Secrets between friends, p.1
Secrets Between Friends, page 1
PRAISE FOR TRACY BUCHANAN:
‘I was left absolutely traumatised in a totally brilliant way . . . Beautiful, heartbreaking, uplifting . . . Really worth a read.’
—HELLO!
‘A pacey read . . . A great book to take to the beach!’
—Daily Mail
‘I was entranced from the very first page and couldn’t put it down until I had all the answers. Tracy weaves a seamless tale while offering brilliant descriptions and raw emotions.’
—Angela Marsons, author of Child’s Play
‘A must-read for fans of psychological suspense. Tightly plotted and intense, this novel will have you looking over your shoulder and peeking under your bed. Filled with twists and turns, it will keep you flying through the pages to the shocking end.’
—Heather Gudenkauf, Before She Was Found
‘Wall of Silence is wild, a “whodunnit” rollercoaster. The story launches with a bang with one of the most original openings I’ve read. Tracy Buchanan has crafted a novel where the plot literally thickens with every page turned and new secrets simmer as the reader is pulled deeper into her cast of characters’ web of lies and silence. I was captivated from page one, entertained throughout, and shocked over the final reveal. Loved it!’
—Kerry Lonsdale, Wall Street Journal and Washington Post bestselling author
‘Secrets and lies abound in this complex and chilling mystery. I was totally shocked by the ending!’
—Lesley Kara, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Rumour
‘A darkly addictive read that draws you deep into the tangled web of secrets that lie at the heart of the Byatt family.’
—Lucy Clarke, bestselling author of The Sea Sisters, a Richard and Judy Book Club choice
OTHER TITLES BY TRACY BUCHANAN:
The Atlas of Us
My Sister’s Secret
No Turning Back
Her Last Breath
The Lost Sister
The Family Secret
Wall of Silence
Circle of Doubt
Trail of Destruction
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Tracy Buchanan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542032223
ISBN-10: 1542032229
Cover design by Lisa Horton
To Aunt Laura
See, I said I’d set another book by the sea!
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BEFORE YOU GO!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prologue
20 YEARS AGO
There is something almost hypnotic about the sight of his body being carried away by the sea, especially when it’s a body as perfect as his. Beautiful dark hair spread out around a pristine, pale face. The sea, his new lover now, lifts him gently, so gently it is as though he is sleeping as his arms bob above his head, the huge moon watching like a concerned parent. The waves softly twist him around. Suddenly, reality hits as once divine memories turn to dust when I catch sight of the back of his head, bloody and clotted.
Is he dead, truly dead? A confusing mixture of grief and relief rushes over me and as though in response, the sea turns violent, ripples of ocean transforming into hungry, angry hands clutching at his limbs as they are pulled, finally, beneath the surface.
I double over with the pain of it. How can this be happening? I sense eyes on me and turn to look up at the manor. Its black spired roof looms over me, a wary guardian watching and waiting, much like the shocked face I see in a lower-ground window now. She beckons for me to come back inside. But I’m not sure I want to. In fact, for a moment I wish the manor would crumble and fall to the sea below, the memories clutched within it disappearing beneath the waves. But like the sea, it can never be destroyed. Like the sea, it grabs at us, twisting and turning all of us so violently; even if it did crumble away, it would always be there: the bittersweet weeks that led us to this day. But unlike the body below, we who remain don’t have the gift of sweet oblivion. Instead, we must stay behind and endure what we have done.
Our secret. This secret between friends.
Chapter 1
NOW
When most people think of the picturesque fishing village of Easthaven, they envisage the view depicted on its postcards, taken from the sea and sweeping up towards the ten rows of pastel-painted cottages that trickle down to the promenade below like a gorgeous melting pot of ice-cream flavours: subtle mint and eggshell pink, sweet lilac and haze blue.
But I’ve always preferred the view from the top of the long cobbled path that cuts through the centre of that melting pot. It’s how I start each day in fact, parking my Royal Mail van at the bottom of the hill before marching up the path so the van becomes just a red spot on the horizon. Sure, it means an uphill walk, but that’s easy enough for someone who spent her school years competing in rock-climbing championships.
I pretend to myself I come here first so I can get the best morning shots for my Instagram account, ‘The Jolly Postie’ as I’ve called it. Each day, I post a scene from my postal round . . . anonymously, of course. If people do enough digging, they’ll figure out it’s me, seeing as I’m the only postie covering Easthaven. But I don’t want to make it too obvious; last thing I need is the people on my old postal round getting wind of where I am now and posting rude comments. As soon as that starts, the account will be closed. It’ll be a shame though, I’m at over 500 followers now!
