Lies Love Tells (Eastcove Lies Book 1)

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘I never had you pegged as the PVC type.’ Mr Dry slipped an arm around my waist. ‘But I certainly won’t object.’

  Instantly, I regretted the angry impulse buy. I would never it wear it now, considering I’d had another man in mind to the one who had paid for it.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ Mr Dry unlocked the car.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to then?’

  ‘Want to what?’

  Mr Dry shook his head. His dark hair flopped with the movement. ‘I knew you weren’t listening. You’re in a strop.’

  ‘I am not,’ I replied huffily.

  Mr Dry looked at me oddly. ‘You’re exactly like her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Mr Dry stormed across the road, towards the beach.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The wind whipped my curls across my face. ‘You’ve unlocked the car!’

  Mr Dry stopped abruptly and I crashed into his chest. He pointed the key at his car and locked it again. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘I was only thinking of you.’ I straightened my jumper. ‘Anyone could’ve pinched it. What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking a walk on the beach.’

  ‘Now? It’s freezing.’

  Mr Dry dangled the key in front of my nose. ‘Wait in the car.’

  ‘No, I want to know what you’re talking about. You’re in a strop,’ I said smugly.

  Mr Dry shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Heavily, he descended the steps to the sand. I paused on the promenade and surveyed his strides to where waves crashed against rocks. With his back ram-rod straight, shoulders stiff against the breeze, he cut a grim, lonely figure against the grey skies. The sand was damp yet firm as I followed his footprints. Wind howled across the expanse of water, peppering my lips with salty sea spray. Mr Dry’s arm remained taut as I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow. Seagulls, undeterred by the swell of the waves, bobbed on the icy water, their white feathers brilliant against the murky day-old-tea-bag coloured sea.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Mr Dry began, his gaze fixed far from me. ‘Yet sometimes it seems as if it were only yesterday.’

  I held onto him, willing him to speak. I had questions but I sensed if I voiced them, he would close like an oyster with a precious pearl.

  ‘She was stunning. She had this untamed mass of gorgeous hair and when she smiled nothing else mattered.’ A smile ghosted his own lips briefly. The wind whipped his hair from his forehead, his dark eyes shut tight against the weather and presumably, to see the memories clearer. ‘We were together for three years before I finally asked her to marry me.’

  Unexpected jealousy bit at me and cold nipped my nose. ‘Did she leave you?’ I tried to stuff my cold hands into the small pockets in my jeans.

  Mr Dry withdrew his hands from his own pockets, turned to me and held my numb hands in his own, warm ones. His eyes glittered like flint underneath the heavy line of his brow. ‘No,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘Katy died.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was shocked.

  ‘She was murdered.’

  My jaw dropped. I couldn’t help it even though I knew I looked stupid.

  Mr Dry squeezed my hands tighter. ‘Like I said, it was a long time ago, almost thirteen years.’

  ‘How awful,’ I said sadly. ‘Why are you only telling me this now?’

  ‘When the police found her,’ Mr Dry continued, his face unreadable. ‘She was missing a finger. Her throat had been slit. She.’ He gulped. ‘Was missing flesh from her torso.’

  My heart thudded into my boots. ‘You think her murder’s linked to the recent murders? But Andrew murdered those girls.’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  Icy air stuck in my throat. ‘Do you think he murdered your fiancée all those years ago? He would have only been in his mid-twenties.’

  ‘What does his age matter? He was an adult, more than capable of overpowering a small woman. Her death disappeared under a veil of secrecy. I hope Andrew gets exactly what he deserves.’

  ‘Why a veil of secrecy?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘She was discovered in the last place you’d expect to find a murder victim.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A police cell.’

  ***

  Time To Fly.

  ‘No more,’ I told Daughter sternly as she selected another top from the rail and dropped it into the trolley Mr Dry was pushing. ‘You’ve already chosen two pairs of jeans, three tops, a pair of leggings, a scarf, and some pyjamas.’

  ‘But you’ve got loads!’ Daughter pointed in the supermarket trolley.

