’re examining entry and exit records at the airport and talking to travel agents about people who’d booked hotels in Muscat the week Celine went missing. The Oman police are determined to find who did it.
My hands shake so much that the paper trembles. I put it back. I don’t need anything more to worry about. The message is clear. The police aren’t giving up on this. What will be will be and I have to go home at some point. I head back to the car.
