The Lies He Told Page 11

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gwen said. ‘I always put the lock and chain on when I come home, they can be fiddly to remove.’ She was babbling, showing her unease. Usually, she was good at reading expressions, but theirs were granite. ‘Come in, please.’ She took a step backwards waiting till they’d gone into the living room before shutting the door, using the time to get a grip on her churning emotions.

  She followed them and waved towards the sofas. ‘Sit, please.’ She crossed the room to shut the balcony door and hide the broken glass from view. ‘It’s getting a little cool.’

  The detectives sat beside one another, leaving the other sofa for her. She eyed it but instead of sitting she pushed the corners of her lips up in what she hoped would pass for a normal, relaxed smile and said, ‘May I get you some refreshments? Tea or coffee, perhaps?’

  Hopper shook her head. ‘We’re good, thanks. We won’t keep you long.’

  Gwen sat then and pulled her robe tightly around her. She leaned back, trying to give the appearance of being at ease.

  ‘We’re still attempting to locate Toby Carter and in the course of our investigation we spoke to Barbara Sanderson.’ The detective watched Gwen’s face carefully. ‘You didn’t tell us you’d been to see her.’

  Gwen lifted a hand and pushed loose hair behind her ear. ‘I didn’t see it was necessary. As I told you earlier, I like to know why arrangements fall apart and thought Ms Sanderson might have had the answer.’

  ‘An awful lot of trouble for a man you barely know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gwen shrugged slightly. ‘Foolish of me, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve had bad luck with men in the last few years.’

  Gwen’s expression hardened and bitterness flavoured every word when she spoke. ‘Is that how the police are classifying the stabbing to death of my husband, detective inspector? As bad luck? Perhaps that’s why they’ve had no success in charging anyone with his murder.’

  Hopper held her hands up. ‘I’m sorry, that was an unfortunate choice of words.’

  ‘Certainly inappropriate.’

  ‘My apologies.’ Hopper waited a moment before continuing. ‘You were away at a conference when your husband was killed. It must have been an awful shock.’

  Gwen glared at her. ‘My husband was stabbed to death in our home. I was shocked, horrified and devastated.’

  ‘There was some talk at the time, that your husband may have been unfaithful, inviting women here when you were away.’

  ‘I’m a wealthy, successful woman, detective. There’s always talk. I let it go over my head.’

  But Hopper wasn’t letting it go. ‘So there was no truth to the rumours?’

  ‘George thought fidelity was something thought up by women to control men,’ Gwen said with little inflection. ‘By the time he was killed, I’d stopped caring.’

  ‘It must have reminded you of it when you discovered Toby Carter was equally promiscuous. Must have hurt.’

  ‘Must it?’

  Hopper sat forward. ‘Yes, I think it must have done. You’re a glamorous, successful woman and yet men don’t think you’re enough for them, always having to have other women.’

  Gwen laughed. ‘You make me sound like such a pathetic cow!’ She pushed her fingers through her hair, lifting it and dropping it so it fell in waves around her face. ‘You know little about me. Believe me, I’m nobody’s victim.’ She got to her feet in one smooth, elegant movement. ‘Now, if that’s all.’

  ‘One more question, Ms Marsham,’ Hopper said, holding up a hand. ‘This conference you were at the night your husband was murdered… it was held in a hotel in Canary Wharf, wasn’t it? A forty-minute taxi drive away. You mentioned your husband being unwell, I’m surprised you didn’t come home when the conference ended.’

  ‘You’ve obviously no idea what these art conferences are like. I have a vague idea I got to bed around 5am and was certainly in no state to travel anywhere at that stage.’ She put hands that were trembling slightly into the pockets of her robe. ‘Now, if that’s all, I’ve had a tiring day.’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ DI Hopper said but she stopped at the door and turned with a final word. ‘We may have more questions, Ms Marsham.’

  Gwen resisted the temptation to slam the door behind them.

