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Authors: Liz Nugent

Lying in Wait

BOOK: Lying in Wait
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Part 1: 1980

1: Lydia

2: Karen

3: Laurence

4: Lydia

5: Laurence

6: Karen

7: Lydia

8: Laurence

Part 2: 1985

9: Karen

10: Lydia

11: Laurence

12: Karen

13: Lydia

14: Laurence

15: Karen

16: Lydia

17: Laurence

18: Karen

19: Laurence

20: Lydia

21: Karen

22: Laurence

23: Lydia

24: Laurence

25: Karen

26: Lydia

Part 3: 2016

27: Karen

28: Lydia


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Praise for
Unravelling Oliver

‘A startlingly good debut … there’s a twist near the end that will leave the reader gasping’
Irish Examiner

‘The best opening line you’ll read all year! And you’ll keep reading’ Sinead Crowley, RTÉ Arts Correspondent

‘Incredible … don’t expect too much sleep until you finish this one!’ 5 stars,

‘Has a hell of an opening line – “I expected more of a reaction the first time I hit her.” It’s an unexpected, arresting and compelling way to open a book and Nugent’s debut novel manages to be similarly captivating all the way through’
Sunday Business Post

‘A magnificent debut, compulsively readable … a stunning, shocking and superb novel’ Frank McGuinness, playwright

‘Fantastic … a brilliant psychological story full of suspense and devastation’

‘We read this in one sitting … satisfyingly unnerving’
Woman’s Way

‘Reminiscent of
The Book of Evidence

RTÉ Guide

‘One of those quiet books that tap away at your emotions until they crack … will appeal to fans of Sophie Hannah and Barbara Vine … an intensely gripping psychological tale that leaves you questioning whether you really know the people closest to you’

‘Just read a book in one sitting. Last time I managed that was twenty years ago … the book was
Unravelling Oliver
’ Declan Burke, crime author

‘Her writing is stylish, the characters are vivid and the line of the story all too real and plausible. Can’t recommend it highly enough’ Rick O’Shea, RTÉ

‘An absolute cracker’

‘Liz Nugent’s dazzling debut novel,
Unravelling Oliver
, is, as they say – and they’re saying it quite a lot – “unputdownable” and “a page-turner” … Like a callous Tom Ripley, Oliver is a conman … Without spoiling the plot and Oliver’s twist (or twists, because after the main one there’s a further final twist in the epilogue), let’s just say that
Unravelling Oliver
is all about telling tales’ Mel Healy, crime author

‘I highly recommend
Unravelling Oliver
if you are looking for an intriguing tale that is dark and twisted … you will end up sitting up into the wee hours just to finish it (like myself)’
Totally Bookalicious

‘A fascinating and hugely enjoyable read. 9/10’

Unravelling Oliver
recently won the Irish Crime Novel of the year award. It could have easily won the Literary Novel award given its prose and style’
The View from the Blue House

‘Deliciously disburbing … a truly incredible read that will stay with me for a long, long time’
Lucy Literati

‘I just couldn’t bring myself to keep this down even for a nanosecond … one of the most shockingly stunning books I have ever read. Liz’s writing is so beautiful that for a moment I thought it was all happening in front of my eyes. A great book in every sense!’

‘Just finished
Unravelling Oliver
and will be re-reading straight away. A brilliantly written, extraordinary story!’ Arthur Riordan, playwright

‘I will be thinking about this book for a long time … Liz Nugent’s writing is beautiful and captivating’
Dot Scribbles

‘One of the most beguiling and intriguing debut novels I have read in a long time’
Lisa Reads Books

‘An eye-opening read full of intrigue’
Me, My Books and I

‘A thought-provoking psychological study of human nature … loved it’
My Reading Corner

‘Full of psychological suspense,
Unravelling Oliver
is a fascinating novel that reveals layers upon layers of secrets and lies that unravel as the story progresses and keeps you engaged throughout’
Bookshelf Butterfly

