The Role Model: A shocking psychological thriller with several twists

  THE ROLE MODEL

  DANIEL HURST

  www.danielhurstbooks.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Hurst

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Role Model

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  A Letter from the Author

  Also By Daniel Hurst

  About The Author

  “If you can’t be a good example then you’ll just have to be a horrible warning.”

  Catherine Aird

  PROLOGUE

  You want to go deep when you’re digging a grave. It’s no good going shallow and thinking that’s enough. It’s not, and the body will eventually be discovered, probably by an elderly chap walking his dog early in the morning.

  Isn’t that how all bodies get found?

  It seems to be. But not this one. This body will never be found. That’s because I’m going to make this hole deep enough.

  How deep?

  Four feet should do it.

  I know the common depth for a grave in society seems to have been set at six feet, but that’s overkill. You don’t need to go that far and can get away with four. This will not only save you a lot of physical exertion when it comes to digging but saves you something much more precious too.

  Time.

  It goes without saying that the less time you have to spend standing beside a dead body, the better. Get it in the damn ground and get the hell out of there.

  That’s why four feet is the sweet spot. It’s not so deep that you’ll be digging all night, but it’s not so shallow that Mr Gibson’s dog will start pawing at it in the morning.

  By my fairly limited calculations, I think the hole I have just dug is four feet which means I’m done. But I scoop out one more spade full of soil to be sure.

  Now it’s time to put the body in and get it covered up. Depending on how much the victim weighs, this might be easier said than done. Let’s hope you used common sense and dug the hole right next to the body, so you don’t have to drag it. You’ve already wasted enough time, and those dogwalkers will be out any minute now.

  With a big push and a lot of heavy breathing, the body is now in the hole.

  It’s time to start shovelling again. Get that soil on that body and get out of there. Don’t worry about making it perfect. Just make sure it’s covered and looks like the ground in the surrounding area.

  If you’ve created a mound, you’ve done it wrong.

  Pat the soil down. Make it as flat as possible. Throw some dead branches and leaves over the top. Make it look just like every other part of this wood.

  Now you’re ready to go, but before you do, for heaven’s sake, look around and make sure you haven’t left anything behind. The first time I buried a body, I almost left the stupid spade sticking up in the soil over the grave.

  I might as well have put a headstone there.

  Once you are sure that you have got everything, it’s time to leave. Take a second to look around. You can never come back here again.

  You must never return to the scene of a crime.

  Put the shovel in the boot and get back behind the wheel of your car. Your shoulders will be aching from all the digging, but now is not the time for rest. You need to drive home. Stick to the speed limit. It goes without saying that you do not want to attract the attention of the police at this time.

  Once you are home, you will start to feel a little better. The main reason for that is water. You can clean now. Clean the spade. Clean your body.

  Clean your mind.

  Get in bed and try to get some rest. There’s no way in hell you will be able to sleep unless you are a sociopath so maybe take it as a good sign if you spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

  Eventually, the sun will come up and force you to start your day, and this might be the hardest part of all.

  Now you have to pretend like everything is normal.

  Go to work. See friends. Do chores. Act as if nothing has changed.

  Act as if you didn’t just kill somebody and bury them while the rest of the town was sleeping.

  If you have done things right, stayed calm and got lucky, you will get away with it. If not, then shit happens, and hopefully, the judge takes pity on you. Plead manslaughter, and you might be out in ten years. Do not admit to murder, even if that was exactly what it was.

  When this first happened, time was your biggest enemy. But if you have got away with it, time will now be your best friend. Days will become weeks, which turn into months, which then result in years. They say time heals all wounds, which is a load of nonsense, but it does make things a little easier.

  Just about.

  At first, you won’t be able to stop thinking about what you did. It will seem miraculous when you can go a full minute without remembering it. But eventually, you will be able to go hours without thinking about that dead and decomposed body in the ground. Sleep will be a relief when it comes.

  Unless you get the nightmares.

  Good luck with those.

  But whatever happens, you will never be able to forget about it. Just like those bones will always be stuck in the ground, so too will the memory of your crimes be lodged in your brain. All you can do is try and get on with your life, while you still have one.

  That’s what I did. I got on with my life. I can almost go a full day without thinking about that body I buried all those years ago. The hardest part of it all was dealing with the uncertainty.

  Would somebody find it? Would the police come knocking at my door?

  Would I be outed as a murderer?

  So far, that hasn’t happened, and the uncertainty goes on. But there was always one thing I was certain about.

