by CJ Carver
Praise for
SPARE ME THE TRUTH
‘An action-packed, Bourne-esque mystery thriller – impossible to put down’
Mason Cross
‘Had me reading till ridiculous hours of the night, needing to find out what happens next’
Ruth Downie, author of the Ruso Medicus series
‘A high octane mix of Jason Bourne game playing and gritty Brit noir, CJ Carver puts the pedal to the metal and doesn’t let up . . . !’
Jack Grimwood, author of Moskva
‘Spare Me the Truth is a complex tale of betrayal and deception. CJ Carver writes with compassion about characters she really cares about’
Parker Bilal, author of City of Jackals
‘A fast-paced, high concept thriller that ticks all the boxes and then some. Strong women, international covert intrigue, and a nasty serial killer. I’m so glad this is the first of a series: I want more of amnesiac Dan Forrester and ‘lively’ PC Lucy Davies, and I want it now!’
Julia Crouch, author of Cuckoo
‘A rattling good story with enough twists and turns to keep any crime fan’s brow knitted . . . (but) it’s the characterisation that really scores for me’
Chris Curran, author
‘. . . One of the best on the market’
Chris High, book reviewer
‘Brilliant. Read it, and lose yourself’
Frost Magazine
‘A high-wire act of a thriller, with a plot as ingeniously constructed as a sudoku puzzle’
The Lady
‘Anyone who is a member of a book club should be recommending (Spare Me The Truth) to their fellow readers with great gusto’
Book Addict Shaun
‘A gripping, intelligent thriller . . . highly addictive’
Off-the-Shelf Book Reviews
‘An incredible roller-coaster of a read. Brilliantly and intricately plotted. Don’t miss it’
Mystery people
‘Carver knows exactly how to hook a reader and keep the tension going’
Northern Crime Reviews
‘Three stories clash, dovetail and clash again, involving the reader in high adventure and emotional excitement’
Bookoxygen
‘Highly recommended’
Crimeworm
‘There is a genuine edginess to the story which grips tight and which never lets up’
Jaffareadstoo
‘Carver is undoubtedly the most macho of British thriller writers . . . Should give Lee Child a run for his money in the high octane stakes’
Maxim Jakubowski, Lovereading UK
‘I was pulled in. Big time. And had to keep reading until I’d finished’
Debbish.com, Australia
‘Once I picked it up I could not put it down’
Annette Cobb, Librarian
‘The best part about Spare Me The Truth is the characters’
Worth A Read
‘Read it!’
Meg Gardiner
‘Nothing short of brilliant’
Michael Jecks
‘A top notch thriller writer’
Simon Kernick
‘Genuinely unputdownable. Hard to do anything else when you have one of CJ’s books on the go!’
Andy Kirk, London cab driver for fifteen years
TELL
ME
A
LIE
CJ CARVER
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
A letter from the author
More in the Forrester and Davies series
CJ Carver’s CWA Debut Dagger Award winning novel, Blood Junction
More from CJ Carver
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Copyright
For Mark and Charlotte, with love
PROLOGUE
Thursday 22 January, Murmansk
Edik Yesikov listened to the tape with increasing disbelief. He forgot all about his guests milling in the gun room, the snow wolf hunt he’d organised, the fact they only had four hours or so to bag their trophies before the sun set. If what he’d heard was true, it was fantastic news.
‘It’s been verified?’ he asked.
The Director of the FSK, the Federal Counterintelligence Service of Russia, glanced at Edik’s father, who nodded. As usual, the power in the room was held by the old man, who had flown with the Director straight to the hunting lodge from Moscow this morning. Lazar Yesikov hadn’t wanted anyone overhearing what he had to say.
‘The British journalist says she heard it from Polina Calder directly,’ his father said. ‘I see no reason to doubt her.’
Edik felt a moment’s alarm. ‘We haven’t kept her here, have we? The British government will go insane.’
‘Of course not.’ The old man looked affronted. ‘We put her on a plane this morning.’
Edik arched both eyebrows into a question.
‘She’ll be dealt with when she gets home,’ the old man told him. ‘An accident. She bicycles to work. London is a dangerous place for cyclists.’
‘And Polina Calder?’
‘The same. Except she doesn’t use a bicycle. She walks into town. Another accident.’
Edik pulled a face. ‘Are you sure we can get away with it?’
A film fell over his father’s eyes. His expression emptied. Edik knew t
hat look. It meant anyone who stood in his way would, quite simply, be eliminated.
‘Leave any troublemakers to me,’ said the old man quietly.
‘What about Jenny Forrester?’ Edik looked at the woman’s photograph. Tall and slim with sheets of blond hair, she looked intelligent as well as athletic; perfect for their purpose. ‘You’re sure her husband won’t cause us any trouble?’
