The Lies He Told Page 15

  ‘May we come in.’

  I tried to get some sense of what they wanted, but although the older detective had kinder eyes, it was impossible to gauge from either of their expressions whether they were there with bad news or good. ‘Do I have a choice?’ I didn’t wait for an answer. Closing the door over, I slid the safety chain off and opened the door wide. ‘Come in then.’

  I wasn’t going to invite them further. I wrapped my arms across my chest and stuck my chin out.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so,’ DI Hopper said quietly, ‘You look like you could do with a cuppa.’ She shrugged. ‘To be honest, we’ve had an early start and coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

  I hesitated but being rude didn’t come naturally to me. ‘Coffee. Right, yes, of course.’ I walked ahead of them into the kitchen and busied myself making drinks while they stood looking on. I put the mugs on the breakfast bar rather than inviting them to sit at the table in what I hope they’d see as a subtle hint to drink their coffee and leave.

  ‘Have you heard from Toby?’ Hopper asked.

  My mouth was dry, my brain stalled. I blew on my coffee and slurped a mouthful, hoping it would both lubricate and jump-start. I could feel the two sets of sharp, assessing eyes weighing me up and tried to channel some of the tough veneer I gave to my fictional characters, raising an eyebrow before I answered. ‘No, I haven’t. But I didn’t expect to, really. We were done, there wouldn’t have been much point.’

  ‘You thought he might send you a forwarding address for wherever he did end up, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but he hasn’t.’

  Hopper frowned thoughtfully. ‘Maybe because he’s dead?’

  If the detective was hoping for a reaction from me, she was disappointed. I kept my eyes down and refused to comment.

  ‘I think you know he is, don’t you, Ms Eastwood?’

  I put my mug down on the counter with a snap, the coffee I’d barely touched slopping over the rim. ‘I know he’s dead to me, detective. Toby Carter milked me for everything he could get, then when he found a richer source to mine, he moved on. You’ve no idea how that made me feel.’

  ‘Angry, I’d guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But at myself for being such a gullible fool.’ My eyes were fixed on DI Hopper’s face so I was surprised when DS Collins spoke.

  ‘Nice little garden you have there.’

  I turned to see that the younger detective had moved to the French doors and was craning her neck to see the total area of the garden. ‘Looks like you’ve had some work done.’

  ‘Yes.’ I moved to a drawer, pulled it open and rummaged inside. ‘Here you go.’ I held a business card out. ‘If you’re so interested, here’s the gardener’s card.’

  Hopper took it. ‘Always worth knowing, thank you. Was it done recently?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’ I indicated the door with a tilt of my head. ‘Now, much as I’d love to stand here all day and talk about gardening, I really do have things to do.’

  I saw frustration in Collins’ eyes and knew she wanted to say more but Hopper put her mug down and nodded. ‘We’ll be off. Thanks for your time, Ms Eastwood.’

  I didn’t walk them out. When I heard the clunk of the front door, my shoulders slumped. I moved to stand where Collins stood and stared out over the garden.

  From there, the fuchsia looked to be in line.

  But I knew they weren’t. Someone… me… had moved them.

  40

  Dee

  Dee had no plan when she arrived outside Misty Eastwood’s home early that day. It was a bright sunny morning, too warm for the jacket she’d hurriedly pulled on. She took it off and carried it over one arm as she walked aimlessly up and down Myrtle Road. So far, she’d been unable to come up with a suitable plan to enact revenge on the woman she was convinced was responsible for Toby’s disappearance.

  She’d never considered the various women through the years as serious competitors for Toby. Not even Babs, despite the longer time he’d stayed with her. Six months. It had almost broken Dee but she knew it would end, that he would come back to her.

  It was the way he was. Fidelity wasn’t something he understood. A weak man, easily swayed by the shine and sparkle that came with money, but the novelty had always worn off and he’d come back to his true love. To the only woman he’d married, his wife, the mother of his child.

