Not even admitting that the diazepam was Eleanor’s own supply (which was true).
Not even accepting that she had crushed them up and spiked Chloe’s drink with them (which was not true. Bethany had done that herself).
Not even assenting to the suggestion that she’d known Chloe was too heavily drugged to react when she started to drown. (Only Bethany had known, and had said nothing.)
Not even going to prison.
It was what any parent would do for their child, if they loved them, Bethany thought. It was what her mother should do.
‘Nothing works out the way you think it will, does it?’ Brian sighed and dropped the remainder of his cone in the bin. ‘People let you down. You think you fall in love and it will last forever and then it doesn’t.’
William and the way he had looked at her in the hospital, when she’d told him they could be together now, now that Chloe was gone forever.
His horror.
Her heart.
Her black heart.
‘You have to pick yourself up and go on.’
Sending him to confront her father about Chloe. Calling her father from her hospital bed to say William had touched her, that he had forced her to do disgusting, depraved things. Sobbing down the phone, sounding heartbroken because she was heartbroken; William Turner had broken what was left of her heart, so that all that was left was dust and ash.
But no one would ever know, now. No one would ever guess.
No one saw her as anything but a victim.
‘You have to make the best of it and keep going,’ Brian Emery said bleakly. ‘Or else what’s the point?’
Bethany edged along the bench, moving closer to him. He wasn’t her father and she wasn’t his daughter, but she leaned her head against his shoulder and it was some comfort to both of them.
‘That’s funny,’ Brian said, his voice rumbling through Bethany’s body so she felt the words rather than heard them. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Who?’ Bethany sat up straight, trying to see.
‘I was just thinking about her.’ Brian Emery was waving. ‘DS Kerrigan!’
It still took Bethany a second to pick her out, tall and slim in her usual dark trouser suit as she made her way towards them. Behind her sunglasses she looked paler, thinner, more tired than she had been in the summer, but her focus was unwavering. The scowling detective inspector was beside her, making a path for them through the crowd. Bethany looked around, suddenly noticing the people who were standing around in twos and threes, watching her rather than the animals: faces she recognised and faces she didn’t. Faces that all said the same thing: the lies she had woven into proof of her innocence had come undone. Someone, somewhere, had thought about what she’d said and decided to see if the evidence backed it up, and Bethany had a feeling she knew who that might have been. DS Kerrigan, with her warm smile and her clear eyes and her trick of understanding more than she should.
‘I wonder what she wants,’ Brian Emery said, and Bethany, who could have told him, said nothing.
Acknowledgements
This book would have remained nothing more than an idea without the help and encouragement of the following people:
Everyone at HarperCollins, particularly Julia Wisdom who edited Let the Dead Speak with patience, kindness and, best of all, rigour. I feel very lucky to have her! I’m also very grateful to Lucy Dauman, Finn Cotton and Fliss Denham for their hard work. Special thanks to the team at HarperCollins Ireland for their enthusiasm and support, and my foreign publishers for their commitment to the series.
The team at United Agents, the best support any author could wish for. I’d particularly like to thank Ariella Feiner, to whom this book is dedicated. She makes it her business to make my dreams come true and she has impeccable judgement in all things.
My fellow crime writers, especially the Killer Women and the CS gang. The crime-writing world is small and close-knit, full of encouragement and fellow feeling when it’s needed, and I am very lucky to be a part of it. I’d like to thank Sinéad Crowley, Liz Nugent, Alex Barclay and the rest of the Irish crime writers for their friendship and solidarity.
The librarians who work so hard to provide an essential and underrated service to the community. Properly staffed and funded libraries give so much to their users and to authors. They are a precious resource. I would not have been able to write this book without the facilities in my local library: huge thanks to the librarians and staff of Earlsfield Library.
The bloggers, reviewers and book club admins who give their time and attention so generously, for love of reading. Special thanks to the indefatigable Liz Barnsley who is a true champion of good writing and Tracy Fenton of TBC who has a genius for promoting authors and making reading fun.
My lovely readers, who keep asking me for a happy ending. (Possibly this should be an apology.)
My friends and family, who waited patiently while I tackled this book and learned not to ask how it was going. Nothing would get done without my husband James, who is always willing to talk police procedure or sort out domestic chaos while working on terrifyingly complex cases in his day job. He makes it look easy, and I know it’s not.
Finally, my thanks to Edward and Patrick for being the best distraction there could be, and Fred, who burns the midnight oil with me and only walks on the keyboard now and then.
About the Author
Jane Casey is no stranger to the crime world. Married to a criminal barrister, she’s got the inside track on some of the country’s most dangerous offenders, giving her writing an unsettlingly realistic feel.
This authenticity has made her novels international bestsellers and critical successes. They have been nominated for several awards and in 2015 Jane won both the Mary Higgins Clark Award and Irish Crime Novel of the Year for The Stranger You Know and After the Fire, respectively. She is also an active member of Killer Women, a London-based group of crime writers.
Born in Dublin, Jane now lives in southwest London with her husband and two children.