Spare Me the Truth: An explosive, high octane thriller (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  ‘Tea. Thanks.’

  She heard him put on the kettle, then the sound of cupboards and drawers opening, the chink of mugs, the snap of the fridge door. She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Visualised Jamie and his dreadlocked brown hair, his cheerful blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, Jamie.’

  She took another deep breath and opened her eyes. Felt herself steady. ‘Say hi to Mum for me,’ she murmured. ‘And hi to Simon too.’

  Grace finally turned her attention to the envelope. No address, no label. The flap was stuck down with Scotch tape and looked as though it had already been opened once or twice before. Inside was a stack of used US dollar bills: hundreds, fifties and twenties. Around two thousand dollars in cash. And a British passport that had a fairly recent photograph of her mother. All the details were correct. Age, nationality, place of birth. Except for her name. Instead of Stella Victoria Reavey, it said Denise Anne Gabriel.

  She didn’t know what to think, so she didn’t. With her mother’s death, then Jamie’s, and now this, her brain seemed to have stopped functioning. She just stared at the name until dots appeared in front of her eyes.

  Dan came and hunkered beside her. Holding the passport in one hand, she took the mug proffered with the other and took a sip.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied. She passed him the passport.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said when he had a look.

  Numbly, Grace picked up the money. Flicked through the notes. There wasn’t enough here for Sirius.

  Dan returned the passport, got to his feet. Mug in hand, he began prowling the room again. ‘Mind if I go next door? Keep looking?’

  She didn’t reply but opened the passport again. The photograph was recent; her mother had layered her hair in the summer. Her guess was confirmed when she saw the passport had been issued in August. She stared at her mother’s image. What was going on? Why did her mother have another name? Which one was real? Stella Reavey or Denise Gabriel? Her mother’s maiden name had been Cobb. Grace didn’t know anyone with the surname Gabriel. Numbly, she finished her tea. From time to time she could hear Dan moving around the house but she had no idea of time passing. When Dan came and squatted in front of her, he said, ‘Come and see.’

  Upstairs, behind her mother’s bed, he’d pulled the skirting board free to expose an extensive hidey-hole.

  ‘I had a quick look,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t touch anything.’

  Grace ducked down and pulled out another envelope. This one contained yet another British passport and a driving license. They showed her mother in the photographs, but they were in the name of Denise Anne Gabriel. Grace pulled out several supermarket carrier bags which held more cash. Wodges of it in US dollar bills and British sterling. She flicked through a stack, trying to work out how much was there.

  ‘I’d say around £30,000 all up,’ Dan said, obviously reading her mind.

  She handed him the passport. He had a quick look before returning it to her.

  Grace said, ‘Why?’

  ‘For a quick getaway.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Cash is untraceable,’ he added.

  She watched him turn a piece of skirting board over in his hands and study it closely. He ran his fingers over the edges, looking thoughtful, but he didn’t say anything.

  Grace felt as if her stomach had been taken out, leaving a great gaping hole. She mustn’t stop and think about it but keep going, carry on until she found the answers. Knowledge would give her the power to get through this, even if it baffled and blindsided her.

  She wriggled on to her stomach and checked the hidey-hole in case she’d missed anything. Tucked almost out of sight was another carrier bag of cash – this one with a couple of thousand euros. It also contained what appeared to be a legal document. Sinking onto her heels, Grace saw that it was a deed to a house in the British Virgin Islands.

  Ocean View, Nail Bay.

  Clutching the deed, Grace scrambled to her feet and on weakening legs, pattered downstairs. Dan followed. He stood watching while she picked up her phone and opened her emails. She liked the fact that he didn’t ask questions and didn’t interrupt. She scrolled to her mother’s last message to her. The list of sort codes and account numbers, all incomplete. One account was held at the First Caribbean International Bank (Cayman) Ltd in Tortola, British Virgin Islands.

