A Version of the Truth
‘Devilishly well-plotted, crisply written – and a hell of a lot of fun. What a smashing debut!’ A.J. Finn, author of The Woman in the WindowWe all see what we want to see…2019: Julianne is preparing a family dinner when her son comes to her and says he’s found something on his iPad. Something so terrible, it will turn Julianne’s world into a nightmare and make her question everything about her marriage and what type of man her husband is or is pretending to be.1990: Holly is a fresher student at Oxford University. Out of her depth and nervous about her surroundings, she falls into an uneasy friendship with a group of older students from the upper echelons of society and begins to develop feelings for one in particular. He’s confident, quiet, attractive and seems to like her too. But as the year progresses, her friends’ behaviour grows steadily more disconcerting and Holly begins to realise she might just be a disposable pawn in a very sinister game.A devastating secret has simmered beneath the surface for over twenty-five years. Now it’s time to discover the truth. But what if you’re afraid of what you might find?
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © B P Walter 2019
Cover design © Lisa Horton 2019
Cover photograph: Swimming pool © Dave Wall/ Arcangel Images
Cover photograph: water © Shutterstock
Cover photograph: blood © Shutterstock
B P Walter 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.
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.
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Source ISBN: 9780008309619
Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008309626
Version: 2018-10-03
To my parents
Table of Contents
Knightsbridge, London, 2018
I’m reaching for a Mulberry purse when I feel someone standing close behind me. Too close. I edge to the side and turn round to see a small, blonde-haired woman standing there.
‘Hello, Julianne,’ she says. She smiles at me warmly.
I glance around. There’s nobody else near us. She’s a bit younger than me, probably late thirties, and is wearing a big, fluffy, blue coat, even though it’s the height of summer outside. She starts to walk closer still and I take a step back.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling back, worried she is someone I should know, although I don’t recognise her at all. ‘I’m so sorry, do I …?’ I feel her studying me, looking me up and down, almost like she’s sussing me out.
‘My name’s Myanna. I’m an investigative journalist for the TV production company Exploration Media UK. I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you?’
I stare at her. ‘How do you know my name? What’s this regarding?’ I’m still holding the purse and sense a shop assistant looking over at us. I feel like I’ve been caught in the act, doing something wrong.
‘It’s about your husband, James Knight. I need to talk to you. I was thinking we could go and get a coffee somewhere. Or maybe you could come into my office for a chat?’
My husband. Something about my husband. My mind is racing. Why does this woman know my name? And my husband’s name?
‘Please, Julianne. We really need to talk.’
The back of my neck is feeling hot and suddenly I want to get out of the shop, away from her.
‘This is all very strange,’ I say, and laugh a bit awkwardly. I take another look around to see if anyone else is listening, but we’re still very much alone, apart from the shop assistant, who is now tidying the centre clothes display.
‘Tell you what, take my card,’ the woman says, reaching into her bag and then holding her hand out towards me. ‘I don’t want to force you into anything, but I would really like us to meet. I think you might know what this is about. So, when you’re ready, just give me a call.’ Her voice softens. ‘And I’m sorry if I startled you. I’m on your side, Julianne.’
With that, she is gone, and I’m left standing in the Harrods accessories section, her card clasped between my fingers, wondering why it feels like the ground is moving beneath me.
I lay my hands on the kitchen work surface and let my head fall a bit, just enough so the strands of my hair stay clear of the water in the sink. The sense of exhaustion throbs through me. Christmas should be an enjoyable time, but this year it feels like a stress on the calendar. I do love it, I really do, all the lights on the trees and the cold, although it never gets as cold as my childhood in Chicago. I’ve always thought that when English people moan about the weather they should be transported to the Windy City in the middle of winter. Then they’d really feel cold. Some part of me misses it; the layering up as if you’re about to go on some huge expedition up a mountain when you’re actually just going to the library or the shops.
I hear movement behind me by the door of the kitchen. ‘Do you fancy a top-up of wine?’ I call out to my husband. ‘My mother will be arriving soon, so you’d better get in quickly before she drinks us out of house and home.’
