The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller

by Valerie Keogh

  Dee’s fingers tightened on the mug she was holding until she felt she might crush it. ‘No, I didn’t know that but Toby’s fallen on his feet if they’re moving to Knightsbridge.’

  ‘They weren’t moving to Knightsbridge. No, he was leaving the woman in Hanwell and moving in with someone else.’

  Dee’s mouth fell open, then she put the mug she was holding down on the table and laughed. A hysterical belly laugh that rolled on and on, the sound growing louder, wilder. The look of helplessness on the older detective’s face made Dee laugh harder.

  ‘You’re supposed to wallop her across the face,’ DS Collins said, lifting the mug of coffee to her mouth and taking a noisy slurp.

  ‘And get arrested for assault. No, thanks.’ Instead, Hopper moved to sit on the sofa beside Dee’s heaving body and put a hand lightly on the other woman’s arm. ‘Stop, you’ll make yourself sick.’

  Dee put her hands over her mouth but the laughter continued to sputter from behind them. It was another minute before it died with a final hiccup. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her sleeve across her face.

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. You’ve had a bit of a shock.’

  Dee shook her head emphatically. ‘It wasn’t a shock, nor a surprise. I don’t even know why I was laughing… maybe for the months of waiting for him to come back… for fooling myself for years before that. All the years when he promised to be faithful, until the next woman he couldn’t resist.’

  Hopper’s hand still rested on Dee’s arm. ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Twenty years.’ Dee managed a smile at the look on the detective’s face. ‘Surprised? We were both eighteen. Young and in love. And for the first year, it was perfect.’

  ‘Why did you stay with him?’ Collins leaned forward and met Dee’s eyes.

  Not a shred of sympathy warmed the younger officer’s face, her heavily kohled eyes regarding Dee as if she were some form of alien.

  She didn’t think there was any point in trying to explain. A woman like Collins couldn’t begin to understand. Dee felt the heavy weight of the older detective’s hand on her arm and turned to her. There was so much understanding in her eyes that Dee felt tears well and her voice was thick when she said, ‘Because I couldn’t live without him… I can’t live without him. And he always comes back. At least he always did till now.’

  ‘There have been three women since he left you,’ Hopper said quietly. ‘None of them know where he is.’

  ‘Three…’ Dee swallowed. She’d only known about the Streatham woman. She’d assumed when Toby got tired of her, he’d come home. He always had done before. ‘He always comes back to me. I’m sure he will again but it’s so unlike him to be out of communication. I’ve rung his mobile several times, left several messages.’ She picked up the mobile that sat on the sofa beside her. ‘It’s newish, with a new number. Toby called around last Wednesday.’ The memory brought a smile. ‘He did now and then.’ She didn’t say that her heart leapt every time, hoping that this time he was going to stay, feeling the plummeting disappointment when he’d say he was simply calling for a chat.

  ‘I remember he laughed when I told him I hadn’t figured out how to use it yet.’ She shook the memory away. ‘He wanted to take it from me and get it going but I said I had to start doing these things for myself. I’d written the number down and I gave it to him.’

  He’d laughed when he read what I’d written on the scrap of paper. ‘You’ve put your name on it, did you think I’d forgotten?’ I wanted to ask if he had. If he’d forgotten me and how much I loved him. I’d wanted to beg him to come home.

  ‘Mrs Carter?’

  Dee blinked and shook her head again. ‘Sorry. Anyway, he put my number into his phone straight away so I know he has it.’ She put the phone down on the sofa beside her. ‘I messaged him later that day to say I’d succeeded in getting it working.’

  ‘We’re trying to trace his mobile but so far we’ve not had much success.’

  ‘He’s never without it… ever.’

  Hopper took a card from her pocket and handed it over. ‘We’ll keep in touch, Dee, but if you hear from Toby, let me know. You can get me on this number whenever you want.’

  Dee put the card beside her phone without looking at it.

