Lies: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down!

by TM Logan

  ‘Completely up to you. As the senior investigating officer I’m obliged to advise you of your rights, but I’m not allowed to give you an opinion on legal representation. That sort of thing could end up going against us.’

  ‘Against us in general, or against you in particular?’

  ‘Against me.’ He smiled again, but there was no humour in it. ‘Stay local, Joe. We’ll be in touch.’

  33

  The three-storey red-brick police station felt like a presence squatting behind me as I emerged, blinking, back out on Salisbury Road. People walking past me left and right, cars passing on the street, the smells of diesel and dirt and greasy takeaway food mingling in the autumn drizzle.

  What did I just admit to?

  Why don’t they believe me?

  What the hell is going on?

  The police interview had lasted less than an hour, but it felt like I’d aged five years. It seemed I’d entered a game whose rules I didn’t understand, and bet everything on the outcome. My life was juddering from one disaster to the next.

  Time to get some legal advice.

  I turned down DS Redford’s offer to drop me back at Fryent Country Park. I wanted to get away from the police as quickly as possible. I got a black cab instead and drove my car home.

  It was strangely quiet in the house in the middle of the day, without William’s chatter and questions and car noises. There were times when my son was full-on and bouncing off the walls with energy that sometimes made me crave the stillness of a quiet house, but when those rare times came, it felt unnatural. It didn’t feel much like my home without William in it. Or Mel. The thought of my wife threw a shadow across everything.

  I took my phone out and texted her.

  Why did you tell police Ben and I got physical on Thurs? Thought we were sticking with story we told Beth?

  Me 12.26 p.m.

  The reply came back quickly.

  Oh god oh god I’m sorry Joe I forgot honestly are you OK?? I’m so sorry my head’s all over the place at the moment, what did they say? Call me? xxx

  Mel mob 12.27 p.m.

  I put the phone down – I didn’t feel like talking to her at the moment. A minute later it rang, vibrating on the worktop. I rejected the call and switched it to silent.

  Ben’s timeline on Facebook showed nothing new since his post on Saturday evening. It was tempting to direct-message him again and ask him what he was playing at, but the answer to that seemed pretty obvious. I checked my email and phone messages as well. Nothing doing there either, beyond the usual junk.

  I found an old envelope on the kitchen counter and wrote down four questions.

  1.Where is Ben?

  2.What does he want?

  3.Why did he ask to meet yesterday?

  4.What ‘evidence’ did he want to show me?

  Next to each question I made notes, writing down possible answers. Arrows looping from one point to the next. Question two was the only one I had a solid answer for: he wanted Mel, that seemed pretty clear. And if he couldn’t have her, he wanted to drive us apart.

  That is never going to happen, Ben.

  The heat of anger was in my chest, threatening to choke me like bile. Anger at Mel. Blended with betrayal and a dash of humiliation for good measure.

  I had to get back on the front foot.

  I went upstairs to the master bedroom and opened Mel’s bedside drawer. It was full but neatly ordered: make-up, jewellery boxes, a couple of books, our three passports in a pile, a point-and-shoot camera, a stack of receipts clipped together, a Hermès watch that she wore on nights out. Various medicines and creams arrayed at the back, pill bottles and boxes standing upright. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for – maybe to feel like I was back in the know, having spent the last five months walking around blind to her affair. What else went on in her secret life? What was going on in her head?

  Most of all I wanted to find a clue to why she had chosen another man over me.

  But there was nothing out of the ordinary. The bottom drawer was stacked with holiday brochures and bank statements. Perhaps an extravagant purchase or strange pattern of spending might spill more of the secrets she’d kept from me. Had Ben given her money? Had she bought him expensive gifts?

  Again, there was nothing that looked suspicious on the face of it. No doubt Ben had picked up the tab for everything. He never missed an opportunity to remind everyone how wealthy he was. Probably Mel most of all. I remembered her words from yesterday.

  He told me he was in love with me like he’d never loved anyone before. That he’d do anything for me, anything I wanted – leave Beth, leave Alice. Leave everything behind so we could be together.

  Further searching turned up nothing of note in her other drawers and cupboards.

  This is pointless. Do something practical, useful. Necessary.

  Back in the kitchen, drinking a strong coffee, I hunted for an old copy of the Yellow Pages before remembering that Mel had thrown it out long ago. Who needs that cluttering the place up when you’ve got Google? she’d said. She was right, in a way, but it was still good to have something with pages, something you could hold in your hand. Google was fine but you couldn’t turn down a corner and cross out entries that were no good. Even though I’d charged it yesterday, my phone was almost dead already so I plugged it in and went upstairs to the PC in the study. The bigger screen was better for web browsing anyway.

  The monitor flickered into life as the fan started up inside the base unit. The PC was nearing the end of its useful life and usually took a few minutes to boot up. It beeped and whirred and went through its usual start-up procedures. While I waited I thought of what Naylor had told me an hour before, the proof of life enquiries to establish when Ben had last raised his head above the parapet. The computer beeped and displayed some incomprehensible message about BIOS and RAM and memory and various other stuff that I didn’t understand.

