Spare Me the Truth

by CJ Carver

  Instead of replying I don’t know for the second time, Lucy abruptly shook her head.

  Grace read the names again. Turned the piece of paper to re-read Jamie’s six-word sentence. ‘Just because he’s written that on the other side doesn’t mean I’m involved. It might have been the only piece of paper to hand, and it’s not connected. He could have been writing about something else.’

  ‘You could be right. But we can’t discount it immediately . . .’ Lucy trailed off and fiddled with her pen. The distant expression had returned, indicating that she was deep in thought. Grace pushed away the paper and sat back in her chair, finding the silence a relief after the past hour’s revelations.

  Finally, Lucy straightened and Grace’s heart sank when she started going through everything again. When was Jamie diagnosed bipolar? (Six years ago.) What were his symptoms? (Manic episodes leading to excessive grandiosity.) How long had he been on Zidazapine? (Four years.) Did he belong to a bipolar support group? (No.) Did he have any enemies? (Not that she knew.) How long had Grace been in the village? (Six months.) Was she an expert on bipolar disorder? (No more than any other GP.) By the time Lucy put away her notebook, it was nearing ten o’clock and Grace felt as though she’d been through an old-fashioned mangle; emotionally flattened and wrung out.

  She walked Lucy outside. ‘You’ll keep me informed?’

  Lucy nodded and thanked her for her time. Grace watched her patter quickly down the steps and disappear around the corner. Hoping the cold air might help steady her, Grace stood quietly until she spotted a car draw up and saw one of her least favourite patients – a particularly disagreeable hypochondriac – clamber out, forcing her to scurry back inside.

  She spent the rest of the morning trying to regain some sort of equilibrium. Opening her surgery helped, and when she finally caught the train for London, she was feeling much better.

  The fact that Jamie had written her name on the back of that piece of paper had to be a coincidence. He’d written the note thinking about his prostate awareness campaign, which had nothing to do with a list of murder victims. But why on earth did Jamie have this list? Why was Lucy’s name on it? Her mind scuttled from side to side and it was only when she alighted at Waterloo that she remembered she’d forgotten to pick up her DHL package. She’d have to do it on her return.

  When she reached Mayfair she was early, but she didn’t wait for Dan. She had no time to waste. She pressed the button beneath the video intercom, and half a minute later Joe opened the matt-black door. Immediately he said, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s just you today.’

  ‘Dan can’t come?’ She was surprised. He hadn’t said anything to her.

  A guarded look came into his eyes. ‘I had to put him off.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ He looked up and down the street. When he returned his gaze to her his jaw had tensed. He seemed to have come to a decision. ‘Not everybody got on with Dan. I thought it politic to keep it simple today.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, but she could see his point. Dan wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea – he could be exceptionally taciturn and aloof – but she was sorry he wasn’t here. He’d really wanted to see where her mother used to work.

  From the narrow exterior of the building Grace had expected cramped rooms and poky corridors but it was surprisingly spacious inside, made light by pale walls and lots of chrome and glass fittings. A sleek and glossy environment that exuded modernity and style and immediately reminded Grace of her mother’s shoes. He showed her into a roomy office with a bow window and two armchairs set next to a low coffee table. A man with wispy hair and rumpled trousers and jacket rose from behind a desk. He said, ‘Hello, Grace.’

  ‘Hello.’ She recognised him from her mother’s funeral. Philip Denton, her mother’s boss.

  ‘I know I should be at home on a Saturday morning.’ He spread his hands ruefully. ‘But when Joe said you were coming in, I thought I’d do a bit of work so that I’d be here to see you. How are you bearing up?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ she said.

  He came round the desk and offered her one of the armchairs. ‘Can we get you a coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want to take up your time. I’m only here to see my mother’s office. I’ve never been here before and just wanted to . . . see it,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘I understand.’ Denton came to stand beside Grace. Cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, Joe. I shall take Grace to Stella’s office.’

