The Lies He Told Page 13

  The empty boxes had been put up in the attic. As far as I knew they were still there.

  ‘I only know what I saw,’ I said. ‘He had two bags when he left here, one in each hand. Nothing else.’

  ‘Did he leave stuff behind, maybe with the intention of coming back to get it. Perhaps that was why you saw him outside the following night.’

  ‘N-no.’ I stumbled over the word. ‘He didn’t leave anything.’ I managed a quick laugh. ‘Unless you count a friendless sock and a pair of boxer shorts.’

  ‘Odd though.’ Hopper looked at her partner. ‘Don’t you think?’

  The painted woman’s mouth turned down. ‘Very. To be honest, two holdalls and two boxes seems little enough belongings for a man who liked his clothes. Two holdalls alone doesn’t seem likely to me.’

  They both looked back to me, staring intently as if waiting for me to say something that would somehow explain everything. The problem was, I’d no idea. Say nothing. It seemed to work. Hopper looked as if my response was as expected and shuffled to her feet.

  ‘That’s it for the moment, Ms Eastwood. Thanks for your time.’

  I saw them out and watched as they walked the short distance to where their car was parked. They didn’t move off straight away. Talking about me. I shut the door with a snap. That’s what I’d have my police characters doing; they’d sit in their car and wonder about the person they’d been interrogating. They’d be sitting there trying to take me apart to see what made me tick, what I knew.

  I reached for the safety chain and put it in place.

  Upstairs, I looked at the attic door and frowned. Had Toby opened it, taken the boxes down and packed while I was working on my book, while I was cocooned from reality thanks to my headphones?

  There was only one way to find out. The rod for opening the hatch and releasing the pull-down stairway was kept in the airing cupboard. It was there, where it always was.

  It was easy to hook the ring on the hatch and pull, the stairway unfolding with a clunk. I’d not been in the attic for a long time. It had been Toby who’d put the boxes there. Only part of the attic was floored. If the boxes were still there it would be easy to see them.

  The stairway was solid enough but still swayed alarmingly as I climbed. Heights made me anxious. I took one step at a time, holding my kaftan bunched in one hand. As soon as my head was inside the attic space, I felt for the switch and the small area flooded with light.

  There were old suitcases, some pictures I’d brought from my previous home and couldn’t find a place for, an old fake Xmas tree and some other paraphernalia that had gathered there over the years. But there were no flat cardboard boxes. Wanting to be certain, I crawled inside and looked behind the suitcases. I was momentarily distracted by a box of old LPs I’d forgotten were there and flicked through them wondering why I’d kept them. Then the memories of some made me smile and I knew why, and why I’d keep them despite no longer owning a player.

  I backed out, down the stairway and stood on the landing. Okay, so Toby had gone up and brought his holdalls and the boxes down. What had happened to the boxes? The detective was right; all Toby’s belongings wouldn’t have fitted into the bags. We’d gone shopping only a couple of weeks before. I’d bought a few things, he’d bought far more, adding them to my credit card without compunction. No, two bags wouldn’t have been sufficient.

  My mobile was beside my computer. The card Gwen had given me was pinned to the board behind, I took it down, flipped it over and rang the number on the back, shuffling from foot to foot while I waited. ‘C’mon, answer.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Gwen, it’s me, Misty. The police have been here again.’ I waited for a comment and when one didn’t come, asked, ‘Did Toby bring any stuff around to yours?’

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘Boxes, Gwen. The police know he brought his belongings here in two holdalls and two boxes and wanted to know how he could have left with only the bags. The boxes had been flattened and put in the attic. They’re gone.’

  ‘How odd. No, of course he didn’t bring them here.’

  I walked to the window with the phone pressed to my ear. ‘So where are they? You don’t think…’

  ‘That he had someone else?’ A laugh tinkled down the line. ‘Who knows with Toby.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘But he was supposed to be going to you that night, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was supposed to be.’

  I heard the coolness in Gwen’s voice and opened my eyes. ‘Listen, I’m sorry for ringing. That police detective, Hopper, she worries me. She’s a bit like a dog with a bone, and now she has those damn boxes between her teeth.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything about the boxes, do you? Toby left your house and that’s all you know. The police are simply trying to find out what happened to him. They can’t make you say things you don’t know. Just stick to your story.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you. I won’t bother you again.’ I cut the connection and stood staring out the window, tapping the mobile against my hand.

  Stick to your story.

  I frowned. Didn’t that infer it was a lie? Did Gwen believe I’d something to do with Toby’s disappearance?

  34

  Misty

  I tried to settle back to work after speaking to Gwen but the words wouldn’t come, my fingers staying frozen on the keys. Stick to your story. The words kept flashing before my eyes. I’d told the truth. It wasn’t a story.

  Was that what the police thought?

  I was the last person to see Toby, I suppose it was understandable that they were taking a close look at me. A smile flitted when I remembered Hopper’s question about switching from romance to thrillers. I wondered what she’d hoped to hear – that I’d had a life-changing event that sent me off the rails. Something so awful that it had brought deeply hidden psychopathic tendencies to the surface and sent me running around, killing anyone that crossed me.

