The Last Lie

by Alex Lake

  ‘Don’t want to miss anything,’ he said.

  A bell rang and a voice came over the tannoy suggesting they make their way back to the theatre for the second half.

  ‘Here.’ Alfie was wearing a linen jacket. ‘Pass me your glass. I’ll sneak them in.’

  Claire gave him her wine, and he shrugged off his jacket. He held both glasses in one hand and draped his jacket over them.

  They followed the rest of the audience. When they reached their seats – near the front, of course – Alfie ushered Claire into the row. He bent down to pick up the programme and sat next to her.

  As he did, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

  It landed by his shoe. He looked at it. It was torn from a notebook, which meant it had not been in the programme when they bought it.

  It had not been in the programme when he left it there at the intermission.

  He glanced at Claire. She was looking at her phone, getting ready to switch it off. He handed his jacket and the glasses of wine to her.

  ‘Could you hold these for a second,’ he said. ‘I have to tie my shoe.’ He bent over, concealing the paper from her, and put his hands on his shoe as though tying the laces. He flipped over the paper.

  There was a short, hand-written message, all in capitals.

  ALFIE, MY GOOD FRIEND,

  ENJOYING THE PLAY? I AM. WAS HOPING TO BUMP INTO YOU, BUT THE NOTE’LL HAVE TO DO. I WANTED TO GIVE YOU A MESSAGE, JUST SO THINGS ARE CLEAR BETWEEN US: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

  YOURS, H

  Alfie scrunched it into a ball and sat heavily on his chair. He put his hand into his pocket, both to hide the paper and to hide his shaking.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Claire said.

  ‘Fine,’ Alfie replied. ‘I stumbled. Everything’s fine.’

  Everything was far from fine.

  As the play went on he grew increasingly desperate to pull the note out and read it again, parse it for any detail that might reveal something about its author. He tried to remember exactly what it had said.

  ALFIE, MY FRIEND. ENJOYING THE PLAY?

  Then what?

  SORRY I MISSED YOU. I WANTED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.

  And then the part he remembered most clearly.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

  So it was indisputable now. Whatever the note said – and whatever a closer examination revealed – Alfie now knew two things at least.

  One, Bryant knew about him, and that made him dangerous.

  Two, Bryant was real. He was not a figment of Claire’s damaged imagination.

  And he was here.

  He looked around the theatre, searching for a lone man. All he saw were faces trained on the stage, the occasional hand covering a cough or scratching an ear or picking a nose.

  He had to read it again. He tapped Claire on the elbow. She turned to him, and he mouthed a word.

  Loo. He shrugged. Sorry.

  She frowned as he got up and walked along the aisle. In the bathroom he went into one of the cubicles and locked the door behind him. He pulled the note from his pocket and smoothed it out.

  ALFIE, MY GOOD FRIEND,

  ENJOYING THE PLAY? I AM. WAS HOPING TO BUMP INTO YOU, BUT THE NOTE’LL HAVE TO DO. I WANTED TO GIVE YOU A MESSAGE, JUST SO THINGS ARE CLEAR BETWEEN US: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

  YOURS, H

  It was written in blocky capitals. He thought there was something masculine about them, but that meant nothing. He wasn’t sure there was such a thing as ‘masculine’ writing and, in any case, even if there was, it would have been easy for a woman to write in that way.

  The note told him a few things, though: it told him someone was here, in the theatre, they knew he’d killed – or tried to kill – Pippa, and they were intent on messing with him. The playful tone – Alfie, my good friend – gave that away.

  But beyond that, it didn’t help him at all. Maybe there were fingerprints on it, or some DNA, or some clues a graphologist could unravel, but so what? He could hardly take it to DI Wynne.

  What did you do, Mr Daniels? What is the author of the note referring to? And why do you think they put it into your programme?

  And then he saw why they’d planted the note. They’d done it knowing he would want to read it in detail, and would go to the bathroom to get some privacy.

  Leaving Claire alone.

