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

by Jess Ryder

  Dad made me a doll’s house once, from a kit. He assembled it secretly while I was asleep and gave it to me for my ninth birthday, decorated, furnished and fully inhabited. It hadn’t occurred to him that I would have liked that job; that saving my pocket money and going to the shop to choose the dolls and all the lovely miniature items was the whole point of the toy. He’d thought of everything: tables and chairs, beds, sofas, a bathroom suite, the baby’s crib – right down to tiny plates of eggs and bacon. He’d painted the outside girlie pink, with white shutters at the windows, and each room had different wallpaper made from patterned gift-wrap, the floors carpeted with brown felt. You could turn all the lights on with one switch, and when I went to bed at night I’d leave them on and watch the house from my own giant bed. It comforted me to see the light bulbs twinkling extravagantly in the dark, the dolls safely tucked up in their beds, dreaming of tomorrow’s breakfast. I liked to imagine I was one of them – small and wooden, with peg feet, yellow woollen plaits and a painted smile. I used to lie stiff and straight, just as I am now, pretending I was in the doll’s house, part of its ready-made family – Mummy, Daddy, brother, sister, and the baby that would never grow out of his crib.

  I sink into a sudden sleep and wake – I don’t know how much later – with a thudding head and a dry mouth. I ease myself up, blinking as my eyes adjust to the solid darkness around me. A pair of shoes sits neatly on the pale carpet. Dark trousers and a shirt are draped over the chair like a misshapen ghost. My clothes, by the look of them, although I have no memory of taking them off. Time seems to have stopped, or has it moved forward without me, leaving me stranded? There’s no clock in this room. Is it still the middle of the night, or is dawn breaking? I listen for birdsong, traffic, voices and footsteps in the street, but there’s nothing. A canopy of silence hangs over the bed. The room feels sterilised and sealed, as if I’m in an airtight capsule floating through space. I could stay like this forever, I think. How good would it feel to drift aimlessly around the universe? Doing nothing, talking to no one…

  In the distance, a telephone rings. I hear Isobel’s voice. And then I remember why I’m here. And who I am.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Me

  There’s a gentle knock on my door. ‘Meredith?’ Isobel enters before I can answer. She’s fully dressed and carrying a mug of tea, which she puts on the bedside cabinet. She goes to the window and pulls the curtain cord. The drapes part theatrically, revealing a bright blue sky and the tops of blossomy trees. It’s so perfect it looks false, like a painted backdrop she’s ordered specially to cheer me up. Sunlight swoops across the room and I have to shield my eyes with my arm.

  ‘Did you manage to sleep?’ she asks.

  ‘I think so.’ I sit up, drawing my knees to my chest and pulling the duvet up to my chin, suddenly aware of my nakedness.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this.’ Isobel stands at the foot of the bed, her lips pursed with worry.

  ‘They’ve caught Jay?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. I’ve just had a call from your ex.’

  ‘Eliot? You didn’t tell him I was staying here, did you?’

  She pulls her silky dressing gown tightly across her chest. ‘Yes. Why? Shouldn’t I?’

  ‘It’s just that… I hadn’t told him. Oh shit…’ As if things aren’t bad enough.

  ‘So that’s why he sounded so surprised,’ Isobel says, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m sorry, darling, you should have warned me – I didn’t know we were a dark secret.’

  ‘I bet he was furious.’

  ‘He didn’t sound furious, just shocked. Started interrogating me about how and when we’d met. He’s very worried about you, sends you his lurve. I told him I was letting you rest but he could call you here later. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘Suppose so.’

  She rattles on. ‘Anyway, the Mirror has made the link to Cara’s murder and now everyone’s going to want to know why Jay wasn’t convicted. The shit’s going to hit the fan big-time – which is what the police deserve, so I’m not sorry. I expect I’ll be dragged into it…’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, Heartlands and the Met are coordinating their media response, God help us. They want to make sure we’re all singing off the same hymn sheet. In other words, they’re warning me not to sell my story to the highest bidder.’ She huffs. ‘As if I’d ever betray Cara’s memory like that.’

