by TM Logan
LIES
TM LOGAN
Contents
Thursday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Friday
Chapter 11
Saturday
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Sunday
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Monday
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Tuesday
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Wednesday
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Thursday
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Friday
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
A message from TM Logan
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
For Sally, Sophie and Tom
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned . . .
William Congreve, The Mourning Bride
A liar should have a good memory.
Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria
I often wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t seen her car that day.
If the light had been green instead of red.
If my son had been dozing, or daydreaming, or looking the other way.
If I’d been five seconds faster in the stodgy London traffic, or five seconds slower.
If, if, if.
But I did see her car.
And everything else flowed from that one moment, pulled on by gravity faster and faster until it was irresistible, unstoppable. Inevitable.
Would things have turned out differently if I’d just driven on home?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maybe it was fate.
THURSDAY
1
My son’s first word wasn’t Daddy or Mummy. His first word was Audi. Which was strange because I’d never owned an Audi, and on my salary probably never would. But William had played with toy cars before he could walk, and recognised the badges long before he could actually read the names. At the age of four (and a bit) he was already something of an expert, playing his car game as we inched along in the sluggish north London traffic, spotting badges and calling them out from his car seat in the back.
‘Audi.’
‘Renault.’
‘Beamer.’
We were almost home. The traffic lights up ahead began to change and I pulled up third in line as they turned red. In the mirror I could see him clutching his first School Superstar certificate in both hands, as if it might blow away in the wind. A CD of kids’ songs was playing low on my car stereo. I am the music man, I come from down your way . . .
William continued calling out cars.
‘Ford.’
‘’nother one Ford.’
‘Mummy car.’
I smiled. My wife – William’s mum – drove a VW Golf. Every time he spotted one, he’d call it out. Not a Volkswagen. A Mummy car.
‘It’s a Mummy car. Look, Daddy.’
My phone buzzed in the hands-free cradle: a Facebook notification.
‘What was that, Wills?’
‘Over there, look.’
Across the dual carriageway, on the other side of the junction, a line of cars in the far lane were filtering left onto a slip road. Rush hour traffic streaming through the junction, everyone on their way home. The low sun was in my eyes, but I caught a glimpse of a VW Golf. It did look like her car. Powder blue, five-door, same SpongeBob SquarePants sun shade suckered to the rear passenger window.
‘Good spot, matey. It does look like Mummy’s car.’
I buzzed my window down and felt the cool city air on my face. A gap in the traffic opened up behind the Golf as it accelerated away down the slip road. It was a 59 reg number plate. My wife’s car had a 59 plate. I squinted, trying to make out the letters.
KK59 DWD.
The number plate was hers – it wasn’t like her car, it was her car. There was the familiar buzz, the little glow in my chest I still got whenever she was nearby. The VW indicated left off the slip road and turned into the car park of a Premier Inn. It headed into the dark entrance of an underground car park and disappeared from sight.
She’ll be meeting a client, a work thing. Should probably leave her to it. She had been working late a lot recently.
‘Can we see Mummy?’ William said, excitement in his voice. ‘Can we can we can we?’
‘She’ll be busy, Wills. Doing work things.’
‘I can show her my certificate.’ William couldn’t quite pronounce the word and it came out as cerstiff-a-kit.
Honking from the car behind me as the traffic lights turned green.
‘Well . . .’
‘Please, Daddy?’ He was jigging up and down on his booster seat. ‘We could do a surprise on her!’
I smiled again. It was almost Friday, after all.
‘Yes we could, couldn’t we?’
I put the car in gear. Made a spur-of-the-moment decision that would change my life.
‘Let’s go and surprise Mummy.’
2
I was in the wrong lane to turn right and had to get across two lanes of traffic. By the time someone had let me in – cue more furious hooting – the lights had gone red again.
‘Where’s Mummy whizzing off to?’ William said.
‘We’ll catch her, don’t worry.’
My mobile, in its hands-free cradle, blinked blue with a Facebook notification. I pressed the screen and it brought up my picture of William in the school playground, clutching his first Superstar award from the reception class teacher. The post had four likes and a new comment from William’s godmother, Lisa: ‘A
www he looks so cute! What a good boy! Give him a kiss from me xx.’
I hit like below her comment.
The traffic light went green and I turned the wheel to follow the route my wife’s car had taken, down the slip road and left into the forecourt of the Premier Inn. Down the ramp into the underground car park, low concrete roof and deep shadows where the striplights didn’t reach, driving slowly along the lines of parked cars.
