Spare Me the Truth_An explosive, high octane thriller

by CJ Carver

  ‘No, he won’t,’ she said. ‘We split up.’

  ‘When?’ His voice was sharp.

  ‘Before I was transferred to Stockton.’

  Brief silence.

  ‘Lucy, we still need to check him out. You understand?’

  ‘Not you,’ she said. ‘I want Howard to do it.’

  ‘OK,’ he agreed.

  ‘Can you hang on a second?’ She checked her calendar on her phone. ‘Nate was with me, or at work, just about every day through October,’ she told him. ‘Except for the weekend of the thirteenth, when he visited his parents.’

  ‘He’ll be cleared pretty quickly, then.’

  Which meant the subject of Dr Mike prescribing her Zidazapine probably wouldn’t come up. Phew.

  A car pulled up just ahead of her. A man sat in the driver’s seat. Immediately every nerve in her body tightened but when the passenger door opened to disgorge an elderly woman, Lucy exhaled.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’ll be much safer on my own if nobody knows where I am.’

  ‘OK. But only if you swear to ring in three times a day and if I ring you and you miss my call, you ring me back as soon as humanly possible. Agreed?’

  ‘Yup,’ she said, her tone brightening in relief. For a moment she’d doubted she’d get his consent. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘Christ almighty,’ he said despairingly and hung up without another word.

  After she’d bought a phone, Lucy texted Mac with the number. Then she texted her mother to let her know she’d be off the radar for a while. She would have loved to have gone to Southfield and hidden in comfort, but she didn’t want to bring the killer to her mother’s door.

  Lucy reached a hairdresser’s and paused, glanced in the window. Her pulse rose when she saw a man in a long coat and hat on the other side of the road, walking slowly. Narrow shoulders, short brown hair. Was it the same man? He didn’t seem interested in her, but the second she moved away his pace lifted.

  Lucy extended her stride. The man kept up.

  Checking the street names around her, Lucy rang for a taxi. It didn’t take long before it arrived and as she drove away she saw the man was still walking. Was it a ruse to make her think he wasn’t following her?

  She collected her bag from her hotel and took another taxi to the next town east, Aldershot. She tried to keep track of the cars behind them but it was difficult, so she took another taxi from Aldershot to Horley, which was even further east and in West Sussex. It cost a fortune, but since it was her life at stake she wasn’t going to quibble.

  Horley was the stepping-off point for Gatwick Airport and the area was stuffed with hotels and B & Bs. People came and went every day. A strange face wouldn’t be unusual. She could move around the area without being noticed. It was, in her view, the perfect place to hide.

  She got the taxi to drop her off on Victoria Road, beside a row of restaurants offering Indian baltis, pizzas, charcoal grills and Chinese takeaways. She was hungry but didn’t want to eat. She looked into the sky. A soft pearlescent cloud held a strangely green tint, suggesting there was more snow to come.

  The B & B she chose was small but clean and offered early departures and full English breakfast. While her computer booted up she washed her underclothes and set them to dry. Then she made herself a cup of coffee in a ridiculously small cup – she much preferred big mugs – before settling on the bed with her laptop and phone. Here, she could work without interruption. Centre herself. Her mind was tearing ahead and she galloped after it as hard as she could. She would find the Cargo Killer and lock him up. Simple. Nothing could stop her.

  Her priority, however, was to find the Tim Atherton on Jamie’s list and warn him. She started by texting Mac and asking him to email her the contact details for each Tim Atherton in the UK. All two hundred of them.

  Why? he asked. We’re already ringing them.

  I have another angle.

  Which is?

  Just send them over, OK?

  She could picture him rolling his eyes but within ten minutes the list came through. Immediately, Lucy began ringing Tim Athertons around the country, trying to ascertain which of them were bipolar. She said she’d got their number from a local bipolar support group, were they interested in setting up a British Foundation? She got two strikes in the first twenty minutes and sent their names to Mac saying, These could be in the line of fire. Warn them.