  Shit. He shoved the piece of paper into his pocket and unlocked the cubicle door. He ran out of the bathroom and along the carpeted corridor that led to the seats. The usher on the door motioned for him to slow down and held out his hand for the ticket. Alfie shoved it at him, then walked into the theatre.

  He looked down the aisle, expecting Claire’s and his seats to be empty, or – worse – for both to be occupied. The man in the hooded top, maybe, about to call DI Wynne and DS Lawless. Would the audience think his arrest was part of the play? Some meta-fictional game the author was playing on them?

  But his seat was empty, and Claire was safely in hers, attention focused on the medieval queen, who was scrabbling in a dustbin on stage, feeling, he thought, about as disorientated and out of place as he did.

  iv

  Alfie was sitting in the kitchen, a ready-made spaghetti bolognese he’d heated up on the table in front of him. Opposite him, Claire was on the phone to Jodie.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Not yet.’

  Alfie strained to hear what Jodie was saying, but her voice was too faint.

  ‘Sorry, Jo. I really am. But thanks. I have to go. Alfie’s waiting for me.’

  She hung up.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Alfie said.

  ‘Yes. Except Jodie’s going out on a hen do – Heather, from school – and I can’t go. I can’t go anywhere.’

  ‘It’ll pass.’

  ‘Will it?’ Claire was pale and looked exhausted. ‘The police have no idea what to do next. I’d always assumed they had all kinds of ways of finding people – I mean, you hear about the surveillance state, and how the government can listen to any phone call and read any email, but it turns out all you need to do is change your name and you disappear. It’s crazy. I’m so sick of it.’

  ‘I know,’ Alfie replied. ‘And in the meantime, we’re trapped. Henry Bryant is out there somewhere and we can’t relax for a moment.’ He shook his head. ‘It has to end, but I don’t see how. We can’t find him.’

  ‘I hate this,’ Claire said. ‘We have no control. All we’re doing is waiting to see what he does.’ She folded her arms. ‘You know, I have fantasies of him showing up at the house during the night. We hear him and wake up and, when he comes upstairs, we’re waiting for him. We grab him and pin him down and then call the cops.’

  Alfie had the same thoughts, but he kept them to himself.

  ‘But that’ll never happen,’ Claire said. ‘Not while we’re here and there are two security guards outside.’

  ‘They’re keeping us safe,’ Alfie said.

  ‘Safe in the house. But the rest of the world is a no-go area. He’s winning. That’s what bothers me.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘And the other thing that bothers me is, even if weeks and months go by and there’s no sign of him, I’ll know there’s always a chance of him coming back. I’ll never be able to relax.’

  ‘I know.’ Alfie really meant it. He couldn’t tell Claire why, but he had the exact same feeling.

  ‘We need to get control somehow. I wish there was a way.’

  ‘I don’t see it,’ Alfie said.

  ‘If we could entice him into a trap,’ Claire said. ‘That would be perfect.’

  ‘I don’t know. It seems risky.’ A trap sounded perfect, but Alfie didn’t want to appear too enthusiastic, plus he had no clear idea how a trap would work. If this was going to amount to anything, it had to come from Claire.

  ‘Imagine,’ Claire said. ‘We could get rid of the guards for a night, and then you go out, but you stay close. Or sneak in the back door. If Bryant is watching – and I think he is, I can feel it – the
n he’ll come. But we’ll be expecting him. We’ll be in control.’

  ‘No way,’ Alfie said. ‘What if something happened? I’d never forgive myself.’

  ‘You’d prefer to live like this?’

  Alfie let the question hang between them. He needed to appear reluctant. ‘Look,’ he said, finally. ‘I understand. But I think it’s a bit reckless. OK?’

  Claire twirled the pasta on to her fork, watching it wrap around the tines as though she was deep in thought, then her shoulders slumped.

  ‘You’re right. But I feel like we’re giving up.’ She poured some more wine into her glass. ‘I guess we have no choice.’

  Maybe they didn’t. Not now, at any rate.

