Lies Love Tells (Eastcove Lies Book 1)

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘I thought this was your game. You tell me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You made me buy you the dress. You left me in the supermarket and teased me with a photo of the sexy outfit, thereby provoking me into finding you. Here I am and,’ he said, smiling with his lopsided smile. ‘I must say how much better you look in reality.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ I glanced around the suite, but like the one Daughter was still in, there was only one exit and Mr Dry filled the space between me and freedom.

  Mr Dry tut-tutted. ‘Use your brain, Saze. How do you think I knew?’

  ‘You followed me?’

  Mr Dry shook his head. ‘Wrong.’

  ‘You bugged my phone?’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘My daughter,’ I said. ‘Is alone. I’m sure that’s not even legal.’

  ‘My sister is, at this precise moment, looking after her,’ Mr Dry replied, ‘There’s no need to rush back. We have all night.’

  ‘What?’ I screamed hysterically. ‘How the hell is your sister able to get into MY hotel room?’

  ‘I thought I’d told you.’ Mr Dry laughed infuriatingly. ‘Sally owns this hotel.’ He stood against the door with his arms folded across his broad chest. ‘Ask me then,’ he said brusquely.

  Thoughts of escaping through a window crossed my mind before I remembered they only opened a crack. ‘Ask you what?’ I wondered if I would be able to rugby tackle him to the floor.

  ‘Any of the ten thousand questions in that mixed-up head of yours.’

  ‘Did you kill your fiancée?’

  ‘You already know about that.’

  ‘That’s a yes then.’

  ‘No, it’s not a yes.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Don’t start putting words in my mouth.’

  Strangely, I felt calm standing before Mr Dry. Heavy, dark eyebrows framed his glittering, coal-black eyes and his strong, tense jaw pulsed with the clenching of his teeth. Attempting to buy myself some alone time I said, ‘I need the toilet.’

  ‘I’ll accompany you.’ Mr Dry strode to me and roughly grasped my elbow. ‘Can’t have you trying to sneak away from me. Again.’

  ‘Do you really have to watch?’ I struggled to pull down the ridiculous dress after using the toilet. I tried wriggling it over my stomach.

  ‘Let me help.’ Mr Dry reached for the dress and I instinctively shrank away from him. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said softly. ‘Lift your arms up and take it off, I’ll give you a dressing-gown.’

  Hesitantly I lifted my arms into the air and allowed Mr Dry an attempt at relieving me of the stupid thing. He tugged at it until it became stuck across my chest, the PVC acting like shrink-wrap across my upper body which left my arms stuck up in the air and me blindfolded.

  Mr Dry growled. ‘Maybe I should leave you like this.’ He tugged at the dress again and swore. ‘I’ll find something to cut the blasted thing off of you.’

  I heard him moving things around in another room and edged cautiously forward before his hands were suddenly on me again.

  ‘I’ll have to cut you free so keep still. I don’t want to cut you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I promised through the layer of PVC covering my face. ‘I don’t want you to cut me either.’

  Mr Dry snipped away and eased the damp PVC from my clammy body. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself.

  ‘What a waste of nigh on fifty pounds. Here.’ He handed me a hotel dressing-gown. ‘Drink?’ He gestured to the lounge area and pointed to a chair.

  I grabbed the dressing-gown and hurriedly wrapped it around myself. On shaky legs I remained standing and shook my head. ‘No, I am going back to my daughter.’

  Mr Dry poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to me regardless. ‘I can’t let you do that.’ He loomed over me and heavily dropped a hand on my shoulder. ‘I can’t let you go. You do see that?’ He lifted my glass to my mouth and I obediently sipped. It felt hot as it travelled down my throat. ‘You’re too special,’ he continued. ‘You’re the one.’

  ‘The one?’ I echoed, drinking from the glass as he raised it again to my lips.

  ‘The one I’ve been looking for.’

  My head started to swim. ‘Why me? Am I more special than any other woman?’

  ‘Of course you are. Why do you think seeing you with the headteacher tosser made me crazy?’ Mr Dry stroked the side of my face gently and my head lolled, I tried to lift it back up but it felt too heavy. I became aware I was drooling as my eyelids closed.

