Her Last Lie Read online

  Isla Johnson thought she was free of the past. She thought she had her life back. But she was wrong.

  Six years ago Isla was the only victim to walk free from Carl Jeffery’s vicious murder spree. Now, Isla vows to live her life to the fullest and from the outside it appears perfect.

  Determined to finish her book Isla plans her final trip to Sweden, but after returning from Canada and meeting a man she never thought she would, her life begins to derail.

  Suddenly Isla is plagued by memories of the man who tried to murder her, and the threat that he could be back causes her to question everything, and everyone around her.

  Perfect for fans of Laura Marshall, Erin Kelly, and B. A. Paris.

  Her Last Lie

  Amanda Brittany

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  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

  Part 2

  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

  Epilogue

  Extract

  Endpages

  Copyright

  AMANDA BRITTANY lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. She loves travelling, and visiting Abisko in Sweden inspired her to write Her Last Lie. She began writing fiction nine years ago, and has since gained a BA in Literature, a Diploma in Creative Writing, and had 200 stories and articles published in magazines globally. When her younger sister became terminally ill, Amanda’s hope was to write a novel where her royalties went to Cancer Research. Her Last Lie is that book, and all of Amanda’s royalties for downloads will go to that charity. Her Last Lie is her debut novel. You can follow her on Twitter @amandajbrittany and on Facebook www.facebook.com/amandabrittany2

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to my wonderful Editor, Hannah Smith and all at HQ for your invaluable support, for guiding me through to publication, and for believing in Her Last Lie. It’s been an amazing journey.

  Special thanks to Karen Clarke for all your support, and for being there when the words flow, and when they don’t. And to Joanne Duncan, thank you for reading early versions of Her Last Lie and giving me such great feedback.

  To the Pink Ladies, my extended family, my friends, bloggers and Facebook friends – thank you for being so supportive throughout my writing journey.

  And a big thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys Her Last Lie – you make it all worthwhile.

  Finally, my biggest thanks go to my close family: Liam and Daniel for their unfailing encouragement, Luke for brilliant brainstorming and talking me out of many a dead-end with Her Last Lie, Lucynda for great feedback on an early draft, and having such faith, and Rhiannon for all your encouragement

  To Mum and Dad for believing in me, and to my sister, Cheryl who was certain I would have a novel published one day. I wish she was here to see it. And last but by no means least, to my amazing husband, Kevin – I have no doubt whatsoever that without you there would be no Her Last Lie. I love you all so much.

  Dedication

  To Cheryl

  My brave sister

  Prologue

  Saturday, 23 July

  NSW Newsroom Online

  Serial killer Carl Jeffery convicted of triple hostel killings, granted appeal.

  Six years ago, the so-called Hostel Killer, Carl Jeffery, now thirty-one, was found guilty of the murders of Sophie Stuart, nineteen, Bronwyn Bray, eighteen, and Clare Simpson, twenty-six. He got three life sentences.

  Now his younger sister, Darleen Jeffery, hopes to get him acquitted.

  Mr Jeffery was accused of targeting women travelling alone in Australia. He would gain their trust, and when the women ended their relationship with Jeffery, he would tap on their window in the dead of night, wearing a green beanie hat and scarf to disguise his appearance, striking fear. He later killed them.

  The main prosecuting evidence came from his intended fourth victim, Isla Johnson from the UK, who survived his attack and identified him as her assailant. She suffered physical and psychological injuries. Following Mr Jeffery’s trial, she returned to England where she now lives with boyfriend Jack Green.

  During his trial, Jeffery broke down when questioned about his mother, who left the family home when he was eleven, leaving him and Darleen to live with their abusive father, who died three months before the first murder.

  Darleen, who penned the bestseller My Brother is Innocent, has campaigned for her sibling’s release for almost six years. She claims her brother’s DNA was found on Bronwyn Bray’s body because they had been in a relationship, and that this wasn’t taken into account fully at the trial. She also insists the court should re-examine Isla’s statements of what happened the night of her brother’s arrest, suggesting there is no proof that he started the ‘bloodbath’ that unfolded that night.

  Canberra’s High Court granted permission today for an appeal, agreeing there are sufficient grounds for further consideration of the case. The hearing will take place on 30 September.

  Leaving court today, Darleen, wearing a two-piece royal-blue skirt suit, told reporters, ‘I’m over the moon. I believe we have a sound case, and I can’t wait for my brother to be released.’

  We contacted Isla Johnson in her hometown of Letchworth Garden City, England. She told us she wouldn’t be attending the hearing. ‘They have my original statements, and I’ve no more to offer,’ she said.

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday, 26 July

  It was hot.

  Not the kind of heat you bask in on a Majorcan beach. No tickle of a warm breeze caressing your cheek. This was clammy, and had crept out of nowhere mid-afternoon, long after Isla had travelled into London in long sleeves and leggings, her camera over her shoulder, her notepad in hand.

