The Last Lie

by Alex Lake

  ‘They never do,’ Wynne said. ‘And remember, he came home drunk the night she disappeared. He’d been alone in bars all over the city. And then there was that period he was wandering around. Odd, don’t you think?’

  ‘Odd,’ Lawless said. ‘But odd isn’t evidence. And then there’s a problem—’

  ‘There’s at least one. I’m assuming you’re about to mention the obvious flaw I referred to.’

  ‘Let’s see. The problem is that Alfie Daniels can’t be Henry Bryant. Henry Bryant also abducted Claire, so unless Alfie did that and somehow managed to be at his home talking to us while Claire was wherever she was, then it isn’t him.’

  ‘Unless there are two Henry Bryants,’ DI Wynne said. ‘But that seems very unlikely, to say the least.’ She turned the car into the police station. There’s a missing part to this – to do with Claire Daniels’s abduction – and when we find that it’ll all be clear. But for now I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about Alfie. I think there’s a chance he’s Henry Bryant.’

  Lawless nodded. ‘If you say so, I’ll go along with it. But even if you’re right, there’s not much we can do. We have no evidence.’

  ‘Not yet,’ DI Wynne said. ‘But we need to get some.’

  Claire

  So Alfie was calling Bryant’s name. He still hadn’t worked it out.

  Claire had wondered whether he would guess what had happened when he came round, but it seemed he hadn’t. He’d believed her when she said Bryant was there, and had presumably come to the conclusion that it was Bryant who had hit him.

  Which meant he’d believed in Bryant – her version of him – all along.

  That was the problem people like Alfie always had. They thought they were the only ones who could scheme and plan and manipulate people.

  But they – and he – were wrong. And it left them vulnerable.

  Not that she would have ever done this under normal circumstances. She had no interest in hurting anybody. But when she had found out what he had done, and what he was planning to do – she still shuddered at the thought.

  Not with fear. Or disgust.

  With rage.

  They had read parts of The Iliad at school and the opening line had stuck with her. In the last few days it had been on an endless loop in her head.

  Sing, O goddess, the anger of

  Achilles son of Peleus, that brought

  countless ills upon the Achaeans.

  She had never fully understood what it meant, until now, never understood how rage – pure, unadulterated rage – could thrust all other considerations aside in its need to be satisfied. It didn’t matter what else happened, what other terrible results came from it.

  All that mattered was that the rage was satisfied.

  Achilles didn’t care who was hurt, what was destroyed: he was in the grip of his rage and it controlled everything he did.

  And now she understood what that was like.

  But rage like that didn’t come from nowhere, and it wasn’t sustained by nothing. It needed an equally deep emotion at its source.

  And for her it came from the utter devastation she had felt when she realized how the man she loved, the man she had trusted with everything, had been lying to her. Barefaced, cynical lies from the start.

  The bullshit about trust when her dad wanted the pre-nup. The bullshit about wanting children. The bullshit about loving her at all.

  And why? For money?

  And then, once the devastation had lessened enough to let in other emotions – the feeling of stupidity that she’d been so totally fooled, the humiliation, the disbelief – she had felt nothing other than rage.

  She heard him shout again, and she stood up. The sofa was old and deep and she had to lever herself to her feet with her elbow. There was a cup of tea on the table next to the arm and she sipped it. It was cold, which she found odd; she was sure she’d just made it. For a moment she felt disorientated, but she shook her head and took another sip.

  She put it back on the table and walked to the stairs. She entered the bathroom, ran the tap and splashed cold water on her face, then looked at her reflection in the mirror.

  Her eyes seemed black. Deep, black pools. The skin around them was lined. She stared at herself, barely recognizing the person who stared back, and set off for the stairs.

  The rail was worn smooth with the thousands of palms that had held it as people walked up the stairs. The smoothness was a familiar feeling from her childhood, a feeling she wanted her own children to have, so that they, too, could remember it and wish it for their children when they grew up.

