Читать книгу House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist - E. Seymour V. - Страница 17

“Will you be able to find your own way back?”

“Down here, straight over at the roundabout and keep on walking, didn’t you say?”

“I could run you in the car? Oh, goodness,” Stephanie breaks off, glancing over my shoulder. “I hadn’t realised the time.” I turn, step aside and follow her gaze to a young woman with two children, a boy and girl in primary-school uniform. The woman smiles and walks toward us. The little girl bobs along, fizzing with energy. She carries a pink lunchbox decorated with unicorns. A sparkly slide glitters in her soft dark hair and, Vick was right, she has the same oval-shaped face as her mother, although her eyes are different, green, not brown, and the lids heavier, probably taking after the man who fathered her.

Stephanie opens her arms wide and the little girl skips towards her, beaming from ear to ear. “Mummy, can I go and play at Wilf’s house? Jess says it’s all right.”

“Steady,” Stephanie laughs, tousling her daughter’s hair.

“Don’t, Mummy,” she scolds, pulling away. Stern.

“Roz, this is Zoe,” Stephanie says.

“Hi, Zoe,” I say. The little girl glances up, pays the least attention, mumbles ‘Hi’ and then dismisses me. After all, I’m a grown-up, a strange species. Who can blame her?

“And this, Roz, is Jess, and Wilf, Zoe’s best pal.”

Jess nods hello with a friendly expression. Wilf tugs on Zoe’s arm, indicating that playing at his house is a done deal.

“Can I?” Zoe wheedles, “Please say yes, Mummy.” To impress the point, she tilts toward Stephanie, reminding me of a loyal dog leaning hard against his owner’s legs in a gesture of affection. Stephanie grins and throws a questioning look at Jess.

“Fine by me,” Wilf’s mum says. “I’ll bring Zoe back after tea, if you like.”

“Yes,” Wilf bursts out, punching the air with a fist. His cheeky face splits into a wide grin.

“Looks like I don’t have a choice,” Stephanie says with a wry laugh.

Zoe pushes her bag and lunch box into her mother’s hands. “And look after Sealy for me,” she commands, before belting off down the street with Wilf in tow. “I will. Be good, poppet,” Stephanie calls after her. “Sealy is Zoe’s favourite toy,” she lets on. “Adam gave it to her when she was tiny. They’re inseparable.”

“Better go,” Jess says, trotting after them.

Observing a small slice of family life, I’m gripped with envy and sadness. Any hope I have of motherhood, or being in a secure financial position that allows me to adopt, disappeared less than twenty-four hours ago. I’m seized with the idea that my life will be forever bleak and empty. Irrational, perhaps, yet my heart aches for imaginary and random misfortunes as well as the more obvious one of being betrayed by Tom. Stephanie slices into my sudden melancholy.

“I know I’m biased, but she’s glorious, isn’t she? So full of life.”

I agree, my fingers digging deep into the palms of my hands. “I’m glad for you.”

“Right,” Stephanie says, switching from Mummy-mode to professional. “I’ll grab my keys and run you back.”

“Honestly, it’s no bother.” I want to walk. I need to. I think better that way. How else do I process that the man for whom I still have strong feelings, confused and bad, acted a role in which I played no part in the production?

She sketches a frown. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“Enjoy your moment of freedom.” I itch to escape into anonymous, alien streets.

“Come and see me when your mum gets back,” Stephanie says, hovering on the doorstep. “Better still– ” She breaks off, disappears for seconds, returns and presses a card into my hand. “My direct number. I’ll come up with a good deal for her, promise.”

“That’s kind.” I push another smile. “Thanks for the coffee,” I add, plunging my hands deep into my jacket pockets. The wind, if anything, is stronger now, boisterous too. Good.

“Thank you for listening,” she says, touching my sleeve.

“Likewise.”