‘He remembers nothing of his dealings with us,’ his father assured him. ‘He had a breakdown five years ago, when his son was killed. His memory never recovered.’
‘To our advantage.’ Edik found himself nodding. The plan was looking better and better.
At that moment, someone tapped softly on the door and Ekaterina stepped inside. She was holding a silver tray upon which stood a bottle of Zyr vodka. Distilled five times, filtered nine times and taste-tested three times, it was Edik’s favourite for its exceptionally smooth and slightly astringent flavour. He pretended to watch her pour three glasses but in reality he was watching the Director, who was staring at Ekaterina as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. His lips had parted, his tongue appearing briefly as though salivating.
Edik felt his ego swell. He enjoyed watching men drool over his prize, all the more since he knew Ekaterina was unimpeachable, and that he owned her, heart, body and soul.
‘To the future,’ said the old man, and raised his glass.
‘You really think it will work?’ Edik asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ His father smiled, his face creasing into folds of dried parchment. He only smiled when he knew he would win. ‘It will work.’
Edik raised his glass high. He felt a rush of euphoria.
‘To Russia’s new future.’
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday 31 January
‘Russia?’ Dan Forrester stared at Bernard. ‘You want me to go to Russia?’
‘It’s not on the moon.’ Bernard looked amused. ‘A four-hour flight, that’s all.’
Dan glanced out of the sitting-room window. The radio had said it was snowing further north, but here it was a beautiful day with clear blue skies stretching over Welsh moorland. Jenny was going to go berserk. Ever since he’d moved out before Christmas he’d tried to fit in with her arrangements but now Bernard was here, the walk she’d planned with him and Aimee across the valley would be scuppered.
‘Does Philip know you’re here?’ Philip Denton was Dan’s boss and the head of DCA & Co, a global political analyst specialist service that he set up seven years ago. He used to be Bernard’s colleague in MI5. The two men held a mutual respect for one another, along with a fair quantity of friendly rivalry, with Bernard always complaining that he trained the best officers only to have Philip poach them.
‘Yes. Although not exactly why.’
‘I see,’ said Dan neutrally. At least this explained why Bernard had driven across the country to see him. But he didn’t like Philip being kept out of the picture.
Bernard propped his hands in front of his face. Gnarled and heavily veined, they had surprisingly sensitive fingertips, which Dan supposed would be an advantage when he indulged his hobby: tying flies for trout and salmon fishing. They were sitting opposite one another, Bernard on the leather armchair that Jenny had inherited from her uncle when he died last year, Dan on the sofa. Jenny hadn’t believed Dan when he’d said he hadn’t known Bernard was coming and she’d gone from being soft and welcoming to furious in two seconds flat.
‘I thought today was for us,’ she spat. ‘Your family.’
‘It is,’ he protested. ‘Bernard didn’t ring or text me. He just turned up.’
Her lips had tightened into an angry white line, showing she didn’t believe him. He couldn’t blame her, not after what he’d learned about his past behaviour. He’d been self-centred and obsessive from the sound of it, concentrating on himself to the exclusion of all others. Nothing like the man he was today. At least that’s what he hoped. But from the look on Jenny’s face it seemed nothing had changed.
She’d called him last week, saying she had something to tell him, something personal that she couldn’t discuss over the phone, but before she could, his old boss had appeared. Talk about atrocious timing – how Dan was going to coax Jenny out of her foul mood he couldn’t think. He wondered if she was going to broach the subject of divorce. So far, neither of them had mentioned it and he still didn’t know how he felt. He was, he supposed, treading water, waiting for quite what he wasn’t sure, but at the moment divorce didn’t feel right although he couldn’t give a precise reason why.
Bernard dropped his hands into his lap. ‘We’ve been approached by someone who calls themselves Lynx. Someone we know nothing about. They’re offering us a big story in Russia, something huge that will apparently have global ramifications.’
Bernard cleared his throat and leaned forward.
‘They will only talk to you.’
Dan blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Apparently you met Lynx in Moscow ten years ago. They trust you.’
Dan waited for Bernard to fill in the gap.
‘MI6 seconded you. You were pursuing the truth behind Alexander Litvinenko’s death.’
Dan wanted to say he’d never been to Moscow, never been involved in the Litvinenko case, but he had to trust Bernard on this. A lot of his memory had been ruined, great chunks of his recall obliterated by what everyone now referred to as his ‘breakdown’ five years ago when his three-year-old son Luke had been killed in a hit-and-run. Strange how he couldn’t remember Moscow or Lynx but could tell you every detail of the den he’d created at the bottom of the garden as a boy. Memories of his job at MI5 had been lost forever but there were faces from his school days and university that he knew as surely as if he’d created them himself.
