Lie to Me: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Jess Ryder

  ‘Well, yes, actually,’ he says. ‘I’ve been going through the evidence boxes – fascinating stuff. Guess what? Cara’s best friend, who gave evidence against Jay at the trial, happens to be none other than Isobel Dalliday – the Isobel Dalliday.’

  ‘The director?’

  ‘Yup. Amazing, eh? Hopefully I’ll get to meet her,’ he carries on. ‘Unfortunately, my boss isn’t too keen, because she’s a celebrity. In the theatre world, anyway.’ I can hear him drawing the curtains, a soft thud as he sits on the sofa. He’s probably got the television on, muted, and is hopping through the channels to see what’s on after the news. ‘My DI hadn’t actually heard of her, but then I showed him her Twitter feed… all the political stuff. Stupid of me. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  Is this why he called? To tell me about Isobel Dalliday? I know he’s long been a fan. We’ve seen several of her productions, at the National and in the West End. And she’s a lifelong member of the Labour Party, part of the arty left. Then it clicks: that’s who I recognised in the press photo taken after the trial. It was her face, framed by a sharp black bob, her mouth screaming abuse at Christopher Jay. Interesting, yes. But not the person I want to hear about.

  ‘So why have you called?’

  ‘Well… we’ve spent the past week trying to track down the original witnesses,’ he says, ‘but we’re not having much luck – with some people, anyway…’ His voice tails off.

  ‘With Becca,’ I say, after a pause.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning nothing yet. There’s no record of her death, so we’re working on the basis that’s she’s still alive.’

  ‘Oh.’ My heart skips an infinitesimally small beat, and in that microsecond I realise that I want him to find her.

  Eliot breezes on, oblivious to the slight change of atmosphere. ‘We’ve called up the exhibits and forensic evidence and they’re going to be tested for DNA traces. It occurred to me that if you gave a DNA sample, it could help with eliminations. You know, in the event that we can’t trace Becca.’

  There it is. The intimate connection between us confirmed in a spit of saliva.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ I say, trying to sound as if it means nothing. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Siobhan Gerrard says she’ll take your sample for me.’

  ‘Why don’t I come up to Birmingham, then you can do it in person?’

  ‘No need. Just give Siobhan a call and arrange a time. Have you still got my old office number?’

  ‘Er… dunno… probably. I just thought…’ I tail off. Should I tell him I’m already coming up to Birmingham tomorrow, to visit the newspaper archives? That I want to find out everything I can about the murder and Becca’s part in the trial; that I want to make my own scrapbook, like Chief Constable Durley’s?

  No, not yet.

  DI Siobhan Gerrard shows me into a small interview room, flooded with morning light. The atmosphere is cheery, with IKEA-style furniture and no sign of the ubiquitous one-way mirrors you see in crime dramas.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about you and Eliot splitting up,’ she says, as I unzip my jacket. ‘I thought you two were for keeps.’

  ‘Well, these things don’t always work out.’ I look around for a hook, then drape it over the back of my chair. ‘I think we both feel we made the right decision.’

  ‘Sure.’ She smiles. I sit down and tuck my legs behind me. I don’t know what to do with my arms – elbows on the table, hands clasped together in my lap? I mustn’t touch my lips or she’ll think I’m lying. How come being in a police station instantly makes me feel guilty? Siobhan pulls her chair alongside me. Before she can take my DNA, she explains, there are forms to be filled in, and she’s obliged to tell me my rights.

  ‘As this is a voluntary sample, it can only be analysed in connection with the Cara Travers case,’ she tells me, passing over a chewed black biro. ‘It will be destroyed as soon as the investigation is concluded and your profile won’t be added to the national DNA database unless you specifically request it.’

  ‘Why would I request it?’ I say, signing the form at the bottom. Siobhan snaps on a pair of blue disposable gloves and tears at a plastic bag.

  ‘Your mother is long-term missing, yes?’

