The Silent Sister_An gripping psychological thriller with a nail-biting twist Read online

  ‘Lizzy?’

  I turn at the sound of a man’s voice. I take a step backward when I see who it is.

  ‘Leon,’ I croak. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Twenty-Eight

  Dressed in a dark suit, his shirt open at the neck, Leon scowls at me. ‘I’m not here,’ he replies, crossly. ‘I mean, I’m just walking up the street. I didn’t come to see you, if that’s what you think.’ His face suddenly creases with concern. ‘What happened to you, Lizzy? You look like you’ve been in an acci…’ He breaks off, frowns and raises his hands like he’s surrendering. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’ Leon Whittaker stops talking, walks around me and carries on up the road.

  I watch him stride away, relieved I don’t have to talk to him, then I realise I’ve left the shop unattended, so I hurry back down the street and into Georgio’s with my head down, making for my safe space behind the counter to await Pippa’s return.

  The afternoon passes slowly, but I stay tucked away in the stockroom for most of it while Pippa deals with the customers. As a consequence, I’m able to catch up on all the invoicing and ordering, and my desk is totally, satisfyingly clear by the end of the day. So at least that’s one good thing. Tomorrow I might even make a start on sorting out the filing cabinets – something I’ve been meaning to do for months.

  After closing time, I take Pippa up on her offer to accompany me to my car. It’s not a very Pippa-ish thing to do, so I’m grateful. I decide that tomorrow will be the day I speak to her. It’s for her own good as well as mine.

  Driving home makes me feel nauseous, the interior of my car still reeks of bananas. Even with the window rolled right down, I can’t get away from the smell. Yesterday, CSI swept my car and the front porch for prints and clues, but I haven’t heard whether they found anything or not. Apparently these things take time.

  Back home, I hear the water running upstairs. Joe must be in the shower. He was supposed to be out this evening with the lads from the garage. It’s Brycie’s birthday and they’re all going to The Crown after work for drinks and then on for a curry. Joe told me he would give it a miss, that he was happy to stay in with me after everything I’ve been through. But I told him he should go – despite not really meaning it. I made light of things, saying I’d be quite happy to be in sole charge of the TV remote followed by an early night. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Said there was no way he was going to leave me at home alone. Now that I’m home, I’m grateful he’s here. Even with him upstairs, I can’t relax.

  The air inside the cottage has grown stale and warm with no breeze to freshen things up. Frank follows me around while I push open the windows. I’m not reckless enough to open all of them – just the small ventilation ones that are too inaccessible for Frank to get out of, and too tiny for any person to get in through. Poor Frank has been cooped up inside for days, but I daren’t let him out, not while there’s a psycho on the loose. I’ve been meaning to buy a fan, but I know that as soon as I get one, the weather will turn cold and the fan will get shoved in the loft.

  The creak of the shower screen opening lets me know that Joe has finished showering. My turn next. I’m going to have a cool shower, get into my PJs and then we can curl up on the sofa with dinner on our laps, catching up with our box sets. The thought of it calms me a little.

  ‘Hi, Joe!’ I call up the stairs.

  There’s no reply, so I make my way upstairs and peer round the bathroom door. It’s full of steam, but no Joe.

  ‘Joe?’ Frank is at my heels and I almost trip over him. ‘Bloody hell, Frank, are you trying to kill me, or something?’

  ‘Lizzy? That you?’ Joe calls out from the bedroom.

  I push open the door to see him pulling on a clean T-shirt. ‘Hi. Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Yeah, not bad. You?’ He comes over to kiss me.

  ‘I was a bit paranoid. But it was okay. Spent most of the day hiding out the back in the stockroom.’

  Joe pulls me into a hug. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘I’m all right. Just gonna have a shower, okay?’

  ‘Cool. I’m going downstairs for a beer. See you in a few minutes.’

