The Lies He Told Read online

  ‘No idea. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t have answered.’ I was tired, a yawn fighting to be released. I wondered, after all, whether I should mention that Babs had been outside the house the night before.

  But there was a sceptical light in the detective inspector’s eyes: if she didn’t believe I’d seen Toby, telling her that I’d seen his violent ex-girlfriend, in more or less the same place, might convince her I was paranoid.

  17

  Gwen

  Gwen was having a satisfying morning with the sale of an expensive and hideously ugly painting to a man who had, thankfully for the gallery, more money than taste. It was a painting she’d been trying to persuade the obstinate artist to remove from the gallery for several weeks insisting it wouldn’t ever sell, so she was delighted for him and for the gallery finances to be proven wrong.

  ‘It’s sublime.’ The man was staring at it as Gwen was hastily writing out an invoice, wanting to get the deal completed before he changed his mind. She felt no guilt. She’d tried to lure the man towards more aesthetically pleasing work to no avail. Short of telling him that he had no taste and that the piece he was buying was terrible she couldn’t have done more. Business, after all, was business. And, as she kept reminding herself, it wasn’t her role to press her taste on the customers.

  The man was droning on. ‘It’s really an amazing piece, isn’t it? It aims at a void that seems to signify precisely the non-being of what it represents.’ He must have taken Gwen’s blank expression as acquiescence. ‘It subverts the aesthetic norm, doesn’t it?’

  Looking across to where the picture stood on a dais, Gwen smiled, pleased to be able to sincerely agree with this final comment. ‘Yes, it does that extremely well.’

  She slid the invoice across the desk, two fingers of her other hand crossed under it. But he barely glanced at it before he shoved it into his pocket and reached inside his jacket for his wallet.

  Gwen took the proffered credit card and started the process, handing the card reader over for him to input his PIN number. A tinkle as the gallery door opened drew her attention to the two official types who entered. Her eyes flicked from them to the man… was this it? He’d escaped from somewhere. An institute of some sort? It explained everything. She sighed, expecting the credit card to be declined, surprised when it went through without delay.

  He took his card back and continued to extoll the artistic merits of the painting he’d bought. She answered monosyllabically as her eyes flicked restlessly to the two people who’d moved to stand in a corner. It was second nature to assess each customer, to gauge whether they were serious buyers, browsers, or simply time-wasters. The two women didn’t sit comfortably in any of these categories. An odd couple: the taller of the two looked faded and worn next to the over- and badly made-up woman who stood inches away. Their trouser suits lacked style and the taller woman looked as if she cut her own hair but it was their hard cold expressions that singled them out as not being her usual visitors.

  It took a few minutes to wrap the painting, the new owner fussing over it as he ensured his purchase would be safe during the transfer. Finally, it was done to his satisfaction and he stood back. It wasn’t heavy, but it was awkward and cumbersome, and after lifting and putting it down several times he agreed to do what Gwen had suggested from the start and have it delivered.

  Another five minutes of paperwork and the customer was heading out the door with a satisfied smile.

  Gwen moved the wrapped painting to a back room before crossing the gallery floor. The grim, fixed expressions on the two women didn’t alter as she approached.

  Used to dealing with the public, in all their many guises, Gwen was able to hold her smile in the face of their rather intimidating stares. ‘Can I help you?’ Her smile faded when the older of the two held identification forward.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hopper, and this–’ She indicated the heavily made-up woman beside her. ‘–is DS Collins. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Gwen swallowed. The police. It had to be Toby. She pointed to the front door. ‘I’ll put the closed sign up and we can talk here.’

  The sign was changed and the catch on the door released, Gwen’s fingers fumbling as she did both, conscious of the eyes that followed her. She turned and waved to the desk at the back of the gallery. ‘Let’s sit and you can tell me what this is all about.’

  Gwen sat behind the desk, her forearms resting on the arms of the chair, manicured fingers dangling. Relaxed, professional, efficient: it was the impression she liked to give her customers to convince them she was reliable, that she’d only ever tell the truth.