  It was one of the many things she wished for her children, things which she had accepted – or started to accept – might never happen. If it wasn’t meant to be for her and Alfie, then she would learn to live with it. After all, she was lucky to be married to him, and maybe she’d have to come to terms with that being enough.

  Or they could adopt. Alfie would do that for her. He’d do anything for her. He loved her; they were soulmates and she gave all of herself to him and he gave all of himself to her.

  Or so she’d thought.

  But no longer. She knew now it was all a lie.

  But she still wanted her kids to come and stay here and climb these stairs and smooth the rail with their palms and sit on their grandfather’s knee and lie in bed listening to their mum and dad reading to them.

  And all that was going to happen, except it wouldn’t be Alfie doing the reading. That, though, was for another day. For now, she had a job to do.

  She crossed the landing, four, short steps to the bedroom door. It had been where her mum and dad slept. She gripped the handle and turned it. The hinges gave a low moan as she pushed the door open.

  She stepped inside. Alfie was lying on the bed, eyes closed.

  ‘Hello, Alfie,’ she said.

  Wynne

  DI Wynne was pouring a cup of thick black coffee that someone had brewed earlier and which was on the verge of being too cold to drink when her phone rang. The more she’d thought about it, the more convinced she was that Alfie was Henry Bryant. One of the Henry Bryants, at any rate. All she needed was proof.

  She picked up her phone. It was DS Lawless.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  There was a pause. When Lawless spoke, she spoke softly.

  ‘We got him,’ she said. ‘We got Alfie Daniels.’

  They sat in front of a computer screen. On it was a grainy black-and-white image of a train station platform. Lawless pointed at a man stepping on to a train.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘Alfie Daniels, the night Pippa Davies-Hunt disappeared.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Tube station near his office.’ She clicked to another image. ‘This is him getting off at Waterloo.’ Another image. ‘And again … and then we get this.’

  There was a still of Alfie walking towards an underground garage. It was followed by one of him driving out in a blue VW Golf.

  Wynne peered at the image. ‘You think he was going to meet Davies-Hunt?’

  ‘I do. Somewhere south of the river. Some low-key pub out of the way. Richmond, or Barnes. The kind of place she’d go.’

  ‘Do you have any more of Alfie? In the Golf?’

  ‘No. We’re looking, but you know how it is.’

  Wynne nodded. People had the idea – from sensationalized news reports – that Britain was stuffed full of CCTV cameras and their every move was being scrutinized. It was true, to a point. There were CCTV cameras all over the place, but half of them didn’t work and of the rest, some were low quality, or were pointed in the wrong direction.

  But that didn’t matter. Wynne had enough to go on.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘We need some feet. Officers going pub to pub in Barnes, Richmond, Twickenham – any town south of the river – and showing every bartender a photo of Daniels and Davies-Hunt until they find one who saw them together. I’ll make some calls.’

  ‘Already done it
, boss,’ Lawless said. She handed DI Wynne a list. ‘Divided up the pubs and assigned them to officers. These are yours.’

  DI Wynne walked into the pub – The Feathers – and looked around. It was busy, full of late-morning drinkers taking the edge off the day before going home to more work or shouting kids or an empty flat.

  She was not there for a drink, though. She was there because she was convinced that in the next few hours her theory – that Alfie Daniels had killed Pippa Davies-Hunt and that he had done so as Henry Bryant – would be proven true or false.

  And she thought it would be proven true.

  She was aware it left a huge question unanswered – who had abducted Claire, and why they were using the name Henry Bryant – but she was convinced this would be resolved once she knew for sure that Alfie was Bryant. That was the cornerstone; once she had that, the rest would fall into place.

  The landlord was standing at the corner of the bar. He was in his late fifties and had an impressive gut straining against his black shirt. Even at a distance the rosacea mottling his face was obvious.

