I Never Lie Read online

  Mr Right sent you a message at 09:35

  Playing with myself because I can’t find the right woman. Could you be she? I like it up the arse.

  It’s a good job Annabel can’t see my face, because I feel it contort. I block his profile with one tap of the screen. That’s the advantage of online dating: you can remove people from your world as quickly as you connect with them.

  ‘So why don’t you take the initiative and call the newsroom? It would be weird if you didn’t. I mean, you living in London Fields and all. Just call it in.’

  ‘I think I will.’ Better than staying home. I look around me, wondering where it all went wrong. The walls are a non-descript magnolia. The place really needs painting. There are boxes littered about. No pictures on the walls, only the one of a rainforest that was here already. The flat looks like someone just moved in two weeks ago.

  ‘Right. I really should get on.’

  ‘Okay. Have a fab day. I know you will. Lots of love.’

  The kettle has boiled, so I make a very strong coffee before I call work.

  ‘Hello. News desk.’ It’s Heidi, one of the lunchtime bulletin producers. Luckily she likes me.

  ‘Hi, Heidi. I just saw the news about the body in London Fields. You know I live less than half a mile from the crime scene? I could be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, do you need someone to cover it? I know the area really well too.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I think we may have sent someone. Isn’t it your day off?’

  ‘Well, yes, but really I don’t mind. You know us freelancers, we’ll take all the work we can get.’

  She laughs. She’s a freelancer too, so this strikes a chord.

  ‘Hang on.’

  She puts me on hold. I can feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins. I’m nervous, but excited too. They have to use me. It would be ridiculous not to. She’s back in a matter of moments.

  ‘Hi, Alex. I need to talk to the editors, can’t seem to find them at the mo. I think we may have already put someone on the story, to be honest.’

  ‘Look, it’s literally on my doorstep. I know east London like the back of my hand. I can handle this, I definitely can.’ I wonder if I sound desperate, but then who cares. I need this. Keenness goes a long way in my line of work.

  ‘Give me five. I’ll come back to you.’

  She hangs up. I look down at my hands. They are shaking. The thought of being on TV again is terrifying, but I’ve started the ball rolling now so I’ve got to see it through.

  In less than five minutes she calls back as promised. I’m positively buzzing now at the thought of being on air again, and although my body is aching after last night, the hangover is quickly becoming a thing of the past. The vodka really sorted me out. I’ve had an Alka-Seltzer too, and coffee. I’m good to go.

  ‘Just spoke to Marysia on the lunchtime bulletin. She’s happy for you to cover the story. She said she needs you down there as soon as possible.’

  ‘Great! Thank you, Heidi. You’re a real gem, you know that.’

  ‘We can have a crew there in an hour. I’ll send you an email with the details.’

  ‘Okay. On my way.’

  She hangs up. And just like that, I’m back in the game. What a coup. I haven’t felt this good since I moved to London. It’s like I’ve been given a second chance. Best get ready and make myself look super-sharp. Need to give the competition a run for her money. Laura MacColl may look the part, but she’s young and less experienced, a bit like the reporter they had on during the previous murder: some twenty-something up-and-coming know-nothing. But now there’s a third victim, they obviously want someone with better news judgement. Someone the viewers can trust.

  It’s a terribly sad and frightening tale, women being slain and left in parks – feels a bit Jack the Ripper – but ironically I have a sense of optimism in my step because this is exactly what I need. A lead story to sink my teeth into. The adrenalin that comes with the prospect of live broadcast is stirring in me. It’s a real confidence boost.

  Just then, the doorbell sounds, an annoying interruption that I choose to ignore, but whoever it is isn’t going away. There’s a loud knocking on the door by what I can only imagine is a giant.

  ‘Okay. Okay. I’m coming!’ I’ve just about managed to get my feet through some jeans without falling over when it chimes a third time.

  In the hallway, Charlie’s red mountain bike is covered in dried mud. I squeeze past it and glance back towards his flat. The Green Party sticker on the door looks like it’s moving. Wow, I’m still pretty messed up from last night. When I finally open the front door, the courier is walking away casually. Given the effort I’ve just made to indulge him, I shout after him.

