WHYTE LIES Read online

  WHYTE LIES

  A gripping suspense thriller

  KC Acton

  KC Acton has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WHYTE LIES © KC Acton. All Rights Reserved, except where otherwise noted.

  The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven

  John Milton

  Firstly, special thanks to my mother, who always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

  A huge thanks to all my wonderful virtual friends at TBC for all the giggles, banter, book recommendations, and support. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  Many thanks to the talented Cheryll Rawling for her outstanding editing skills. You were the first person to read WHYTE LIES, and your positive feedback helped spur me on.

  Thank you to my brilliant cover artist Akira, who brought Faith Whyte and WHYTE LIES to life.

  Last, but certainly not least, thank you to everyone who reads this book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Contents

  Quote

  Dedication

  Blurb

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

  28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

  29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

  30. Chapter Thirty

  31. Chapter Thirty-One

  32. Chapter Thirty-Two

  33. Chapter Thirty-Three

  34. Chapter Thirty-Four

  35. Chapter Thirty-Five

  36. Chapter Thirty-Six

  37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

  38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

  39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

  40. Chapter Forty

  41. Chapter Forty-One

  42. Chapter Forty-Two

  43. Chapter Forty-Three

  44. Chapter Forty-Four

  45. Chapter Forty-Five

  46. Chapter Forty-Six

  Letter from Kate

  WHYTE HEAT (DCI Faith Whyte, Book 2)

  The perfect family? Or the perfect lie?

  Gunshots ring out on the sweltering summer air, shattering the peaceful silence. The stench of exhaust fumes and burning rubber fill the humid breeze as the wheels spin against the embankment. In front of the car, a girl lies hunched, her blonde hair stained red. Her light summer dress is torn. She’s missing a sandal. Part of her wishes she were dead.

  Inside the car, the girl’s father is slumped over the steering wheel. Behind him, the girl’s mother lies motionless.

  The forest is eerily quiet, silenced by the violence, while the shadows of the trees protect the carnage.

  Crime and justice are Detective Faith Whyte’s business. Murder is her speciality. She thinks she has seen it all, until she investigates the brutal killing of a family in Killarney National Park.

  However, the killer is closer than she thinks, and Faith must open her eyes before someone else becomes the victim of a dark and deadly mind.

  Faith has spent a lifetime running, but the past is about to catch up with her. Now, she must surrender to the present and trust her instincts more than ever.

  What happens when the present collides with the secrets of the past? Find out in Whyte Lies, a story about family secrets, the ties that bind, and the true cost of the lies we tell.

  WHYTE LIES is the first book in a gripping new series of detective thrillers, set against the beautiful backdrop of Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.

  The dead are silenced, and Detective Faith Whyte will stop at nothing to give them a voice.

  1

  Summer 1975

  Early morning sunshine pierced the thin curtains, waking the little girl from her troubled sleep. She sat up in bed and rubbed her tired eyes. Already the room was stifling as the sun beat down relentlessly. She shivered, sensing the darkness behind the sunshine, but she shrugged away her uneasiness; it was the last days of summer, and she had a secret.

  She crept out of bed and scrambled into her clothes, picking them up from the tangled heap on the floor where she had discarded them the previous night. Tiptoeing to her bedroom door, she held her breath and listened. She could hear her mother vacuuming downstairs. The Bee Gees’ “Jive Talkin” blasted from the radio. Her father was away ‘on business’ for a few days. She smiled, revelling in the delicious feeling that she was free to do whatever she wanted.

  She ran downstairs and out the back door, peeping around the corner of the house. Then she looked across the garden, past the oak tree, searching for any other signs of life. Everything was quiet.

  Glancing over her shoulder one last time, she ran across the yard to the shed at the end of the garden. She scanned its cobwebbed corners before lifting her old blankie off the discarded box and peering inside at the two fluffy fur balls snuggled into their mother. Her heart melted as she gazed at them. She scooped them into her arms and cuddled them close, forgetting all about the gloomy darkness as she carried them outside into the high grass, out of view of the house. The kittens crawled and clambered over her legs, staring in fascination at the butterflies and bees that buzzed around in the final days of summer.

  “What do we have here?” The voice made her jump. “Such pretty little babies.” She flinched at his sarcastic tone. He was home early. She froze, knowing what that tone meant. Frantically, she looked around for somewhere to run and hide with the kittens. She thought about running back into the shed, but he’d find her there. Then she thought about the cellar. He knew how afraid she was of the dark, and she’d only ever been to the cellar with him. No way, she couldn’t go back there. Maybe she could run away with the kittens, somewhere that he would never find them or her.

