Tell Me A Lie (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  When this was over, he’d take Jenny to Rome. Just the two of them, as it had been when they’d first met, and before his memory became ruined. Where they’d walked through ivy-draped palazzos and along streets smelling of herbs and roasting garlic overlaid with clouds of pungent coffee. Where they’d made love every afternoon. Jenny wearing nothing but his shirt at breakfast on their tiny balcony. Jenny, eating ripe peaches, juice running down her chin. Jenny, whose arctic beauty turned heads – but it was her smile, filled with a joy that poured from her like sunshine, that Dan had fallen in love with.

  For no reason he could think of, a vision of Ekaterina seared his mind. He’d never seen her smile. He’d bet she looked even more devastating. He couldn’t help wondering where she was now. If she was OK. If she’d survived the shooting, or not. An odd feeling of regret mingled with longing came over him as he guessed that he might never know.

  Dan headed out of Yarm and picked up the coast road south, to Scarborough. He didn’t listen to the radio. He concentrated on driving fast, overtaking slower traffic with precision, his senses heightened, aware of farm entrances where a tractor or an animal might suddenly appear, ready for the unexpected, reading the road ahead and matching his speed to the conditions. It didn’t take long before he came to the outer limits of Scarborough and he dropped his speed, let down his window a little. He’d been brought up in Devon, near the beach, and he loved the briny smell of the sea.

  As he approached Irene Cavendish’s street, a car vacated its parking space just ahead. With Lucy’s voice ringing in his ears – Officious Little Bastard – Dan quickly took it.

  He climbed out of the car into a brisk wind. Patches of ice clung stubbornly to the foundations of walls and telegraph poles. To the south the North Sea rolled slowly, the colour of pewter. He pulled up his collar. Walked to the Russian woman’s door. Knocked. Stepped back so that he could be seen clearly from an upstairs window, if need be.

  He sensed someone looking at him. He kept his face bland, his body language unthreatening. If what Lucy said was true – that the woman had survived Stalin’s purges – she’d have a suspicious and guarded nature and wouldn’t take to strangers lightly.

  He knocked again. Called, ‘Mrs Cavendish. My name is Dan Forrester. Ivan Barbolin suggested we meet.’ He had no idea if Irene Cavendish knew Barbolin, but he needed to show that he had information for her and hopefully encourage her to open her door.

  A car drove past behind him. He turned his head a little to watch it disappear round the corner, and at the same time he heard someone move inside the house. Slowly, he turned back to face the front door. Left his hands open and by his sides and waited some more.

  Finally the door opened.

  ‘Jissus, I’m sorry mate.’ A sun-browned man with a thatch of dark hair stood in the doorway looking harassed. He held a small drill and had a piece of sawdust clinging to the corner of his moustache. ‘I heard you knocking but I was right in the middle of some DIY, kind of beyond the point of no return if you know what I mean.’

  From his accent and deep tan, Dan took the man to be South African. One of the visiting cousins Lucy had told him about, he guessed.

  ‘Robin Stanton?’ Dan said.

  The man blinked, looking momentarily disconcerted. ‘You know me?’

  Dan stepped forward, hand outstretched, and introduced himself. The man’s grip was damp from exerting himself, perhaps, and strong.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dan,’ Robin said. ‘But I’ve got to ask. How the hell do you know my name?’

  ‘I’ve just come from a meeting with the police.’ Dan was enigmatic, hoping the man would assume he was with the authorities. ‘I heard you visited Adrian and Polina Calder two weeks before they were killed.’

  ‘Ach.’ He made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. Shook his head. ‘That poor bloody family. We had no idea Adrian was so screwed up. And to kill the animals as well.’ More head shakes. ‘I mean, man. That was sick.’

  ‘There are some who think he might not have done it,’ Dan said mildly.

  Robin Stanton looked astonished. ‘You’re kidding me. I thought he was bang to rights. Honest to God, I thought he did them because he couldn’t keep up the living standard. And hell, what a standard. It was seriously fantastic. If I was him I’d kill myself rather than give it all up.’

