Lie For You

by Pippa Summers

  Mere seconds, perhaps.

  But it felt like hours. Days, even.

  Certainly long enough for Jean-Luc, who was still in the wings where I had spotted him before the start of my set, deep in conversation with the event manager, to turn my way and frown. I dared not look round at him but felt his gaze on my face, alarmed, questioning. I hated the idea that he was seeing me fail. That I was failing in front of him. It was too humiliating.

  I didn’t want to look. But something about his dark figure drew my gaze.

  I turned my head in his direction.

  ‘Never go back,’ he mouthed at me, saying the words slowly.

  Never go back.

  I opened my mouth, but my lips and tongue were dry, my heart pounding wildly, and still nothing would come out. So Jean-Luc raised his voice and sang the line again, clearly heard in the threadbare, trembling silence. I listened to that deep, throaty line as it echoed through the marquee, taken up by a few dozen others along the way, and felt my heart explode with sudden, unexpected joy.

  ‘Never go back … ’

  ‘Never go back,’ those voices chanted unevenly with him.

  My performer’s instinct kicked in at last.

  Smiling, I held out my arms to the whole audience, pretending the pause in the show had been deliberate – staged, even, to capture their attention – and then cupped a hand to my ear, inviting them to sing the words for me instead.

  The piano notes sounded again, accompanying them as most of the people on the charity audience sang, ‘Never go back,’ to the familiar music.

  I glanced across at Jean-Luc in the wings.

  He met my gaze without blame – despite what I had said to him before the concert, that cruel yet necessary rejection – and his mouth curved in a tender smile.

  My brain seemed to click at that instant, the terrible darkness fell away, and I opened my mouth too, singing alongside all the others as I had once done with my sister …

  Never go back to where you came from.

  Never return to what you knew.

  Never say, ‘Yes,’ and risk it going wrong.

  Never let them get to you.

  Missie met me backstage after the performance, and hustled me back to the dressing room through crowds of people congratulating me, cheering, asking for my autograph, cameras flashing in my face …

  Somehow, probably with the help of Jean-Luc’s small army of heavies with razored haircuts and earpieces, we got back to the dressing room unmolested.

  Only someone was there, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for me in the middle of the dimly-lit room.

  It was the man in the dark suit and hat.

  I stopped dead, unable to speak.

  Missie stared at him, then clicked on the lights. ‘Who are you? You can’t be in here. I’m fetching security.’

  She turned back to the door, but the man spoke sharply, stopping her. ‘I’m a private detective,’ he said in a strong Essex accent. ‘My name’s Dawson. I’ve been wanting to speak to your employer for some time. Several years, in fact. Only I was fed some misinformation a while back. So that conversation never happened.’

  A private detective?

  The dark suit and hat suited his profession, I thought, looking at him assessingly. Dawson was shorter than I remembered from my previous visit to Paris, assuming he was the same man I’d seen lurking about before, and a little stockier. He had a bulbous nose and a jutting chin, and a strange way of squinting when he looked in my direction. Like he was trying to work me out, but hadn’t had any luck yet. He was clean-shaven though, and his suit was neatly pressed, his black shoes polished. Respectable, in other words.

  ‘What exactly do you want?’ I asked him.

  ‘A word alone with you.’

  That sensation of dread crept over me again as I folded my arms defensively across my chest, pretending to consider his request. I wanted to throw him out, of course I did. To block my ears against him. It would be so easy to do. A few words with Jean-Luc’s heavies, and the man would be ejected. No questions asked, no explanation given.

  Except I badly wanted to hear him out.

  Whatever this was about, everything inside me was telling me it was time to stop pushing the past aside and face the truth.

  Even if the truth hurt.

  Missie looked at me and shook her head in silent warning.

  I ignored her.

  ‘Give us five minutes,’ I told her, then glanced her way when she failed to move. ‘Please, Missie. This could be important.’

  She made a disapproving noise under her breath, but obeyed after a momentary hesitation, leaving the room with one last grim look backwards at Dawson.

