Spare Me the Truth_An explosive, high octane thriller

by CJ Carver

  As he walked out, he glanced at the hall table. ‘Grace . . .’ His tone was fondly exasperated.

  ‘OK, OK.’ She grabbed her car keys. Ross was always convinced an arbitrary car thief was going to open the front door and steal them. ‘I’ll hide them in the kitchen.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, just keep them out of sight. That’s all.’ But she still put them in the kitchen. Which made him smile and kiss her again.

  ‘Love you,’ he said.

  ‘I love you too.’

  She drove the long way to work so she could drop into the DHL office and retrieve her package, which turned out to be a single, flat plastic envelope. She tossed it on to the passenger seat and opened it once she was settled at her desk.

  Inside the DHL envelope was another envelope. Unmarked, brown, A4.

  Inside was a single piece of A4 paper.

  For a moment, she was bewildered when she saw what appeared to be a list of typed random numbers. Then she saw the word ‘Butterpat’, and her skin tingled.

  Butterpat had been the first pony she’d ridden when she was a little girl. He’d been a palomino. He’d belonged to the Walters Riding School in Tring and her mother used to cut carrots and apples into easy-feeding bite sizes for him. He’d been gentle and placid and they’d both adored him.

  Grace studied the numbers. It took her befuddled brain a couple of minutes to sort through them but when she had, the tingling sensation intensified. She brought out her phone and checked her mother’s emails before accessing the Internet, then the site of the First Caribbean International Bank (Cayman) Ltd in Tortola, British Virgin Islands, where she was asked for her mother’s IB number.

  She didn’t merge the numbers from the list to her mother’s email correctly first time, or the next, but on the third try suddenly the screen changed and she was asked for a password.

  She typed in the word Butterpat.

  Amazingly, the page changed and she was logged into her mother’s accounts.

  She’d done it. She’d logged in.

  But who had sent the codes? Grace looked at the DHL envelope again to see it had come from a central London address. Mr Smith. She Googled the postcode, SW3 6QB. The Royal Brompton Hospital, Chelsea, appeared in the centre of the map, but the postcode could relate to any of the streets around.

  She returned to the screen showing her mother’s accounts. Stared at it for a moment. Her mother had two accounts. Grace asked for the balance on both.

  The first appeared to be a current account, with a healthy balance of just over $5,000. The second was a savings account and when Grace opened it, she had to check the amount twice to make sure she hadn’t misread it.

  Too many zeroes, she thought. Then: Oh my God, oh my God.

  She closed her eyes briefly. Took a breath. Checked again, but the figures remained the same. Her mother was worth millions.

  ‘Fuck.’

  A patient walking past her open door turned his head and stared at her. She hadn’t realised she’d left the door open. Nor that she’d spoken aloud.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  She’d found Sirius’s money.

  What should she do? Ring him straight away? Wait until she’d spoken to Dan?

  Ring him immediately, she decided. Prevent him from forcing Martin to report her to the authorities. She wanted him off her back. Out of her life.

  She brought out his pay-as-you-go phone from her handbag. Fingers trembling, she dialled the only number there. Walked to the door and closed it.

  ‘Grace,’ he said. With that one word, he conveyed pleasure and delight at hearing from her.

  ‘I’ve found it. At least I think I have.’

  Please God he doesn’t want more.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  Someone knocked on her door and before she could say a word, the same patient who’d walked past earlier stuck his head around the door. ‘The Gents?’ he asked. He was holding an empty sample pot.

  ‘Two doors down on the left,’ she told him.

  ‘Who was that?’ Sirius’s voice was sharp.

  ‘I’m at work.’

  ‘At the surgery.’ It wasn’t a question but a statement.

  She didn’t answer but went and stood with her back against the door to prevent anyone else barging in. ‘Mr Thiele,’ she said. It was the first time she’d used his name and it felt strange, dangerous.

  ‘Sirius, please.’

  ‘Sirius.’ Unseeingly, she stared through the window. ‘How much did my mother owe your client?’

  Brief silence.

  When he told her, she closed her eyes in relief. She said, ‘In that case, I can repay her debt.’

  ‘I will email you my client’s instructions as soon as I obtain them. If you could respond immediately upon receipt, it would be appreciated.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Monday 3 December, 8.56 a.m.

  When Mac told Lucy that Bella had been murdered, she’d felt as though a horse had kicked her in the diaphragm. The breath rushed out of her. She felt a wave of nausea.

  ‘How?’

  ‘An overdose of ketamine.’

  ‘But she had a guard outside! Where the fuck was he?!’

  ‘The last thing he remembers was looking at a Detective Chief Superintendent’s ID.’

  ‘The Cargo Killer impersonated a cop?’ She didn’t wait for Mac to respond. ‘Fucksake! We told everyone to be on the lookout for someone in a disguise! We knew he was clever! That we had to be alert for anything!’ Rage tore through her like burning white-hot lava. ‘I hope you’ve fired them. The cop who let Bella down.’

  ‘Yes. He’s been suspended.’

  ‘Too fucking late.’ She slammed down the phone. Then she burst into tears.

