Deception Wears Many Faces: a stunning psychological drama that will keep you turning the pages

by Maggie James

  So this was where he planned to enjoy the high life until he’d drained me of my savings. I didn’t doubt a further stay in California would be required for Darcy, then another, all at my expense. Bastard. My resolve strengthened.

  I had yet to discover which apartment he had rented but that could come later. It was too risky to snoop around while Scott was in the building. Satisfied I’d done everything possible for the time being, I drove back to the Harbourside. The minute I arrived I typed a quick message to Scott, aware of the importance of maintaining appearances. Sorry about earlier! Stomach still iffy, so off to bed. Will text once I’m better. x

  Sleeping wasn’t an option. I switched on my laptop, searching for the website for the block where Scott was staying. I checked the availability of apartments, starting from the next day. My luck was in. One of the flats was vacant, so I reserved it for a week, certain I’d accomplish my plan long before then. A few minutes after making my booking, I received an automated email giving me the entrance code to the front door and a temporary one for the apartment. The message informed me I could check in whenever suited me after 2pm.

  ‘I’m coming for you, dickhead,’ I said.

  The next morning I got up early and drove to Clifton, arriving at Scott’s block of apartments by eight o’clock. I parked close enough to watch the front door but not so near he might see me. I chose a spot under a tree, the Audi obscured by its shade, and settled in to wait. I wondered how Scott spent his days, given that the job at the car dealership must be as false as everything else he’d told me. Did he visit Darcy - the two of them plotting the next part of their scam? Or did he scour the dating websites for his next target? My skin prickled with repulsion. I couldn’t wait to wreak my revenge on him.

  Time ticked by. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock. No sign of Scott. My fingers drummed a staccato beat against my thigh, my nerves stretched tight. At last I spotted movement behind the glass windows fronting the second floor - a man walking down the stairs. Scott emerged through the main door, heading towards his Toyota.

  Once he’d driven off, I got out of my car, striding towards the building, my eyes flicking to where Scott had been parked. Bay number six. From what the introductory email had said, the numbers corresponded to those of the apartments. Meaning I knew which one the bastard had rented.

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven o’clock; three hours until check-in, meaning I had time to kill. With that in mind, I walked to the main part of Clifton. I’d do some window shopping and then have lunch while I honed my plan. I had no idea when Scott might return, so I didn’t dare try anything that day. Instead, I’d check in at 2pm and scout out my apartment in the hope the layout and furnishings would be the same throughout the block. One thing in particular I needed to locate, an item mentioned in the website’s list of amenities provided for the tenants.

  At two o’clock I was at Clifton Heights again, skirting the approach to the building with care in case Scott’s Toyota was back in its space. It wasn’t, but I’d need to be quick in case he returned. No way could I explain my presence there if we met in the stairwell. My fingers tapped in the access code to the front door, then I sprinted up the stairs to the first floor. Another round of tapping, and I stepped inside the apartment I’d rented. Number four.

  And what a smart place it was, the quality of the furnishings justifying the steep charges. Solid oak bookcases, two glass and marble coffee tables, Egyptian cotton sheets, a huge sleigh bed. Everything spoke of opulence and understated wealth. The layout consisted of one bedroom, a bathroom, lounge, kitchen and dining area. While I walked through the rooms, my eyes searched for, but didn’t spot, what I was after. Once I checked my emails on my phone, I realised my mistake. I crossed the lounge to a cupboard set within one of the oak bookcases, reaching up to open its doors. Inside the cupboard, out of sight to casual eyes, was a safe. Sturdy, capacious, with a keypad on the front. I didn’t doubt the one in Scott’s apartment held a copious amount of cash, none of which was rightfully his.

  A safe that, if my plan succeeded, would soon be empty.

  18

  Scott contacted me that night. Bile rose in my throat when his name flashed onto my phone. I almost rejected the call, then I remembered - hadn’t I been intending to text him anyway, ready for the next stage of my plan? I swallowed my anger, stepping into my role like a seasoned Hollywood star.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said, my tone light and breezy. ‘I was just about to call you.’

