Tell Me A Lie (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Jenny stood at the window. Before her stretched a vast sea of snow-covered grass and thistles dotted with clumps of frosted spruce trees and hawthorn. A copse stood to the left, icy branches reaching their bony fingers into a grey sky. On the right stood a low-slung barn and some stables. In between was nothing but snow. Snow as far as her eye could see. No point in running away. She’d only die of exposure.

  They’d moved her from the clinic. Once again, they had injected her with some kind of anaesthetic and transported her unconscious. She had no idea what day it was, or what time, let alone where she was. Just that it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

  There was no point in panicking. She was where she was, for whatever reason. She wondered what they wanted from Dan. Whether he was being compromised, what mission it was part of, and whether the FCO or MI5 were involved yet. She had to hope so. They would negotiate her release. Dan would come and get her. She had to hold on to these thoughts. Retain her sanity.

  Despite her reasoning, her pulse was thudding and she felt short of breath. Her emotions were shimmering on the surface of her skin. Fear, horror, dread.

  What had Dan told Aimee?

  Immediately a wave of distress rose as dark and red as an open wound, and she pushed the thought away. She mustn’t think of Aimee or she’d lose it, go insane. She would think about her later. She had to concentrate on the now and find a way to escape. But first she had to find out what she was doing here. Knowledge, as Dan always said, was power.

  Slowly, she reached out and grasped the latch. Opened the window. The air was bitingly cold and fresh and she breathed in deeply, feeling her emotions steady. Leaving the window slightly ajar, she turned to survey the room. Reconnoitre, she told herself. Gain information.

  Her eyes travelled over the heavy wooden floorboards. The wooden bed with a big headboard. Rough-woven rugs. More wooden furniture: chairs, bedside tables, wardrobe, two chests of drawers. An enormous flat-screen TV was bolted to the wall opposite the bed. Although a fire had been lit in the open fireplace, the radiators pumped out more heat. Cameras were positioned in the ceiling, covering what appeared to be the entire room. There were two doors. One to the left, the other straight ahead.

  The first door led to a bathroom. A huge bath with clawed feet sat on one side. On the other was an open shower. The walls and floor were pale stone. She touched the floor to find it was warm. Underfloor heating. Fluffy towels and toiletries stood on a shelf next to the shower. Comb, hairbrush, hairdryer. Shower cap. More cameras.

  She opened the other door. Looked up and down a corridor. More wooden floors. More radiators. To the right, a slab of light lay on the floor, indicating an open door. Jenny walked that way. Glanced at the pictures on the walls. Hunters with guns, dead wolves and bears. Sheep with huge horns.

  She peered through the open door to find a sitting room with overstuffed sofas and armchairs, walls lined with stuffed animal heads: bear, foxes, martins and wolves, all snarling with their lips drawn back over frightening-looking teeth. There were stuffed birds too, duck and partridge, and a huge salmon hung above a massive open fireplace that glowed with burning coals.

  Her spirits spiked when she spotted a phone on one of the tables. She rushed across, lifted the receiver but she heard nothing. No dialling tone, no buzz.

  She dropped the phone back in its cradle when she heard footsteps. Light steps, quick and soft. Heart hopping, Jenny scooted behind the door. Listened to the footsteps pass. Quickly she ducked through the doorway and glanced down the corridor to see a petite woman in jeans and Ugg boots enter the room she’d just left.

  Jenny crept along the corridor, in the opposite direction. A camera began to blink its tiny red eye and turned to follow her. She opened another door to find another bedroom, smaller than hers, but just as masculine. It appeared unused. She found a study lined with books and a games room with a full-sized snooker table, dartboard and cigar humidor. More bedrooms, all unused except one, which was covered in feminine detritus. Underwear, scarves and jewellery mingled with make-up on just about every surface. Did this belong to the woman she’d seen?

  Jenny hurried to the room next door. For a moment she thought this was another unoccupied room but then she took in the vanity mirror on the table by the window, the hairbrush and creams. A sound, so tiny she thought she might have imagined it, made her spin round, her senses jolting.

  A woman was propped up in bed. Slender fingers held a leather-bound book. A bandage covered half her face but Jenny could still see that she was beautiful. Wings of glossy raven hair flowed over her shoulders, framing an exquisite bone structure.