  She closed her email, feeling oddly and peculiarly calm. Shock, she supposed, because if she didn’t know her mother, she might be tempted to think Dan was right, that her mother wanted a quick, untraceable getaway to the British Virgin Islands with Sirius Thiele’s large amount of money. She remembered what she’d said to Sirius Thiele in the car park outside the pub at her mother’s wake. She’s not that sort of person.

  And Sirius Thiele’s response: Perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you thought.

  Part of her insisted there had to be a rational explanation, that her mother would rather die than do something illegal, but the other part inside Grace cowered, small and scared, sensing her entire history was being re-written.

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. Not until later, when it’s digestible.

  In a rush, she remembered her mother ringing her last Friday evening, almost begging to see her. What if Mum had been going to tell her she was emigrating in a hurry and taking on a new identity? But what about her health? Maybe Mum was going to emigrate after the operation? Or was she going to have the operation abroad? But why?

  ‘Anything make sense?’ Dan asked.

  Grace looked into his eyes. She wanted to share what she’d found with him, but she couldn’t shake her mother’s final email to her.

  Trust no one.

  ‘Not really,’ she admitted.

  ‘Do you think you might find some answers where she worked?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’d like to see her offices,’ Dan said. ‘Because it’s also where I may have worked. Do you think we could go together?’

  Grace was torn. He’d been Mum’s friend. He’d tried to save her life. She chewed the inside of her lip, undecided.

  ‘I’ll go on my own if you’d rather do the same,’ Dan said. ‘I just need the street number.’

  Grace checked her mobile before ringing her mother’s office.

  ‘DCA,’ a man answered briskly.

  ‘Hi, it’s Grace Reavey here,’ she said. ‘Can I speak to Joe, please?’

  ‘Before I put you through,’ the man said, ‘can I say how very sorry I am about Stella. We’re missing her terribly here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get Joe for you.’

  A small click, then Joe picked up the phone.

  ‘Hey, Grace. How are you bearing up?’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ she lied. She wasn’t going to share the litany of grief or the terrifying trauma of Sirius Thiele. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve forgotten your address. I want to see Mum’s office if that’s OK, and –’

  ‘When were you thinking of coming? I’ll make sure I’m here.’

  ‘Er . . .’ Her mind scrambled to work out when to visit. ‘How about tomorrow morning? Would that be OK?’

  She looked at Dan, who nodded.

  ‘Say, ten o’clock?’ she added.

  ‘Fine by me.’ His voice was warm. ‘I know it’s not in the greatest of circumstances, but it’ll be nice to see you.’

  ‘I know you’re in Upper Brook Street,’ Grace said, ‘but which number?’

  ‘Thirty-three, but it’s not obvious. Look for a black door with a video interphone. There’s a pot plant on the top step.’

  ‘Is it OK if I bring someone with me?’

  ‘Ross?’

  ‘No. An old friend of my mother’s.’

  ‘Who?’ His voice turned sharp.

  ‘Dan Forrester. Apparently he and Mum used to work together.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Joe said. ‘I used to work with Dan
too. How on earth do you know him?’

  ‘Mum contacted him recently.’

  ‘Did she indeed?’ he said, obviously interested. ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll tell me all about it tomorrow. It will be good to see him again.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll look forward to seeing you both at ten.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When Dan heard Joe Talbot worked with Stella at DCA, he felt like a kid in a playground who’d been left out of a game. If he could kick his faulty memory into working properly, he would. Funny how he couldn’t remember Stella or Joe but could tell you, in minute detail, about the pattern of brown speckles on the belly of the spaniel puppy he’d been given as a boy. He couldn’t remember his old work colleagues but there were faces from his childhood that he knew as surely as if he’d created them himself.

  Although he didn’t expect to find anything more, Dan spent another hour searching the remainder of Stella’s house. He’d been surprised to find Stella’s main stash behind the skirting board because the wood had been marked from where it had last been pried open, and not painted over afterwards, making it easier to spot, making him wonder if she’d wanted it to be found.