‘Gripping … I didn’t want to miss a single explanation, confession or regret as the story moved on. Interesting, enthralling and certainly not a book to be missed’

‘Fantastic … I loved how the final chapter made me rethink everything. The ending complicates matters, forcing you to think about the nature of violence and whether somebody can truly be considered a monster. The plot contains more twists than a slinky, and the writing is fast-paced and carries you along gleefully, if “gleeful” is a word you can use in association with this book. You should read it. Preferably in one day’

‘Incredibly gripping and engrossing. This is a novel you will not be able to put down!’
Laura’s Little Book Blog

‘A kind of an Irish Mr Ripley. Gripping, thought-provoking’ Darragh McManus,
Irish Independent

‘One of the more fascinating and well-plotted books I’ve read this year so far. I got completely caught up in the story and had to keep on reading’
More Than a Reading Journal

‘A shockingly brilliant debut!’
The Love of a Good Book

‘I read it in almost one sitting … what is evident is the slow manipulation of a very cleverly put-together story. There are no gaps, no glaring oversights, no unnecessary dialogue. It is just a really good story’

‘Extremely compelling and accomplished’
Lonesome Reader

‘I read this book over a twenty-four-hour period. I seriously could not put it down. The writing is superb … I can’t find any flaws in this novel: perfect protagonist, great supporting characters and perfectly pitched chapters’

‘Far too impressive to be a debut. A haunting novel about the true strength of human nature’
She Loves to Read

‘This was a treat of a book – one that kept me reading “just another chapter” and needing to know how it all worked out’

‘The originality, cleverness and fantastic characters … were a sheer delight to read’
Cleopatra Loves Books

‘Hooked throughout. 5 Stars’

‘To say this book was gripping would be to put it mildly … As an intelligent psychological suspense novel, this is top notch’

‘This is dark, destructive and thought-provoking – not a comfortable read, and all the more interesting for it’
Chick Lit Love

‘Such an intriguing story that I raced through it, I could not got enough of it. I was so keen to find out what happened that I had to stay up late in the night to read every last word. The characters in the story are memorable and the plot is genius. I really loved this intricate tale told with such style and imagination. Go get this immediately!’
Edel’s Book and Beauty Blog

‘Your sympathies swing wildly as the story unfolds. There’s also a lovely wry humour running through what is essentially a really dark and disturbing story … an excellent read’
Being Anne

‘The kind of book that gets its hooks into you and doesn’t let go until you’ve turned the final page. I found it dark, twisted, compelling … and also a lot of fun. There’s the satisfaction of seeing the mystery at the heart of the main character unfold one jigsaw piece at a time as the supporting players fill in the blanks, as well as an overall sense of irony and sly humour. Oliver is a monster, but he’s a witty and entertaining monster with a stunning secret, and this complex and suspenseful novel is a delight’

‘The story had me hooked from the beginning with a very strong start that made my heart pound. I was hoping that the ending would be just as good and I was not disappointed’

Random Things Through My Letterbox

For Richard, with all my love

The cold earth slept below,

Above the cold sky shone;

And all around, with a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow,

The breath of night like death did flow

Beneath the sinking moon.

Percy Bysshe Shelley


husband did not mean to kill Annie Doyle, but the lying tramp deserved it. After we had overcome the initial shock, I tried to stop him speaking of her. I did not allow it unless to confirm alibis or to discuss covering up any possible evidence. It upset him too much and I thought it best to move on as if nothing had happened. Even though we did not talk about it, I couldn’t help going over the events of the night in my mind, each time wishing that some aspect, some detail, could be different, but facts are facts and we must get used to them.