  But Alfie was starting to get the beginning of an idea.

  v

  After dinner, they sat on the sofa. Claire rested her head on his shoulder, the rest of the bottle of wine on the coffee table.

  ‘You know,’ Alfie said, ‘it would be great if we could do something to Bryant. I know revenge is not the best motive, but I would love to get my hands on him.’

  ‘I would like it if you did, too.’

  ‘The problem is, it’s too risky. We need some kind of safety net. A trap, but with no risk to us. To you. Imagine if it wasn’t only us, but Carl and Kevin too.’

  ‘He wouldn’t come,’ Claire said. ‘Not with them there.’

  ‘Unless he thought they were gone.’

  ‘What, we get them to pretend to leave the house? I don’t think he’d fall for that.’

  ‘I know.’ Alfie reached for the wine glasses. He handed Claire’s to her. ‘I’m only dreaming.’

  She sipped her wine. ‘Unless we weren’t here.’

  Alfie tilted his head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We go away. It’ll look like the most natural thing in the world for us to do after what’s been going on.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Our place in the Lake District. Cartmel. It’s been years since I’ve gone there, but I used to love it.’

  She’d mentioned the summers she’d spent there as a teenager a few times. Alfie had assumed Mick had sold the place since they no longer went, but it seemed he hadn’t bothered. He supposed that was how the other half lived.

  ‘What happens when we’re there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe one day you go out hiking and leave me alone. Except I won’t be alone, we’ll take Carl and Kevin and hide them somewhere, and when he shows up …’ She clapped her hands together, a trap shutting.

  ‘So I won’t have gone hiking?’

  ‘You’ll be nearby. And Carl and Kevin will be there.’ She took another sip. ‘There’s a bed and breakfast opposite the cottage. They can stay there. When he shows up, they’ll be at the cottage in seconds.’

  Alfie frowned. ‘It seems very risky. What if they don’t see him come in? If they’re at the front, he could come in the back?’

  ‘We’ll figure it out,’ Claire said. ‘I’ll stay in a room they can see – maybe an upstairs bedroom – and we’ll agree a signal. If he comes in the house I’ll open a specific window and they’ll know he’s there.’

  ‘What about your dad? He’ll never let you do this.’

  ‘We won’t tell him. We’ll just say we’re going away for a break. And we won’t tell Carl and Kevin the plan either. They’ll tell dad. We’ll let them know when we’re there.’

  Alfie nodded slowly. This could work. If Bryant – whoever he was – knew they were there, and thought they were alone, he might show up.

  And when he did, Alfie had his own plan. Because there was no way he could let Claire or Carl or Kevin get hold of Bryant. If they did, he would tell them about Alfie.

  And that couldn’t happen.

  Bryant needed to be killed.

  So Alfie had his own plan. And he was ready to agree to Claire’s.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But on one condition. I’m very nearby, and as soon as he shows up, Carl lets me know. I want to be there.’

  And then he’d find a way to get a moment alone with Bryant, and – in self-defence, obviously – he’d take care of this once and for all.

  Saturday

  i

  Alfie folded a shirt into his suitcase. According to Claire, there was a restaurant with a Michelin star in the village that she wanted to get a table at. While they were there, she said, they might as well eat good food. They were planning to stay a week so they’d have plenty of opportunities to eat there, although Alfie wasn’t sure they’d last that long, if everything went to plan.

  It was all on Facebook, excited posts about their trip to Claire’s old stomping ground. Anyone who wanted to know where they were going would have no trouble finding out.

  Bryant included.

  The bedroom door opened and Claire came in.

  ‘Ready?’ she said. ‘We need to leave soon. The train’s in forty minutes.’

  They were going by train to Oxenholme and then by taxi to Cartmel. Carl and Kevin would drop them off at the station, and then drive to the cottage. They didn’t want them on the train – Bryant needed to think they were going without security, but they told Carl and Kevin it was because they wanted a car when they got there. They were reluctant, but Alfie convinced them no harm could come to them on the train, and they agreed. The two guards were booked into a B & B opposite the cottage. The owners may think it was odd that they stayed in their room all day, but no matter. They weren’t doing anything wrong, and hopefully they wouldn’t be there long.