  I hit return to get it moving.

  The screen went blue, then black. The fan whirred slower, then kicked in again like an old Hoover on its last legs. Down and up. Typical. This is the moment the PC chooses to finally give up the ghost, in my hour of need. Just what I don’t need. The red light by the webcam came on but the screen stayed black. Various chugging and whirring noises came from the base unit beneath the desk.

  Still nothing on the monitor. A black screen.

  ‘Just give me a break here,’ I said, talking to the machine.

  I was about to switch it off and go back downstairs when a message appeared in the bottom left-hand side of the screen.

  White text on black.

  Boot sequence interrupted_

  A blinking cursor instead of a full stop. Our PC had been getting slower and slower, but I’d never seen that message before.

  The words disappeared. A black, blank screen.

  Black.

  Black.

  Then two words.

  Hello Joe_

  34

  For a few seconds I just stared at the words, at the blinking cursor after my name, wondering whether this was part of the computer’s recovery sequence. A plunging sensation in the pit of my stomach told me it wasn’t.

  The greeting disappeared and was replaced by a line of text.

  I bet your wondering what the fucks going on?_

  I couldn’t breathe. I was paralysed, the breath trapped in my lungs. Again the text disappeared. Again it was replaced by another line of text.

  Let me explain_

  She said she still loves you and cant leave you because your a good man_

  The BEST KINDEST man she has ever met_

  She was everything to me but she destroyed what we had_

  FOR YOU_

  You worthless pathetic piece of shit_

  The words began to scroll up the screen now, quicker, each line coming so fast I could barely read it before the next appeared.

  Think you can beat me? That your better than me?_

  Im going to br
eak you_

  Your whole fucking life is about being the GOOD MAN. How about SUSPECTED MURDERER instead?_

  Naylor’s words returned to me: A full ‘proof-of-life’ inquiry.

  I hit the print screen button three times and was greeted with a sullen beep. The printer was off. Damn. Get a picture. I patted my pockets for my mobile phone. Not there. Shit. It was charging downstairs. I was torn between wanting to see the rest of the message and needing to photograph it as evidence. The message continued scrolling, lines of text disappearing as new ones appeared.

  Im going to destroy your reputation_

  Im going to destroy your marriage_

  Then Im going to destroy you_

  Noone will believe you and that will make it all the sweeter_

  This is going to be the best game yet_

  Adios_

  I ran downstairs to get my mobile, grabbed it off the kitchen worktop, charger and all, ran back upstairs and crashed back into the study.

  Just in time to see the last words on the monitor disappear.

  I hit the escape key. Back arrow. Return, backspace, delete. All the keys at once.

  But it was gone. The webcam light had gone off too.

  The computer beeped happily and the normal login prompt appeared on the screen, alongside my regular screensaver – a picture of me, William and Mel.

  Ben, you bastard.

  The force of my fist slamming onto the desk was enough to make the mouse jump and land upside down with a clatter.

  Think.

  I got my mobile out, got the camera ready, and restarted the PC. Same whine as the fan slowed then speeded up again, same beeping and whirring as it went through its booting-up process. This time there was no warning message from Ben. The screen filled with the same family picture and the normal login prompt. I shut it down again, waited for a minute, then turned it back on. It booted up normally.

  The threatening message was a one-time deal, it seemed.

  I called Naylor and explained what had happened.

  ‘Did you get a picture?’ he said, his tone sceptical. ‘Or a printout?’

  ‘Didn’t have time, it all happened too fast.’

  ‘A screengrab?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Did he sign off with his name?’

  ‘No, but this kind of computer stuff, hacking my PC to send me a message, this is pure one hundred per cent Ben Delaney. It’s him all over, it’s what he’s good at.’

  I’m going to break you. Destroy you.

  ‘OK,’ Naylor said. ‘We may need to take your computer in at some point, Joe. Have our digital forensic guys look at it.’

  He asked me to write down the text of the message, as best as I could remember, and email it to him.

  Once I’d done that, I called up Google and typed in a new search.

  This had gone far enough. It was time to get some legal advice.

  35

  Peter Larssen was a short, round man in his early forties, with sandy-blond hair and a firm handshake. He gestured towards the hallway and followed me up two flights of wide wooden stairs. His office, at the firm of solicitors which bore his name, was warm and tastefully furnished, one wall entirely covered by bookcases and a large desk by the window. The room smelled of fresh flowers and floor polish.

  After dispensing with the pleasantries, he ran through the firm’s hourly rates and the terms on which they would represent me. Signing my name at the foot of an agreement, I wondered whether I was being premature in seeking legal advice.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Larssen said in his crisp Home Counties accent. ‘So, Joe, tell me what brings you to us today.’

  He took notes on a yellow pad as I ran through a potted version of the events of the last four days.