  What angle are you working?

  Just do it, would you?!!!

  She didn’t like it when he didn’t respond straight away so she sent another email. I’m serious. They’re dangerously at risk. I’ll explain later. Please, trust me on this? I know what I’m doing. OK?

  OK.

  She could almost hear his long-suffering sigh from where she sat.

  Not everyone answered their phone and if it clicked to their messaging service she hung up and marked the name to try later. It was a hard slog but she didn’t stop.

  She sat cross-legged on her bed, making notes, punching numbers into her cheap throwaway phone, brain racing, hopping up to make herself more coffee, scrawling hasty pen marks on the list of names. She was in her element, fuelled by an immense fear of being beaten to death by some crazy murderer and having her body dumped in a container and shipped off to India.

  Darkness fell. She continued calling. Her stomach was growling but she didn’t want to waste time eating. She had to find the right Tim Atherton and save him.

  On her sixty-second call, a man – he sounded energetic, slightly irritated, she put him in his thirties and probably wearing a nicely-cut suit by the confidence in his voice – said snappily, ‘Is this to do with the symposium last month?’

  Lucy’s attention sharpened into a pinprick. She stopped moving. Concentrated completely on his voice. ‘Which one are you referring to?’

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’ Suspicion laced his voice. She could hear something rattling in the background, but couldn’t work out what it was.

  ‘Carol Wilson.’ The name popped into her head, unbidden and from who-knew-where.

  ‘Well, Carol. What did you say you wanted?’

  ‘The name of the symposium would be good. I’d like to recommend it –’

  ‘How did you get my name?’ he snapped.

  The fact that Tim Atherton – Tim 62 as she thought of him – hadn’t immediately denied he was bipolar, had her fizzing with so much excitement that she felt she would burst if she couldn’t ask the question burning, flaming red at the forefront of her mind. Desperately she tried to control herself. She said, ‘We’re conducting a survey about Zidazapine. You are taking it, right?’

  ‘None of your fucking business,’ he said, and hung up.

  She rang him back but unsurprisingly, he didn’t answer. She looked up his address. 10 Stanley Gardens, Notting Hill.

  Heart thumping, Lucy looked up bipolar symposiums held around the country last month but came up with a big fat zero. There was one in Brisbane, Australia, and another in Barcelona, Spain, but in the UK? Zilch. She extended her search to find one held in Manchester in July, which couldn’t be termed last month by any means.

  She didn’t think she could hold on to this information any longer. She’d already held on to the fact that Jamie was bipolar for far too long. She had to share this with the team and get Tim 62 pulled in. Dread descended. She could deny she was bipolar but someone on the team would dig around until they found Dr Mike. That’s what cops did, even to other cops. They dug and scratched and dug some more until they found what they wanted. The damage would be done. Everyone would know. Even if she went to a dozen psychiatrists and each diagnosed her normal, it would still leave a permanent stain on her character.

  And what if, God forbid, she was actually bipolar?

  She closed her eyes.

  But what if Tim 62 was in danger right now? The Cargo Killer approaching him this very second?

  She had no choice.

  Lucy
picked up the phone and rang Mac.

  ‘Get Tim 62 pulled off the streets,’ she told him. ‘I think he could be next.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Saturday 1 December, 9.10 p.m.

  When Tim Atherton’s phone rang again, he switched it to silent. He didn’t want to talk to that woman again. He didn’t know what survey she was conducting but he hated having a stranger know his medical history.

  He was puzzled how she came to get his number. Virtually nobody knew he was bipolar so how come Carol whatever-her-name-was, had found out? Had someone slipped up? Or maybe she’d done it by cyber-theft, wormed her way into his therapist’s files, or even his GP’s computer.

  Pulling his suitcase close, he brushed his Oyster card over the ticket barrier and stepped through, yawning. After a week of business meetings in Hong Kong he was knackered. All he wanted was to pour himself a drink, collapse on the sofa and watch TV. It was Sunday tomorrow and he planned to lie in before heading out to see his girlfriend, Mia.

