Spare Me the Truth: An explosive, high octane thriller (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  ‘A private hospital, probably.’

  Another silence.

  ‘I’ve never heard of an amnesia drug being used in any hospital, private or not,’ Grace said. ‘As far as I’m aware, that sort of thing is still very much in the research phase. Which hospital?’

  Of course Grace, being a GP, would want to know.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Stella sighed. ‘I’m only hypothesising.’

  Grace snorted. ‘Nice try, Mum. Come on, you can’t dangle something so juicy in front of me and then play coy.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Stella protested, half laughing. ‘I only have a suspicion it may have been used.’

  ‘So what’s the story?’

  Stella hadn’t planned it like this, but it suddenly seemed incredibly simple. She said, ‘Come and see me and I’ll tell you. Face-to-face. I’m at home right now.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes. I’d love to see you.’

  ‘Mum, I’m really sorry, but I’m on call tonight.’

  This meant Grace couldn’t leave the area, let alone drive an hour and a half to get to her. Stella lived in Tring, one of the most efficient commuting satellites into the West End of London, while Grace was near Basingstoke; also in the London commuter belt but on the southerly side.

  ‘When can you come?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Er, I’m not sure . . .’

  Stella considered Dan and what time he’d turn up the following day. He’d come early, she decided. He wouldn’t be able to wait any longer. They’d be done by the time Grace arrived. She said, ‘I’m at home all day tomorrow.’

  ‘You are?’ Grace sounded surprised.

  ‘Working.’ Her tone was dry.

  ‘Of course.’ Grace’s tone was just as dry. Both of them could be called workaholics but it wasn’t because they were obsessed with their jobs or had their egos tied into them; it was simply the nature of the work they did.

  ‘The weekend would be easier,’ Grace began, ‘I can make –’

  ‘Please, Grace,’ Stella interrupted. ‘Come tomorrow. We have to talk.’

  ‘About your amnesiac?’

  Stella swallowed. Closed her eyes. ‘No. Something else.’

  She could almost see Grace taking the phone away from her head and staring at it.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Stella waited for a barrage of questions but, surprisingly, none came. ‘Of course I’ll come tomorrow, Mum. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stella lied. ‘But I do need to see you.’

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Get to you, say, early afternoon or so. I’ll bring something from the deli for a late lunch. OK?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  As she got ready for bed, Stella listened to the news. The headline story was about a pretty young university student who’d been missing for two days. Bella Frances. Disappeared from her shared flat in Stockton-on-Tees. The police hadn’t found a single clue, forensic or otherwise, that might explain what had happened. She left behind her keys and handbag, and police admitted they had no idea what had happened to her. Her family were distraught.

  Two days missing. The girl was probably dead. What a waste of a young life.

  Suddenly Stella felt close to tears, which was most peculiar. She couldn’t think when she had last cried.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PC Lucy Davies glanced at the photo of Bella Frances stuck on the board. Glossy dark hair framed a heart-shaped face with a generous mouth and bright, laughing blue eyes. Eighteen years old, slim and vivacious, she’d been missing since Tuesday. And now another time-waster had called in claiming to know where Bella was.

  ‘Rio de Janeiro?’ Lucy repeated. Since Bella didn’t have a passport, Lucy knew that the idea of her travelling to Brazil was highly unlikely, if not impossible. ‘Are you sure?’

  The caller sounded as though he was in his teens and, when she heard a snigger in the background, a flicker of crimson shimmered in her mind.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the boy replied, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. ‘She was wearing a bikini and a sunhat.’

  ‘Hoax calls to the police will be investigated and dealt with by the courts,’ Lucy intoned. ‘You can be imprisoned for six months with a fine of five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Filth,’ he sneered.

  ‘I need to make you aware this phone call is being traced,’ Lucy stated in the same emotionless tone. ‘And that we already have your location. Two officers have been alerted and are on their –’

  Clunk.