It was the 14th of November 1980. It had all been arranged. Not her death, just the meeting to see if she was genuine, and if not, to get our money back. I walked the strand for twenty minutes to ensure that there was nobody around, but I needn’t have worried. The beach was deserted on that particularly bitter night. When I was satisfied that I was alone, I went to the bench and waited. A cruel wind rushed in with the waves and I pulled my cashmere coat around me and turned up the collar. Andrew arrived promptly and parked not far from where I was seated, as instructed. I watched from thirty yards away. I had told him to confront her. And I wanted to see her for myself, to assess her suitability. They were supposed to get out of the car and walk past me. But they didn’t. After waiting ten minutes, I got up and walked towards the car, wondering what was taking so long. As I got closer, I could hear raised voices. And then I saw them fighting. The passenger door swung open and she tried to get out.
But he pulled her back towards him. I could see his hands around her throat. I watched her struggle, mesmerized momentarily, wondering if I could be imagining things, and then I came back to myself, snapped out of my confusion and ran to the car.

‘Stop! Andrew! What are you doing?’ My voice was shrill to my own ears, and her eyes swivelled towards me in shock and terror before they rolled back upwards into her head.

He released her immediately and she fell backwards, gurgling. She was almost but not quite dead, so I grabbed the crook lock from the footwell at her feet and smashed it down on to her skull, just once. There was blood and a little twitching and then absolute stillness.

I’m not sure why I did that. Instinct?

She looked younger than her twenty-two years. I could see past the lurid make-up, the dyed black hair, almost navy. There was a jagged white scar running from a deformed top lip to the septum of her nose. I wondered that Andrew had never thought to mention that. Her jacket had been pulled off one arm during the struggle and I saw bloodied scabs in the crook of her elbow. There was a sarcastic expression on her face, a smirk that death could not erase. I like to think I did the girl a kindness, like putting an injured bird out of its misery. She did not deserve such consideration.

Andrew has always had a short fuse, blowing up at small, insignificant things and then, almost immediately, remorseful and calm. This time, however, he was hysterical, crying and screaming fit to wake the dead.

‘Oh Christ! Oh Jesus!’ he kept saying, as if the Son of God could fix anything. ‘What have we done?’

‘We?’ I was aghast. ‘You killed her!’

‘She laughed at me! You were right about her. She said I
was an easy touch. That she’d go to the press. She was going to blackmail me. I lost my temper. But you … you finished it, she might have been all right …’

‘Don’t even … don’t say that, you fool, you idiot!’

His face was wretched, tormented. I felt sympathy for him. I told him to pull himself together. We needed to get home before Laurence. I ordered him to help me get the body into the boot. Through his tears, he carried out my instructions. Infuriatingly, his golf clubs were in there, unused for the last year, taking up most of the space, but luckily the corpse was as slight and slim as I had suspected, and still flexible, so we managed to stuff her in.

‘What are we going to do with her?’

‘I don’t know. We have to calm down. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. We need to go home now. What do you know about her? Does she have family? Who will be looking for her?’

‘I don’t know … she … I think she might have mentioned a sister?’

‘Right now, nobody knows she is dead. Nobody knows she is missing. We need to keep it like that.’

When we got home to Avalon at quarter past midnight, I could see by the shadow from his window that the bedside light was on in Laurence’s bedroom. I had really wanted to be there when he got home, to hear how his evening had been. I told Andrew to pour us a brandy while I went to check on our son. He was sprawled across the bed and didn’t stir when I ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. ‘Goodnight, Laurence,’ I whispered, but he was fast asleep. I turned out his lamp, closed his bedroom door and went to the bathroom cabinet for a Valium before I went downstairs. I needed to be calm.

Andrew was trembling all over. ‘Jesus, Lydia, we’re in serious trouble. Maybe we should call the guards.’

I topped up his glass and drained the bottle into my own. He was in shock.

‘And ruin Laurence’s life for ever? Tomorrow is a new day. We’ll deal with it then, but we must remember Laurence, whatever happens. He mustn’t know anything.’

‘Laurence? What has it to do with him? What about Annie? Oh God, we killed her, we murdered her. We’re going to prison.’

