The Perfect Liar: A completely gripping thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Beverley Harvey

  Why is he drinking with such abandon? Why tonight? Is their imminent departure making him reckless?

  They are standing above the pool terrace, the shallow descent ahead of them. He takes a step down, then looks back at her. Dale follows, realising that in his current state of intoxication she can outrun him if need be.

  ‘We should swim.’ The boy’s tone is decisive.

  ‘You go ahead, Harry. It’s a bit late for me.’ Dale says, hanging back.

  He sweeps an arm expansively, causing a shower of sparks to fall. ‘Come on, Dale, where’s your sense of adventure? Keep me company. We should get to know each other. Especially now. Seeing as Susanne and I are getting married.’

  Before she can stop herself, Dale scoffs. ‘Yeah, like that would ever happen.’

  ‘Oh, it is happening. I asked her tonight and she said yes. Congratulations to me! So, as you can see, I’m celebrating.’ He staggers slightly, eyebrows raised. ‘What’s the matter, Dale? Aren’t you happy for us… or are you too fucking jealous that I got the girl and you didn’t? I wouldn’t be surprised if she cuts you off once you’re home anyway.’

  Dale lifts her chin. ‘Susanne’s my best friend, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You were her best friend, Dale. Past tense. You’re not anymore. Not now that she’s seen you for the sad stalker you are. You’re pathetic. Following her around, always perving at her body, hoping she’ll fall in love with you. Face it, Dale. You’ll never be Susanne’s type. She likes this too much.’ He grabs his crotch, his face splitting into an ugly, mocking grin.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Dales seethes, and the words bubble out before she can choke them down: ‘Where’s Harry? What the hell have you done with Harry?’

  50

  Brandon

  Tuscany, July 2019

  By the time Brandon rises, Harry and Star are swimming. His sister’s excited yelps carry; he can hear her from the kitchen. He doesn’t call out, just takes the steps down to the pool terrace and watches as the two of them spring apart, their bodies blurred by the churned-up water.

  He wants to punch Harry, teach him a lesson or roar at him: touch my sister and I’ll fucking kill you. Instead, he greets them with a wave and a pleasant ‘Good morning’.

  Harry wears a shit-eating grin. ‘Here he is – our resident top model,’ he calls out, stupid and phoney to Brandon’s ears. ‘Sleep all right?’ he adds, wading to the side and heaving himself out of the water.

  Brandon glances at Harry’s shorts and is gratified by their flatness. ‘Yes, thanks. The bed was the most comfortable I’ve slept on in months.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ Star says, ‘and I love having my own bathroom – and not having to share with him!’ She slaps water in Brandon’s direction, splashing his clean T-shirt.

  He ignores her, can see she’s acting up for Harry’s benefit. What is she playing at? Does she fancy him or not? When they’d first met Harry in Rome, he’d been under the distinct impression that Star was interested. But then, unprompted, she’d claimed that she liked Harry but that she could never sleep with him. In which case, she needs to stop winding the guy up and put some clothes on.

  Sighing heavily, Brandon goes back up the steps, past pastel-coloured, sweet-smelling shrubs and fixes himself a coffee. Then he wanders from room to room, studying everything in the harsh morning light. Harry’s words come back to him: we’ll all be Ronnie’s guests and she’s loaded…

  What must it be like to have so much money that you could buy and furnish a faraway house – and not even visit it every year? Who looked after all this stuff? Everything seemed to be clean and dust-free. How had Harry’s godmother made her money? Had she married well? Invented something? Or worked her way up from humble beginnings? It interested him, how people created wealth. Once, when he was modelling, he’d done three fashion shows back to back at some weird arts club in Mayfair and had been paid fifteen hundred pounds. For an afternoon’s work! It had been no more taxing than milling about in a few ridiculous looking outfits. It was the first, last and only time though. Other jobs had left him seriously out of pocket after he’d spent money on travelling and other essentials.

  Harry’s moaning about the public school he’d gone to had been inverted boasting. And his whining about not wanting to take the city job his dad had secured for him made Brandon sick. Didn’t he realise how fortunate he was? Rich people just didn’t seem to get it. They didn’t understand how lucky they were; whatever they had, they always wanted more – or something else entirely.

