Only the Truth

by Adam Croft

  What’s fair to say, though, is that, amongst this utter confusion, I now know one thing for certain. There’s only one constant to connect Lisa and Jess’s murders. The killer didn’t want to get rid of Lisa because of anything she’d done. He’s after me.

  32

  I drive for another two hours before I start to get low on fuel. I spot a petrol station just outside Innsbruck and I pull in, already knowing what my plan will be. The traffic has started to get denser and I can see the city from here. As I step out of the car, a huge jumbo jet comes in overhead, ready to land barely a few hundred yards away. I’m right on the edge of the city.

  I fill the car with twenty-one euros and fifteen cents’ worth of fuel. It’s enough to blend in and not be noticed or remembered, but it’s also not going to waste what remaining money I’ve got left. And a waste is exactly what it would be, because I don’t intend for that car to ever leave this forecourt.

  The pump itself doesn’t seem to take payment. Not that I’d be risking using my credit cards, of course, but the option to feed cash into the machine and not have to come face to face with other people would’ve helped massively. Defeated, I walk into the building and look around furtively. I grab a few bits – a bottle of screenwash, a first-aid kit and some bags of sweets. I make a point of looking as though I’m struggling to carry it all in my arms as I dump it on the counter.

  There’s no-one else there, so it’s a bit of a giveaway which car is mine, but I point over to it as I rummage through my pockets to pull out some money.

  The man says something to me in German, which I presume to be the total. I glance over at the till and see the price: thirty-two euros and ten cents. I hand him thirty-five and he says something else in German. I look up, confused, and he repeats himself while holding up a large carrier bag. I raise my eyebrows and nod. He hands me the bag and my change and I smile and leave. No. Shouldn’t have done the smile. You were smiling on the front page of the paper. That’s what everyone’ll be looking out for. I tell myself I’m just being paranoid, and I walk back to my car, stopping deliberately when I get there to look back at something I’ve already seen. I need to make it look like I’ve just spotted it, though. I look at my car, as if appraising its cleanliness, then back at the car wash area, before sitting inside the car, starting it up and moving it over towards the jet wash machines.

  The jet wash is to the side of the petrol station’s building, with a huge great brick wall between me and the cashier. I have a cursory glance around – nothing too obvious – to watch for CCTV cameras. I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly sure there aren’t any pointing this way. There are plenty on the roof of the forecourt pointing at the pumps, but nothing here from what I can see. Even so, I know I need to be careful. Anything that raises suspicions right now won’t be good. This is my one chance to fall off the radar, if only for a short while.

  I open the back door of the car and take the vacuum nozzle from its holder. I put two euros into the coin slot and press the button to start the machine. Hidden by the car door and the noise of the vacuum cleaner, I quickly pull my shirt off over my head, grab a jumper from my bag and put it on. While I’m doing that, I push my shoes off. I change my trousers, too – from a pair of light chinos to navy jeans. I slip on a pair of lighter shoes, too, as well as a beanie hat, before shoving my old clothes back in the holdall with those damned reading glasses and zip it up.

  Next, I tip the contents of the large carrier bag onto the backseat and I put the holdall inside it. It just about fits.

  Leaving the car door open, I shove the nozzle around in the footwell a few times to keep the noise changing, then I hop over the short wall and onto the grass bank behind it. I check to make sure there are no rear windows to the petrol station – I’d checked from inside, too, but I couldn’t be sure there wasn’t office space at the back – and I brace my legs widely, getting down the surface of the grass bank as quickly and efficiently as I can.

  To my left, the main dual carriageway into Innsbruck continues to rumble by, with a long succession of cars making their way into the city on the flyover. And before I know it, I’m on the footpath below, walking alongside a fast-flowing river and making my way towards the city.

  33

  My German is pretty limited, but even I can spot signs for a train station when I need to. The signs are infrequent, but at least they let me know I’m going in the right direction. I keep the river to my left, walking along the pretty pleasant footpath, watching the planes landing and taking off from the airport on the other side of the river.

  The worst thing about all this – and the thing that I’m trying to keep tucked away right at the very back of my mind – is that I don’t know where the threat’s coming from. I have absolutely no idea who killed Lisa and Jess and who’s trying to get to me. It could be anyone – that bloke over there – someone watching from an office block. I’ve no way of knowing. Whoever it is, they’ve managed to track me down to a campsite out in the middle of Switzerland without too much trouble, so I doubt they’ll struggle to find me here. That’s why I’ve got to keep moving.

  The police are after me, too, of course. I’ve been keeping well away from newspapers and TVs, but I’m not stupid or naive. They won’t give up. They don’t give up. They’ll make it look as if they’re scaling back the investigation at some point sooner or later, but that’s only really done in the hope that you’ll have to put your head up for oxygen at some point. And that’s when they pounce. I’m not going to let that happen.

  Anyone around me could be an undercover police officer. I wouldn’t know. That’s the whole point, I suppose. But I also know that thinking these thoughts over and over is not going to help me in the slightest. All I can do is focus on keeping moving and getting myself somewhere safer. Somewhere I can try to figure out in my mind what’s happened.