  I was certain that I would never have to bury another body again.

  I was wrong.

  1

  HEATHER

  There’s nothing like a bit of retail therapy to solve most of the problems in your world. Several flashes of that plastic card and the worries, troubles and anxieties fade away into the background.

  At least for a little while.

  ‘They don’t have it in my size.’ />
  I look away from the rack of discounted dresses and see my daughter, Chloe, standing beside me with a disappointed look on her face. She has a beautiful flowery dress in her hand and had been to enquire with the store assistant about getting it in the next size up. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like that went well.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I say. ‘Maybe they have it online?’

  ‘She checked. It’s all sold out.’

  Chloe begrudgingly returns the dress to the rack, and I wish there were some way I could get her the size she wanted. It really is a lovely dress, and it’s a shame they only have it in size eight.

  ‘Who the hell is a size eight around here anyway?’ she says with a shake of the head. ‘This is Bolton, not Los Angeles.’

  I laugh at her comment as I look around at the other shoppers in the store. She’s joking, but she also has a point. This isn’t a town full of skinny models, that’s for sure. There’s a pastry shop on almost every street corner.

  But it’s not as if my daughter is miles out on the size. She is a ten, which is certainly much more than can be said for me. I’m a sixteen, or at least I was the last time I checked, which I’ve stopped doing now I’m pushing forty. Chloe is only seventeen, which means that her metabolism is still furiously burning off every calorie that she puts into her mouth. In contrast, I am definitely showing the effects of a lifetime of visiting those damn pastry shops.

  ‘Is there anything else you like?’ I enquire optimistically, hoping to take her mind off the disappointment of this dress by reminding her that there is more than one nice outfit in this shop.

  ‘Not really,’ she grumbles back like a typical moody teenager.

  ‘Well, you haven’t done too badly today,’ I remind her, jiggling the multitude of bags that I am currently carrying.

  ‘But I still don’t have anything for tonight.’

  ‘There must be something in this lot you can wear.’

  I know Chloe is not going to agree, but I chance my arm anyway. After three hours, eight shops and several swipes of my credit card, I’m hoping that my daughter might finally be prepared to call it a day. It’s not that I don’t like shopping with her or treating her to new things. I love it.

  But my bank account doesn’t.

  ‘Can we try one more place?’ she asks, although the fact she is already heading for the door before waiting for my answer tells me that was more of a command than a question.

  ‘Sure. Then we’ll get lunch,’ I say, following behind her with the heavy bags. ‘I’m starving.’

  We make it out of the store, and now we’re back amongst the busy throngs of shoppers who are all rushing around in this indoor shopping centre. It’s always busy in here on a Saturday, but it’s even more crowded today as everybody gets out of the rain lashing down outside. I’m not looking forward to racing back to the car in that weather when we’re finished up here.

  ‘I’m going to look in this one again,’ Chloe tells me before making a beeline for the first shop we went in when we arrived here this morning.

  It’s the one with the loud music, which I now have to thank for the headache that is currently gripping me. But I say nothing as I follow my daughter back into the shop because we don’t need both of us to be grumpy right now. I’ll leave the mood swings to the teenagers and keep my emotions bottled up because that’s what adults are supposed to do.

  To the dismay of me and my headache, the music is still pumping out of the speakers as I take my place by the clothes rack nearest to the door and wait to see if Chloe will find anything that she can wear for tonight. Often, I will leave her to it and go and browse through some of the items myself, but this isn’t the kind of store for older mums. Not unless they like wearing skin-tight clothing, and I know I certainly don’t.

  I check the time on my mobile as Chloe keeps browsing and see that we still have another thirty minutes left before the parking ticket expires on my car. That should hopefully be enough for Chloe to find something and for us to grab lunch before we head back out into the rain and return home. All in all, it’s been a fairly standard Saturday so far. The shops are full, the weather is horrid, and I’m still feeling the effects of the bottle of wine I drank alone last night. But it’s the music that is causing my headache today, not the alcohol.

  Definitely not the alcohol.

  ‘This is a waste of time. There’s nothing here,’ Chloe cries, clearly exasperated about not being able to find the perfect dress today. ‘I knew we should have gone to the Trafford Centre.’