  The sky seems bigger than in Rome, and the heat less oppressive. It’s already been a few days, maybe they can stick around for another week or two – it would certainly make Star happy. He looks across at her; lying on her stomach, legs bent and tick-tocking in the air, chin cupped in her hands while she reads one of those romantic novels she’s keen on. As if feeling the heat of his gaze, she looks up, grins and carries on reading. Harry appears from the kitchen, carrying three Cokes that jangle with ice.

  ‘Thank you, Harry,’ Brandon says, wincing as the bubbles burn his nose.

  Harry smiles. ‘What do we fancy doing today? Anything specific, or just chilling by the pool?’

  Star gets up, paces around, flexing her arms over her head. ‘I’m easy. What would you like to do, Harry?’

  He considers for a moment, suggests going into San Gimignano for lunch. ‘We should give Joe and Sander a call, find out if they’re here yet. If they are, we can meet them in the square and then I’ll buy us all lunch.’

  ‘Sounds good, Harry,’ Brandon says, his eyes flicking to his sister, ‘except that I’ll pay; it’s enough that we’re staying here.’

  Harry nods his approval. ‘Okay, just this once. I’ll call Sander.’

  Brandon spots them at once, their new matching haircuts – dapper, retro style, with high quiffs and shaved temples – marking them out as a pair. Even their distressed denim jeans are in sync. They wave, Sander steering Joe’s arm until they converge on the piazza. Four tall, striking males and a pretty blonde girl attracting attention like birds of paradise moving through a flock of pigeons. Hugs and air kisses are swapped before they duck into the nearest café for beer and pretzels while they decide where and what to eat.

  Harry appraises the two travellers. ‘You both look disgustingly well,’ he says. ‘Where are you staying?’

  Sander’s groan is dramatic. ‘Oh, totally slumming it. It’s fine though – means we can travel for longer.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Joe clarifies. ‘It’s a cheap and cheerful hostel at the other end of town, away from tourists. We’ve got a large room with a sofa in it and our own bathroom, and there’s even a little corner kitchen thingy just down the hall; it’s fine.’

  ‘Oh, you should see where we’re staying,’ Star says, her eyes shining, ‘it’s got a pool and everything.’

  Sander laughs. ‘How the other half lives! Just rub it in, why don’t you? We’ll have to come and visit. Perhaps you can squeeze us in as well, Harry?’

  Brandon catches something in Harry’s expression – discomfort, perhaps – as he changes the subject, claiming he’s starving.

  Discovering that the bar they’re in serves only snacks, the five of them drink up, pay and shuffle their way into the lanes, hindered by tourists of every nationality swarming the shops and walkways. Every bar and café is rammed with visitors; soon Brandon feels irritated by the crowds and miserable with hunger.

  ‘I’m sick of people everywhere,’ he growls, ‘there must be somewhere off the beaten track, a place where the locals eat.’

  And then he sees it: Bar Montebello says the faded, hand-painted sign that points them to a small courtyard.

  Inside the cool, tiled restaurant, the frenetic throng of people is absent, although the lively buzz of conversation and unfamiliar Italian folk music playing in the background both add to the atmosphere.

  ‘This is more like it,’ Harry says, rubbing his hands and smiling at the young waitres
s as she directs them to a table. Brandon is aware of the collective head swivel as every diner turns to stare at them.

  A man in an immaculate apron greets them warmly and invites them to sit.

  ‘Welcome, welcome. We have some wonderful specials today,’ he booms, adding, ‘for such handsome gentlemen and their beautiful lady friend.’ He gazes in Brandon’s direction, a look of amusement on his face. ‘You are famous, no? A model, perhaps? What is your name?’

  Brandon grimaces, scratches his chin, embarrassed by the attention. ‘Yeah, sometimes. I’m Brandon… Brandon Connor.’

  ‘And I am Enzo. Is my restaurant,’ he says, patting his chest with pride before disappearing back to the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve pulled there, mate,’ Harry says, sniggering. ‘You are famous, no?’ he mimics loudly in caricatured Italian.

  The others laugh politely.

  Brandon imagines himself pushing Harry through the glass shop front. Instead, he fakes a smile and studies the menu.

