Lie to Me: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist Read online

  ‘Well…’ she says. Her skin is paper-white, tinged pink with lunchtime alcohol, and her blue eyes are sparkling like cheap jewels. ‘Isn’t this absolutely amazing?’

  ‘This place? Yeah, it is kind of—’

  ‘No, darling!’ she laughs. ‘I mean, the two of us, finding each other after all this time. I can’t tell you how happy I feel.’

  ‘Oh… right…’

  ‘I know the menu like the back of my hand. To start, you must have the butternut squash ravioli. It’s divine.’ She calls the waiter over and orders for the two of us, identical starters and mains, with a bottle of very expensive-sounding wine ‘to celebrate’.

  ‘That video is… well, extraordinary,’ she says. ‘And I mean absolutely extraordinary. The first time I watched it, shivers went right through my spine. I couldn’t sleep all night for thinking about it.’ She lets out a trembling sigh and then leans forward across the table, so close that I can see her pores, clogged with deathly pale face powder. With the jet-black hair and scarlet lips, she looks more like a forgotten bride of Dracula than a forties movie star, which I imagine was the original intention.

  ‘Tell me,’ she says. ‘What was your first reaction? I mean, did it bring back any memories?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Not at all. But then, I was only four.’

  ‘Hmm… That doesn’t surprise me.’ The waiter pours our wine and Isobel takes a generous glug. ‘Children usually forget their past lives once they reach five or six. That’s normal.’

  It doesn’t sound normal to me, but Isobel leaves no space for my opinion, embarking on a mini lecture about reincarnation, as if it factually exists, like cancer or heart disease – or death itself, for that matter. I drink my wine and let her talk. Not all of us reincarnate, apparently; it only happens when there’s ‘unfinished business’. I assume by that she doesn’t mean incomplete kitchen extensions or not reaching your weight-loss target. She tells me that, despite being ‘very drawn’ to Buddhism, she doesn’t subscribe to the karmic interpretation – disabled people, for example, being punished for wrongdoings in former lives. She thinks that’s cruel and utterly ludicrous. Her jury’s out on whether people ever reincarnate as domestic pets and believes it probably only happens occasionally, in exceptional circumstances. But the notion of dead people’s spirits floating out of their bodies and wandering around the ether looking for new, unsuspecting hosts appears to make perfect sense. She’s talking a load of crap and yet I seem unable – unwilling even – to contradict her. I just sit there, listening and nodding. To my shame, I even interject the odd agreeing noise. Isobel Dalliday is enchanting me. I find her warm, funny and extremely entertaining. And I mustn’t forget, she’s paying for lunch.

  The food arrives – two butternut squash ravioli swimming in herby cream sauce. We eat a few forkfuls in welcome silence. The cream slides down my throat and plops into the pool of wine lying at the bottom of my stomach.

  ‘So what do the police make of the tape?’ Isobel wipes sauce from the corners of her mouth with her finger and then licks it clean. ‘I don’t suppose they’re taking it seriously. They are such plods. The very least they should have done is put you through a past life regression.’

  ‘Er… what’s that?’

  ‘You’re put under deep hypnosis and taken back to your previous lives.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, thinking, You’ve got to be kidding. No way would I ever agree to that.

  We carry on eating and the waiter seizes the opportunity to leap in and top up our glasses. Isobel’s pink cheeks are looking clownish, but she orders another bottle. This woman really knows how to put the booze away. I realise I’m going to be too pissed to go back to work this afternoon and am wondering what convincing excuse I could make when Isobel breaks into my thoughts.

  ‘So… this investigation. Do they have any new leads?’

  I shrug. ‘Not that I know of. Eliot – that’s my ex, you know, who’s working on the case – he won’t tell me. He’s being very professional.’

  ‘How boring of him.’

  ‘They’re trying to track Becca down. If they could get her to admit she was mistaken about Cara speaking to her, it could help massively.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Isobel says. ‘Her evidence wrecked the entire prosecution case.’

  ‘I think Jay got to her before the trial and made her change her evidence.’

  ‘I can’t think how. He was in prison, on remand. Anyway, they didn’t know each other. Your mother was just a stranger passing by.’