  ‘What about me? Do the press know who I am? Do they know I went to see Jay?’

  ‘No, and your boy says they’re trying to keep it that way. But if there’s a leak…’ She frowns. ‘Honestly, darling, I’d keep your head down if I were you. Stay here with us, at least until Jay’s caught.’ She kisses me lightly on the cheek and asks me what I’d like for breakfast.

  Eliot calls me on Isobel’s landline just before lunch. I’m up and dressed, ensconced in a tartan armchair by the window, large pottery mug of coffee in hand. Isobel has gone to meet her agent to ‘discuss tactics’ and Alice is learning lines upstairs; at least that was the excuse she gave. I know she doesn’t want me here and I’d leave if I had anywhere else to go.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks, and then, before I have a chance to reply, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got in touch with Isobel Dalliday?’

  ‘You know why.’ Because I didn’t want a conversation like this.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it.’ I can hear noises in the background: people talking, the dull rhythm of a train. ‘She made it sound like you were best friends.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s been really lovely to me—’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re playing at,’ he interrupts, his tone growing more and more peevish. ‘I told you not to get involved, but, as always, you knew better. I know things were moving slowly – that’s what cold cases are like; it’s just as frustrating for me – but you can’t crash around like you’re part of the investigation team. You’ve seen how disastrous it can be.’

  I feel my body stiffen. ‘I didn’t make him kill that girl.’

  His voice lowers to a whisper. ‘If the press find out that you’re Christopher Jay’s daughter—’

  ‘I’m not his daughter!’

  ‘Biologically you are, and that’s all they’re interested in. If they find out you went to see him – that your mother got him acquitted – I swear you’ll have to change your name and leave the country.’

  ‘I didn’t mean any of this to happen, you know that. I was only trying to find out what happened to Becca.’ I sniff up angry tears. ‘I wish I’d never found that fucking tape.’

  ‘I know, I know how devastating this is.’ He lets out a long, troubled sigh. ‘I’m really worried about you, Meri, it’s like… like you’re…’ He hesitates, knowing what dangerous territory he’s just entered.

  ‘Like I’m going mad? Having a nervous breakdown? Jesus, you sound just like my dad.’

  ‘You’re under incredible stress and you need help.’

  ‘Isobel’s helping me.’

  ‘I mean professional help.’ He means doctors. A diagnosis. Medication. Synapses in my brain connect and suddenly I’m the one in the hospital, in the little plastic booth, pillows stacked behind my back, forcing me to sit up. I’m staring at the bare walls and the scratched plastic windows, and at the end of my bed a woman is knitting and watching, knitting and watching. What chance have I got? The love child of a schizophrenic and a psychotic murderer.

  ‘Please let’s not fall out again, El. Can’t we just talk? You could come here.’

  ‘I’ve been formally instructed not to contact you; we shouldn’t even be having this conversation.’ His voice is cold and full of pain.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Meri, why do you think? Because I’m in deep shit for telling you where Jay worked. Durley had to step in to prevent a formal reprimand. He’s made a deal with Abrahams. I go back to Operation Honeysuckle and she forgets I was ever on the case. So much for my brilliant career as a m
urder detective.’

  He’s silent for a few seconds, punishing me. I think of everything we were, everything we’ve shared; I walk through the museum of our life together, looking at pictures, picking up objects – ah yes, we did this, and then we did that, and wasn’t that funny and do you remember when?... We’re in the past tense now, boxed up and archived.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. It sounds so inadequate. Eliot replies but I can’t hear him properly beneath the chatter of strangers, and I know he won’t speak up; he hates people shouting down their phones on the train.

  ‘El? Are you still there?’ The line goes dead. I’ve lost him somewhere in the Chilterns. He doesn’t try to call back and nor do I. It feels like the end of more than just a phone call.

  Isobel arrives home just after six and finds me lying on top of the bed, half asleep. She tells me off when she discovers I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

  ‘Didn’t Alice make you lunch?’ No, Alice didn’t. She kept out of my way all morning and only went downstairs once she’d heard me go back to my room.

