Spare Me the Truth_An explosive, high octane thriller

by CJ Carver

  Dan remained as still and silent as a tomb.

  ‘No, Dan doesn’t remember her. But she obviously said something because he went to see her this morning . . . No, he didn’t tell me what . . . OK, I’ll try and find out. Yes . . . Yes, yes. OK. Bye.’

  Dan backed into the corridor. He had to act fast. He didn’t want her to wipe the last number called. He coughed and cleared his throat. He heard the tiny beep as she replaced the phone in its cradle.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked as he entered the kitchen.

  ‘What?’ Jenny looked round.

  ‘On the phone.’

  ‘Oh, just Ali. We were talking about having a coffee in town tomorrow.’

  The lie tripped off her tongue so easily that he had to force himself not to stare at her. ‘Ali?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to see the bank as I’ve been locked out of my Internet banking account.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t believe they want me to bring my passport and a utility bill. They know me but they still need to do their checks.’

  He felt a moment’s bewilderment as though he’d imagined her conversation only seconds ago. A cold finger touched his spine as he recalled Jenny looking through the window at the hairdresser’s, her pallor, her assurance she didn’t know Stella . . . What else had she lied about?

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Say hi from me.’

  Ducking into the fridge, he brought out a carrot. Jenny looked startled. ‘For Neddy,’ he said. ‘Would you mind doing the honours? I need to ring Tommo. He rang me this morning and I completely forgot to ring him back.’

  ‘Sure.’ She took the carrot. As she turned away he thought he saw her eyes flicker over the phone. Or had he imagined it?

  Jenny left. He moved quietly to the kitchen doorway. He knew she was upstairs because he heard Aimee say, ‘Mummy, that’s brilliant. Neddy, look what Mummy’s brought for you!’

  With Jenny occupied with Aimee, Dan swiftly crossed the kitchen and checked the last number dialled. A mobile. Highlighting the number, he pressed call. Almost immediately, it started to ring. A man answered.

  He said, ‘Jenny?’

  Dan didn’t say anything.

  ‘Jenny?’ the man repeated. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Tommo?’ Dan said, filling his tone with puzzlement. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘No.’ The man’s tone was smooth. ‘You’ve obviously got the wrong number.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Dan. ‘I must have pressed the wrong . . .’

  The man hung up.

  To add a layer to his subterfuge, Dan called Tommo, who was another high performance instructor. ‘Any overspill?’ he asked. Occasionally, when one of them was too busy to take on new clients, they’d recommend the other.

  ‘I thought you were busy,’ said Tommo.

  ‘I am. But I could do better.’

  ‘Try Porsche, Swindon. I heard their in-house driver might be stepping down.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do that. How’s Sara?’

  ‘Oh, muddling along.’

  When they hung up, Dan picked out Stella’s business card from his wallet, turned it over between his fingers. He’d searched DCA & Co. on the Internet to no avail. The only company with the same initials was DCA Ltd, a hydraulic specialist in Southampton who, when he rang, said they’d never heard of Stella Reavey. Dan checked his watch. Six thirty. Would anyone answer? He took his mobile outside and into the car. Rang the number.

  ‘DCA,’ a man said.

  ‘I was given your number by Stella Reavey,’ Dan said.

  ‘Your name, sir?’

  ‘Dan Forrester.’

  ‘I will get Stella to call you tomorrow, would that be all right? She’s usually in by eight.’

  It looked as though the man didn’t know Stella had died.

  ‘I want to drop something off to Stella before we speak,’ Dan said, frantically thinking of a way to get the address without setting off alarm bells. ‘What’s the address there?’

  The man ignored his question. He said, ‘Mr Forrester, if you wouldn’t mind giving me the best number for her to reach you in the morning?’

  Dan gave his mobile number. The man hung up. Dan sat in his car staring into the darkness outside.

  Stella’s voice.

  We want to borrow you for a day, maybe two . . . pretend your memory’s coming back. You see, we need to find someone . . . Cedric.