  The deaths in my books were painstakingly planned. I was careful to ensure there were no plot holes to annoy readers. If I were writing this story – the story of Toby’s disappearance – who would be the guilty party?

  In a book, it would have to be one of the characters that had already been written into the story. In real life, it could be anyone. A completely random person. Toby might have met someone he knew on his way to Knightsbridge and gone with them. He might have met another woman on the way – someone richer than Gwen Marsham.

  After all, as I knew only too well, there were lots of women out there waiting to fall for his charms.

  The way I had.

  Gullible, my sisters called me and I supposed they were right. I took people at face value, assumed an honesty that wasn’t always there. Gullible. My sisters were right.

  I’d not been completely honest with the police. The financial implication was certainly one of the reasons I’d switched from writing romance to writing thrillers. But the main reason was that I was sick of writing lovey-dovey stories about happy-ever-after land.

  It took me a while to find my feet in this new-to-me genre. The theme, characters, words were contrary to everything I’d written before. I’d needed to tap into the seedier side of life and connect to my dark side. Instead of looking for love and romance, I was searching for the lies people told, the secrets they kept hidden, the depths they’d go to for success, love, revenge. I’d done internet searches that had opened my eyes to the depravity that was freely available and to the seedy, sordid side of life that I’d either ignored or didn’t realise existed.

  I’d come to believe we were all born with a dark, violent streak and it was only specific circumstances that brought it oozing or erupting to the surface where it resulted in anger, hatred and vile deeds that defied explanation.

  Sometimes, when I’d spent too many hours with the more wicked of my characters, it took me a while to pull back. To an extent, my sisters were right. Writing books that dwelled on twisted and immoral characters had changed me
. Apart from my kaftans which were mostly all glaringly multicoloured, I’d noticed that recently I was opting for darker, more subdued clothes. And I’d become more cynical, more suspicious.

  Or was that Toby’s doing?

  I’d known, very quickly, that I’d made a mistake with him. That the charming, charismatic man who’d bowled me over was a character straight from my romance books – only more two-dimensional and superficial than any I could write. I’d known, but I was lying to myself if I ever really believed I’d have finished with him. No, I’d have held on to the fantasy… and probably would have kept holding on if he’d not decided to leave.

  The round glass paperweight my publisher had sent me as a gift the previous year was back on the desk where it belonged. Within touching distance. Within grabbing distance.

  I picked it up and slid my hands over its curves. So solid.

  So deadly.

  35

  Dee

  Dee sat back with the names and addresses of the women Toby had preferred to her. There had been so many women over the years. Young, old, fat, skinny. It never mattered to him. All that mattered was that they had something to give him.

  Sex and riches. Toby was a basic creature when it came down to it. Basic, but blessed with good looks and an innate charm that he used to full effect when he needed to. When he didn’t need to – when he wasn’t trying to charm someone out of something, or into doing something he wanted – he could be as petulant as a child.

  But up to then, he’d always come back to her.

  He wouldn’t come back now. She felt the emptiness. The world had tilted on its axis and nothing would ever be the same again.

  The police were clueless. Perhaps they thought someone had him locked away, chained to a wall. A sex slave. It happened. She’d read about it somewhere. For a time, years before, when he’d gone wandering yet again she’d considered it as an option. She’d even searched for suitable properties in which to keep him. It had entertained her for weeks, kept her from wondering what he was doing. And who he was doing it with.

  But of course, she’d never really considered going through with her plan. Well, not for long anyway. A few weeks later, he came strolling back as if he’d simply left for work that morning, wearing a smart suit she’d not seen before. And without a word… without explanation… he fitted back into her life like the essential jigsaw piece needed to complete the picture.

  Maybe she should have known the Streatham woman was going to be different when the weeks became months. Maybe she should have understood that this time, he wasn’t going to come home.

  Dee had followed Babs for a while, had found out where she worked, her eyebrow rising when she realised it had been a clinic where she’d had minor surgery years before. She found out the cafés Babs frequented, sometimes sitting at a table nearby, her eyes fixed on the plain, slightly overweight woman. Most painfully, she’d watched as Babs had strolled arm in arm, hand in hand, with Toby. Jealousy had twisted her gut, bitterness a burning pain she suffered when he was away.

  Her mantra of he’ll come back to me began to sound stale even to her.

  She was sure he’d come back to her when he tired of Babs. And he would have done… would have done… if he hadn’t been lured away first by the Eastwood woman, then further away by the other woman.

  Lured by their money.

  And one of them had killed him and finished her marriage for good.

  36

  Dee

  Misty Eastwood’s house in Hanwell was probably bigger than Dee’s, the area a little better, the nearby shops and restaurants a little more upmarket. She strolled past the house as she checked out the neat front garden, the original wooden front door and sash windows, the side passage that elevated it above its terraced neighbours.