  ‘Hello…?’ It’s a bit brisk out, but the sunshine warms my face, adding to my upbeat mood.

  ‘Ah, sorry. I thought no one was home.’ His stride is charismatic, but sadly his shoes are not. ‘Name?’

  ‘Alex South.’

  ‘Sign here, please?’ Flashing perfectly formed teeth, he holds up the electronic device in his right hand. I sign with my index finger, then he passes over the package and is gone within seconds. I wonder how many people have touched that screen this week and feel disgusted by the idea of it. Must remember to wash my hands, though that’s the least of my worries.

  The parcel is small and light. I guess it could be a birthday gift, but from whom? Annabel? Surely she would have told me? Intrigued, I go back inside, excited by the prospect and completely forgetting about the bad hygiene of touch-screen technology. Today isn’t turning out that bad so far.

  On TV, a news conference is just beginning, so I pop the parcel down for a moment and grab a notebook from my bag, hoping that I can glean something before leaving the house. According to the strapline, DI Brook is the lead detective on the investigation. I’ve met him at press conferences before, which is a bonus and will make reporting the story much easier. He’s quite good at sharing his insights into the cases he’s working on. DI Brook is a handsome man, olive-skinned and extremely well groomed, though he isn’t really my type. There is, however, an attractive air of confidence about him.

  ‘This morning a dog walker discovered a body in London Fields, Hackney. We would really appreciate the public’s help. An information line has been set up that I would urge you to contact should you recognise these clothes.’

  An image appears on screen of a muddied blue hoody, a navy and white striped T-shirt, a red skirt and white Converse laid out on grass in clear plastic bags. They must have removed them from the victim in order to do that. God, they must be really worried.

  ‘We are appealing to anyone who was in the area last night to come forward so that we can gather as much information as possible. Please don’t feel nervous about contacting us. It is important that we find the perpetrator as soon as possible. We believe this may be connected to two previous attacks that have taken place in east London this year.’

  And there it is. Confirmation by the police that all three murders are connected. How ghastly. It chills me to think that there is some nutter out there plucking women off the face of the earth, but the upside is that this story will reignite my career. Put me at the top of the news bulletin. I see the vodka bottle on the counter as half full for a change, instead of half empty. The voice in my head is telling me to have one last swig, but the reporter in me knows I really need to not fuck up this opportunity, so I screw the lid on tight and stash the bottle somewhere I will forget.

  To take my mind off the drink, I turn my sights to the surprise parcel. A blessing in disguise. There’s just enough time to open it before I have to go, so I tear into the padded envelope. Under the outer layer, there’s a gift-wrapped box. As I thought, a birthday present. Once I’ve removed the gold paper and red ribbon, I find a box of chocolates; specifically Milk Tray. I’m absolutely gobsmacked by this and check the envelope for any clue as to who sent it, although
I already have a niggling feeling that I know who it’s from.

  There is a typed note. It reads: Because the lady loves…

  The excitement of covering the story has suddenly drained from me and been replaced by a mix of heady hope and nervous anxiety. I am forced to sit down and take stock. Milk Tray was a joke shared by Greg and me. Every year on my birthday he would religiously buy me a box and write a card that said exactly the same thing, though the message would always end with ‘me’: Because the lady loves… me. I’m left feeling confused, propelled back to the raw emotions I thought I’d quashed by moving to London. Staring at the card, I realise those feelings are still there, simmering under the surface as if we spoke yesterday.

  I find the bottle I’ve just stashed and take one more swig of vodka, knowing this time it’s not hair of the dog. It’s to numb the anxiety. The past is never that far away.

  3

  January 2017

  Dear Diary,

  It’s funny, isn’t it, how one person can bring about so much change in your life. Of course I guess deep down it depends on whether you truly desire to change. That’s what they say, don’t they? That it’s down to your personality. Maybe I was ripe for change even though I wasn’t aware when it happened. Meeting Alex was the key. I guess I might have gone on drinking myself to death had we never met, but we did, and the world looks very different now. Life is better than it has ever been and that’s because for the first time in my life I have a genuine friend. Someone who gets it. Who gets me.

