I Never Lie Page 6

  ‘Oh, were you reporting on this story today?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Wow. So that’s what the suitcase is for? Bloody hell, doing that on your birthday is rough.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sounds a bit sad, doesn’t it. “Hi, I’m Alex, it’s my birthday and I have no friends to share it with. Would you like to fill that hole in my life?”’

  He laughs. ‘I understand. I spent mine on my own last year. All my mates were working.’

  I like his reaction to the news that it’s my birthday. It’s comforting.

  The pub is rocking now, bursting at the seams. Nigel offers to buy me a Prosecco and says he’ll get himself half a lager seeing as it’s my birthday. I’m trying to keep it together, but my drunken, paranoid self is starting to surface. I can’t help but wonder if his story about his ex is just that, a sob story he wheels out to gain sympathy and make girls lower their guard. You never know when meeting people online what their real agenda is. I realise I’m being ridiculous, because he’s presented me with no reason to mistrust him, but my mind gets like this when I’m in the midst of a binge. That’s why I need to stop, and I will. I just have to get through this story. Fortunately for him, my paranoia is quashed by what happens next.

  As he is making his way back to our table, a woman stands up, blocking his path. Next thing I know, she’s emptying a glass of wine over his head. The pub suddenly goes quiet, punctured only by a collective gasp. All eyes are on Nigel’s wet face and the woman storming out into the night. He looks around and takes a bow – a few people cheer and applaud good-humouredly – then shrugs before sitting back down. The pub returns to being its noisy self again. His T-shirt has a big wet patch on it that stinks of wine, though that’s better than the aftershave.

  ‘Lucky it was white, not red.’

  He puts the drinks down and attempts to dry his face with his wet T-shirt. The Prosecco glass is almost empty – he spilled most of it during the confrontation.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘The ex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So she lives around here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could have said. Could she be waiting for me outside? Is she psycho?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is she insanely jealous?’ My imagination is running away with me. The paranoia is back and it’s being brutal.

  ‘She’s not the jealous type, Alex, trust me.’

  ‘You could have fooled me.’

  He sips his lager as if nothing happened, offering no further explanation.

  ‘She looks a bit like me, doesn’t she? Slim. Short blonde hair. Is that your type?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, do you have a type?’

  ‘What, a type that throws drinks over me?’

  I’m not sure what to say. On the table, his phone is buzzing. The name Fiona is flashing, along with a photo of her, the girl who threw the drink over him. And within moments he has gone, exiting through the door, into the night, running away from this awkward moment and me, perhaps chasing after his ex. I put down my unfinished drink and stumble out of the pub shortly afterwards. No one notices.

  Great. What a birthday. There’s a reason you shouldn’t meet a one-night stand a second time, and tonight is it.

  12

  May 2017

  Dear Diary,

  Alex rang me today. She sounded very cold. She asked me to stop calling. Said that she couldn’t see me again. Told me that even after Greg had asked me to stop contacting her, she was still receiving text messages from me and that those had to stop too. That she was sorry she couldn’t help me and that I had to leave her alone. I asked her about going to an AA meeting together, thinking that might work to get her out, but she said she was done with AA. That she didn’t need it. That she was in control. That she didn’t need help from me. That we weren’t friends. That she hoped I could move on and heal myself.

  I think this is worse than when my mum told me to fuck off out of her life. It feels so much worse. I don’t want to live. I don’t want to do anything. All I want to do is forget who I am. There’s one thing that will help me do that: a bottle of gin. I don’t expect I will hear from Alex again, but the worst thing about it is that I have absolutely no idea why. Why she just cut me out. I hate my life and I hate being me. I wish I’d never met her now. People can be so cruel. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. They really shouldn’t. Karma will prevail. It always does.