  I nod. ‘She was suicidal, so…’

  ‘One assumes…’ She removes what looks like a giant earbud from the packet. ‘So there’s a chance that her body was found but not identified. If she died a long time ago, we won’t have the records, but these days DNA and fingerprints are taken as standard procedure. You never know, there might be a match. If not now, maybe in the future.’

  ‘Right… I see. Well…’

  ‘Scrape this gently across the inside of your mouth, please.’ Siobhan hands me the swab and then watches to make sure I’m doing it properly.

  ‘Is that enough?’ She nods. I give her the swab and she pops it back into a transparent tube. ‘I’ll go on the DNA database – I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘No past crimes?’ Her tone is joking, but her gaze is serious.

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘I’m obliged to tell you that once your profile is added to the NDNAD, it can’t be removed. So if in the future—’

  ‘I’m not planning any murders!’ I laugh. ‘And if my mother has already been found, it would be good to know once and for all. So let’s do it.’

  She reseals the kit and writes my name on the label. ‘Okay, but I’ll have to fetch another form.’

  It’s gone eleven by the time I get out of the police station. I take the Northern Line to Euston, buy a packet of sandwiches, a Diet Coke and a supersaver day return to Birmingham New Street. The train leaves in fifteen minutes, giving me enough time to go to Smith’s and get a load of new stationery. If I’m going to research this murder case, I’m going to do it properly.

  The train is quiet and I easily find a seat with a table, spreading out my purchases to claim my territory. As I struggle to extricate the pen from its high-security packaging, my fingers tingle excitedly. I’m breaking free – from Dad, from Eliot. Doing what I want to do, taking control. About time, too.

  On the journey, I write down the few facts I already know about the murder case on my new A4 pad. Names, locations, a couple of dates. Hopefully the library will have back copies of local newspapers I can look at. I turn over the page and write ‘Rebecca Banks’ in large letters at the top, adding her maiden name underneath in brackets and making a note to remind myself to tell Eliot he could try searching for her as Rebecca Harwood instead. Then I immediately cross it out. The police will already be doing that, surely.

  How old was she in August 1984, when the murder took place? I’ve always assumed Becca was about the same age as Dad, so… twenty-six. But she could have been younger or older. I put down my pen and look out of the window as green fields dotted with small villages and distant church spires flash past, suddenly hit with a wave of sadness. I don’t even know my mother’s birthday, or where she was born. I make a note to search for a reference to her age in the press reports; failing that, I suppose I could ask Eliot. I’d rather not, but if I can find out some basic information, I can send off for her birth certificate.

  My mind starts to race on another course. What happened to Becca’s personal documents after she disappeared? Birth and marriage certificates, driving licence, passport… I wonder how long Dad held onto them, hoping or fearing that she might return; how long before he emptied her wardrobe and removed her underwear from the chest of drawers. Weeks, months, years? I don’t remember seeing anything of hers around the house, so he can’t have waited long. If I’d carried on searching through the attic that day, would I have found her belongings, cold and slightly damp, stuffed into dusty bin liners? No. Knowing him, he burnt everything.

  I carry on staring out of the window, stacking up the consequences as fields give way to the backs of terraced houses – gardens festooned with trampolines, barbecues, pla
stic chairs and tables, the essential equipment of outdoor family life. It seems strange to destroy somebody’s possessions when you don’t know for certain that they’re dead, even if you hate them and want to forget they ever existed. Maybe I’m doing Dad a disservice. He probably waited a couple of years and then passed Becca’s stuff on to a member of her family. That would have been the right thing to do. I return to the A4 pad and write myself a note. Brothers and sisters? Names, addresses? Do they have her things? WHERE ARE HER THINGS?

  The train pulls into Birmingham sooner than I expected, and I have to hurry to pack up. This is where it all happened, I think to myself as I follow the signs to the exit. And not just the murder; this is where my parents met on a teacher-training course. Dad came from Essex, but I haven’t a clue about Becca. She could have come from anywhere in the country, or she could have been a local girl. All I know is that by 1984 they were living within walking distance of Darkwater Pool. I’ve looked it up on the map – a small splodge of blue in an area called Redborne. It’s near the university, to the southwest of the city. You can get there on the number 23 bus. But bare facts are of little use. They don’t tell a story.