‘Lynx has been a dead agent all this time,’ Bernard continued. ‘They say you recruited them. It’s only now that they feel they have something to say. To you.’
Dan’s mind slipped over the code name Lynx. A wild cat with distinctive tufts of black hair on the tips of its ears. Large padded paws for walking on snow. A solitary cat. A cat that lived in the northernmost reaches of Russia, in Siberia. A cat that could grow to be the size of a Labrador. He knew all this, but couldn’t remember Moscow. A kernel of frustration began to grow and he quickly caught it before it could balloon out of control, and let it go. As Dr Winter, his psychiatrist, had taught him, there was little point in getting angry over it. His memory was what it was and what had been lost would, apparently, never return. He had to learn not to let it get to him.
‘How do you know Lynx is genuine?’ Dan asked.
‘We don’t.’
A dog barked outside, a single deep woof. Dan took no notice, recognising that the tone wasn’t an alarm but playful, as though the animal wanted a ball to be thrown.
Bernard glanced through the window, then back. ‘They had the right fax number. The right code.’
Dan mulled things over. ‘Could it be a trap of some sort?’
‘I suppose so, but what sort of trap when you have no memory of them or the work you did?’
‘Perhaps they don’t know about my breakdown.’
‘Perhaps,’ Bernard agreed mildly.
Dan rubbed the space between his brows. ‘You should send someone else. I’m not exactly current in trade craft.’
‘Of course,’ Bernard agreed, ‘but Lynx refuses to meet anyone else. I offered them Savannah and Ellis’ – two of Bernard’s best and most trusted officers – ‘but no go.’
‘Does Lynx know I’m no longer with the Firm?’
‘We have no idea. But they appear to be expecting us to persuade you to meet them.’ Bernard’s expression intensified a fraction. ‘There’s something else. They said their information involves you personally, but when we pressed for more details they clammed up. We’re inclined to think they’re using the personal angle to tempt you to meet them, but obviously we can’t be certain.’
Dan’s misgivings rose. He agreed with Bern
ard that the personal angle smacked of coercion, but what if Lynx was telling the truth? Uneasy, he looked at his old boss and said, ‘What else?’ He needed more information: why the Director General of MI5 had come all the way out here on a Saturday due to a ‘dead’ agent who might exist, but might not, and whose ‘huge’ issue might exist, but might not.
Bernard’s mouth narrowed for a moment. ‘Lynx told us that two FSB agents were coming to England on a top secret mission. Unfortunately, by the time we were alerted they’d already entered the country and vanished. We have absolutely no idea what they’re doing in the UK.’
Dan’s skin prickled. So, Russian state security were involved. ‘When did they arrive?’
‘The day before yesterday.’
Thursday the twenty-ninth of January.
‘They’re on tourist visas,’ Bernard added. ‘A couple, Ivan and Yelena Barbolin.’
‘Are they actually married?’ Dan asked.
‘Doubtful.’ Bernard watched him attentively. ‘Lynx said they were sent by Edik Yesikov. He’s an old friend of Putin’s. Colonel-General of the FSB as well as Director General of Shelomov Gaz.’
Powerful as well as rich, Dan thought. A formidable combination.
‘You’ve probably heard Edik Yesikov is being groomed to become Putin’s successor,’ Bernard added.
Dan nodded. He’d read about it in the newspapers recently. ‘Any ideas what they might be up to?’
‘Not yet.’ Bernard pressed his hands together. ‘But one thing we’re sure of is that the Kremlin is becoming increasingly concerned that a revolution is around the corner. Annexing Crimea kept the lid on it for a while, then taking arms to Syria, but the people are getting more and more fed up with living under such a totalitarian regime.’
Bernard glanced at the window again, then back. ‘The Russian economy is in its worst crisis of Putin’s reign. It’s only thanks to his control of the media that the people haven’t rebelled yet. But what will happen when they learn the truth?’
Dan could see where this was going. Bernard wanted to know whether Putin’s spies had anything to do with the President’s need to keep Russia fuelled with patriotism, which could well turn to more annexations and war.
‘I don’t want any nasty surprises,’ Bernard said. ‘Which is why I’ve booked you on a flight to Moscow this afternoon.’ He reached into his jacket and brought out a British passport, passed it across. Dan picked it up to see it had his photograph beside the name Michael Wilson. There were three separate tourist visas for Russia, each for thirty days; one in 2006, one in 2007 and one current. Bernard then passed over a mobile phone along with some wallet litter; membership cards and receipts in Wilson’s name.