  ‘Toby Carter,’ DI Hopper said without elaborating.

  Gwen wondered what reaction the detectives expected. Surprise? Shock? Was she supposed to wail? She did nothing but sit and wait, her eyes unwavering.

  ‘His wife has reported him missing.’

  ‘His wife?’ Gwen concentrated on keeping her pose relaxed, spreading her fingers to stop them curling into fists. ‘I didn’t realise he was married.’

  ‘Neither did his other girlfriend.’

  ‘It seems Toby was rather selective with the truth.’

  Hopper raised an eyebrow. ‘We spoke to Misty Eastwood earlier. I’d say Toby Carter was a whopping liar myself.’

  ‘It’s deemed poor form to speak ill of–’ Gwen stopped abruptly and her hands gripped the edges of the armrests.

  ‘Of the dead? Was that what you were going to say?’ Hopper leaned over the desk, reducing the distance between them. ‘Now why would you say that?’

  Gwen released her grip and took a breath. She needed to be careful. ‘You’ve been speaking to Misty Eastwood so you’ll know that he was leaving her to be with me on Saturday but he never turned up. It’s a sad but logical conclusion that something happened to prevent his arrival. This is London… bad things happen to people all the time. Misty hasn’t heard from him, I’ve not heard from him, ergo my remark.’

  Hopper sat back but her expression said clearly that she wasn’t convinced. ‘Tell us about your relationship with Mr Carter.’

  Gwen blew a noisy exclamation of frustration. ‘As I’m sure you already know from Ms Eastwood, my relationship with Toby was built on a foundation of lies. He’d told me he was living with his sister, pah!’ That was all she needed to tell them.

  But it wasn’t enough for the detective inspector who leaned forward again, her eyes fixed on Gwen’s face. ‘Mr Carter has history of being… let’s call it high maintenance… was that your experience?’

  ‘He liked nice restaurants, expensive wine.’ Gwen shrugged. ‘I’ve plenty of money, it didn’t bother me paying for things.’

  ‘For everything?’ Hopper pushed.

  Gwen forced a laugh. ‘Toby and I were only together for a little more than two weeks, detective inspector, there was only so much I could pay for in that period, especially since I believed he was rushing home to be with his unstable sister.’

  ‘You must have been upset when he didn’t turn up as promised,’ DS Collins said.

  Gwen turned to look at the younger detective who up to then had sat quietly. Really someone should tell her not to wear so much make-up or at least advise her how to use it correctly and blend that unseemly line along her jaw. ‘But you know nothing about me do you?’ She held the detective’s gaze for a second before looking back to the inspector. ‘I don’t invite men to move in with me on a whim. I’d given it some thought. I thought he had too.’

  ‘You knew him such a short time.’ Hopper held her hands up as if in apology. ‘That sounds very much like a whim to me.’

  Gwen lifted her chin and met the detective’s gaze without wavering. ‘Well, it wasn’t, it was a considered risk.’ She tilted her head a little. ‘One, as it happens, that didn’t work out. To be trite, that’s life.’

  ‘You seem very philosophic about it yet you went to Ms Eastwood’s house trying to find him.’

  ‘What? Did you think I’d gone to thro
w myself at his feet and beg him to come with me? I’m forty, not twenty, inspector. At heart, I’m a businesswoman. I’d obviously miscalculated and I was interested in knowing why, that’s all. I’d do the same in any business deal.’ Gwen waved a hand around the gallery. ‘If a sale falls through or a customer changes their mind, I investigate to see why, learn from the experience and move on.’

  She sounded good. Cool. In control. Nobody need ever know how stupid she’d been. She’d get rid of his belongings and it would be as if Toby had never existed.

  18

  Gwen

  When DI Hopper said she’d no further questions and got to her feet, Gwen struggled to hide her relief. Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk as the two detectives crossed the gallery to the exit. Even after they’d departed, she maintained a cool, confident façade and stayed where she was, afraid they’d come back, knowing if they did, she would fall apart and let it all out.