  ‘You,’ the woman said. It was like a rebuke.

  Trembling, her veins prickling with anxiety, Jenny left the room.

  She explored a huge kitchen, fridges filled with vodka and beer, fresh meat and vegetables. A pantry with more supplies. At the other end of the house were two more bedrooms. Both were in use, obviously by men. Men’s shirts, underwear and shoes lay on chairs, on the floor. Lastly, she stepped outside. Cold air bit her throat and lungs. Not far away an engine rumbled. She tracked the sound down to find a large generator, which obviously powered everything in the lodge: heating, lights, refrigerator. Two massive polyurethane fuel bladder tanks sat to one side, which she guessed were airlifted in when reserves ran low. She crunched her way to inspect two top-of-the-range Land Cruisers. Both were covered in snow. Using her elbow, she pushed the snow away from the driver’s windows. Both were locked. Neither had keys in the ignition.

  ‘Come inside.’ A man spoke. ‘It is cold.’

  Jenny looked at the seemingly never-ending steppe, felt the chill biting into her bones. Slowly, she sat down in the snow. The cold immediately start to soak into her jeans but she gave no indication. She didn’t look at the man.

  The man vanished inside. A few minutes later, the woman in jeans and Ugg boots appeared, except she wasn’t wearing Uggs any more but snow boots and a padded jacket. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Milena.’

  Jenny didn’t say anything in return. Just looked at her. Milena was also beautiful, but in a completely different way from the dark-haired woman in the bed. She was tiny and blonde, like a doll, which made the bruises on her face all the more shocking. Her nose had been broken and her lips split. The scabs were deep purple and looked incredibly sore. Both her eyes were rimmed with blood. It looked as though she’d been punched repeatedly in the face.

  When she asked Jenny to come inside, Jenny didn’t respond.

  ‘Come, you will freeze to death out here.’

  Her English was surprisingly good, making Jenny wonder if she’d been to the UK. She wasn’t going to ask though. She didn’t want to make friends. Jenny shrugged. Looked away.

  ‘You must be hungry and thirsty. Please, come inside and have some tea and jam. Hot soup. I made bread this morning. It’s very good.’

  Jenny shook her head.

  ‘You must have something. You have come a long way.’

  Silence.

  ‘Please. It is not good for you out here.’ The woman was getting increasingly anxious. ‘It is minus twenty degrees.’

  Jenny tried not to show her shock. She didn’t think she’d ever experienced a temperature below minus two or three.

  ‘You must come inside,’ Milena pleaded.

  Jenny shook her head again.

  ‘I am here to help you. Tell me what you would like.’

  Jenny just looked at her. I would like to go home.

  Milena’s hands fluttered agitatedly like trapped birds. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jenny took a breath. Steadied herself. She said, ‘I will stay here, in the snow. I will not eat or drink or bathe or do anything until you tell me why I am here.’

  Milena looked at her a long time, her breath clouding the air like lace ribbons. Finally, she said, ‘Ekaterina will tell you.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Irene could hear her niece and nephe
w talking in low tones. Her soul shivered as she realised it was time to tell them the family story, because although Timur had insisted his children would grow up knowing every word, Irene wasn’t so sure. Their father might have been rabid about the truth, demonic and obsessed, but deep down he was a kind man and she believed he’d want to spare them from some of the more brutal facts. She would have to ask him. She’d sworn she’d never see him again, but today she wanted answers because if it had been Timur who had found out about her granddaughter and told the FSB, she would take a knife and stab him in the heart over and over.

  Memories drifted through her mind like flakes of ancient ash: Timur five years old and shrieking in the bath; Timur with her and Anna helping him dress in his first suit on his ninth birthday, he had looked so proud. Timur standing there looking baffled as she hugged him goodbye the morning she’d run away, knowing something was wrong but not what it was. Timur ten years later turning up on her doorstep in Norfolk with a bunch of flowers and a bright smile.

  ‘Salka!’ he’d said. ‘Surpriz!’

  She had stared at him like an idiot, mouth slack. She didn’t know whether to scream, slap him, or burst into tears and draw him into a hug.