  The afternoon spent in San Gimignano with Joe and Sander flew by, their company light and easy, diluting the irritation caused by Harry. When it was time to say goodbye, they planned to meet again, promising to message each other in a day or two. Then, that evening at Villa Giardino, he, Star and Harry drank local red wine in the garden, snacking on ripe tomatoes, pecorino and focaccia – and Harry seemed to mellow with the fading light.

  But the next day, he seems restless and impatient, rushing through breakfast and spending less time than usual on his morning routine.

  A heavy reference book, Great Wines of Tuscany, lies open on the kitchen worktop. While Brandon sips his first coffee of the day, Harry paces, thinking aloud. ‘I’d like to check out the vineyard I mentioned and the monastery ruins nearby; we can see those on the way. Then tonight, I thought maybe we can drive to Siena for dinner. What do you think?’

  Brandon considers. ‘Sounds good, but if you’d rather go alone, don’t feel you have to schlep everywhere with Star and I,’ he says, hoping that Harry will opt for a solo jaunt. Harry shakes his head, insists it’ll be more fun if all three of them go.

  ‘But I’d much rather chill by the pool,’ Star whines when they’re alone and Brandon pushes her to get dressed in more than a bikini.

  Brandon shrugs. ‘Well, that’s the price you pay. It was you who wanted to come here in the first place. Harry may be an arsehole, but he’s still our host – so unless you plan on offending him, or finding somewhere else to crash, I suggest you put some clothes on. I’ll meet you by the front door in fifteen minutes.’

  In designer sunglasses and scarlet polo shirt, his shiny hair blown by the wind, Harry looks every inch the wealthy traveller. He turns to Brandon and grins, before refocussing on the road ahead.

  ‘Sant'Agostino – that’s St Augustine to us,’ he smirks, ‘is only about fifteen kilometres from here. Veronica’s book says it dates from the fifteenth century, and that Cistercian monks used it as a refuge for fallen women. Of course, it’s been derelict for hundreds of years. Nobody goes there now apart from the odd goat,’ Harry lectures, shouting above the wind and the car engine.

  ‘Oh, that’s interesting, Harry,’ Star calls from the back seat, although Brandon knows that history of any description bores her senseless.

  Christ, this could be a long day. At least they’ll get to try some expensive wines at the vineyard later. As for dinner in Siena, he’s heard how beautiful it is, so maybe a trip there could prove useful, even illuminating.

  ‘Hey, there it is!’ Harry says, making a sharp turn onto a narrow track that is soon replaced by stony ground, matted by grass and lichen as the crumbling ruins loom before them. They’d expected a car park, to pay at a kiosk perhaps, but if Sant'Agostino was ever on the tourist trail, it has long been forgotten.

  Getting out of the jeep, Brandon realises they are at the top of a peak; the air is cooler, and he can see nothing above them for miles around.

  ‘This place is creepy,’ Star says, echoing his thoughts.

  ‘It is a bit,’ Harry agrees, striding towards what’s left of the once-magnificent cloisters and gazing upwards at blue sky mottled by cloud, framed by crumbling arches.

  ‘Soo boring,’ Star mouths to Brandon, then out loud, ‘I’m guessing you like history, Harry.’

  ‘You guessed right,’ he calls out, leaping from one stone ledge to another, arms spread for balance.

  Then there’s the irritating jingling of a mobile phone. Harry laughs, removes it from his jeans pocket. ‘Can you believe there’s a signal all the way up here? Incredible! Hello?’ He is balanced awkwardly on jagged rock, the phone stuck to his ear, his eyes darting between Brandon and Star. The conversation is brief, bordering on formal.

  Brandon frowns. ‘Everything okay?’

  Harry exhales, blowing out his cheeks. He finds a more secure footing.

  ‘That was Ronnie. Listen, guys. I’m sorry, I was going to tell you tonight… over dinner in Siena. Bad news, I’m afraid; it’s not going to work out.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ Star frowns.

  Harry grimaces. ‘It’s not possible for you to stay. Something’s come up. Well someone, actually – three someones to be accurate.’ Embarrassed, Harry can’t look at either of them.