  Joe was looking at Denton and, for an instant, a look of dislike passed across his face. He said, ‘It’s OK. I’ll show her.’

  ‘No.’ Denton’s tone was firm. ‘I know you have a lot of work to do.’

  Joe hesitated.

  ‘I’ll look after Grace,’ Denton insisted.

  With reluctant steps, Joe walked outside.

  Quietly, Denton said, ‘Joe tells me you’re in touch with Dan Forrester.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poor Dan,’ Denton said. ‘Losing his son like that. You know he went quite mad?’

  ‘So Mum said.’

  ‘Did she tell you he lost his memory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘Now, a quiet word about Dan. I advise you to be careful.’ Denton cocked his head as though listening and then said quietly, ‘Has Dan mentioned your mother’s money?’

  It was so far from what she’d expected him to say, that for a moment she stared at him in surprise. ‘What money?’

  ‘It’s just that I know Stella had a tidy nest egg and knowing Dan . . . well, it wouldn’t be unlike him to come sniffing around.’

  She opened and closed her mouth. ‘But he couldn’t remember my mother.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’ Denton studied her keenly.

  No. It was what Mum said.

  ‘Look,’ Denton continued in a low voice. ‘I just wanted to warn you to be careful. And keep an eye on Joe too. He’s blinded by his friendship with Dan, as was your mother. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Her voice was weak. Desperately she tried to rally herself and bring her ragged thoughts into a coherent stream. She said, ‘How do you know about my mother’s money?’

  ‘I helped advise her on investments from time to time. She invested wisely over the years and did very well.’ He appraised Grace openly. ‘You will be quite a rich young lady, I think.’

  She was about to ask him, wisely or unwisely, where he thought the money was, when his eyes flicked to the door and back. Footsteps padded past the open doorway.

  Denton said, ‘Now. To show you Stella’s office.’

  His face had closed, his manner becoming businesslike. Without waiting for her to respond, he gestured for her to walk before him and into the corridor. Her breathing was tight, her nerves tingling. He knew about her mother’s money. A tidy nest egg . . .

  Her mother’s office was decorated in more chrome and glass, rich maroon carpet and matching maroon blinds. Two easy chairs and a view of the street outside. A pen pot and notebook stood on the desk along with a single framed photograph of Grace astride a pony when she was little. She was beaming into the camera. The pony, Butterpat, looked as bored as only a twenty-year-old riding stable pony could. Grace lay a hand on the barren desk top.

  ‘Didn’t Mum have a computer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would you mind if I had a look at it?’

  Denton frowned. ‘May I ask why? It’s just that we have some extremely sensitive information that –’

  He stopped speaking when a dark-haired man stuck his head around the door. He said, ‘Philip . . .’ and stopped when he saw Grace. His eyes rounded. ‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t realise . . .’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, man . . .’ Denton’s face twisted.

  The man’s head immediately vanished. Denton strode after him. Grace could hear his hiss from where she stood. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ He was irate.

  ‘Well, yes. B
ut Clipper said it would be OK because –’

  ‘Christ. Don’t tell me he’s here too.’

  ‘Er . . .’ The man’s voice shrank. ‘He’s waiting for me outside. We needed –’

  ‘Don’t say another word. I want you both out of here, now.’

  A door slammed.

  Silence.

  Grace went to the window to see the dark-haired man appear on the pavement. The set of his shoulders was taut, his footsteps brusque and angry. She watched him cross the road and just as he started to turn into the next road, he was joined by another man, fit-looking, in his late twenties. Clipper, she assumed. Her heart gave a bump when she took in his sandy hair . . .

  She was too far away to see Clipper’s features but she’d bet it was the man Dan had asked her to look out for.

  The man who’d searched her mother’s house while she’d been at her funeral.

  When the two men vanished around the corner, Grace stood paralysed, her thoughts buzzing feverishly like flies caught in a jam jar.