  ‘I’ll be right outside,’ she said, unnecessarily.

  I knew Missie would never have left me alone with a stranger without at least remaining within earshot; she was as protective of me as a mother lioness of her cubs. But perhaps her comment had been aimed at the private detective, to let him know he was under scrutiny.

  Her over-protectiveness had often been a source of frustration, both for me and for Lisette, whose wild antics had often been curtailed by her watchfulness. But tonight, waiting to hear what the man in the suit had to say, I was secretly glad of Missie’s presence outside the room. Like a safety net.

  I only hoped I was not about to fall from the high wire …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Do you recognize the name Sharon Woods?’ Dawson asked me as soon as the door had closed behind Missie, obviously not keen on wasting any of his five minutes.

  I gazed at him blankly. ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Maybe a photo will jog your memory.’

  He got out his phone, flicked through a few screens, then held it out to me, showing me a misty-looking photograph of a teenage girl in gym clothes with big, heavily made-up eyes and a glossy blonde ponytail.

  To my relief, because I was worried where all this was leading, I had never seen the girl before in my life.

  His eyebrows rose as he waited. ‘Well?’

  I shook my head, shrugging.

  ‘You want to do this the hard way, I take it?’

  ‘No, I just think you may have the wrong person. I’ve never seen that girl before, or heard her name.’

  ‘Fine.’ He sighed, though he seemed more resigned than irritated. ‘Sharon lived in Dagenham, Essex. Seventeen years old. Working an apprenticeship at a hairdresser.’ He looked down at the photo, then made a face and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. ‘Nice girl, by all accounts. A few boyfriends, but nobody serious. Her dad was a petty thief, constantly in and out of prison. Her mum had alcohol dependency issues. Not the easiest of upbringings, in other words. But Sharon had aspirations. She wanted to own her own hair salon one day. And she was a carer for her grandma, who’d had a mild stroke and lived at home with them.’ He shook his head. ‘Two-bedroom council flat, not the best. But it was home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I still have absolutely no idea who that girl is.’

  ‘Was,’ he corrected me softly.

  I met his eyes, and felt again that horrible creeping dread. The tiny hairs prickled on the back of my neck, and my palms were suddenly clammy.

  Was.

  Dawson meant that this girl was dead. Whoever she was.

  ‘Okay, I’ll play.’ I swallowed convulsively. ‘Why have you been watching me?’ I nodded as his eyes narrowed on my face. ‘Yes, I’ve seen you hanging about. So who was she, this Sharon Woods, and what’s she got to do with me?’ I was speaking quickly, my words tumbling out, high-pitched and defensive. ‘What exactly are you trying to tell me, Mr Dawson?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell that Sharon Woods is dead,’ he said, ‘and you killed her.’

  I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.

  ‘Wh-What?’

  He was watching me closely. Gauging my reaction. ‘Five years ago, in the early hours of the morning, she wa
s struck by a car while crossing the road on her way home from a party. Sharon never woke up. Died later in hospital from internal injuries.’ His voice hardened. ‘The driver of the car didn’t stop. But an anonymous caller used a pay phone a few miles away to report the accident and call an ambulance.’

  My chest was so tight, I was finding it hard to breathe. ‘And you … you think that I … that I had something to do with her death?’

  ‘A witness later described the car that struck Sharon Woods as being a red sports car with a distinctive New York bumper sticker.’ Dawson looked at me intently. ‘Not much to go on, perhaps. But also not many cars about with that kind of bumper sticker. And certainly not in Dagenham.’ He shrugged. ‘When we finally traced the owners of all cars matching that description, only one had ever had a New York bumper sticker. Unfortunately, by the time we caught up with you, the sticker had gone. And so had the car.’ His gaze did not leave my face. ‘A write-off, apparently. A nasty collision with a brick wall. Funnily enough, that was a few days after Sharon Woods was killed.’