  She scrambled to her feet and picked them up, but he was right behind her. It was too late.

  “Come here,” he mocked, while he held out his hands. “Daddy won’t hurt you or your new friends. I promise.”

  She wanted to believe him, but she had heard it all before. His promises always turned to lies. “Please, Daddy,” she cried, looking up at him as she struggled to hold the wriggling kittens. They scratched her bare skin, wanting her to let them play. “Please Daddy, don’t hurt them. I promise I’ll be good. I promise. Please don’t hurt them!”

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone,” he sneered, looking down at her with the veiled expression that usually frightened her into immediate silence. His whole face twisted, an
d the Daddy she knew and loved disappeared. She felt sick as he ignored her cries and reached for her. He snatched the kittens from her as she tried to back away.

  “Let’s play a little game, shall we?” he said, holding the kittens by the scruff of the neck, one in each hand. He looked from one to the other as they mewed and clawed at the air.

  “No, Daddy, no! I’ll do whatever you want.” She cried, clinging to his legs to stop him. “Leave them alone. They’re my babies.” He pushed her away, and she fell in the thick grass. She watched him, knowing what he was about to do. Her father laughed as she scrambled to her feet and ran to the house. She willed her short legs to run faster.

  “Mummy, Mummy,” she screamed, hoping her mother would stop him this time. She burst through the back door and ran along the hall into the kitchen, where her mother was washing dishes. The mouth-watering smell of chocolate cake baking in the oven filled the air. “Mummy, hurry. Please help them.”

  “Help who, Faith?” her mother asked, not moving from her place at the sink.

  “Daddy’s hurting the kittens.” She pulled at her mother’s arm. “Hurry.”

  Her mother yanked her arm away. She stared down into her daughter’s eyes before turning back to the pile of dishes in the sink.

  “Please, Mummy,” Faith whispered. She couldn’t understand why her mother wouldn’t help, but she didn’t budge.

  “I have to save them,” Faith said, turning and running.

  She fell as she ran across the garden, but she got straight back up again, ignoring her bloody knees. There was no sign of her father or the kittens. Fear gripped her.

  She ran into the shed and saw two little fur balls lying still on the ground. Her father had the mother cat by the throat. The poor cat scratched his arms in her desperate fight for life, but he kept squeezing, oblivious to his wounds. Faith watched from the door, crying silent tears as she cradled the dead kittens in her arms. Finally, the mother cat stopped moving, and he flung her to the ground like she was nothing. That was Faith’s first encounter with death.

  2

  August 2014

  The stench of exhaust fumes and burning rubber filled the humid air as the car’s wheels spun against the embankment. Bullets shattered the windscreen as the revving engine wheezed. On the ground in front of the car, a girl lay hunched, her blonde hair matted with blood. Her light summer dress was torn and her sandal was missing. She moaned in agony as she struggled to stay awake. One of her Girl Guide books mentioned how important it was not to fall asleep after a blow to the head, otherwise she might never wake up. Now, she wondered if sleep would be the easier option.

  Inside the car, her father lay slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling onto his white shirt from the bullet wound in his forehead. Behind him, in the back seat, her mother lay with her head thrown back. Her thick, dark hair partially covered her face. The front of her long dress was stained red.

  The forest was eerily quiet, silenced by the uproarious violence, while the shadows of the trees formed a protective canopy over the carnage.

  Ten miles away, Faith Whyte glanced up from her book to gaze across the lake. The summer sun shimmered on the still waters of Lough Leane, while in the distance two swans came in to land by the shores of Ross Castle. Killarney had been Faith’s home for more than twenty years, but she never grew tired of the spectacular views. She sighed contentedly. Not much had changed in the twenty years she’d lived in Killarney, and that’s what she loved most about the place. It was home. She loved the innate friendliness of the people, the way they looked you in the eye and took a genuine interest.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the cerulean sky, while a gentle breeze kept the soaring temperatures from being uncomfortable. The early morning mist over Lough Leane had given way to a gentle heat haze. From her vantage point on the hilltop, she was far removed from the hustle and bustle of the tourists in the town below. Only the rattle of an occasional tractor broke the peaceful silence. It was a perfect day; a day she felt lucky to be alive. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the deckchair, basking in the heat. Life was good.