  Fingers trembling, she pulled out her phone and dialled Dan’s number.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Saturday 1 December, 10.35 a.m.

  When Joe cancelled, Dan immediately made an appointment to see Stuart Winter, his consultant psychiatrist, making his way to the Croughton Royal Hospital near Regent’s Park. He stood in the waiting room, looking outside at the café opposite with its burgundy awning and steamy windows. Breakfasts, hot meals, salads, cappuccino, espresso. He could remember ducking across the road occasionally and having a coffee there, sitting and looking back across at the hospital. He’d been allowed to meet Jenny in the café from time to time, when he was ‘getting better’.

  It felt good remembering the Pay-Less shop on the corner, the Jobcentre and the newsagents. He felt less vulnerable, as though not everything in his past was a lie. His father said he’d spent two months in hospital, of which he could only remember a fortnight. Those two weeks had been taken up with seeing Stuart every day. He’d used the gym and read a lot, something he couldn’t remember having time to do since he was a kid. Dan had no bad memories of the place. It was warm and comfortable, and felt more like a hotel than an acute mental hospital with its spacious double bedrooms and en-suites, TV and coffee machine.

  While he waited, Dan considered Dr Orvis. He’d read most of what the psychologist had sent him by email, including the notes written after each session. He hadn’t found it as uncomfortable as Orvis predicted, probably because he was scanning the documents for clues into Luke’s death and anything that might lead him to Cedric. Words like excessively controlled and ordered, constrained and unemotional didn’t bother him, they were all part of who he was. But he didn’t like Orvis’s discourse on Jenny for moving them to Wales.

  She is more controlling than him, perhaps. According to Dr Winter she didn’t discuss the move with him, she just went ahead and Dan let her. Why? He liked his home in London very much. He doesn’t say so, but it is obvious to me he isn’t particularly taken with Wales. Why didn’t he fight to stay?

  That particular paragraph made uneasy reading because although Dan couldn’t remember discussing the move with his wife, Jenny told him they had and that they’d both agreed it would be good for them. What else had she hidden from him?

  Although he couldn’t hear anything, he sensed someone approaching. He turned and a few seconds later, a man entered the room. Short and stocky, wavy dark hair, blue trousers and white shirt beneath a casual blue-checked jacket. No tie. An expressive face that lit up when he saw Dan.

  ‘Dan,’ he said.

  Dan couldn’t help it, he smiled. He liked Stuart. He could remember him clearly, the mental health ‘work’ they’d done together to get him in the right mental space to leave hospital and re-start his life after his breakdown.

  ‘Stuart.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Please . . .’ Stuart gestured at one of the chairs. Dan took one, and the psychiatrist took the other, not quite opposite Dan but not quite alongside either, creating a relaxed and comfortable non-interrogative atmosphere.

  ‘Orvis Fatik telephoned me,’ Stuart said. ‘You scared him.’

  That’s one thing Dan liked about Stuart. He didn’t beat around the bush.

  ‘He deserved it.’

  Stuart Winter raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and Dan filled him in, giving him a heavily edited version of events but including most of what had been said during his scene with Dr Orvis. He finished by saying, ‘It appears I’ve been a lab rat.’

  Stuart frowned. ‘I think you’re being a bit harsh. I mean, you left here in a reasonable state but you still needed a lot of work to stabilise things, and help you come to terms with what happened.’

  ‘What did happen?’ Dan’s gaze sharpened.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll gain anything by going over old ground,’ said Stuart.

  ‘I can only remember being here for two weeks: why?’

  ‘That’s because of the amnesia drug. You were actually here for six weeks. You spent a fortnight at the Bethlem Royal but when it was decided you’d be treated privately, you were transferred here.’

  ‘Who decided?’

  ‘Your employer.’

  Dan frowned. ‘I don’t understand. I thought it was down to Jenny’s parents. I mean, they paid the bills.’ He held Stuart’s eyes. ‘Didn’t they?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘No.’