  DI Wynne smiled and caught his eye. She walked over.

  ‘Detective Inspector Jane Wynne,’ she said, and held up her warrant card. ‘I’d like a chat, if you have a minute.’

  He frowned. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ DI Wynne said. ‘Or at least, nothing of interest to me.’

  He nodded. ‘Then how can I help?’

  ‘I need to know who was working on July ninth, and then I need to talk to them.’

  He held her gaze. ‘I’ll check. Hold on.’

  He disappeared behind the bar. When he came back he was holding a piece of A4 paper.

  ‘Rock and Spike,’ he said. ‘Two jokers who’ve been working here forever.’

  ‘Are they here now?’

  The landlord nodded. ‘I’ll get them.’

  Wynne sat opposite the two barmen. Spike – long dark hair, brown eyes – looked at the photo. He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t remember seeing them,’ he said. He handed it to the other barman. ‘You seen them, Rock?’

  Rock – sandy-haired with a look of a young Brad Pitt – studied it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’ He glanced at DI Wynne. ‘Isn’t that the woman who went missing?’

  DI Wynne nodded. ‘One of them. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

  The same scene played out at the next two pubs. She didn’t doubt it was happening the same way in many others, but that was OK. That was how these things worked. You went door to door until you got a result.

  She walked down the main street. There was another pub ahead. She pushed the door open, and went in.

  ‘What can I get you?’ The bartender was a woman in her mid-forties.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the landlord.’

  ‘Don’t have one. We have a manager, though.’

  ‘Then I’ll talk to him,’ Wynne said.

  ‘Take a seat. I’ll get her.’

  Wynne sat at a small table in the corner. In her pocket, her phone rang.

  ‘DI Wynne,’ she said.

  ‘This is PC Logan,’ a man said.

  Wynne sat up. Logan was one of the people going pub-to-pub.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Do you have news?’

  ‘I do, ma’am,’ PC Logan replied. ‘We have an ID. The Stones in Barnes. The barman said he saw them together.’

  ‘Is he sure?’

  ‘Hundred per cent. Says he has a memory for faces. Remembered her posh accent. It was them, Detective Inspector.’

  Wynne fought the urge to smile. ‘Thank you, PC Logan,’ she said. ‘Get as many details as you can.’

  As she put the phone down she noticed a tall, blonde woman approaching her table.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Sandra, the manager. I heard you wanted to talk to me.’

  DI Wynne shook her head. ‘Not any more. Sorry to waste your time. I have to go.’

  Sandra shrugged. ‘Never sorry to see a cop leave,’ she said, with a smile.

  Wynne smiled back, but her mind was elsewhere. It was on what she needed to do next, which wasn’t talking to Sandra.

  It was talking to Claire Daniels.

  And soon.

  Alfie

  Alfie watched the bedroom door open. This, then, was it: either his plan worked and this ended with Bryant dead, or it ended with him trying to get on to a fishing boat in Workington.

  He was ready to take his chances. He was always ready to take his chances. He put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Bryant would be expecting him to be staring at the door expectantly, frozen in terror. Well, this would be his first lesson that Alfie would not be playing his game.

  There were soft footsteps as Bryant walked into the room, then the click of the door closing. Alfie lay motionless.

  ‘Hello, Alfie.’

  His eyes snapped open. It wasn’t Henry Bryant. It wasn’t even a man.

  It was Claire.

  She was staring at him, her face expressionless.

  She must have got away from Bryant somehow. He’d obviously left the house – or been incapacitated in some way – because there was no sign of him following her up here.

  He and Claire were safe.

  It was not the outcome he wanted. He wanted Bryant dead. He didn’t want him out there, aware of what Alfie had done and with the constant threat that he would reveal it.

  Unless he already had. Claire was unsmiling, serious.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said. ‘Where’s Bryant?’

  ‘Not here,’ Claire replied. There was still no hint of a smile on her face. Alfie tensed. She should have been celebrating.

