The Last Lie

by Alex Lake

  ‘There may be some other explanation for that.’

  ‘It seems unlikely.’

  Wynne nodded. ‘Unlikely, yes. But we can’t rule it out.’

  ‘So you think Claire’s seeing things?’

  ‘No. I’m saying it’s a possibility.’ DI Wynne clasped her hands together as though warming them. ‘That’s all. And I have to consider every possibility.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll mention it to her.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Daniels. And don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.’

  Alfie sat next to Claire. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him.

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ Mick said. ‘Driving past like that! He must be watching.’ He shook his head. ‘From now on you don’t go out without the security. OK?’

  ‘Claire,’ Alfie said, ‘do you want to see the doctor? Maybe get something to help with the stress? I can call, if you like?’

  He did not want to raise DI Wynne’s question about whether she was hallucinating these events – mainly because he knew she wasn’t; Bryant was real and he was meeting him later – but some medication to keep her calm might be worthwhile.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think I’m OK.’

  ‘Claire,’ Mick said, ‘you should do as he says.’

  ‘Look,’ Alfie said. ‘Why don’t I make the appointment and you can decide then? And I’ll stay in tonight. I won’t go to that house in West Horsley.’

  ‘No!’ Claire looked at him. ‘I want you to go. I want things to be as normal as possible. Dad can stay with me.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Mick said.

  ‘OK,’ Alfie said. ‘I’ll go. But only if you promise to see the doctor.’

  He left shortly before five. He told Claire he needed to go to the office to grab something, but he headed for the pub in Harlesden.

  It was much busier than the day before. The landlord was standing at the end of the bar, a half-pint of lager in his hand. He saw Alfie, and shook his head. He nodded to the back of the pub, then made a circular gesture.

  Alfie understood it straight away.

  Go around to the back.

  He walked out and slipped down an alley that ran alongside the pub. There was a gate at the back. It opened and the landlord stepped out.

  He was holding a green Adidas sports bag. He held out his hand. ‘The rest of the cash.’

  Alfie took another three hundred pounds from his pocket. He gestured at the bag. ‘Let me see.’

  The landlord unzipped it and Alfie looked inside. What he wanted was there. He nodded and handed over the cash, then he swung the bag over his shoulder and walked back to the main street, looking like a man headed to his evening five-a-side football game.

  He was anything but.

  iii

  The train to West Horsley was busy. He sat by the window, next to a man and his two kids. The kids, Lily and Johnny, were excited; they’d been to the Natural History Museum. They had no idea what the man opposite them had in the green Adidas bag on his lap. Alfie sat and listened to them and thought how this was exactly what Claire wanted their lives to be: him, coming home from some daddy time with the kids to a nice family meal.

  It was not what he wanted. Not at all.

  He had never been to West Horsley, but he had looked at and remembered the route from the station to the house. He got off the train and turned right on to the main road, the green Adidas bag over his shoulder.

  He looked at his watch. It was six thirty-three. Good. He wanted to be early so he could have a good look at the house.

  Alfie walked slowly past the house, Roseland Hall, and took it in. There was a wooden gate, covered in a thin film of mould, behind which a long gravel drive led to a large, two-storey garage. It looked like it had once been a stable and had been converted. To the left was the house itself, an L-shaped manor built of some kind of local stone. There were no cars – at least, none that were visible – and he could not see any signs of activity, although a high hedge obscured his view.

  He carried on past the gate, the green Adidas bag over his shoulder. After a while, he turned on to a road. There was a bus shelter, and he sat down and waited.

  He pulled his cap down low over his face, eyes fixed on the ground. At ten past seven he stood up, studied the bus timetable and shook his head, as though frustrated. If anyone was watching they’d think he was an angry passenger whose bus had not arrived. He retraced his path to the mouldy gate and put his hand on the latch.

  It clicked and the gate swung open. Alfie stepped on to the gravel and walked slowly up the path. His heart was thudding and his hands were clenched with apprehension. He glanced left and right, listening for any sounds.

  As he approached the house, he stopped. His scalp prickled. He was sure he was being watched. He looked at each of the windows, searching for a shadow that shouldn’t be there or the flash of movement.

  Nothing.

  He realized he was very vulnerable. He had nowhere to hide; anyone in the house could see exactly what he was doing. Presumably that was exactly what Bryant wanted. Well, it was time to even things up. Alfie was going to start playing this on his own terms.

  He pivoted to the right and walked quickly towards the garage. He headed to the far side, then walked behind it so he was hidden from view.

  He put down the bag and unzipped it, then took out the sawn-off shotgun he had bought in the Harlesden pub. There was a packet of cartridges and he loaded two into the gun. It was not the most sophisticated weapon, but it was hard to miss with a shotgun, especially at short range.

  He swung the bag over his shoulder, and hefted the gun in his hand. It felt good, reassuring. He smiled. He was on equal terms with Bryant again.

  He walked to the back corner of the garage and dropped to the floor. He took his phone from his pocket and slid the camera out, angling the lens slightly upwards. He took a series of photos, then brought the phone in and looked at the screen.

  The house still looked deserted, but he had expected that. What he wanted was a look at the rear of the house so he could figure out how to approach it.