  And what about Luke? He rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Had Stella been telling the truth about his death? Or was it simply a way of getting his attention? As he pictured Stella’s small, still body lying on the stretcher, her face bloodless and still, tears streamed down his face.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Friday 23 November, 6.15 p.m.

  Grace was wearing one of her mother’s soft cashmere sweaters. The garment smelt so like her – coffee, burnt sugar, pomegranate – that when she held it under Ross’s nose and asked him what it reminded him of, he said, ‘Stella.’

  It was like being wrapped in her mother’s hug and she already dreaded the day when it no longer smelt of her.

  She’d been crying for most of the day and her face was swollen and red, her eyes sore. Ross had coaxed her outside for a walk late afternoon, but they hadn’t gone far before it began to pour with rain and they were forced back inside. As she took off her coat, her mobile rang.

  ‘The surgery,’ she told Ross. He nodded, indicated that he was going to put the kettle on, then disappeared.

  Grace hung her coat over the banister as she answered her phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Grace, I know this is a really bad time, but both partners are out and there’s no one else I can ring.’ It was Amanda, their super-efficient receptionist, sounding harassed. ‘I’m sorry, but something’s happened.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Jamie Hudson’s gone missing. The police want a word with his GP but Dr Smith’s in Budapest on that conference.’

  Grace’s mind stalled.

  Jamie, missing? She’d only seen him yesterday, at the deli. And then she remembered. She was supposed to be seeing him this evening but with everything that had happened, she’d forgotten.

  ‘When did he go missing?’ she asked.

  ‘Last night. The policeman’s on the other line. Can you have a quick word with him? Please?’

  ‘OK.’

  According to the officer, Jamie – who liked sparrows, bees and butterflies and drank tea with loads of milk and ate as many biscuits as you offered – had vanished off the face of the earth. He had left the pub to walk home, and hadn’t been seen since.

  ‘He mentioned someone he knew had gone missing,’ Grace told the officer. ‘He was quite upset over it. You don’t think it could be connected, do you?’

  ‘Who was that?’

  Grace racked her brains but couldn’t remember. ‘It was a girl,’ she said. ‘He only met her once but he said she was nice.’

  ‘And you can’t remember her name.’

  He made it sound as though she was being purposely stupid, but she couldn’t even remember that girl’s name, the one who’d gone missing up north and had, according to the news this morning, been found in a container park.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  The policeman gave a grunt.

  Because Jamie was adult, and male, and no foul play was suspected, the police were never going to press the panic button unless he was vulnerable in some way. Which was why the police officer was calling, to check and make sure Jamie didn’t need to be found fast for his own safety.

  ‘I’m not his GP,’ she told the officer. ‘You really need to talk to Dr Smith about this. He looks after Jamie.’

  ‘Would you consider Jamie high risk?’

  ‘Well, no. Not offhand. But it’s not for me to say. Nor do I have his file to hand as I’m out of the –’

  ‘Would you consider him a threat to himself or others?’

  She sighed. ‘No. But you really need to
talk to someone who can check his file. I suggest you –’

  ‘Low risk, then. Would you agree?’

  ‘I can’t say. You need to –’

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll call Dr Smith.’ He sounded irritated.

  ‘Good,’ she said, relieved.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, not sounding particularly grateful. He was obviously about to hang up.

  ‘Please,’ she said quickly, ‘could you make a note on the file to let me know the instant you have any news?’

  ‘Of course. But I wouldn’t be too concerned. I’m sure he’ll return home by the weekend.’

  Grace wasn’t comforted by the officer’s platitude. In her job she’d seen several people voluntarily walk away from their established lives and relationships, and now she wondered if that’s what Jamie had done. Walked out on his long-term girlfriend to start a new life elsewhere. Which promptly reminded her of Ross and his new life in Scotland. Which in turn made her think of her mother and the fact that she’d never asked her what she thought of his idea of moving to Scotland.