  Lucy grinned as she put her phone back down. Little shits. She hoped she’d given them a scare that would make them think twice before they pissed the police around in the future.

  ‘Another joker, I take it?’

  She looked across to see Howard devouring his third Lion bar. Blobby on the beat. That’s what a kid had called him this morning but he’d pretended he hadn’t heard and despite desperately wanting to bring the subject up – Howard was so fat his stab vest didn’t meet at the side – Lucy had kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t wanted to antagonise him. She’d been in the job less than five weeks.

  ‘Kids,’ she said.

  ‘I got one too,’ he said. ‘Could be the same ones. They were winding me up, saying she was in some container park.’

  Something scurried across the back of Lucy’s neck, like an invisible spider. She paid attention to that scurry: it had alerted her to vital strands of investigations on plenty of occasions and she’d learned to ignore it at her peril.

  ‘What if they’re not winding you up?’ Lucy said, and at the same time, her brain suddenly lit up with flashes of colour, electricity humming. She felt a sudden elation. Perhaps she was meant to be in this place at this moment, even though it was a shit-hole and she didn’t want to be here at all but back in London. (Note to self: find missing girl, get promoted and return to London in a blaze of glory.)

  Howard just looked at her.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t we check it out?’

  He kept looking at her.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she relented, but she knew she wouldn’t let it drop. Not until she’d satisfied herself that Howard’s call really had been a hoax. Just in case.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was 6 p.m. and Candy’s was packed. Families and kids. Lots of kids. Everyone had obviously decided to start celebrating Christmas early. At least half the tables held a bottle of wine – parents obviously feeling the need for a drink – and suddenly Dan felt like joining them. When the waitress, a large sausage-shaped girl who could take the prize for Most Miserable Elf in the World – next came by, he ordered some of the house red.

  Jenny raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You like red,’ he said, trying not to sound defensive.

  ‘Um . . .’ She frowned. ‘Are you driving? Or would you like me to?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I won’t go over the limit.’

  Aimee was colouring in her place mat, a festive scene of Santa’s sleigh porpoising through the sky. Her cheek was almost touching the table and her tongue pressed against her lower lip in her usual ‘I’m concentrating’ pose. She didn’t look up as the wine was poured.

  Jenny said, ‘We could always get a taxi and collect the car tomorrow.’

  ‘We could,’ he agreed, relieved she was making a concerted effort to be pleasant. She’d gone berserk when he hadn’t returned to the salon straight away, but taken the car and driven to the police station. She’d had to take a taxi home with Aimee and had nearly slapped him when he’d finally got home. It had taken him ten minutes of apologising before he could explain and another ten before she finally calmed down.

  ‘So where the hell were you?’ she’d demanded, her eyes blazing blue.

  ‘I wanted to know why they let Stella Reavey go.’

  ‘And?’ Jenny prompted.

  ‘No luck.’

  A flash of what could have bee
n relief crossed her face but she raised a hand to her eyes so quickly he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Was he getting paranoid after Stella’s mental jabbing?

  You’re not who you think you are, Dan. Your identity, your past, is a lie. Your entire family has been lying to you.

  He pushed Stella’s voice firmly out of his mind. He wasn’t going to let her come between him and Jenny. Jenny had already proven herself. She’d stood by him through the roughest of the rough, watching him lose his mind then moving them lock, stock and barrel across the country to live somewhere she considered restorative. He wasn’t going to start believing some mad woman over his wife. But a small worm of anxiety wouldn’t go away: what if Stella Reavey was telling the truth?

  He recalled what the policeman had said to Stella before he’d climbed into his patrol car and driven away.

  I’d rather you didn’t do this again.

  Dan had had little joy getting any answers from the police. At Chepstow Police Station, the duty sergeant had been sympathetic until he’d made a handful of phone calls. Then he’d shut down and wouldn’t listen to Dan any more. He’d been polite but adamant on the phone. ‘You need to talk to Ms Reavey about this. We can’t help you. You have her details?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to PC Jim Parsons.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible. I suggest you contact Ms Reavey. She’ll explain.’