  Hoping that no customer would come in while she locked the storeroom and grabbed her bag, she put the alarm on and left the building. The gallery was only a ten-minute walk from her apartment. Normally, she took her time, enjoying the walk through an area she loved but today her feet sped along the path, her focus on getting home.

  The police had never mentioned calling to her apartment but she couldn’t take a risk that they would. She’d brought one of the boxes of clothes to the recycling area the previous night, she needed to get rid of the other.

  She stopped in her apartment only long enough to change from her gallery-appropriate clothes to casual trousers, a T-shirt, and flat shoes. The second box was a little heavier than the previous one. She balanced it against her chest with a grunt and wondered about taking the car, deciding it was quicker to walk the short distance than to negotiate the one-way streets and London traffic.

  It was rare to see anyone coming in or out of her building and that day was no exception. The road outside was quiet, too, and she hurried along, shifting the bulky box in her arms as she walked.

  She was puffing by the time she reached the recycling bin in the grounds of a local supermarket, her arms ached and she regretted her decision not to have taken the car. The bin was situated to the back of the car park. Often packed to overflowing, Gwen was in luck and there weren’t bags of clothes oozing from it. Had there been, she’d have had no compunction, she’d have pulled them out to make space for Toby’s clothes. She put the box on the ground and tore away the tape she’d used to fasten it. The hatch of the recycling bin, heavy and stiff, was a two-hand job. She gripped and pulled it open, emptied half the contents of the box into it, slammed it shut to empty it and opened it again. The second go finished the job and she slammed the hatch shut with a satisfied grunt.

  The recycling bin for cardboard was full. With a glance around, she flattened the box, laid it on top, then dusted her hands and walked away.

  Physically and emotionally lighter, she headed home convinced that her part was done and she could put it all behind her.

  Gwen was always good at fooling herself. She’d had a lot of practice.

  Plus, unfortunately, a lot of experience in dealing with men who let her down.

  19

  Babs

  Babs was watching TV when her doorbell buzzed. She didn’t move. People frequently rang the wrong bell by accident or sometimes kids, thinking it was hilarious to disturb people, would press all the bells and run away giggling their silly heads off.

  She didn’t move when it rang the second time either, this time because she simply couldn’t be bothered.

  It wasn’t until the third buzz that she got to her feet and crossed to the intercom. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s the police, Ms Sanderson, DI Hopper and DS Collins. We’d like to have a word with you about Toby Carter.’

  Babs’ ragged breath fogged the stainless-steel surround of the intercom. The police. Why had she answered the buzzer? Too late now. Refusing them entry would simply make them suspicious. ‘Come on up, fourth floor. Apartment twelve.’ They’d rung her bell, so they already knew this. How much more did they know about her? That she was off work… but did they know why?

  She hovered at the apartment door, waiting for the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor of the corridor outside. It would take them a few minutes, the lift was old and slow. She took deep relaxing breaths, slowing her heartbeat down, easing some of the tension.

  What would they think when they saw her? She brushed her fringe back in what she knew was a vain attempt to hide the dark track line along the parting of her dyed blonde hair. They were looking for Toby… had they met his other women: his wife, that writer woman, the elegant Gwen? Would they wonder at his poor taste when it came to Babs? All the money she’d spent on turning herself from a plain plump woman to a woman someone like him would be interested in… the expensive haircuts, designer clothes, carefully applied make-up… it had been worth it but she couldn’t keep it up.

  She’d sold the designer clothes for less than a tenth of what she’d paid for them. It stopped her electricity being cut off. It hadn’t paid for a hairdresser. There wasn’t even enough for a supermarket colour, not if she wanted to eat.

  A loud knock shook her out of the spiral of self-pity she so easily slipped into and with a neutral expression in place, she opened the apartment door.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hopper.’ The detective held identification forward. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Collins. May we come in?’