I feel Stephanie’s gaze bore into my back as I trudge away. Turning left, like she said, I cross over past a one-stop shop and head straight towards town. My gait is leaden. My mind is a grubby and disorganised mess, a cheap sale of bric-a- brac in a tatty village hall. Tom and Adam Charteris are one and the same. No doubt about it. While there are consistencies in his story, only his occupation is verifiable.

One thought jabs at me more than the rest: why is Tom on the run again?

Something makes me shiver and I hitch a fast look behind, yet there is nobody there. Bound to be jumpy after what happened, after what I was told.

I pick up pace and cut down a narrow cobbled alley, past a French restaurant and deli on my left, and old-fashioned sweetie shop on my right, and cross over the road at the brow of a hill as the lights switch from red to green. Keep walking. Keep moving.

I consider the dead brother and the Devon connection and whether or not I can trace Adam’s trajectory. Surely, there will be archived information about what allegedly happened to them both?

Inserting myself into a shoal of shoppers keen to bag a bargain in one of the gift shops that line the street, I take a furtive look back to check again whether I’m being followed. Perhaps it’s Tom lurking in the shadows, or Tom seeking sanctuary with the woman he once deceived so badly. Somehow, I don’t think he’s there, but you never know. My grand idea that Tom is a serial cheater who has a problem with commitment rings hollow in time with my fading footsteps.

It’s way bigger than this.

I continue towards the market square and finally the car park. With relief, I open up, climb inside, lock the doors and let out a long, perplexed breath. Slumping across the steering wheel, I grind my brow into the plastic.

Adam smiles, is nice, caring and quiet, ‘enigmatic,’ she said. Life histories are similar in most aspects and dissimilar in a few. A brother is in the mix with Adam and absent with Tom. With a taste for the dramatic, multiple personality disorder floats across my mind, but I sense that this is not what I’m dealing with. It isn’t a medical issue. It’s criminal.

I am tainted by it.

To my way of thinking, Tom has a lot in common with arms dealers and gangland figures. They, too, are averse to leaving digital footprints. They, too, shack up with multiple partners. They, too, live a lie. I briefly wonder how many identities Tom actually has and give up because it makes my brain expand and bang against my skull.

And do I feel rage? You bet.

A shudder passes through me at the recollection I very nearly weakened and confessed to Stephanie who I was. With a couple of sentences I could proclaim that her belief in Adam’s existence is warranted, that he is alive and has been for the past four years. As cruel as it is to withhold, it feels crueller still to be the messenger. Leave that to others.

Oh God.

With a tight chest, I realise that I have absolutely no choice but to report my findings to the police. How I’m going to disclose the information without destruction following in its wake, I don’t know. Revenge is not my motivation. And, after what I was told, I wouldn’t have him back if he begged me. It’s the search for truth that spurs me on. If Tom’s intention was only to deceive Stephanie into believing he was dead, why did two police officers pay her a visit? Were they duped too? Or, I breathe heavily; does corruption lie at the heart of it?

I briefly wonder what Vick will say. Itching to tell her, I decide to go to the law first. Immediately, I think of D.S. Michael Shenton. With the contact already made, it would be easier talking to him about what is essentially a delicate matter. Before losing my nerve, I pull out my mobile and phone the police station. It takes what seems an age to connect the call.

“Yes?” It’s a brisk response, as if I caught him in the middle of something.

“Can I come and talk to you?”

“Could you drop me an email? Be easier.”

“It’s not about the article. I have information that I think you’ll want to hear.”

“Like what?” His voice sharpens.

“I’d rather not say on the phone.”

“Has a crime been committed?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

“Only there are avenues for– ”

“Please. I believe it’s a police matter and I badly need to talk to someone.” I hate sounding flaky. “Would you be free at three this afternoon?”

I hear him exhale.

“I’ll come to you,” I insist before bursting into a chorus of appreciation and gratitude.

“I’m at Gloucester,” he says, “HQ.’

Headquarters is good for this is certainly an HQ matter. “Fine.”

I start the car, pull out of the car park, and wish I didn’t feel in ruins. Of the potential consequences, I don’t spare a single thought.