Eleven liars, p.1
Eleven Liars, page 1
part #2 of Ben Harper Series
PRAISE FOR ROBERT GOLD
‘Fast-paced and brimming with superb characters. I couldn’t put it down for a single second. Twelve stars!’
LISA JEWELL
‘Utterly absorbing’
SHARI LAPENA
‘Ominous at the beginning, breathless by the end … this is excellent hardcore suspense’
LEE CHILD
‘This is what every other thriller aspires to be’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘Twelve Secrets contains cliff-hangers and revelations galore. [It] is all plot, plot, plot – and, boy, what a lot it’s got’
THE TIMES
‘A pacey thriller full of twists and turns. You won’t be able to put Twelve Secrets down until the very end’
KARIN SLAUGHTER
‘A fine debut’
SUNDAY TIMES (Best Crime Novels of 2022)
‘This book will take over all your free time’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘Twelve Secrets is a smart, satisfying, one-of-a-kind thriller that entertained me from start to finish.’
JAMES PATTERSON
‘Books this good are very rare’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘Satisfyingly twisty, straight from Harlan Coben territory and surely Netflix bound’
IRISH INDEPENDENT
‘Twelve Secrets is rather special. So clever, so engrossing, a genuine “just one more page” kind of book’
M.W. CRAVEN
‘You think you’ve sussed it, but you’re completely wrong. I REALLY did not see that coming’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘Absolutely addictive. An unforgettable and nuanced cast of characters, a claustrophobic setting, and a suspenseful and chilling examination of the dark and destructive power of secrets’
GILLY MACMILLAN
‘A page-turner with a final revelation that satisfies by being unguessable but retrospectively inevitable’
MORNING STAR
‘If other thrillers could talk, they’d say when “When I grow up, I want to be Twelve Secrets”’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘What a tangled web! Brilliantly weaved and then carefully unravelled for the big revelations at the end. A totally gripping read’
SUSAN LEWIS
‘Fast-paced and shocking’
WOMAN’S WEEKLY
‘Original, unputdownable and a really great read’
NELL PATTISON
‘Impossible to part with until the very last page’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
‘A fast-paced, utterly gripping thriller – a definite twelve out of ten!’
VANESSA SAVAGE
‘This has to be one of the best thrillers I have ever read’
Reader Review ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
Copyright
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 978-0-7515-8280-2
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 Robert Gold Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Praise for Robert Gold
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Also by Robert Gold
Dedication
Part One
Thursday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two
Friday
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Three
Wednesday
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Four
Thursday
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Five
Friday
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part Six
Saturday
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Part Seven
Sunday
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Part Eight
Monday
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Part Nine
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Ten
Tuesday
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Part Eleven
Wednesday
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Tuesday
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Acknowledgements
Originally from Harrogate in North Yorkshire, Robert Gold began his career as an intern at the American broadcaster CNN, based in Washington DC. He returned to Yorkshire to work for the retailer ASDA, becoming the chain’s nationwide book buyer. He now works in sales for a UK publishing company. Robert now lives in Putney and his new hometown served as the inspiration for the fictional town of Haddley in Eleven Liars. Eleven Liars is the second book in the series featuring investigative journalist Ben Harper, following the publication of Twelve Secrets in 2022.
Also by Robert Gold
Twelve Secrets
In memory of my brother, James.
And for my mum.
One
‘I’ve been around long enough to know when my time is up.’
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 1
My Uber driver gives me a dejected look in his rear-view mirror. For the past ten minutes we’ve barely moved. He points to the solid red line of congestion displayed on his map, covering the next two miles. The traffic along the river road is gridlocked. At this rate, it will take me over an hour to get from Richmond, through the village of St Marnham and on to my home in the London Borough of Haddley.
I look out at the late October evening where darkness has descended. ‘Probably quicker if I jump out here,’ I say. ‘I can walk the rest of the way along the river.’ My driver raises the palms of his hands and shrugs. ‘Hopefully you can pick up a fare going in the other direction,’ is my half-hearted apology, before I open the passenger-side door and climb out.
‘We will see,’ he calls wearily. I stand on the pathway and watch him turn his car in the road before he accelerates away from the west London traffic.