  ‘I did have a sports car like that,’ I whispered, feeling sick. ‘And yes, I … I did crash it around that time. Went into a corner too fast. I had to buy a new car. But I don’t remember ever being asked about this girl’s death.’

  ‘You were interviewed by a police officer at your London flat.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, it’s a matter of official record.’ Dawson dug his hands in his coat suit pockets, studying me. ‘Anyway, there was never enough proof to make a case against you. The car was tracked to a scrap dealer’s, but the front end was pretty badly mashed-up, so there wasn’t any clear-cut forensic evidence. Not enough for a conviction. And you had an alibi for the time of the accident. Your manager, Damian McDowell, who was apparently with you all that night.’ His face showed a flicker of contempt. ‘At his place. Which, rather conveniently, had no street or building cameras that could be used to corroborate your story. Unlike your London flat.’

  I was struggling to stay calm and make sense of all this. ‘I want to help, Mr Dawson, but I don’t see how I can. I have no memory of any of this.’

  ‘Like I said, that’s very convenient.’ He looked sceptical. ‘But I met you in Paris once before. Spoke to you about this too. I suppose you don’t remember that conversation either.’

  I bit my lip. ‘No, but … ’

  I looked him up and down, feeling almost dizzy.

  ‘I do remember you. The man in the suit and hat. That is, I remember seeing you backstage once. Hanging about. And talking to Damian. Yes, I remember that.’

  ‘Maybe we’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘Look, I’m serious. I don’t remember anything else. I wish I did.’

  ‘So you’re claiming amnesia now?’

  ‘I’m not claiming anything, Mr Dawson. I’m telling you the truth. I have no memory of any of this.’ I put a hand to my head, which was aching. I felt physically sick and just wished he would go away. Slowly, I turned away and groped for somewhere to sit down. ‘I think perhaps you should go.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. Not immediately, anyway.’ He sounded almost pleased. ‘You see, rather unfortunately for you, new evidence has come to light regarding Sharon Woods’ death.’

  I stopped and stared round at him then, too terrified to ask what he meant.

  I got the feeling he was only too willing to tell me.

  ‘I work for the Woods family. They hired me soon after the accident, to keep digging after the police shelved the case for lack of evidence. So far I’ve had about as much luck as the police, which is none. And the money ran out, so I backed off. Then the grandmother did some crowd-funding before she died and left a little money pot to see justice done for Sharon. I’ve done what I could. But it’s hard to spin straw into gold.’ He blocked my path as I tried to turn away, his sharp eyes meeting mine. ‘Only now we’ve had a breakthrough.’

  ‘What kind of breakthrough?’

  ‘I gave your manager my mobile number when I flew out to Paris last time. Just in case he, erm, remembered anything new.’ Dawson’s eyes shone with undisguised glee. ‘He called me first thing this morning.’

  I sank onto my chair, clutching my stomach. ‘Damian rang you?’

  ‘Funny, huh? After all this time too. Anyway, McDowell rang and said that he lied to the police about the night of the accident. Only now he’s ready to tell the truth.’

  ‘What?’

  He nodded coolly. ‘That’s why I flew straight out here again. I needed to speak to him in person. And I did, over lunch today at the Meurice.’ He made an appreciative face. ‘Fantastic lunch too. These French chefs really know how to cook a steak.’

  ‘Whatever Damian told you, it’s not true.’

  ‘Well now, that’s a pity. Because your manager, he claims you didn’t spend that night together like he said in his original statement. He says you two were actually at a night club in Ilford earlier that evening. Only he started eyeing up some other girl, and you blew up about it. Drove off in a rage, in your nice little red sports car, leaving him behind. And he didn’t see you again for several days.’

  I shook my head, horrified. ‘Lies.’

  ‘Oh yes, obviously.’

  ‘No, listen. I sacked Damian McDowell last night. He’s not my manager anymore. That’s why he rang you today with this absurd story.’ Dawson looked unconvinced, but I carried on, desperate to make him see sense. ‘He wants to punish me for sacking him.’

