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

by CJ Carver

  ‘Do I have to go?’ she pouted.

  Yes, he thought, but there was no point in saying so and creating a fight. His mind flipped through a variety of London attractions from Madame Tussauds, which he considered too grisly and death-like after visiting the cemetery, to Sea Life, and then out of nowhere a flash of memory came.

  He and Luke ice skating. Luke’s fair hair – as white as Aimee’s – his blue puffa jacket and red woolly hat. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright. Dan could see the plane trees arcing high, dancing with fairy lights, and behind his son loomed the great façade of the Natural History Museum. He heard Luke yell, ‘Dad! Watch me!’

  Dan felt as though a giant hand had plunged into his chest and gripped his heart.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, avocado?’ He responded without a beat. His emotions might have been rioting inside but he kept his expression perfectly still, his voice steady. He didn’t know where it came from, this ability to hide his feelings no matter how passionate or excited he became, but it could be incredibly useful. The downside was that it drove Jenny crazy.

  ‘Seriously.’ Aimee sighed dramatically. ‘Do I have to go?’

  ‘If you’d rather not, we’ll have to talk it through with Mum.’ Then he put a finger on his lips in a studied frown. ‘But if you don’t come, who will be my partner on ice?’

  Aimee blinked. ‘What partner?’

  ‘Well, after visiting Luke’s grave, I was going ice skating. It’s something your brother and I did once, maybe a couple of times, in Kensington. But I need someone to partner me.’

  The rest of the conversation went exactly as Dan had planned. He was aware that some might call him manipulative, others calculating or devious, but all Dan knew was that his machinations usually meshed nicely with the path of least resistance. It wasn’t long before Aimee’s eyelids drooped and she allowed him to tuck her arms beneath the duvet and kiss her goodnight.

  Dan watched the ten o’clock news with Jenny and, as usual at around 10.30, she snuggled close and he put his arm around her, making a pillow for her with his chest. Instead of falling asleep, however, she wriggled closer, sliding her leg over his thigh, slipping her fingers between his shirt buttons and lightly stroking his chest. He was pretty sure it had to be the emotional stress of the day – because his body reacted fast.

  He looked down at her. ‘You’re not tired?’

  She looked up, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Why, are you?’

  ‘It’s been one hell of a day.’ He gave her the opportunity to back out if she wanted.

  The twinkle deepened. ‘Let’s finish it with a bang, then.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dan could hear a woman’s laughter, joyful and carefree. Strangely, it only seemed to increase his disquiet. He was looking for something, but he didn’t know what, and he didn’t want the woman to know. He opened a drawer to find stacks of beige manila files. None were labelled and each one was empty. In the next drawer he found nothing but piles and piles of blank paper. The woman was standing beside him. She was tanned. She had long, elegant feet. Dark hair, blue-black as a raven’s wing, tumbled at the edges of his vision, but he couldn’t see her face. He felt suffused with anxiety.

  The feeling remained when he awoke and for a moment he wondered where he was. He didn’t feel concerned, though – he knew he was somewhere safe from the soft sounds of someone sleeping nearby.

  Jenny.

  Gradually his senses came awake.

  But with them came the voices.

  I’m so sorry, Dan, said a man’s voice. Luke’s dead.

  You’ve had a breakdown. Another man spoke. We had to section you for your own safety.

  Then a woman’s voice. Stella Reavey. Your son Luke didn’t die in a hit-and-run.

  He couldn’t remember the accident, or the events leading up to it, but he’d been told so many times what had happened that it felt perfectly real. One Sunday, he’d taken Luke to Brick Lane Market. He and Jenny had planned to go together as a family and have lunch at one of their favourite food stalls. But that morning Jenny had felt exhausted, run ragged looking after baby Aimee as well as boisterous three-year-old Luke all week, and he’d suggested he take Luke on his own to give her a break. Jenny had agreed with alacrity, and by the time they left the house, she was back in bed, fast asleep.