  She cried and cursed her way down the M1. Bella, Bella. If it was the last thing Lucy did, she’d track down the killer, get the girl justice. She hated him with every ounce of her being. Hated his softened footsteps, his long face and dark eyes. She was aware her hate was also fear-driven and that she was, deep down, terrified. A toxic combination.

  Lucy’s fear and hate continued to simmer just below the surface as she skirted London and headed for Reading. She was driving too fast but she didn’t slow down. She had no time to lose.

  Tim Atherton’s life was at stake.

  When she spotted a discreet green and white sign on the left-hand side of the road – PepsBeevers – she swung on to a private drive. Dripping beech trees slumped low on either side. The sky was an unbroken slate canvas, the roads puddled with broken ice and inky water. She rolled her shoulders, trying to release them from the tension of the journey. She felt as though she’d driven from one end of the country to the other thanks to being forced to use her own crappy car.

  Mac hadn’t been able to justify her using a pool car. Not only were they in short supply, but the Officer in Overall Command hadn’t been convinced by the connection between Jamie’s paranoid ramblings about electromagnetic weapons and Zidazapine. He had, however, apparently told the Basingstoke Police to investigate PepsBeevers.

  ‘I’m going anyway,’ she told Mac.

  He’d looked as though he was thinking about arguing and then said, ‘Usual rules apply, OK?’

  Which meant ringing him three times a day. She could live with that.

  She didn’t slow for the speed bumps. The Basingstoke cops were due at PepsBeevers any time now and she wanted to beat them to it.

  The road broadened and the trees fell away. A large modern complex loomed into view. Neatly trimmed lawns dusted with wet snow. Frozen water fountains and ice-rimmed potted shrubs decorated the entrance.

  A security guard took her details and directed her to a parking spot which had a little placard marked Director. As she jogged for the front door she scanned the vehicles: No cop cars. Good.

  Lucy hastened to the receptionist who, according to her name tag, was called Holly. ‘I have an appointment with Richard James Smith.’

  �
��Yes. He’s expecting you. I’ll show you to his office.’

  Lucy’s mind was a smooth blue as she signed in and followed Holly on a two-minute journey involving a lift, two corridors and a hallway.

  All very efficient.

  Which made her wonder about her appointment. Initially, she’d asked to see the Chief Executive (always start at the top) and when he wasn’t available had been given his deputy. But then the deputy had rung and suggested she meet with their Research Director. The deputy would be available if she wanted to see him too, but Richard was, apparently, the man she should be speaking to. Oddly, she didn’t feel as though she was being palmed off, probably because she hadn’t been phoned by anyone’s secretary but by the men themselves.

  Richard James Smith was a harassed-looking man in his early forties. Blue trousers, blue jacket over a white shirt and a tie with little green dogs all over it that his wife or child had no doubt given him.

  ‘I heard this morning,’ he said. ‘On the news. It’s true? That Bella was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His mouth crumpled. ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘How awful. She was a lovely girl. I met her at a symposium we held in October. I can’t believe it.’

  Lucy made soothing noises, giving him time to collect himself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I know it’s unsettling, but I need to ask some questions.’

  ‘Of course.’ He offered her tea and coffee, which she declined. He directed Lucy to a chair. He took the other chair behind his desk. ‘Some police officers from Basingstoke are coming later this morning,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to make waves, but could I ask why two visits are necessary?’

  ‘Jamie Hudson was local to Basingstoke,’ she said. ‘Whereas Bella was killed in Stockton. And since I’m with the Stockton police . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  He blinked, obviously still baffled, but she didn’t say anything further. She didn’t have time. She ploughed on.

  ‘Bella was taking a drug of yours. Zidazapine.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She listened to a litany of pharmacological details, and then the drugs’ heroic actions on gazillions of patients who, according to him, hadn’t had a life before its existence.

  ‘As therapy continues, the initial sedative effect disappears,’ he told her. ‘But the effect continues, modifying delusions, hallucinations and confusion while keeping the patient calm and in control. It has also proved to be immensely effective in helping patients cope with their fear of crowds, and agoraphobia.’

  Which led nicely to her first question.

  ‘Then why did six people taking Zidazapine run out of the stadium at a concert recently, crazed with fear?’

  He looked away, then back. He sighed. ‘You know about the At Risk concert at Wembley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can’t explain it. None of the patients had displayed any psychotic behaviour while on the drug before. Then suddenly . . .’ Another sigh. ‘We had such high hopes and overnight we had to cancel our overseas sales plans and go back to doing more research.’

  Lucy leaned forward. Concentrated her senses on him. ‘Someone told me that an electromagnetic weapon could have had that kind of effect on them. There’s been a rumour one was used at the concert. What do you make of that?’

  He stared at her for a moment before giving a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘I’d say you were, er . . . well . . . it sounds more like something from a science fiction novel.’

  He obviously thought she was barmy and it took several minutes of her precious time to convince him otherwise.

  ‘You’re serious.’ He blinked several times.