  I met Alex a week ago in the park in town and I suddenly have a new sense of direction in my life. I want to stop drinking. To get sober. I’ve never spoken about my addiction before. Not to anyone. In fact, up until now I didn’t even know I had a problem because it has had its hold on me since I was really young and that’s a complex thing. When the only thing you know is drinking, it takes over. Becomes your reality. Becomes the norm. It took Alex to point out that it isn’t the norm. And from that moment on, it’s like a light went on, because we made a connection. I now know that I have absolutely no confidence in myself. And honestly, I guess I never have. It’s why I’ve never done anything with my life.

  Alex is inspiring. She knows lots of things about everything. She’s so full of life and so worldly. I, on the other hand, am too embarrassed to admit that I’ve never left Manchester. Not even for one night. But then my days just roll into one, because I drink them away. Time is unaccountable in my life. The first thing I’m going to do when I get sober is travel. Get out of here, see somewhere new. Maybe the capital. Who knows?

  It was funny how we met, almost as if it was meant to be, if you believe in that sort of thing. I was due to start my shift at the pub, but that day I was running late. I’d had another argument with Mum and felt really low, so I went to the park in town to chill before work. It takes about an hour to walk there, which always sorts me out. So I was sitting in my quiet place, a bench next to the railway track with the loving inscription ‘To my darling wife Lydia who loved to sit here and think. Forever yours, George’ carved on it. It’s so touching that someone would make such a public declaration of love and commit to it in this way.

  It’s nothing like my family, who show zero affection towards each other. It’s almost as if we are allergic to it. Perhaps for that reason this bench has always been my favourite place to sit and think about life. Not that I do all that much thinking, to be honest. I come here to watch the trains rumble past and wonder what kind of people Lydia and George were. Even in the middle of winter I sit here with my bottle of gin. It’s much easier to think about their lives than look at my own. It’s become a habit. Like a stuck record. A way of coping.

  Anyway, it was a bitterly cold morning, the day we met. I could see my breath, that’s how cold it was. But the bottle of gin wrapped in a paper bag in my hands was helping to keep me warm. I’d seen her before, walking through the park, but we’d never said hello. She always seemed in a hurry, on her way from one place to another. And always dressed in cool clothes. She looked like the kind of woman I might like to be, if I’d had a different life. She never lingered in the park like me, which was how, on that day, I knew something had changed. And I was right.

  On that day, she sat down on the bench beside me wearing a scruffy leather jacket and asked for a light. Her lips were blue from the cold and her posture was different. She looked defeated, like me. I recognised myself in her that day, and that was strange. Maybe she’d seen me before, I don’t really know. I like to think she had. That she had noticed me just as I had her. I could see from her face that she had worries too, but I didn’t want to pry so I didn’t say anything. What was I going to say anyway to someone like her?

  So I sat in her company until her cigarette was almost done. And that’s when she started crying. A silent cry. The kind that displays a hidden sadness. I thought I could cheer her up and offered her some gin. She took it, but instead of drinking it, she emptied the bottle onto the frosted ground, saying nothing. My first reaction was disbelief: she had just taken my lifeline away, not long before I had to go to work. I wanted to say something but I didn’t, I just froze like the ground beneath our feet. Then she got up and walked away.

  The act took me aback because it was such a confident statement: to take something that belonged to someone else and destroy it. I’ve never seen anyone do that before, take charge of a moment so definitively. In fact, it changed something in me. I felt respect, respect for her and her conviction. I even wished I had that kind of confidence myself. That I could take control of my life the way she just had. I think that was the moment that changed everything.