  ‘I didn’t want any,’ I say, which isn’t true, I’m actually starving, but there’s no point in causing more trouble. I can’t help that Alice is pissed off by my presence; I just wish she had the good manners to hide it. Isobel doesn’t seem to have noticed, unless she’s pretending in the hope that Alice will eventually stop sulking and get on side.

  ‘You have to eat to keep up your strength,’ she says, and I think: strength for what? What’s the next ordeal I’m going to be put through? Can’t I just hide away and sleep? ‘Tidy yourself up and then come down.’ She hands me a fresh towel and points me in the direction of the bathroom. ‘I’ll make us all some supper.’

  I splash water over my tired, blotchy face and drag my fingers through my hair. I haven’t got so much as a hairbrush with me; I need to go back to the house and collect my make-up and some clothes. Except I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. I don’t want to leave yet, don’t want to face the hostile world outside. It feels safe here, even though the stick insect keeps giving me the evil eye. Isobel’s the one in charge, and if she wants me here, there’s not much Alice can do about it.

  Isobel is guzzling wine and chopping vegetables, immediately dropping her knife when she sees me. ‘Red?’ She reaches for the bottle.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, at the same time thinking I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. The wine tastes strong and fruity. It makes me feel slightly sick, but I take another gulp and sit in the tartan armchair again, like a cat that’s found its favourite place. The light is fading. In the garden, the artfully arranged flowerpots – bushy herbs, lavender and dark velvety tulips – disappear as my reflection sharpens against the darkness. Isobel tells me that the piece in the Mirror wasn’t ‘too bad’ – it didn’t mention her or Becca – but the other papers will start digging around now…

  ‘It’s just a matter of time,’ she says gloomily. ‘And you can imagine the reaction on Twitter – everyone getting on their soapboxes. Loads of people horrified that Jay was allowed to teach when he’d been previously tried for murder, others reminding us that he was acquitted in a court of law… Honestly, it’s been going on all day. I so wanted to join in with a few facts about police incompetence, but I didn’t dare.’

  I look suspiciously through the window, as if our enemies are hiding in the shadows of the garden, waiting to leap out. Journalists in pale raincoats and trilbies, brandishing notebooks.

  ‘At least yesterday’s protest march went off peacefully, thank God,’ Isobel continues. ‘Only one arrest, but now there’s a massive police presence in the area. The stupidity of it is, it’s diverting resources away from the manhunt.’ She peels a large clove of garlic and chops it finely. ‘If they don’t find Jay by the weekend, it could turn very nasty. The community’s desperate not to have a riot, but if troublemakers turn up from outside… well, I don’t trust the police to be able to contain it.’

  Alice comes in. ‘Are we going to talk about this all night?’ She gives me a hostile glance, as if I was the one rattling on, then kisses Isobel – rather pointedly – on the neck. ‘What are you cooking?’ Chicken and chorizo pasta is the reply. Alice takes her wine and goes upstairs, claiming she needs to check her lines for tomorrow’s shoot.

  ‘It’s a teeny-tiny part, only two speeches,’ Isobel explains in a whisper after she’s gone, ‘but at least it’s something. Good for the self-esteem.’

  I pull my legs under me, sinking further into the armchair. ‘I don’t think she wants me here.’

  ‘Oh, don’t take any notice of Alice. You must stay for as long as you like. It’s unbearably horrible what you’ve been through these past few days. All that bastard’s fault. If I came face to face with him right now, I swear I’d kill him.’ She pauses with her knife raised, her face twisted with hate.

  ‘Thank you, Isobel. You’ve been so kind to me, I don’t know what I would have done if—’

  ‘There’s a connection between us,’ she says, turning round to face me. ‘I can’t explain it. You feel it too, I know you do.’ She moves closer to me. ‘We’re already close friends, despite the age gap. That doesn’t happen in an instant; it builds up over many years. That’s what makes me think we’ve known each other in a past life, in many past lives. As friends, or sisters, perhaps even as lovers. They say people meet again and again, but not always in the same relationship, or the same sex.’ She drains her glass, the wine lingering wet on her lips. ‘That’s what’s happening when you meet someone for the first time but get this feeling you’ve known them all your life. It’s instant. That’s how it felt with Cara, how it feels with you. A sort of psychic love at first sight.’