  In the steamed-up bathroom, I stuff Joe’s damp, discarded towel into the laundry basket, strip off my work clothes and step into the bath which also doubles up as a shower. Turning the temperature down, I let the water run in a gentle stream so it doesn’t sting my grazed skin. I probably shouldn’t be getting my scabs wet, but I can’t go a second day without a proper shower – not in this heat.

  Once I’m nicely cooled down, I step out of the bath and pat myself dry before pulling on a pair of pink-and-white striped cotton PJs. I feel like a new person. Almost like I’ve washed away some of the terror that’s been simmering. I know this is probably a temporary reprieve but I’m enjoying it while it lasts.

  Back in the bedroom, I towel-dry my hair, then run a comb through my damp locks. I can’t face making a full-on proper dinner tonight. Instead, I’m going to slice up some cheese and pickles and have them with crackers. If Joe wants anything more, he’ll have to sort it out himself. Finally, clean and dry, I make my way back downstairs.

  Halfway down the staircase, my feeling of well-being is shattered. There, on the doormat below sits a white rectangle. I stop. Grip the banister with my left hand. Taking a breath, I reason that it could be anything. Just a random piece of junk mail. But I know it isn’t. I know it’s something that will disrupt my evening and ruin my sleep. Something that will get my heart speeding and my guts churning. I wish I could ignore it. Burn it. But the need to see what’s written is too strong.

  I run back upstairs, go into the bedroom and slide out one of the storage bags from under our bed. I unzip it and root around my carefully folded winter clothes until I find a pair of gloves. They’re purple suede, my favourite pair. But as I pull them on, I realise that I’ll never enjoy wearing them again.

  ‘Joe!’ I hurry back down the stairs, realising that instead of searching for gloves, I should have yanked open the front door to try to catch sight of whoever delivered the letter. It’s probably too late now. ‘Joe!’

  ‘What is it?’ He steps out of the kitchen, a can of lager in his hand.

  I point to the envelope on the doormat, my finger shaking.

  ‘Is that…?’

  ‘I think it’s another one.’ I bend down, pick up the envelope in my gloved hand and yank open the door, stepping barefoot onto the path and staring up and down the road. Joe comes to join me. Frank tries to run past my legs, but I scoop him up and shut him in the lounge before returning to the front path. Joe runs out into the middle of the street and looks one way, then the other. Someone is getting out of their car further down, across the way – a woman and two young kids. But she doesn’t look in our direction. She’s laughing and the kids are carrying balloons. I doubt she’s the person who’s threatening me.

  ‘I can’t see anyone suspicious,’ Joe says.

  ‘Did you see the letter when you came downstairs after your shower?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘It definitely wasn’t there then.’

  ‘So the person must have delivered this only minutes ago.’

  ‘Wait here.’ Joe starts jogging up the road. ‘I’ll see if I can spot anyone,’ he calls.

  Stepping back inside, I gaze at the letter and turn it over, expecting to see my name emblazoned on the front like all the others. But I frown when I see whose name is actually written in that same blue swirly handwriting:

  Emma Beresford

  It’s addressed to my sister! I blink, trying to clear my vision in case I’m having some kind of weird episode and am reading it wrong. But there’s no mistake. This letter is addressed to Emma. Does this mean it really is something to do with her? Is she doing this to confuse me? Or did my stalker make a mistake? Is it someone who knows us both and accidentally wrote down the wrong name?

  I open the envelope and pull out two pieces of white paper. It looks like it was originally a
single sheet, but it’s been torn in two. I hold the pieces together to join two halves of a single word:

  Sister

  So this stalker knows I have a sister. But why is that important? What is it about my sister that they’re interested in? Unless this really is from Emma, and she’s playing some twisted game with me.

  I set down the envelope and torn letter on the hall table and take my mobile phone out of my bag. I’m going to ring Emma to see if she knows what the hell is going on. I haven’t called my sister in years, so I hope she has the same mobile number. I remove one of my gloves, swipe the screen and press contacts. But before I can scroll down to find her name, a call comes through. The caller’s name flashes up on the screen.

  It’s Emma.

  Twenty-Nine

  ‘Lizzy? Is that you?’ Her words are clipped. She sounds out of breath.