  A distant clatter of plates came from inside the house. It sounded like someone unloading a dishwasher.

  Robin turned and yelled, ‘Hey, sis. Someone’s here who says Adrian didn’t do it.’

  No response but the crockery clattering stopped.

  When Robin turned back, Dan asked politely, ‘Is Irene in? I’d like to see her.’

  ‘Sorry. She’s gone to see a relative in the Lake District. We’re visiting from Cape Town and she said we could use her place while she was gone. Do you want her phone number?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Robin had barely taken a step back when a woman appeared beside him. Same wiry build, same dark hair but tied in a ponytail. Like her brother, she wore jeans and a work shirt.

  ‘You think Adrian didn’t do it?’ she said. Her gaze was vivid and aware.

  Dan said, ‘I believe I said there are some who think he might not have done it.’

  ‘That is so English!’ Amusement rose. ‘I still can’t get used to you guys, so non-committal. Look, you want to come in for a coffee? Tell us who these people are? God knows, we don’t want Adrian to be guilty. He’s such a nice guy. I’m Finch, by the way . . .’

  Dan didn’t particularly want to go inside the house, but something in the way Robin looked at his sister – with an odd kind of rebuke – made Dan accept. If they were hiding something, he’d like to know what it was.

  Finch continued to talk as she led the way to the kitchen, where she finished unloading the dishwasher before making them all coffee. ‘Until we came here, we’d never met any of our relatives,’ she told Dan. ‘Dad warned us we might not like some of them but mostly, they’ve been really nice.’ A flash of emotion crossed her face, momentarily startling Dan. It looked like regret. ‘I wish we all lived closer together,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Except for Gregory,’ Robin remarked in a dry tone. He stood with his back to the cooker, his hands cupped around his mug.

  His sister pulled a face. ‘If I never saw him again it would be too soon. Revolting man.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Dan was genuinely curious.

  ‘He’s a Holocaust denier.’ Finch raised her chin. ‘Anti-Semitic and racist. I’ve never met such a bigoted arsehole before. Personally, I’d like to see him exterminated from planet Earth.’

  Dan blinked.

  Robin ran a hand over his head, looking uncomfortable. ‘Ja, he’s not a nice bloke, that one. He says the Holocaust was just some Jewish hoax to gain sympathy. He also believes that Stalin and his cronies were heroes for their ethnic killing campaigns. He says Stalin was one of the greatest leaders who ever existed, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘I see,’ Dan remarked.

  His tone was neutral, but it seemed to act like a tub of ignited rocket fuel, because Finch spun on her heel to face him. Her eyes crackled with fury.

  ‘Stalin was nothing but a murdering bastard. Seven million Ukrainians were starved to death thanks to him. You’ve heard of the Butcher of Ukraine? General Kazimir?’

  Dan didn’t nod, didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘He was Stalin’s henchman. He was responsible for millions of innocent people starving to death.’ Her body was trembling with outrage. ‘And Gregory fucking Stanton thinks the sun shines out of his arse!’

  Robin touched Finch’s arm. ‘Hey, steady sis.’ She pulled away. Her gaze was concentrated on Dan.

  ‘He’s just been elected to represent UKIP in Sunderland,’ she told Dan. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Dan blinked. He hadn’t realised she was talking about the self-confessed neo-Stalinist UK Independence Party candidate. Gregory Stanto
n had created a storm in the press recently by announcing he wanted to stop all non-white immigration into the UK.

  She added tightly, ‘Imagine what fun you’ll have when he starts shit-stirring in the corridors of power.’

  Robin held up a hand. ‘Hopefully that won’t happen.’ His tone was conciliatory. ‘Everyone will see through him.’

  Finch glared at her brother. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  Small silence.

  Dan picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee. Instant, weak and bitter. He swallowed. Put down his mug.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ said Dan. ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me Irene’s mobile number?’

