Lies Love Tells (Eastcove Lies Book 1)

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘Blimey.’ Mr Dry whistled through his teeth. ‘They’ve even set up tents.’

  ‘Turn back!’ I shrank into the seat as eyes locked on me and a blurred mass surged forward.

  ‘It’s too bloody late for that.’ Mr Dry pursed his lips.

  He switched off the engine as the sea of reporters parted at the bonnet of the car, flowing around the sides to merge again at the rear. We were surrounded. Voices battled to be the loudest, hands rapped at the windows, camera flashes bounced from the thin glass, and the vehicle rocked. I felt sick.

  ‘I’ll get out first.’ Mr Dry unclipped his seat belt and swivelled to face Daughter. ‘I will carry you. Do not speak to them, do not look at them just look at me. Okay?’

  Daughter’s ashen face trembled. Her lower lip quivered and she nodded mutely.

  Mr Dry tapped me on the arm. ‘You too.’

  ‘You’re going to carry me in?’ I joked feebly.

  ‘Don’t speak to them, don’t give them anything. You haven’t given a full statement to the police. A tiny morsel will be blown out of all proportion.’

  The car door, weighted by the legs of several hungry reporters, groaned as I forced it open. The wall of noise hit my ears in a way not dissimilar to that of a sold out concert. I cast my eyes nervously across the roof of the car. Mr Dry grimly held Daughter in his arms, her head seeking comfort in the crook of his neck, her legs around his waist. Cavernous mouths bellowed insensible words, hands tugged on my coat sleeve, and elbows prodded me. I jerked forward involuntarily as someone shoved me from behind. Trickles of their words dripped into computability.

  ‘Ms Monnivan, how does it feel to have escaped?’

  ‘Did you know the murderer?’

  A recording mike was waved in front of my face. ‘What did he do to you?’

  ‘Were you sexually abused?’

  Last night’s dampness clung to the inquisitors dishevelled clothes. Discarded food packets scrunched underfoot. I noticed Mrs Downs’ papery face at her lounge window in the flat above mine, her thin hair in rollers. She hesitantly raised a hand.

  ‘Give us an exclusive!’ A furry boom loomed overhead.

  ‘What did he make you do?’

  The two steps up to the front door were a mere couple of feet away. I raised my chin and focused on them.

  A flash of red filtered through the throng, stopping in front of me. ‘April Jones,’ said the saccharine voice I instantly recognised as the one from the phone when I’d called the newspaper. She held out her leather gloved hand. ‘Take my card. I’m sure “Eastcove Local” will be your first choice for an exclusive interview.’ Her vibrant hair swathed her pointed features, her air of cleanliness riding roughshod over the others around her. She obviously hadn’t been camped outside.

  I looked at the card, searched out Mr Dry, who had reached the front door. He shook his head. I remembered his words about not saying anything. I remembered the “Eastcove Local” newspaper and web reports. I took the white square of card and ripped it up, allowing the pieces to flutter to the ground and settle atop a browned apple core. Voices around us subsided to a low hum in anticipation.

  ‘We can offer you a very attractive package in return for just an hour of your time,’ continued April, unperturbed. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree how important it is that the people of Eastcove are the first to be given the exclusive opportunity of reading about your harrowing experience.’

  ‘Come to us!’ piped up a voice. ‘We’re a national!’

  ‘No!’ yelled another. ‘We’ll give you a better deal!’

  Noise levels began to rise and I moved forward.

  April rested her cobalt blue gloved hand on my arm as her steps matched mine. ‘Really, Saze, we are the only choice. We’ve already struck a deal with “Marchland Toy Emporium”, who are willing to give your Daughter any toy, or gaming console, from their new range up to the value of four hundred pounds. That’s only the tip of our package.’

  ‘Really?’

  April nodded her affirmation. She pulled her mobile phone from her coat pocket. ‘Would four-fifteen today be convenient, shall I book you in?’

  ‘Would four-fifteen be convenient for you to shove it up your arse?’ I quipped.

  ‘Oh my dear, I’m so glad you’re alive!’ Mrs Downs threw her bird-like arms around me. ‘Are you okay?’ Her creased cheeks were damp.

  ‘In a manner of speaking. Thank you for your concern,’ I replied, touched by her unabashed show of emotion.