  26

  Misty

  I spent a few hours tidying the house and removing every hint that Toby Carter had ever lived there. He’d taken most of his belongings but there were still a few things… a single sock in the laundry basket, a pair of boxer shorts in the airing cupboard that I picked up and held to my face for a ridiculously long period of time, tears trickling to dampen the cotton.

  Then there were the items of food I’d bought because he liked them. The expensive olives, epicurean cheeses, salami that stunk the fridge out and tainted the milk, pâté in jars that were more trouble to open than they were worth. I pulled a rubbish bag from a roll and dumped the lot, taking pleasure in the crash of jars and packets, pushing the clothing items in on top and tying the top of the bag in a knot before throwing it outside.

  Only one thing remained, a bottle of wine I’d bought recently, spending far more than I usually did because he’d mentioned it was a wine he liked. ‘Fifty quid,’ I muttered, picking it up to look at the label. I wasn’t going to waste it but I wanted it gone. I pulled open a drawer to search among the chaos inside for an opener.

  The cork came out with a satisfying pop. I poured the rich red wine into a glass and slurped a mouthful. It was nice, but hardly fifty quid nice. I guessed it had been the price that had appealed to Toby rather than any knowledge of the wine. Easy to like expensive things when someone else was forking out the money.

  I wasn’t going to go there. Wasn’t going to enumerate all I’d spent on the cheating toerag. It was over.

  It was important that I pull myself together. The book I was working on for one reason, it wasn’t going to write itself. My schedule was tight; I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Tomorrow, I’d pull myself together. Right now, it was time to drown my sorrows and finish the wine.

  There was pizza in the freezer. I threw it into the oven and when it was done, took it and the wine into the living room.

  A candy-floss movie on the TV, pizza, and wine. It had been my idea of a perfect night before I met Toby, it would be again. But maybe not that night. Tears ran down my face as one glass of wine followed the other until the bottle was empty. I’d barely finished a slice of the pizza and had no idea what the movie had been about.

  It was galling… cringeworthy… to admit what a foolish woman I’d been. Those weeks with Toby had been an aberration, a fantasy I’d spent a fortune trying to keep from dissolving in the harsh reality of truth. I couldn’t have written a story so awful.

  It was almost midnight before I switched off the TV and got shakily to my feet. I’d regret leaving the pizza where it was. In the morning, the room would stink of stale pepperoni. But the knowledge didn’t make me change my mind and I left everything where it was and headed upstairs.

  Toby’s particular scent still lingered in the bedroom. It brought memories tumbling around me as I climbed under the covers in the same kaftan I’d worn all day. The wine had been stronger than usual, or maybe I’d drunk too much and eaten too little. Whatever the reason, my head spun under the onslaught of remembered whispers and my skin quivered under ghostly fingers. I shut my eyes and pleaded for sleep to blot everything out.

  * * *

  But sleep was a traitor and abandoned me. By dawn I was exhausted from twisting and turning and frustrated by the blow to the morning I’d planned. Being sleep-deprived wasn’t going to be a good start.

  Curling on my side, I stared at the curtains I’d pulled shut hours before. Was that why I couldn’t sleep? Was I wondering if Toby was outside? And if he were, if he regretted leaving and wanted to return. Knowing what I did about him now, would I be strong enough to tell him to stay away from me?

  I simply wasn’t sure. But
once the idea that he might be outside had wormed its way into my head, it kept creeping around, developing stinging tentacles. With an exasperated grunt, I flung the sheets back and got to my feet. I reached for the curtains to pull them back, but rather than jerking them fully open as planned, I opened them a crack and stepped closer to peer through. All I could see was a tiny section directly in front of the house. It was deserted. Slowly, I increased the gap until the curtains were wide open and I could see both ways. There was nobody to be seen. Although I’d known the idea was crazy, I felt a weight float from me.