  He felt his phone buzz. What did that woman want? His mind moved to consider targeted sales lists, where people’s names were sold to various companies so they could start a round of cold calling. Dear God, was there now a public list of people taking Zidazapine doing the rounds? He didn’t want his past exposed because since he’d started taking the drug he’d reinvented himself. Back in Oxford, where he’d been a student, he was known as the Nut Job, a lunatic who was perpetually drunk until one day, without thinking and on a blind impulse, he slashed his arm with a pocket knife so hard he hit the bone. He was locked up in a psychiatric ward after that. But then he was put on Zidazapine. The drug had levelled him out and turned him almost ‘normal’. So normal in fact, he’d lost his uni friends who labelled him boring when they no longer had someone to laugh at. When he’d moved to London five years ago, he’d stopped seeing anyone from his past. He’d shed the crazy skin for a city suit, a smartphone, and an annual bonus that paid for his holidays to Tuscany, Bordeaux, the Seychelles.

  Tim lifted his suitcase up the Tube steps and strode along Pembridge Road. It was past ten and against the dark sky the shop lights burned brightly, glittering with tinsel and baubles. Patches of snow lay on the ground giving it a festive air and despite his anger at the cold caller he felt a wave of contentment. He was spending Christmas with his parents and sisters. Mia was coming too. They’d drink eggnog at midnight and open their presents with glasses of champagne when Mum and Dad returned from church.

  Soon the bustle of the main streets fell away. A taxi drove past but otherwise it was quiet. Warm lights glowed from behind curtains and drapes, everybody tucked up inside, keeping warm. Tim was thinking about Christmas lunch and wondering how much red wine he should bring down when his phone rang again. Unknown caller. Jesus Christ, not again. Anger rising, he answered it.

  ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘if you think you can fuck me around –’

  ‘Sir, sir.’ It was a man speaking.

  ‘God, sorry,’ Tim was apologetic. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘This is DI William Niles from the Notting Hill Police. Am I speaking with Tim Atherton?’

  A prickle of unease flashed across his skin. Immediate thoughts of speeding tickets (he was a point from losing his licence) followed by motorway accidents, firearm accidents (his father went pheasant shooting during the season) and household accidents (had Mia set fire to her flat?) flashed across his mind.

  ‘Yes, I’m Tim Atherton.’

  ‘Please may I ask where you are, sir?’

  ‘Er . . . I’m walking home.’

  ‘Ten Stanley Gardens,’ the policeman said. ‘We sent a car to your abode just now, but you were obviously out.’

  Tim blinked, but he didn’t slow his pace. He’d rather do this in the warmth of his flat with a glass of wine to hand. It was freezing out here and his cheeks felt as though they were being flayed by razor blades.

  ‘Is there any chance you could make your way to a police station? Right away?’

  ‘What?’ The police station was at the end of Ladbroke Grove, ten minutes away. His home, thirty seconds away.

  ‘If you’d rather I sent a car to collect you, that can be arranged. Where exactly are you?’

  Suspicion arose. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d rather explain it in person, but please rest assured you’ve done nothing wrong . . .’

  The policeman was still talking as Tim turned into his street. Immediately his eyes went to the man standing on his doorstep, pressing the bell. He didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Sir, are you on your way to the station? It is extremely urgent we see you.’

  ‘Er . . .’ He slowed at the insistence in the man’s voice.

  ‘Sir, I don’t want to alarm you but we have reason to believe someone is out to harm you.’

  At that, Tim stopped. ‘What?’

  The man on his doorstep turned and when his eyes fell upon Tim, he gave him a little wave. Odd. He’d never seen the man before. The man pattered down the steps and began walking towards him, expression light, as though he was delighted to see him. Perhaps he was a friend of a friend or he’d met him at a party . . .

  ‘Sir, please do not allow anyone to approach you. Not until we have spoken. Do you understand, sir?’