  Always, until Misty Eastwood. It didn’t matter that it appeared he’d decided to move on from her, it was she who had broken the strings that bound Toby to Dee despite everything. The writer had probably talked him into it using silky words to spin a new life for them both, lavishing money on him, always something more twinkly and shiny to keep his attention.

  It was almost amusing that she’d taught him too well, that he’d moved on when he found someone who could provide even more glitter.

  Bored with staring at Misty’s house, Dee sat on a garden wall to rest. Unable to think of any riveting plan, she was about to leave when she saw two people she recognised walk up the street. It was instinct to duck behind a pillar, eyes narrowing as she watched them approach Misty’s front door.

  They were persistent, ringing the doorbell for far longer than was polite. One, the detective with the painted face, was more impatient and strode off to the side entrance, returning a moment later and gesticulating to the other detective.

  Dee cocked her ear in a vain attempt to hear what they were saying. She guessed the younger detective had wanted to go around the back, but the older one – Hopper, Dee remembered her name because it was unusual – she shook her head.

  They rang the doorbell again and their persistence paid off, the front door opened and they vanished inside.

  They must be there to talk about Toby. Dee felt a quiver of irritation that she was left out of the conversation. Toby was her husband. Hers.

  Irritation made her brave. After a glance up and down the street, she sidled up to Misty’s front door, then scooted down to peer over the ledge of the front-room window. But Dee was out of luck. It was empty.

  With another glance up and down the street, and a moment’s delay to allow a car to pass, she bent down and carefully pushed open the letterbox. She could see straight ahead to where a door opened into a back room. Twisting her head, she held her ear to the opening and listened to the faint murmur of voices that drifted towards her, holding her breath to try to catch the words.

  Unable to hear anything, she pulled back and walked to the side of the house as the detective had done. There was nothing to be seen except the wooden gate that shut the garden from view. Giving up, Dee retreated across the street to the same pillar she’d stood behind earlier and waited.

  It wasn’t a long wait. The front door opened and the two detectives came out, their expressions giving nothing away.

  There was no sign of Misty.

  Myrtle Road wasn’t wide and the pillar was almost directly opposite. Had Dee stepped out, the detectives would have seen her immediately.

  They had no reason to believe anyone was watching… and listening. Hopper’s voice was quiet, inaudible, but the other, her voice was gratingly harsh, satisfyingly loud, her words shocking. ‘I’m telling you, Bev, I feel it in my gut. Toby Carter is dead and Eastwood had a hand in it.’

  Dee swayed and grabbed onto the pillar with one hand as she shoved the side of the other into her mouth, biting down hard to prevent the cry of anguish escaping.

  41

  Misty

  I stood staring out at the garden.

  The older detective had seemed sympathetic and I’d been within a hair’s breadth of telling her the worrying thoughts that were running through my head, was actually framing the words to say when I realised I was falling for the oldest trick in the book… the old good cop/bad cop routine beloved of every crime show I’d ever seen. I’d used it myself in my books, for goodness’ sake, and I’d almost fallen for it.

  Gullible. My sisters were so right. I was so damn gullible.
I’d fallen for Toby’s blatant charms and now here I was falling for the detectives’ less than subtle attempt to force me to confess.

  Confess.

  I was locked in a cycle of doubt about what had happened, what I’d done. Had I really thrown the heavy glass paperweight at Toby and killed him?

  His words had seared me, unexpected and devastating. Had they been enough to drive me to a violent act that was against everything I believed myself to be. And having done such a deed, was I then capable of following it through?

  Was there a darkness inside that I’d never acknowledged except to dip into for the sick, twisted, wicked characters I wrote in my books? Maybe there was, maybe it was why readers said these characters were so scary, so real.

  I unlocked the French doors and stepped outside. There was one sure way of finding out if I had done such a terrible thing. If I’d really dragged his body down the stairs and buried him.