  ‘It’s madness.’ The rollers in Mrs Downs’ hair shook ferociously with the shaking of her head. ‘Some of them were even having a barbeque in the early hours before it rained.’ She cast her eyes to Mr Nice’s front door. ‘He’s not come out since Friday. I’ve knocked several times but he’s not answered. I’m terribly worried about him. I mean, what if he’s… you know… killed himself!’

  ‘He’s mourning. It’s only to be expected.’ Mr Dry folded his arms across his chest. ‘Can you get a move on?’ he asked me. ‘We need to leave this chaos before it seeps into our brains and makes us all loopy. You know there’ll be repercussions from what you said to the reporter woman?’

  ‘And?’ I snapped. ‘April Jones is an idiot.’

  Mr Dry raised an eyebrow. ‘Constructive reasoning.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ I slapped my front door key in his hand and pushed Daughter at him. ‘Take her in and help her sort some things out.’

  ‘Are you going to check in on him, dear?’ Mrs Downs peered at me worriedly. ‘It would put my mind at rest. He’ll probably open the door to you. You do get along awfully well, don’t you?’

  Mr Dry made a snorting noise as he unlocked my flat door.

  I patted Mrs Downs’ fragile hand. ‘Of course, I’m sure he’s alive, just distraught.’

  ‘Then you’ll pop upstairs and let me know?’ Mrs Downs’ eyes glistened. ‘I do worry about you two youngsters, trouble always seems to find you.’

  I rapped on Mr Nice’s front door but there wasn’t any response. I banged on it harder. ‘Hello!’ I yelled. ‘Open the door, it’s me, Saze!’ Pressing my ear against the door, I held my breath. Certain I could hear movement, I banged again and listened. Suddenly the door swung open and I fell into Mr Nice’s chest. My nose crinkled at the days-old t-shirt stench. ‘When did you last take a shower?’

  Mr Nice shuffled back towards his lounge. ‘Dunno.’

  It took a few seconds for my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, the curtains were shut tight, and the television flickered noiselessly. I waded through the debris of empty crisp packets and beer cans and flung the curtains open. In daylight the heartbreak was clear to see. Kelly’s smiling face littered the floor, some of the photos torn down the middle. I knelt down and scooped up the photographs closest to me. Shoving aside a half-eaten microwave meal which had crusted at the edges, I laid the photographs on the coffee table. Carefully I picked my way through the mess and rescued the remaining photographs.

  ‘You’ll regret it if you destroy these.’

  Mr Nice grunted.

  ‘When did you last eat?’ I asked him.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Do you have any food?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  I ventured into the kitchen. Empty wine bottles stood upended in the sink, propped up by yet more used cans. Locating the black bags, I cleared the sink, and returned to the lounge. Two full black bags later, Mr Nice remained staring at the silent, moving images on the television screen. I switched it off.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked. ‘If you say “dunno” one more time, I’m going to have to slap you.’

  ‘With my mum.’ Mr Nice’s gaze hadn’t moved from the television. He reached out to the coffee table, his fingers grasping for something. ‘Where’s it gone?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My lager. Those cans had some left in them.’ He scratched his bristly chin.

  I kicked the black bags with my toe. ‘It’s all rubbish.’

 
‘But that was all I had!’ Mr Nice moaned. ‘What am I gonna drink now?’

  I carried the black bags through to the kitchen and plonked them on the backdoor mat then opened the door of the cupboard nearest to me. ‘Shall I make you a coffee and heat this tomato soup up?’

  Mr Nice dragged his feet to the kitchen. His white t-shirt bore stains and his jeans were creased with grubby hand marks on the thighs. Red eyes blinked from darkened circles. ‘I want a proper drink.’ His shoulders sagged.

  ‘Time for you to take a shower.’ I put my arm around his shoulders.

  ‘What do you care?’ he snarled. ‘You’ve not bothered with me since Kelly d… d… died!’ His face crumpled.

  ‘I would’ve been here if I could’ve.’ I steadied his shaking body.

  Sorrowfully he turned his eyes to me. ‘What was more important?’

  I wondered where to start. He hadn’t heard. ‘Trying not to be killed. Nathan was the murderer. He killed all of those young women.’

