Chris Curran - All the Little Lies

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This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

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Published by HarperColl‌insPublishers 2019

Copyright © Chris Curran 2019

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollins Publishers 2019

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Ebook Edition © FEB 2019 ISBN: 9780008336332

Version 2019-01-07

Mindsight

Her Turn to Cry

Her Deadly Secret

For Emma and Neil with much love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Also by Chris Curran

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

She had to go. And quickly. Before they woke up. But still Eve stood by her daughter’s cradle, looking down at her in the glow of the night light, longing to stroke the warm little head once more. To run her finger down Ivy’s fat cheek and across her tiny damp mouth. The baby snuffled and shifted, and Eve held her breath. It was midwinter and still dark outside, but morning was on its way. She had to go now or it would be too late.

She crept barefoot past the bedroom where her husband was sleeping, but didn’t look in. The baby monitor would wake him when Ivy cried. Since her birth he had done as much for her as Eve had. And managed it better. He often did the first morning feed and there was breast milk in the fridge and stored in the freezer too.

She had left a note on the kitchen table. There was nothing more to do.

Her clothes and trainers were in a plastic carrier in the cupboard under the stairs. She threw them on and shoved her dressing gown inside. With any luck Alex would see it wasn’t hanging on the back of the bedroom door when he woke and assume she was with the baby or downstairs. It might give her a bit more time.

For once she was thankful they had no driveway or garage and it was nearly impossible to park outside their house. So Alex must have thought the car was down at the other end of the road when he got home. It was actually a few streets away.

Everything was so still and silent in the early morning chill that she was aware of her own footsteps even though she was wearing soft-soled trainers. The icy air bit into her lungs. Plumes of white steamed out as she breathed and the atmosphere had that heavy feeling that means snow is not far off.

There was a forlorn-looking Christmas tree in the window of one house and a string of lights twinkling from the gables of another. It was still officially the Christmas season. Today was the sixth of January – Twelfth Night – and the Eliot poem about the three wise men came into her head. Something about a journey, a long cold journey.

In the glimmer of the street lights the pavement had a frosty glitter and she told herself to concentrate. It wouldn’t do to fall.

Once, she thought she heard footsteps behind her and stopped, holding her breath. The footsteps stopped too, and she looked back down the street. There was a shape, totally still, under a tree at the end. It could be a figure, but might just be a shadow. And she needed to hurry.

The car windows were thick with white and she used the de-icer and scraper as quietly as she could. The rucksack she’d packed with a few essentials was already in the boot, so all she had to do was to climb in and start the engine. But when it was humming she sat for a moment breathing heavily.

And asking herself if she really wanted to go through with this.

It was a relief to see Suzanne’s name pop up on her phone. She would want to talk about work and Eve always enjoyed that. It felt so strange to be at home in October instead of teaching. She was even missing the staff meetings. Suzanne had taken over as head of the art department and she rang once a week or so to talk things through, although they both knew she was perfectly able to cope on her own. Suzanne probably realized how much Eve needed to feel she was still part of school life. And it was good to talk about something other than her pregnancy.

‘Hi, Suzanne. How’s it going?’

‘Fine. And you? Alex still driving you mad?’

Eve felt a flush of guilt. What had she said? It was true she was fed up with Alex treating her like an invalid, fussing over everything from how much she slept to her diet, but she must have told Suzanne more than she meant. She tried to make her voice light. ‘No, he’s fine. It’s my mum who’s the real worrier. Anyway what’s up?’

They spent a few minutes discussing the new exam syllabus. Then Suzanne said, her voice rising a little, ‘What did you think of the link I sent you?’

‘I haven’t checked my phone recently.’

‘It’s nothing urgent. Just made me think of you.’

When they’d said their goodbyes Eve looked for the message. It was brief:

Have a look at this. Any connection?

Apart from that there was just a link to a newspaper story:

LOST ARTWORKS RESURFACE AT BALTIC GALLERY

Newcastle’s Baltic Gallery has a new exhibition of paintings by artist, Stella Carr. If you haven’t heard of her it’s not because she’s a new talent, but because soon after making a brief splash in the art world in 1986 she disappeared from sight and died tragically (and somewhat mysteriously) a year later at the early age of twenty-one. If she hadn’t done so it’s likely she could have been one of the leading lights in the BritArt scene of the late 80s, early 90s.