  ‘OK. I’d like to talk to PC Vicky Cross.’

  ‘Please, sir. Just call Ms Reavey. She’ll explain everything.’

  ‘Who’s your boss?’

  The duty sergeant, a grizzled and experienced-looking man in his fifties, considered Dan for a moment, then said, ‘I think it’ll save us all a lot of time if you have a word with the Chair of Gwent Police Authority.’

  The top dog. Who in fact turned out to be a woman, who politely but firmly repeated what the other officers had told him.

  ‘Please, Mr Forrester,’ she said. ‘Contact Ms Reavey. If you have trouble getting in touch with her, let me know. But in the meantime, it is in your best interests to speak to her directly.’

  ‘But she harassed me and my daughter,’ he said, feeling oddly ashamed, as though he was bleating on about something that didn’t concern the police, like reporting that his heating wasn’t working.

  ‘Should you have trouble contacting Ms Reavey . . .’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Dan finished for her, and hung up.

  He hadn’t bothered going any higher. It was a whitewash job that painted him into a corner with Stella Reavey. Part of him wanted to ring the woman now. Drive to her home and demand answers. But the other part was sick with apprehension. For some reason, Stella’s words had dislodged something deep inside him. He felt as though she’d lifted the lid off the top of a volcano and he was waiting for a gigantic rock to explode into the air.

  Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re so secretive?

  Which drove Jenny mad, he had to admit. But weren’t most men guarded about their jobs? He hated talking out of turn about anybody, and that included his clients as well as the postman. He didn’t see why a husband should divulge every second of his day either, even if it was to his wife of thirteen years.

  And yes, he had a great memory for faces and could listen to three conversations at once, but he could also read upside down and bake a loaf of walnut and raisin bread, no problem.

  Stella was right that he enjoyed the flexibility of freelance work, choosing when and where to see his clients, be they the police in Lincolnshire or ambulance trainees in Kent. Yes, he enjoyed a good wage. And yes, he enjoyed being at the top of his profession and, strangely, he even enjoyed turning work away. It made him feel in control. But anyone could guess these things. It wasn’t rocket science.

  And she could easily guess he was bored. Who wouldn’t be, after doing the same job for over five years?

  But how did she, how could she know that he daren’t admit it to his wife?

  He looked at Jenny, toying with her Rudolph Special Steak and Chips. Then he looked down at his Comet Classic Burger. He hadn’t realised they’d been served. He had to get a grip. There was a reasonable explanation, he was sure. He just had to find out what it was. Meantime, he was having supper with his family, and the irony was that it was only thanks to Stella they were at Candy’s and not eating fried chicken and noodles at home.

  ‘Here’s to Christmas.’ He raised his glass. Aimee immediately responded, ‘Happy Christmas!’ and plunged into her Blitzen Mini-Burger.

  ‘Christmas,’ echoed Jenny but there was something sad in her eyes, something that immediately reminded him of Stella.

  You saved my life once . . .

  Damn it. He had to stop thinking about that woman.

  He took a mouthful of burger but couldn’t taste anything. He continued to chew and swallow, and smile and chat, but he wasn’t really there. He was inside his mind, turning things over.

  Why do you always look for the exits when you enter a room?

  Didn’t everyone do that? It seemed stupid not to, in case there was a fire or other emergency. Knowing where to head immediately and without having to search for the stairs or a back door could save lives. Carefully, he took each thing Stella had said and studied it. He resolutely refused to think about what she’d told him about Luke.

  ‘Dan?’

  He looked up to see Jenny watching him expectantly. The sausage-shaped elf waitress hovered. ‘Have you finished?’