  I slipped back into bed and within a few minutes had fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Noise outside woke me mid-morning. I stretched and opened my eyes, relieved to be feeling better. Determined to get my life back to something remotely resembling normality, I swung out of bed. The sight of the grubby, wrinkled kaftan I wore made me grimace. I pulled it off and threw it to the floor. It was followed seconds later by the bed linen.

  After a long shower where I scrubbed my body and washed my hair I still wasn’t singing but, despite a hangover headache, I was feeling better than I’d done in a while. I dressed, then shoved the laundry into the washing machine and switched it on. I cleared away the abandoned pizza and opened the window for a few minutes to dispel the stink of pepperoni. Normal things. They felt good.

  Needing fresh milk, I decided to walk to the local shop for a few necessities. It was raining again, light summer rain that looked harmless but I knew better, it was sneaky and would quickly soak through my T-shirt. I grabbed a raincoat and pulled it on.

  It was a ten-minute walk but it felt good to be outside despite the rain. The small convenience store was on the opposite side of the busy Uxbridge Road. Too lazy to walk further to where a pedestrian crossing blinked brightly, I stood and waited for a gap in the traffic, looking quickly both ways. It was only then that I saw a figure I thought I recognised. I ran across the road then, causing cars to break and blast their horns, running until I was inside the store, turning to look through the window, my eyes wide as I looked to where I’d seen him, craning as far as I could. But if Toby had been there, he wasn’t there now.

  I was being foolish. It had been a trick of the light. A mirage. Light refracted in the rain.

  It wasn’t until one of the assistants came over to ask if I was okay that I pushed away from the window. ‘Yes, sorry. I thought I saw someone I was trying to avoid.’

  The assistant smiled uncertainly. ‘Do you need help?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you. I’m being silly. I’ll just get what I came for.’

  Still unsettled, I grabbed the milk I knew I needed and left the store with the hood of my raincoat pulled down over my forehead. I was almost amused at my childish if I can’t see him, he can’t see me thinking as I speed-walked home. My dash across the busy road earned me more horn blasts, one driver rolling down his window to shout obscenities at me as he passed.

  Back on the quieter Myrtle Road, I walked even faster, breaking into a run for the last few metres. Safe inside the house, I locked the front door and slipped the safety chain into place. Leaving the milk in the hall, I went upstairs and pulled the curtains shut before peering through a crack. At that time of the day, there were plenty of people walking to and fro but none were wearing Toby’s distinctive hat or Burberry raincoat. My hands clenched on the fold of the curtains I held and I rested my head against them.

  I was tired. That’s all it was. Nothing more than that.

  I couldn’t have seen Toby.

  27

  Gwen

  Gwen opened the gallery at ten the next morning as she always did, Tuesday to Saturday. It was important to be seen to be in control, to be business as usual. Especially if the police decided to visit her again.

  There was no reason they should but there’d been no reason for them to have come the day before either and yet they had. Or maybe she was being naive. Toby, after all, was supposed to have gone to her apartment the night he went missing. He hadn’t, of course, but it was the police’s job to be suspicious.

  That they seemed to be suspicious of George’s death worried her. There had never been any indication that the police had suspected her of having a hand in her husband’s death at the time. Or had she simply refused to see it?

  Gwen sat at the desk and rested her head in her hand. She’d been taking a leaf from George’s well-thumbed book when she started the affair with Toby and had expected great sex and the handsome man’s companionship to be enough. She hadn’t expected him to fill a hole she’d not known existed, hadn’t planned for happiness to put a bounce in her step or to suddenly be aware of possibilities… or a future with such a devastatingly gorgeous man.

  The gallery door opened. Gwen lifted her face and pasted on her professional smile. It faded quickly when she saw who it was. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Misty shook her head as she crossed the gallery floor. ‘I needed to talk to someone and strangely, you’re the only one who would understand.’

  ‘You look wretched,’ Gwen said, getting to her feet. ‘Sit, I’ll get you a glass of water.’ She took two glasses from the small kitchenette at the back of the gallery and filled them from a bottle in the fridge. ‘Here you go.’

