Tell-Tale Read online

  TELL-TALE

  Sam Hayes

  Copyright © 2009 Sam Hayes

  The right of Sam Hayes to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 9 781 4722 0335 9

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Sam Hayes grew up in the Midlands, and has lived in Australia and America. She now lives in Warwickshire with her husband and three children. Her novels BLOOD TIES and UNSPOKEN were highly acclaimed and are also available from Headline. For more information about Sam Hayes, visit her website www.samhayes.co.uk.

  For Ben, my son, my friend.

  With all my love.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Sincerest thanks to Anna and Sherise for your much-valued input, friendship and dedication to my books. As ever, grateful thanks indeed to the entire team at Headline – on both sides of the planet.

  Thanks in abundance to my beautiful niece from Brisbane, Emma Dean (dot com), whose music is inspiration and medication when I need some help – and of course to Tony Dean and the rest of the band.

  Terry, Ben, Polly and Lucy . . . love forever. A special mention to the Southfield girls and finally, as ever, to Sandra. Keep the magic alive.

  PROLOGUE

  The tide is high – a dizzying swell several hundred feet below. She grips the suicide wires, overbalancing as her billowing skirt blows free from the lock of her unsteady knees. She knows that any moment now, officials will be running towards her, trying to coax her down as they have done for dozens before her. She must be gone before then, but not until they have witnessed her jump. The driver of a passing car hoots and waves, as if urging her on.

  It will take three seconds to die.

  She looks down, focusing on the water beneath. Her mouth is dry and her throat collapses when she swallows. She remembers what he said: feet first . . . ballerina toes . . . arms locked . . . a tilted entry. Her hair is tied back but a loose strand whips against her cheek.

  ‘Look for the bubbles,’ she whispers. Her final words.

  It’s pitch black down there, he’d said with a smile. Follow the bubbles to the surface. Then swim for your life, he told her, laughing now, if you were really going to do it. No one would, though, he said. Not without equipment.

  She loosens her skirt – not really a skirt, but swathes of special material. Beneath it, her wetsuit clings to her shaking body. She slips the nose-clip either side of her nostrils, which are flared with fear, and alters her grip on the bridge. The lattice railings are cold and sharp in her hands as she turns into her final position. The river below is as far away as another planet, another life.

  She glances along the bridge’s pedestrian path. A woman stands frozen about fifty feet away, her hand clamped over her mouth, stifling a scream. Behind her, an overweight bridge official runs with an ungainly gait towards her perch. The sky hangs heavy with churning storm clouds, and a dozen gulls glide through the squall with ease. A white plumber’s van slows but then accelerates again, while a small red car stops completely. She notices all these things as she takes one tiny step into the void.

  Three seconds to die, yet it takes the rest of her life.

  Slowly, slowly, she has time to think. Her bare toes stretch to painful points, while her fingers lock above her head. The wind rushes through her, cleansing, eradicating, restoring, saving. She smiles. A grimace of what is about to come – not on impact, but what will happen after that.

  Her sand-coloured skirt billows and ripples but then settles into a tight circle of drag a second and a half before her toes cut the surface of the river. She tries to tilt backwards but the force prevents a clean angle. Inch by inch, her body enters another world. Her feet, her ankles, her knees, legs, thighs, are engulfed by the concrete-hard water. Her body, her chest, her shoulders and neck are consumed by the flow. Then, as her eyes instinctively close, her head submerges. Everything is silent. Everything is black. Everything is slow motion.

  Finally, she is able to move her heavy limbs, not certain they are still attached to her body. She untangles herself from the skirt and, as she reaches for it, it billows away in the current like a freed jellyfish. Then all she can see are the tangled swathes of her hair and a silver trail fizzing through the murk.

  Follow the bubbles, she thinks through a waterlogged mind, not knowing which way is up.

  Cupped into paddles, her hands pull her towards the surface. Her chest burns and her legs will barely move. She pushes onwards, desperate for a glimpse of light; desperate for a glimpse of the afterlife.

  CHAPTER 1

  Nina Kennedy kicked off her heels and pummelled her sore feet. ‘Fetch me a couple of headache pills, sweetheart.’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘Here you go, Mum.’ Josie delivered the tablets with a glass of water. ‘Are you OK?’

  Nina grinned through the pain. ‘I certainly am.’ She massaged her forehead. The day had been long, an endurance test, but she’d loved every minute of it. ‘My feet may be numb, and my head feels as if it’s been split in two, but it was certainly worth it.’ Nina hugged her daughter. ‘That presentation did the trick.’

  ‘You mean . . . you got the contract?’ Josie blinked repeatedly – a tic that had plagued
her for years – and hardly dared to breathe. She pulled her long hair back off her face, exposing a lean face stuck somewhere between child and woman.