  ‘Emma? How did you… I was just about to…’

  ‘Listen to me,’ she says. ‘Do you know anything about the letters?’

  I sit on the staircase and try to get my breathing under control. ‘Are they from you?’ I ask. ‘Why the hell would you—’

  ‘Shit. So you are getting them.’

  ‘What the hell is going on, Emma? If this is about Joe—’

  ‘Shut up a minute, Lizzy.’

  It feels weird to be talking to my sister again. I’m transported back to our childhood home where we would argue, snapping at one another about this and that. I’m not sure exactly when we started growing apart. As young kids we were always giggling and mucking around together. I even used to climb into bed with her after having nightmares, and she would tell me funny stories to stop me being scared. We may have had the odd cross word over who was watching what on the telly, or who ate the last biscuit. But actual arguments were few and far between. That is, until we reached adolescence. I think that’s when things started to become more… competitive.

  ‘What do you know about the letters?’ I ask.

  There’s a brief silence at the end of the line. Just Emma breathing. ‘I’ve been getting letters too,’ she says.

  I take a moment for her words to sink in. ‘Someone’s been sending you weird notes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice is small. ‘And when I got in from work a few minutes ago, there was another one in our pigeonhole. But it’s got your name on it.’

  ‘I had the same thing. An envelope with your name on the front. I was just about to call you.’

  ‘And inside the envelope?’ Emma asks.

  ‘A piece of paper torn in half.’

  ‘With the word…’

  ‘Sister,’ we say at the same time.

  ‘Are you still at Richmond Gardens?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘No,’ I say, thinking about Joe. About how awkward it would be to have my sister here.

  ‘Is Joe home?’ She says his name with a spit of venom.

  ‘Yes. But he’s just run out to see if he can catch whoever left this latest letter.’

  ‘You saw them? The person who delivered it?’

  ‘No. But the letter has only just landed on the doormat, so Joe’s gone down the road hoping to catch whoever it is.’

  ‘We need to meet,’ she says. ‘Talk about what’s been going on.’

  I don’t want to see my sister. I still haven’t forgiven her for trying to take my boyfriend. But what choice do I have? If she says she’s getting the letters too… ‘Okay, but not here.’ Bang goes my relaxing evening.

  ‘I know a pub where we can meet,’ Emma says. ‘Halfway. I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘Okay.’ I don’t know if I’m more disturbed by receiving another letter, or by the thought of meeting my sister to talk.

  ‘Traffic’s awful this end,’ she says, ‘so it’ll probably take me over an hour to get there.’

  ‘Fine. See you in a while.’ I end the call and wonder what the hell is going on. Why is my sister receiving the same letters as me? Could Joe be something to do with this? No. That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Unless… what if she isn’t receiving the letters too? What if she’s the one behind the letters, and this is all part of some sick game?

  The front door bursts open and I give a squeal of shock before realising that it’s only Joe, his face red.

  ‘Nothing,’ he pants. ‘I went up to the main road, but I couldn’t see anyone running away. Whoever delivered that letter is long gone. Probably drove here anyway. Did you open the envelope?’

  I nod. Joe comes in and closes the door behind him. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Let’s go into the lounge.’ I snatch up the letter from the hall table and open the lounge door. Joe follows me in. Neither of us sits down.

  ‘So?’ Joe asks.

  ‘It’s all a bit weird, Joe. The letter’s addressed to Emma.’

  ‘What! So it’s not from the stalker?’ He wipes a sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  ‘It is, because it’s the same handwriting,’ I explain. ‘Only, Emma says she’s been getting the letters too.’

  Joe is staring at me, not comprehending what I’m saying.

  ‘Emma just called me. She just got a letter addressed to me. She says she’s been receiving the same kind of harassment.’

  ‘Shit, no way.’

  ‘I’m going to meet her.’

  ‘Who, Emma?’

  I nod.

  ‘Not being funny, Lizzy, but what if she’s lying? It could be her who’s been sending the letters all along.’