  Dan and Luke took the Tube to Aldgate East. Walked hand-in-hand along the chaotic, graffiti-daubed streets looking at the leather and vintage goods for sale, the street artists and a wild-haired guitarist playing Hendrix at full volume.

  Nobody knew how Dan had lost Luke. Maybe Dan had been distracted, let go of Luke’s hand to pay for something, nobody knew. Whatever happened, Luke had vanished.

  Apparently Dan had searched for his son with increasing desperation. He had finally found him standing on the edge of the road, and although he had shouted, screamed at Luke to stop, Luke hadn’t heard him and had stepped out into the path of a blue van.

  He had died in Dan’s arms with a broken back, a three-inch gash on his forehead, a seven-inch gash in his scalp, a skull fracture, brain swelling, a lacerated liver, a fractured pelvis and a broken leg.

  Dan knew the details because he’d insisted on reading the post-mortem report, followed by the coroner’s report which held a single witness statement from Anne Saber, a nurse at A & E. She said the blue van hadn’t stopped but the man driving the car behind it had. The man said he didn’t think of taking down the van’s number; he’d been more preoccupied with bundling Dan and Luke into his vehicle and driving them to Mile End Hospital A & E.

  The man then vanished. He didn’t leave his name or an address. Dan couldn’t remember what he looked like, or what type of car he drove and, despite police appeals, he never came forward. The police also appealed throughout Brick Lane for witnesses to the hit-and-run, without any luck. The only witness remained Anne Saber, who simply repeated what the man had told her, and described what she’d seen: Dan running down the corridor clutching his son’s broken body and screaming.

  With insufficient evidence to support the story of the hit-and-run, the coroner returned an open verdict. Jenny attended the inquest. She told Dan that thanks to advice from a barrister, the verdict was what she’d expected.

  He was still amazed that she didn’t blame him and that, despite such a trauma, their marriage had survived. The fact they’d both had counselling must have had a big impact but Dan thought it was probably Aimee that made the difference, forcing them to concentrate on being there for her, and not looking inward and blaming themselves. Because Jenny blamed herself too.

  If I hadn’t been so stroppy that morning, we would have spent the day together. You would never have gone to Brick Lane without me. We would have left later and the blue van would have been long gone.

  If Dan had gone to the local park and kicked around a football with Luke instead of heading to Brick Lane.

  If, if, if.

  Orvis had taught Dan not to look back and play the ‘if’ game, because that way lay madness. As Dan knew only too well.

  Dan lay next to his wife in the dead of night, listening to Stella Reavey’s voice slowly increasing in volume and power.

  You’re not who you think you are . . .

  After an hour or so, he slipped out of bed. Jenny’s breathing didn’t falter. She remained deeply asleep. As quietly as a cat, he retrieved some underwear and socks and crept into the bathroom for a quick wash before getting dressed in the spare room, where they both kept an overspill of clothing.

  Downstairs, he wrote a brief note. He made sure it was light, nothing to worry Jenny. He said he hadn’t been able to sleep – which was true – and was going for a dawn raid. Jenny knew he did this from time to time – going for a performance drive before the world woke up, when the roads were empty and he could drive the cabriolet as it was meant to be driven – fast and with the rev needle hovering between four thousand and five. She would understand that, but she wouldn’t understand him go
ing to see Stella Reavey.

  His headlights cut through the night, pale white swords shearing through black. He let his driving ebb and flow with the conditions. Wet leaves on the side of the road. Sharp corners and steep inclines, the occasional stretch of straight tarmac. Brake and release, turning the wheel smoothly and without pause before stepping back on the gas and pushing through the turn. The rhythm of the drive soothed him, taking away the tendrils of unease that still clung to him from the woman in his dream. Each time she appeared she brought with her a sense of fun, but the underlying emotion he felt was always anxiety. He supposed she could be an ex-girlfriend but despite trawling through his old photographs nobody seemed to fit. Not wanting to ask anyone out of respect for Jenny, he guessed he’d never know if she was a real memory or simply a slightly disturbing fantasy.