  ‘I sure did. Chameleon FX is now the official make-up and effects provider for Charterhouse Productions’ next three films.’

  Josie was silent for a moment. Her lips rolled inwards as she took in the news. ‘At Pinewood?’ She had to check.

  Nina nodded and swallowed the tablets. ‘We start with Grave. Shooting begins in two weeks. You can come on set with me while it’s still the school holidays.’ Nina bent her arms out of her jacket and chucked it on the back of the chair. Her daughter was obsessed with acting. It was a healthy release; a way to express her teenage angst and emotions. Better than smoking or drugs, Nina concluded.

  Josie didn’t say a word. Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks swelled as if they were about to burst. She ran out of the room. Seconds later, Nina heard the verbal explosion as her daughter telephoned all her friends to spread the news. Her mum was going to be doing make-up on famous people.

  Nina went into the kitchen to unpack the groceries she’d picked up on the way home. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the kitchen table, wondering if the grin on her face was really as big as it felt.

  Mick didn’t know about her success yet. She would tell him as soon as he came back inside. It was the biggest contract to date for Chameleon. She usually worked on theatre productions, model shoots, commercials, and she’d done some TV. There had been a few feature films, although she’d only ever assisted and that was a while ago. Making Chameleon’s name stand out in what was a very competitive business was Nina’s greatest ambition. It was a chance to showcase her talents – changing actors into characters; making fantasy from reality. It was all about transformation, and that was what Nina did best.

  ‘It’s going to mean horrifically early starts. I have to be on set by seven.’ An hour later, Nina was serving dinner. She’d pulled together a bean salad, some lamb with couscous. Mick had finished work for the day, lured back up to the house by hunger. ‘We’ll manage, won’t we?’

  ‘You know we will,’ Mick replied. He stared hard at his wife, thrilled by her news. He chewed, thinking. ‘No need to worry about things here.’ He flashed a fond look at his daughter and spooned some beans on to her plate. ‘What do you reckon, Pumpkin? Think we’ll survive?’

  Josie shrugged, holding up her hands at the quantity of beans her father was serving. She hated it when he called her that. And he always gave her too much food, as if he wanted to fatten her up. Josie didn’t care if her mum stayed out all night, as long as she got to hang around Pinewood. She’d wanted to be an actress ever since her mother first dropped her at Saturday drama school aged five. She was never happier than when she was pretending to be someone else.

  ‘Really, you deserve everything that comes your way,’ Mick said, halting Nina’s hand with his. He tightened his grip around her wrist. ‘I’m proud of you. So proud.’ He leaned forward and spotted a kiss on her neck. Everything was coming together, just as they had always planned.

  Later, when Josie had gone to her room, Nina and Mick sat outside. The evening air was warm and smelled of jasmine, undercut by the scent of salt and mudflats fanned in from the estuary low tide. Nina breathed in deeply. It wasn’t quite dark. She laughed into the twilight as her heart skipped a contented beat in her chest. ‘We did it, you know.’ She couldn’t wait to telephone Laura in the morning. She would be thrilled at the news.

  ‘Did what?’ Mick was pensive. He’d been distracted by work for several weeks. He tracked a plane as it headed out to sea. But the grin that appeared on his face told Nina he knew exactly what she meant. He just wanted to hear her say it.

  ‘All this.’ Nina leaned back and looked at their house. The nineteen thirties semi-detached wasn’t a palace – it was modernised and comfortable – but felt pretty close to it. ‘Owning our own place, for a start.’

  ‘Apart from the mortgage,’ Mick said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘We have a beautiful daughter.’

  ‘I’m with you on that one.’ Mick was a devoted father, quite unlike many of Josie’s friends’ dads, who perhaps saw their kids at an occasional family meal, a birthday gathering, or when a reprimand was due.

  ‘And I have a gorgeous, handsome, talented husband,’ Nina continued with her list, trying to prevent the smile, knowing what was coming.

  ‘Well, I’m definitely in agreement there.’ Mick put down his wine. A candle flickered on the table between them. ‘Come here.’ He reached out his arms. She knew not obeying was pointless. Mick always got his way with her.

  ‘Plus we mustn’t forget your recent good news.’ Nina finished her wine and stood up. ‘I won’t have it overshadowed by mine.’ She straddled her husband’s legs. The wooden chair creaked as she lowered herself to sit on his lap. ‘Things are finally going well for us. I’m so happy, Mick.’ She stared into his eyes, attempting to fathom what lay within the mystery of them. She was more in love than ever.