  ‘I haven’t,’ I replied hastily. The make-up, jeans, shirt, and knickers were necessities. As were the ankle boots and leather jacket. Absolutely, I needed them. ‘To the till. No more!’ I waggled my finger at Daughter who tried, unsuccessfully, to sneak in another item.

  Daughter protested. ‘You said this supermarket has really cheap clothes and you don’t know why we don’t shop here more often!’

  Oops, so I had. ‘Put it in then,’ I conceded. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A leather jacket like the one you chose.’

  The cashier exchanged pleasantries while he scanned through the items.

  ‘I’ll pay.’ Mr Dry offered his card.

  I pushed his hand away. ‘I don’t need you to. Thanks but no thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mr Dry slipped his card back into his wallet. ‘I offered and I meant it. I wanted to treat you both.’

  I smiled, through gritted teeth, while Daughter looked up in awe. ‘No thank you. I want to treat us. Go and look at the newspapers or something.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mr Dry sauntered off to the newspaper and magazine racks.

  The cashier coughed. ‘Two hundred and thirteen pounds.’

  I wondered if it was too late to accept Mr Dry’s offer.

  ‘Can I have this?’ Daughter fingered a magazine.

  Mr Dry passed her some coins. ‘You pay for it, your mother and I will wait for you.’

  I looked at Mr Dry thoughtfully. ‘One thing’s bugging me. How the hell did your fiancée’s body end up in a police cell, in the middle of a police station?’

  Mr Dry shrugged and his usually steadfast gaze flickered. ‘No idea but I was the one who found her.’

  ‘How? Why were you at the police station?’ I hooked my shopping bags over my arm and watched Daughter reach the front of the queue.

  ‘I was a police officer.’

  I gawped. ‘Is that why you’re not one anymore?’

  Mr Dry cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t have a choice. Too many people at the station believed me responsible.’ Mr Dry’s voice dropped. ‘The knife had my fingerprints on it.’

  ‘What knife?’

  ‘The one found rammed into her chest.’

  ‘Why did it have your prints on it?’ My voice rose. Daughter started to walk back towards us.

  Mr Dry’s black gaze fell on me. ‘Because I pulled the bloody thing out. I made a mistake.’

  Or, I thought, the mistake was telling me. Why had he suddenly told me? What if the police had the wrong man and Mr Him wasn’t the murderer? What if I was standing in a supermarket with the murderer and was still next on the list? Did it mean tonight was the night?

  Daughter skipped back to us.

  ‘Come on,’ I said brightly. ‘I need a wee.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Daughter’s head was already bent over her new magazine. ‘You go.’

  ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘I’m not a baby!’

  Mr Dry sighed heavily. ‘Make your bloody minds up and stop arguing in the middle of the shop.’

  ‘We’re going to the loo,’ I replied. ‘You wait in the car. We won’t be long.’

  ‘I don’t want the toilet. Can I go to the car?’ Daughter asked.

  ‘No. I want to buy a surprise,’ I cajoled.

  ‘For me?’ Mr Dry raised an eyebrow.

  I nodded frantically.

&n
bsp; Mr Dry chuckled. ‘I like port.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a surprise if you knew what it was, would it?’

  Mr Dry kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in the car.’

  I watched his tall frame leave the supermarket then traced his footsteps as far as the sliding doors to ensure he was out of sight. ‘Right,’ I said to Daughter. ‘Let’s go.’ I firmly took hold of her hand.

  ‘Where?’ Daughter half-walked, half-ran beside me as I tugged her in the direction of the other entrance.

  ‘Away from here,’ I replied grimly.

  ‘But this isn’t the way to the car park,’ she wailed.

  I stopped sharply. ‘How do you fancy a night in a hotel?’

  Daughter’s eyes widened. ‘I haven’t stayed in a hotel before.’

  ‘Well then, it’ll be a treat for you.’

  20:30

  We reached the top floor of the boutique hotel easily due to only having a handful of bags and the hotel only having two floors. The boudoir décor taunted my plastic bags with its opulence. Even the door to our suite was a muted gold. I swung it open and realised with a jolt of longing that it reminded me of my newly re-furnished rooms at home.