  I sigh. ‘Maybe the shock of finding the body brought on a psychotic episode.’

  Isobel puts down her fork with a dramatic ring, splashing sauce onto the crisp white tablecloth. ‘No, do you know what I think it was? Oh. My. God. That’s it! That’s it! Yes, it all fits, doesn’t it?’ The people on the next table look up irritably, but she doesn’t notice, or is too drunk to care. ‘Cara was dead, but her departing spirit spoke to Becca. She helped Cara’s soul enter the spirit world, creating a kind of surrogate maternal bond. When people die, they often call out for their mother, you know. So it’s completely understandable that when Becca became a mother herself, Cara’s restless, troubled soul wanted to be with her again. That’s why she chose to reincarnate in you!’

  I stare at her, not knowing how to respond, watching as a large emotional tear runs down her cheek, making a dark channel of mascara in her thick face powder. I should have stopped this ages ago, should have told her what I really thought. Now it’s gone too far and I’m stuck in this pit of ridiculous madness.

  She grips my arm tightly. ‘I’m feeling so emotional, I feel like I could burst.’ She starts to pant heavily. ‘Oh God, it’s as if a huge weight has lifted off me. For years I’ve felt so angry with your mother, I blamed her for the acquittal, but now I see… It wasn’t her fault. She was simply telling the truth!’ The truth? Now we really are getting into difficult territory.

  ‘As she saw it, yes,’ I reply, cautiously. ‘But she was very ill, much worse than anyone realised…’ I tail off pathetically. But it doesn’t matter because Isobel isn’t listening.

  ‘Excuse me for a minute, will you?’ She flings down her napkin and rises unsteadily to her feet, then staggers off to the toilets, presumably to have a good cathartic weep. I stare down at the tablecloth while the waiter leaps in to clear our plates. I’m a complete idiot. I’ve gone and made things worse.

  Perhaps I should leave. Now. While I’ve got the chance. I bend down, pick up my bag and scrape back my chair. The waiter, who’s now brushing invisible crumbs off the tablecloth with a silver brush, catches my eye briefly and we exchange a small conspiratorial smile. I realise that he’s been eavesdropping, or at least observing our body language. God knows what he must be thinking. I hesitate. The woman’s upset. I shouldn’t abandon her. On the other hand, this is all getting so weird. How can somebody as intelligent and successful as Isobel Dalliday believe this stuff? I’m still wondering what to do when I see her walking towards me, looking a little green around the gills, her freshly painted vermilion lips set in an I’m-absolutely-fine-thank-you grin. I let my bag drop to the floor, defeated.

  Our main course arrives – a slab of 55-day hung sirloin served with a couple of chargrilled baby carrots and a beige smear of celeriac puree. As I cut into the meat, blood spurts into some crushed new potatoes and I feel a bit queasy. Isobel, make-up repaired and breathing just about under control, starts to tell me about the original investigation; the trauma Cara’s family went through and how angry they were when Jay was acquitted.

  ‘Well, unfortunately, my mother’s… er…’ I grapple for the most neutral word, ‘her experience confused the jury and the judge didn’t exactly help…’ I realise that Isobel is staring past me, a look of complete panic on her face. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘Alice is here. Shit. My PA must have told her, stupid cow. Oh fuckity-fuckity-fuck.’ She waves breezily. ‘Darling! Over here!’ I turn round to see a glamo
rous woman, verging on the tarty-looking, hovering by the doorway. She nods, then starts to walk towards us, her high heels clipping the floorboards.

  ‘She doesn’t know about you yet,’ Isobel hisses quickly. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  Alice reaches our table and pauses to take in the cosy scene. Immediately I understand how this looks. ‘You didn’t say you were meeting anyone,’ she says through tight bronze lips.

  ‘I didn’t know myself,’ Isobel says, the lie slipping easily off her tongue. ‘It was just a last-minute thing.’

  But Alice doesn’t seem to be buying it. ‘My voice record finished early…’ She stares accusingly at our half-eaten food. ‘I was going to buy you lunch.’

  ‘Why didn’t you text? Then we’d have waited.’