  ‘Did he leave? Did something scare him off?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then what happened? I need to know, Claire. I want to find him.’

  ‘You won’t. You never will. He can’t be found.’

  ‘Of course he can. He was here when I came in.’

  ‘No he wasn’t.’

  Alfie frowned. There was something very badly amiss here. Something he did not understand. ‘What are you talking about, Claire?’ he said. ‘When I got back, you told me he was at the house. He hit me on the head?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I was lying.’

  ‘Then who did hit me?’ Alfie said.

  She didn’t answer. She just looked at him, her eyes flat and dull. The silence was broken by her phone ringing. She ignored it. A few seconds later it rang again, then Alfie’s started.

  ‘You should answer,’ he said. ‘It might be important. Someone’s trying us both.’

  ‘It can wait,’ Claire said.

  ‘OK,’ Alfie said. ‘Fine. But would you unstrap me? Whoever hit me might still be here.’

  ‘Oh, they’re here all right,’ she said, and then shook her head. ‘But you’re staying right there. I finally have you where I want you, and you’re not moving an inch.’

  Alfie shook his head as the words sank in and he finally understood. ‘You?’ he said. ‘You hit me? Why? And what’s Henry Bryant got to do with this? Are you and him doing this together?’

  ‘No,’ Claire said. ‘This is all my own doing. Bryant’s got nothing to do with this. How could he? He doesn’t exist.’ She smiled at him. ‘Don’t look so surprised. You of all people should know that. After all, it was you who made him up, wasn’t it?’

  Alfie didn’t reply for a long time. He wasn’t sure what to say. The panic – the feeling he was losing control, or, more accurately, had lost control – was mounting. It was Claire who had knocked him out.

  Not Bryant.

  Who she said did not exist.

  So he wasn’t here. She wasn’t bait in a trap for Bryant. He had not abducted her.

  Then who the hell had?

  ‘What’s going on, Claire?’ He could hear the tremor in his voice. ‘Tell me what the hell is happening here?’

  Wynne

  DI Wynne leaned on a railing, her
phone in her hand. She didn’t like the fact that neither Claire nor Alfie had answered her calls. It wasn’t late and they would have recognized her number. Maybe they were doing something else. One taking a shower, the other out running. Or watching a loud movie. Or having loud sex.

  Maybe. But she didn’t like it. She didn’t like leaving Claire Daniels in the company of her husband for a moment longer. Not that she could prove he had killed Pippa Davies-Hunt. All she could prove was that he had met her the night she had disappeared and that, up until she saw the photo, Davies-Hunt had believed he was a doctor called Henry Bryant.

  And then Davies-Hunt had confronted him with that knowledge and he had killed her for it.

  Wynne imagined the conversation, over a drink in the corner of a pub, imagined Alfie Daniels asking her whether she’d told anyone else, imagined her saying no, she hadn’t.

  At which point he would have known that if he killed her, he’d be safe. Only she knew his secret.

  She could prove none of this, yet. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t need to be able to prove it in a court of law to know it was true. The proof would come later – maybe in the form of a confession when Daniels learned that she knew he was lying and he had been seen with Davies-Hunt – but she wasn’t worrying about that for now.

  For now she was worrying about where Claire and Alfie were. She picked up her phone and made a call.

  DS Lawless answered immediately. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We need to find the Daniels,’ Wynne said. ‘Mainly Claire. I don’t want her with him any longer.’

  ‘Have you called them?’

  ‘No answer,’ DI Wynne said. ‘We need to check their house. How soon can you get there?’

  ‘Thirty minutes?’ Lawless said.

  ‘OK,’ Wynne replied. ‘It’ll take me nearer an hour. I’ll meet you there. Take a uniform with you, but make it sound like a routine visit. I don’t want Alfie getting nervous and suspecting anything. Question Claire about the day she was found. When I arrive, we can arrest him.’