  Daughter charged inside. ‘Which room is mine?’

  I dropped the shopping bags on the floor and joined her in one of the bedrooms, where she was already clambering onto the bed. ‘This one, I suppose.’ I laughed.

  My phone beeped and vibrated in my handbag for what seemed the millionth time. Daughter laughed delightedly. I watched her bounce up and down, wondering where my own energy had disappeared to.

  ‘Just don’t leave the suite,’ I told her.

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised. She launched herself off the bed and switched the television on. ‘Look, films. Can I watch one?’

  ‘Sure.’ I smiled weakly, knowing it’d cost me more money. ‘I’ll order some food. Are you hungry?’

  Daughter, her eyes glued to the screen, nodded. ‘I want pizza, please.’

  20:45

  Before ordering pizza I made sure the door was firmly locked and tore my eye from the spy hole on the door leading to corridor. There was only one door opposite and I’d seen no-one since we arrived. I just couldn’t shake the unease from my aching shoulders.

  20:50

  My phone had twenty-three missed calls from Mr Dry and a text message:

  “Why are you doing this to me? Worried about you. Call me. Now.”

  The phone shook against my ear.

  ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ Mr Dry’s voice boomed. ‘I’ve been around the blasted shop four times. I almost punched the security guard when he wouldn’t let me look at their CCTV.’

  I didn’t answer, wondering if I had overreacted.

  ‘Is this because I hadn’t told you I used to work for the police?’

  ‘It’s because I don’t trust you.’

  ‘I didn’t exactly lie.’ Mr Dry sounded frustrated.

  ‘You never told me you’d been accused of murder. That’s a pretty big thing to omit. Did you go to court over it?’

  Mr Dry growled. ‘Does it matter?’

  I shivered although the room was warm. ‘That’s a yes. What was the outcome?’ I held my breath.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Were you or were you not found guilty of murder?’

  ‘Of course not. Come back to me immediately. I was worried sick.’

  I exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Forget it. I was suffering from depression at the time and seeing a counsellor. I had suspicions Katy wasn’t ready for marriage and I’d just been overlooked for a promotion which, I realise now, affected me a hell of a lot. It was, overall, a crappy time in my life.’

  ‘How awful,’ I consoled. ‘Then the love of your life was taken away from you before you had a chance to sort everything out. At least you were seeing a counsellor, which must’ve helped you cope with her death.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Mr Dry replied. ‘I stopped seeing her when Katy died.’

  ‘She must’ve helped in a roundabout way.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she did. Because of her I was only given ten years for manslaughter with diminished responsibility. It would’ve been life if she hadn’t given evidence at the trial.’

  The phone fell from my grasp. Ten years in prison? He had done it then. He must have.

  ***

  Hot Sweat Hotel.

  21:35

  I wriggled, squirmed, and tugged the PVC dress on before realising Daughter wanted me and there was no way I could remove the ridiculous dress in a hurry. I pulled my jeans and jumper back on over the top of the PVC, hoping I may actually lose a few pounds, shops sell those shiny exercise suits to lose weight after all.

  22:10

  Once Daughter was sound asleep in the bed in her room, I opened a half bottle of wine from the mini-bar. It probably wasn’t worth the nine pounds and ninety-nine pence price tag that came with it but beggars couldn’t be choosers. There were also teeny-bottles of vodka in the mini-sized-massively-overpriced-bar but I decided to try and ignore them.

  I wanted to speak to Mr Cool but was afraid to turn my phone back on in case Mr Dry had bugged it with a tracking device.

  What a ludicrous thought. Mr Dry was not a secret agent. But he used to be a police officer, who knew what contacts he had?

  22:31

  After removing all the vodka and a tub of peanuts from the mini-bar-moneymonster, I retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom, which was across the opposite side of the lounge area to the bedroom Daughter was asleep in. It was hot in the suite and I pulled off my jeans and jumper, too tipsy and too lazy to attempt to peel off the PVC dress.