  It was pitch black when I awoke. My head was fit to burst and it hurt to blink. My tongue stuck fuzzily to the roof of my mouth. I eased myself up and felt around; it was soft, a bed. My legs were clumsy as I swung them over the side.

  ‘You’re awake.’ The room suddenly flooded with artificial light.

  I shielded my eyes from the harsh overhead bulb. The room was white walled and a single chair, in which sat Mr Dry, faced the bed. A lamp stood on a lone bedside cabinet. ‘How did I get here to your house?’ My voice was croaky.

  ‘I brought you here to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I shivered even though the room was warm. With bare feet I felt exposed.

  ‘I told you,’ Mr Dry replied patiently. ‘You’re the one.’

  My fuddled brain whirred into action. ‘You’re in love me?’

  Mr Dry nodded. ‘You should have realised.’

  ‘And you’re only doing this because you’re in love with me?’

  Mr Dry nodded again.

  ‘Then I’m grateful.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back and hoped I had said the right thing.

  Mr Dry smiled lopsidedly. ‘Can I kiss you now?’

  I patted the bed. ‘Can you come to me? I feel a little dizzy.’

  Mr Dry unfolded his long legs and rose. ‘I slipped something into your whiskey. Do you forgive me?’

  I tipped my mouth towards his.

  His lips gently teased mine.

  ‘You’re such a good kisser,’ I murmured regretfully as I slowly slid my hand across the bedside cabinet, furled my fingers securely around the lamp base and swiftly yanked it from the cabinet, clunking it over Mr Dry’s head before he could stop me.

  His eyes widened as the ceramic made contact with bone, then dimmed, and he fell face first into the soft duvet. Crimson seeped from his head, soaking into the white material. I poked him nervously, relieved when there was no response. I ran my hands over his jeans pockets until I located his mobile phone and cautiously eased it free.

  Fleeing from the bedroom I sped down the stairs, two at a time, to the front door. It was locked and the key missing. I ran to the back door but it too was locked and minus a key. In a panic I tried the windows but their keys had also vanished. I searched the lounge, desperately pulling books from shelves and cushions from the sofa. Despairingly I turned my attention to the kitchen. In my frenzied bid for freedom I rifled through the cutlery drawers, through cupboards where the dislodged pots and pans clattered to the floor. My toes bled from being struck by falling crockery, my hair grew wild in sympathy for my mood. I realised Mr Dry must have the keys somewhere on his person, which meant returning back upstairs and searching his unconscious body more fully.

  I paused at the bottom of the stairs. There was not a sound to be heard other than my own heavy breathing. I punched in the numbers to Mr Cool’s mobile phone as I tiptoed up the stairs. It seemed an eternity of ringing before Mr Cool sleepily murmured hello.

  ‘Help,’ I whispered. ‘He’s crazy, he’ll kill me.’

  ‘Saze?’ Mr Cool yawned.

  ‘He’s the murderer,’ I hissed. I stopped as a stair creaked under my foot.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mr Cool. ‘The police have the murderer. Andrew.’

  I continued up the stairs. ‘No! He’s not the murderer!’ I forgot to whisper, hysteria taking over. From the top of the stairs I could see into the bedroom and my heart stopped.

  A crimson a
rc was all that occupied the bed.

  It felt like my heart fell clean through my ribcage. ‘You have to get me out of here. I’m going to die!’

  ‘Where are you?’ Mr Cool shouted.

  I heard a creak from the stairs behind me and span around. The staircase was empty. The bedroom; empty. I jumped; the phone shot out of my hand and bounced on the thick carpet.

  Mr Dry stood before me with a dark look on his face. Wet blood shone from his dark hair, tracks of it staining his temple.

  ‘That was a very silly thing to do,’ he said slowly. I crept backwards until I felt the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, crawling towards the fallen phone. I could just about hear Mr Cool’s cries coming from the speaker.

  ‘The police have the wrong man!’ I screamed.

  Mr Dry swooped on the phone, lifting it far from my cowering reach and ended the call. ‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘They do. It didn’t have to be this way. Why do you always have to be so bloody stubborn? I was going to call my sister so you could talk to your daughter.’