  Had the men posing as R.V. Cleaners discovered Stella’s stash? If so, why had they left it alone? Perhaps nobody had found her stash, and Stella had been careless by not painting over the jimmy marks on the wood, but he didn’t think that would happen. From what he knew of Stella, she was careful, methodical and precise, and he guessed she’d no more leave her hidey-hole with a mark than hack off her own hand with a bread knife.

  When he said goodbye to Grace she was emptying the contents of the kitchen cupboards into boxes. She’d rolled the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows and tied her hair back with a strip of red ribbon that looked as though it came from the carton of gift-wrapping lying in the hallway.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

  She pushed back a lock of hair. ‘I can’t thank you enough for your help. I would never have found that stuff without you.’

  ‘You might wish I’d never found it,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I needed to know. Where shall we meet tomorrow? Do you want to come here and we travel down together?’

  ‘I’ll meet you in London,’ he said.

  ‘At DCA?’

  ‘Yes. Can I have your mobile number?’

  They each put the other’s number into their phones.

  ‘Do you need help with the money?’ Dan asked. ‘Carrying it to the bank or anything?’

  ‘No, but thanks. You’ve been great.’

  ‘Just shout if you need me, OK? I’m happy to help.’

  She saw him out. A stray curl had escaped and if she’d been Jenny he would have tucked it tenderly behind her ear, but she wasn’t his wife and although he felt protective of her, it wasn’t the time or place. As he stepped along the path, he heard her close the door behind him, then bolt it. He wondered what she’d do with the cash, and guessed she’d keep it until she knew more of what was going on.

  Slipping into his car, Dan opened his road map. Normally he’d use his satnav to guide him but he didn’t want to leave a trail should anyone check – like Jenny or Cedric – so he was using good old-fashioned methods to get him from A to B. He would visit DCA with Grace as planned tomorrow but he wanted to check the place out first. Anything to try and keep one step ahead of the game.

  As he eased on to the A41 it started to sleet. The road was wet and Dan automatically left more space between himself and the car in front. He could see why Stella had chosen to live in Tring. It was less than forty miles to Mayfair and most of it on a dual carriageway.

  Thankfully he was going against the commuter traffic streaming out of London and he made it to a Mayfair car park just before five o’clock. He couldn’t have timed it better to see who left DCA’s offices at the end of the day, but when he browsed his way inconspicuously along Upper Brook Street – pausing to look into shop windows and check his surroundings – he couldn’t immediately find number thirty-three. Eventually he worked out that DCA was probably housed in the narrow red-brick brick building with bars on the lower windows and an anonymous looking matt-black door with a video entry system. No number, no nameplate.

  Dan continued to browse. At ten minutes past five, he saw a young woman leave the building. She wore a form-fitting black skirt and a pair of sensible black shoes beneath a thick red woollen jacket and cream scarf. A small red handbag was slung over one shoulder. She walked briskly west then turned north up Park Street, maybe heading for Marble Arch Tube station.

  Out of nowhere he felt his chest tighten and his breathing constrict. What if the woman in his recurring dreams worked here? He couldn’t shake the thought and when the door next opened he was so caught up in the anticipation of seeing a slender figure with tumbles of raven hair walking out that he started to sweat. In fact, the next figure to emerge was an older man in a suit and raincoat who peered into the drab, dark sky, looking weary.

  She doesn’t exist, Dan told himself. Stop being ridiculous.

  Nobody exited for another twelve minutes, when two men in their thirties appeared. Both wore suits. They were talking, intense and animated. One was blond, the other had sandy hair and pale eyes. A mole sat on his right cheekbone, another on his chin. His nose was narrow, and he had a slightly receding chin and a small mouth.

  Every cell in Dan’s body tensed.

  It was the man from R.V. Cleaners. Dan melted behind a delivery van. The men strode east, towards Grosvenor Square. Dan was about to step out, intending to follow them, when to his shock he heard someone say his name.

  ‘Dan?’

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He thought he recognised the voice.

  ‘Dan Forrester!’ the man called, sounding delighted. ‘It is you!’