  I could dig.

  The thought sent shivers through me that sent me stumbling back into the house, shutting and locking the door and flinging the key across the room.

  I sat at the table and rested my head on my crossed arms. Exhaustion pressed me down and I might have fallen into a desperately needed sleep if the doorbell hadn’t rung, followed by a hammering of the knocker.

  Those blasted detectives had obviously thought of something else to ask me. Well, to hell with them, I wasn’t moving.

  But the hammering and ringing continued. This time, I decided as I got to my feet, they weren’t coming inside.

  The safety chain hadn’t been replaced but I wasn’t expecting a problem and opened the door. It was immediately pushed in with a force that shocked me. I squealed in fright when instead of the two detectives I’d expected, I saw teeth bared in a rictus of anger. There was no time to see more, no time to speak, I was grabbed, slapped, punched and my hair yanked by a force that growled and muttered.

  I fell to the floor under the onslaught. This couldn’t be happening to me again. I tried to fight back, tried to push the other woman off so I could get away, but once again, anger fuelled my attacker. ‘Stop, please stop,’ I shrieked, trying to get through to her. There was no let up. Desperation curled me into a ball, my hands wrapping over my head.

  Last time, Toby had come to my rescue. He wouldn’t be coming now.

  The pummelling increased in strength; each blow accompanied by a single guttural, ‘Murderer.’

  Another blow.

  ‘Murderer.’

  Then several blows in quick succession. ‘You murdered my husband, my Toby.’

  ‘No,’ I cried out. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t, it was an accident, I never meant to kill him.’ I curled tighter as the blows continued. ‘It was an accident.’ I said it repeatedly even when the blows had stopped. And when I dared uncurl a little, I said it again. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him; it was an accident.’

  I uncurled completely on the last word and looked straight into DI Hopper’s eyes.

  42

  Misty

  I could feel blood oozing from my split lip and pain everywhere the crazy woman’s tight fist had jabbed.

  ‘Can you stand?’ Hopper asked and when I nodded, she indicated the open door to the living room. ‘Get yourself inside.’

  I struggled to my feet and stumbled past as the two detectives tried to restrain the still-snarling woman.

  ‘She murdered Toby.’ A foot connected with my thigh making me wince and move faster to the safety of the room where I collapsed onto the sofa.

  ‘If she did, we’ll get her for it, okay?’ Hopper said. ‘Meanwhile, you’re under arrest for assault. Calm down, Dee, or I’ll add resisting arrest to that.’

  Whether it was Hopper’s words, or exhaustion from the attack, the woman… and I suddenly realised she must be Toby’s wife… stopped shouting. It seemed unbelievable that I should have been beaten up on two separate occasions by ex-lovers of my ex-boyfriend. It was the stuff of bad movies, or dreadful novels. I dabbed at my cut lip with the edge of my kaftan and eyed the bloody marks on the material as if they were medals of honour for surviving the attack.

  I rested my head back and listened to what was going on in the hallway, feeling distant from it all. Shock, I supposed.

  DS Collins read the woman her rights, then Hopper’s firm voice said: ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to ring for a squad car to take you into the station where you’ll be charged. Get yourself a good solicitor and you’ll probably be out on bail in a few hours.’

  I couldn’t hear the murmured reply.

  ‘Meanwhile, if Ms Eastwood is up to it after your attack, we’ll see what she has to say about Toby’s disappearance.’

  This time, I could hear every word Toby’s wife said. ‘Murder. You heard her saying she killed him. She said it. She’s a murderer.’

  The final word was barely audible as if anger had given way to a sorrowful acceptance of loss. Acceptance was ahead of me now.

  I was a murderer.

  43

  Misty

  Everything hurt. I pressed my fingers gently against my cheekbone. I didn’t think it was broken but it was already starting to swell. I hoped they’d good doctors in prison.

  Prison.

