I Never Lie Read online

  Mark Cohen, the CEO of the dating site COMEout, has been talking to our tech correspondent, voicing his opinion on the investigation too. He told UKBC: ‘We have been fully cooperating with the police as public safety is our number one concern.’ It’s sounds a bit like lip service if you ask me. The story is on our website today and is getting a lot of attention as Londoners work out whether to take their dating offline. I wonder if we should really be giving him an avenue to lie like this to the public, but such is the business I work in these days.

  My work status is ‘on call’. Our hours this week have been flexible, and they told me to take a rest unless anything breaks on the story. So I’m back to seeing if I can get to grips with my detox, because I need to sort it out. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it, actually. Probably drink myself to death. I’ve been sipping the can of cider since Charlie left, pacing myself, hoping that after this can is done I’ll just stay off it for the rest of the day.

  Sober days are much harder than drinking days, contrary to popular belief, because I have to face myself. Face up to what I’m doing with my life. The fact that I’m still single and childless at thirty-nine. It is the reality of the choices I have made.

  I’ve made myself a proper breakfast for a change, scrambled eggs with salmon and fresh carrot juice with ginger. I’ve also put away all my laundry, which feels good. It’s not like I’m a lazy person, but when I’m drinking, the days just roll into one and before I know it a whole month can go by and the pile of washing is still on the table, the out-of-date milk is exactly where it has always been in the fridge, and the bills don’t get paid on time. One thing at a time, though. I have to wean myself off the booze today while the story has died down, so that by evening I’ll be dry again. That’s my most important task.

  The kettle boils and I make my fourth cup of tea in the space of an hour. I need to drink something. I might even do a crossword. I love word conundrums. They keep my mind busy, for one. I’ve checked my Facebook page and responded to some of the birthday wishes; another thing I wouldn’t do if I were drinking. It’s good to reply to people, to connect. I need to make more of an effort to do that so I don’t feel so lonely. Dutch has messaged to ask how I’m getting on and expressed concern about the news of another victim. He says he might be in London next month and that he’d like to meet, if I’m up for it.

  My body is still playing up; it doesn’t feel completely straightened out yet. My mind isn’t fucking with me as it was, although I don’t feel fully composed. I have managed to stay off the dating apps, including COMEout, which feels good. It’s quite hard when I’m at home because it can be lonely.

  A few messages come back from those I’ve responded to on Facebook saying it’s good to hear from me, a novelty in some cases. I sent Annabel a couple of texts and a message on Facebook an hour ago asking her to get in touch so I can update her about Charlie, but she hasn’t read them yet. As I’m about to make my fifth – or is it sixth? – cup of tea, a message alert appears on my phone. It’s from an unknown number. I swipe right and a name comes into focus. It’s a text from him, from Greg. Shit.

  It starts in my shoulders and ends in my toes, the nervousness that is sweeping through my being, and not in an excited-can’t-wait-to-see-how-this-turns-out way, but rather in a dreadful-what-happens-next way. My mind is telling me to calm down, but my body is doing the opposite. It is freaking out. Is it really him? Is it really? It is, it’s Greg and he wants to meet up. He’s seen the news about Sarah Wilcox and he wants to talk. Shit. There’s a half-bottle of wine in the fridge and I’m tempted, I’m really tempted.

  48

  Greg is standing by the information desk at Liverpool Street station when I arrive. He has a rucksack on his back and is the spitting image of the photo I saw on the dating app in Manchester. His hair is really short. It suits him. He looks younger. I wonder who took those photos.

  ‘Alex. Babe. Come here.’ He hugs me for eternity. His nose touching my forehead the way it always did, he takes a long breath in. I do the same. He smells exactly the same. Not that he has a signature fragrance; it’s just Greg. I have always loved his scent. It’s comforting. Standing here with my face buried in his chest brings it all back. It’s like we’ve never been apart. Call it biology, call it what you will. I called it love. He was my rock, but I chipped away at it until the fragments were too jagged. That’s what I did. Luckily today my detox is going okay, so although the voice in my head is still there telling me to have a drink, and my body is craving it, I think I might just make it through the day without having to sneak off for a shot of something, which is good because Greg can spot that a mile off.