  ‘How are you, sweetheart? Feeling better?’ Like me, the man deserved an Oscar. Had I not known otherwise, I’d have sworn that was concern in his voice. As matters stood, I guessed all he felt for me was contempt.

  ‘Fine.’ I barked out a short laugh. ‘My stomach’s much more settled, thanks. I won’t be eating anything that spicy again, that’s for sure. How about you? Did work go okay?’

  ‘Busy. I started at seven and didn’t stop until five.’

  What a fucking liar. Fury flared within me.

  ‘The day went like a dream. I sold four high-end cars,’ Scott continued. ‘That bonus I’m getting at Christmas? It just got bigger, babe. I’ll be able to repay what I owe you, with plenty to spare for our trip to Lanzarote.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I managed. ‘How’s Darcy? Have you heard from her?’

  He laughed. ‘Several texts, yes. She’s craving a burger with all the trimmings, but is sticking with the prune juice. More enemas, too. Thank God she didn’t go into details. They’d probably make your vindaloo problems sound tame.’

  My anger skyrocketed, but I reminded myself to stick to the plan. If everything went well, the fucker would soon regret ever messing with Lyddie Hunter. Instead, I laughed too. ‘Rather her than me.’

  ‘Can I see you tomorrow? Another meal out, perhaps?’

  ‘Sorry. I have a school reunion to attend.’ Followed by a theatrical groan. ‘I’m dreading it, believe me.’

  ‘Wednesday, then?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll call you after I get back.’

  By Wednesday morning I had several texts and three missed calls from him on my mobile. I waited until lunchtime, then decided I’d made him sweat enough.

  He answered on the first ring. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart? Why didn’t you phone me last night?’

  I ignored his question. ‘Can we get together this evening, like we mentioned?’

  To my relief he agreed straightaway. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘How about going for a beer somewhere in Southville? Maybe The Hen and Chicken on North Street?’

  ‘I’d love to. You don’t sound yourself, sweetheart. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. But I have something to tell you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Hesitation in his voice. ‘What did you want to say?’

  ‘It, um, it can wait until I see you.’ Had I projected the right amount of nerves?

  Scott cleared his throat. ‘Everything’s fine between us, isn’t it?’

  I sighed, loud enough for him to hear. Another misdirect. ‘I’d rather hold off on telling you until tonight, if that’s all right. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

  We ended the call with everything in place from my point of view. Before he said goodbye, Scott told me he loved me. I didn’t respond other than a quick, ‘see you later.’ My lack of enthusiasm clearly rattled him, which was the intended effect. Besides, after tonight I’d never have to endure the prick ever again.

  That afternoon I packed up my stuff at the Harbourside apartment and transported it back to my house in Kingswood. Amelia didn’t comment, being used to me coming and going as I pleased. God, did it feel good to be back in my old home, its surroundings as comfortable as well-worn pyjamas. I needed every inch of the sanctuary it offered.

  That evening I dressed in ancient jeans and a faded top. For what I had planned, comfort, not style, was in order. Once I’d grabbed an old rucksack, I was ready. At 7.30pm I was back at the Clifton Heights building, parked so I had a vie
w of the entrance and Scott’s car. I figured he’d leave within the next few minutes. Ah, there he was, crisp and slick in tight-fitting trousers and a sugar-white polo shirt, a leather jacket slung over one arm. He strode to his car, its lights flashing as he unlocked the door. Then he was driving towards the exit, never once glancing my way. Within seconds he’d vanished from sight.

  I got out of my car and headed towards the building. Cameras covered the parking area and entrance, but they didn’t bother me. I was a paid-up resident of number four, so I had a valid reason for appearing on any security footage. On my last visit I’d established that no cameras existed on the upper floors - the management must have decided the separate pass codes for each flat and the front door offered sufficient protection. Sloppy of them, but I’d use such negligence to my advantage.

