BVC Announces Truth Lies Bleeding by Chris Dolley

Truth Lies Bleeding
Chris Dolley

A riveting crime thriller from a New York Times bestselling author.

Mathew Sedley returns home to his isolated cottage to find a dollhouse in his hallway. It’s a perfect replica of his home – inside and out – except that this dollhouse has a miniature figure of a woman lying in a pool of blood on the spare bedroom floor.

A sadistic serial killer is terrorising rural Somerset. Each murder is heralded by the discovery of a dollhouse, an exact replica of the place where the body will be found. And every dollhouse is discovered by the same person – Mathew Sedley.

The police are convinced he’s involved in the killings. He may have an alibi for the first murder, but he also has history. Mathew Sedley is not someone to be trusted. The only person who appears to believe in him is Lauren, an out-of-work actress with a passing relationship with the truth. She inserts herself into Mathew’s life, saying she’s going to help him prove his innocence, but she seems as interested in publicity as she is in detection.

Is Mathew Sedley a killer, a scapegoat, or the final victim?

____

Chris Dolley is a New York Times bestselling author. He lives in rural France with his wife and a frightening number of animals. They grow their own food and solve their own crimes. The latter out of necessity when Chris’s identity was stolen along with their life savings. Abandoned by the police forces of four countries, who all insisted the crime originated in someone else’s jurisdiction, he had to solve the crime himself. Which he did, and got a book out of it – the international bestseller, French Fried: one man’s move to France with too many animals and an identity thief.

Buy Truth Lies Bleeding in the BVC bookstore

Read a Sample

Chapter One

I stopped dead. My front door was ajar. I always lock up before leaving home. It’s my routine — switch off the lights, lock the doors. I never forget.

I rocked from foot to foot. Should I call the police? I lived alone. No one else had a key. What other reason could there be for the door being open…

But would the police come after last time?

I took a deep breath. And listened. Not a sound came from inside the house. Whoever had broken in would be long gone by now, wouldn’t they?

I reached out, gently applying pressure to the door with my left index finger. I slowly pushed it open, trying desperately not to make a sound.

That’s when I saw it — the dollhouse — sitting in the middle of the hall floor. It looked … it looked like an exact replica of my home!

I crept closer, unable to look away. The attention to detail was uncanny. It even had the same bent weathervane on the roof.

And inside? I had to look. I found a latch and swung the front of the dollhouse open. The interior was a perfect reproduction too — every piece of furniture, the wallpaper, the carpets, the…

I froze. There was a miniature figure of a woman lying in a pool of blood on the spare bedroom floor.

~

I swallowed hard. This could not be happening. It had to be a prank. Surely that was more likely than having a dead body upstairs, but … this was so elaborate. Kids wouldn’t have the patience, and who the hell would think this was funny?

I had to call the police. It was the sensible thing to do. Back slowly out of the house and call the police from a safe distance.

But if there wasn’t a body in the spare bedroom…

I couldn’t go through that again. Even if they didn’t recognise my name at first, someone would soon ask the question. Are you that Mathew Sedley? The one from the Sophie Gallindo case?

And it would all start again. The questions. The hate. The ridicule.

They’d charge me with wasting police time, and leak the story to the press — who’d love every minute of it. A chance to pile in and dredge up all the old headlines. I’d only just found a new job and a new place to live. I couldn’t just up sticks and move again!

But if I didn’t call the police and there was a body…

They’d charge me with failing to report a crime. They might even consider me a murder suspect!

I slowly backed out of the house, watching the stairs, glancing behind me. Maybe I could call on a neighbour? I didn’t know anyone in the village and there were a lot of second homes, but surely someone would be in? Maybe they’d agree to check the house with me, or would that be asking too much? Christ, what if I got a neighbour killed?

That’s when the phone rang — not my mobile, not the one I always used, but the old landline inside the house.

I’d never given anyone that number.

~

My heart raced. Was it him? The killer? It always was in films. The all-seeing murderer calling the hapless passer-by to torment and threaten. I can see you. Do what I say or you’re next.