  Her eyes swept over the upstairs windows. She wondered if the writer had a home office behind one of them. If she was there right now hammering on the keys as Dee walked by. She’d bought two of her recent books: they were too violent, grim and depressing for Dee’s liking and she’d taken the time to write an anonymous, scathing one-star review for each.

  She walked to the end of the short street, turned and came back along the other side. It would have been simple to knock on the door and feign a mistake of some sort when it was answered. She was sure she could have carried off the deceit but it wasn’t her way. It was much preferable to watch the woman, to follow her and find what made her tick. What made her special? What had made Toby want her more than his wife of twenty years?

  The arrival of a van an hour later gave Dee her first glimpse of the writer. A delivery person, in a multicoloured jumpsuit and hat that made it impossible to determine gender, stood on Misty’s doorstep with a large parcel. Obviously a regular, they rang the doorbell and waited for far longer than was usual. But their persistence paid off when the door was finally opened.

  It was only a glimpse but Dee soaked up the few details: the pixie haircut, the wildly colourful flowing garment she wore. Trying so hard to be arty. Trying too hard. It was a glimpse that told Dee a lot.

  * * *

  Back at home, she found the writer through the social media links that were conveniently listed at the end of her books. The prolific Misty Eastwood was everywhere. Dee joined any Facebook groups she was linked to, followed her there and on Instagram and Twitter.

  In a couple of the Facebook groups, there were live author interviews on file and Dee searched through until she found one where Misty spoke about her books and her writing. It was in watching these that Dee saw what had attracted Toby. Misty was undeniably a good-looking woman but when she spoke about the stories she wrote, it transformed her into something more akin to stunning. Her hands waved about, her eyes sparkled and she spoke with infectious enthusiasm that was appealing. Dee’s lips curled as she listened. Misty would no doubt be that enthusiastic during sex too… and Toby would have enjoyed that.

  But Dee had no illusions. It was the money that would have been the real temptation for Toby who valued purchasing power more than anything else. It didn’t take her long to discover that Misty was a remarkably successful author with several books in the top ten. Add in foreign rights from the numerous translations, and the movie and TV series that were in the offing, and Misty Eastwood would have been very wealthy indeed.

  She seemed ideal. Beautiful and rich. So why had he decided to move on?

  More importantly, had Misty been angry when he said he was leaving? Dee thought about the violence in the books she’d read. Had the writer directed that anger towards Toby? He wouldn’t have expected it, certainly wouldn’t have retaliated. Toby had many faults, but violence wasn’t one of them.

  She stared at the upstairs window where she could see Misty’s seated figure.

  Was she the one to blame for Dee’s loss?

  Dee wanted to hammer on the door and beg Misty to tell her the truth. Instead, with a sigh she turned for home.

  * * *

  She put her suspicions of Misty to one side, turned on her computer and typed Gwen Marsham into the search bar. Her eyes widened at the information that was available. Much more than she expected. Juicy stuff too. Details about the bungled burglary two years before that had led to the murder of Gwen’s husband, George.

  Dee read everything there was to find and discovered that Gwen had been away for a night at a conference when the burglary had taken place. The police, according to the papers, speculated that the burglar knew about the conference and thought the apartment would be empty. There were articles that hinted at George’s frequent infidelities, and a thinly veiled rumour in a society column that his death wasn’t an accident but had been orchestrated by his long-suffering wife.

  Dee searched various sites using several keywords but it appeared that nobody had ever been charged with the burglary and murder.

  ‘Interesting,’ Dee murmured. She reached for her tea, frowned to find it cold and got up to make another. She kept it in her hand, sipping as she read a
bout Gwen’s successful art gallery in Knightsbridge, reviews and praise from artists whose works she sold.

  On Google Maps, Dee found Beaufort Gardens and used the street view to have a look at the apartment where Gwen still lived despite the burglary and murder of her husband. From the outside, the apartment was stunning and Dee felt a quiver of envy.

  Gwen, by any and every account, was seriously wealthy. Dee brought up her photographs, enlarged them and examined every feature, every line; Gwen was older than Dee had expected but she had a certain elegance that might have appealed.

  Dee snorted a laugh. She knew exactly what had attracted Toby and it was nothing to do with the woman’s age or style.

  Switching off her laptop, she sat back and finished her tea. Reading about Gwen was something, but nothing could beat seeing someone in the flesh. She looked down at the rather scruffy chinos and T-shirt she was wearing. Not Knightsbridge clobber.

  * * *

  Two hours later, a light raspberry-coloured trench open over black trousers and T-shirt, Dee walked down Knightsbridge high street and pushed open the door of the gallery. She’d little interest in art and her eyebrows rose at the paintings that hung from the walls. No prices, she noticed.

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

  Dee turned to the woman she knew to be Gwen Marsham. In the flesh, she looked older, … closer perhaps to fifty than forty. Lines radiated from the corners of her eyes, two deeper creases between them making Dee wonder why the woman had not, with all her money, tried Botox.