Spare Me the Truth_An explosive, high octane thriller

by CJ Carver

  Grace hesitated a second. Then she said, ‘OK.’

  They both pelted out of the cottage.

  The grey sedan was gone. Lucy cursed herself that she hadn’t made a note of the number plate when she’d first arrived. Idiot.

  They piled into Grace’s car. Lucy started the engine. Picked reverse. Looked in the rear-view mirror.

  She said, ‘There might be a small bump.’

  She already knew she couldn’t get out without ramming her own car. She’d left it in gear as usual, in case the car slipped or her handbrake broke, and it would take a good shove to shift it aside.

  Before Grace could take the time to grasp the situation, Lucy released the handbrake and pressed on the accelerator until she felt the metal between the two cars kiss.

  ‘What the . . .’

  Alarmed, Grace started to turn in her seat.

  Lucy pressed the accelerator harder. Gravel spun as she turned the wheel, trying to nudge her car aside. She only needed a few inches. Spinning the steering wheel, she drove forward a fraction. Then back, with a CLANG! and screech of metal.

  ‘Lucy!’ Grace protested.

  ‘I can’t let him get away.’

  Lucy drove forward again, and rammed her car harder this time. BANG! Her car shuddered and slewed a little to one side. It was just enough. Lucy spun the steering wheel and squeezed the hatchback past her Corsa’s fender. Rammed the car into first and rocketed along the lane after the Cargo Killer.

  ‘I’ll pay for the damage,’ Lucy panted. ‘I’ll get a loan, I’ll sort it, I promise.’

  ‘I’m insured,’ said Grace.

  ‘But not with me driving.’

  Grace turned to look at her. ‘Who says you’re driving?’

  Lucy’s heart was hammering, sweat pouring over her skin. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t killed her. She was on the list. Why had he let her live?

  It’s not in my remit.

  A flash of yellow seared her synapses as she raced the car along the lane. A picture rose of her gasping, doubled over having run from Wembley Stadium. A young man – his face indistinct and blurred in her memory – came up to her and asked if she was OK. He’d used her name, reading it from her epaulettes. What if the young man had been Jamie?

  Paranoid, suspicious Jamie had guessed from her behaviour that she’d also been on Zidazapine, which is why he’d put her on his list. But aside from Dr Mike Adamson, nobody knew she’d taken the drug.

  The Cargo Killer wasn’t after her.

  He’d wanted to kill the six Zidazapine patients who’d attended the symposium.

  Lucy tore down another narrow, muddy lane, then another. She couldn’t lose him. She barely paused at the crossroads ahead. She heard Grace gasp but it didn’t stop her from pressing the accelerator.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Lucy demanded. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s called Sirius Thiele. My mother owed his client a lot of money. Are you sure he’s the Cargo Killer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Her voice was faint. ‘Sirius killed Jamie. Why?’

  Lucy quickly ran Grace through the story. When she’d finished, neither woman spoke again until his grey sedan came into view. Lucy immediately eased off, keeping well back but not too far away in case he took a sudden turn off the road. She said, ‘He may well spot us, and if he speeds up, it could be too dangerous to follow him. I’ve done some driver training but no high-speed pursuits.’

  ‘I understand.’

  But he didn’t seem to see them and if he did, thought Grace’s commonplace silver hatchback belonged to just another member of the general public. He continued at the same sedate pace along the country lane, slowing for a horse-rider as though he had all the time in the world, and indicating left well before he came to the T-junction on to the A339.

  ‘Where’s a phone box around here?’ said Lucy, frustrated to be surrounded by nothing but wet fields and dripping woodland.

  ‘Farleigh Wallop, but it’s behind us. Besides . . .’ Grace paused before adding, ‘what am I going to tell them? That the last time I saw you, you were driving north for Basingstoke? It’s not going to help them much, is it?’

  ‘They can put out an APB on his number plate.’

  ‘What if it’s false?’ Grace said.

  ‘That’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to say.’ Lucy’s voice was tight.

  ‘What if he sees you dropping me off?’ Grace added. ‘We mustn’t let him know that we’re here.’