  I kicked and screamed as Mr Dry wrenched me from the floor and flung me over his shoulder. He carried me back to the bedroom, oblivious to my struggling. My head bumped on the door frame.

  ‘No!’ I kicked and screamed, pounding his back with my fists. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Calm down!’ Mr Dry shouted. ‘This is for your own good, if you keep acting like an idiot I’ll lock you in the bloody cellar instead. Is that what you want?’

  I didn’t know how long I’d been locked in the bedroom for. There was an almighty crash from somewhere downstairs and the sound of breaking glass. I knew I had to fight; I couldn’t die without attempting to save my life. Upon the sound of the first footstep outside I stood up. There was the rattle of the key in the lock and the door creaked open.

  Mr Cool held out the glimmering beacon which was his hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  I couldn’t speak until we had reached the bottom of the stairs together. ‘How?’ I asked dumbly.

  ‘I woke Darrelle as soon as the phone cut out and relayed our conversation to her. She suspected who you were talking about,’ Mr Cool explained.

  ‘How did you know where I was?’

  Mr Cool smiled weakly. ‘Luckily Darrelle is rather observant. She noticed your friend fellow working in the garden of this house when she went shopping on Thursday. We put two and two together and so, here we are.’

  ‘We?’ I glanced around furtively.

  ‘Darrelle’s in the car.’ Mr Cool led me to the back door. The glass in the pane of the door was broken.

  ‘What about… him?’ I shuddered.

  Mr Cool looked at the table. Mr Dry’s once again unconscious form was slumped over the kitchen table.

  ‘He’s out cold.’ Mr Cool pulled his torch from his pocket. ‘Trusty little item this.’

  I noticed a door leading down into a cellar and glimpsed the edge of a wire cage.

  ‘I kicked it open,’ Mr Cool said, nodding at the cellar door. ‘It was locked and I thought you’d be down there.’

  I poked Mr Dry in the side. There wasn’t any response. I shook him. ‘Wake up!’ I screamed. ‘Tell me where my daughter is! Wake up or I’ll kill you!’

  Inside I wanted to cry but a surge of something, an adrenaline cocktail of fear, panic, and desperation intoxicated me and I couldn’t shed a single tear. My eyes blazed; fingers tingling with emotion as I grabbed the back of Mr Dry’s shirt and shook him so hard the material ripped in my hands and his forehead banged repeatedly against the table.

  Mr Cool grabbed me around the waist, lifting me clean off my feet. ‘We’ll find her,’ he promised. He carried me, kicking and screaming from the house.

  ***

  Becoming Perfect.

  07:15

  ‘We need a plan.’ Darrelle paced the kitchen. ‘We’ll call it “Operation Child Recovery”.’

  ‘We’ll call the police,’ I said. ‘It’s the only thing to do. My child has been kidnapped.’

  The word hit me; a sledge-hammer blow to my very being. Nothing felt real. I was no more than a puppet in a show; strings I had no control over held me, dictating my moves. If I reached up would I feel them, could I sever them? Darrelle and Mr Cool’s voices washed over me. I was lost in a different world to them. Mr Him wasn’t the murder; just a bastard. Everything tilted, sending my mind askew.

  ‘What if they’ve already moved her?’ Darrelle asked worriedly.

  ‘All the more reason for calling the police,’ I said, sounding as if I was somewhere else far away.

  Mr Cool held out his mobile phone. ‘Do you want to call them or shall I?’

  Darrelle reached for the phone. ‘What if we’re being watched? He won’t want the police involved. What if he hurts her because we call them?’

  I couldn’t even blink. I looked from Darrelle to Mr Cool then at my hands. Hands which should have been holding my daughter’s. Hands which should have beaten Mr Dry to a pulp the very moment he told me his sister had Daughter. Hands which should have taken the glass he offered me at the hotel and rammed it into his face. I hated them; my hands. They had failed me and I had failed Daughter. Images of Daughter flashed before my eyes; her at two years old and blowing out birthday candles; at four and her first day at nursery; five years old and learning to ride a bike; last November turning eleven and enjoying a day out at the zoo.

  ‘Would he hurt her?’ My voice was hollow. ‘She’s only a child.’