  These police officers might think she was stupid, and perhaps she was, but she was smart enough to know she was never going to need it.

  23

  Gwen

  Self-pity and anger vied for the upper hand as Gwen tried to put every memory of Toby from her head, her heart, her life.

  When she was younger, she wouldn’t have been so gullible. Was she becoming too needy… too desperate… was that why she’d been so foolish the last few years?

  The last few years. Her thoughts drifted back to the first man who’d tried to con her. It should have been impossible to catch her out, she read the newspapers, knew about the millions of pounds women were conned out of every year and the appalling statistics regarding internet romance scams. She’d shaken her head when she read about catfishing, that wonderful name for the heinous practice of faking an identity with the sole aim of conning some poor unfortunate out of money, sex, their self-esteem.

  Gwen knew it all. What she didn’t know, what she hadn’t read about was that the emotional toll was often as bad as the financial. That she learned from personal experience.

  Sam Burke.

  Gwen had been lulled by his absolute ordinariness. He was a chubby, medium-height man with a receding hairline and a stutter she’d found endearing when she’d met him in a café near her home.

  Looking back, she could see how it had been the perfect set-up. It had been a year since her previous relationship had ended and she’d been alone, maybe she’d looked lonely, even sad. Sunday mornings often made her feel melancholy as she read the newspaper surrounded by families, by couples sharing the various sections of the paper, passing them across the table automatically with time-learned intimacy and knowledge of the likes and dislikes of their partner.

  It was an intimacy that Gwen missed. That Sunday, she’d been nursing her cup of coffee, the café newspaper sitting folded on the edge of the table.

  ‘Excuse m-m-me.’

  She’d turned automatically with a frown that faded quickly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you f-f-finished with the n-n-newspaper?’

  ‘Sure.’ She handed it over. He’d fumbled as he reached for it and it had fallen, spreading its pages as it hit the floor in an untidy mess. Later, she realised it was a well-rehearsed manoeuvre that had instantly built a connection between them.

  She had laughed and insisted it was her fault that the paper had fallen. Between them they’d picked it up and by the time it was back in order, they were chatting in a friendly manner… so friendly that when he’d haltingly asked if he could join her, she hesitated only a second before agreeing.

  Coffee had led to a midweek dinner. Gwen had used the intervening days to check Sam was as ordinary as he’d appeared. His social networking presence was a Facebook page he rarely used and a Twitter account he’d used once. That was it.

  Over dinner on the Wednesday, he mentioned he was a self-employed finance consultant. ‘It sounds as boring as it is.’ His laugh was warm, self-deprecatory. ‘Really, it’s all about telling people what they should do with their money. Sometimes people even listen to me.’

  He’d been impressed by her job, his eyes widening appreciatively. ‘You own an art gallery in Knightsbridge, wow!’

  Later, she wondered if behind his soft brown eyes, dollar signs hadn’t lined up in a row, ready for the big payout. But then, his appreciation had warmed her. The evening had been enjoyable and at the end Sam had insisted on paying. ‘After all, I invited you.’

  And they’d arranged to meet again, and the next time, he’d gone back to hers for coffee and stayed. The sex had been comfortable, almost cosy rather than exciting. Pleasant, Gwen had decided, trying to convince herself.

/>   She’d no misgivings about their relationship as it quickly developed. They were both old enough not to have to play games.

  Three weeks later, Sam mentioned a finance deal he’d been invited to invest in. ‘It sounds great. What people would call a sure thing. It’s a shame it’s come at the wrong time for me, my money is tied up for another few weeks in another deal.’

  Gwen’s eyes, shut for three weeks, snapped open. Sam was careful. He didn’t ask her for the money or suggest she should invest for herself. Instead, he was unusually quiet for the rest of the evening, looking into the distance, answering her absently until finally, she followed the script he’d written for her and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  He smiled, shook his head, and reached for her hand. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m fed up missing that deal, you know. Such a great opportunity I’m letting slip away.’