  I emerge from the station and follow the signs up a long pedestrianised street, my carrier bag of stationery banging against my legs. The new library is beautiful – an enormous shiny silver-and-gold box, gift-wrapped in barbed wire – an architectural present to the people of Birmingham. It glints invitingly in the sun, promising knowledge. Inside, I step into the sleek, silent escalator and take the stairway to heaven, alighting at the fifth floor.

  The newspaper archive is kept on old-fashioned microfiche – I find the box for the Post and Mail, 1984, load the spool and start scrolling. The print blurs as it rushes past, my eyes ready to pounce on likely words. Murder. Darkwater. Cara Travers. Then, at the very end of August, I find the first mention of Becca. In the early hours of yesterday morning, police were called to Darkwater Pool after a local teacher discovered the body of a young woman.

  Local teacher. How respectable that sounds. Two weeks pass before the police announce that ‘a twenty-year-old man is helping with enquiries’. The following day he’s charged. Then there’s nothing in the papers until the trial, four months later.

  Christopher Jay was evidently violent and jealous. During the trial, Isobel Dalliday spoke of seeing Cara’s bruises, and said she’d urged her friend several times to report him to the police. After the acquittal, the detective in charge of the investigation made a brief, bitter statement saying that while the case remained open, they were not looking for new suspects. In other words, thanks to my mother changing her evidence, a murderer walked free.

  Did somebody persuade her to lie on the witness stand? And years later, was she trying to shake free of their grasp? I think back to her frightened words on the videotape: The bad man knows. If you don’t help Mummy, he’ll come and get me. Is that why she disappeared?

  Chapter Twelve

  Cara

  April 1984

  To Cara’s surprise, Toby, Gina and Jay all accepted the non-existent jobs and started work at 31 Darkwater Terrace the following week. But the first bit of drama had nothing to do with the play about nuclear disarmament. Cara had sensed that Gina would be trouble, even from the auditions, but Isobel had liked her feisty spirit and thought her knowledge of arts funding would be useful. Gina was always the first to offer her opinions in company discussions, whether it be about what time they should start rehearsals, whether the main character in their new play should be male or female, or whether people should contribute to the tea and coffee fund or ‘the company’ (i.e. Isobel) should pay. She also had the irritating habit of ending every sentence with ‘you know what I mean?’ Isobel and Cara had both picked up on it, and imitated her strong Manchester accent when the others had gone home.

  The big row happened three weeks into rehearsals. Cara couldn’t remember exactly how it had started, but it was something to do with Isobel wanting to cut a scene in which Gina had a long, passionate speech about her daughter dying from radiation poisoning (the play imagined Britain under nuclear attack).

  ‘You can’t just cut it,’ Gina protested. ‘The show’s group-devised, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, group-devised, not group-directed,’ replied Isobel, giving her what could only be described as a superior look. ‘Somebody has to be in charge or it’ll be crap.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m crap?’ Gina demanded, squaring her jaw.

  ‘No, I’m saying the scene is crap.’

  At that point, all hell broke loose. Gina launched into a diatribe against Isobel, whom she accused of being a capitalist dictator, no better than Maggie Thatcher, using the rest of them as slaves to make money and promote her own career. Toby pointed out that nobody had forced Gina to join Purple Blaze, and that as she’d agreed to work on a profit-share basis she was just as much a capitalist as Isobel. Gina countered that this couldn’t be the case, as unlike Isobel she didn’t own a ‘fucking big house’, and then threw a chair at the offending wall to emphasise her point.

  ‘Oh dear, jealous, are we?’ sneered Isobel. This accusation seemed to drive Gina into even more of a rage, and the whole thing degenerated into a horrible shouting match, inflamed by Toby telling the women to calm down. Cara shrank into the corner with her hands over her ears, chanting, ‘Stop it, please stop it!’ and Jay, who’d not said a word, left the room and went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. Cara found him in the conservatory fifteen minutes later, sitting with his legs over the arm of a bamboo chair, smoking a roll-up as he stared vacantly at the garden.