  All my doubts had faded. I still couldn’t remember what happened that evening when Toby left but it seemed clear now that I had killed him.

  I’d done research for a book I was writing years before about a character who’d experienced a fugue state – that pathological state of altered consciousness where a person can do something but have no recollection of it after the event. It could be caused, I remember reading, by a traumatic event.

  Did being dumped without notice by a man you were living with classify as a traumatic event?

  Was that what had happened?

  The only evidence I had to support it was the glass paperweight being on the floor instead of where it should have been, some fuchsia bushes out of alignment, and my confused, twisted thoughts.

  I wondered about ringing my sisters. They’d come, of course, with eyes full of compassion and hearts filled with love. That was who they were. Solid, decent people. What would they think about their sister now.

  Their sister the murderer.

  I held my hand over my mouth. I’d go to prison. Lose everything I had, everything I was, destroy my life, my sisters’ lives, everyone would be affected by a period of madness I couldn’t recollect.

  Other voices came from outside. The wife… what had that detective called her? Dee? She’d be taken away, charged with something or other. I wouldn’t have to face her again. Wouldn’t have to see her sorrow and know I was to blame.

  More voices drifted through, deeper male voices this time, followed by the front door shutting. Then the living-room door opened and the two detectives came in, their faces set into grim lines.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the older woman asked. She was more sympathetic than her partner, with eyes that said she understood.

  Maybe she did. ‘Bruised, sore, a bit shocked but nothing is broken.’

  They sat opposite and stared at me with a certain amount of fascination, as if I’d performed a party trick and they wondered if I was going to do it again.

  ‘DS Collins is going to read you your rights before you say anything, okay?’

  I nodded and listened, muttering yes when asked if I understood.

  ‘You have the right to have a solicitor present, if you’d prefer to wait,’ Hopper said.

  ‘No, that’s all right.’ I was weary. There was time enough for talking to solicitors. After the reality had sunk in, after I’d accepted I was a murderer.

  ‘Will you tell us what happened?’

  I was almost tempted to say I’d opened the front door and the woman had attacked me but I didn’t have the energy for games. ‘I was writing, Toby came in, he had his bags with him and he said…’ I could still remember how handsome he’d looked standing in the doorway, how my heart had leapt at th
e sight of him. And the words. ‘He said he didn’t love me anymore and was leaving.’

  That was the bit I could remember. ‘Then I must have thrown a glass paperweight at him–’

  Hopper held up her hand to interrupt. ‘You must have? What do you mean you must have?’

  I felt a bubble of blood build up on my cut lip and lifted the sleeve of my kaftan to dab at it again. But it was serous fluid this time. Already my body was responding the way it should, a healing process that only death could stop.

  ‘I don’t remember anything after what he said really–’

  This time it was Collins who lifted her hand. ‘You said you watched him walk down the street, a bag in each hand.’

  ‘I lied. I didn’t want to appear completely pathetic and say I’d fallen to pieces when he’d gone.’

  ‘Okay, tell us what you do remember,’ Hopper said.

  ‘I remember finishing the book I was writing. It was much later than I’d expected but often I get lost when I’m writing so I didn’t think much of it. The glass paperweight is usually beside my computer but next day it was on the floor near the door. I don’t remember how it got there but now–’ I lifted my hands and dropped them helplessly into my lap. ‘–I think I might have thrown it at him.

  ‘Then, yesterday, I had the oddest thought.’ I looked from one detective to the other. ‘I thought that I’d killed Toby and buried him in the garden. The psychological thrillers I write are full of twists and turns, and the seedy, wicked side of people, and I thought I was simply projecting my stories into my life – you know, blurring the lines between fact and fiction.’

  I stopped, slumping back on the sofa. ‘Now I know it’s true. I murdered him.’

  ‘You told Dee that you’d accidently killed him,’ Hopper said. ‘If you had thrown the paperweight in your distress and it hit and killed him, that would absolutely have been an accident.’