  ‘Things finally went well for me the minute I met you.’ Mick wove his fingers through the mass of his wife’s hair. He tugged on her neck and brought her face towards his. They kissed. Nina sighed from deep inside, a special reserve, as if she had a secret stash of love reserved especially for him. Mick withdrew but kept their lips near. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Nina leaned back and stood up when she felt Mick shifting beneath her. ‘What is it?’ Pinwheels of excitement spun through her. That was the thing with Mick – he made her feel so alive. Some of her friends had complained that their marriages needed a kickstart after only a couple of years. Infidelity, boredom, incompatibility, work pressures had all added to the downfall of wedded bliss. Not so in the Kennedy household.

  It made Nina feel almost guilty confessing that her husband was passionate, spontaneous, and that he still adored her. She remembered telling all this to Laura when they’d opened a second bottle of wine one night. Nina hadn’t meant to brag or send Laura into a flat spin about her own marriage. But Mick had a knack of injecting freshness and excitement into their lives. She just couldn’t keep to herself how she felt.

  ‘I wasn’t going to show you until it was finished, but I can’t wait any longer,’ Mick said solemnly.

  ‘I’m intrigued, Mr Kennedy.’ Nina felt herself being pulled by the hand and led down the garden towards the studio. Mick had had the wooden cabin built when they moved into the house five years ago. It was practically a second home for him now.

  They stopped halfway across the lawn. Suddenly, everything went dark. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ Nina could smell nicotine on her husband’s fingers as they blanketed her eyes. She felt a moment’s apprehension, but then laughed.

  ‘Come into my dark abode,’ he growled playfully. ‘I want to do despicable things to you.’

  Nina giggled and allowed herself to be led blindfolded across the grass. She felt a twig crunch underfoot and noticed the sickly-sweet scent of the tea rose she had recently planted as they brushed past the border. ‘Mick Kennedy, you are a wicked, evil man, but I love you.’ This was the perfect ending to a significant day. She heard his breathing as he unfastened the door. He always kept the key on him, protective of the studio’s precious contents.

  Inside, Nina breathed in Mick’s cologne and the scent of his work. Her eyes were still clamped shut as he closed the door. She heard him flick on the light. ‘What is it, Mick?’ It was a thrill to have his warm fingers blinding her. ‘I’m dying here. Please tell me.’

  Light suddenly flooded Nina’s pupils as he released her. She squinted.

  ‘Well?’ Mick stepped over to a huge canvas and spread out his hands. ‘What do you think?’

  Nina’s breath caught in her chest, trapped between ribs that had frozen in place. Finally, she said, ‘It’s amazing. Beautiful.’ Tears welled in her eyes as she focused on a nude, life-size painting of herself. ‘I absolutely love it. But why did you
paint me?’

  ‘So I can see you while I’m working. Every bit of you.’ He half smiled, half pouted. Nina’s heart raced in her chest. ‘Now that I have the deal with the Marley Gallery in London, I’m going to be flat out supplying them.’ He sighed. Perhaps, Nina thought, from the extra workload. He’d been so stressed recently. ‘You can keep me company in the wee hours.’ He was pleased she approved.

  ‘It’s so . . . so real.’ Nina blushed as she walked up to the painting. She followed every contour and line. One limb led to another; swirls of her long hair drew the eye to remote parts of her body. Vaguely abstract like most of Mick’s works, yet real with exquisite clarity, Mick had captured a side of her she had long forgotten existed – a woman, a youngster, the child within.

  ‘Couldn’t you spare any paint to give me clothes?’ She stepped up to her husband and wrapped her arms around his neck. Their previous kiss still lingered in the pit of her belly.

  ‘This is how I see you. Free, lovely, naked. As vulnerable as when you were born.’

  ‘At least you’ve given me a scarf.’ Nina pointed at the long stretch of fabric that Mick had painted tied round her wrist. It was loosely bound to the other one. ‘It’s pretty. I’d like a scarf like that.’ Deep purple and red chiffon brushed her skin. ‘But don’t you think I look too thin?’ She was becoming self-conscious.

  ‘It’s how you are,’ Mick said, unscrewing the lids of several tubes of paint. He didn’t take criticism well.

  ‘No, really. I’m a little heavier than you’ve made me.’ Nina studied the layers of paint that made up her body. Sometimes Mick used a palette knife. Sometimes he used a sable brush with only a couple of fine hairs.

  ‘Prove it.’ Mick’s eyes simmered blue-black.

  For a second, Nina thought he was angry at her comments. Then she raised her eyebrows and unfastened the top buttons of her blouse. ‘You realise that you’re going to have to inspect every inch of me to make sure the likeness is good.’

  Mick grinned before he made his move. With one hand he locked his wife’s wrists together and with the other he stripped her naked. No one heard their noise or knew of the passion that flared between them as they lay down beneath the painting; no one else felt their happiness.