  He’d barely eaten half of his meal. And Jenny, he saw, had hardly touched hers. His heart clenched. She normally had the appetite of a horse. That was one of the things he loved about her, that she loved her food. Her weight would go up and down but she always looked great, and if her clothes started to get tight she’d join a gym, and drink nothing but vegetable juices for a week until the pounds fell off. He’d never known her not to eat all her chips.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She looked at him, then away. ‘I hate it when you’re like this.’

  He stared. He hadn’t realised he was repeating past behaviour. ‘Like what?’

  She fluttered her hands. ‘Absent. In another world.’

  ‘I used to do this?’

  ‘All the time.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘That’s probably why I flew off the handle earlier. It reminded me of how you used to be. Doing things without telling me. Never really explaining. You were quite self-centred, you know. But that was before . . .’ She glanced at Aimee, then back to Dan. ‘You know.’

  Before his breakdown. Before Luke was killed. Before his mind decided it was best to forget, and obliterated half his history practically overnight. Before and After. That was how he saw his life. Before Luke died. And after.

  ‘I don’t sound particularly nice,’ he offered uncertainly. They hadn’t touched upon his change of personality much before. Wary of opening old wounds, perhaps, or creating new ones.

  ‘I don’t think it was that as much as you were . . .’ She shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘Well, just different.’

  Friends of theirs had said the same. Matt was a classic example. According to him Dan used to be a bit of a live wire – work hard, play hard – but today’s Dan was quiet and sober, contemplative, and according to Matt, much less fun.

  ‘Do you miss the old me?’ he asked.

  Jenny’s eyes widened. ‘Good God, no!’ She leaned forward, expression earnest. ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t love you to bits before, but I love you even more now. I love the fact that you’re not wedded to work anymore. I love having you home before midnight. I love having you around at weekends. I love that I’m an integral part of your life . . .’

  ‘I’m not boring?’

  ‘No, my love.’ She looked at him quite seriously. ‘Stripping wallpaper is boring. You are absolutely not in the same league as DIY.’

  He realised she was trying to lighten the mood. Even Aimee appeared subdued, or perhaps she was just tired after the
weird events of the day.

  ‘I’m sorry for who I used to be,’ he said. ‘I sound like a bit of a nightmare, really.’

  ‘You were,’ Jenny admitted gently. ‘But that’s a long time ago now.’

  Jenny drove them home when it transpired she’d only had one glass of wine and Dan had polished off the rest of the bottle. Oddly, he didn’t feel particularly inebriated and if it hadn’t been for the evidence of the empty Rioja bottle, he would have thought he was sober.

  He let Jenny put Aimee to bed. He could tell she was trying not to be clingy with Aimee but their daughter knew something was amiss because when he ducked in to kiss her goodnight, she was unusually teary and fretful.

  ‘Everything’s fine, sweet pea,’ he reassured her. Thanks to Dr Orvis Fatik, the shrink he’d seen subsequent to Luke’s death, he’d learned to make sure she felt assured that her needs for care and protection were being looked after. ‘I’m here, and Mummy will feel better in the morning.’

  ‘Is she missing Luke?’ Aimee asked. She couldn’t remember her elder brother – she’d barely been a year old when he died – but she knew all about him and that he and Jenny occasionally grew sad or angry that he was dead.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘But he died ages ago.’

  ‘I know. But it doesn’t stop Mummy from missing him.’

  ‘I hate him,’ she announced angrily.

  ‘Sometimes I hate him too.’ He echoed her sentiment to show he understood how she felt, another trick learned from Orvis.

  Aimee blinked a couple of times. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because although he’s not here anymore, he still has a big impact on our lives, and that can make me angry.’

  ‘Like us having to visit his grave.’ She picked at a loose thread on her duvet cover. ‘We go all the time. It’s boring. I don’t want to go any more.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. We don’t go all the time,’ he chided gently.

  ‘Well, nearly all the time.’

  In fact, they went as a family twice a year, once on Luke’s birthday, 2 December, and then on 16 June, the day he’d died. Dan guessed Jenny had brought up the subject to prepare Aimee for their trip to Brompton Cemetery next weekend.