  ‘So what can I do about Ben?’ I said finally. ‘To keep him away from my family, away from my wife? Stop him sending threatening messages? And make sure the police don’t waste any more time on him?’

  ‘I’m a fan of simple solutions, Joe. Have you tried talking to him?’

  ‘We were going to meet this morning, but it didn’t quite happen.’

  ‘Let’s give it a few more days, see if he calms down. Most people do. Meanwhile I’ll make a few discreet enquiries about him, see what I can find out.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘For now. Our more pressing concern is your discussion with the police this morning. Were you cautioned, arrested, or advised of your rights in any way?’

  ‘No. None of that.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what you said to DCI Naylor, in as much detail as you can remember.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I told him everything.’

  ‘Define everything.’

  He took more notes and frowned as I described the conversation, wincing visibly at times as if he had indigestion.

  ‘So you admitted to being in the hotel car park on Thursday evening?’

  ‘Yes. I was there.’

  ‘That’s for them to prove, not for us to serve up on a platter.’

  Them and us.

  ‘He asked me a direct question.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I answered it.’

  He put the pad on the table and capped his fountain pen with a snap.

  ‘Mr Lynch, this process is not about making polite conversation. Normal social niceties don’t apply when you’re talking to the police. They can ask what they want, but you’re not in any way obliged to answer – particularly when it’s a devious, underhand little rat like Detective Chief Inspector Marcus Naylor.’

  ‘He didn’t seem devious to me,’ I said quietly.

  ‘That’s half the problem with him. By the time you realise what he’s up to, your neck’s halfway into the noose. You did the right thing, coming to us.’

  ‘You’ve dealt with Naylor before?’

  ‘Enough times to know I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  ‘Do you think he might say the same about you?’

  Larssen sipped his tea and gave a curious little half-smile.

  ‘Possibly. But the point is, we’re playing big boys’ rules now. Forget being a good citizen and respect for the boys in blue and answering every loaded question they throw at you. Forget helping the police with their enquiries, having a friendly chat at the station, all of that. That’s for people who want to end up getting convicted. From now on you don’t say anything to the police without me being there, not even small talk about the weather or last night’s TV. Nothing at all. Are you able to do that?’

  ‘Sounds like what a guilty person would do.’

  ‘It’s what a smart person would do. A person who doesn’t want to end up in jail.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘You’re a hundred per cent sure about that, are you?’

  I paused, wondering for the first time whether he believed my story.

  ‘I’m not a criminal.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well all right, then. The good news is that you hadn’t been arrested and told of your rights to legal representation when you talked to them earlier. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘I asked Naylor whether I should have a solicitor but he said he couldn’t advise me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Larssen, as if this was a highly unsatisfactory answer. ‘It’s more likely that he didn’t arrest you because he wanted to get your unguarded reaction.’

  ‘Well, it worked.’

  ‘But it also means he’ll struggle, on legal grounds, to use the answers you gave earlier to implicate you in any crime.’

  ‘If we end up in court, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. If we end up in court.’

  ‘If that’s the good news, what’s the bad news?’

  ‘The altercation between you and Mr Delaney on Thursday is . . . unfortunate.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how his car came to be dumped and s
et on fire, or why there was blood found on the seat?’

  ‘No, but I can make a pretty good educated guess.’

  He nodded, made a note on his pad with the expensive fountain pen.

  ‘Let’s avoid guesswork, Joe. On the face of it, your wife’s relationship with Mr Delaney is interesting to the police because it puts you and him on something of a collision course. It’s motive. You can see that, can’t you?’

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Peter?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘If you say you’re not guilty, that’s all I need to know.’

  ‘But do you think I did this? That I hurt Ben?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You seem like a good chap to me, but we have to deal with the situation we face, and study it piece by piece. Break it down, piece by piece. That’s how we win cases and it’s why most of our clients walk out of court with a smile on their face. Everything else is a distraction.’

  ‘You see that Ben’s trying to set me up, don’t you? I’ve taken Mel away from him, he’s in love with her and he’s mad and egotistical and obsessed to the point that he can’t bear to lose her.’ My hands were fists on the table between us, my heart thumping hard. ‘He’s trying everything to land me in it. Do you see?’

  ‘He certainly sounds like a dangerous individual.’

  ‘He’s nuts. Crazy. But he won’t break my family up. Never.’

  Larssen handed me a business card with his numbers on it.

  ‘We’ve done what we can for now. To a certain extent we have to see what the police do next, but the most important thing is that you do not, under any circumstances, speak to DCI Naylor again without me being present. Give me a call on the mobile and I will be there as quickly as I can. And let me know when Mr Delaney contacts you next, whether by phone, email, social media, anything at all.’

  ‘Everything’s just happened so fast, it’s a struggle to get my head around it.’

  ‘Try not to worry too much. You’ve not been arrested, that’s a long way down the road and will probably never happen in any case. As likely as not, Mr Delaney will turn up at his house sooner or later, a little bit calmer and hopefully a bit wiser too. And all of this will go away.’