But no, the truth is, I start my round up here because it’s where I get the best view of Lakewell Manor on the cliff above. Though it’s surrounded by mossy high walls, I find if I stand on tiptoes in just the right place, I can catch a glimpse of the overgrown gardens and mossy grey walls of the building within, which haunts my dreams each night. Sometimes, I’ll see part of the garden wall has crumbled, or a window has cracked. And that’s all I need, confirmation that it’s no longer as strong as it once was. Confirmation that the march of time will one day mean it is finally gone.
But today, something is different. There’s movement within the grounds. Several people flooding in and out of the manor carrying boxes, some with hardhats on too. I almost stumble as I strain to see better. Maybe it’s finally going to be knocked down? Or worse, has it been sold to new owners looking to renovate Lakewell Manor and return it to its former glory?
I feel a shiver of horror as I contemplate that. My friend Lester will know. The sooner I get this round out of the way, the sooner I can visit his patisserie and see just what he knows. So I quickly go to the first house on my round, my hands trembling as I slip several letters into the postbox there. It’ll be fine, Liz, I tell myself. It’ll all be fine.
‘A word please?’ a voice calls out above me.
I look up to see a woman leaning over the balcony closest to me. Tilda Beashell lives in a sunflower-coloured cottage, ironic really considering she’s the least sunny person I’ve ever known. She used to be in the year above me at school and revelled in the fact that her father was a local police officer. He was actually lovely, a complete contrast to his daughter. Her husband, Toby, is also lovely. I’ve never understood how the two of them can be together. I often overhear the way she speaks to him, treating him like a piece of rubbish that needs taking out. And yet he’s the one who pays for her expensive boutique dresses. I say expensive because I overheard Toby shouting at her once about a credit card bill. And who can blame him? In the three months since I’ve moved back to Easthaven, I’ve recorded in my notepad that she has received seventy-two clothing deliveries (I’m presuming they’re clothes from the feel of the packages). Looking at the labels on the packages, the shops they come from sell dresses at an average of £60 per dress. That’s £4,320 spent on clothes in less than three months! No wonder Toby gets so angry, poor man.
‘I saw you on our Ring camera, you know,’ Tilda snaps down at me now. ‘I don’t appreciate you sniffing around our front garden.’ She gestures angrily at the small lawn to the right of their house, surrounded by a white picket fence and accessed by a small matching gate.
Damn. I didn’t realise they ha ve a Ring camera. ‘I appreciate that must have looked strange, Tilda,’ I say with a forced smile, ‘but your bird feeder had fallen off the branch.’ I point to the pretty driftwood feeder hanging from the only tree in their garden. ‘I thought it best to hang it back up before the seed spilt all over your lovely lawn.’ Of course, it’s a lie but how could I resist when I heard them arguing the other day? My feet were walking into the garden before I had a chance, desperate for a discreet peek through the window.
‘I would have noticed it soon enough,’ Tilda retorts. ‘You had no right doing it; our lawn is private property. Any more trespassing and I’ll be talking to your manager.’ Then she storms into the house, slamming the French doors behind her. I feel a sense of trepidation in my stomach. This day has not started out well. Sure, I’ve grown used to the odd confrontation over the years, it’s part and parcel of what I do, excuse the pun. But I don’t like it when they mention my manager. I need to be careful, especially with the custody hearing coming up in two weeks. I can’t give my ex, Scott, any more ammunition for getting full custody of the kids.
I take a deep breath and walk to the next house, getting my notepad out as I do to jot down an update: 10.32 a.m.: Told off by Mrs B re: bird feeder. Mrs B threatened to tell manager. BEWARE. I tuck my notepad back into the pocket of my shorts and continue with my round, hurrying along each row. Usually I’d take my time, much to the jokey annoyance of my boss, Greg. ‘Oh look! Liz is the last one back from her round again!’ he’ll often say. Fine, let him. I’ve already told him there’s a reason I’ve been doing this job for over ten years now: I understand being a postie is a community role, on a par with being a vicar or a schoolteacher or any array of other essential community roles. If he can’t see that, that’s his problem.
As I draw closer and closer to the sea, gulls swoop above my head and the heady scent of seaweed and salt tickles my nostrils. But something else stirs too. Anxiety as Lakewell Manor looms closer, and the worrying thought that it may be revived. When I’ve finished with the cottages, I rush towards the promenade. It stretches along the sandy coast, stopping at the private road with its steep incline towards the cliff edge where the manor sits. On the promenade itself are several shops and the patisserie, a large grassy expanse behind it where families like to picnic and play football.
I walk along the promenade and peer towards the manor again, tummy turning over. I never dreamed it would be occupied again. I honestly thought (hoped) it would one day be knocked down to make way for more villas like the ones that sit at the bottom of the cliff. I quickly deliver post to the row of small shops and restaurants, before heading into the patisserie at the end. It’s the closest building to the large green making it an ideal spot to catch beach goers and picnickers fed up with their home-made sandwiches. It used to be a typical seaside cafe with pale-blue walls and driftwood tables. But when Lester took it over five years ago, he channelled his French roots to give it a Parisian vibe with an assortment of red and white bistro tables organised in an L shape around the front and side, the white walls graced with mirrors and Art Deco pictures. He’d always dreamed of running his own place since I knew him when we were kids, serving the creole and French food he learnt to cook from his mother. And now he’s doing just that! I’m so proud of him.