  Grace raised the cuff of her mother’s sweater to her nose and breathed deeply. Coffee, burnt sugar, pomegranate. Tears filled her eyes. She wished she’d told her mother she loved her when she’d arrived at her house instead of demanding a croissant and legging it upstairs.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jamie Hudson had no idea where he was but he wasn’t worried about it; he didn’t think he’d ever felt so happy. Which was odd, because usually he felt happiest when the sun was shining and he was working in a garden or tending bees, and right now he wasn’t outside. He was somewhere dark and damp and cold. He could be in a cave or a dungeon. What would grow here? Nothing with colour. Not even snowdrops or Lily of the Valley would thrive. It wasn’t just dark but black. Not a pinprick of light.

  He knew he should be worried, terrified. He should be trying to find a way out. Escape. But he couldn’t harness his mind. His thoughts danced like sunbeams through a canopy of leaves. He was eight years old again, capturing crickets and putting them in a jar with a lid in which he’d punched holes. His mother was smoothing back his hair and kissing him. Then he was swimming naked with Gemma, her hair trailing behind her like water serpents. She looked so beautiful, her skin pale and smooth as marble. He started to cry. He loved Gemma so much.

  They’d moved in together six months ago. They were saving up to get married. Have loads of children. They were going to call their first girl Heather, their first boy, Birch. Dr Grace Reavey was going to be their GP and watch over each pregnancy. They’d decided last weekend. They were with Dr Smith at the moment but he was a grumpy old sod and they both much preferred Dr Grace who was sunny and kind and smelled of bluebells.

  He had to get to Gemma. Make sure she was all right. Make sure the man who’d attacked him hadn’t gone after her. The man with the taser. The guy who’d pushed him in the back of a van. Who had tasered him again and again before injecting him with something that took hold of his senses and sent him to another realm.

  Was this what had happened to Bella? Pretty Bella who he’d met in London last month, who was doing a Bachelor of Science course in Sport and Exercise and who he’d thought would be interested in what he had to say but she’d ignored him, telling him he was paranoid. He couldn’t blame her. If someone banged on like he had he’d think they were paranoid too, but what if the same person who’d kidnapped him had also kidnapped Bella?

  What about Gemma?

  Was she safe?

  He rolled on to his side and tried to push himself upright but his wrist wouldn’t support him. It felt floppy, as though it had been broken, but there was no pain. He tried to use his elbow but something gave with a sickening sucking sound and he fell back.

  He strained to control his mind. He knew he was in immense danger but he could do nothing about it. His reality melded and blended from his childhood to his teens and beyond. He couldn’t help being absorbed by the scenes playing inside his head. He had no sense of time passing.

  Until the pain started.

  He’d thought getting his tattoos was painful, especially on the inside of his arms, but this was something else.

  It began slowly, a dull sense of unease in his muscles. At the same time, his mind began to clear.

  Then a small garden rake was in his veins, digging and scraping away. His brain was shouting at him. Get out of here!

  He tried to raise himself but the rake grew into a spade, slicing and burrowing deep inside, smashing against the surface of his skin, the back of his skull. Red and black, billowing pain erupted in every part of his body and he collapsed, a scream in his throat.

  Suddenly a light went on. Jamie forgot about the pain as the man stepped inside.

  Please, help me, Jamie begged.

  He saw the syringe in the man’s hand, tried to wriggle away but it was no use. The man simply bent over him and stuck the needle into his hip, squeezed the plunger, and left.

  The light was still on.

  What did it mean? Had the man left the door open?

  Jamie attempted to crawl across the floor. He battled through the pain, fighting to push himself along with his feet, elbows and knees. Why didn’t his limbs work? And why was he wearing a handcuff on his left wrist? He took in the baton hanging from a hook on the back of the door. It reminded him of a police truncheon, something he’d only seen on TV. Was he in a police station? Out of nowhere the question expanded then contracted. A floating sensation began to drift like a bank of fog across his mind. The pain began to dissipate.

