Spare Me the Truth_An explosive, high octane thriller

by CJ Carver

  SPARE ME THE TRUTH

  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

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Vic and Jean Ayres

  PROLOGUE

  Three weeks ago, Saturday 3 November

  She steps into a corridor. She is behind Peter Miller and Suzie Lui who are chatting excitedly, seemingly oblivious of any danger, but Stella takes one look at the four men and knows things have gone terribly wrong.

  She is already bending forward, reaching to grab the case from Suzie, planting her weight on her right foot to spin round, make a run for it, but the men are fast. Much faster than her. She has barely moved and they’ve drawn their guns. A Glock, an Uzi and two MAC-10 auto sub-machine pistols which are immediately trained on her. The Uzi is on Peter, the Glock on Suzie. The men’s hands are steady, their eyes hard and cold. They’ve done this before. They’re pros.

  Suzie gives a little scream. Peter goes as white as chalk and makes a soft whimpering sound.

  There are places Stella will remember all her life – a shabby house in the East End, the hospital room where she gave birth to her daughter, a serene Mayfair street with rows of glossy black railings – but there will be nothing branded more deeply in her memory than this moment.

  How had Cedric found out?

  Nobody knew about this. Not even Bernard.

  Had Peter or Suzie let something slip?

  She suddenly sees how stupid she’s been. She thinks she’s so clever, but he’s always been one step ahead. Was it the arrogance of age? The fact she thought she’d had a lifetime’s experience? She’s due to retire next year – perhaps she thought she’d go out in a spectacular shower of success but instead she’s facing monumental dishonour and disgrace. Something that the office will whisper about in decades to come. How Stella Reavey, one of the so-called best, brought not just ignominy and humiliation to their front door, but how she risked their families, their friends, and their country. All through hubris.

  The man with the Glock moves to take the case from Suzie. The young woman recoils.

  ‘No!’ she protests violently. ‘No!’

  In one smooth movement the man raises his pistol, aims it between the young woman’s eyes and pulls the trigger.

  The bullet enters Suzie’s skull, leaving a neat hole the size of a pebble in her forehead, but the back of her head is a mess of blood and bone, brain matter.

  The woman’s body drops into a soft crumple of slender limbs and cloth.

  Peter is trembling from head to toe. A keening sound comes involuntarily from his throat.

  ‘You didn’t need to kill her,’ Stella says. She is glad her tone is authoritative and doesn’t reveal her fear.

  The man doesn’t answer. He grabs the case.

  The weapons remain trained on her and Peter as the man steps backwards down the corridor. He vanishes through the door. She watches his men leave. The instant they are out of view she races after them but the door is locked. She spins round and tears to the other end of the corridor to find that door is locked too. By the time she summons help, it is too late. The men and the case are gone.

  It is after midnight and Stella stands quietly and alone, wondering how to salvage the situation. She needs something from left field that can’t implicate her, something unpredictable, something random, as her daughter might say. When an idea comes to her, she closes her eyes and wonders whether her conscience will ever forgive her for entering Dan’s life again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday 22 November, 10.04 a.m.

  Dan Forrester was in aisle five of his local Tesco supermarket, struggling to decide whether Jenny wanted a well-known branded packet of noodles or the cheaper generic version, blissfully unaware that in the next few minutes his life would be ripped to pieces.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He already knew how fragile life could be. That the wall between sanity and insanity, life and death, was paper-thin. One moment, life was mundane and ordinary, even boring, the next it tilted on its axis and plunged into chaos. Dan had survived the chaos before and was now in a place of harmony where the most stressful thing he had to think about was which type of noodles to buy.

  ‘Daddydaddydaddy!’

  Aimee tore down the aisle towards him like a sparkling Catherine wheel, a blur of white-blond hair and pink tinsel yelling at the top of her voice.

  ‘I found it, foundit foundit!’

  She narrowly missed his trolley and smacked into his shins, triumphantly waving a packet of chicken stock cubes in one hand while grabbing a fold in his jeans to stop herself from falling over with the other. Her face was flung back, her beaming smile like a laser straight to his heart.

  ‘Well done, pumpkin.’

  ‘I’m not a pumpkin. Pumpkins are fat.’