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise,’ Alice pouts.

  ‘Oh, darling, how sweet of you. Now I feel terrible. ‘ Isobel gestures to the waiter to bring another chair and a third wine glass.

  This is embarrassing. I offer up an apologetic smile, but Alice doesn’t react. She’s stick-thin, her clavicle bones sticking out of her chest like two drawer knobs, and I sense many hours in the gym, pounding the step machine. Her long hair, professionally streaked in shades of brown and gold, is puffed up and backcombed, Julia Roberts style. I know exactly how it will feel to the touch – brittle and slightly sticky, like over-spun candyfloss.

  Alice notices me staring. ‘I don’t know you, do I? Are you an actress?’

  Isobel quickly butts in. ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. Please sit down, darling…’ She pats the newly arrived chair and Alice perches stiffly on the edge. We make an extremely uncomfortable triangle.

  ‘I want you to meet Meredith Banks,’ announces Isobel. Adding more gently, ‘She’s Rebecca Banks’s daughter… You remember Rebecca Banks?’

  Alice’s eyes flick at me like a reptile who’s just seen a threat in its peripheral vision. ‘Of course I do, I’m not stupid.’ She glares at Isobel for a few long seconds, absorbing the information. Then she says, ‘A last-minute thing, eh? Like hell.’

  ‘Now you mustn’t be cross, darling,’ Isobel soothes. ‘I wanted to surprise you too.’ She pours Alice a large glass of wine. ‘You might need this… I’ve got something absolutely amazing to tell you about Cara.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jay

  Two weeks off sick in the middle of term is not to be sniffed at, he thinks as he makes a mug of strong tea and takes it back to bed. He sets the pillow against the headboard and sits upright with outstretched legs, tucking the duvet tightly across his chest, invalid style, leaving one arm free for putting mug to mouth. Being sick in the head is a lot more fun than being physically ill, he decides, briefly remembering the bout of flu he had in November: four miserable days lying in his pit with nobody to bring him so much as a Lemsip. The GP was suitably convinced by his symptoms – headaches, sleepless nights, sudden bursts of anger, paranoia, feelings of hopelessness… He wasn’t lying; he’s been like this for years, just never thought of it as a mental illness. Still not sure about it. Although it’s okay these days to say you’re depressed. Almost cool. All these celebrities coming out with their bipolar disorders and obsessive-compulsive whatsits… No wonder the suicide rate is up.

  He drains the mug and rests it on his bedside table, then snuggles down further, pulling the duvet up to beneath his chin. He should have gone to the doctor years ago. Now he’s got three free sessions of CBT on the NHS (which he won’t bother with) and two weeks of lounging about on full pay while some poor bugger has to cover his lessons. He draws a mental picture of his timetable. Normally at this time, he’d be teaching acting techniques to the Level 2s – the same old stuff he’s taught for years. He gets the students to create a character and give it a backstory, then he puts that character in a particular situation and everyone improvises. Acting, in his view, is simple. You play the given circumstances. Just like in real life.

  Imagine you’re a man in his early fifties, never married, no kids, living in a tiny flat in north London. You hate your job. You have a few acquaintances, but no real friends. You’ve only ever fallen in love once, a very long time ago, but it didn’t work out. You haven’t had sex for over ten years and you’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to be touched. In contrast, the woman responsible for ruining your life has become a massive success. She’s written a book about theatre directing and is doing a personal signing at the Piccadilly Waterstones next week. How does your character feel about this? What do they do?

  Jay leans back and thinks about his plans for the event to come. He won’t make a mistake this time; he’ll queue overnight on the pavement if that’s what it takes to see her. He wriggles his toes excitedly, like a small boy looking forward to a football match. Plans a few moves in his head. Runs a lap of victory, proudly holding his prize. Let battle commence…

  He snoozes for a bit, lost in strange, intricate dreams whose plots vanish the second he wakes. Feeling faint with hunger, he reluctantly gets up and dresses without showering, putting on the same sweaty clothes he wore yesterday and the day before. A pair of faded brown cords and a striped rugby-type shirt with a misbehaving collar. He pauses to study himself in the mirror: lank greying hair, puffy shadows beneath his eyes; his facial muscles, once so taut across his cheekbones now dragging downwards in a permanent scowl of disappointment. Maybe I am mentally ill, he thinks. I certainly look the part.

