HERE THE TRUTH LIES - A gripping psychological thriller: US Edition

by Seb Kirby

He turns from the screen. “And then there are times when I wish I’d never said such a thing.” He begins to walk away. “Could be another Raymond Wilsden?”

  Lesley shakes her head. “The listing is for Chief Inspector Raymond Wilsden.”

  “You know what this means, June. If Cargill is targeting members of the Assent Board, then Wilsden may be next on his list. That means our boss could be in danger. I’ll make the call to make sure he knows.”

  She motions him back. “What did you get from Cooper?”

  “Nothing that won’t wait. Except we need to take out an arrest warrant on Emma Chamberlain.”

  CHAPTER 68

  On the train heading back to London, I try to keep control of my feelings. I’m elated and depressed at one and the same time, these alternating emotions threatening to consume me.

  I’ve found the mother who raised me as a child. And found my own real identity. However much I’ve tried to deny the reality of the adoption record given to me by Tina Parker, I have now to admit to the truth about who I am. I say the name over and over in my mind, as if I’m trying it on for size.

  Jennifer Wilsden.

  Jennifer Wilsden.

  Jennifer Wilsden.

  It sounds right but I can’t believe it’s me.

  And then I think of the girl who comes to me in the night. That poor, frightened Jenny whose life is so filled with tragedy and despair. The one who calls for help and no one is listening.

  I know now I am that girl.

  My life must have been like that.

  My mother allowed it. For whatever reason, she failed to stop it and my mother must share the blame. And, yet, I felt a strong bond with the tired and defeated woman in Spring Vale.

  I dry my eyes and open search on the phone. There is one clear positive in all I’ve discovered. Jenny Wilsden is as real as I am. She has a past and that past can be recovered.

  The information appears thick and fast on the screen before me. The girl who disappeared on a journey home from school that she’d made a hundred times. A walk that took her past dense undergrowth at the edge of a neighborhood park. The search by the police, and then the public, to find her. Missing posters. Appeals for information from her troubled parents. A photograph here from a local newspaper showing Raymond and Deborah appealing for information, any information about their missing daughter. Deborah looking so much younger then, yet already troubled by more than the disappearance. And Wilsden himself, looking too much like someone trying to appear in distress. And, as the information stream began to dry up, the indication that Jenny had not been found. Would, in all certainty, never be found.

  So, how had he done it? How had he fooled Deborah and the world that Jenny was missing when all along he must have been holding her somewhere with other plans for her. Plans that must have involved Kautek and which led to the creation of Emma Chamberlain. The one, until today, I called my self.

  CHAPTER 69

  Ives is becoming more frustrated than ever that Cargill can’t be traced. Though they’ve achieved decent coverage in the media, once the expected false trails are excluded, there are still no corroborated sightings of the man.

  Not for the first time in their long partnership, Lesley comes good. “I’ve just put down the phone on a Megan Phillips. Lives in Lyndhurst. Called her local station to say she picked up Cargill on the outskirts of Southampton this morning and dropped him off in town.”

  Ives looks circumspect. “And what makes you so sure she’s any more reliable than the others?”

  “Well, if you’d spoken to her, you’d be in no doubt how scared she is. She’s terrified that Cargill now knows enough about her to make her a target.”

  “She’s certain it’s him?”

  “I questioned her on that. She’s saying the mug shot she saw on TV almost passed her by. The man she gave the ride to looked altogether more like the well-provided for businessman he claimed to be. But then she noticed the look in his eyes. That hadn’t changed. It chilled her to the bone when she realized she’d spent all that time so close to him. So, she revisited the mug shot and was left in no doubt.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “I’d lay money on her being right.”

  “Where did she drop him?”

  “At the train station. He told her he was heading for London.” She pauses. “I’ve called for the CT camera footage from trains leaving Southampton today. If he was on board, we’ll find him and then there’s a good chance we’ll be able to track him once he leaves.”

  “Assuming it’s London.”

  “I’ve covered our backs by asking for footage from trains for all other destinations. But Steve, I’m sure he’s headed our way.”

  CHAPTER 70

  Berinski turns on the box that gives off the pulsing light. “I want you to relax. Let your mid float free.”

  I look into the light. “OK.”

  “When I clap my hands, I want you to go back to the house in Morden, the one you visited as a ten-year-old girl. When my hands clap again you will return. Do you understand?”

  I stare at the pulsing light. “I understand.”

  Berinski claps his hands.

  I’m back in the house in Morden.

  A room full of children. Four girls and three boys. None of them with a mother. Nursery rhyme music is playing and there are balloons and cake but this feels like anything but a party.

  The words of my father ring in my ears. “Look like you’re happy. Don’t let me down. You understand?”

  But I don’t feel happy and I can’t help but show it.

  The men are talking, arguing about something. My father is one of those men. Beside him, another man. He is tall and wears a neatly-trimmed beard. A man I recognize.

  The argument is building. One of the young boys is crying, saying he doesn’t want to go upstairs with the man with the beard. He has the boy by the throat and is shaking him hard. Then, the boy goes limp. He collapses to the floor.