Though in different classes, we used to go to the same school and grew to know each other while sharing the village newspaper round. He was like me, from a rougher part of Easthaven, living with his single mum in a house that had been converted into two flats. We’d spend our rounds chatting about his dreams to run a posh restaurant in London, and my dreams of being a journalist. When I moved back here three months ago, we took off where we had left, falling instantly into our old, easy friendship.
I walk in to see him dancing to some music playing from his radio, his tied-back dreadlocks bouncing as he jigs. His face lights up when he sees me. ‘Hey, postie,’ he says. ‘Time for tea?’
‘Only if you have some gossip to entice me to stay,’ I say, walking up to the counter and handing him his post. ‘Do you know what’s going on at Lakewell Manor?’ I’m trying to sound casual. Lester knows nothing of its past, nor my role in that past. I want to keep it that way.
‘Exactly what I was waiting to tell you,’ he says, his blue eyes sparking with drama. ‘Tamsin Lakewell is back in Easthaven!’ I have to grip on to the counter to stop myself from stumbling as my legs turn to jelly. She’s back. Tamsin is back. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Lester says with a laugh.
She might as well be a ghost. She is as fascinating and as terrifying to me as one. My old best friend, Tamsin Lakewell. The beautiful, talented girl whose family has owned the grand manor on the cliff since the 1800s when it was built. The same girl who somehow decided that I, a quiet nobody who lived in the roughest estate in Easthaven, was worthy of being her friend. The last time we saw each other, she said she would never set foot in Easthaven again. So why is she back? What could possibly have possessed her? If I’d had the money and choices, I would never have returned. But sadly I have neither.
‘I thought you’d be happy to hear the news,’ Lester says. ‘She was your best friend.’
I blink, trying to focus on his face. Pull yourself together, Liz. ‘Yeah, course I am, but I haven’t seen her since she left twenty years ago,’ I reply.
‘None of us have.’
‘Do you – do you know why she’s back?’
He sighs. ‘Her mother died.’
I suddenly get an image of Tamsin’s lovely mother with her huge smile and short strawberry-blonde hair. ‘Oh no, she was lovely.’
‘Yep, I remember. Crazy to think Tamsin’s a published poet now. Do you remember all those times we’d see her writing her poetry in the garden through the manor’s gates when we used to deliver the papers together?’
‘Yep, I remember. Right,’ I say. ‘Better get on with my round. See you tomorrow.’
‘Sure thing,’ Lester says. ‘You can report back if you get to see the mysterious poet.’
‘I doubt it,’ I say. ‘I don’t have any post for the manor. But I’ll let you know if I hear any goss. Have a good one!’
I walk out of the cafe, the sea wind on my back, the heat of the late spring morning on my face as the soles of my walking boots thud on the wooden slats of the promenade. I can feel my heart thumping against my chest as I pass the ‘private road’ sign marking the start of the exclusive cliffside road, and climb the increasingly steep incline. I head towards the villas first, delivering their post. There are three of them, each built seven years ago by Douglas Gold, the local property mogul who himself occupies the last villa with his family. Lester once told me Douglas had tried to buy the manor from Tamsin’s mother years ago. He was hoping to knock it down to make way for a fourth villa. But she refused to sell it. I bet Douglas didn’t like that. He was used to getting his way. He was the same at school, an arrogant bully who enjoyed using the fact that his father was one of the wealthiest men in the town thanks to his antiques business to throw his weight around. He even once shoved another kid down the stairs after they tried to stop him bullying another child, and he was caught spying on the girls through a hole in the changing rooms. Somehow, he managed to wriggle his way out of all that, just like he did most things.
And now he’s my landlord, I think with a sigh. He’d taken over the lease of my mother’s house from her previous landlord a few years back as he bought up more and more property in Easthaven. On the day I moved in with the kids, he’d been waiting for me by my mother’s gate. ‘Promise to behave?’ he’d said, the gold in one of his front teeth shining.
‘Of course,’ I’d replied.
‘As long as I continue to be paid on time and your kids give me no hassle, you won’t have to worry.’
Worry. The way he’d said that had made me shiver. Polite but with an edge of malice that I knew too well from our days at school. It just made the whole experience of having to move back in with my mother even more onerous. I shake my head as I approach the Gold residence. Their villa is built in exactly the same way as the other two, a vast white two-storey building with a circular entrance protruding from the front with a balcony above it. Except the Golds have added ‘embellishments’ including two gold – yes, real gold from what Lester told me – lion statues facing the two pillars in front of the house.