  ‘Gina’s been given the sack,’ she informed him. ‘Isobel told her to get out and never come back.’

  ‘And there’s me thinking we were a cooperative.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Yeah, right…’ He pulled deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘Gina had to go, surely you’d agree. She was so horrible to Isobel, after all she’s done for the company. Some people are so ungrateful.’

  He turned his head towards her. ‘You don’t see it, do you?’

  ‘See what?’

  Jay drew on his cigarette and then slowly puffed out the smoke.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re on Gina’s side, then? Do you think you’re a slave too?’ Cara felt herself prickling with indignation.

  ‘No, I don’t. But…’ He paused, swinging his legs back in front of him and standing up. ‘Isobel’s a bully; she’s got you right where she wants you. But she doesn’t own you,’ he added quietly. ‘Or me. She doesn’t own any of us.’ He was standing very close to her, and she could smell the tobacco on his breath. It revolted and attracted her at the same time. Their eyes connected and she thought for a second that he was going to kiss her, or even slap her round the face. But then he pulled away and went back upstairs, leaving her stranded in the conservatory, angry and confused.

  Gina’s departure turned out to be a relief rather than a loss, and over the next weeks everyone made an extra effort to be jolly and cooperative. The play was reworked and it was agreed that it was more punchy and dramatic for it. Toby brought chocolate biscuits and Jelly Babies in, and even Jay started to make a few jokes. One Friday, after a particularly creative day, they went out for a curry together, which Isobel insisted on paying for, despite everyone’s protests. She made a tearful, drunken speech about being grateful for all their support, and declared that Purple Blaze was going to ‘set the world on fire’, which even Cara thought was going a bit too far.

  The Gina incident had another surprising effect on Isobel: she decided she wanted to try to be reconciled with her parents, or, to be more accurate, her angry, disinherited mother. ‘I’ve realised that I can’t bear people hating me,’ she told Cara, as she packed a bag for the weekend. ‘I can’t do anything about Gina, but I should be able to sort things out with the folks.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ said Cara, thinking that the on
ly way to sort things out was to share the inheritance, which she knew Isobel would never do.

  ‘Will you be all right on your own in the house?’

  ‘Yes. I might try to tackle the garden – you know, mow the lawn or something.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, if you could,’ said Isobel, giving her a tight hug, which went on so long it started to hurt Cara’s chest. ‘You’re a darling,’ she whispered, kissing her cheek. Cara felt herself colouring up, but couldn’t understand why.

  When she woke on Saturday morning, the sun was shining and the sharp wind that had chilled the air all week seemed to have subsided. She couldn’t think of a single good excuse for not getting up and going outside, although what she really wanted to do was stay in bed and luxuriate. It had long been a Saturday-morning ritual (a bit like the teacakes) for Isobel to bring her a cup of tea and sometimes peanut butter on toast. She’d jump into Cara’s bed and they’d have a girlie gossip under the duvet. Recently, some of those chats had felt awkward, because Isobel had made a few bitchy remarks about Jay, saying he couldn’t respond to direction and wasn’t as talented as she’d first thought. Cara had wondered whether Isobel was saying things deliberately to test her, or whether it was just a coincidence. She was glad to have a weekend off from thinking about it.

  She got out of bed and dressed in the worst clothes she could find, in case she had to sacrifice them to the gardening. Footwear was a problem, but there was a pair of wellington boots in the conservatory – belonging to the dead grandmother, she presumed – and she tried them on. They were a size too big but comfortable enough. Outside, the grass looked like a tatty shag-pile carpet, and weeds were already sprouting in the flower beds. The garden shed was padlocked, but she found the key in one of the kitchen drawers and managed to get the door open. As she stared at the torn compost bags, towers of empty flowerpots, watering cans, sieves, odd bits of chicken wire and the jumble of spades, forks, shovels, hoes, rakes and trowels, she was suddenly overcome with apathy. She shut the door and snapped the padlock back on.