  He studied the photo. There was a conservatory on the end of the house closest to the garage with a set of double doors opening on to a terrace.

  And one of them was open.

  Alfie hesitated. Was it a trap? Had Bryant – because he was sure now that Bryant was here – seen him run around the back of the garage and left this door open so he would come in that way? Was he waiting there, focused on the open door, for Alfie to appear?

  It seemed likely.

  Well, maybe I’ll give him a surprise.

  He turned around and headed back to the front of the garage. He was moving quickly – if he was right, and Bryant was at the rear of the house, then he had a short window to find another way to get in, and then he’d be in control. He’d know where Bryant was, and he could hunt him down.

  He felt focused, and engaged. This was fun.

  He sprinted across the driveway, then scanned the front of the house. At the far end, past the main door, a window jutted open. That was it. The way in. He ran harder, holding the shotgun out in front of him.

  The silence was interrupted by a shout.

  ‘Hey!’ It came from above him. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Alfie looked up. A man in his late sixties was leaning out of an upstairs window. He had white hair and a red face, his eyes bulging behind thick glasses.

  ‘Are you,’ Alfie said. ‘Are you Henry—’

  ‘Never mind who I am. Who the hell are you?’ The man fell quiet as he saw the sawn-off shotgun in Alfie’s hand. ‘My God. Is that a gun?’

  ‘No!’ Alfie said. ‘I mean, yes, but it’s not what you think.’ He opened the green Adidas bag and shoved the gun inside. ‘It’s a long story. Forget it, OK? I’m sorry. I’m an estate agent,’ he said. ‘And I had an appointment here. I heard the owner wanted to sell?’

  There was, he
supposed, a small chance that this guy had contacted the agency asking for Alfie. Perhaps Henry was his name?

  ‘No,’ the man said. ‘I’m not. And I’m not selling. I don’t care what you offer – I’ve turned down the others and I’ll turn you down too. So bugger off. I’m calling the police unless you’re off my property in the next sixty seconds!’

  Alfie didn’t think he’d need sixty seconds. He turned, and ran.

  ‘How was it?’

  Claire was sipping a glass of wine when he walked into the living room. Her dad was deep into the whisky.

  ‘Get the listing?’ Mick said, his words slurring into each other.

  Alfie shook his head. ‘I don’t think they’re ready to sell. But I’ll keep in touch with them.’

  ‘What was the house like?’ Claire asked.

  Alfie had no idea; he’d only seen it from the outside. ‘Fantastic. Part of it was built in the 1600s.’

  ‘We should move to somewhere like that. It’d be safer.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alfie said. ‘It’s a bit isolated.’

  ‘But you would see anyone coming.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Claire said. ‘Somewhere like that would be perfect for a family. If they do decide to sell, would you consider it?’

  Alfie nodded. ‘Of course.’

  It was easy to agree, since he knew it wasn’t coming on the market. The owner had made that clear. He’d obviously had other, unwelcome, offers, which was good for Alfie, as he’d thought his sudden appearance was more of the same. It might be enough to stop him calling the police. Alfie wasn’t sure how he would explain it if it wasn’t.

  Which was clearly what Bryant had wanted. He had known the house was occupied and he had set Alfie up. That much he knew. But Alfie could not, for the life of him, think why.

  Friday

  i

  In the morning, Claire brought him a mug of coffee in bed. He glanced at the alarm clock. It was almost nine.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You slept well.’

  He hadn’t. He’d managed to finally go to sleep sometime around two, and then slept fitfully for a couple of hours. Eventually, around five, he’d finally fallen into a deep sleep.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. Claire didn’t need to know the truth. ‘I guess I was tired.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ she said. ‘I want to get out of the house.’

  ‘We did that yesterday. It didn’t go too well.’

  ‘I know. But we can go with the security guards. They can drive us, drop us off, and pick us up.’

  ‘I don’t know. It seems risky.’

  Claire lifted her hands, palms upright, in a gesture of exasperation. ‘I know, but we can’t stay in the house all day long! I feel so trapped. It’s really starting to get to me.’

  ‘It won’t be forever.’

  ‘No. But it could be days. Weeks. Months, even. I can’t take it. I need my life back.’

  Alfie sipped the coffee. ‘OK. You have something particular in mind?’

  Claire nodded. ‘The theatre. Let’s go and see a play.’

  The fucking theatre. Of course. Alfie hated it. From time to time Claire decided she wanted to go and experience some high culture; every so often she dragged him to an art gallery or took him up to Stratford to watch some interminable and unintelligible Shakespeare play or paid some ridiculous amount to go and see the opera, which, as far as Alfie was concerned, was by far the worst. A bunch of people wailing in a foreign language for a couple of hours to an audience who had no idea what they were watching but were pretending to like it.

  It was typical of people like her; they thought they were cultured, in some way, because they were theatre- or opera- or gallery-goers, thought they were improving themselves, when all they were doing was consuming something expensive that was wasted on them. It was like fine wine: the vast majority of people who bought it were incapable of appreciating it, especially after one or two or three bottles.