  ‘Dmitry’s parents told me where you were,’ he added. His expression was filled with glee, and for a moment he was the boisterous, ebullient little brother she remembered putting a grass snake in their nanny’s bed.

  She still couldn’t speak. She nodded. Her mouth had turned quite dry.

  ‘I defected two months ago. They only released me last week. Lots of debriefing. Questions, questions. I’m a free man, now, though.’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I didn’t tell them about you, so you don’t have to worry.’

  Still she remained speechless.

  ‘It’s a nice place you have.’ He ran his eyes over the stone-built farmhouse, the barns and caged areas where the chickens ranged in the open air. He looked at the stable cat lying in the yard, nursing her kittens next to the water trough, and then back at Irene. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  She didn’t move. She stood there with her hands hanging at her sides and her mouth gaping.

  ‘Who is it?’ A boy’s voice spoke behind her, breaking briefly mid-sentence and giving away the fact he was on the cusp of manhood.

  Before she could move Timur’s attention clicked to focus on the child. His eyes widened in shock.

  She wanted to spin round and grab her son and slam the door shut in Timur’s face but it was too late. Timur was looking at Aleksandr now standing at her side and he was staring and staring.

  Aleksandr, her son, fourteen years old and tall and aquiline-featured, with bright blond hair and piercing blue eyes just like his father.

  She said to her son, ‘Inside. Now.’

  Her voice was like ice.

  ‘But I want to –’

  ‘Now.’

  Watchful, reluctant, Aleksandr backed inside the house but she knew he wouldn’t go far. His curiosity had been lit. He’d eavesdrop if he could. Some would say he was nosy, but Irene saw it more as an intelligent inquisitiveness, because her son liked nothing more than knowing exactly what was going on at any time. It was a way of being in control, she supposed. Aleksandr had never liked surprises. Just like his father.

  Irene stepped forward and into the farmyard. Closed the door behind her. She was trembling inside but she held her head high.

  Timur was still staring at the space where Aleks had stood, as though the door was still open. ‘How can you stand seeing him every day?’ he asked. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘I mean he’s so like Lazar, doesn’t it drive you crazy?’

  Suddenly the air felt solid with fear. For a piercing second she saw herself and Timur, at seventeen and ten, her trying to hide her bruises and tears. No, I’m fine, fine, don’t ask again or I’ll take away your train. The look of horror from Timur who loved his train more than anything and her feeling of guilt at threatening him, but she didn’t want him to know what was going on. She’d wanted to protect him.

  ‘Lazar?’ Her voice was thin and high. ‘What do you mean?’

  A trickle of pity inched into her brother’s eyes. ‘We all knew what was going on, OK? We couldn’t very well miss it. He was noisy, yes? He didn’t care if we heard. He liked that we heard. And you cried all the time.’

  ‘Don’t you dare say a word,’ she hissed.

  Timur’s mouth opened and closed. ‘He doesn’t know?’

  ‘And nor does Arthur. They think he’s Dmitry’s son.’

  ‘What?’ Timur’s jaw dropped. ‘But he doesn’t even look like Dmitry!’

  Irene bit her lips to stop their tremble. ‘I told them his looks came from another branch of the family.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He closed his eyes briefly, the flowers hanging upside down and forgotten by his thigh. ‘You can’t do that, Irina. You’ve got to tell him. He should know where his genes come from.’

  The mere thought made her feel faint and her legs went boneless and she dropped on to the step. Put her head in her hands. Shame and hatred rose up her throat, hot and corrosive.

  ‘Irene . . .’ She heard Arthur’s voice as though from a great distance. ‘Are you all right?’

  Her husband stalked into view. Arthur Cavendish, tall and broad with a ruddy face, brown curly hair thinning on top and kind brown eyes that weren’t kind right now but guarded and hard and fixed upon Timur.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She made a herculean effort to rise but when Timur offered to help, she rebuffed him, waiting until Arthur was at her side and putting his arm around her. ‘It was a shock, that’s all.’ She tried to smile but it was tremulous. She could see the anxiety in Arthur’s face and quickly tried to allay it. She didn’t want him thinking anything was wrong. ‘This is my little brother, Timur. He has come to surprise us.’