  When we finally separate, he stands back and takes a look at me, still holding on to my hand. I don’t want to get emotional but I can’t help it. I can feel the tears starting to form and I need to keep that in check. I can’t cry in public, not the first time he sees me in ages. Keep it together, Alex. Keep it together. I can’t let him have that part of me.

  ‘My God, Alex, you look great. TV really suits you.’

  His smile dazzles me. I realise I’ve missed his voice the most.

  ‘Shall we get a coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’ I can’t think of anything interesting to say, but at least he thinks I look great.

  We leave the station and walk over to Spitalfields Market. He talks and I listen. He’s genuinely pleased to see me. I don’t know why I’m so surprised really; we were tight at one time until I left. I imagined he’d still be angry with me for leaving, but he isn’t. He seems healed. I wish I was, but I’m trying, I’m really trying. I’m better than I have been for a long time. Today is not a drink day and the alcoholic in me is safely tucked away. He hasn’t asked me about that yet, but he will. He always does.

  We find a café inside the market and order coffee. I still can’t quite believe we are here sharing a joke and a hot beverage. I always secretly hoped he’d come and find me. Told myself it was all behind me, but really who was I kidding? I’m so happy that he’s here.

  ‘I’ve been following you in the news, you know. It’s hard not to.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘I saw you went back to Manchester to interview Mrs Wilcox.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  The question takes me aback. I’m not sure why. Greg always did care about others more than himself; it’s why he put up with me for as long as he did. I’m not sure how to answer, so I go for the vague generic response.

  ‘As well as any mother can be given the circumstances.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  It’s annoying, if I’m honest, that he cares about others before himself. It was frustrating living with that, I remember that now. When his mum called him with a complaint, he would run to solve it for her, even if it was at the expense of our relationship.

  An awkward silence opens up between us, and as I sip my coffee, I feel every part of me is being observed, scrutinised. It’s probably not what’s happening. Bouts of paranoia come with the drinking. I need to keep that in check, not give him a hard time. It’ll prove that I’m doing so much better than I was.

  ‘You must have good connections with the Met through your job?’

  ‘I have a few, yes. Although I’m not sure half the time if they are feeding me intel to help their own investigation.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Part of the job, I expect.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So, Sarah Wilcox, they still don’t know where she is? You see the thing is Alex… I knew her.’

  He looks wounded, but then so am I. DI Brook’s questions about the phone calls and texts between Greg and Sarah come to mind, and then I have the most hurtful thought. Perhaps Greg isn’t here for me at all. He did say he wanted to talk about Sarah, but what about us? My stomach feels tight and I want to bolt. I wonder if I’ve done the right thing meeting him like this, because it is stirring emotions in me that I find difficult to face, but
watching him across the table from me, smiling while sipping his coffee, I realise I have missed him more than I would ever care to admit, even to myself. I rub my tummy, wondering if I’m pregnant, knowing that it’ll never feel like it did with him.

  He lets out a huge sigh and looks at me with those dreamy dark brown eyes. Maybe I should say sorry for what happened. For what I did, abandoning him after the miscarriage. I wonder if now is the time to mention the Milk Tray, ask him why he sent them, or just say thanks, but then I change my mind because he’s still banging on about Sarah.

  ‘I just can’t believe it, you know.’

  ‘I know. It’s difficult to process.’

  ‘I’m not sure you really understand, Alex. I saw her the day before she went missing.’

  I hear the words and it sends my head into a spin. I can feel my body physically recoil.

  ‘Alex? Are you okay? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’m tired, just tired.’