  I say nothing, mainly because I was the one who talked Chloe out of us going into Manchester. The fact that I couldn’t be bothered to drive all the way through the busy weekend traffic was the main reason I suggested we go into town instead, but I couldn’t say that, of course. I just persuaded Chloe to shop local for a change, and to my surprise, she agreed, although she is clearly regretting that now. That’s because while there are plenty of shops in town, they aren’t on the level of the ones in the massive shopping centre on the edge of the city. But while there are infinitely more shops there than here, there are infinitely more people too, and I couldn’t face those crowds today.

  ‘What about this one?’ I suggest as I lift up a hanger attached to what I think is a pretty blue dress.

  But Chloe’s facial expression tells me that I am way off the mark with this idea, so I quickly return it to the rack.

  ‘I still think you could wear one of these,’ I say, referring to the items in the bags I am still lugging around. ‘You’ve got some really nice things in here.’

  ‘But they’re not right for the party!’ Chloe replies, and I know to stay quiet now because she is obviously on the verge of a massive teenage tantrum.

  Leaving her in peace to keep looking, I think about what could be causing my daughter to be so desperate to find the perfect dress for the party she is attending tonight. Like most young women, she is keen on fashion, but she’s not usually this worked up about it. The only explanation is that there will be somebody at the party who she is trying to impress. I’m sure that is it, but I’m not going to ask her.

  I’m not that stupid.

  Suddenly, Chloe darts towards the row of clothes to our left and I watch as she frantically rummages through the rack before pulling out a dress that I assume she has found to be in her size. It’s a black number that I worry might be a little too short, but Chloe doesn’t give me a chance to voice my opinion on the matter.

  ‘I’m just trying this on!’ she calls to me as she scurries away to the changing rooms.

  I smile as I watch her go and keep my metaphorical fingers crossed that she has finally found the dress for tonight, subject to my final approval, of course.

  Now all there is to do is wait, so I do just that, although I’m not on my own. I’m surrounded by women who are younger, slimmer and more energetic than me.

  This really isn’t my kind of shop.

  The loud music is only too happy to remind me of that.

  2

  CHLOE

  Please let this be the one. I’m almost out of time.

  Looking up nervously into the mirror before me, I get my first visual of how the dress appears now that it is on.

  To my surprise, it actually looks pretty good.

  The fit is just right. I love the style. And while I usually go for more colourful numbers, this black dress does look stunning.

  I’m relieved. I think this is the one. I have something to wear for tonight.

  I know mum might have some questions for me about the length of it, but I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, it’s time to get changed again and get back home so I can start getting ready for this evening.

  This party is a big one, although aren’t they all at my age? But this one will be special, or at least I hope it will be. That’s because tonight is hopefully the night when I get to do something that I have been thinking about for a long time.

  Of course, it involves a bo
y.

  His name is Rupert, although I don’t hold that against him. What he lacks in the name department, he more than makes up for in looks. I’ve had my eye on him for the last few months ever since he joined my sixth form college in the second year. I haven’t actually spoken to him before, only glanced at him awkwardly across the classroom or corridor a few times, but I know all about him.

  He is from down south, and his family moved up here last summer. Apparently, his dad has taken a job in Manchester, but whatever happened, I’m just glad Rupert is here now. He has certainly brightened up the dull days at college ever since I noticed him walking around with his mop of dark hair and his impressive jawline. Now it is time for me to brighten up his days, and I am hoping that this dress will do the trick.

  I have it on good authority that Rupert will be at the party tonight, and that is when I plan to make my move. He’s just the kind of guy I have dreamt about while I was growing up. Tall. Dark. Handsome.

  I really hope he is my first.

  The fact that I am this nervous highlights how inexperienced I am. I’m only young, so that explains it, but I am aware that I am growing up fast now, and it is time for me to become a woman.

  It’s time for me to be more like Mum.

  She would probably laugh if she knew that I aspired to be more like her. After all, aren’t teenagers supposed to hate their parents? But I don’t hate my mum. I love her more than anything in the world and not just because she is buying me all these clothes today. I love her because she has taken good care of me over the years all by herself.

  I never knew my dad, and from what I’m told, that is a good thing. He was a big drinker apparently and tended to get a little rowdy after one too many. I’ve never made Mum go into too much detail about it because I know it upsets her, but I know she had some tough times when I was younger. Despite all of that, she has always provided for me, and I have never felt like I have missed anything growing up. I’m not even jealous of my friends, who all have two parents. If anything, they are actually the ones who are jealous of me. That’s because their parents don’t take them shopping at the weekend and buy them new clothes. They don’t even get on with their mums and dads. But I’m close to my mum, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.