  But that wasn’t the point. It was a status symbol, like the latest biography of Churchill or literary novel or subscription to the London Review of Books that sat unread on the shelves.

  And he fucking hated it.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to,’ Claire replied. ‘If you’re interested?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Alfie said. ‘You know I love the theatre – almost as much as the opera – so I’ll go anytime, but it’s your call.’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  Alfie put on his best smile. ‘Should I buy the tickets? Do you have a play in mind?’

  ‘No need,’ Claire laughed. ‘I already got them.’

  Of course she had. Of fucking course she had. Because Alfie was always going to give her whatever she wanted.

  What he wanted was to scream.

  ii

  They were getting ready to leave when the doorbell rang. It was DI Wynne. She had a distant, strained look on her face.

  ‘I’d like to talk through everything that happened again,’ she said. ‘From the very beginning.’

  ‘I’m happy to,’ Claire said. ‘But I think I told you all there is to tell.’

  The detective nodded. ‘I’m sure you did, but I might have missed something. A small detail that could be important. Is this a bad time?’

  Claire passed her a cup of tea.

  ‘We need to leave soon,’ she said. ‘Twenty minutes. We’re going to the theatre.’

  Alfie was hoping the cop would say it was going to take much longer, but she smiled and nodded.

  ‘That should be plenty,’ Wynne replied. ‘The thing is, we’re at a bit of a dead end. We can’t find any trace of Henry Bryant, or of Ms Davies-Hunt. She seems to have disappeared completely, and him – it’s as though he doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Well he does,’ Alfie said. ‘He’s been here.’

  ‘We think it might be a fake identity,’ Wynne said. ‘We think someone created it and got a passport and a bank account. The passport is unused and the bank account has been abandoned. There’ve been no transactions for a couple of weeks. He seems to have made some money selling things on eBay, but that’s stopped.’

  ‘What was he selling?’ Alfie asked.

  ‘All kinds of things. Some quite valuable. We’re trying to trace where they came from. If he bought them in person, maybe we can get a description of him.’

  ‘How is it possible?’ Claire said. ‘How can someone just create an identity?’

  ‘It’s surprisingly easy,’ DI Wynne said. ‘If you want to, you can buy a passport – which has the added advantage that there’s no record of it at the Passport Office, and it comes with no photo so you can insert your own and travel freely – and all you need to open a bank account is an address. Bryant used the address of a flat in Birmingham – which is unoccupied now but which was rented for six months until quite recently. My guess is Bryant rented it purely to get the account open. The landlord never met him – they corresponded via email and Bryant sent the rent in advance, in cash.’

  ‘I don’t know why he bothered to do all that,’ Claire said. ‘If all he wanted was to meet people online he could have created a fake email account and stopped at that. It would have been a lot easier.’

  ‘I think,’ DI Wynne said, ‘the bank account allowed him to hide that bit better. It certainly makes it harder to get to the man behind it.’

  Which was exactly why he’d done it, Alfie thought. The cops had the right idea. Unfortunately for them, they had no chance of figuring it out.

  ‘So,’ Wynne said. ‘That’s why I’m here. I want every detail. Because right now we have nothing else.’

  ‘OK,’ Claire said. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She turned to Alfie. ‘You don’t have to stay for this, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m staying,’ Alfie said, and got ready to listen to it all again.

  Maybe this time there’d be a clue to what was going on.

  iii

  It
was as bad as Alfie had feared. Some ridiculous play about a medieval queen waking up to find herself living in twenty-first-century London and discovering, to her horror, that she had no servants and no one knew who she was.

  After some light comedy – her claims to be a medieval queen only made her seem deluded – she set out reluctantly to find food, accommodation and a job, but ended up on the street, revealing in the process how cruel and selfish our modern world is.

  At the interval, Claire stared at the stage and shook her head in disbelief. ‘This is amazing,’ she said. ‘It makes you think about how we treat people who we think are mad. I mean, she comes across as crazy because she claims to be a medieval queen, but she is a medieval queen.’

  ‘So she thinks,’ Alfie said. ‘Maybe she’s just mad.’

  ‘That’s the point! Even if she isn’t a medieval queen, she thinks she is, and treating her like she’s crazy makes her life a misery.’

  ‘So we should treat her like she is a queen? I’m not sure the NHS is funded for that.’

  ‘Alfie!’ Claire said. ‘You’re missing the point! It’s an allegory. It’s not about NHS funding.’

  It might have been more interesting if it was, Alfie thought.

  ‘I know,’ he said. He looked at the programme they’d bought on the way in. ‘It’s a twenty-minute interval. Should we get a drink?’

  Claire nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  Alfie stood up and put the programme on the chair. The lead actor, the woman playing the queen, was on the front. She was very pretty. When this was over he’d maybe try to get in touch with her. Perhaps create an identity as a theatre-going human rights lawyer. Then he could kill her. It would create quite a storm, and it would pay her back for putting him through this drivel.

  But that would have to wait.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They managed to get a glass of white wine with about four minutes to spare before the curtain came up again. Claire glanced at her watch.

  ‘We’ll have to be quick,’ she said. ‘It’s starting.’

  Alfie didn’t care if they sat there all night drinking, but he nodded.