  That’s the bit I’m not looking forward to. How can I ever do this on my own? With Jess, I at least had half a chance. It was as if she was almost superhuman. I felt like she’d have the answers. And now she’s gone.

  The fact of the matter is that as hard as I try I really can’t think of anyone who’d want me dead. And not only that, but to want to kill two innocent people on the way to it. Or do they want me dead? If so, why didn’t they kill me? Why kill only those around me? The killer could’ve easily waited until I came back up to my hotel room in Herne Bay minutes after they killed Lisa and killed me, too. The same goes for the caravan on the campsite. Why?

  The answer is almost more disturbing than the thought that someone wants to kill me: someone wants to terrorise me and make my life a living hell.

  That’s what I can’t come to terms with. Never in my whole life have I fucked someone off to the extent that they’d want to ruin my life. Not even Russ Alman. It sounds bizarre to say it, considering the fact that he lost his house and his livelihood when the business collapsed, but I knew him well. And I’d know if he’d harboured those sorts of feelings. Above all else, I need to trust my own instincts. It’s all I’ve got right now.

  I try to push the paranoia to the back of my mind and simply take in the scenery around me. I feel dreadful at pushing the memories of Lisa and Jess to one side, but it’s the only way I’ll be able to cope and get through this. I have to go into survival mode. I don’t have anything else.

  It’s a good hour or so before I’m in the centre of Innsbruck. It’s a busy place, and I blend in nicely, I think. I feel much more comfortable since changing my clothes and I’m making good progress.

  I know no-one’s followed me from the forecourt, and although someone working there will no doubt have found my car empty pretty quickly, there’s not much they could do. If they looked down to the footpath they’d see what appeared to be a completely different bloke just passing by. If they traced the car, then what? Presumably it’d go back to Claude. I can’t be sure, though. For all I know, the car wasn’t even registered to him. If it was, then they’d probably find the link with Jess
pretty quickly. And then the search would be on in Innsbruck – big time. Otherwise, it might take them a bit longer. They might do some DNA swabs. Is my DNA even on record? I doubt it. My parents are dead and I don’t have any siblings or children. Or would they have got it from my toothbrush back at home in East Grinstead? That’s the sort of thing you always see on these TV crime dramas.

  Either way, they’ll track me down to Innsbruck before too long. All I need to do is keep my head down and well away from any cameras. My main advantage is that they’ll be looking for someone in a shirt and light chinos carrying a holdall, not a guy in a jumper, jeans and beanie hat with a big carrier bag. That should buy me some time.

  I follow the signs for the station, or Hbf as they’re written here. It’s a stunning scene – the snow-capped mountains tower over the station. It’s certainly one of the prettiest train stations I’ve been in. Much better than East Grinstead, anyway. It’s just a shame I won’t be staying.

  I step inside the station and look up at the large departures board. I’m looking for somewhere further east that’s still in the Schengen Area. That way, I won’t need to show my passport. I know I can’t go much further east. There’s Hungary and Slovenia, but any further than that and I’ll be . . .

  That’s when I spot it. The name almost jumps out at me, beckoning me. It seems right.

  I spin around on the spot and walk over to the ticket machine. I tap the flag to indicate that I want the instructions in English, and then I scroll through the list of destinations. I take a deep breath and swallow as I tap Bratislava.

  34

  Dan hasn’t felt anger like this since that night in Pendleton House. Another downside to the once laser-focused local press widening out and becoming more regional is that his own local newspaper has started to include news from the other side of the county. It’s not an area he particularly wants to be reminded of, and those reminders are now stronger than ever as he recognises the face beaming out at him from the front page.

  It’s a picture of Mr Duggan – Frank, according to the article, which describes him as a local businessman and philanthropist – who has recently died at the age of eighty-nine. The article makes no mention of his involvement with Pendleton House – good or bad – and describes him as a stalwart of the local community.

  Dan had often wondered what had happened to Mr Duggan. He hoped it was one of two things: either he’d seen the error of his ways and changed his behaviour, or he’d been found out and locked away for a very long time. Mostly, though, he tried to forget completely about what went on all those years ago.

  The rage burns inside him. A pure fury at realising not that Mr Duggan is dead but that he lived a long and healthy life, dying peacefully in his sleep. He realises that Mr Duggan will never face justice. Ever since that night, that had been what had kept him going. Now, even if the truth about Mr Duggan comes out – which it inevitably will – Dan knows deep down that it will change nothing. He will never have had to truly face up to what he did.

  He tears the front page off the newspaper and scrunches it up into a ball, throwing it and the rest of the newspaper into the recycling bin. A few minutes later he’s feeling sick at its presence in his house, so he takes the contents of the recycling bin outside and puts them in the main wheelie bin.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Lisa calls to him when he gets back inside the house.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies, heading through into the kitchen to make himself a strong cup of tea.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Lisa asks.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ he barks, trying to keep a lid on his frustration but failing miserably. ‘I just said I was fine. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Me?’ Lisa says, herself trying to remain calm. ‘Hang on a second, you’re the one responding like this. I only asked if everything was okay. Clearly not, judging by your reaction.’

  ‘What are you getting at me for?’ Dan replies, feeling his eyes misting over with anger. He can almost see the red fog. ‘I’m fine, alright?’