  ‘But you’re married to Alice,’ I say, trying to bring her back down to earth.

  ‘Yes, and I wish she understood.’

  I look up at the ceiling and picture Alice in the room above, rehearsing her part as an excuse to get away. ‘She hates me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Isobel airily.

  She carries on cooking and I watch her deftly chop and fry and stir. Neither of us feels the need to fill the silence with conversation, and I start to feel the tension in my neck untwisting. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, or maybe there really is a special connection between us. I feel something, that’s for sure, although I can’t put it into words, can’t give it a name. She… comforts me. No, that’s not quite it. She… she just understands me, I suppose. She accepts me. But is that because she thinks she’s got her beloved Cara back? I don’t want to be Cara. I just want to be me… whoever that is. I just want to be me.

  Isobel looks at me thoughtfully, standing up and pressing her hands into the small of her back. ‘I’ve just had a brilliant idea. You need a break. We’ve got a little cottage in Cornwall, right by the sea, miles from anywhere. Honestly, it’s really beautiful. We can go there tomorrow, as soon as Alice gets back from her shoot. We’ll stay for the weekend, help you settle in, and then you can stay as long as you like, come back when you’re ready. It’s incredibly relaxing down there, good for the soul. You can go for walks, read, cook… The freezer’s jammed full; you won’t even have to go to the shops.’

  I look up. ‘I don’t know. I’ve already had quite a few days off work.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’re not up to going back at the moment. Please come to Cornwall. Take next week off; I’m sure your boss will understand, and who cares if he doesn’t? Honestly, darling, it’ll do you the world of good.’

  I guess she’s right. I need to get out of London. I can’t think properly here, my mind’s so clogged up. But if I can spend some time alone in a beautiful cottage, walking by the sea, breathing the fresh air, no TV, no internet, nobody to get at me…

  ‘Well… yes,’ I hear myself saying. ‘As long as Alice is cool about it.’

  Isobel tosses her head. ‘Leave her to me. She’ll be fine.’

  But Alice is not fine. When the subject is broached later over dinner, she glue
s her lips together and stares at the wall. Isobel affects not to notice, launching into the story of how they stumbled upon Samphire Cottage five years ago while walking on the clifftops near Bude. It was virtually derelict and they’ve had it lovingly restored, using local materials and craftsmen. Coast magazine did a feature on it, and she makes me get up from the table to look at the article, which they’ve had framed and put in the downstairs loo.

  Alice still hasn’t said a word. Her eyes fixed downwards on her plate, she continues to pick at her food and is catching up with Isobel on the wine consumption, the small veins on her cheeks flushing pink.

  This is not good, I think. I have to step in here. ‘It’s incredibly kind of you both,’ I say, ‘but maybe it would be better if I went home.’

  ‘Only to pick up some things,’ says Isobel. ‘Then we’ll drive straight down.’

  Alice gets up and starts clearing the plates. ‘Stop bullying her,’ she says finally. ‘Let her do what she wants.’

  Isobel looks up, her eyes shining with childlike innocence beneath her short black fringe. ‘I’m not bullying her.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ Alice empties the remains into a small brown compost bin. ‘You do it with everyone. You’re behaving as if Meredith’s your best friend, but the fact is, she’s a total stranger.’

  ‘I’m sorry, this is my fault. I think I’d better go.’ I stand up and my chair scrapes violently on the terracotta floor tiles.

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t!’ Isobel shoves me back into my seat. ‘It’s not your fault, not at all!’ She scrambles towards Alice, who’s wiping the cast-iron skillet, and touches her arm. Alice shoves her off with her elbow; she looks so angry, I half expect her to swing the pan at her partner’s head.