  Babs gave their cards a cursory glance. ‘Sure, why not.’ She stood to one side and waved them in. ‘D’you want a drink? Water or tea. No coffee, I’m afraid. I’m out.’ Out and she couldn’t afford to buy more.

  She flopped back onto the seat in front of the TV, reaching for the remote to freeze the programme. She hoped they’d see it as a hint that she didn’t expect them to stay long. ‘You can sit, if you like.’

  Hopper sat on the sofa Babs indicated, Collins deciding to remain standing.

  ‘Toby Carter appears to have gone missing,’ Hopper said. ‘Do you know his whereabouts?’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘Yes. He’s not been to work for a few days and they’ve not been able to contact him.’

  ‘Did they report him missing?’

  ‘No, his wife did.’ When Babs didn’t comment, Hopper added, ‘You knew he was married?’

  ‘Of course. He didn’t keep secrets from me. But it was over between them years ago.’

  ‘And you and Mr Carter were together for how long?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Six months? We were told you were together for longer, for four years.’

  ‘Really?’ Babs raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, detective inspector, but I think I should know, don’t you?’

  DI Hopper’s lips tightened. ‘Right, six months, then he left you for another woman.’

  Babs couldn’t prevent her face twisting into lines of anger. ‘That woman! Sells herself as a successful writer. Ha, she’s nothing but a slut who writes trash and uses slippery words to lure a man away. Women like her…’ Babs shook her head as if to say that said it all.

  ‘Not men like him?’ Collins said with heavy sarcasm.

  Hopper darted a shut-up look at her but Babs wasn’t letting it go. ‘You’ve made up your mind about him, have you, and you’ve never even met him. You’ve made up your mind that Toby Carter was a gigolo, a leech, a blood-sucking monster who would always find one more vulnerable woman to prey on. You have no idea.’

  Hopper shuffled in her seat drawing Babs’ attention back to her. ‘Our job is to find Mr Carter, not criticise him or condemn his morals. We’re interviewing the people who knew him, trying to get a sense of who he was in the hope it might lead us to find out what happened to him. You seem to be critical of Ms Eastwood and I’d like to know why.’

  Babs looked at Hopper. The older detective appeared more sympathetic or was that what she was supposed to think. Was this a versio
n of the good cop/bad cop routine beloved of the traditional detective series she’d been binge-watching for the last few days? How could she explain her obsession to these two strong women? Once, Babs had been as strong. Her forehead creased in a frown as she tried to remember when that had changed, the very moment when everything altered…

  20

  Babs

  Babs hadn’t lied to the police, she’d only been with Toby for six months; she’d not lied to that writer slut, Misty Eastwood, either. Babs had known Toby for four years. He hadn’t, however, known her for the same length of time.

  * * *

  Three and a half years before they’d officially met, Babs had gone into the waiting room of the private clinic where she worked as a physiotherapist. She was looking for coffee, she found something better.

  Toby Carter was sitting staring into space, a folded newspaper in one hand, the other tapping on the arm of the chair in time to music he was listening to on headphones. His head, too, was gently bobbing along to the unheard beat and a lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. The sleeves of his plain white shirt were rolled up to show off glowing, tanned, muscular arms, dark, curling chest hair visible at the v of the open neck. He glanced her way, vivid blue eyes sliding over her before returning to stare at the ceiling.

  That one sight was enough to start a fixation that had led her to where she was now. She’d left the waiting room without her coffee and gone to the reception desk. It wasn’t unusual for her to check the list of clients due in over the day so it caused no raised eyebrows as she flicked down the page. There was no male client expected until later that day so the man had to be waiting for someone.

  Reaching for a piece of scrap paper, she scribbled down the names of the clients who were currently having treatment and returned to her office where she switched on her computer. It took only a few minutes, quickly ruling out three out of the four on her list. Dee Carter was having minor surgery. Her next of kin was listed as Toby Carter. Babs wrote down their home address and tucked it into her pocket.