I was not going to prison. Who would look after Laurence? I stroked Andrew’s arm in an effort to comfort him. ‘We will figure it out tomorrow. Nobody saw us. Nobody can connect us with the girl. She would have been too ashamed to tell anyone what she was up to. We just have to figure out where to put her body.’

‘You’re sure nobody saw us?’

‘There wasn’t a soul on the strand. I walked the length of it to make sure. Go to bed, love. Things will be better tomorrow.’

He looked at me as if I were insane.

I stared him down. ‘I’m not the one who strangled her.’

Tears poured from his cheeks. ‘But maybe if you hadn’t hit her …’

‘What? She would have died more slowly? Or been permanently brain-damaged?’

‘We could have said that we’d found her like that!’

want to drive back there now and dump her, ring an ambulance from the phone box and explain what you are doing there on the strand at one o’clock in the morning?’

He looked into the bottom of his glass.

‘But what are we going to do?’

‘Go to bed.’

As we ascended the stairs, I heard the whirr of the washing machine. I wondered why Laurence had decided to do laundry on a Friday night. It was most unlike him. But it reminded me that my clothes and Andrew’s really needed to be washed too. We both stripped and I set aside the pile of laundry for the morning. I washed the sand off our shoes and swept the floors we had passed over. I deposited the sand from the dustpan in the back garden, on the raised patch of lawn beyond the kitchen window. I studied the ground for a moment. I had always thought of having a flower bed planted there.

When I slipped into bed later, I put my arms around Andrew’s trembling form, and he turned to me and we made love, clawing at and clinging to each other like survivors of a terrible calamity.

Andrew had been a very good husband until just a year previously. For twenty-one years, our marriage had been solid. Daddy had been very impressed with him. On his deathbed, Daddy had said he was relieved to be leaving me in good hands. Andrew had been Daddy’s apprentice in Hyland & Goldblatt. He had taken Andrew under his wing and made him his protégé. One day, when I was about twenty-six, Daddy had telephoned me at home and told me that we were having a special guest for dinner and that I should cook something nice and get my hair done. ‘No lipstick,’ he said. Daddy had a thing about make-up. ‘I can’t stand those painted trollops!’ he would say about American film stars. Daddy’s views could be extreme. ‘You are my beautiful daughter. No point in gilding a lily.’

I was curious about this visitor and why I should dress up for him. I should have guessed, of course, that Daddy was intent on matchmaking. He needn’t have worried. Andrew
adored me right away. He went to enormous lengths to charm me. He said that he would do anything for me. ‘I can’t stop looking at you,’ he said. And indeed, his eyes followed me everywhere. He always called me his prize, his precious jewel. I loved him too. My father always knew what was best for me.

Our courtship was short and very sweet. Andrew came from a good family. His late father had been a consultant paediatrician, and though I found his mother a little contrary, she raised no objections to our relationship. After all, when Andrew married me, he would get Avalon too – a six-bedroom detached Georgian house on an acre of land in Cabinteely, south County Dublin. Andrew wanted us to get a house of our own when we got married, but Daddy put his foot down. ‘You’ll move in here. This is Lydia’s home. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

So Andrew moved in with us, and Daddy gave up the master bedroom and moved to the large bedroom on the other side of the corridor. Andrew grumbled a little to me. ‘But, darling, don’t you see how awkward it is? I’m living with my boss!’ And I admit that Daddy did order Andrew around quite a lot, but Andrew got used to it quickly. I think he knew how lucky he was.

Andrew did not mind that I did not want to host parties or socialize with other couples. He said he was quite happy to keep me to himself. He was kind and generous and considerate. He usually backed away from confrontation, so we did not have many arguments. In a heated moment, he might kick or throw inanimate objects, but I think everyone does that from time to time. And he was always terribly contrite afterwards.