  The night was dark, no moon. There were no lights out here. It still surprised him that they lived somewhere so remote. Though it was near Chepstow, it felt secluded, almost isolated thanks to the fact they lived halfway up a hill with moorland all around.

  Jenny had moved them out of London after his breakdown. He’d been too much of a mess to question things much, but even he couldn’t deny the convenience of having Aimee’s school within walking distance. And being just six miles from the M48, another eight to the M5, it was relatively easy for Dan to travel around the country to meet his clients.

  Jenny was an accountant and worked part-time from home doing personal tax, VAT and audit work. She said she loved it thanks to her regulars, like the farmer who gave her fresh eggs every other week and the Ultralight pilot who flew her over the Black Mountains each summer. Was Jenny bored? She didn’t appear to be, but then neither did he. Dear Lord, what if they were both bored out of their minds but were too frightened to admit it?

  When he arrived outside Stella Reavey’s house it was three minutes past six. The street was quiet, still asleep, lit orange by the streetlights. He parked two houses down on the opposite side of the road, where he could watch unobtrusively. He studied her house curiously. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this: a middle-of-the-road suburban property with a tiny front garden. He’d pictured her in something larger, more powerful.

  The house was neat, the garden immaculate. Did she sweep the flagstones and prune the small pear tree herself, or pay someone to do it for her? His mind hopped forward a couple more steps. Did she live with anyone? Was she married? He hadn’t seen any engagement or wedding ring. No rings on any of her fingers, he recalled. Just a simple silver Saint Christopher pendant at her throat.

  Dan watched the house, listening to the radio. The heat in the car dissipated but he took no notice. He didn’t know where it came from, but he’d always had the ability to wait patiently, without getting bored or irritable. At ten minutes past seven, a car drove down the street. He watched it gradually slow until it was almost outside Stella Reavey’s house, then it cruised to the end of the road, where it parked. A man climbed out and stood on the pavement. When he looked around the street, Dan instinctively hunkered down in his seat, melting into the dimness of his car.

  He watched the man walk along the pavement. In his fifties, dressed in a double-breasted camel coat with a fedora, leather gloves, and an umbrella hooked over his arm, he looked like a city businessman. He stopped by Stella’s gate. Leaned down and unlatched it. He was about to step on to her garden path when he suddenly froze. Slowly, he turned his head until he was looking directly at Dan.

  It can’t be a coincidence, Dan thought. He’s seen me.

  For a few seconds, both men stared at one another. Then the man in the fedora carefully closed Stella’s gate, and walked back to his car. Before he climbed inside, he tipped his hat at Dan in a faintly old-fashioned gesture of acknowledgement.

  Puzzled and not a little disturbed, Dan watched him drive away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Friday 23 November, 7.15 a.m.

  Stella dressed and slipped downstairs, where she made coffee: a long, strong espresso with a rich and foamy head. As she sipped, she looked outside. A man sat in his car on the opposite side of the road, five cars down from her front gate.

  Dan.

  She couldn’t make out his features but it had to be him since he was sitting in Dan’s car with Dan’s number plate. She wondered what time he’d arrived and guessed sometime in the middle of the night. She doubted he’d slept much. Too many questions needed answering.

  Putting down her coffee cup, Stella turned back to the kitchen where she put the oven on low before extracting a packet of bacon from her freezer and defrosting it in the microwave. Then she cut four thick slices from a cottage loaf and lavishly buttered them. She fried the bacon until crisp and sandwiched the rashers between the bread, set the butties to keep warm in the oven. She made another coffee – a double espresso with a dash of milk – shrugged on her winter coat and put on her shoes. She wrapped the butties in a couple of napkins and took them and the coffee across the road to Dan.

  The air was raw and nipped at her cheeks and fingers. She’d have to make sure the heating remained on all day or the house would turn into a fridge. As she approached, Dan wound down his window. Looked at her cautiously.