  Misty took the glass and gulped a mouthful. ‘Thank you.’ She took another drink, put the glass down and wiped her mouth with her hand. ‘I went to my local convenience store this morning and I saw Toby. I was crossing the road and looked back and there he was.’

  The glass Gwen was holding shook. She put it down carefully. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looked like him. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat and that tweed flat cap he likes… you know, the one he thinks makes him look country.’

  ‘Lots of men wear those hats thanks to David Beckham. You look pale. You said you’d not been sleeping well; I’d guess your already vivid imagination is running in overdrive.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You miss him but are refusing to admit it so different ideas in your brain are warring with one another.’ Gwen smiled, hoping she looked suitably sympathetic. ‘You didn’t see Toby. It’s those books you write. I’ve read a couple; you’ve written some seriously creepy characters. Maybe your tired brain is simply projecting?’

  ‘Toby hasn’t turned up though, the police are still looking for him.’

  Gwen reached across and rested her hand on Misty’s arm. ‘He’ll turn up.’ When tears filled the woman’s eyes, Gwen reached for a business card, picked up a pen and scrawled a number on the back. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You can ring me if you want, okay? Anytime.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ Misty put the card in her bag, then pulled a tissue from her pocket, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose. ‘It’s been the stress of it all. I’ll be fine.’ She stood, straightened her jacket, and lifted her chin with a pathetic attempt of strength that might have succeeded if it weren’t for the downturned mouth and the slumped shoulders that seem to droop further as she walked to the exit.

  Gwen groaned. How had she got herself into this mess? Toby. When she looked back over the years, every time things went wrong there was a blasted man somehow involved.

  28

  Dee

  Dee Carter slept on and off, half-expecting the phone to ring or the doorbell to chime. Once, years before… she smiled as she remembered…Toby threw stones up at their bedroom window when she’d slept through the doorbell ringing. She’d opened the window and seen him there smiling in the moonlight and her aching heart had, once again, forgiven him for straying.

  So many times. Twenty years of forgiving. Twenty years of defending her husband, defending her decision to stay with him.

  Friends advised her to leave him. And Dee listened to them, listened to their words, saw their happy, solid marriages, their lovely husbands… their dull, boring, faithful husbands. It had been a toss-up then – stay with her errant, straying husband, drown in the magic whe
n things were going well and soak up every last bewitching drop in the hope it would sustain her when he got bored and drifted – or leave him and be alone. Alone, because how could she ever replace Toby with a mere mortal.

  Ava, their nineteen-year-old daughter, had left home as soon as she was old enough, sick of the constant dramatics, tired of her mother’s tears and her father’s promises. She was living in Aberdeen and rarely came home.

  Maybe Dee would go and visit her. Tell her it was finished between her and Toby at last.

  She rolled over in the bed and buried her face in her pillow. She couldn’t leave Croydon. Not yet. It would take time for reality to sink into the brain she’d coated in platinum years before.

  Reality. She’d never been too good at facing it. Now she didn’t have to. Now she didn’t have to face the truth that Toby wasn’t coming home to her. She thought he’d get tired of that Streatham woman, Babs, and it seems he had. Only he’d not returned to her, he’d moved on to richer pickings, then on again when a better opportunity presented itself.

  Moved on to someone more suitable than his dull wife.

  Someone more exciting, maybe someone dangerous.

  Dangerous. The police appeared to have no idea what had happened to Toby but Dee was convinced of two things.

  Toby was dead. He had to be, because in all the years of his philandering he’d never been out of contact for more than a day.

  And if she was right, Dee was convinced that one of the women he’d been involved with had something to do with it.

  Dee had worked for the same company for fifteen years so when she rang that morning to say there was a family emergency she wasn’t surprised to be told to take as much time as she needed.

  As much time as she needed to find out what had happened to the man she loved.