  Mr Nice’s groggy eyes snapped open. ‘Oh my god!’ he wailed. ‘I’ve done it again! Made an idiot of myself ‘cos I’ve had a drink. Come here.’ He held his arms open. ‘What happened?’

  I briefly hugged Mr Nice. ‘Long story, I’ll tell you another time. Nathan was going to kill me.’

  ‘What a bastard!’ Mr Nice fumed. ‘So Andrew’s innocent? He really didn’t kill Kelly? Andrew just wanted to hurt you then and he really thought I killed Kelly, what a major cock-up.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say Darrelle killed Kelly.’ I still couldn’t believe it myself.

  ‘That posh bird with the expensive champers?’ Mr Nice opened and closed his mouth. He started to cry.

  Unable to stand and to hold it together, I collapsed onto a chair and burst into tears as well.

  ‘You’re a rock, Saze.’ Mr Nice slurped his soup. ‘Don’t know where I’d be without you.’

  I filled the sink with warm, bubbly water and sunk the saucepan into it. ‘At the moment… ’ I chuckled despite myself. ‘You’d be a stinky sod.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do without Kelly.’

  ‘You need to carry on. For Sam. Imagine how she feels. Kelly was her mother and Sam knows she’ll never have another one.’

  Mr Nice choked back a sob. ‘I’ll bring her home tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I know I’ve been selfish but it’s not every day the only woman you ever loved is murdered!’ Noisy tears plopped into his soup bowl.

  I handed him a tissue from a box on the kitchen side. ‘It’s okay to grieve. Everyone handles grief in different ways.’

  Mr Nice blew his nose and stood up. He threw the tissue in the bin. ‘Thanks for caring about me.’ His top lip wobbled. ‘No-one else gives a toss. Not one of my mates have called, and Kelly’s parents won’t let me arrange the funeral. They’re doing it and they want to come over and take all of her things!’

  ‘Let them, it saves you having to organise it. Besides you don’t really want to be arguing with Andrew over the arranging, do you? No. It’ll be far easier if Kelly’s parents deal with him. Think of the cost, especially with your new business taking off soon. You can get through this,’ I told him. ‘I can’t imagine how you feel but I know you can do this. For Sam as well as for yourself.’

  Mr Nice started to cry again.

  There was a noise from the doorway. ‘Time to leave,’ Mr Dry said. ‘Saze has a statement to give.’ He raised an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth. ‘Your daughter packed a bag of clothes for you.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I promised Mr Nice as Mr Dry escorted me out.

  ‘I want to pick some shoes.’ I turned to my flat door.

  Mr Dry shook his head. ‘Nope. We have to leave right now. Things are about to get a whole lot worse.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Andrew’s outside.’

  16:30

  ‘… and here she is!’ Mr Him gestured expansively towards the three of us as we emerged into the madding media mass. ‘My brave daughter! Come on sweetheart, come to Daddy!’

  Mr Dry squeezed my hand. Realising I was clenching my teeth I tried to relax; my neck ached, and my temples throbbed. Daughter slipped through the throng and catapulted into her father’s outstretched arms. Cameras flashed above their heads; Mr Him’s bent in loving adoration over Daughter’s.

  ‘Mr Parsons, how does it feel to hold your daughter again?’ A reporter waved a microphone in Mr Him’s direction.

  Flash, another camera captured the reunion.

  ‘Were you trying to kill the mother of your child?’

  ‘How angry do you feel?’

  Another reporter jostled to the front. ‘Who murdered your girlfriend?’

  ‘Are you still under suspicion?’ yelled another, who seemed no more than a child.

  April Jones slid into view, her red lips curled at me over the top of Daughter’s head. ‘Mr Parsons, is there anything you’d like to say to Saze?’

  Mr Him straightened, dropping his hold on Daughter, and turned his attention to me. ‘I want to apologise,’ he began loudly. ‘For the horrible things I did. I was going crazy ‘cos I was missing my little girl.’ He ruffled Daughter’s hair. ‘I know I was wrong.’

  ‘Smarmy lying shit,’ Mr Dry muttered darkly.

  ‘Family hug!’ yelled a reporter who was huddled inside an oversized coat.

  April clapped her leather gloved hands. ‘That’s exactly what this moment calls for!’