  He can sense a change in me, because he has suddenly tensed up. There must be more to this than I first thought. It was stupid of me to come here, pathetic, in fact. The Milk Tray was more likely born out of guilt than a desire to reunite. People do that all the time, don’t they, play out their own issues without thinking about their real intentions.

  ‘Look, Alex. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  We are in a crowded coffee shop, but it feels like we are the only two people here. I want the floor to swallow me up, because I think I know what’s coming.

  ‘Sarah and I, we were… well, we were, you know…’ He rests his head in his right hand. ‘I don’t really know how to say this.’

  ‘What? You were what?’

  ‘You know I still love you. I never stopped loving you.’

  An unpleasant feeling is bubbling in the pit of my stomach, and all I want right now is something to numb the pain I feel in every part of me.

  ‘God, Alex, it’s such a mess. Why did you go off and leave me like that?’

  I have no response. I really have nothing to say, because I didn’t prepare for this. For what he is saying or trying to tell me. So I ask a question, because it’s the one thing I know how to do.

  ‘What were you doing with her here in London?’

  He’s shaking his head. He looks broken.

  ‘You need to tell me.’

  ‘I slept with her, Alex. God, I feel terrible saying that to you.’

  The words cut through me as much as my leaving must have cut through him, and I don’t feel quite so bad about the fact that she’s missing. Good riddance, is all I can think.

  49

  January 2018

  Dear Diary,

  It’s a new year. I feel like a completely different person compared to this time last year. Much more in control of my life. I’ve embraced the dark thoughts and am starting to enjoy them in an oddly ironic way. I got through Christmas sober, on my own. It wasn’t so bad in the end. Much easier than having to constantly explain to people that I didn’t want a drink. Dad sent me some extra money, so I bought some new clothes and went on a few online dates. The website COMEout is pretty fun and easy to meet people on. It connects people who know each other on Facebook and also friends of their friends, which is good because you can get an idea of whether you have things in common. It also locates people by GPS so you can meet someone within walking distance at any time of day. I don’t want to meet someone who lives on the other side of London, which makes it an attractive app to use. I changed my profile to ‘woman seeking woman’, to see if I could make some new friends, and came across a few profiles of women with Facebook connections to Alex. First- and second-degree connections. I spent a while browsing through these. Pretty women, in their thirties, local, creative. That was intriguing, even though I’m not entirely sure why.

  50

  After I left Greg at Liverpool Street station, I went on a bender for the rest of the day. Or I suspect that’s what happened, because I’m lying on my bed fully clothed and it is now the next morning. I don’t remember how I got home. My head hurts like no one’s business. I was supposed to be at work this morning, but I’m already two hours late for my shift, which is terrible.

  Work has been trying to get hold of me. There are a number of missed calls on my phone. Audrey has texted to say she’s aware that my neighbour Charlie was questioned over Maggie Horrocks and thinks we should interview him. She’s still come up with nothing as to the whereabouts of Sarah Wilcox and is looking for a new line on the story. She’s like a dog with a bone. Anything to keep it up there in the headlines. She’s ambitious, I’ll give her that. I need to talk to Charlie. It didn’t happen yesterday because I met Greg. Talking of whom… He’s texted me three times. He wants to meet up again, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Seeing him triggered a huge drinking session while I was trying to detox. I feel like a complete loser and am worried about my job. I climb out of bed and take three painkillers instead of the recommended two. It’s official. I’m a mess. Again.

  In the kitchen, I switch the kettle and TV on. On the bottom of the screen a breaking news strapline flashes: Police name fourth victim in east London murders. I go back to my phone and double-check my messages. Audrey sent me a text at six o’clock telling me this fact. Shit. Now I know why work has been trying to get hold of me, and Greg for that matter. I really need to get my shit together.

  From what I can see on my work email account, the news broke around two o’clock this morning. The Met put out a statement and Audrey has been trying to get hold of me since just after that. Double and triple shit. Just shit. My phone rings again, but this time it’s Mrs Wilcox. I’m not going to answer it.