  It was his twenty-first birthday and he was in Wales driving his camper van, his mates in the back, Gemma in the passenger seat, bicycles on the rear rack, surf boards on the roof. Laughter and beer and salt on their skin. Sunshine, friendship and love.

  He no longer saw the bare brick walls covered in damp. The concrete floor. He was overlooking Freshwater Beach, watching his friends launch themselves into the surf.

  He cried from the beauty of it all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Saturday 24 November, 6.30 a.m.

  Bella should have come round from the anaesthetic by now, but when Lucy visited her before she headed to work, the on-duty nurse told her she was still unconscious.

  ‘It could be Bella’s way of starting to heal,’ the nurse said.

  Personally Lucy thought it could also be Bella’s way of hiding from the hideous reality she’d suffered.

  Asleep in a chair next to Bella was Bella’s mother, snoring lightly. She was what Lucy’s mother would call ‘big-boned’, a large brown-haired woman with a double chin that had the unfortunate effect of making her look fatter than she was.

  Lucy crept across the room – always difficult in a pair of heavy-duty black shoes – and put her hand gently over Bella’s, careful not to touch the splints on the girl’s fingers. ‘It’s only me,’ she whispered. ‘Lucy Davies. I’m the policewoman who found you, remember? I just wanted to check up on you. Dr Cobern did a great job. And don’t worry, your bones will heal, your scars will fade . . . not the mental ones, sure, but there’s loads of help if you want it. Oh, and you’ll have teeth that will be as real as your own. The dentist did some work so he could put in some implants. I looked them up on the ’net. They look incredible. Nobody will know they’re not real, not even you. Amazing, huh? Look, I can’t stay for long as I’ve got to go to work, but I’ll drop by when my shift finishes. Keep getting better, OK? Don’t let the bastard that did this get the better of you.’

  Before she left, Lucy read Bella’s get-well cards to check for anyone they didn’t already know about. Then she looked through Bella’s chart. She had to squint to decipher the doctor’s handwritten notes about Bella’s previous medication. She was on the Pill, which wasn’t much of a surprise for an attractive eighteen-year-old, but the Zidazapine made Lucy blink.

  Lucy tracked down a staff nurse who was wading through a morass of paperwork in the Intensive Care Unit. Machines and monitors hummed an
d beeped, doctors and nurses moving between patients. The hospital smell seemed to increase here, heavy with antiseptic.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt . . .’ Knowing how annoying it was being disturbed when you were in the middle of filling in a report, Lucy waited until the nurse had finished scribbling and raised her eyes. Lucy said, ‘I want to double-check Bella Frances’s prescription for Zidazapine.’

  The nurse put down her pen. ‘It’s an antipsychotic drug. Bella’s bipolar. She’s suffered massive mood swings for years, manic highs and extreme lows. She developed psychotic symptoms during her manic episodes – hallucinations, hearing voices – hence the drug, which enables her to live a pretty normal life.’

  There were moods, like Lucy had, and then there were moods. ‘How come it’s the first I’ve heard of it?’ she asked. Usually when a person went missing, the first thing the police did was check with their GP whether they were mentally or physically vulnerable.

  ‘Administrative stuff up,’ the nurse said cheerfully.

  Lucy was appalled. Someone’s head would roll when this came out. Or had it already rolled? In the station, Lucy hunted down Jacko, who she found concentrating on a beef and horseradish sandwich in front of his computer.

  ‘Bella’s on a drug called Zidazapine,’ she told him.

  ‘Yup.’ He nodded. ‘She’s bipolar.’

  Lucy felt like grinding her teeth. ‘Is this common knowledge or am I the only one who didn’t know?’

  Jacko sighed. ‘The family hid it from us. They thought if the media got hold of it they’d paint her as a schizophrenic lunatic and there’d be no sympathy, and that nobody would bother looking for her.’ He brushed breadcrumbs from his desk top and got to his feet, brushing down his trousers as well. ‘I told everyone at Wednesday’s briefing.’

  Her day off. She’d missed it. She had to stop shift work, become a detective and then this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.