  Dan stared. ‘Jenny lied to me?’

  ‘I don’t know what your wife said to you about the billing situation,’ Stuart said carefully. ‘All I know is that your medical bills were picked up by your employer and . . .’

  He trailed off as Dan reached into his pocket and bought out his phone, which was buzzing. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and when he saw it was Grace, he added, ‘I wouldn’t normally . . . but I have to take this.’

  Stuart nodded.

  ‘Grace,’ Dan said.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ She sounded stressed, brittle. ‘Dan, look, I’m in Mum’s office and I’ve just seen the man who you told me about. The man with the sandy hair. He’s called Clipper and –’

  ‘Follow him,’ Dan snapped.

  ‘But I’m looking for my mother’s –’

  ‘He’s the link, Grace. Don’t lose him.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You can go back to what you were doing later. Follow him!’

  Brief silence.

  ‘OK.’ Her voice firmed, became decisive. ‘I’m going after him.’

  ‘Stay on –’

  He’d been going to say Stay on the line, but she’d hung up.

  Energy flooded him. He was already halfway through the door when he spoke to Stuart. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

  ‘Later . . .’ Stuart’s voice floated after him as he ran along the corridor.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Grace hesitated, not through indecision but through the realisation that she was about to do something she’d never before contemplated, something that could be dangerous. Mum! How could you do this to me?! Overcoming any compulsion toward good manners, Grace rocketed out of the offices of DCA & Co. without saying anything to Joe or Philip Denton.

  No time.

  She’d make an excuse later, like she’d been overcome with emotion, and that she was embarrassed to be seen crying. Something along those lines would do. Philip Denton’s warning about Dan didn’t make a dent in her urgency. This wasn’t about Dan, it was about the man who had tricked his way into her mother’s home. There had to be a connection between Clipper and her mother’s money. A connection that might bring her answers.

  Handbag bouncing wildly against her hip, she ran across the road, dodging between a man walking a dachshund and a couple gazing into a shop window. More people browsed, moving in and out of cafés, walking, chatting.

  Grace jogged to the corner where she’d seen the men vanish. Peered along Davies Street. She couldn’t see them. Since they’d appeared to
walk south, she headed that way too. Each time she came to a cross street, she looked left and right but had no luck. She had to pray they’d stayed on the same street. She ran faster, her shoes clattering, her breath steaming in the cold air. She dodged and weaved between pedestrians, craning her neck, trying to look ahead and then –

  There!

  Immediately she stopped running. Two men, one dark-haired, one sandy. Both wore dark winter puffa jackets over jeans and trainers. They were a hundred yards or so ahead of her, striding out. They appeared oblivious to her frantically racing behind them. She was breathing hard as she settled into a brisk walk, following them around Berkeley Square and south into Green Park. The wind picked up, biting her face and neck, but she was warm from her run and barely felt it.

  She couldn’t believe what she was doing. Following two men. A sense of disbelief descended. How had it come to this?

  People walked across the winter-withered grass, hunched against the cold. Most people wore hats and gloves. When they left the park the streets were quiet and Grace fell back a little, petrified one of the men would turn his head and look over his shoulder and see her and . . . what? Run away? Shout? Attack her?

  Her phone had rung a few times, and when it rang again, she yanked it out.

  ‘Where are you?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Just off Buckingham Gate but I’m not sure exactly which street.’

  ‘Stay on the line. I’m in a taxi, barely a minute away.’

  Grace kept walking. The men were still shoulder-to-shoulder, talking intently.

  ‘Where’s Clipper?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Not far ahead of me. He’s with another man.’ She told him about Philip Denton and his fury. ‘I don’t think he wanted me to see Clipper and his friend. He doesn’t seem to like you much, either,’ she added.

  Dan didn’t comment. Just said, ‘Tell me the next street you come to.’

  ‘Great Peter Street,’ she said.

  Silence for a short while. Then he said, ‘Grace, I can see you . . .’