  ‘I’ll be down in five,’ Alfie said. ‘We should be OK for time.’

  He closed his suitcase and zipped it up. He looked around the bedroom and smiled. The next time he saw this room everything would be back on track.

  They arrived at the cottage in the early afternoon. On the few occasions she had talked about her Lakeland summers in Cartmel – the races, the sticky toffee pudding – Alfie hadn’t paid much attention. He was more interested in holidays in the South of France. He had married her – and put up with her – for sunshine and glamour, not for rainy days in the north.

  He had to admit, though, that in the afternoon sunshine – and today there was only endless blue sky – Cartmel was exceptionally pretty. Streams shushed their way through the village, running alongside houses and pubs and churches that were hundreds of years old, all in the shadow of the low fells of the Southern Lake District.

  The taxi pulled up at a large, white-walled cottage on a quiet road not far from the village centre. Opposite was the B & B; behind was an open field, divided by stone walls that ran up the slopes of the steep hills marking the end of the farmland.

  ‘Here you are.’ The taxi driver looked at the dashboard then consulted a mileage chart. ‘Forty-three quid.’

  Claire handed him two twenties and a ten. He started to look for change but she shook her head. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the ride.’

  The taxi driver nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He took a piece of paper from the passenger seat and started writing. ‘You here long? Let me give you my number. If you need a ride anywhere, give me a call. My name’s Stu.’

  ‘Will do.’ Claire took the paper. ‘Thanks again.’

  They took their bags from the boot and walked up a path to the front door. It was made of dark wood, and opened slowly. The walls of the cottage were thick – maybe four feet – and made of a rough stone, which was probably why there were not many windows.

  It was cold and dark and smelled damp. It was not an inviting place, although Claire clearly felt differently.

  She grinned and flopped on to an ancient sofa. ‘God,’ she said, ‘it’s amazing to be back. I spent a lot of time here as a kid. We used to come every summer, until I was fourteen or so. Mum loved it. Looking back, I think she found peace here. I remember her and Dad laughing in the kitchen as they made dinner. We stopped coming after she died. There were too many memories for Dad. Still, it’s funny how you can be away from somewhere for years but feel immediately at hom
e.’

  Alfie sat next to her. ‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’ He put his hand on her calf, and slid it up to her inner thigh. ‘If you were that age when you used to come here, then this’ll be the first time you’ve got up to this kind of thing here.’

  She tensed, and her leg flinched away.

  ‘Alfie,’ she said, ‘I want to, but I’m still not ready. I’m sorry. I need a bit more time.’

  He sat back. ‘It’s fine. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Take as much time as you need.’ He stood up. It was, in truth, a relief. They had not had sex since she’d returned, and he was glad. He’d only been trying to make things seem normal. ‘I’ll unpack. And then we can go and have a look around Cartmel.’

  When they got back to the cottage, Carl and Kevin were parked outside. They got out and looked around.

  Claire pointed to the building across the road. ‘We booked you into the B & B,’ she said. ‘You can watch the cottage from the window. We’ll have our phones on.’

  ‘We might just have a look around. Check the back door and other access points,’ Kevin said. ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alfie said. ‘We appreciate you coming up here.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Carl said. ‘Always nice to have a Lakeland break.’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ Alfie said. ‘Isn’t it.’

  Sunday

  i

  Alfie stared at Claire. They had decided today was the day.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Here we go. Later this morning I pretend to leave to go hiking. Hopefully, Bryant comes. And then …’

  Claire nodded. ‘Right. And then. Exactly.’

  Alfie looked at her. She seemed, suddenly, hesitant.

  ‘You OK?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Kind of. It seemed so simple when we were in London. Now it seems – well, it seems a bit risky.’

  ‘Do you still want to do it? We can leave anytime you want.’

  He held his breath as he waited for her to respond.

  ‘I still want to. I want this over. But stay close, Alfie. Two minutes away. You can hide out at the Priory. It’s not far.’