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Good grief. I’m not sure what to think. I suppose it’s possible that Zidazapine interferes with electromagnetic waves, but –’ He suddenly leaned forward, excitement lighting his eyes – ‘if this actually happened, then it would mean Zidazapine could be acquitted. All six patients were taking Zidazapine over a sustained period, which could have initiated an interaction of some sort when the electromagnetic waves were introduced . . . But we haven’t done any research in this area. We haven’t even considered it, not knowing of this before.’ His eyes continued to gleam. ‘Do you have any evidence that anything like that happened at the concert?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked momentarily crestfallen.

  Lucy gazed at him, her mind buzzing. What if a weapon had been used? Why? What did it mean? She felt deeply frustrated that she hadn’t found a new avenue of investigation. Only one question hadn’t been answered.

  ‘May I ask why the chief executive passed me to his deputy who then passed me on to see you?’

  ‘Oh.’ He frowned. ‘It was because we had someone from the authorities visit us recently. We thought it might be connected. We were trying to save you time, you see, but they wanted to discuss an amnesia drug we’re currently conducting trials with. Nothing to do with Zidazapine or poor Bella.’

  Her antennae were quivering.

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ He blinked. ‘She was from the Security Service. She came and saw me two weeks ago. Stella Reavey.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Monday 3 December, 9.00 a.m.

  Grace tried to concentrate on what her patient was saying.

  ‘There’s a lump in my throat, Doctor,’ the woman whined. ‘Sometimes, but not always, it’s really difficult to swallow. Food doesn’t stick, but I’m afraid it might.’

  Grace examined her. Healthy as a horse. Not that she said as such but the woman got the drift.

  ‘Can’t I have an X-ray?’ she pleaded.

  Grace frowned. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you think you need one?’

  ‘Well, since you ask, what made me come and see you was that I saw that programme on throat cancer last night . . .’

  When Sirius’s phone rang, she was almost glad. Ross was right. She wanted a change from the Worried Well. She wanted real patients with real problems.

  Heart thudding, she answered the phone. She heard him say, ‘Grace.’ His voice was warm and intimate.

  ‘Please, wait a minute. I’m with a patient.’ With a self-control that amazed her, she put the phone down on her desk and turned back to her patient. After reassuring the woman that she wasn’t going to drop dead of throat cancer before the week was out, and that no it wasn’t necessary for her to have an X-ray or a CAT scan or whatever else she thought she needed, she ushered her back into reception and then picked up the phone.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘My client wants me to witness and check the transfer,’ said Sirius. ‘I will be at your surgery at 10.30.’

  ‘No.’ Grace was horrified. ‘I’ll be at home.’

  Small silence.

  She gave him her address. He repeated it back. ‘Ten thirty,’ he said again, always impeccably polite.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Monday 3 December, 9.50 a.m.

  Lucy drove as fast as she dared to Basingstoke. She didn’t want to risk getting a speeding ticket but she also couldn’t bear trundling bang on the 30mph speed limit on a three-lane road almost free of traffic. It didn’t matter that she was a cop with a mission. The law was still the law. She’d tried to call Grace three times, and it was only when she tried for the fourth time that she got through.

  ‘Who is it?’ Grace sounded nervous.

  ‘PC Lucy Davies. I’m on my way to see you. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Not today,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m very busy, sorry.’

  ‘It’s to do with your mother.’

  ‘What about her?’ Grace’s voice turned wary.

  ‘I’d rather wait until I see you.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Grace said. ‘Please, come tomorrow.’

  Lucy hung up without saying any
thing. Sorry, sister, she thought. You’ve been hiding something from me and I’m going to find out what it is. I’m on my way and nothing is going to stop me, not even . . .

  She saw the speed camera too late and although she rammed her foot on the brake the camera went off, flashing in her rear-view mirror. She glanced at her speedo. She was now doing thirty, which meant she’d been doing, what? Forty? Fifty? She already had six points on her licence . . . shit, shit, shit. If the Cargo Killer didn’t get her first, she might have to kill herself if she lost her licence.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Monday 3 December, 10.00 a.m.

  Unable to give her patients even two per cent of her attention, Grace cancelled her surgery, telling reception she had an emergency at home. ‘Burst water pipe,’ she said. The receptionist gave her what could only be called an old-fashioned look that said Yeah, right. Grace didn’t bother lying any further. She’d been pretty unreliable since her mother died but once she’d got rid of Sirius, she would get her life back.

  Sirius arrived at her cottage promptly, looking neat and businesslike. He carried a laptop under one arm. He said, ‘I won’t take up much of your time.’

  Mouth dry, she led him into the kitchen, where she’d set her own laptop on the scrubbed oak table, ready to go. He put his machine next to it, switched it on.

  He looked around as his computer booted up. ‘You have a nice home.’

  She decided against saying anything. She didn’t want to make small talk with him. She wanted him out of here, out of her life.

  He tapped a password into his laptop. He didn’t take off his gloves. Looking at the screen, he said, ‘Why didn’t you want me at the surgery? Why here, at your home?’

  She stared at the side of his head. He had a tiny white scar shaped like a crescent just below his ear. She said, ‘I didn’t want you near my patients.’

  He turned his head to look at her. Twin shiny black pebbles, appraising. ‘But you would have been safer, with people around.’