  Mr Cool’s phone rung and rung before he finally picked up. ‘Hello?’ he asked sleepily.

  ‘Are you still in hospital?’

  He yawned. ‘No, we’re home. Darrelle forced me to eat chicken soup. She has me laid up in bed like an invalid. I’m not even allowed television.’

  ‘Are you in pain?’ I swallowed the contents of one of the mini-vodka-bottles and coughed.

  ‘A little but I’ll live. Darrelle has some hefty painkillers she acquired from somewhere and they seem to doing the trick. Are you coming to see me?’

  ‘Not now, no.’ I unscrewed the lid from the second mini-bottle.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about you. I can’t wait to see you.’ Mr Cool sounded a little spaced out.

  ‘You’ll have to wait. I can’t come over now, my daughter’s asleep and it’s too late to wake her up. I’ll be over in the morning as I promised.’

  ‘Have the police allowed you into your flat?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why don’t you come here? We’d love to have you both.’

  ‘No!’ I laughed. ‘It’s gone ten already. I’ve paid for a suite at the “Marcross”. I thought you’d have to spend the night in hospital.’

  Mr Cool let out an overdramatic sigh. ‘I understand. It’s been a trying time for you both. My bed’s empty without you. I want to feel your naked body against mine. Will you stay tomorrow night?’

  I replied I wasn’t sure and ended the call. Did I want to spend the night with Mr Cool, really spend the night? It sounded as if he was hoping for more than a cuddle and sleep. The trouble was I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be intimate with another man just yet.

  22:50

  After deciding I was growing decidedly light headed by the minute, I ordered coffee. Plus another half bottle of wine just in case the coffee didn’t taste very nice. In a moment of madness I took a snap of myself in the PVC dress in the mirror in the bedroom and text it to Mr Cool.

  Then realised what a stupid thing it was to have done but it was too late the picture had sent.

  To Mr Dry.

  The half bottle of wine couldn’t arrive fast enough.

  ***

  Saturday, 16th March 2013

  Coffee and Dry Whiskey.

  00:20

>   The corridor was refreshingly cool as I signed for the ordered coffee. ‘Did you have to personally grind the coffee beans?’ I demanded, hands on hips.

  The girl, a wisp of a young woman with rosy cheeks, smiled and lowered her eyes. ‘We’re a bit busy tonight, Mam.’

  ‘Mam?’ I echoed. ‘Do I really look like a “Mam”?’

  The young woman-girl-creature pushed the trolley inside of the suite. ‘No, sorry, Madam.’

  ‘I’m not that old either.’

  The woman-girl-creature cocked her head to one side. I envied her slender waist emphasised by the cut of her black trousers. She looked me up and down.

  ‘How old do you think I am?’ I demanded.

  The girl shook her pretty pony-tailed head. ‘I couldn’t comment.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘But,’ the girl said over her shoulder as she hurried away. ‘You’re a bit old to be wearing that dress.’

  With horror, I remembered I was still wearing the baby-pink PVC dress. Shamed, I wanted to creep under the duvet and hide my eaten-too-much-chocolate-thighs. I reached for the door handle and pushed but it wouldn’t open. I knocked but Daughter didn’t stir. I decided I had three options: I could keep banging on the door until Daughter answered; knock on the door opposite; or skulk down to reception and request another key.

  Tugging the hem of the dress down, I knocked on the opposite door. The hem sprung back up even shorter than before. My cheeks blazed and I stared at the floor as the door opened. A pair of suede, brown shoes appeared opposite my bare toes. A voice chuckled. I slowly worked my eyes up from the shoes, across used-wash denim jeans, over a white linen shirt and up to a laughing face.

  My knees wobbled, my legs feeling as if they had been replaced by spaghetti.

  Mr Dry yanked me inside by my trembling arms and slammed the door shut. ‘You’re not slipping through my fingers this time. I was worried sick about you.’

  ‘Open the door!’

  Mr Dry shook his head. ‘What so you can run away from me again? Not a chance.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’