PRAISE FOR SAM CARRINGTON
‘Sam Carrington has done it again. One Little Lie is a twisty, gripping read. I loved it.’
Cass Green, bestselling author of In a Cottage In a Wood
‘Expertly written . . . with plentiful twists and unforgettable
characters. An insightful and unnerving read.’
Caroline Mitchell, bestselling author of Silent Victim
‘A kick-ass page turner . . . I was knocked senseless by the
awesome twist.’
John Marrs, #1 bestselling author of The One
‘I LOVED Bad Sister. Tense, convincing and complex, it kept me guessing (wrongly!)’
Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies
‘This book is not only gripping, but it explores the mother/
daughter relationship perfectly, and ends with a
gasp-out-loud twist’
Closer
‘I devoured this story in one sitting!’
Louise Jensen, bestselling author of The Sister
‘How do you support victims of crime when you live with
unresolved mysteries of your own? Psychologist Connie
Summers is a fascinatingly flesh-and-blood guide through this
twisty thriller.’
Louise Candlish, Sunday Times bestselling
author of Our House
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‘Keeps you guessing right to the end’
Sue Fortin, author of Schoolgirl Missing
‘I read One Little Lie in one greedy gulp. A compelling thriller about the dark side of maternal instinct and love – I couldn’t
put it down!’
Isabel Ashdown, author of Beautiful Liars
‘A gripping read which moved at a head-spinning pace . . . I
simply couldn’t put this book down until I reached the
dramatic and devastating conclusion.’
Claire Allan, USA Today bestselling author of
Her Name Was Rose
‘I was fascinated by the cleverly written threads linking the
psychologist, police, criminal and victim. Utterly original
and thought provoking . . . This cries out to be
made into a TV series.’
Amanda Robson, Sunday Times bestselling author of Guilt
‘Engrossing psychological suspense about the effect of a
murder on the mother of a teenage killer.
Sam Carrington had me hooked!’
Emma Curtis, bestselling author of One Little Mistake
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Sam Carrington lives in Devon with her husband and three children. She worked for the NHS for 15 years, during which
time she qualified as a nurse. Following the completion of a
psychology degree she went to work for the prison service as
an Offending Behaviour Programme Facilitator. Her experiences
within this field inspired her writing. She left the service to
spend time with her family and to follow her dream of being a
novelist.
Readers can find out more at http://www.samcarrington.
blogspot.co.uk and can follow Sam on Twitter @sam_carrington1
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Saving Sophie
Bad Sister
One Little Lie
The Missing Wife
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Published by AVON
A division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
A Paperback Original 2019
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2019
Copyright © Sam Carrington 2019
Sam Carrington asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-0-00-833137-5
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Minion by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire Printed and bound in UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced,
transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the publishers.
™
™
™
This book
FSC is produced from independently certified FSC
is a non-profit international organisation established to promote tm paper to ensure
responsible forest manag
the responsible management of the world’
ement.
s forests. Products carrying the
FSC label are independently certified to assure consumers that they come For more information visit: www.harpercollins.co.uk/green
from forests that are managed to meet the social, economic and
ecological needs of present and future generations,
and other controlled sources.
Find out more about HarperCollins and the environment at
www.harpercollins.co.uk/green
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For Doug
Chill out. You’ll live longer.
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Ginger, Ginger broke a winder
Hit the winder – crack!
The baker came out to give ’im a clout
And landed on his back
– 19th-century British nursery rhyme which is believed
to have given rise to the childhood prank game
Knock, Knock, Ginger (also known as Knock Down,
Ginger and other regional variations)
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Prologue
1989
‘Go on, Bella – do it now!’ the girl hissed. She slapped both
hands over her mouth to prevent her near-hysterical laughter
carrying across the man’s garden and alerting him to their
presence.
Bella whipped her head around, her golden hair sweeping
across her back like a closing curtain, and looked at her friend.