  It was the hottest summer on record in Ireland. At first, the country embraced the soaring temperatures, renaming itself Costa del Ireland. The shops did a roaring trade in sunscreen and ice cream, but it didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off.

  “Enjoying the sunshine?” asked Faith, turning to her friend in the deckchair beside her. She did her best to keep a straight face as she took in the comical sight of the other woman who was starting to resemble an overcooked lobster.

  “Don’t mock the afflicted,” Angela huffed, pushing her strawberry blonde hair off her face. Petite and fine-boned, Angela was an attractive woman, but the heat didn’t agree with her porcelain complexion, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise. “It’s fine for you with your lovely sallow skin. You should have pity on us fair-skinned Irish. We can’t all be born with perfect Spanish genes.”

  “I’m only a quarter Spanish,” Faith protested.

  “Jaysus, you sound like a Yank now: I’m one quarter Irish, one quarter Spanish, and three quarters whatever,” said Angela, trying to imitate an American accent.

  “I think you need to spend more time with the tourists,” said Faith, “your accent could do with some work. Besides, that’s five quarters.”

  “Whatever,” Angela retaliated, “pass the baby oil.”

  “Forget the baby oil. You should lash on the sunscreen.” Faith tossed a bottle of factor fifty at her.

  “Fancy a glass of wine?” asked Angela, ignoring the sunscreen.

  “I can’t; I’m on call.”

  “It’s your day off.”

  “I know, but I’ll stick to iced tea, just in case.”

  “Good, more for me. Back in a sec.” Angela grinned and headed inside.

  Moments later, she re-emerged with Faith’s mobile phone. “It’s Lady Macbeth,” she said, handing the phone to her. Faith glanced at the screen and rolled her eyes: Detective Chief Superintendent Victoria Thomas was on the line.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Good afternoon, Faith. Apologies for bothering you on your day off, but Area has called in a suspicious death. They’re requesting Serious Crime’s attendance.”

  “No need to apologise, ma’am. I’m on it. Where was the incident?”

  “In the forest, off the Black Valley Road. Let me know how you get on. Patrol has already been dispatched.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Faith?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Good luck.”

  I’ll need it, Faith thought, picking up her book and heading inside. Angela was hovering inquisitively just inside the door.

  “Sorry to cut our afternoon short, but I’ve gotta go; duty calls.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Angela, “anything interesting?”

  “Suspicious death.”

  “Murder?” Her green eyes lit up.

  “I won’t know ’til I get there, but don’t write anything in the paper yet.”

  “Not a word, just let me be the first to know if it’s anything juicy, especially with this being your first case as Detective Chief Inspector. Are you nervous?”

  “A little.” Faith pulled on her boots and quickly ran a brush through her long, black hair before tying it up in a ponytail. She grabbed her keys and badge from the hall table. “The old boys will be scrutinising me, hoping I mess up.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be great.” Angela patted her shoulder. “You’ve earned it.”

  “Thanks, girl. Stay as long as you like. I probably won’t be back until late.”

  “Call me later with all the details. It’s about time I was leaving anyway; the kids will be expecting their dinner. Knock ’em dead, hon.”

  ***

  Faith sped past Muckross House and Torc Waterfall into Killarney’s town centre, taking the same route that Patrol had driven, past Ross Castle and the cathedral, then
up through the rocky, winding road of the Gap of Dunloe into the Black Valley. The stream of coaches carrying the end of season tourists made the roads even more arduous. She followed the bumpy forest track, which only the forest workers used, towards the crime scene, ignoring the sign that warned of the dangerous road ahead.

  As she drove deeper into the forest, she was oblivious to the glimpses of the Kerry Mountains peeking above the dense trees. Bog cotton and wild yellow irises blanketed the valley floor; wild red fuchsia, purple heather and bright yellow gorse lined the road and rocky outcrops. She didn’t pass another soul on her drive towards the crime scene.

  Faith silently cursed her sat-nav as it led her up the wrong path yet again. Most of her team was at the crime scene by the time she finally parked her battered old Jeep behind the fire truck and ambulance, which had been first to arrive. Dozens of journalists and news crews were trampling all over the parking area. Any tyre marks from a getaway vehicle would have been destroyed.

  “I want the area secured within a one kilometre area,” Faith shouted at the police officers who were putting tape around the immediate perimeter.

  “Any comment?” A brave journalist shoved a microphone in her face.