Lies: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down!

by TM Logan

  ‘Pretty sure he’s never been in my car, but he’s been to the house a half-dozen times.’ I thought about the geography of his affair. ‘Of course there are the other times when he might have been there, with Mel.’

  ‘Of course.’ Larssen nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Surely they can’t go ahead with a murder charge if they haven’t got a body?’

  ‘It’s unusual, but it does happen occasionally if the rest of the evidence is strong enough. There used to be something called the “no body, no murder” rule. But things have changed since then, and you do see a few cases where the police proceed without a body, and still get a conviction.’

  ‘Like the Blaisdale case. The email from Ben.’

  ‘That would be one example, yes.’

  ‘What did Naylor say about the Facebook posts?’ I said, unable to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘The David Bramley account? Can’t he see that’s proof Ben’s still alive, for fuck’s sake?’

  Larssen shrugged, unmoved by my frustration.

  ‘There’s no proof that Ben sent them. Anyone could have sent them. So their evidential value is limited.’

  ‘Can’t they trace the IP address they were sent from, trace the account in some way?’

  ‘Usually they can, if the person is using an existing mobile account, or a desktop PC, or accessing Facebook via the app on their phone – which is the way most people do it. That will leave a trace that they can pick up. But according to DS Redford, the Bramley Facebook posts and the Messenger texts you received were sent by someone using a pay-as-you-go phone, via a web browser rather than the app.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘It means there is no trace. You’ve got multiple layers of disguise: not only is the Facebook account an empty shell, but you’re also not generating metadata via the app. And in any case, you’ve got nothing to link the IP address to apart from a pay-as-you-go phone, which apparently hasn’t been used for any other calls or texts, and hasn’t been topped up using a credit or debit card. It’s one of the few ways of evading this type of check. It basically gives the police a bit of a dead end.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Who the hell knows this stuff?’

  ‘Someone who’s very smart indeed. Someone who lives and breathes technology, and knows exactly what they’re doing.’

  ‘He lives and breathes it all right: Ben’s very much alive. You see that, don’t you?’

  Larssen capped the end of his pen and put it down on the pad. He sat back in his chair.

  ‘You realise, Joe, that if they had found a body, they would have charged you already? Naylor certainly wouldn’t be so keen to lay out all of his new evidence.’

  ‘So why did he?’

  ‘Because he wants you to be overwhelmed by it all and admit that you did it. In the absence of a body, he’s looking for the next best thing: a confession.’

  ‘Well they’re not getting that from me, so what’s our plan of attack?’

  ‘Attack?’

  ‘What do we do next?’

  ‘Short term, we see this out tonight. When they come back in here they’ll start with the questioning all over again, right from the beginning.’ He checked his watch. ‘After that, we try to get bail get you back home to your family tonight. Then it’s just a case of seeing what they come up with, staying calm and keeping our powder dry.’

  ‘What else?’ I said.

  He looked at me, cool and level, his face absolutely without expression.

  ‘Pray the police don’t find anything at that country park.’

  60

  Mel hugged me and gave me a large whisky when I finally got home just before 11 p.m. We sat at the kitchen table and I gave answers to her questions about Naylor and Ben, about evidence and accusations, pictures on Facebook and mobile phone data. About what might happen next. It was beyond weird not being able to completely trust my wife, my soulmate. While I wanted to confide in someone other than my solicitor, Mel still had a way to go before she regained my trust. So I kept my answers short and basic.

  She decided I was in shock.

  ‘Poor Joe. You poor thing. You’re exhausted, aren’t you? What a day, what a horrible day.’

  She hugged me again, her warm breath on my cheek, the soft floral scent of her perfume stirring all kinds of wonderful memories. It felt so good, so right, that my guard almost crumbled right there. I wanted more than anything to hug her back, bury my head in her shoulder, tell her she was forgiven. Tell her I wanted more than anything for life to go back to how it was before Thursday night. Tell her I loved her. Tell her everything.

  But the barb of betrayal was buried deep, and it made my heart ache with sadness whenever I looked at her.

  Ben will be out of our lives soon. And then we will find forgiveness, and we will start again.

  She poured us both another whisky and put a hand on my cheek, her fingertips warm and soft. She leaned in and kissed me, a long, tender kiss that made everything else fall away, all of today’s anxiety and fear about what tomorrow might bring. I closed my eyes and it was like being sixteen again, kissing the prettiest girl at the party.

  She broke off but stayed close, her forehead against mine.

  ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she breathed.

  ‘It’s not looking great at the moment.’

  ‘The police can’t do anything to you. You haven’t done anything to Ben.’

  ‘They seemed pretty gung-ho today.’

  ‘Sooner or later they’ll see.’

  I took a large swallow of whisky, enjoying the burn as it went down.

  ‘Ben just has to break cover once. Just once, long enough for the police to realise that he’s still very much alive and kicking. And then we can put our lives back together again.’

  Her face crumpled as if she might cry.

  ‘I don’t know how I can have been so stupid, Joe. Can you forgive me?’