‘I don’t want to.’ Her voice was a broken whisper as tears threatened.
‘Don’t be a baby all your life. It’s just a silly game. He can’t
even see you, I promise.’ The girl dared to edge out slightly from her hiding place behind the metal dustbin at the front of the
garden, out of direct eye-line of the kitchen window.
The one he was at.
Bella followed her friend’s gaze. The man, his upper body
filling the frame, stared out – his eyes like black slits, lost beneath bushy
eyebrows.
The girl shrank down lower still. Bella knew her friend didn’t
want to be the one caught out. She’d done her dare yesterday
and succeeded. It was Bella’s turn now.
‘This is a stupid game,’ Bella said, moving forwards, her
shoulders slumped, until she reached the bungalow. She pushed
1
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herself flat against the wall; the hard-stippled surface dug into the backs of her bare legs. She stood stock-still – only her eyes moved as she sought out her friend. She glared at her, silently
begging to be let off the dare.
‘ Creepy Cawley, Creepy Cawley, ’ the other girl chanted, her tone hushed but loud enough to send chills down Bella’s spine;
her legs began to shake, her fear visible. She wished she’d worn
her corduroy trousers now, not the stupid cotton shorts again.
It’s just a game, no need to be scared. But, despite trying to calm herself, her mum’s words of warning rang in her ears: You must never go near Mr Cawley. Ever. Do you understand? She’d said the police had been called lots of times because of kids trespassing on his property, annoying him. Terrorising him. Those were the words her mum had used. Bella closed her eyes tight,
remembering how her mum had put one hand on her hip,
holding the finger of her other hand out, wagging it like a
metronome as she spoke in a stern voice: ‘It’s important you
listen, Bella. To every word I say.’
Bella didn’t want that day to be today, or for her to be the
someone getting hurt.
‘You’re almost there! Go on!’
‘ But it’s not nice. ’ Bella’s voice susurrated through her gritted teeth.
‘Don’t be a chicken. I won’t play with you anymore if you
don’t do it.’
Bella’s eyes, glassy with tears, travelled to the door. It was
only a few feet away. But it seemed like the longest journey she
would ever make.
Taking a deep breath, she lunged and ran, crashing against
the door accidentally as her legs turned to jelly. In her fright, she almost bolted without completing the dare, but with her
friend’s high-pitched screech hurtling across the garden,
shouting, ‘Knock on the door, idiot!’ Bella did as she was told.
2
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Two hard knocks later, her knuckles stinging, she was done.
The two girls ran – squealing with a mixture of exhilaration
and terror – out of Creepy Cawley’s garden, out of the cul-de-sac and into the road leading back to their street.
Billy Cawley smiled as he watched their retreat.
They’d be back.
And next time he’d be ready.
Next time, he’d live up to his nickname and give them a real
reason to scream.
3
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Chapter One
2019
Anna
Friday 12th July
Anna replaced the receiver, forcibly tucked her hair behind her
ears, and walked out of the secretary’s office without conversa-
tion. It wasn’t the first time her mother had phoned her at work, but it was one of the more worrying calls. She was determined
not to pander to her, though – she’d responded to Muriel’s
demands to leave right away by pointing out she had a respon-
sibility for the children and it was only another hour until the
bell. Then she would begin the journey down to Mapledon.
To the house where she grew up.
The one she’d longed to leave way before she had the means
to do so.
‘Mrs Denver, Charlie is throwing the papier-mâché gloop
everywhere!’
The shrill whine of the child brought Anna out of her
thoughts.
‘He is going to have to clear up the mess he’s made, then,
isn’t he?’ She placed her hand on the seven-year-old’s shoulders
and guided her back to the classroom. Leaving her class unat-
tended, even for a matter of minutes, was never a good idea
5
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– and especially on the final day of the term when all the children were hyped up ready for the summer break. ‘A spirited
bunch’ was how the head teacher described them. Anna, whilst
agreeing, also thought a few of them were just plain naughty.