  Now Isla was crushed against a bosomy woman reading a freebie newspaper, on a packed, motionless train waiting to leave King’s Cross. The air was heavy with stale body odour and – what was that? – fish? She looked towards the door. Should she wait for the next train?

  She took two long, deep breaths in an attempt to relieve the fuzzy feeling in her chest. She rarely let her angst out of its box any more – proud of how far she’d come. But there were times when the buried-alive anxiety banged on the lid of that box, desperate to be freed. It had been worse since she’d received the letter about the appeal. Carl Jeffery had crawled back under her skin.

  She’d hid the l
etter, knowing if she told Jack and her family they would worry about her. She didn’t want that. She’d spent too much time as a victim. The one everyone worried about. She was stronger now. The woman she’d once been was in touching distance. She couldn’t let the appeal ruin that.

  She ran a finger over the rubber band on her wrist, and pinged it three times. Snap. Snap. Snap. It helped her focus – a weapon against unease.

  ‘Hey, sit,’ said a lad in his teens, leaping to his feet and smiling. Had he picked up on her breathing technique – those restless, twitching feelings?

  I’m twenty-nine, not ninety, she almost said. But the truth was she was relieved. She had been on her feet all day taking pictures around Tower Bridge for an article she was working on, and that horrid heat was basting the backs of her knees, the curves of her elbows, making them sweat.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and thumped down in the vacated seat, realising instantly why the bloke had moved. A fish sandwich muncher was sitting right next to her.

  Her phone rang in her canvas bag, and she pulled it out to see Jack’s face beaming from the screen.

  ‘Hey, you,’ she said, pinning the phone to her ear.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, just delayed. Train’s rammed.’ It jolted forward, and headed on its way. ‘Ooh, we’re moving, thank the Lord. Should be home in about an hour.’

  ‘Great. I’m cooking teriyaki chicken. Mary Berry style.’

  She laughed, scooping her hair behind her ears. ‘Lovely. I’ll pick up wine.’

  The line went dead as the train rumbled through a tunnel, and Isla slipped her phone in her bag, and took out her camera. She flicked through her photos. She would add one or two to Facebook later, and mention her long day in London.

  Your life is so perfect, Millie had written on Isla’s status a few months back, when she’d updated that she and Jack were back from France and she was closer to finishing her book. It had been an odd thing for Millie to say. Her sister knew Isla’s history better than anyone. How could she think Isla’s life was perfect, when she’d seen her at her most desperate? Felt the cruel slap of Isla’s anger.

  Eyes closed, Isla drifted into thoughts of Canada. She was going for a month. Alone. Canada. The place she would have gone to after Australia if life hadn’t forced a sharp change of direction. Going abroad without Jack wouldn’t be easy. But then he couldn’t keep carrying her. She had to face it alone. And it would be the perfect escape from the pending appeal.

  With a squeal of brakes, the train pulled in to Finsbury Park, and fish-sandwich man grunted, far too close to Isla’s ear, that it was his stop. She moved so he could pass, and shuffled into the window seat.

  Through the glass, overheated people poured onto the platform, and her eyes drifted from a woman with a crying, red-faced toddler, to a teenage boy slathering sun cream onto his bare shoulders.

  ‘Isla?’ Someone had sat down next to her, his aftershave too strong.

  She turned, her chest tightening, squeezing as though it might crush her heart. ‘Trevor,’ she stuttered, suddenly desperate to get up and rush through the door before it hissed shut. But it did just that – sucking closed in front of her eyes, suffocating her, preventing any escape from her past.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said, as the train pulled away. He was still handsome and athletic. Gone were his blond curls, replaced by cropped hair that suited him. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a tie loose in the neck, his tanned face glowing in the heat.

  Her heartbeat quickened. It always did when anything out of the ordinary happened, and seeing Trevor for the first time in years made her feel off-kilter. The man she’d hurt at university was sitting right next to her, his face creased into a pleasant smile, as though he’d forgotten how things had ended between them.

  ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Still as beautiful as ever.’ He threw her a playful wink, before his blue eyes latched on to hers. ‘I can’t believe it’s been eight years. How are you?’ She’d forgotten how soft his voice was, the slight hint of Scotland in his accent. He’d always been good to talk to. Always had time for everyone at university. But the chemistry had never been there – for her anyway – and they’d wanted different things from their lives.

  ‘I’m good – you?’ she said, as her heart slowed to an even beat.

  He nodded, and a difficult silence fell between them. This was more like it. This was how things had been left – awkward and embarrassing. An urge to apologise took over. But it was far too late to say sorry for how she’d treated him. Wasn’t it?

  ‘I’ve often thought about you,’ he said, and she tugged her eyes away from his. ‘You know, wondering what you’re up to. I heard what happened in Australia.’

  ‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ It came out sharp and defensive.

  ‘Well, no, I can see why you wouldn’t want to. Must have been awful for you. I’m so sorry.’

  Quickly, Isla changed the subject, and they found themselves bouncing back and forth memories of university days, avoiding how it had ended.

  ‘You’re truly remarkable,’ Trevor said eventually. ‘You know, coming back from what you went through.’

  After another silence, where she stared at her hands, she said, ‘It was hard for a time … a really long time, in fact.’ She hadn’t spoken about it for so long, and could hear her voice cracking.

  ‘But you’re OK now?’ He sounded so genuine, his eyes searching her face.

  She shrugged. ‘His sister . . . ’

  Would it be OK to talk to Trevor about the appeal? Tell him about Darleen Jeffery? Ask him what kind of woman fights their brother’s innocence, when it’s so obvious he’s a monster? There was a huge part of Isla that desperately needed to talk. Say the words she couldn’t say to Jack or her family for fear they would think she was taking a step back. Vocalise the fears that hovered under the surface. The desire to tell someone about the Facebook message she’d received from Darleen Jeffery several months ago was overwhelming. ‘I need to discuss the truth, Isla,’ it had said.

  ‘His sister fought for an appeal and won,’ she went on, wishing immediately that she’d said nothing.

  ‘Jesus.’ He looked so concerned, his eyes wide and fully on her. ‘When is it?’

  ‘The end of September.’ The words caught in her throat.

  ‘Are you going?’

  She shook her head. She’d contacted the Director of Public Prosecutions. Told them she wouldn’t be attending, that she didn’t want to know the outcome. Being in a courtroom with him again would be like resting her head on a block, Carl Jeffery controlling the blade.

  ‘I can’t face it,’ she said, her voice a whisper.

  ‘I don’t blame you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s sickening that he killed three women. Unbelievable.’

  She thought of lovely Jack, knowing how hurt he would be if he knew she was keeping the appeal – and the way it was affecting her – from him. He would be hurt if he knew that within a few minutes of meeting her ex, she was confiding in him – letting it all out. But there was something oddly comforting in the detached feeling of talking to an almost-stranger on a train – because that’s what he was now. Someone she probably wouldn’t see again for another eight years.

  ‘I’ll be in Canada when it takes place. I can forget it’s even happening. And I’ve told them I don’t want to know the outcome.’ She pinged the band on her wrist, before turning and fixing her eyes hard on the window, a surge of tears waiting to fall. She needed to change the subject. ‘So what are you up to now?’

  ‘I’m a chemist,’ he said, his tone upbeat.

  ‘Not a forensic scientist, then?’ That had been his dream.

  ‘Never happened, sadly,’ he said. ‘I’m working on a trial drug at the moment.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’ Her eyes were back on him.

  He shrugged. ‘Not really. Not as interesting as travel writing.’

  She stared, narrowing her eyes. ‘You know
I’m a travel writer?’

  He smiled. ‘I guessed.’ He nodded at her camera. ‘You wanted to be the next Martha Gellhorn.’

  ‘You remember that?’

  He nodded, entwining his fingers on his lap, eyes darting over her face. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said again.

  She knew she had. Her blonde hair came out of a bottle these days, and there was no doubting she was different on the inside. She looked away again, through the window where fields were blurs of green.

  As seconds became minutes he said, ‘Maybe we could catch up some time. Now we’ve found each other again.’

  Words bounced around her head, as a prickle of sweat settled on her forehead. She didn’t want to be unkind, but she was with Jack, and even if she wasn’t, there was nothing there – not even a spark.

  She turned to see his cheeks glowing red, and an urge to say sorry for hurting him all those years ago rose once more. ‘I’m with someone,’ she said instead.

  ‘That’s cool. Me too,’ he said, with what seemed like a genuine smile. ‘I meant as friends, that’s all.’ He pulled out his phone, the yellow Nokia he’d had at university. ‘We could exchange numbers.’ His shoulders rose in a shrug, making him look helpless. ‘It would be good to meet up some time.’

  ***

  Triple-glazed windows sealed against the noise of heavy traffic rattling along the road outside, and a whirring fan that was having little effect, meant the apartment felt even hotter than outside. Isla hated that she couldn’t fling open the windows to let the fresh air in. Sometimes she would grab her camera, jump into her car, and head to the nearby fields to snap photographs of the countryside: birds and butterflies, wild flowers, sheep, horses, whatever she could find – pictures she would often put on Facebook or Instagram.

  ‘Can you open that, please?’ She plonked the chilled bottle of wine she’d picked up from the off-licence in front of Jack on the worktop. ‘I desperately need a shower.’

  He looked up from chopping vegetables. ‘Well hello there, Jack, how was your day?’