  ‘Okay, then you can tell the British police your version of events when you fly back to England. Because as soon as I’ve left here, I’ll be informing them of this new development. And then it will be up to the police what happens.’ He threw his hands wide. ‘Sorry.’

  There was a sharp knock, then Missie opened the door and looked in at us. ‘You good, Sasha?’ She looked worried, as well she might. I felt ice-cold and ready to throw up. ‘Shall I call security?’

  I waved her away, shaking my head, and the door closed behind her. But I knew I couldn’t keep this awful situation a secret for much longer. Missie would have to be told.

  And Jean-Luc too.

  I put both hands to my face, too stricken even to be angry with the detective. It felt like my whole world was collapsing.

  Was this some elaborate charade, designed to make me feel like I was losing my mind? Or had Damian set me up to take the fall for a real accident?

  Because I couldn’t recall a single moment of it.

  ‘Look, you can’t tell the police,’ I told him. ‘Please, you must believe me, I didn’t run that poor girl over. I’ve never even been to Dagenham. And I don’t remember having a row with Damian and leaving him at a … a night club.’ I stared at him desperately, wishing I could somehow convince him. ‘It’s not true, don’t you see that? None of it is true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Dawson raised his eyebrows at me. ‘You want my advice? Don’t try to lie this time. It won’t work. Not now you’ve lost your alibi. Get a good lawyer and pray to God they don’t lock you up. Because it’s not looking good for you, Sasha.’ The private detective shook his head, making for the door. ‘Not good at all.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said shakily, ‘where are you going?’

  ‘To call the family and give them an update. Then I’ll be making a call to the Essex police, to let them know about this new development.’ The private detective tipped his hat at me, an ironic gesture. ‘You have a good night.’

  As Dawson went out, Missie came in past him, shutting the door and locking it after her. ‘What did he want? What’s the matter, darling?’

  Trembling, I sank down on the chaise longue, unable to look at her.

  I remember what you said, that you never wanted to talk about it again.

  This was what he’d been talking about, wasn’t it?

  My dark secret.

  Except I couldn’t remember a damn th
ing about it.

  ‘I’m ruined,’ I whispered. ‘I sacked Damian, and now he’s out to destroy my life. And I have no idea how to stop him.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  To my relief, we managed to evade Jean-Luc when we left La Retraite, though the paparazzi were camped out on the grass verges along the approach to the ranch, and I had to lower my head at the barrage of camera flashes as the limo passed. Dupont spotted us trying to leave unnoticed and asked me to stay a moment while he fetched his boss. But the last thing I wanted was another tempestuous confrontation with Jean-Luc Ressier, not least because he would instantly notice that I had been crying, and I was feeling too fragile to offer any kind of coherent explanation.

  This was my problem, and I would deal with it myself.

  Back at the Hotel Meurice, the lobby was quiet and empty, though small wonder there as by the time we arrived it was the early hours of the morning.

  I was told at the desk that Damian and Paul had both checked out earlier that evening, presumably on their way back to London via a commercial flight.

  That was the good news.

  ‘We were told Mademoiselle would be paying their room bills,’ the night concierge said in perfect English, discreetly passing me two envelopes with their invoices inside. ‘There were several extras on the bill. And quite a substantial bar and room service bill.’

  I took them with a nod and a smile, as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. But inwardly I was seething, and checking the amounts on their invoices in the elevator, I almost screamed. Damian and Paul had run up vast bills between them, especially during the day today, when they had lunched here with Dawson. They had both ordered lobster and champagne at lunch, probably the most expensive items on the menu, on top of Dawson’s steak and dessert, and charged it all to my account.

  I swore loudly and stuffed the bills into my handbag, while Missie put her fingers in her ears, tutting at my bad language. I had plenty of money. But it was the principle of the thing. I had sacked Damian, and not only had he taken his assistant Paul home with him, leaving us with no escort back to the UK, but he had spent wildly and extravagantly at my expense on his last day in Paris, and then told the private detective that I had knocked down Sharon Woods and killed her.