She’d never have allowed Carrie to act up like that – she expected more from her daughter – whether as a result of teaching other
people’s children and witnessing their sometimes unruly behav-
iour, or as a result of her own strict upbringing, she couldn’t
ascertain. It was a case of the chicken or the egg.
Having finally paired all the children with their respective adults, Anna flitted around the classroom clearing away the activities,
tutting at the globs of slushy, sticky newspaper remnants now
clinging to the tables like shit to a blanket. As she picked at some of the hardened paper, Muriel’s words played out in her head.
Something’s wrong, Anna. Something is very wrong.
Anna had sighed at her mother’s words, wondering what
melodrama was about to unfold. But her gut had twisted as
Muriel carried on with her story.
Now, washing and drying her hands with the small, rough
towel, Anna decided she’d have to ring James and get him to
have Carrie for the night despite it not being his turn. The
journey to Mapledon would only take two hours or so from
Bristol, but she didn’t want to take Carrie there – didn’t want
her dragged into whatever was going on. If anything. Her mother
could be over-reacting. When Anna was growing up that’d been her MO – even before Anna’s father had left and then more so
be better to go alone.
Grabbing her bag, she shouted goodbye to the remaining
teachers, swept out of the building and climbed into her car.
Her blue Escort spluttered into life and she drove out of the
school gate. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she
turned right, joining the traffic that would take her to the M5.
6
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Her mother’s words continued to repeat themselves inside her mind as she drove:
There was such a racket at the front of the house, it scared me half to death. When I mustered the courage to go out there, I found it.
Found what, Mum?
The doll’s head. Hammered to my front door.
7
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Chapter Two
2019
Lizzie
The envelope, its corner peeping out from within the clump
of mail she’d shoved behind the purple key pot – the one
neither of them actually used for their keys, preferring instead
to spend stressful minutes searching for the last place they’d
flung them – glared at her like an accusation. Lizzie snatched
it up, then slamme
d it down on the counter, taking a step
back as though it were a dangerous object about to inflict
harm.
Something told her it would do her harm. Its content, anyway.
Mentally, not physically. She knew physical pain, had endured
years of it growing up in various care homes. She could cope
with that; was hardened to it. Her mental well-being had never
caught up, though. That was still fragile, like butterfly wings –
delicate, prone to breaking. She had to guard herself from outside factors.
Guard herself from the words the envelope held within.
She’d ignored it for as long as possible. Hidden it from Dom.
Tried to forget about it. She should’ve ripped it up and binned
it. Why hadn’t she? Sleep had been impossible, her thoughts,
her imagination, keeping her awake hour after hour. She knew
this had to be done.
8
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Taking the envelope once again, she stared at the postmark.
At the logo. It was definitely from the solicitor.
It’d happened thirty years ago. Lizzie had only been eight
years old, but some memories never faded. Some intensified
with age. There was much she didn’t remember – but those gaps had often been filled in for her by the people in the children’s
home. Carers, teachers, the other kids – they’d all had something to say about it.
A sour taste filled Lizzie’s mouth as saliva flooded it.
She had to face this.
Tearing open the envelope before she could change her mind
again, she pulled the crisp, white, headed paper from it.
Dear Mrs Brenfield,
As per your request, I write to inform you that Mr William
Cawley is to be released from HMP Baymead, Devon, on the
9th July 2019.
Lizzie’s vision blurred, her grip loosened. Before she could
read on, the paper fell to the ground.
Creepy Cawley had been released from his thirty-year sentence
three days ago.
He was a free man.
9
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Chapter Three
1989
Bovey Police Station,
outskirts of Mapledon
Friday 21st July – 36 hours after the incident
Shock covered her face with a white mask. She didn’t remember
how she’d come to be there, standing alongside her mother,
whose long, thin arm formed a tight band around her shoulders.