  ‘Sure.’ Robin walked out of the room to return with a slip of paper, which he passed to Dan.

  Finch exhaled. She put a hand over her eyes. ‘God, sorry, man. I didn’t mean to rant like that but that Gregory . . . he really got to me. I can’t believe I’m related to him. Fascist bastard.’

  Although she’d apologised for her outburst, Finch didn’t look him in the eye again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  From her bedroom window, Irene watched Dan Forrester disappear around the corner. He was a nice-looking man. Very self-contained. She’d seen the way he’d stood on the doorstep, not too close, but not too far away either. Respectful and polite. She would have liked to have met him, spoken to him about the people who believed her son-in-law hadn’t killed his wife and children, but now was not the time. She was glad her nephew and niece had been here to cover for her.

  She walked back downstairs.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Robin said.

  Why Timur and Michaela had called their children after birds, Irene couldn’t think. Robin and Finch. To her it was ridiculous and showed a nonsensical side to her brother she didn’t particularly care for, but that was Timur for you – intense and intelligent but occasionally extremely silly. He’d left Russia fourteen years after Irina, aged twenty-four. He hadn’t gone straight to South Africa, but had come to England first to visit her. They’d had a spectacular row, but despite the fallout, which even now could make her weep if she dwelled on it for too long, Timur wasn’t a bad man.

  She battled a wave of exhaustion. Robin and Finch had been out last night, to dinner and a film in York and hadn’t returned until after midnight. She’d woken when they let themselves in and for a moment she’d thought it was Polina coming in late and that her daughter was a teenager and in that split second she’d been cross because her daughter would be tired for school the next day and then she remembered Polina was dead. Her beautiful grandchildren, dead.

  She couldn’t get to sleep again, her mind raw red and screaming with grief. She’d visited Adrian yesterday and she’d been shocked. He’d lost a lot of weight and his skin was grey and sagged like an elderly elephant’s hide. His movements were listless, his voice dull. She prayed he would pull through this. That they both would. But he was in a worse state than she was. He was being accused of his family’s murder whereas she, Irina, was free of any charges. But what was freedom when such a thing happened? She couldn’t say if she’d stayed in Russia that things would have been better, because she knew it wasn’t true.

  She went into the kitchen, started washing up the coffee mugs. Finch joined her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the girl asked gently.

  Irene smiled and Finch smiled back. They had been a godsend, her nephew and niece. She hadn’t realised how much she missed having people in the house and the energy they brought; their noise and chatter was a balm against her pain. She had people to shop and to cook for, to wash and iron for, and although they’d protested, she found keeping busy eased her sorrow far more than drifting aimlessly and weeping all day. She’d learned that years ago, when she’d fallen in love with Dmitry.

  ‘Robin’s nearly finished the utility room window,’ said Finch. ‘Shall we have lunch when he’s done? I saw you bought a quiche . . .’

  But Irene wasn’t listening. She had forgotten at that moment about the cold light coming through the kitchen window, the china mugs, the soapy water in the bowl. She had forgotten that she was in Scarborough, a tourist town with sandy beaches, cafés and arcades, on the coast of North Yorkshire. Her mind had turned to Dmitry. How he and his family suffered at the hands of General Kazimir, Stalin’s henchman.

  She remembered how Dmitry had come home from teaching at school one day to find a large sign hanging outside his apartment block. On it were the names of his parents, two of their cousins and his own name. Next to his parents’ names was written ‘former prince and princess, currently not working,’ suggesting they were spongers living off the labour of others. Next to Dmitry’s name was ‘son of a former prince, currently not working.’

  All of them were then fired from their jobs. Nobody wanted a ‘former’ person working for them in case they were accused of sheltering enemies of the state. They struggled to find other work. Dmitry’s family sold all their personal belongings to raise money for food but it soon ran out. Bread was rationed but as outcasts, they weren’t entitled to ration cards. Dmitry tried to raise rabbits, but the animals died. They began living on a soup of water and potatoes.