  My hand was cold as Mr Dry released it. He stepped into the crowd amid the calls for a family hug. My feet remained stuck, resolutely refusing to respond although two steps above everyone else felt a lonely place to be.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Mr Dry shouted. ‘Mr Parsons is not supposed to be here. He’s not allowed contact with Saze pending the outcome of the court case regarding the assaults upon her.’

  ‘Who are you?’ shouted a female reporter.

  ‘What do you know about it?’ April Jones asked.

  I watched helplessly as Mr Dry was swallowed up by the undulating human pool. The roar of a hundred voices filled my ears and I was unable to identify Mr Dry’s among them.

  ‘Smile for the camera!’ Mr Him dropped an unwelcome arm across my shoulders, making me jump.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I hissed. ‘You’re not allowed to touch me.’

  Mr Him’s voice lowered. ‘You’re not keeping her.’ He moved in front of me, his back to the crowd. His face took on a familiar expression. ‘Our daughter. She’s not going to live with you. She’ll live with me and you will have to give me money.’

  ‘The courts will decide custody.’ The air felt colder, I folded my arms across my chest.

  Mr Him’s face contorted, his voice scraped the pavement. ‘Drop the case against me. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.’ His eyes glinted dangerously.

  I knew the look well. I remembered how terrifying I used to find it when his eyes darkened and his eyebrows knitted together. Arguments blazed fierce in my memory, snapshots of heated moments, the pounding of his fists against the wall as they missed my head, the trembling I used to feel in my legs. That was before I’d survived an attack by a serial murderer. If Mr Cool had been a werewolf, in comparison Mr Him was a puppy-dog. I raised my chin. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

  ‘You should be.’ The spittle from Mr Him’s contorted mouth stung my cheek.

  I became aware of the media’s attention. ‘He’s threatening me!’ I tossed the words to them.

  ‘What did he say?’ April Jones expertly threw back.

  ‘She’s crazy!’ Mr Him made circular motions near his head. ‘I apologised and she told me to get stuffed!’

  ‘Do you accept his apology?’ April called.

  Mr Dry strode back to me, Daughter lagging behind him. He forced people to make a path for him. His hand furled my arm. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘You’re welcome to her!’ Mr Him laughed. ‘She’s losing the plot. I don’t think she’s capable of loo
king after a child and I can smell booze on her. She’s been drinking. With an eleven year old to take care of.’

  Cameras snapped. Voices rose once again.

  ‘Are you drinking to cope with the shock?’ yelled a reporter.

  The reporter in the oversized coat shuffled forward. ‘How much do you drink?’ he shouted.

  ‘I haven’t,’ I protested, my voice weak against the wall of questions.

  Mr Dry’s large hand encompassed mine. ‘Look at me.’ His eyes were dark but soft. ‘Don’t rise to it.’

  ‘Everyone will think I’m a crazy, alcoholic, unfit mother. I must’ve spilt some drink on me when I cleared all of those bottles in my neighbour’s flat.’ Tears pricked my eyelids.

  Daughter’s hand slithered into my free one.

  20:32

  I’d given my statement at the police station and had been waiting for Mr Dry to collect me for over an hour in the cold, station car park when I gave up and went back inside to use the toilet.

  I reached for the flush button on the cistern after using the loo, my hand hovering at the interruption of female voices.

  ‘Vicky, did you hear about what happened to that murderer?’ asked a tinkling voice.

  ‘Which murderer?’ asked the voice obviously belonging to the unseen Vicky.

  The first voice sounded frustrated. ‘Duh. Cut-throat Casanova.’

  Vicky chuckled. ‘It sounds as if you have.’

  I tiptoed to the crack where the cubicle door didn’t quite meet the wall and squashed my face up against it. I could just make out the back of the Vicky woman, who was wearing black trousers and a white uniform blouse, her hair tied neatly in a ponytail.

  The first voice lowered and I strained for a glimpse of its owner but she was out of sight. ‘He was the headteacher at our old primary school. Not our headteacher mind you.’

  ‘No way!’ Vicky screeched.

  ‘Shh!’ reprimanded the unknown woman. The scent of perfume wafted over the top of the cubicle door as the unknown woman spritzed generously. My nostrils twitched with the sweetness and, fearing a sneeze, I squeezed them hard.

  The hand dryer obliterated the conversation momentarily. ‘You’re still seeing him then?’ Vicky’s voice cut clear after the machine stopped. ‘The Inspector?’