  I still loved her. But forgiveness was more complicated.

  ‘Mel –’

  She put her index finger to my lips.

  ‘Actually, you don’t have to tell me. Take your time. I don’t deserve to know either way, not until you want to tell me.’ She put her small hand over mine. ‘Tonight’s when I start to make up for it. For everything. Let’s go back to how we used to be.’

  I looked at her then, my wife, my beautiful wife, my heart aching harder than ever.

  After three whiskies she took me by the hand and led me up to our bedroom. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, if perhaps I should hold out, refuse her. Punish her for what she’d done – it was her affair with Ben that had led to all my troubles with the police.

  But then she pulled her blouse over her head and dropped it to the floor, and all my thoughts of resistance vanished like smoke.

  We made love slowly, as if we had all the time in the world, and there was no one in the world but us. As if nothing else mattered. Afterwards, Mel cried and asked me again to forgive her. She cried like a child, telling me she was sorry, over and over, while I wondered again about the toll all of this was taking on her. I wrapped her in my arms and eventually she drifted off to sleep. I dozed for an hour or so, dreaming about Ben chasing me through an underground car park, blood running down the side of his face, jumping out at me, running me down in his big white Porsche. Then I was awake again, staring into the darkness, looking at the cracks of street light filtering through the blinds and listening to Mel’s slow, rhythmic breathing beside me. Larssen had told me that if the police did end up charging me with murder, it was highly likely that I would be remanded in custody rather than being bailed.

  So if I’m charged tomorrow, this might be my last night in my own bed for months. Or years. The last night beside my wife. As soon as that thought had taken root, sleep was out of the question. I lay there wondering what Ben would come up with next, what Naylor would throw at me.

  Eventually I got up and went downstairs to the kitchen, the clo
ck on the wall glowing red digits. Six minutes past three in the morning. The house was a mess and in the deep shadows it looked like a burglary or some kind of domestic disaster had struck the family home. The police had taken clothes, computers, tools from the cellar and spades from the shed, shoes, bags of rubbish from both inside the house and from the dustbin outside. There was stuff strewn everywhere in the aftermath of the police search. I realised absently that I’d forgotten to ask about the shotgun cartridge and the note Ben had left. Presumably they’d been scooped up with everything else. My car was gone. My laptop, iPad and desktop PC were gone. My mobile phone was gone.

  They might as well have sent me back in time to 1900.

  THURSDAY

  61

  William kept his distance from me the next morning. He looked at me warily, the way he looked at barky dogs and homeless people at the Tube station. I knew that – for him – the world was a very black-and-white place. You were either a goodie or a baddie. And goodies didn’t get handcuffed and taken away by the police.

  I fetched him his cereal and sat with him at the dining table while he ate it and I drank a strong coffee. Normally he would talk to me, ask me all kinds of questions or tell me about random four-year-old things, like which one of the Angry Birds was his favourite, or how many wees he’d done the day before, or whether Citroëns were better than Fords. But today he ate in silence. He seemed wary of even catching my eye. It broke my heart to see him like that, frightened of talking to me. As soon as he had finished his Cheerios, he shuffled off his chair and carried the bowl into the kitchen without even being asked.

  He talked to his mother in the kitchen as she helped him on with his shoes and coat. I loved the sound of his voice, there was none of the sarcasm or smart-alec sass of half the kids at Haddon Park. No condescension, no deceit. Just straight up.

  ‘Are you taking me to school today, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, Wills.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Daddy’s not got his car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The police wanted to borrow it for a few days.’

  He thought about this for a moment. I suspected he would know it was another parental lie: he was a smart little guy.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They sometimes do that when they need an extra car.’

  I said: ‘It’s a Mummy car day today, matey.’

  Mel came over and kissed me. Followed up with a hug, which she almost never did in the morning unless I had a job interview or something else big going on. She had her working-day armour back on: crisp white blouse, killer heels and perfectly applied make-up that accentuated her beauty.

  ‘You sure you’re OK with me going to work today? I’ve got a lieu day to take – I could stay home and we could have a day together, just the two of us.’

  ‘Go on, it’s fine.’

  She searched my face.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘It’s going to be OK, Joe.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly, her breath warm against my ear. The single word was quiet but emphatic, almost as if she was trying to convince herself as well as me.

  I held her close, just for a few more seconds.

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  She broke off the embrace and picked up her briefcase.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got meetings this morning but how about I take a half-day’s leave this afternoon? I’ll be back in time to pick William up from school, so he doesn’t have to go to after-school club, and then we can have an early tea together. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Great. So what are you going to do this morning, babe?’

  ‘Sort things out,’ I said. ‘Did the police take your work iPad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I borrow it?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘I’ve got meetings and things . . .’

  ‘Just for today? You’ve got your work iPhone for emails, right?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She shrugged and took the iPad out of her briefcase.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, kissing her again. I kissed William and watched them walk down the drive to her car, my son’s small high voice cutting through the crisp autumn air.

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Daddy going to prison?’

  Straight up, no deceit.