He could be calling from upstairs. Hiding there, waiting for me to check the spare bedroom. Yes, the police will find a body here today, but it won’t be a woman. It’ll be you.

The phone kept ringing. My mind kept racing. What if it was the police? Maybe they’d already been called and were setting up roadblocks on the edge of the village. Snipers even. This could be them trying to contact me. To get me out of the house.

I had to answer the phone.

I edged back inside, breathing hard, eyes darting from the stairs to the kitchen, and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Sedley?”

It was a woman’s voice. Not one I recognised.

“Ye-es,” I said, barely getting the word out.

“Are you the owner of Laburnum Cottage?”

I swallowed hard. “Why do you want to know?”

“I need to establish I’m talking to the right person.”

“Why?”

“Sorry, I should have said. I’m Lauren from Energy Solutions. One of our consultants is going to be in your area next week and he’d like to talk to you about the huge savings that can be made on your home energy bills. Heat pump technology has…”

A telesales call.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and tuned out her voice.

Then I had an idea.

“Wait! Stop. Listen, please. I need your help. I think someone’s in my house.”

“What?”

“Someone’s broken into my house. I’ve just come home and found the front door open.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Not yet. It’s complicated, but…”

I told her about the dollhouse.

“Get out of the house now and call the police.”

“I can’t. What if there’s nothing up there? I can’t risk being charged with wasting police time. I need to find out what’s up there first and … I can’t go up there alone. I need someone to have my back and call the police if … if I can’t.”

She didn’t say a word. All I could hear were faint snatches of conversation in the background.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t have anyone else. I live alone. Please, just stay on the line. You know my name and where I live so … if anything happens you can call for help.”

“This better not be a wind up.”

“It’s not. I can show you the dollhouse! Let me have your number and I’ll text a photo to you.”

“If this is a ploy to get my phone number you’ll regret it.”

“It’s not!”

“First hint of a dick pic and I’m calling the police. I’ve got your name and address.”

“Look, please! I’m desperate.”

She gave me her mobile number. I ran over to the dollhouse, took the picture as quickly as I could, and sent it to her.

“Have you got it yet?” I asked as soon as I got back to the landline.

“Not yet. Wait. Yes. Got it.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “You really should leave the house. Forget about going upstairs. Call the police.”

“I can’t. I have to do this.”

I removed the cordless phone from its base unit. I had no idea what range it had, but it had to have at least ten yards, easily enough to reach the spare bedroom.

I crept to the foot of the stairs and listened. Not a creak. Not a sound. I’d keep to the outside of the stairs, and be ready to turn and run at the slightest movement. And I’d keep my eyes on the landing above.

“I’m climbing the stairs,” I whispered into the phone.

One step, two — still no sounds, no movement from the landing above. Slowly the top of the spare bedroom door came into view. It was closed. I never close that door. I’ve never had a guest in the two months I’ve lived here.

I reached the half-landing and turned. I could see all the way down the landing now. Every door was open except the spare bedroom. Not a sound came from anywhere.

My imagination was on fire. Any second a crazed axe murderer could come running out onto the landing. Or appear at the foot of the stairs. Shit! Why hadn’t I checked the downstairs rooms? He could be anywhere!

I took another deep breath. Get a grip. You can do this!

“The door to the spare bedroom’s closed,” I whispered into the phone. “I’m going to open it.”

My heart thudded in my chest. I had to do this quickly. Another five seconds and I’d lose my nerve.

I positioned myself to the side of the door and rose up onto the balls of my feet, ready to spring backwards at the first hint of trouble. I reached out, grasped the door handle, and slowly turned the knob.

I threw the door open and sprang backwards. The door slammed against the doorstop and swung back, juddering to a halt, half-open.

I peered into the room. The body was there, exactly as depicted in the dollhouse — same pose, same clothes, same hair.

“What’s happening!” asked Lauren

“She’s here,” I said. “It’s just like the dollhouse.”

“Is she dead?”

“There’s a lot of blood.”

“But is she breathing?”

I squatted next to the body and checked. “No. There’s no pulse either.”

“Do you recognise her?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Get out and call the police.”

I took a picture first. I needed proof. Evidence had a habit of disappearing in my world.