  ‘OK. Well done, carrot.’

  ‘Carrot?!’ Her screech of indignation made several shoppers nearby flinch and give him stares of disapproval, but he was
too old to be bothered by what other people thought. He was forty in two weeks’ time. What was that all about? He’d been sixteen when his father turned forty – ancient – but here he was with flecks of grey growing through his hair just like Dad.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Celery.’

  ‘Daddy, I’m not a vegetable.’

  ‘Really?’ He affected surprise. ‘Not even an avocado? I love avocados.’

  Aimee did a twirl, arms outstretched. ‘Avocado, avocado, avocado,’ she sang. ‘I’m an avocaaado.’

  Dan went back to his inspection of noodles satisfied he’d distracted her nicely from the subject of fat, which her best friend Tara had introduced her to at the weekend. Before her sleepover Aimee had had no idea what a calorie was, but now she was picking up cereal boxes trying to read the sides, determined to find out how many calories were in a Cheerio, whether she was having too many and if she should go on a diet. Apparently Tara’s mother was obsessed with her weight and Aimee wanted to know if she should be too. Jenny had had to restrain Dan from marching over the road and jamming Tara’s mother’s head inside a cereal packet.

  ‘What else can I get, Daddy?’ She was still twirling.

  He pretended to think. ‘Hmm. Well, one thing we really need is a reindeer for the hall table. I don’t know which sort, though. They come in all colours. Gold, pink, silver or just plain brown.’

  Her eyes brightened. ‘You mean a chocolate reindeer?’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to find one?’

  Aimee scampered away, heading for the aisle-end display of Christmas chocolates. He could keep an eye on her there. Without consciously making a decision, he put the cheaper noodles in his trolley and began to head for the spice rack further down. His mind was on nothing but ground ginger and dried chillies when he felt a familiar tell-tale prickle at the back of his neck.

  Someone was watching him.

  He didn’t swing round to see who it might be, but maintained his inspection of condiments. After ten seconds or so, he turned to his trolley and dropped in a small bottle of ground ginger. At the same time, he took in the woman out of the corner of his eye. She was still watching him. This time, a small smile curved on her lips, as though she knew he was observing her.

  Late fifties, she had glossy waves of dark hair threaded with silver. Strong jaw, cut glass cheekbones. Slender, wiry body. Understated trouser suit. Still smiling, expression warm, she stepped towards him.

  ‘Dan,’ she said.

  Something hitched in his chest at the sound of her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he said. He didn’t recognise her.

  She came to stand in front of him. Her eyes were clear and candid, the colour of burnt hazelnuts. She carried no shopping. A plain leather satchel hung from her shoulder.

  ‘You don’t remember me.’ She stated it as a fact.

  Her clothes weren’t cheap, but they weren’t expensive either. Middle of the road. Bland. The same couldn’t be said for her shoes, however, which were sleek high-heeled black leather with a patent finish. Smart and sexy. She could be a secretary or a barrister.

  ‘I’m Stella. Stella Reavey.’

  As she said her name, he felt a lightness enter him. Perhaps he did know her after all. She put out her hand. It seemed churlish not to take it. Her skin was warm and smooth, her grip strong.

  ‘We used to work together,’ she said.

  ‘Er . . .’ He wished Jenny was here instead of getting her hair cut across the road. After his breakdown five years ago he struggled to remember a lot of things. Some were small, like not remembering a favourite café or meeting an old friend for a pub lunch one Sunday, but others were huge, like not remembering anything about the office job he’d had before Luke and Aimee were born.

  ‘Interesting how some things have stayed with you,’ she told him, moving briefly to give some space to a blowsy woman walking past with her toddler in the trolley child seat. ‘You knew I was watching you but you didn’t give anything away. I guess it shows that our training sticks with us even if we don’t realise it.’

  She’d used the word training. He said, ‘Are you a driving instructor too?’

  For a moment she looked as though she was unsure how to react, whether to laugh or cry. ‘No.’ She cleared her throat. Glanced over her shoulder, then back. ‘I’m something entirely different. So are you, although you don’t know it.’