The evening is cold and my warm breath lingers in the crisp air. I zip up my jacket and push my hands deep inside my pockets. Stepping down onto the embankment path, I feel the crunch of fallen leaves beneath my feet. The towpath leads into St Marnham, before I have to cut across the playing fields on the north side of the village and on towards Haddley Common.
My phone buzzes. Flicking open the screen, its light brings a brightness to the darkened pathway. The message is from Madeline Wilson, my boss at the nation’s number one online news site. I’ve spent the last six hours with her at her home overlooking Richmond Park, finalising the script for a true-crime podcast I’m due to begin recording in a week’s time. Madeline is now messaging me with even more suggestions. That’s Madeline all over – she’s relentless, always ready with a stream of new ideas. Journalism is in her blood; her passion inherited from her father, Sam, an old-
In the weeks approaching the podcast’s recording, Madeline’s support of me has been unflinching. Six months ago, with the help of a local police officer, PC Dani Cash, I unearthed the truth behind my mother’s death and the brutal killing of my brother, Nick. Murdered when he was only fourteen, his death has held a morbid fascination for much of the country for almost a quarter of a century. It’s Nick’s story the podcast will tell.
I was eight when my brother was killed and the loss will stay with me until the day I die. For many years it was simply impossible for me to comprehend. The horrifying nature of his murder meant my name, Ben Harper, became known both nationally and internationally and for much of my life, I lived in shadow of his death and my family’s grief. After my mother died, from an apparent suicide, I knew my only way forward was by not looking back. But then, earlier this year, that changed when new information came to light about my family’s story. Once I finally discovered the truth, I wanted everyone else to know it too. I published the story for our news site and it attracted global attention as well as, much to Madeline’s delight, record reader numbers. I know the release of the podcast will bring further painful attention to my family’s story, but my overriding determination is for the truth to be known. Nick was my hero, and this is the only way I know to deliver justice for the life so brutally stolen from him. I still miss him and my mum every single day.
St Marnham is brightly lit by street lamps, but as soon as I reach the playing fields on the far side of the village, I find myself in darkness again. Picking my way along the path, I feel the chill rise into the soles of my feet. Through the darkness, I see flashing lights appear in the distance and moments later I step aside as two cyclists race past me on their journey home at the end of the office week. I pass a floodlit running track, where a lone sprinter braves the artic breeze, her rapid stride powering her down the long home straight. From outside the newly built brick sports pavilion, I can hear a frighteningly energetic fitness class taking place inside.
To make the shortcut through to my home on Haddley Common, saving me a mile-long walk along the road, I enter the small copse of trees at the far end of the playing fields. From there I scramble down the bank that leads through to the back of St Stephen’s churchyard. At the bottom of the bank, I reach the set of iron railings I’ve clambered over a thousand times in the past thirty years, like so many residents of Haddley Common and St Marnham, taking this unorthodox short cut through to the Lower Haddley Road. I loop my bag across my shoulders and grip the shallow railings. They glisten with frost, and as the cold seeps into my bare hands, I hear my mum’s voice asking me why I don’t invest in a pair of gloves. I pull myself up and over but, as I do, my hand slips. I reach backwards to try and steady myself but, unable to grab the railing’s pointed tip, I fall towards the crumbling graveyard.
I brace myself for the impact, but it doesn’t come. The strap of my bag has hooked itself across the top of the railings. Cursing, I reach behind my head to try and dislodge it but it holds fast. I realise the only way to free myself is to snap the strap. I launch myself forward, the strap breaks and I hit the ground hard, my ankle twisting with a pain that makes me cry out, and I roll down the bank into the darkest corner of St Stephen’s cemetery.
Lying prone, my jacket caked in mud, my ankle throbbing, I’m momentarily dazed. When I get my bearings, I see my laptop has spilt from my bag. Tentatively I push myself up, kneeling on my right leg before testing my weight on my left foot. I suck in cold air and hold my breath. I lean against a moss-covered headstone before reaching for my bag and shoving my laptop back inside. Suddenly, my attention is caught by a bright orange glow, smouldering in the trees on the far side of the churchyard.