  In the days that followed, I returned to my bench, waiting to see if she would turn up, but she didn’t. She didn’t come back. After that, my thoughts of Lydia and George were replaced by thoughts of her. Who was she? Why had she thrown away my gin? In fact, I thought about it so much I even started to believe it wasn’t real, that I’d imagined it. But today, on the seventh day after we met, she appeared again, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Alex,’ she said, and she asked me to go somewhere with her. I went willingly, to a room beneath a church where there were other people like me. Alcoholics. And I knew when I got home tonight that things would never be the same.

  4

  ‘Watch it!’

  An angry voice alerts me to the reflective Lycra strip that has just whizzed by within inches of me, forcing me to jump back on the wet pavement. I’m left shaken, adding to the already self-perpetuating state of anxiety I find myself in thanks to my pending appearance on national television and the birthday surprise from Greg. My past has manifested itself in my present after I spent a year trying really hard to stop it from doing so. I eventually float across the road as if having an out-of-body experience. I’m still not quite right after last night. I will be, though. Just need to make it through the lunchtime bulletin.

  The sun has graced Hackney this morning, casting ghostly shadows from stark leafless trees across the damp streets. It’s still chilly out. I pull my tweed blazer tight around my black silk chiffon blouse, wishing I’d worn something warmer. It’s definitely not the kind of day to spend lingering in a park. A thought that brings me back to the story. I must get back to that, my career, and push the thoughts of Greg aside.

  As I turn down Navarino Road, my hands reach for the warmth of my pockets. The left one finds a couple of dusty aspirin. I neck them, which isn’t all that easy without water, but it’s not the first time I’ve done this. There’s also a piece of sugar-free gum, which I shove in my mouth hoping it’ll help with the anxiety. I realise I haven’t done a top story for months now, not since I fucked up on air.

  I need to get myself together before I get to the Fields. Can’t let the crew see me bent out of shape. This really is a second chance and I need to not screw it up. I guess I could blame my mood on the weather, which fooled me into thinking spring had arrived.

  On this stretch, the three-storey houses set back behind thei
r large front gardens seem much less welcoming than they did just twenty-four hours ago. The trees that hang over the street, which I once viewed as protectors, feel complicit in a murder, which is utterly nonsensical. Trees and buildings can’t kill, can they? They can’t drag someone out into the middle of a park and leave them for dead.

  It’s almost eleven o’clock. The crew should be here by now. The walk and the fresh air have helped, but I’ll need to get some drink in me after the bulletin or I’ll tank and that won’t be good. I know what I need to do. I need to make sure I’ve got just enough alcohol in my blood that I’m neither pissed nor hung-over. It’s quite a challenge on days like this, but I’ll manage it. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. The episode that halted my rising career was down to me not paying attention to this small but critical detail. The day it happened, I’d reached my tipping point too early. Had a lunchtime drink with some colleagues, which on top of my daily intake led to a painful exposé on air of my inebriation. It was a total failure on my part. Since then, I’ve implemented a strict rule never to drink socially with people at work.

  As I turn the corner towards the park, there are two police cars, two ambulances and a TV satellite truck parked by the entrance to the Fields. It’s not like I haven’t seen a crime scene before – I’ve been to plenty in my line of work – but to see it on your own doorstep, well, it’s unsettling. There’s a deeply unpleasant ring to it all.

  In what now feels like an episode of Black Mirror, a silver Range Rover playing Radiohead’s Karma Police excessively loudly stops at the zebra crossing. The tattoo-covered driver smiles to let me cross and I manage a polite nod to say thanks. I’m still puzzled by the chocolates. Truly puzzled. I mean, why now?

  Once through the park gates, I follow the asphalt path past the tennis courts, up a small incline and around a bend to the left, where I’m met by a frail-looking woman slumped on a bench sipping from a can of Special Brew. She’s wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Even the drunks in this neighbourhood have a hint of hipster about them. She probably found it at the clothes bank on the opposite side of the park. That’s where I dump my old clothes. Dropped off a bag end of last summer. In fact, the closer I get to her, the more I think she’s wearing my old T-shirt. It had a tear in the neckline and hers has the same. It was a gift from Greg, the last reminder of him I’d kept since moving south. On today of all days, I see my past once again staring me in the face.