  His patience thinned the moment she began talking in riddles. Some people thought it amusing to play games with an amnesiac but joking around with someone who had suffered memory loss due to a colossal personal trauma was insupportable as far as he was concerned. His psychiatrist, Dr Orvis Fatik, told him people played tricks on him because they enjoyed the sense of control they wielded, especially if, before his memory was damaged, he had been the more dominant in the relationship. But, whatever the explanation, Dan rarely forgave them for making him feel stupid.

  ‘I knew this wasn’t going to be easy,’ she continued, ‘but I couldn’t see any other way.’ Her eyes were on his, frank and sincere. ‘We’re out of options. We need your help, Dan . . .’

  He flicked a glance past Stella Reavey and down the aisle to see Aimee waving at him. She was holding a toy, an oversized white puppy, complete with red matching collar and lead. Her expression was pleading. He shook his head at her, making a pair of antlers with his fingers. Reindeer, he mouthed. She pouted in return but nodded.

  ‘We need to find someone called Cedric. It isn’t his real name, but a code name. CEDRIC.’

  She was looking at him expectantly, as though he might suddenly clap his hands to his head and shout, ‘Cedric! Of course!’ but instead, Dan looked pointedly around the supermarket. ‘Is there a hidden camera here somewhere?’ he asked. His tone was biting. ‘Did Matt put you up to this? Are he and his buddies cracking up in the car park?’

  Last Christmas Matt had hired a stripper to approach Dan in a pub, pretending she was his ex-girlfriend. It had been embarrassing and humiliating and, although Dan had laughed it off, inside he had been seething. This time, however, he wasn’t going to roll over and play nice and he changed his body language to exude aggression. To his surprise, Stella didn’t back down. She lifted her chin and held his gaze, showing she wasn’t easily intimidated.

  ‘Matt?’ she queried.

  ‘An old school friend. He’s renowned for his sick sense of humour.’

  ‘God, no.’ She looked shocked. ‘It’s not like that at all. Please believe me, Dan. Just listen to me for a moment.’

  There was something so urgent about her, so intense – as though she longed to plunge her arms inside him and touch his inner core and connect with him – that he briefly overrode his instinct to turn his back on her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Look, I’m sorry to drop in Cedric’s name like that, but a professor of neurology at a brain research institute told me recently that sometimes memories can break through, even in the toughest cases of dissociative amnesia. It all depends on whether the biochemical pathways allow a particular memory to be recalled. Obviously Cedric has been blocked or disrupted . . .’ She ran a hand distractedly through her hair. ‘I know this is difficult, but you need to know we used to work together before your breakdown. For the government, where –’

  ‘In the Immigration Department?’ he cut in, his interest piqued. He’d been told this was where he used to work when he and Jenny had lived in London. Perhaps he did know her.

  Stella blinked. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Where was the office?’ he asked, deciding to test her.

  ‘Westminster.’

  Correct.

  ‘Who was my boss?’ he asked.

  ‘I was. But the person we reported to . . . I’m afraid I can’t tell you who he is. Not yet.’

  Wrong answer. His boss hadn’t been a woman but a tall man with spectacles and untidy red hair. Jenny had shown him a photograph of him taken at an office Christmas party eight years ago.

&
nbsp; Stella nibbled her lip. ‘It’s maddening that I’m not authorised to tell you much, but you have to trust me when I say a situation has arisen that is extremely urgent. It’s a security issue, hence the need for discretion but –’

  ‘I think you ought to stop right now,’ Dan said stiffly. He should have ignored her from the start and he was angry at himself for not trusting his instincts. It had to be another prank of Matt’s. He couldn’t think what else she was doing here. His attention flashed to check on Aimee and when he couldn’t see her his blood pressure spiked only to fall a second later when she suddenly reappeared.

  ‘Dan. Listen, please.’ Stella’s tone was earnest. ‘We used to work closely together, OK? And when I say closely, I don’t mean sharing an office, although we did do that too. I mean we depended on each other, really depended . . .’ She paused as though struggling to find the right words.

  To his relief, Aimee began walking down the aisle towards them. The quicker they got out of here the better, but Aimee was taking it slowly, her tongue pressed against her lower lip as she concentrated on not dropping the large gold-foil wrapped reindeer.