  ‘How much money are we talking about?’ She felt the slight tightening of his hand and kept her expression carefully neutral.

  ‘There’s a minimum twenty-five k investment,’ he said. Then with a flick of his other hand, added, ‘It’ll make five k in a month.’

  Gwen had frowned as if she was seriously considering the offer. ‘If I could get it for you, I’d get five k back on top of my investment?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, really it should be less my commission but since it’s you I’ll forgo that.’ He squeezed her hand tightly. ‘Gosh, are you serious, would you want to invest that much money?’

  ‘You said it’s a sure thing. Five k for a month sounds tempting.’

  ‘I’m sorry that my money is tied up but it’s great that you can avail of it.’ He leaned close and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  He sounded so sincere, his gaze was steady, his smile so warm. An Oscar-winning performance.

  ‘The offer is closed tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We need to be quick; I’d hate you to miss this opportunity.’ He took a pen from his pocket and wrote his bank details on the back of a business card. ‘You could transfer it as soon as you get home, then I could process it tonight.’

  ‘Sure.’ Gwen took the card and looked at it. ‘In fact, I have fifty thousand in my savings account. It’s every penny I have, but if I invested that, would I get ten k back?’

  Sam couldn’t prevent his eyes widening or his hand tightening further as if to grasp this wondrous offer. ‘Oh yes, absolutely. You’d have sixty k in a month.’

  She’d sat there, her hand in his, feeling bitterness twisting her mouth and a heaviness in her belly. And she thought of the sex and wanted to throw up. Then the arrogance of the bastard, that he’d think so little of her, made her pull her hand away and get to her feet. While he was still trying to understand the change in temperature, she drew her arm back and hit him squarely across the face. The loud clap as flesh connected with flesh was loud enough to halt conversation in the restaurant as every face turned to stare.

  She left, managing to walk from the restaurant with her head high, stumbling up the street, unable to see for the tears that clouded her eyes. Tears of anger mixed with those of self-pity and loss.

  The next day, regretting she’d let him get away with it, she tried to contact him but his number had been disconnected. Although she knew where he lived, she’d never been to his home; he’d always stayed at hers and she couldn’t remember if that had been his choice or hers. She realised why, when determined to have it out with him, she called to his address to discover he didn’t live there, and the people who did had never heard of him.

  Perhaps she should have reported it, admitted to her stupidity, to being as much of an idiot as those women she and her friends had laughed at for being so gullible. She didn’t; afraid it would slip out. She didn’t want to face the derision, to listen to the smart remarks, the pitying looks. Anyway, she’d lost no money… just her self-respect.

  For weeks afterwards, she’d looked for him in every café, every pub and every public area. She read her newspaper with more care, checked the news on the internet, checked references of fraud or catfishing, every mention of someone being conned out of money. And each time, she remembered how close she’d come. So close she spoke to a financial advisor in her local bank and had her savings locked away in a special account where she couldn’t access it for at least five years.

  She swore she’d never be taken for a fool again.

  And then she met George.

  24

  Gwen

  It was over a year after her close call with Sam Burke that Gwen met George at a party given by mutual friends. She was careful, took her time before getting involved, determined this time to get it right.

  He was divorced, his ex-wife living with a polo player in Argentina. ‘We wanted different things,’ he told Gwen when their relationship entered its second month and they started talking about past relationships.

  There was no bitterness in his voice when he spoke of his marriage, no sense of hostility towards his ex-wife. Gwen let herself fall a little further in love with him.

  In return for his relationship disclosures, she made him laugh with stories of past lovers. But she left out the story about Sam.

  They married a year after they met. It was another six months after she’d walked down the aisle of a pretty country church before Gwen realised exactly what he’d meant by he and his ex-wife wanting different things. She, like Gwen, had probably wanted and expected fidelity whereas George considered it to be a ridiculous concept.