  Brandon shrugs. ‘Well, that’s okay. We were only going to stick around for a week or two – that was always the plan.’

  ‘Ahh, well, that’s the awkward part. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave tomorrow first thing. My godmother, in her wisdom, has promised the house to three ladies for the summer. One’s a neighbour, apparently.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning? You’ve got to be fucking kidding. We’ll need a couple of days to sort something else.’

  Harry shakes his head, his face set. ‘No can do, Brandon. The women arrive tomorrow evening. I can’t have any evidence of guests by then. Ronnie would freak if she knew I’d had strangers at the villa.’

  And then Brandon realises: Harry has known for several days. The only reason he has told them now is because of the phone call – presumably giving him the women’s ETA.

  ‘How long have you known?’ Brandon asks, a vein flickering in his temple.

  ‘Couple of days.’ Harry shrugs. ‘Look, for Christ’s sake, don’t make a big deal about it.’

  ‘A big deal? You practically begged us to come here. And now we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, without transport or—’

  Harry cuts in. ‘Suck it up, mate. I’ll take you to San Gimi or something. Now if you don’t mind, I want to take in this magnificent view before we leave. Look, up there,’ he says, shutting down the subject as though they’ve been discussing the weather.

  Fuming silently, Brandon watches as Harry scales steps worn smooth by age and the elements; they stop abruptly, leading to nothing but another narrow ledge.

  ‘I’m cold,’ Star whines from below, rubbing her arms from the wind. ‘Are we going in a minute?’

  ‘Yes, when this twat’s ready,’ Brandon seethes. He can hear Harry spouting something about the steps being a fire escape once, and how amazing the view is.

  ‘You go… have a look,’ Star says, stamping her feet and hugging herself against the chill.

  Brandon takes the steps carefully, mindful of how easy it would be to overbalance. Harry is right; the view is incredible. A weird stillness amplifies the sound of the wind, creating a strange detachment in him. He can see Star looking up at them now, shielding her eyes from the sun. He gazes out at hills marked by soldier lines of cypress trees; it reminds him of a painting he’s seen somewhere.

  Miles away, the medieval towers of San Gimignano rise through the haze; only yesterday they’d enjoyed lunch there and everyone had been in good spirits. But now, he and Star are being dropped, like used tissues into a bin.

  ‘You really shouldn’t treat people this way,’ Brandon growls, his voice low, but Harry hears him all right, turning to him with a look of contempt.

  ‘Come on, Brandon, don’t make a
fuss, there’s a good chap,’ he says, his tone mocking. ‘You people are all the same. Wanting something for nothing.’

  ‘You people? What the hell does that mean? How dare you, you stuck-up prick.

  You only invited us because you wanted to shag my sister. Well, not on my watch.’

  Harry laughs. ‘Star’s a sweetie, but as for “shagging” her, as you so charmingly put it… I’d have to be pretty desperate to—’

  ‘Shut up. Just shut the fuck up!’ Brandon roars, lunging forward, before he feels the flat of his palms connect with Harry’s chest. Then he’s watching in shock as Harry wobbles, comically at first, eyes bulging, his mouth slack and gaping as he tumbles backwards, his cries snatched by the wind.

  51

  Brandon

  There had been a moment of calm – a second’s suspension of belief before the screaming started. But then he’d had to slap Star to make her stop, before hugging her tightly and telling her that it was okay… it was all okay. That it had been an accident, just a bizarre, sad accident. There was nothing to be done, no point in calling an ambulance or involving the police. And how would it look? Best to get away, drive back to the villa, decide what to do next.

  ‘But I saw you, Brandon… I saw the way you—’ Star had continued to cry and snuffle like a child who’d lost a kitten.

  ‘Star, you saw nothing. Do you understand? It was an accident. Those steps… they’re not meant for walking on, and Harry… he just… fell.’ Say it, believe it. Move on.

  Then they’d left Harry’s body where it had landed, facing skyward, eyes open, unseeing, within the bowels of the cloisters, sure that he could not be seen from the road, or by anyone driving up to the ruins and gazing at the outside. For someone to find him, they’d need to go clambering all over the site as they had done. And by the time Harry was found, they’d be long gone.