  My head feels like it’s about to explode. I don’t want to go anywhere, I really don’t, but I have to. I have to face work. Face the unanswered calls. The questions. It’s a top story, and although yesterday was a rest day, I was still on call, which means being available when something breaks. I’m going to need a bloody good reason for my disappearing act this time. Still, I reason, it’s only nine o’clock and the news broke at two. As long as I call in soon, it’ll be fine.

  Charlie is home. I can hear movement upstairs. Perhaps I should talk to him. I need to find out what the police said to him, whether they asked about me or Greg, but I haven’t seen him since he stayed here and I don’t think I’m ready for that. I text Audrey to say I’ll call her shortly. She texts back immediately: Everything okay? To which I respond: With me, yes, my neighbour not so good. I’ve decided to blame my absence on someone else. That person being Charlie, seeing as she now knows about him. She must be cultivating her own source at the Met.

  I take a shower, having not fully worked out my story for work yet. The hot water helps moderately. After that, I make a strong cup of coffee. My phone buzzes, and I assume it’s work. Deciding on an accident and emergency story, I pick up.

  ‘Hey, babe. It’s me. I stayed at a mate’s in London last night because I’d really like to talk more, in person. Please? Sarah Wilcox is dead and I need to talk about it. Can we?’

  It’s Greg. I’m so unprepared for this conversation that I’m not sure which way to play it. I feel like everything is coming at me from all angles and I can’t think straight. The one thing I know is that if Greg sees me like this, bent out of shape, he’ll know I’m still drinking, and that’s one thing I can’t afford to happen.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m really busy with work today.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it a lot, seeing you yesterday, and I know it must have been a surprise to hear what I said, but I’d really like you to hear me out. I feel I have some explaining to do.’

  A silence follows. A silence I break with one word.

  ‘Okay.’

  And just like that, I agree to meet up with him again, to ‘hear him out’, whatever that means. I never have been able to say no to Greg; it’s why I left, walked out without a word, because I knew he’d try to stop me and I knew I’d cave in. I don’t o
ffer him a time or a place, because I have to work and I don’t know when I’ll be done. He accepts this and says he’ll wait to hear from me. I still really need to talk to Charlie, but I don’t have time right now.

  Surprisingly, at work, Marysia is glad to see me, which is a relief. I thought I’d get a bollocking after my late start, but luck is on my side. She seems to be super-relaxed, which I soon learn is because her husband bought her a big fat diamond for their wedding anniversary, putting her in the best of moods.

  ‘Thank God you’re here, Alex. We had to put Naomi on the story overnight but she’s made a bit of a hash of it – doesn’t understand legal. I heard your neighbour had a bit of a fright. Is he okay?’

  I’m not sure if she’s referring to the police questioning him or to my made-up tale about his accident, which saw me take him to A&E early this morning.

  ‘Yes, fortunately I have spare keys to his place so I was able to rescue him. They sewed his finger back on.’

  ‘Christ. I hope it heals well. So, you’re here now. The police have named the fourth victim as Sarah Wilcox, the missing woman. The news broke in the middle of the night, so anything you can get from your sources at the Met would be very useful. They still haven’t officially connected all four deaths. Do you think you could push on that side of things? Also, what about following up with Mrs Wilcox, Sarah’s mum? I’m sure she has something to say now.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get on it.’

  ‘Keep me in the loop.’

  Marysia walks away, clearly having complete confidence in me to deliver, which is a relief because I’m not sure I do. My water bottle is in my bag filled with a stash of vodka, ready to pick up the slack should I need it.

  Audrey is plugged into a computer and headphones, which she removes on seeing me.

  ‘Hey. Your neighbour okay? Hope he doesn’t lose his finger.’

  ‘Me too. I think he should be good. We got to the hospital soon enough, apparently.’ I raise my eyebrows for added impact.