  My father is trying to revive the boy, to blow air back into his lungs. But no matter how he tries, the boy remains lifeless where he lies.

  Another man comes rushing forward. The father of the dead boy. There is a fight. The man with the beard has the boy’s father by the throat, pushing him down to the floor and continuing to tighten his grip.

  My father is trying to pull the bearded man off, but he’s too strong. The dead boy’s father kicks his legs one last time and then lies still.

  Someone turns the music up loud to hide the noise of the men shouting about what has just happened.

  Above the music, one voice is loud enough to be heard. “You’ve killed them. Killed them both.”

  I run, trying to hide. My father runs after me and catches me by my hair.

  “Whatever you thought you just saw didn’t happen. Understand?”

  A sound of hands clapping demands my attention.

  Berinski is here, looking down at me. “You’re back here with me. You’re safe now.”

  I squint to focus on the real world once more. “I’m OK.”

  He listens as I tell him about the events in the house.

  “You were a witness?”

  “To a crime. A crime of murder.”

  “And that’s the secret Kautek warned you about?”

  “I think so.” I hesitate. “No, I’m sure.”

  “And you now know who committed the crime?”

  I nod. “I know. I know for sure. I could see him clearly.”

  CHAPTER 71

  Victoria coach station is crowded as people rush to retrieve their luggage from the belly of the bus. Cargill has no need to wait. He’s traveling light and slips away, head down, seeking to avoid the surveillance cameras that are more numerous now he’s reached London.

  Outside, he flags a taxi and heads for Paddington. The driver, involved in an argument with his wife on his hands-free phone for most of the journey, gives Cargill little attention. So much the better.

  He pays the driv
er off a half-mile from the lockup and walks the rest of the way.

  Once there, he finds everything just as Marsha had said. The key is on a ledge above the main door. And here is the key fob to the white SUV, under the wheel arch on the driver’s side. The vehicle is fuelled up and ready to go.

  The bus journey has taken up most of what remained of the day, but he doesn’t want to spend the night in the lock up. Someone could have noticed him arriving and it will arouse suspicion if he stays inside too long. Besides, there are agonies in his past that he associates with being held in confined spaces. He will be better elsewhere.

  He powers up the car, parks it outside while he locks up, and heads for a place he knows.

  The area around the White Lion pub is alive with revelers. From the anonymity of the SUV, he watches them go past, wishing his life could have been as uncomplicated as theirs. Wishing he could have been part of a world where joy is as simple as walking hand in hand with the woman you love. A joy he’s never known.

  There is a flashlight at the window and a tap on the glass. “Open up, sir.”

  It’s a young copper.

  Cargill winds the window down and waits.

  The flashlight illuminates his face, as the copper looks him over. “Not out enjoying yourself?”

  Cargill lies. “Waiting to pick my wife up and drive her home. She’s a barmaid at the Lion.”

  The copper doesn’t reply. His silence is worrying.

  Cargill feels for the knife in his trousers pocket. If the copper asks to see his driver’s license, it will be fatal. There will be little choice but to take the man out. The last thing he wants. A missing policeman always provokes a mass manhunt. That would make the completion of his project difficult, if not impossible.

  The copper gives a weak smile. “Good to hear you’re taking care of her.”

  With that he walks on.

  It’s a risk to let him go. He would have taken the SUV registration number and, most likely, have logged it into the database. But, in itself, that doesn’t mean too much. There is no reason Cargill can think of for them to be searching for this vehicle. It would be one routine report among many thousands from all over London.

  He settles back in the seat and watches as the copper walks on and starts talking with revelers outside the pub.

  His eyelids are becoming heavy. Despite the pain in his shoulder, he can no longer resist the call of sleep.

  CHAPTER 72

  Three drinks in and I still can’t fix my mind on sleep.

  What I discovered in the session with Berinski has left me reeling. The reality of my past is coming into sharpening focus and I struggle to come to terms with what this means. Have the people around me been that duplicitous? Is there any hope that I can emerge from all this as a secure, well-centered person, or would I remain trapped in that web of lies, damned by my determination to lay bare the truth to the world?

  At times like this it takes more strength than I’m sure I have to slough off the shame and guilt that comes with knowing I’ve been part of it. Albeit a victim. But shamed nonetheless.

  I pour another scotch and stare at the amber liquid. One more and these doubts might be laid to rest, at least until the morning.

  Jenny appears without warning.

  As last time, her tears are absent, her young face showing a renewed confidence.

  She comes up close and waits.

  I reach forward to embrace her, sure Jenny will melt away as I’m about to touch her.

  Yet she doesn’t disappear. As I wrap my arms around her, the young girl feels as solid as anyone I’ve ever held.

  There’s a feeling of warm relief, of revelation, as Jenny returns the affection, placing her small arms on my shoulders.

  We look deep into each other’s eyes and see each other there.

  Jenny doesn’t leave this time. She diffuses into my body and becomes part of me, as she was always meant to be.

  I shed tears. Not of loss but of joy.

  DAY 9

  CHAPTER 73

  The morning is no different.