And there it was: her VW Golf, parked next to the lift. Mel was nowhere to be seen. A sign on a concrete pillar read: Car Park for use by patrons of Premier Inn only. There were no spaces next to her car so I carried on round the circle and found a space in the row behind, backing in opposite an oversized white 4 x 4 that was clearly too big for the space it occupied.
‘Can we go and see Mummy now?’ William said. He was still clutching his ‘I’m a Superstar!’ certificate in both hands like he was getting ready to present it to the Queen.
‘Come on, then, let’s go upstairs and find her. There’s a lift.’
His eyes lit up.
‘Can I press the button?’
The hotel lobby had dark shiny floors and anonymous décor, a single waistcoated teenager on reception. William’s hot little hand gripped mine tightly as we stood looking for Mel. There was a rumpled man with a suit bag and briefcase, wearily checking out, a woman and a teenage girl behind him. An elderly Japanese couple sat in the reception area, poring over a map. But no sign of my wife.
‘Where’s Mummy gone?’ William said in a loud stage whisper.
‘Come on, let’s find her.’
Reception was L-shaped, with lifts and the restaurant signposted around the corner. We followed the signs, away from reception. The restaurant was mostly empty. Recessed off to the left were the lifts and a raised seating area with large black armchairs facing each other across a handful of low tables.
Mel was there. She had her back to us but I would have recognised her anywhere, the slender curve of her neck, honey-blond hair.
Hey, there. Surprise!
Wait.
She was with someone. A man, talking in animated fashion.
Something made me stop. I knew the guy she was talking to: Ben Delaney, married to one of Mel’s closest friends. And he wasn’t just animated – he was downright angry, his face dark with frustration. He interrupted her, pointing his finger, his voice a barely controlled growl. Mel leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. He sat back, shaking his head.
Something was wrong with this situation.
Instinctively, I moved in front of William to block his view. My first thought was to go over and check Mel was OK, but not with our son in tow. Mel was gesturing with her hands now, Ben staring at her, frowning, shaking his head.
This is not something William should see.
‘Come on, Wills,’ I said, ‘Mummy’s busy, let’s go back downstairs.’
‘Has she gone?’
‘Let’s wait for her in the car, matey. We’ll be close by.’
‘Then I can show her my certificate?’
‘Yup.’
We got the lift back down to the car park level and returned to my car. Mel’s number was top of the favourites list on my mobile. It went straight to voicemail.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Mel’s mobile, please do leave a message and I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as poss.’ Beep.
I hung up, redialled. Voicemail again. This time I left a message.
‘Hi love, it’s me. Give me a call when you get this? Just wanted to make sure you’re OK . . . that everything’s OK. Call me.’
I sat five minutes more, starting to feel slightly foolish. I was supposed to be at home by now, running my son’s bath. Drinking a nice glass of red. Thinking about making a start on tonight’s marking. But instead I was here, in an underground car park just off the North Circular, trying to work out what the hell was going on upstairs. I wanted to check on her, but didn’t want to leave William. My suit shirt felt grimy and claustrophobic, a bead of sweat tracing a path down my ribcage.
So what’s the plan, Stan? What if Mel isn’t OK? What’s up with Ben? How long are you going to sit here with one bar of mobile reception, waiting and wondering?
There wasn’t a plan. I wasn’t going to do anything, just sit there and wait. Surprise my wife.
I didn’t have a plan. It just happened.
3
I opened up the Angry Birds app on my iPad and passed it back to William, flicked on the radio for my own distraction. Five Live was running a piece about dating websites, featuring a series of quick interviews with women describing what they were looking for in their perfect mate. Expectations seemed to be pretty high. Their ideal man had to be at least six feet tall, in possession of a good sense of humour, a nice smile and a six-pack. He had to be strong but not macho. Sensitive, but good at DIY. Confident, but not full of himself. Make decent money at work but still be around to do his share at home.
Blimey. It was exhausting just keeping track of it all.
Mel’s mobile went straight to voicemail again. I buzzed the window down and rested my elbow on the sill, absently turning the black leather bracelet on my right wrist as the radio presenter chattered on. Mel had given me the bracelet as an anniversary present: leather for three years. Now a big one was approaching – ten years – and there were already a few ideas on my list for that one. Ten was supposed to be tin but someone had said you could substitute diamond jewellery for tin. That was good. My plan had always been to give her a bigger diamond than I could afford as an early-career teacher when we first got –
‘Daddy?’