Andrew worked his way up through the ranks until finally all his time on the golf course paid off and three years ago he
was appointed as a judge in the Criminal Courts. He was a respected member of society. People listened to him when he spoke, and quoted him in the newspapers. He was widely regarded as having the voice of reason on matters legal and judicial.

But last year, Paddy Carey, his old pal, accountant and golfing partner, had left the country with our money. I thought that, at the very least, Andrew would be careful with our finances. That was the husband’s job, to be a provider and to look after the economic well-being of the household. But he had trusted Paddy Carey with everything and Paddy had fooled us all. We were left with nothing but debts and liabilities, and Andrew’s generous salary barely covered our expenditure.

Had I married badly after all? My role was to be presentable, beautiful, charming – a homemaker, a companion, a good cook, lover and a mother. A mother.

Andrew suggested selling some land to developers to raise capital. I was horrified at the suggestion. Nobody of our status would do such a thing. I had spent my whole life in Avalon. My father had inherited it from his father, and it was the house in which I was born. And the house in which my sister died. I was not going to compromise on selling any part of Avalon. Nor was I going to compromise on the money we needed to pay the girl.

But we had to take Laurence out of the hideously expensive Carmichael Abbey and send him to St Martin’s instead. It broke my heart. I knew he was unhappy there. I knew he was victimized because of his class and accent, but the money simply wasn’t there. Andrew quietly sold some of the family silver to pay our debts, and we kept the wolf at bay. He could not risk being declared bankrupt, as he would have been forced to resign from the bench. We had never lived
extravagantly, but the few luxuries that were normal to us began to disappear. He gave up his golf club membership but insisted that he could still pay my store account at Switzers and Brown Thomas. He always hated to disappoint me.

But now, this? A dead girl in the boot of the car in the garage. I was sorry she was dead, but I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t or couldn’t have strangled her myself under the circumstances. We just wanted our money back. I couldn’t stop thinking about the scars on the girl’s inner arm. I had seen a documentary about heroin addicts on the BBC, and reports of a heroin epidemic were in our newspapers. It seemed obvious that she had injected our money into her bloodstream, as if our needs and wants hadn’t mattered.

As Andrew slept fitfully, whimpering and crying out occasionally, I made plans.

The next morning, a Saturday, Laurence slept late. I warned Andrew to say as little as possible. He readily agreed. He was hollow-eyed, and there was a tremor in his voice that never quite went away after that night. He and Laurence had always had a fraught relationship, so they were not inclined to be conversational. I planned to get Laurence out of the house for the day, send him into town on some errand or other while Andrew buried the girl in our garden. Andrew was shocked that we would bury her here, but I made him see that, this way, she could not be discovered. We were in control of our own property. Nobody had access without our permission. Our large rear garden was not overlooked. I knew exactly the spot where she could be buried. In my childhood there had been an ornamental pond under the plane tree beyond the kitchen window, but Daddy had filled it in after my sister’s death. Its stone borders, which had lain under the soil for almost forty years, were conveniently grave-like.

After Andrew had buried the body, he could clean out and hoover the car until there would be no trace of fibres or fingerprints. I was determined to take all precautions. Andrew knew from his job the kind of thing that could incriminate a person. Nobody had seen us on the strand, but one can never be too sure of anything.

When Laurence arrived at the breakfast table, he had a noticeable limp. I tried to be cheerful. ‘So how are you today, sweetie?’ Andrew stayed behind his
Irish Times
, but I could see his knuckles gripped it tightly to stop it from shaking.

‘My ankle hurts. I tripped going upstairs last night.’

I examined his ankle quickly. It was very swollen and probably sprained. This scuppered my plans to send him into town. But I could still contain my boy, confine him to quarters so to speak. I strapped his ankle and instructed him to stay on the sofa all day. That way, I could keep an eye on him, keep him away from the rear of the house where the burial was to take place. Laurence was not an active boy, so lying on the sofa watching television all day and having food delivered to him on a tray was no hardship to him at all.

BOOK: Lying in Wait
10.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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