  The struggle to focus through the haze of last night’s drinking is no easier. Nor any less debilitating is the temptation to run away and try to forget about the guilt and shame that hangs like a shroud around me. But somehow I find the determination to get out the bed, head to the shower and prepare to face the day.

  I will not let myself be ground down. I will face my father and demand the answers I’m owed.

  Lucca Berinski’s words warning of the danger of approaching my father invade my thoughts. The trauma of confronting him could be so great as to destabilize me in some final, irrecoverable way. Yet, for me, no matter the consequences, there is nothing more necessary in the world.

  I have the email address of Chief Superintendent Raymond Wilsden, found when trawling the Internet to discover as much about him as I can. And I have a means of ensuring he will agree to meet me.

  My message to him is as simple as it is effective.

  I’m coming to your office at 11.00 this morning. Make sure there are no problems with this.

  Emma Chamberlain.

  Or do you know me better as Jenny Wilsden?

  I don’t wait for a reply. I head for Scotland Yard to confront him.

  On the way into London, I call Sophie. I’m missing her support and advice. But once again I’m confronted with a recorded message saying that Sophie is spending the day in Court.

  I will have to do this on my own.

  CHAPTER 74

  Evan Cargill shakes himself out of sleep. The pain in his shoulder is worse, intensified by adopting the same cramped position all night. He will need to get on the move to have any chance of regaining sufficient use of the arm.

  He climbs down from the SUV and begins walking down the docks road. If his memory serves him, there is one of those all-night drinks and snacks vans parked halfway along Wapping Wall. The kind of place you can get breakfast with no questions asked. That is if the recession hasn’t driven them out of business.

  As he walks, he thinks about the day ahead.

  The method used to lure his first three victims won’t work again. The targets will be too aware of what’s happening to be fooled by any bait he might offer via social media. No, he needs to observe and follow. Wait for his opportunity.

  Yes, the van is there. There are just two customers; a couple still out on the tiles, drinking coffee from paper cups and engrossed in each other. They take no interest in him as he approaches and waits for signs of life from the open serving hatch.

  A pasty-faced forty-year-old, showing the fatigue of manning the van all night, calls down to him. “What can I do for you, Skip?”

  It’s a long time since he’s been referred to that way, but Cargill lets it pass. “You still doing breakfast?

  “That’s what we’re here for.”

  Cargill orders egg and sausage with coffee and waits for the fry-up to be made. He steps out of line of sight from the hatch. No need to give the pasty-faced chef any longer to recognize him from the mug shots the police must have been circulating. The couple finish drinking and move on. There is little chance they will remember him.

  When his order comes, Cargill pays, thanks the man and walks back to the SUV.

  He needs the food. He’s all but forgotten how hungry he is. With breakfast consumed, he feels better. More able to command the day. The pain in his shoulder has subsided. He’s now confident enough to trust himself to accomplish what has to be done.

  He drives to a side street off Northumberland Avenue, close to New Scotland Yard, and parks up.

  No need to flush his man out. Someone hedged around with protection yet still vulnerable, as they all are. It’s going to take patience. A man in his position won’t stay at his desk. The business of the day will require him to be out and about.

  Cargill will wait, no matter how long it takes. And then follow.

  CHAPTER 75

  When I arrive at New Scotland Yard
and present myself at reception, I’m taken straight to Raymond Wilsden’s office.

  He’s wearing the full regalia of his position as Chief Superintendent.

  I’m sure this is meant to intimidate me. “So, Miss Chamberlain, you’ll be pleased to hear I was moved to grant you this meeting. But be aware I have an official engagement to attend and that will limit our time together to no more than fifteen minutes.”

  I can’t understand why he’s so assured; so lacking in any sign I might be a threat to him.

  He offers me a seat at the desk before him and smiles. “I’m here to help in any way I can. You must realize that any mention of Jenny Wilsden is a very serious matter. Someone of that name is a missing person in an unresolved investigation. And, as I suspect you already know, this is something in which I have a very real personal interest.”

  I’m close to being lost for words. He’s going to refuse to acknowledge me as a daughter. I didn’t know what to expect by confronting him but I didn’t anticipate this.

  He continues. “You need to tell me what your interest is in Jenny.”

  From his assurance and his understanding manner, I’m already feeling out of my depth. Yet I’m not here to be side tracked. “I know what you did.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You raised me. You abused me. And when you’d finished with me, you arranged for my disappearance.”

  He holds up his hand. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He pauses and gives me a look of real menace. “You need to be aware, Miss Chamberlain, that making accusations like that will get you into a great deal of trouble.”

  “You’re behaving as if you don’t recognize me.”

  “Because I don’t. This is the first time we’ve met. What else would you expect?”

  I can see where this is going. He’s about to force me into a corner. If I tell him what I know, he has a plan to make me appear to be a neurotic who has somehow latched herself onto the story of Jenny’s disappearance. He’ll be able to say it’s the kind of thing the police are used to. People coming forward to admit to crimes they haven’t committed. People inventing connections that are a product of overactive imaginations.