  ‘It’s dangerous for you to be with me, following him . . .’

  ‘What if while you’re dropping me off, he turns off the road and you lose him?’

  ‘Are you always this argumentative?’ Lucy said.

  ‘He killed Jamie.’ Grace’s voice wobbled. ‘I wouldn’t forgive myself if we lost him. My mother wouldn’t forgive me either.’

  Lucy dithered, torn between keeping Grace safe and potentially losing the Cargo Killer.

  ‘The first time I saw him,’ said Grace, ‘was at my mother’s wake two weeks ago . . . ’

  Lucy couldn’t resist listening to the extraordinary story unfold and put all thoughts of ejecting Grace from the car aside for the moment. Sirius Thiele. Lucy had a name. She would get her promotion. She would return to London in that Blaze of Glory.

  When Sirius joined the motorway towards London, Lucy carefully dropped back, hiding the hatchback from his view as much as she could. She was glad he didn’t speed but stuck to the limit. 70 mph. Gradually her heartbeat settled. Grace talked about Dan Forrester, his ruined memory, and that he and her mother used to work for MI5.

  ‘Why did your mother owe his client so much money?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Apparently she sold him a defective product. It only partially worked during a recent demonstration, so he wanted his money back.’

  Lucy’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles bleached white. She barely saw the traffic around her as she tried to bring the threads together into a cohesive form.

  The minutes ticked past.

  Her mind was snatching at words and phrases, trying to make sense of evidence and events. She was on the cusp of understanding, on the brink of bringing it all together.

  Lucy could feel Grace watching her but she didn’t say anything. She was recalling her conversation with Richard James Smith. And that was when another pin of comprehension dropped into the machine of everything she knew.

  What if Stella’s defective product was an electromagnetic weapon that had been demonstrated at the concert? Eighty-five thousand happy, arm-waving people falling as still and silent as zombies for no apparent reason. Except for six people who had fled, all of whom had been taking Zidazapine. What if all six of them needed to be silenced because they hadn’t reacted like the rest of the crowd? Because they’d run away, they’d shown that Zidazapine could be a possible antidote, thus making the weapon useless.

  Lucy’s mind continued to whirl as they crossed the M25 and passed Sunbury at a sedate 65mph. Traffic had thickened now they were entering the outskirts of London.

  What about Sirius? She stared ahead as she recalled what he’d said. It would have been simpler not to torture and cuff them, I agree, but experience has taught me always to be one step ahead.

  Sirius had created a smokescreen in case one or more of the victims were found, ensuring the police would be misled into believing they were after a crazy serial killer rather than a professional assassin working for someone demonstrating an EMW. Which was, she guessed, why Stella Reavey – from the Security Service – had been involved.

  The motorway turned into a dual carriageway, past Hanworth and Twickenham, busy with trucks. Aircraft roared overhead, lumbering west as they headed for Heathrow. Ahead, Lucy saw Sirius had put on his indicator and was turning left towards Isleworth.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Monday 3 December, 11.05 a.m.

  Being in the car had lulled Dan to sleep. He hadn’t wante
d to drift off, he had too many questions – like where Besnik and his goons had taken the man who’d been screaming – but a dark wave lapped at the corner of his consciousness and although he’d tried his hardest, he hadn’t been able to stop it from flooding his mind.

  He awoke with a thundering headache. His body had started to stiffen and he knew it would take some serious medication to make any kind of dent in the pain. He took in the fact that he was still in Joe’s car, but it wasn’t moving.

  His eyes were gummed together and he had to force them open.

  Blearily, he looked through the windscreen.

  He forgot all about his pain. He forgot about the blood all over his clothes, the vomit in his hair.

  Besnik stood dead ahead, looking at him, arms crossed. His goons were on either side.

  He was back at the junkyard.

  Joe said, ‘Sorry, pal. It’s all over now.’

  Dan tried to think past the pain. He felt more tired than he had in his life. Utterly spent. He felt stupid that he hadn’t seen it before.

  Wearily, Dan said, ‘It was all about showing the DG that you’d rescued me, wasn’t it.’