I clamber to my feet and hobble forward. I move from one gravestone to the next before making my way down the gravel path that runs across the back of the cemetery. With each step I take, the fire appears to intensify. St Stephen’s sixteenth-century church comes into view, but its only light is the lantern that hangs above its heavy oak door. I hurry around the side of the church, ignoring the pain in my ankle. I see the orange light again, now impossibly bright. The derelict community centre behind St Stephen’s is on fire.
Smoke pours through its grimy red-tiled roof. Flames lick at the ivy-clad walls. I drop my bag and fumble in my muddied pocket in search of my phone. As I do, a window at the front of the community centre shatters, sending sparks crackling across the path. Burning light illuminates the churchyard and the heat is so intense that, even from this distance, I’m forced to take a step back. Finding my phone, I’m about to call for help, when a fleeting movement inside the building catches my eye.
I flinch.
I stare into the smoke and see another movement; a streak of black amid the bright orange flames.
Then, through the smashed front window, I see a figure.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins and without thinking, I run towards the building’s graffiti-covered door. The door is locked. I yell at whoever is trapped inside to find a way out. They hesitate before scrambling backwards, deeper into the flames.
I ram my shoulder against the door. It doesn’t move. I step back then launch myself forward, crashing my foot against the door.
It flies open and I fall forward into the furnace.
The smoke is so thick that I can only just make out the slim figure, now crouched on the floor. From the frantic way they are fumbling, they appear to be searching for something.
‘What are you doing?’ I scream, trying to cover my mouth as smoke fills my lungs. ‘You need to get out, now!’
But pulling their hood across their face, they clamber further across the floor, ignoring my escape route.
‘Stop, or you’ll get yourself killed!’ I shout.
Suddenly they are on their feet, spinning round to face me. For a moment they are still, as though trapped by indecision. Then they charge forward, leap over me and race away from the building. Fire flashes around me, the heat ferocious. I scramble to my feet and lurch backwards out into the churchyard.
Gasping for air, I collapse onto the path. I peer through the darkness and look towards the Lower Haddley Road. The escaping figure never breaks their stride. A passing car is forced to skid to a stop, its blaring horn filling the still night air. The figure’s hand slams onto the car’s bonnet, and in the glare of the car’s headlights, I catch a momentary glimpse of their angular frame. Still desperately trying to fill my lungs with the cold night air, I lie on the ground and watch the distinctive bright orange trainers of the fleeing figure disappear into the dark woods at the back of Haddley Common.
CHAPTER 2
PC Dani Cash felt her breath catch in her throat as she entered the CID offices at the rear of Haddley Police Station. She glanced at the clock on the far wall. She was still ten minutes early for her eight o’clock meeting with Chief Inspector Bridget Freeman. Time had seemed to crawl since she’d received the meeting request earlier in the afternoon. Originally the appointment had been for seven, but then, as seven approached, Bridget Freeman had pushed the meeting back.
At this time on a Thursday evening, the offices were largely deserted, the pub at the top of the high street calling most detectives out of the building before six. Only two detectives remained, both eating dinner. The smell of their spicy Mexican tacos lingered in the airless room. Briefly they looked up at Dani, before one passed his phone to the other and laughed. Something in his expression told her this was a joke she would not enjoy.
Haddley was one of the last remaining Victorian police stations still in operation across the capital. For years, one badly planned extension had followed another. The building had been constantly adapted, the need for extra space met by knocking down walls, replacing offices with open-plan rooms or simply squeezing desks into the alcoves that once housed cupboards. But the detective branch remained where it had always been, right at the back of the old building, hidden away from the day-to-day community buzz. In the summer, the room became intolerably hot; in winter the radiators generated more noise than heat. The windows reached almost to the ceiling but gave little light, offering only a view of a neighbouring brick wall.
But there was nowhere in the world Dani felt more at home.
Crossing to the desk at the back of the room, Dani ran her hands along the scratched wood, feeling the notches and flaws built up through years of toil. She pulled out the battered office chair, its faux leather seat worn thin, its back stained with sweat. Sitting at the desk, she traced her fingers across the fading computer keyboard. As a child, she would type her name with one finger; her dad standing behind her, unable to type much faster himself. She closed her eyes and remembered him spinning her in the chair, her legs, not yet able to reach the floor, flying out in front of her. As she threw her head back, her blonde hair falling across her face, he would spin her until she was dizzy and tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks.