  Timur half-heartedly offered the flowers. Both men looked at Irene, waiting for a cue.

  ‘And what a surprise!’ She gave a slightly hysterical laugh as she took the flowers. ‘I wish you had given us warning! We could have prepared for you, but as it is . . .’ She tried to give a shrug but it was more of a shudder. Arthur was watching her, concerned, and she saw she had no choice but to invite Timur in, pretend that everything was all right. And pray he wouldn’t let slip her secret.

  ‘Would you have a cup of tea?’ she asked Timur. ‘Coffee? Water?’

  ‘Tea,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  In the kitchen she put the flowers in a vase and set them on the table. Put on the kettle. Her hands were steady but her breathing was shallow and panicky. Arthur fetched cake and biscuits while Timur propped his hips against the counter and told them of his journey from Russia, and his plans to migrate to South Africa. He was, apparently, flying out the following week. Arthur laid four plates on the table, saying, ‘Shall I get Aleks? He’ll go mad to meet you, Timur. He’s so proud of his heritage.’

  Timur’s gaze fixed upon Irene. He raised his eyebrows.

  She said, keeping her voice level, ‘Dmitry was the son of a former prince. As you know.’

  Timur continued to stare at her.

  ‘Aleks’s grandparents were a former prince and princess,’ she added in the same smooth tone. ‘As you also know.’

  Timur said nothing. His expression turned dangerously flat.

  Sensing the chilly undercurrent, Arthur watched them uneasily.

  ‘Which makes me . . .’ There was a flurry at the doorway as Aleks appeared, all teenage angles and energy. ‘The grandson of royalty!’ He sped to Timur and looked at him closely. ‘You’re my uncle?’

  Irene wanted to pick up the vase of flowers and hurl it against the wall. He’d been eavesdropping all the time.

  Timur grinned at Aleks. ‘Hello nephew.’

  ‘Wow.’ Aleksandr looked at him, awestruck. ‘You’re the first of Mum’s relations I’ve met.’

  Somewhere inside Irene’s mind a cog continued to turn. Fourteen years’ worth of lies and su
bterfuge hung as delicately and fragile as spun glass. As long as Timur kept quiet all would be well. As long as he kept the secret, things would continue as normal.

  ‘Timur can’t stay for long,’ she said. ‘He’s got to be somewhere this evening.’ She gave him a hard look. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Have I?’ Her brother grinned easily. He appeared to be enjoying her discomfiture.

  Apparently unaware of the atmosphere, Aleks grabbed a chair and pulled it alongside Timur. ‘So, what’s Russia really like?’ he asked, tucking into a large slice of cake, speaking between mouthfuls. ‘Everyone I know is terrified of it. Mum’s told us stories of famines and purges, it’s really scary stuff, but the country’s meant to be beautiful. Wild forests and steppes, the lakes clear enough to see to the bottom. I’ve got pictures upstairs, do you want to come and see?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was sharp and she hurriedly softened it as she added, ‘You can bring them down if you like, though. We’d like to see them too.’

  Aleks gave her an odd look but didn’t demur. He crammed the remainder of the cake into his mouth and sped upstairs, returning with a variety of books and magazine cuttings. He spread them across the table and Timur looked through them, talking to Aleksandr about everything from his work (he was an industrial engineer), what the hunting was like in Russia (lots of deer, wolves and bear), to the political situation in Russia (since it was 1962, and at the height of the cold war, things were tense).

  ‘You knew my father?’ Aleks asked. ‘My grandparents?’

  Timur looked at Irene. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I knew them.’

  Her heart was beating as fast as a pigeon’s fleeing from a hawk. So far, her brother hadn’t lied. Would he lie for her? For her family?

  ‘What was Dad like?’ Aleks craned his neck to meet Timur’s eye. ‘I mean Mum’s told me, but I’d love to know more.’

  ‘What has she told you?’

  Aleks scrambled for a photograph. It showed Dmitry’s parents, Prince Vladimir Mikhail Kasofsky and his wife, Princess Sofia Varvarova, dancing with friends in the family palace in Lazarevo. The men wore tailored army uniforms and medals, the women ball gowns and jewels adorned their throats and hair.