House of Lies (Detective Karen Hart) Read online

  ALSO BY D. S. BUTLER

  Lost Child

  Her Missing Daughter

  DS Karen Hart Series:

  Bring Them Home

  Where Secrets Lie

  Don’t Turn Back

  DS Jack Mackinnon Crime Series:

  Deadly Obsession

  Deadly Motive

  Deadly Revenge

  Deadly Justice

  Deadly Ritual

  Deadly Payback

  Deadly Game

  Deadly Intent

  East End Series:

  East End Trouble

  East End Diamond

  East End Retribution

  Harper Grant Mystery Series:

  A Witchy Business

  A Witchy Mystery

  A Witchy Christmas

  A Witchy Valentine

  Harper Grant and the Poisoned Pumpkin Pie

  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 © 2020 by D. S. Butler

  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 Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542017572

  ISBN-10: 1542017572

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Alison King swallowed nervously as she looked around the wood-panelled hall. Oil paintings covered the walls. On her first day at Chidlow House, she’d made the mistake of taking a close look at the artwork. It was disturbing. The hunting scenes were violent, and the portraits were odd. Stern-faced men and miserable women were scattered among the bloodthirsty canvases.

  She shuddered. It was just a house. A big, grand, empty house, but a house all the same. The Chidlow family had a long, chequered history, which delighted the teenage students Alison was teaching. At lunchtime she’d overheard them sharing ghost stories about the Drowned Lady. Of course, she didn’t believe in ghosts. She was a grown-up, not a naive, pliable teenager. But there was something about this house . . .

  Giving herself a mental shake, she squared her shoulders and walked on. The smells of old wood and dust from the thick curtains hung in the air as she walked past a large window which looked out on to the extensive gardens. It had a large windowsill with a cushioned seat, in theory a perfect reading nook. Somewhere to curl up and disappear into a novel. In daylight, the house didn’t seem nearly as scary. The sun streamed in through the large pane of glass and the view across the lawns to the lake was undoubtedly beautiful. But when the shadows began to lengthen and the creaks and groans of the old house took on an ominous tone, it was the last place Alison wanted to read. No, she couldn’t imagine curling up and reading in a spot like this. Alison hadn’t read more than a couple of pages since she’d arrived. She hadn’t been able to relax enough to enter a fictional world, because that meant letting her guard down and she couldn’t do that. Not here.

  The house was oppressive. Malevolent.

  Where had that thought come from? A house couldn’t do any harm. The people in it, on the other hand . . .

  She paused and turned in a circle, confused, sure she’d heard something – dripping water, a whisper. She stood still, her ears straining against the silence, but heard nothing. She was alone.

  This place was making her hypersensitive. It wasn’t like her to be so skittish. Once she made it to her room, she could bolt the door and feel safe. But she couldn’t go to her room yet. She had some important information for the director of the study programme.

  Last night she’d heard water trickling in the old pipes and scratching behind the walls. The scratching had probably been mice. Rodents creeping in through cracks and crevices wouldn’t be unusual in a house of this age and size. That was the logical explanation. But at night, her mind played fanciful tricks, and though she didn’t believe in spirits or otherworldly beings, the noises meant she’d stayed awake most of the night.

  A house she’d shared in her student days had had a rodent problem. They’d been nesting in the loft insulation and chewed through various wires, causing untold damage.

  She was annoyed at herself for getting spooked. When the students spoke about the haunting of Chidlow House they did so in awed, thrilled whispers. They weren’t scared of the Drowned Lady. If a group of teenagers could get through a week in the old house without having a panic attack, surely she could do the same. After all, she was the one who was supposed to be responsible for their welfare.

  Earlier two of the students had asked if she’d heard the sound of dripping water and whispering last night.

  She hadn’t been able to reply at first. Then she’d stammered something about how the gurgling of the pipes was the most logical reason for the odd noises. The students accepted her explanation readily enough, but she hadn’t really convinced herself.

  It could be one of the students playing a practical joke. She wouldn’t be surprised. Teenage boys often made very odd efforts to gain attention from their female peers. Or her first guess could be correct – gurgling pipes. Air trapped within them could cause knocking or other unusual sounds. Perhaps the noise was from an animal? They could make all sorts of strange noises. She’d read that foxes could make a sound like a baby crying.

  With a sigh of relief she realised she’d reached the corridor leading to Graham Doyle’s suite. She needed to talk to the programme director as soon as possible. Though she would have liked to leave the matter until morning, it really couldn’t wait. Handling the problem was way above her pay grade. Doyle could do it. He was immensely proud of holding the study week at Chidlow House and would want to know if there was a chance something could tarnish the programme’s reputation.