  ‘I know. I thought the same thing. But… she sounded just as freaked out on the phone as I am.’ I stare out of the window for a moment. ‘And anyway, when I thought it was her who pushed me into the traffic, you said I was jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Show me the letter,’ Joe says.

  I set it on the coffee table using my gloved hand. ‘Don’t touch it.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’ He looks at the envelope and the two pieces of paper. ‘Sister? So, let’s say it’s not Emma, then this person is someone who knows you and Emma are sisters. He’s threatening both of you?’

  ‘Looks that way.’ My head is whirling so fast that it’s a miracle I’m speaking in coherent sentences. ‘I’m going to meet her now. Talk about what’s going on. Compare notes.’

  ‘I don’t think you should go,’ Joe says, staring at me. ‘Maybe that’s what this person wants – to get you both together. And if it is Emma, then you’re playing right into her hands.’

  ‘If it is Emma, well, I’ll deal with that if it happens. And if not, then the stalker won’t know where we are. Emma’s texting me the address of a pub halfway.’

  ‘No,’ Joe says stubbornly, shaking his head and pursing his lips. ‘You can’t go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s too dodgy.’ He begins to count off reasons on his fingers. ‘One, it could be Emma behind the letters. Two, it could be someone else who’s going to follow you there. Three, I have a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘Well, I am going,’ I say, my voice quavering. ‘And you can’t talk me out of it.’

  ‘Tell Emma to come here instead,’ he says. ‘I’ll go out, if that makes things easier.’

  ‘It’ll take too long,’ I argue. ‘It’s rush hour. Quicker if we meet halfway.’

  Joe scowls and pulls his phone out of his shorts pocket. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I haven’t got time to hang around and find out. I need to change out of my PJs and get going.

  I come back downstairs, dressed in beige linen trousers and a forest-green T-shirt, to find Joe standing at the bottom of the stairs, waving his phone at me.

  ‘I’ve found a place you can meet,’ he says sullenly. ‘But I still don’t like it. Second thoughts, I’m coming with you. I won’t interfere. I can wait in the car.’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine. I’ll make sure no one’s following me.’

  ‘You can’t be sure. They might be park
ed up on the main road waiting for you to leave the house.’

  My heart misses a beat. I hadn’t thought of that possibility. ‘If I see a car behind me, I’ll drive to the nearest police station.’

  ‘You should call the police now instead of going to see Emma.’ His scowl softens. ‘Lizzy, please.’

  I know he’s just looking out for me, but this is the biggest breakthrough I’ve had since receiving the first letter. ‘I just want to find out what’s happening, and then Emma and I can call the police together.’ I get a polythene sandwich bag from the kitchen and slide the envelope and torn letter into it, careful not to get any prints on the paper.

  My phone buzzes and I look at the screen.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Emma. She’s sent the name of the place we’re meeting.’

  ‘Well, tell her you’re meeting at this place instead.’ He holds out his phone and I text Emma the address of a different pub. One that’s closer to Malmesbury.

  I could argue with Joe, but at least if I take his advice on where to meet, he might be happier about me going alone.

  ‘Call me if you have any worries, or see anyone dodgy,’ he says. ‘It’s six fifteen now. Text me when you get there. If I haven’t heard from you by half seven, I’m calling the cops, okay?’

  I nod. ‘I’ll be okay.’

  He kisses me, holding my arms a little too tightly. ‘Lock your car doors. Don’t stop for anyone on the way.’ He gives a little growl. ‘This is stupid. I’m coming with you. What’s the big deal about me coming?’

  ‘You know what the big deal is.’ If Joe comes, it will be twice as awkward with Emma. It’s bad enough that I have to meet her by myself, but with Joe in the car, it will be awful. Plus, I need time on my own to work out how I’m going to act around her. Whether to mention the kiss that happened with Joe, or to keep things focused on the letters. My mind is a mess.

  ‘This is bloody crazy, Lizzy. If you think I’m going to let you drive off—’