  She came to understand that her husband needed a string of foolish, cheap women to feel powerful. Gwen was too much: too strong, successful, rich. Her fault, too, that she owned the apartment in Knightsbridge and the successful art gallery. She, as George told her many times when he’d had a few drinks, emasculated him.

  Every new affair had diminished her a little, had taken small painful bites out of her self-worth. George probably thought he was being discreet but she always knew… he’d wear that certain smile he only wore after one of his assignations… and she’d know he was off again and wondered if this time, this woman was the one that would finish their marriage.

  In the end, she stopped asking and condemning but she’d never stopped loving the lying, cheating bastard. Only his death had solved that heartache.

  Two years before, he was killed during a burglary while she was away at an art conference. Stabbed, dead before he hit the floor according to the investigating officer. Gwen had been shocked, devastated… and almost relieved.

  ‘He was supposed to come to the conference with me,’ she told the officer. ‘But he wasn’t feeling well during the afternoon so decided to stay home.’

  ‘You’re well known in the art world, Ms Marsham. Someone knew your apartment was supposed to be empty. By the time they realised their intel was wrong, it was too late.’

  And that was it, it was deemed to be a robbery gone wrong. The investigation tapered off after a few weeks and although it was still an open case, Gwen didn’t think they’d ever discover what happened that night.

  She’d sworn off men after George and over the last two years she’d come to accept that she was better single.

  Then Toby had walked into the gallery and she knew she’d been lying to herself.

  25

  Gwen

  Gwen was feeling grubby after getting rid of the last of Toby’s belongings. She had a long shower, used her favourite scented moisturiser, and pulled a cotton robe on to encase the scent. She breathed it in, feeling automatically more relaxed. It was over.

  A glass of wine seemed in order. A mini celebration.

  Gwen grabbed a chair cushion and went onto the balcony with her icy cold glass of Sémillon. The unseasonal rain that had battered the city for the last couple of days had stopped and the evening was warm with none of the humidity that could make summer in London uncomfortable. She tilted a chair to drain the rainwater, dropped the cushion on it and sat.

  The chair faced the end of the road. It was a quieter, prettier aspec
t than the opposite and one she normally chose. If she’d been facing the other direction, she’d have seen a car stop halfway along the street and the two detectives who’d visited her earlier at the gallery get out and walk towards her apartment. If she’d seen them, she could have slipped back inside before they saw her, could have ignored the doorbell.

  But she didn’t and when it shattered the quiet she jumped and dropped her wine glass. It hit the ground and smashed, dumping the cold wine she’d barely touched in a puddle that immediately inched on the slight slope towards the apartment.

  The entrance door of the building was recessed so she knew it was pointless to lean over the balcony to see who was calling. She got to her feet, stepped over the mess of glass and wine and went inside. An intercom screen was set to one side of the front door. With one press of a button, she could see who was outside. Two figures. Gwen wondered if they’d pressed her bell in error… or maybe she hoped. She was still hoping when one of the figures moved closer to press the bell again, the painted face instantly recognisable. It was those blasted detectives. Gwen could ignore them. They didn’t know she was here, did they? Or had they looked up and seen her?

  Her question was answered when the intercom buzzed again and, this time, they pressed the button to speak. ‘We know you’re there, Ms Marsham, we’d appreciate it if we could have a moment of your time.’

  She didn’t bother answering but pushed the buzzer to release the entrance door. Her apartment door was locked, a safety chain in place. Trembling fingers undid the chain with less than usual dexterity and by the time she pulled the door open with a grunt of frustration, the two detectives were standing outside.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gwen said. ‘I always put the lock and chain on when I come home, they can be fiddly to remove.’ She was babbling, showing her unease. Usually, she was good at reading expressions, but theirs were granite. ‘Come in, please.’ She took a step backwards waiting till they’d gone into the living room before shutting the door, using the time to get a grip on her churning emotions.