  Only a few days left, Alison told herself as she walked along the narrow hallway. She could cope with a few more days. She would never do this again though, no matter how good the money was. The stress simply wasn’
t worth it.

  She’d only taken a few steps when a flash of something white streaked across the end of the corridor, in front of the window.

  Her limbs froze and she couldn’t even take a breath, let alone call for help.

  What was that? It was no mouse or gurgling pipes. She’d definitely seen something, a figure in white racing along the hall.

  She turned around desperately, looking for someone else who could have seen the apparition. Doyle’s room was only a few feet away. But her legs refused to move. Her feet felt like they were bolted to the floor.

  She forced herself to take a breath, clenched her fists in her pockets.

  No, she wouldn’t ask Doyle for help. When she’d mentioned the noises to him earlier, he’d looked at her as though she’d lost her marbles and then patronisingly patted her hand.

  Don’t panic. Think logically. There’s no such thing as ghosts so it must be a student messing about.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called. She was trying to make her voice sound authoritative, but it came out reedy and weak, and she sounded exactly how she felt – scared.

  Gathering all her courage, she rushed forward just as all the lights went off.

  Plunged into darkness, she stopped, paralysed by fear. Something moved past her. There wasn’t enough light from the window to see anything, but she felt the rush of air as it passed.

  ‘What? Who was that?’ She didn’t even try to hide the fear in her voice this time.

  A second later, the lights came back on. Alison took a breath. Then she heard the whispering again. A door opened.

  She felt sick.

  It had to be a student playing a practical joke. That was the only explanation that made sense. Her fear ebbed away and was replaced by anger. It really wasn’t funny. Turning off the lights like that could have resulted in someone getting hurt. The carpet along the hallway was threadbare in parts and crumpled in others. Definitely a tripping hazard. Especially in the dark.

  At the end of the corridor was a rickety old staircase that would have been used by the servants more than a hundred years ago. What if someone had taken a wrong turn in the dark and tumbled down the stairs?

  She walked quickly to the door, which had been left ajar. It led to the roof. Alison smiled. They clearly weren’t as clever as they thought. This was the only entrance and exit to the roof.

  She’d been up there several times, sneaking a cigarette, as Doyle had banned the students and teachers smoking anywhere near Chidlow House. She climbed the narrow staircase, determined to locate the practical joker.

  She pushed open the upper door, struggling as the wind was ferocious up here. She staggered outside as the blustery wind whipped her hair around her face. Scanning the area, she quickly ruled out the possibility of someone hiding on the pitched portion of the roof. It was far too steep and the slate tiles were too slippery.

  The flatter section of the roof was smaller and not completely flat, but there weren’t many places to hide. She walked towards the edge – holding on to a stone gargoyle to steady herself.

  For a moment she was distracted by the view. Lights glittered from farmhouses nestled snug between fields, and small villages sparkled like jewels partially hidden by trees. She took a deep breath of cold night air and felt invigorated. On the roof she felt free of the dread that crept around her when she was inside Chidlow House.

  A muffled clunk made her spin around. There was no one there, but the door to the staircase was now closed. Had the wind blown it shut? Or had her practical joker taken the opportunity to scurry away? She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, which had become tangled thanks to the bracing wind.

  At least now she knew it was a student, and not the Drowned Lady. There wasn’t a ghost singling her out. She took one more look at the spectacular view, then peered down at the dark gardens. The view from the roof was the only thing she liked about Chidlow House.

  With a shake of her head, she decided to go back to find Doyle. She’d speak to the students tomorrow and make sure they understood that practical jokes like this weren’t acceptable, and she would make it clear she’d be talking to their parents if this behaviour continued.

  They weren’t a bad lot, really. Spoiled, but that was to be expected with their rich and powerful parents. They’d never had to want for anything in their lives. But they were good at heart. She’d explain it in a way that didn’t embarrass them, but made sure they knew not to do anything like it again.

  She even managed to smile at her earlier fright and was just turning away from the edge of the roof when her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ she asked as her thumping heart slowly returned to its normal rhythm.

  But the only response to her question was a hard and definite shove. Two hands pushed against her chest and Alison King tumbled backwards into the darkness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was Thursday night, and Natasha Layton was getting ready to go out with her friend, Cressida.