  Darrelle looked at the phone in her hand, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘I’m worried something terrible will happen. She should be here with us. We are the ones who love her.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I wailed. ‘You see it all the time on television. We can’t call the police. If we do, he may hurt her and I can’t risk that.’

  ‘I think now’s the time to.’ Mr Cool nodded to Darrelle.

  I shook my head furiously. ‘What if she ends up dead because we call the police?’ Fear soured my taste buds. ‘I will get her back myself. She is my child and I won’t give up until I have her.’

  ‘You’ll have her back safely,’ Darrelle replied fiercely. ‘I won’t let anything happen to her either. You’re right, we don’t need the police.’

  Mr Cool protested. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea.’

  ‘Take me back to the hotel, I’ll knock on the door and you.’ I nodded at Mr Cool. ‘Can run in and grab her.’ I clenched my fists. ‘If that interfering bitch, Sally, tries to stop you, I’ll deal with her.’

  Mr Cool rubbed his unshaven chin. ‘Hmmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you should stay here. Darrelle and I will implement “Operation Child Recovery”.’

  ‘But she’s my daughter!’ I shouted angrily. ‘I need to be there. I want her and she’ll want me! She’s my only child.’ I banged my fist on the kitchen table. ‘I won’t sit here waiting for you to rescue her.’

  ‘What if something happens to us?’ Mr Cool rationalised. ‘If we don’t return, you can call the police and tell them everything. We need to think about this properly. We want her here as much as you do. You are everything to us.’

  Darrelle made soothing noises. ‘Why don’t you go and choose yourself a stiff drink from the cellar? You know where they are.’

  ‘I don’t want a drink, I want my baby!’ All of a sudden the tears which had been absent, appeared, flooding my vision. Pain coursed through my body, tearing every part of me. My hands shook.

  Darrelle eyes were luminous. ‘Well, if you don’t want one, I most certainly do. Please, just take a breath. It’s no good rushing in like a herd of elephants. We must get this right first time. We have to find her and have her with us.’

  I conceded, my strength having drained away with my tears. I heard them arguing about “Operation Child Recovery” as I plodded to the basement. The basement was large and at the far end there were high level narrow slits of glass which allowed a small amount of light in. Not knowing where the light switch was, I descended the
concrete steps in semi-gloom. I ran a finger across the dusty bottles on one of the mid-level racks. Realising the bottles must be of the vintage variety, I remembered Darrelle had told me she kept bottles of liqueur to the back. Wine wouldn’t cut it. The situation called for something a hell of a lot stronger. Protruding from behind a bottle of ginger ale I spied a bottle of my favourite amaretto liqueur. I reached for the bottle but before my fingers closed around it, something to the right caught my eye. It was just a tiny glimpse of something I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Saze?’ Darrelle’s voice floated down. ‘Forget the drink. We’re leaving. Now. You were right we don’t need a drink; you need your daughter.’

  I weaved around the wine rack rows.

  ‘Saze?’ Darrelle’s footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. Her voice sounded urgent. ‘Where are you? Please, we decided it’s best if you come with me. Please, do come on.’

  I heard her footsteps as she made her way through the labyrinth of wooden racks. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. There, disguised by the shelves fixed to it, was a partly open door. If it hadn’t been open I would never have noticed it. The shelves fixed to it held bottles of wine. I pushed the door almost closed. The shelves aligned perfectly with those running along the wall.

  ‘Saze,’ Darrelle said softly from some distance behind me. ‘Please, come with me.’

  I couldn’t even think properly. A hidden door?

  ‘No,’ Darrelle said as I reached for the door and pulled it open.

  Ignoring her I took a hesitant step into the darkness. I stumbled forwards, hands splayed in front of me, tentatively feeling for a light switch. Desperate to know what the room was and why Darrelle obviously didn’t want me to see it. Suddenly the door thudded shut, extinguishing all light. I blinked, unable to see anything.

  ‘Let me out!’ I banged on the door.

  My eyes attempted to become accustomed to the darkness, like they do at night, but not a single shard of secondary light fell though the locked door and there wasn’t even a slit of a window. I dropped to my knees and felt for a gap at the bottom of the door. There was none. I traced the outline of the doorframe with shaking fingers.