  ‘Your usual,’ she said, holding them out. ‘Coffee, white, no sugar. Bacon butty made with white bread and oozing with butter, no ketchup, no brown sauce.’

  He continued looking at her.

  ‘If I wanted to kill you,’ she said, ‘I can think of far better ways than poisoning you after the whole street has seen me deliver you breakfast.’

  A ghost of a smile played on his face. He took the butties and the coffee. He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t expect him to. Not yet. Give him another hour or so, and he’d knock on her door. She turned to cross the road when to her astonishment, she saw Grace climbing out of her car, clutching her little leather backpack. As Grace beeped her car shut, Stella hastened to greet her.

  ‘Gosh,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re early!’

  ‘I switched shifts.’ Grace looked her up and down. ‘I know you’ll hate me for saying it, but I was worried about you. And with good reason. You look dreadful.’

  ‘And you look fabulous,’ Stella remarked dryly.

  Grace snorted. ‘I look a mess. I literally fell out of bed and into my car this morning. I wanted to miss the traffic. Can I have a shower?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great.’ Grace’s eyes went to Dan sitting in his car. ‘Why the breakfast delivery?’

  ‘He’s been up all night,’ Stella replied. ‘He’s hungry.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he come in?’

  Stella looked over at Dan, who was watching them. ‘He probably will in a couple of hours.’

  Grace frowned. ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Let’s talk about it inside. It’s far too cold out here.’

  In the kitchen, Stella looked through the window at Dan who appeared to have been spooked by Grace’s arrival. He was putting on his seatbelt and yes, his indicator was on and he was pulling out.

  Damn.

  She had to hope he’d return once Grace had gone.

  ‘Who is he?’ Grace stood beside her, watching him go.

  ‘Dan Forrester,’ she said. ‘I saw him yesterday.’

  ‘What?’ Grace glanced round. ‘Your amnesiac?’

  ‘Yes.’ She put her head on one side and surveyed her daughter. ‘He still doesn’t remember me, but he’s curious. Which is why he came here. He doesn’t know how his son died, you see, and I need to tell him. It’s pretty traumatic. Any ideas how to break it gently?’

  ‘Loads. Like starting with giving the poor sod a stiff drink of some sort. Look, can we do this in a mo? I’m desperate for a shower and then a coffee and maybe a croissant. Do you have any in the freezer? I won’t be able to concentrate until I’ve had some breakfast. You know what I’m like . . . ’

  Stella watched her daughter hare up the stairs. Grace might think she looked a mess with her
curly hair uncombed and her clothes crumpled, but to Stella she looked perfect. She rarely gave compliments and as she moved back into the kitchen to see if she could unearth a couple of croissants from the freezer, she made a mental promise to tell her only daughter not just how much she loved her, but how proud she was of her.

  Out of nowhere a wave of weakness swept over her and she had to grip the worktop to stop herself from falling. She started to sweat. It was infuriating, she thought, this sensation. It would come and go without warning, and where it used to occur every week or so, it had increased to a worrisome once or twice a day.

  She heard the shower running upstairs and decided to take the opportunity to email Grace the information she’d wanted to impart for ages, but hadn’t been able to without speaking to her first. If she received it without knowing Stella’s history, or her future plans, Grace would simply be bemused. But once they’d spoken, all would become clear. What a relief to know everything would be in the open at last, and even better that Grace had taken the day off. It would take at least half of that to explain why she’d lied to her daughter for so long.

  Stella switched on her laptop and typed in her password. It didn’t take long to collate the information. Most of it Stella knew by heart, but not the address in the British Virgin Islands. She had to look that one up.

  The grey feeling intensified, forcing her to pause. It’ll go away in a minute, she told herself. She pressed SEND. Then, ever security conscious, she logged out of her computer.

  The energy that had propelled her to set up the meeting with Grace, the carefully orchestrated meeting with Dan, trickled away. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so leaden. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t hear the shower any more. Grace would be down shortly. Even as a teenager, she never took long to get ready but since she could be easily distracted, she invariably ran late.

  Stella smiled.