  Students weren’t supposed to leave Chidlow House unsupervised. But they did plenty of things that they weren’t supposed to. Sneaking out was Natasha’s way of rebelling against her strict parents. She’d managed to creep out unnoticed four times so far.

  She was good at rebelling in secret. But not so good at standing up to her orthopaedic surgeon father. And terrible at openly defying her mother, a lecturer in history at Lincoln University.

  Natasha slumped into the seat at her desk and pushed the textbooks away with a sigh. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried. She had. Multiple times. But whenever she attempted to have a rational conversation with her parents and explain how she felt, she ended up sulking like a five-year-old. She couldn’t help it. It happened every time. To be fair, it was her mother who had a special way of frustrating every argument Natasha put forward. Her father did little more than raise his bushy eyebrows and look at her disapprovingly when she brought up the subject of having more freedom.

  She was seventeen, after all, and not a child. Though her mother clearly didn’t think so. Natasha wasn’t allowed to do anything alone. She had to be driven to socially approved events and collected at a respectable time.

  Her mother certainly wouldn’t have approved of visits to the local pub, which was where Natasha was intending to go tonight with Cressida.

  Natasha opened up her compact and studied her face in the mirror. Then she picked up an ink-black liquid eyeliner and added an upward flick to each eye. She grinned at her reflection. That was better. Now she looked like someone going out to have a good time.

  Of course, her mother would have been appalled. She liked the no-makeup look. That was a joke. The no-makeup look took her forty minutes to apply every morning.

  Natasha scoffed under her breath and rummaged in her makeup bag, taking out a hot-pink lip gloss and applying a thick, shiny layer to her lips. It might have been a little over the top for a visit to the local pub, but Natasha liked to make the most of her opportunities.

  Her mother preferred to dress conservatively even on nights out. ‘Elegant yet understated’ was her catchphrase. If she’d seen what Natasha was wearing tonight, she would have been horrified.

  Natasha tugged the green stretchy top a little lower, pleased at how the tight material hugged her curves. Then she caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror and frowned. Her eyebrows were far too bushy – she had her father to thank for those – but she didn’t dare pluck them. That was another thing her mother would pitch a fit about.

  She frowned. Her eyebrows almost joined together! She swore softly under her breath and grabbed the tweezers. Plucking a few hairs from the middle of her brow line, Natasha swore a little louder. It hurt so much! It made her eyes water.

  She glanced at the time on her phone. Cressida was supposed to be here in about five minutes. Did she have everything she needed? Money – which wasn’t as easy to come by as you would think. Her mother and father both came from wealthy families but they kept
a tight grip on the purse strings. Natasha didn’t have as much money as most of the other teenagers on the study week. She’d only managed to gather change here and there – from occasions when her mother had given her cash to go and buy a cup of coffee when they’d been out.

  Fortunately, Cressida’s parents were far more generous. Cressida had an allowance and was not shy in sharing her wealth. Still, Natasha didn’t like to go out without her own money as insurance. She didn’t want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere without being able to get a taxi. As her mother constantly told her, it was a dangerous world out there for a young woman.

  Natasha rolled her eyes. If her mother had her way, Natasha would never see anything of the real world. Her parents expected her to be either a surgeon like her father or a lecturer like her mother. They’d gone to Oxford – in fact, that was where they’d met – and they took it for granted that Natasha would do the same. Hence the intensive study programme before her second year of chemistry, biology and maths A levels.

  She’d really wanted to study English, but her mother hadn’t felt that was appropriate.

  When Natasha had complained, she’d said, ‘Darling, there’s nothing stopping you reading books as a hobby, but it’s hardly a career, is it?’

  Natasha tried to argue her point, but Imogen Layton had pinched the bridge of her nose as though the subject pained her. Whenever Natasha tried to talk about her plans for the future, it brought on one of her mother’s headaches.

  Another thing that brought on her mother’s headaches was the mere mention of boys. If she so much as suggested going to a party where there would be members of the opposite sex, that would almost certainly bring on a nasty migraine and her mother would need to lie in a dark room to recover.

  Natasha rolled her eyes again and grabbed her coat. It was a sensible garment – tailored wool – and it hardly went with tonight’s outfit, but then her mother would never sanction buying something fashionable. She liked black, grey and beige. Nothing bright or exciting.

  She reached for a pair of clip-on earrings, held them up to her earlobe and then put them back down in disgust. They looked horrid and clunky. Seventeen years old and she wasn’t even allowed her ears pierced, for goodness’ sake. How ridiculous was that?