  Against her father’s wishes, Irina brought them food and supplies, and tried to find them jobs. But late one night, several soldiers arrived at their apartment with an arrest warrant for Dmitry. He was put in an NKVD ‘black raven’ and driven away to eventaully be incarcarated in a gulag.

  Irina raced home to beg her father to help. Dmitry, she choked. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Her father lifted an eyebrow.

  Please, can you help Dmitry? she begged. I love him. I want to marry him.

  He suddenly jerked to his feet. He was trembling head to toe. Love? he hissed. He strode to Irina and drew back his hand and slapped her, first one cheek and then the other very hard. There’s a war going on and you’re busy doing nothing but fuck tsarist shits! You’re nothing but a slut!

  Her head snapped from one side to the other. She thought her neck might break. For a moment, she thought he was going to kill her.

  Get out of my sight! You disgust me!

  She stumbled outside. Lazar Yesikov lounged there, smiling. He’d heard every word. They stood for a moment, looking at one another. They both knew that once someone quarrelled with her father it was over between them. They might as well be dead. And with Yesikov there to drip toxins into her father’s ears, Irina knew she’d lost her father’s love.

  Yesikov raised a hand, as though to touch her hair, her face, and she felt a surge of panic and forced herself past him, running for her rooms. Trembling and frightened, she stood in her bedroom, unsure what to do next. She had an urge to flee but she knew she couldn’t be impetuous. She had to be careful, as cunning as a fox, and form a plan. One that would work for her and Dmitry. She went to the window and looked out at the acres of snow and ice covering the city. The security forces guarding the house.

  She put on her heavy winter coat and walked outside. When she came to the gate, a soldier barred her way. He was apologetic, almost cringing. I’m sorry. I have orders not to let you pass.

  But I want to go shopping. I need a new dress. Some shoes.

  Sorry.

  It was as she’d guessed. She was now a prisoner.

  Don’t worry, she said. I understand. He was, she knew, just doing his job. She returned to the house. She had to think long-term. Lull them into a sense of security. Let them think she had given up. She hardened her resolve and for the next weeks plotted and laid her plans. Finally, her elder sister came to visit. While she was talking with Papa, Irina crept into the boot of her car, praying nobody would realise she was missing. When the car started and drove to the gates, the fear of being discovered made her feel sick, but nobody opened the boot. Nobody discovered her.

  Her sister wept when Irina told her what had happened. What has happened to Papa? she lamented. We had such a happy tim
e when Mama was alive. Playing on the farm, those beautiful gardens, the woods to hide in, all those wild berries to pick.

  He’s changed, said Irina.

  Yes. Some days I think he is quite insane. And Yesikov! He is deplorable. Her sister was angry enough to use her contacts and the power of their father’s name to get Dmitry released from the gulag. Angry enough to smuggle them out of Russia and into India, where Irina and Dmitry went to the British Embassy and formally petitioned for political asylum, changing their names to escape their past. They were married in London three weeks later and when they made love, she wept.

  She’d thought they’d live together into a ripe old age, growing vegetables and picking apples in their orchard, but her father’s reach stretched further than she’d imagined. After she’d given birth to their child, Dmitry was killed. A single bullet to the head when he was driving to a business appointment. An assassination. The police thought it was a case of mistaken identity but Irene knew differently. Her father had got his revenge.

  That’s when she changed her name again and moved out of London to start anew for the second time. It seemed to have worked because her father never bothered her again.

  Irene returned to the present with a jolt when the telephone rang. Finch raised her eyebrows at her. Irene nodded. She didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. She suddenly felt incredibly tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  She began to move for the stairs, for her bedroom. She heard Finch talking behind her. A small beep indicated she’d put the phone back in its cradle. Silence followed.

  ‘Irene?’ Finch’s voice sounded odd.

  She turned and saw that Finch was looking at her, with a peculiar expression on her face.