‘What’s up, big man?’
‘Can I get a hamster?’
‘Uh, don’t know, William. We’ll see.’
We’ll see. Parents’ code for I won’t mention it again, wait for you to forget.
‘Jacob P. has a hamster.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He’s called Mr Chocolate.’
‘That’s a good name.’
I smiled at my son in the rear-view mirror as he played on the iPad. My son, the image of his mother. He was going to be a heartbreaker when he was older, that was for sure. His mother’s face, her colouring, her big brown eyes.
And then there she was across the car park, walking quickly to her car: my pretty wife, dressed for tennis in her pink Adidas hoodie, blond ponytail tied up high.
She had her head down, a frown on her face.
Looks like she’s about to cry.
I was suddenly glad we’d made this detour.
‘William, I’m just going to talk to someone for a minute, OK? You stay here like a good boy and I’ll be right back.’
He looked up at me with those big brown eyes.
‘Is it Mummy?’
‘You stay here just for a minute and don’t get out, OK? Then after a minute you can see Mummy.’
‘What if bad men come?’
‘Bad men aren’t going to come, big man. You’ll be able to see me, and I’ll be able to see you.’ I held up a finger. ‘One minute.’
He nodded slowly, but didn’t look convinced.
Mobile still in my hand, I got out and locked the car with the remote. The underground air was flat and sour in my nostrils.
Mel’s VW was reversing out fast. Two lines of parked cars between me and her.
I waved.
‘Mel!’
The VW pulled off sharply, Mel pulling her seatbelt across her chest with one hand as she accelerated hard towards the exit ramp. She hadn’t seen me. Threading my way between the parked cars I almost tripped on a low concrete divider between the rows, stumbled, shouted again, my voice flat against the low concrete ceiling.
‘Mel!’
Her car disappeared up the exit ramp and then she was gone, out into the Thursday night traffic.
4
There was a soft chime from the lift at the far end of the car park. The doors slid open and Ben emerged, briefcase in hand, cigarette betwee
n his lips. He lit up and lifted his head to exhale, seeming to spot me out of the corner of his eye as he took his mobile out of a jeans pocket.
He had seen me, I was sure of it.
He carried on walking as if he hadn’t.
‘Ben!’ I said, waving.
He slowed, stared at me for a second, raised a hand half-heartedly as I walked over to him. He stood by his car, a pearl-white Porsche Cayenne with the number plate W1NNR, dressed in that casual-but-not-casual way you get when you spend a lot of money – designer jeans and tailored jacket. He looked at me like I was the last person he wanted to see, taking another drag on his cigarette.
There was a moment of silence, the smoke coiling lazily between us.
‘Joe,’ he said finally, putting his briefcase down. ‘What are you . . .? How’s it going, big fella?’
‘All good. Really good. How about you?’
‘Yeah, sound. Business is booming, you know. You still setting the teaching world on fire?’
I had never been good at Awkward Bloke Conversations. And Ben had never looked on me as an equal – more a bit of an also-ran, just another public-sector softie who wouldn’t last five minutes in the dog-eat-dog world he inhabited.
‘Something like that,’ I said, forcing a grin. ‘You just had a meeting up in the hotel?’
He opened his mouth to reply, closed it again. Tried to look past me.
‘Yeah.’ He took another drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. ‘A meeting.’
‘A work thing?’
‘Potential client. A lead I’ve been warming up for a while.’
‘You didn’t see Mel?’
‘What?’
‘My Mel. She was just here.’
He almost flinched at the mention of her name, but caught himself. Instead he just shook his head, dark eyes shifting towards his car.
‘No mate, not seen her.’
It was weird seeing him like this – evasive, reluctant, almost shifty – compared to his usual alpha-male demeanour. At the one and only poker game I had played at his house, he had regaled the table with a story about a former employee of his company who had quit to set up on his own, in competition with him. Ben had felt betrayed – so he had made it his personal mission to trash the guy’s reputation in the industry, warning potential customers off, until the former employee’s new company went bankrupt and he lost his house in the process. Ben had related the story with a trace of pride in a rival destroyed, an air of screw with the bull and you get the horns. It was the kind of guy he was. You didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.