  Just as Dan began to turn towards the voice, he saw the sandy-haired man and his colleague vanish around the corner, and then he came face to face with Joe Talbot.

  ‘You’re early,’ Joe said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you and Grace until tomorrow.’

  Dan wanted to follow the men but didn’t want to alert Joe. They all worked in the same office. What was going on? Joe didn’t seem to notice Dan’s reticence. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘So, you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to case the joint,’ said Joe.

  Not liking being read so easily, Dan didn’t answer.

  Joe nodded at the anonymous black door. ‘Sorry it’s all a bit cloak and dagger, but that’s how we like it. Do you want to come inside? Or shall we hit the pub?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Definitely time for a drink. I’m gasping. It’s been one hell of a week.’

  Dan took the hint. ‘A drink would be great,’ he agreed.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Joe began walking east but soon switched south towards Shepherd’s Market, and down a quaint, narrow street lined with intimate little restaurants and chic boutiques that to Dan felt oddly familiar.

  ‘Did I work for DCA?’ Dan asked.

  ‘No.’ Joe shook his head. ‘It was only set up six years ago.’

  ‘How long have you worked there?’

  ‘Ohhh . . .’ Joe pulled up his collar as he mulled this over. The wind was icy, blowing from the north and wet with sleet. ‘It’s coming up to four years now.’

  ‘What is it you do?’

  ‘I’m an analyst. I try to judge the political forecast for investors. Today I’d say don’t invest in China. Tomorrow I might tell you to set up an engineering firm in Myanmar. Here, after you.’ He opened the door to a village-style Victorian pub.

  Dan never liked going through a door first and held back. ‘No, after you. Please.’

  His gesture seemed to amuse Joe, but he led the way inside without any objection. ‘What would you like?’ he asked, winding his way to the bar. Dark painted walls and green glazed tiles. Stuffed birds on the walls, animal horns and porcelain figures. It was warm, noisy and crowded
and smelled of old wood and spilled beer. Dan felt immediately at home and wondered if he’d been here before. ‘Your usual?’ called Joe.

  ‘Actually, a pint of some kind of winter ale would be good.’

  The beer was excellent and although he liked the pub and the cheerful atmosphere, he couldn’t relax. He said, ‘Do Savannah and Ellis work with you?’

  ‘Not any more. Savannah’s in Brussels doing something for NATO and Ellis moved to work for Customs.’

  ‘Their phone numbers don’t work anymore,’ said Dan. ‘Neither does yours.’

  Joe blinked. ‘You tried to call us?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘I know mine changed, but I didn’t realise the others’ had too.’ He shrugged, seeming to make little of it. ‘It’s been nearly four years since we were all in the same room together.’ He studied Dan. ‘It wasn’t a great reunion, was it?’

  ‘No,’ Dan admitted.

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t go better.’

  Encouraged by Joe’s easy companionship Dan said, ‘Me too.’

  ‘I think it was the shock of seeing you the same as normal – looking the same, sounding the same – but unable to interact with us.’ He looked sad. ‘We were all really good friends. We’d go on the piss together, spend nights at each other’s places and cook one another greasy breakfasts in the morning, but you couldn’t remember us, or any of our jokes.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No,’ Joe sighed. ‘We got it wrong, that’s all. We shouldn’t have bugged you into seeing us.’

  ‘I’m pleased you did,’ said Dan, unsure if he was telling the truth or not but glad to lie to an old friend, even if he couldn’t remember him.

  ‘So, tell me,’ said Joe. ‘Grace said Stella contacted you recently. What was that about?’

  They both leaned back to let a young couple squeeze past, heading for the Thai restaurant upstairs.

  Not wanting to give anything away, Dan merely said, ‘We used to be friends.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Joe looked baffled. ‘But why didn’t she mention it to me? I would have loved to have seen you again. I’ve missed you, you old bugger.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The word felt inadequate so he added, ‘I guess I’d have missed you too, if I could remember you.’