  A rush of disbelief. ‘What?’

  ‘You could be in grave danger. Please come to the police station. It is extremely urgent.’

  Tim stared at the man approaching. He took a step back. The man’s face broke into a happy smile.

  ‘There’s a man,’ Tim said into the phone. He felt as though he was sliding into some sort of living nightmare. ‘A stranger. He’s walking towards me like he knows me . . .’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Outside my flat.’

  ‘We’re on our way. Stay on the phone!’

  Tim heard the policeman shouting for a car and that was when he knew it was real, he was in danger. He didn’t know why, but it seemed to be true.

  ‘Hello, Tim,’ said the man.

  Tim ran.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Tim didn’t get far. He’d barely turned and taken four steps when he felt tight rings travelling up each leg. It was like having a rubber ring dog toy rolling up and disappearing into his groin, and then the sensation was totally eclipsed by the most indescribable agonising pain.

  Cramp, burns, stabbing, scalding, cold, all at once.

  The muscles in his legs locked.

  Pain on the surface of his skin and pain deep in his legs as though his muscles were being ripped apart.

  His body stiffened like a board.

  His ankles, calves, knees and thighs were tearing, splitting –

  He was screaming. Help, help, help!

  But he didn’t make a sound.

  And then it stopped.

  His legs turned to jelly and he collapsed to the ground.

  The pain was instantly gone. There was no ache, no dull throb, no tenderness. It was just a memory, overlaid with the shock of what had happened.

  ‘Get up,’ the man said.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He began to tremble. His face was in the snow. Cold and wet. An odd comfort. No pain, thank God. No pain.

  ‘I’ll do it again if you don’t get up.’

  Putting his hands on the ground – slushy, gritty snow – Tim stumbled upright. Part of him was amazed he could function.

  ‘Walk to the van.’ The man pointed at a white van barely twenty yards away.

  Tim didn’t move. The police were coming. They were just around the corner.

  ‘Move.’

  Tim looked frantically around the street. Nobody was there but lights were on so people were at home . . . He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to yell –

  A blast of pain.

  Tim collapsed to the ground. He was screaming, shouting, begging, but his throat wouldn’t work. He didn’t make a sound.

  The pain stopped.

 
; Saliva ran out of his mouth into the snow.

  Tim lay there, panting. Please God let the police come soon. Please God . . .

  The man stepped close. Tim’s eyes were open and he was looking at the man’s ankle and he was about to lunge and grab it and topple the man over when the man moved swiftly and –

  Something slammed into the side of his head.

  The world exploded with light.

  Darkness flooded in, but he fought it.

  He could hear a squawking sound nearby and realised it was coming from his phone lying on the ground. He tried to form words but he couldn’t move his lips. A second later, the man hit him again.

  Everything turned black.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Saturday 1 December, 11.35 p.m.

  When Mac told Lucy that Tim 62 had been snatched barely two minutes before the Notting Hill police arrived, she’d wanted to bend double and shout out her fury and frustration, but she held it inside. She hadn’t wanted the B & B owners to remember her. She packed fast and walked to the railway station, catching the 9.59 train to Blackfriars.

  She hadn’t had the guts to tell Mac about the bipolar angle. When he’d asked why she was so convinced Tim 62 was the next victim, she’d opened her mouth but nothing had come out.

  ‘Lucy,’ he said urgently. ‘I need something to tell the local force. What have you got?’

  And God help her, she’d lied.

  ‘They all met at a symposium,’ she said. After all, hadn’t Tim mentioned a symposium last month?

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘London,’ she added wildly. ‘They met in London.’

  ‘But what type of –’

  ‘You’re wasting time!’ Her voice rose. ‘Get him pulled, Mac! Trust me, OK? I’ll fill you in on everything once he’s safe!’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes!’

  She’d hung up, hands shaking, and when Mac had texted her to say the local boys were on the case, she’d almost wept with relief. But she hadn’t been quick enough. She hadn’t saved Tim.