  I headed to the second floor, to number six. My breath hitched in my chest with the enormity of what I was about to do. This was burglary - no matter how I tried to rationalise it, I was planning to become a criminal. I, Lyddie Hunter, who’d always played a straight hand. Not anymore, though. I pulled on the woollen gloves I’d brought with me while I scanned the hallway to check a second time for cameras. None. No sounds came from the apartment opposite, and no car had occupied its parking space. Everything was on track with my plan.

  A light flashed on the entrance keypad to Scott’s apartment, the small red bead a challenge. My wool-covered fingers hovered over the buttons, my mind recalling Scott unlocking his phone to read Darcy’s text during our curry. I was gambling on him using the same four-digit code for most things, the way I did. Bank cards, phone, car immobiliser. What numbers had he used? I was certain the first three were one, five and zero, but wasn’t sure of the last digit. Seven, perhaps? I inhaled a calming breath before tapping in the numbers. One. Five. Zero. Seven.

  The red light flashed at me three times, a warning sound accompanying each flash. Shit. I’d got it wrong.

  My heart thudding in my chest, I tried again. One. Five. Zero. Six. More flashes, the beeps shredding my nerves. Dear God, what if the keypad only allowed three attempts before it alerted the central security system? I closed my eyes, sending out a prayer I’d get it right next time. If God existed, I doubted he’d condone burglary, but desperation was biting at my heels. I touched my fingertips to the keypad, sweat dampening my palms under the thick wool. One. Five. Zero. Five.

  The light turned green. A click sounded from within the lock. I sent a silent thanks to the universe.

  My fingers closed over the handle, pushing open the door to step into Scott’s apartment. As I’d predicted, his flat was a mirror image of mine. Little evidence existed of him in the kitchen and living area. An upturned mug in the dish rack, a car magazine on the table, a T-shirt slung over an armchair. I padded into the bedroom, where an open suitcase sat on the floor, betraying his peripatetic lifestyle. The wardrobe door stood ajar, a few clothes occupying space on the hangers within. In the bathroom, Scott’s razor was plugged in and charging, his shaving foam and shampoo next to it. A faint whiff of his musky cologne hung in the air and I breathed it in, transported to the cottage in Devon, to our love-making, the passion in which I’d almost drowned. Self-disgust surged through me before I reminded myself why I was there.

  ‘You can do this,’ I told myself. Then I walked back into the lounge.

  Across the room stood a heavy oak bookcase, complete with a small cupboard. I opened the doors to reveal the safe within, another red light above its keypad. My fingers tapped out the same four numbers again: one, five, zero, five. Bingo. The light turned green, a whirring sound came from the mechanism, and the safe door swung open to display its contents. Cash. A lot of it.

  I reached in a gloved hand. The bundles of notes were sorted by denomination, most of them fifties and twenties but a few tens and fives. I did a quick count; the safe contained over twenty thousand pounds. Ten thousand of which was mine - the rest possibly what remained of Ellie’s savings. I ran my fingers over the notes, a grin on my face. Then I transferred the bundles to the rucksack I’d brought with me.

  Four mobile phones lay beside the cash. I didn’t doubt that on one of them I’d find the vile texts he’d sent me. They went into my rucksack as well.

  The safe also contained a large envelope. I opened it, finding several credit cards inside. Obtained via identity theft, I surmised, and a necessity for joining premium dating websites. Each bore a different name. One Scott Champion, another Steven Simmons. Rick Montgomery and Michael Hammond as well, aliases familiar from Love Rats Exposed. I’d been right; the same man had conned me, Ellie, Sophie, and Broke and Betrayed. Under the guise of John Hayes and Chris Talbot, the names on the remaining cards, he’d doubtless defrauded two more. At least. I took the envelope and added it to the contents of the rucksack.

  Mission accomplished. It was almost time to go.

  One last detail remained. On the outside of the safe were instructions on how to create a new pass code. All I needed to do was to shut the door, type in a different code and press ‘enter’. My fingers tapped out a random four-digit number, then confirmed it as instructed. I wanted Scott to be unaware for as long as possible that he’d been robbed, hoping he’d assume the safe had malfunctioned when he was unable to open it. The building was managed off-site, so even after he complained the problem wouldn’t be rectified for a while. By the time Scott discovered his loss, I’d be long gone from his life.