  ‘No, of course not, William.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘But if he does go to prison, do we have to go with him?’

  ‘No, William. And Daddy’s not going to prison so you don’t have to worry about that.’

  ‘Jacob P. says Daddy’s a bad man.’

  William climbed up into his car seat in the back of Mel’s VW Golf, and her response was lost to me as she bent to strap him in.

  I stood on the doorstep for a long moment, arms crossed, watching Mel’s VW pull away. Then staring at the space by the kerb where her car had been. Jacob P. says Daddy’s a bad man. So the stories were spreading at William’s school as well. The old-fashioned rumour mill plus Facebook was a deadly combination.

  It felt like a disadvantage to be without a mobile at a time like this. Mel had dug out one of her old handsets from a drawer – a two-year-old iPhone, unused since she had upgraded – and lent it to me while I waited for mine to be returned by the police. I walked round the corner to the High Street and paid in cash for a new SIM card from Carphone Warehouse. I put it into the iPhone before leaving the shop and felt like I was back in the twenty-first century, instead of some time traveller from the 1970s.

  Sitting on a bench, I texted my new number to Mel, Larssen, Beth and a few others, downloaded a few apps and got the hang of the phone’s menus and navigation. Mel said it had been wiped completely and she was almost right – the only thing I could find were a dozen funny selfies that William had taken, stashed away in a back up file. I smiled at the blurry series of pictures of our son in his pyjamas, who seemed to have snapped them without her knowing. He’d also taken three pictures of his breakfast cereal, one of a spoon and five of his big toe. But everything else that indicated this phone had once belonged to someone else – numbers, texts, videos, music – Mel seemed to have deleted when she upgraded.

  I synced my Hotmail to the new phone and found a second email from bret911.

  No text, just a picture attachment. It was a photograph of a letter, just the top half of an A4 sheet. Formal, letterheaded paper, addressed to Ben at his home address, from a company I had never heard of. Smith & Rivers.

  Dear Mr Delaney,

  Further to our phone conversation today we are pleased to be able to represent you in the matter discussed. Smith & Rivers offers the very best in professional advice and support – our terms are attached. We would seek to meet at your earliest convenience in order to establish the full details of your wife’s unreasonable behaviour as grounds to proceed in this matter. With allegations as serious as you have made –

  The crop of the picture cut the rest of the letter off. The subject line of this email was the same as the last one.

  You next.

  The date on the letter was last Monday, 3 October. Nine days ago.

  You next. Meaning what?

  I forwarded the email to Larssen and sent a three-word message in reply to bret911.

  Who are you?

  According to Google, Smith & Rivers was a legal firm in Hammersmith, near Ben’s office. They specialised in family law. To establish the full details of your wife’s unreasonable behaviour as grounds to proceed in this matter. So Ben was happy to destroy the reputation of his child’s mother, just to win. To get what he wanted. Scorched earth: that was the way he operated. Beth should be told what was coming down the tracks at her – it was only fair.

  I texted her, asking if she could meet this afternoon.

  Think. Perhaps the previous email, the one
about the Blaisdale murder, had not been from Ben. Maybe it wasn’t a taunt.

  You next.

  Maybe it was a warning.

  There was no reply from bret911, so I rang Larssen.

  ‘It’s important that you don’t do anything else that could be construed in a negative light by the police, Joe. Do you understand?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as rushing around hither and thither trying to find Ben, asking people about him, trying to solve the police’s case all on your own. You need to keep a low profile, don’t give them any more sticks to beat you with.’

  ‘But if we find him, then there’s no case left to solve.’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Have you thought any more about the email I got with that link to the court case in Lincolnshire?’

  ‘The Blaisdale murder? That could have come from anyone who has your email address, Joe. Somebody mischief-making.’

  ‘Today’s message wasn’t. Have you looked at your emails just now? Ben was taking legal advice from a family law firm.’

  Larssen said he would take a closer look at the letter, and rang off. There was a notification for me on Facebook. Another user had accepted me into his electronic circle of friends, although he’d never met me. Mark Ruddington was Mel’s school friend, who had posted the ‘twenty years ago’ gallery of pictures of their school play. He had also been her boyfriend – one of the first, I assumed – and had posted a cryptic message in the conversation below that gallery. I wondered if he knew more about my wife than I did.

  I opened up Messenger and typed a quick message to him.

  Hi Mark, nice to *meet* you. I know this sounds weird, but could you give me a call? It’s about Mel, I think you two were friends at school. Thanks – hope you can help, Joe Lynch.

  I added my mobile number and pressed send.

  He seemed to be on Facebook frequently: most recently last night, a sweaty selfie saying he’d run 6.2 miles and the name of the app he used to record time and distance. The day before that was a picture of his kids – three small boys – all wearing Superman outfits. A story he’d shared from BuzzFeed about Kim Kardashian, a video of a cat in fancy dress riding on a robotic vacuum cleaner, another post-run selfie detailing how far he’d run on Sunday night, and so it went on. Once again, I was reminded that looking at a stranger’s Facebook timeline gave a warped view of that person’s life.