  It’s nearly midday when his doorbell rings. He doesn’t register it at first, not used to having callers or receiving parcels, and it takes two more rings before he realises it’s for him. Even then he hesitates before picking up the entryphone.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Eliot Myles from Heartlands Police. Can I have a word, please?’

  Jay feels his pulse quicken immediately. Heartlands Police. That can only mean one thing. ‘I’m off sick,’ he says, managing a bit of a cough.

  ‘I know, I heard. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we do need to talk.’ The chap sounds young and posh, with no trace of a Brummie accent. Only beginners are that polite.

  ‘Top floor, flat C.’ Jay presses the buzzer.

  He quickly tidies the lounge, stacking the empty mugs and beer cans by the sink, stuffing papers and magazines under the sofa. Suddenly remembering, he runs into the hallway and shuts the door to the box room. Doesn’t want anyone snooping around in there… Oh no.

  ‘Thanks so much for seeing me,’ says the detective. ‘I really appreciate it.’ He offers his card, self-consciously glancing at his printed name before handing it over. A new boy, Jay thinks, probably just promoted. He’s surprised to see he’s black – well, mixed race, actually, but he probably calls himself black. A box ticker. Although he’s hardly off a council estate.

  Jay nods and steps back. ‘You’d better come in,’ he says, walking into the lounge. He points at the low, uncomfortable sofa and the young man sits, sinking awkwardly. He’s clutching a brown leather satchel, scuffed and worn at the edges. Either he’s had it since he was a boy, or he paid hundreds of pounds for it in Portobello Road. Jay guesses the former. There’s a definite whiff of public school about the detective, years of expensive education, Oxbridge perhaps. The product of privilege and overachievement, the type of person Jay used to want to put up against a wall and shoot, though these days he’d probably donate a kidney to teach someone like that.

  ‘So what’s this about?’

  DS Myles opens the satchel and takes out a large notepad and pen. ‘As you probably know, unsolved murder cases are reviewed every twenty-four months. For many years that’s been routine, but recent advances in the recovery of DNA material has made those reviews more meaningful and indeed fruitful. Operation Honeysuckle is—’

  ‘Jesus Christ, do you people never give up?’ Jay barks. ‘I was acquitted.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ The boy fixes his gaze on Jay’s face.

  ‘So I’m a witness now, not a suspect, is that what y
ou’re saying?’

  ‘The jury decided you were innocent and I’m working on the basis that they made the correct decision.’

  Bullshit, thinks Jay, but he doesn’t say anything. He has to hand it to the guy: he’s smart. Treating your enemy respectfully can be very disarming. He watches as the detective takes a white padded envelope out of the satchel and puts it on the coffee table. Fuck, he thinks.

  ‘We’re collecting voluntary DNA samples from everyone that had access to 31 Darkwater Terrace. For elimination purposes, that’s all.’

  ‘So you say…’ Jay folds his arms in a huff.

  ‘You’ve already admitted that you were at the house on the day of the murder, so having DNA evidence of your presence won’t incriminate you. Your profile will only be analysed in connection with this particular case; it won’t go on the national database.’ DS Myles dips back into his satchel and takes out a pair of disposable gloves. ‘I can do it now, it won’t take long.’

  ‘Hmm… What if I refuse?’

  ‘That’s your right. Like I said, it’s a voluntary sample.’

  ‘So you can’t make me.’

  ‘No. Not unless I arrest you on suspicion of a recordable offence.’

  The detective examines his notes, pretending to be looking for something, not saying a word. He doesn’t need to speak; the implications are obvious. If Jay refuses to give a sample, it makes him look guilty. But he daren’t risk it. If they’re determined to stitch him up, why make it easy for them?

  DS Myles rests his pen. ‘I don’t blame you for not cooperating,’ he says. ‘But it won’t stop the process. Motive and opportunity are important, but these days scientific evidence is king. People are being caught for crimes they thought they’d long got away with.’