  ‘Clever boy,’ said Joe. Pocketing his car key, he climbed out of the car. Bent down to add, ‘And thanks to you, he swallowed it.’

  Dan watched as his old friend, his colleague, informant and profiteer – code name Cedric – went and spoke to Besnik. The goons came over and opened Dan’s door.

  ‘Out,’ said one, jerking a thumb at him.

  Dan struggled to get out of the car. He made it look worse than it was but Joe called, ‘He’s playing it up. Just get him inside, would you?’

  They grabbed him and marched him back to the Portakabin. The first thing he saw was Savannah, lying motionless on the floor. She was sprawled at an angle, one arm flung wide. Her eyes were shut, her face as white as paper. Blood seeped from her jacket onto the synthetic carpet. Dan sank to her side. Pressed his fingers against her throat. He tried not to react when he felt a faint pulse.

  Besnik walked past him without a glance. Headed into the yard. Joe came and stood over Dan.

  ‘Why?’ asked Dan. He was looking at Savannah as he spoke. His question meant to cover everything but the main one burning was, why did you betray me, get my son tortured and killed?

  When Joe didn’t answer, Dan looked up to see him looking at him. Joe said, ‘You just don’t remember, do you?’ He looked regretful.

  ‘Why?’ Dan said again. ‘Please. I want to know.’

  ‘Look, I’ve been trading with Besnik for years. Everything nice and tidy until you came along, Stella’s little protégé who could do no wrong.’

  ‘You got Luke killed,’ Dan said hoarsely.

  ‘You probably won’t believe me, but I didn’t know what Besnik planned on doing. I thought he was going to torture you, throw you back at MI5 unable to walk without a walking frame or eat without a feeding tube, but he went that one step further. Clever. Because it worked. Nobody wanted to risk their families by going undercover against Besnik again, which made things a lot easier for me, I have to admit.’

  Dan’s breathing constricted.

  ‘Didn’t you think of Jenny? Luke’s death just about killed her.’

  Joe smiled. ‘Oh, the lovely Jenny. The stunningly beautiful arrogant Jenny who always looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. The lovely Jenny who needed comforting when her husband went mad, but even then she wouldn’t fuck me. I would have done anything to have fucked your wife, you know. So you’d know first-hand what it feels like to be a cuckold.’

  Dan stared.

  ‘You and Laura were at it like rabbits for over a year.’ Joe’s face twisted. ‘Everyone knew about it but me. People dropped hints but I refused to believe them. Can you imagine the humiliation? My best friend and work colleague, fucking my wife?’

  Laura. So the woman from his dreams wasn’t a figment of his imagination. She was a real person. Having an affair with his best friend’s wife explained the anxiety that dogged his subconscious.

  Savannah’s voice: You’re different, you know . . . you’re still you, but something fundamental has changed.

  Like he was no longer sleeping with his colleague’s wife.

  ‘But Luke,’ Dan protested. ‘He was just a boy.’

  Joe didn’t appear to hear. He turned to one of the goons. ‘Tie him up. Get the container ready.’

  There seemed no point trying to fight the two thugs but Dan gave it his best shot. He surged to his feet. One of them slammed against him, driving a fist into Dan’s stomach. For a terrifying moment, Dan couldn’t breathe. And then his legs were kicked out from under him. As he fell and struck the floor, his breath returned in a rush. Spasms of pain surged through his body and made him groan.

  He felt a narrow band of plastic tighten on his left wrist. He was dragged to Savannah. His right wrist tied to her left.

  Dazed, Dan watched Joe cross the Portakabin and open the door. A man Dan recognised stepped inside. Fifties, with a long face and dark eyes. Winter coat, leather gloves. He’d seen him outside Stella’s house all those days ago, wearing a camel coat. He held a laptop in one hand. He looked at Savannah and Dan incuriously.

  ‘You’re late,’ Joe told the man.

  ‘I don’t like to speed,’ the man said calmly.

  ‘Jesus, Sirius. We’re on a timetable here and you’re worried about getting caught on camera?’

  ‘Correct.’ Sirius put his laptop on the table and opened the lid, booted it up. ‘The transaction went smoothly. Would you like to check?’