  Job done, I left the apartment, satisfaction in every cell of my body. Still no sound from the flat opposite, and nobody passed me on the stairs or in the entrance lobby as I walked out. It was five minutes after eight o’clock; Scott would be at The Hen and Chicken, wondering where I was. I hurried back to my Audi, then pulled out my mobile. A quick text was in order. Car problems. Have called breakdown service. Sorry, won’t be able to make it tonight.

  His reply came straightaway. Hope you’re OK. Anything I can do? Should I drive over?

  My fingers got busy typing. Thanks, but I’m not in the best of moods. It’s been a frustrating evening.

  Too bad. Really wanted to see my special girl. Let’s meet up tomorrow instead.

  His special girl. Ugh and double ugh. I typed another message. Text me when you’re home so I can call you. Then I drove to Kingswood. After I stepped into the hallway, my mobile pinged.

  ‘I’m tired,’ I told Amelia. ‘Think I’ll grab an early night.’

  Once in my bedroom, I emptied my rucksack onto the bed, thick wads of money tumbling out along with the envelope and mobiles. Among them was my own phone. As I’d predicted the text was from Scott, saying he was back home and asking me to call. I braced myself, knowing this wouldn’t be easy.

  He answered straightaway. ‘Hi, sweetheart. How’s your car?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I’ve been told the clutch needs a new part. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight.’

  ‘Me too, darling. Can we get together tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Remember I said I had something to tell you?’ I drew in a theatrical breath. ‘Oh God. This would be much better done in person.’

  A pause from Scott. Then: ‘You’re worrying me, Lyddie. Have I upset you?’

  When I failed to reply, he continued, ‘You mean the world to me, sweetheart. Talk to me, please.’

  ‘It’s just that ...’ Another dramatic intake of breath. ‘I never meant to mess you around, I swear.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Remember I mentioned I had a school reunion to attend?’

  ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  ‘I ran into my ex-boyfriend there. The place taught both sexes, you see. While we were doing our A-levels, we dated. For several years afterwards too.’

  He exhaled noisily. ‘I don’t like where this is heading. Should I be concerned?’ He sounded genuinely worried.

  I gave a loud sigh, designed to show my remorse. ‘I never meant this to happen, believe me.’

  ‘What?’ Spit i
t out, for God’s sake, can’t you?’

  ‘I still have strong feelings for him. We spent the night together.’

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’ His Mr Nice Guy mask had slipped, it seemed. ‘You cheated on me?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

  ‘So what does this mean? Are you breaking up with me?’ He was pissed off all right. For a second, unease bit deep into my flesh.

  ‘I’ve realised I belong with him. We share so much history. I can only apologise and hope you don’t hate me.’

  He didn’t respond. ‘Say something,’ I prompted.

  ‘I told you I loved you.’ His turn for a theatrical sigh. ‘You said you felt the same. Why are you doing this?’

  When I didn’t reply, he continued, ‘I hoped we’d get married one day.’

  That was laying it on thick, even for him. ‘Please forgive me. I didn’t intend to hurt you.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, sweetheart?’ Mr Nice Guy had returned. ‘We were good together. Or so I thought.’

  ‘Don’t make this more difficult. Please.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Maybe you’re just confused, Lyddie.’

  ‘My mind’s made up. I’m sorry.’ Then I fired my killer shot. ‘One other thing. You don’t need to bother repaying my money.’

  He’d not expected that, I could tell. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. If Darcy’s cured, I’ll consider it well spent.’

  ‘Well, if you insist ...’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’s very generous of you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think too badly of me.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m happy you want us to break up. But if you’re certain ...’ His mask was back in place, his former anger gone. With any luck, once he’d calmed down, he’d decide he was up ten thousand pounds and free to pursue some other gullible woman. An easy win.