  ‘Oh, whatever,’ she replies, turning to leave the kitchen.

  Dan grits his teeth. ‘Don’t you fucking dare speak to me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that. With your fucking sarcasm and attitude problem.’

  ‘Attitude problem? Seriously, Dan? Are you even going to go there right now?’

  Whatever he says, and whatever Lisa replies with, it inflames the situation further and infuriates Dan. ‘What are you trying to say, Lisa? Hmm? Go on, tell me. What are you trying to say?’ His face is pressed almost right up against hers. He can see fear in her eyes, but he can also see that she knows he won’t do anything stupid. She knows he’s not that kind of person.

  ‘Dan, I can’t cope with these mood swings of yours. You can’t just decide to—’

  ‘Mood swings?’ Dan yells, wheeling away from her before turning back and raising his fist before he even realises what he’s doing. He does realise, though, and he freezes on the spot, his eyes burning into his wife’s as she shoots him a look of disgust and pity.

  After a few seconds, she begins to nod slowly. ‘Great response, Dan. Brilliant.’

  He can see the hurt and disappointment in her eyes before she turns and leaves the kitchen. He chooses not to follow her but instead leans back against the kitchen cupboards and slides down, collapsing onto his backside and pulling his knees tight to his chest, the sobs and the memories taking over as he battles with a smorgasbord of emotions. Anger, hurt, resentment. But also relief and happiness that he’s no longer in that place. That place, though, will always be with him, tainting his thoughts and his words and his actions.

  Dan hadn’t raised a fist to anyone, or even contemplated it, since that night at Pendleton House. Had tonight’s argument with Lisa happened on any other night, he knows it wouldn’t have ended that way. The only reason it did is because the incident with Mr Duggan was fresh in his mind, polluting his thoughts and turning him momentarily back into that little boy, Daniel. The little boy who saw everything but did nothing until it was too late. The little boy who just wanted to be happy.

  35

  Why Bratislava? I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s a city I’ve wanted to go to for a long time, but never got round to. Fortunately, I know Slovakia is in the Schengen Area, and I know it’s a long way east. It’s the farthest I can go without a longer-term plan, but it’s also far enough away that I feel as though I’ll have the space to actually come up with that plan. It’s also of the old Eastern bloc, and I’m fairly sure it would be easier for a man to live outside the law there than in Austria or Switzerland.

  I know how terrible that sounds, but I’ve got to face facts. If I’m going to be able to put enough space between me and the police – not to mention me and Lisa and Jess’s killer – I’m going to have to bend the rules a bit. I’m going to need help, and that sort of help is going to be much more readily available in Eastern Europe than it is in a Swiss ski resort.

  The ticket costs me eighty-six euros, which I think is actually pretty reasonable considering it’s a five-and-a-half-hour overnight journey. The train will get in at around two o’clock in the morning, with a change at Vienna on the way. I’m going to try and get some sleep on the train, if I can, as I don’t much fancy having to try and find somewhere to sleep in the middle of Slovakia at two in the morning.

  My train doesn’t leave until 8.22 p.m., which gives me about two hours to kill. Having bought my tickets, I find a cafe and a newsagent. The first thing that strikes me is how busy the station is at this time. I suppose a lot of people will be on their way back from work. This both comforts me and worries me. On one hand, a busy station allows me to blend in more easily. On the other, it makes it far more difficult for me to spot an undercover police officer. Or a killer.

  On top of that, there are the weird feelings I get from watching these people going about their everyday lives. Men in suits and with briefcases waiting to board their t
rains back home at the end of a long day. Families with suitcases and backpacks waiting to go on holiday. Couples parting after time spent together. Groups of girls heading off for a night out. It’s society in a nutshell, a mix of ordinary people going about their ordinary lives.

  But my life is anything but ordinary right now. That’s the problem. Yet again, I’m one huge walking contradiction. I feel somewhat calmed by the presence of normality, by people unknowingly showing me that the world hasn’t actually stopped turning, but at the same time I’m convinced that it has. Why aren’t these people being more respectful? Don’t they realise that my wife and my – well, what was Jess? – have been murdered? That I’ve been framed for at least one of them, and no doubt will be heavily suspected of the other? Can’t they see the injustice?

  No, of course they can’t, because they don’t know me. Is that a good thing? Probably. They don’t know me and they wouldn’t want to anyway.

  I see a sign for the toilets and decide to head that way. It’ll give me a bit of breathing space, at least.

  When I get there, I do what I need to do and then go to wash my hands in the sink. I look up at myself in the mirror and am both shocked and pleasantly surprised. I don’t look good. I look a fucking mess, in fact, but the main thing is that I look completely different from the photo that was on the front page of the newspapers. By now, more photos will have been circulated, but I’m sure none of them are going to look anything like I look now.

  For years I’ve had fairly unruly hair and some form of beard. I can’t remember the last time I was without either. Now, though, I have neither. The whole shape of my face looks completely different. I can see the tiredness, too. My eyes are sunken, and I’m sure there are wrinkles which weren’t there before. I look like a man defeated, but deep down I know that I’m not.