  ‘OK.’ Joe ran a hand over his head. He brought out his phone. Tapped and looked, tapped and looked again. ‘Excellent,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sirius. ‘While I am here, I would like our account settled.’

  Joe blinked. ‘What, now?’

  Sirius turned to his laptop. ‘I’d like to be paid half in US dollars, half in sterling.’

  ‘Can’t we do this another time?’ Joe indicated Dan and Savannah. ‘As you can see, I’m somewhat preoccupied.’

  Sirius simply looked at Joe. Joe fidgeted.

  ‘OK,’ Joe relented. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Dan watched as Joe and Sirius completed their transaction. When Sirius closed the lid of his laptop, Joe reached out a hand to shake with Sirius, but Sirius ignored him. He simply picked up his computer and walked outside without a word.

  Dan waited for one of the men to go to the door and push the bolts back into place, but they didn’t. A small part of his spirit lifted at their carelessness. If he could free himself from Savannah, he could be through that door in a trice.

  ‘Jesus.’ Joe rubbed his face. ‘That guy gets worse every time I see him.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Dan.

  Joe looked across. ‘You really don’t have a clue, do you?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to like you much.’

  ‘Sirius doesn’t like anyone much.’ Joe put his phone away. ‘I guess he doesn’t have to, considering his job. He’s a cleaner. Freelance. He’s the best there is. Costs a fortune but he gets the job done. You should know that. You used him enough.’

  Joe glanced through the window as though to watch Sirius leave. He craned his neck sharply. Stared for a few seconds. Then his whole body tensed. He said, ‘Jesus Christ. What the fuck is Grace Reavey doing here?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  When Sirius Thiele pulled up outside a junkyard, Lucy slowed too, turning her head from side to side, taking it all in. Her pulse jumped when she saw a scattering of shipping containers near a loading dock, the notice saying recycling with integrity.

  Her nerves tightened. Was this where Sirius had disposed of the bodies? What about the torture site? Was it also here?

  Sirius pulled to the side of the road, next to what appeared to be the site office and Lucy drove past and kept going, checking her rear-view mirror all the time.

  Heart tripping, she drove to t
he bottom of the street and turned right and out of sight. She quickly drove three sides of the box, checking out the area. Wall-to-wall warehouses and industrial buildings. Everything was quiet. No public phones. Lucy hurriedly returned to check on the grey sedan. Still there.

  ‘I’m going to do another recce,’ Lucy told Grace. ‘I want to see if the scrapyard is guarded, whether it has CCTV or dogs or razor wire. Then we’ll find a phone.’

  She retraced her route. Drove up the street from the opposite direction.

  She couldn’t see any razor wire but there were several CCTV cameras dotted about. She dropped her speed, studying the handful of containers but none were stamped with RCF, Recycling For Charity. She was letting her eyes scan over the rubble of tyres and rusting washing machines, dishwashers, when a man came into view.

  He was running like hell.

  His mouth was agape, his arms and legs moving like pistons.

  Behind him loped two enormous mastiffs.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. She veered the car to the kerb.

  The man leaped over a stack of computer monitors, stumbling as he landed. The dogs began to close in on him.

  Lucy sprang out of the car. Ducked down to Grace.

  ‘Get to a phone,’ she said urgently. ‘Dial 999. Then ring my boss, Faris MacDonald. GO!’

  Lucy tore to the fence. The man spotted her. ‘Help!’ he gasped.

  Lucy froze for a split second. She recognised him from his photographs. Mid-thirties, brown curly hair, chunky build.

  Tim Atherton.

  He tried to run in her direction but one of the dogs saw him off.

  Lucy hooked her fingers into the mesh and began to climb. She glanced over her shoulder to see Grace running down the street full tilt, arms neat at her sides, her legs moving straight and true.

  Shit! Why hadn’t Grace taken the car?

  No time to waste thinking about it. Lucy turned back to the junkyard to see Tim duck around a decaying sofa. He desperately began to climb a stack of balsa wood but one of the dogs snapped at his foot and he overbalanced, came crashing down.

  Lucy rattled the fence as hard as she could.