  13

  The hotel alarm wakes me up. My head is really sore. I only got to sleep about an hour ago, and I feel terrible, like I’ve been hit by a ten-ton truck. Every muscle in my body aches. I’ve got cramp in my legs. Coming back to Manchester has bothered me more than I thought it would. The air tastes different here. Bitter. The minibar has been demolished. It’s not the kind of homecoming anyone would wish for. There is tension in my stomach that won’t shift, and my head is pounding like my brain wants out of my body. I don’t know if I can even lift my head off the pillow, that’s how much pain I’m in.

  Staring at the ceiling, I recall why I left this city. It was because my life was falling apart here. Had fallen apart. I wanted to escape. Run away. Go somewhere new. To form new memories and discover new places. A fresh start. But now that I am back in the place I ran from, surrounded by empty bottles, I realise the idea was futile. You can run from a place, but not from yourself. That doesn’t go away just because you change your postcode, your city. That follows you wherever you go.

  We are staying in the revamped northern quarter, the cool part of town, which is close to the Manchester news bureau. Later, though, we will go to Didsbury, where the Wilcox family live. Where I lived with Greg for six years. It’s an uncanny coincidence, but not in a good way.

  Fortunately, I have one last Alka-Seltzer in my bag, so I knock that back. The caffeine in it gives me a perk and tames the headache. A can of Coke helps too. Audrey is sipping black coffee when I enter the hotel restaurant, which looks a bit like the set of a bad nineties sitcom. Chrome everywhere. Not to mention the red and black faux-leather seats. I feel unsteady on my feet this morning, but I’m hiding it well. I’m good at hiding it. It’s what I do. Amid the harsh decor, Audrey’s youthful skin glows in the soft morning sunlight, and it makes me wonder what happened to my own youth.

  ‘Morning, Alex. Sleep well?’

  ‘Not really. You?’

  ‘Not too bad, thanks. Had a really weird dream about an ex-boyfriend, though. He was from Manchester.’

  She’s wearing a red silk blouse that matches the red of the blinds. Her hair is styled the same as yesterday, with hair clips separating her fringe from the rest of it. She reminds me of myself at twenty. Full of energy and ambition and a bit on the kitsch side. We don’t know each other at all, but her enthusiasm at being here is endearing and I appreciate that in her, I really do. Someone needs some enthusiasm, and I’m finding it quite difficult given the circumstances. She’s a girl after my own heart, munching her way through a piece of heavily coated Nutella toast.

  ‘I don’t usually eat breakfast, but I figure we’ll be camped out all day so I might as well.’

  ‘It’s the…’

  ‘… most important meal of the day, I know. You sound like my mother.’

  ‘Gets the metabolism going, which will help your waistline when you’re my age.’

  I do sound a bit maternal, and as if on cue, my phone buzzes to inform me there are five days left in my fertile window. The need for a male orgasm is looming again. My sex life seems to revolve around ‘the window’ these days, which is a bit tiresome, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I am biologically predisposed to run out of eggs very, very soon.

  ‘Where’s the waiter when you need one?’

  ‘Coffee?’ Audrey wants to please me, which is really
sweet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  A waitress appears moments later, but Audrey is already up and striding towards the coffee machine so I order a sensible vegetable omelette, hoping it will counterbalance the abuse I’ve inflicted on my body in the past twenty-four hours, then check my messages. Nigel has sent a text to say sorry for last night. He has also expressed a desire to meet up again to make up for it. Not sure how I feel about that yet. The crazy ex-girlfriend thing has put me off, let alone the depression treated with meds. He’s got way too many issues. Charlie has texted too to ask if he can borrow my iron. His is broken and he has a posh dinner later. I reply with a thumbs-up emoticon because I can’t be bothered to type anything.

  ‘Got you a latte. Will that do?’

  ‘I prefer black.’

  ‘Shit, sorry, I should have asked.’

  ‘Might have been a good idea.’

  I’m being a bit snappy. It’s the hangover. She’s only trying to be helpful.

  ‘I’ll change it.’

  ‘Thanks, Audrey. Sorry, just milk doesn’t sit well with me.’

  The breakfast room is empty. We are the only people in it besides the waitress, who looks how I feel. The place is bright and airy, a little too bright for my liking.

  My omelette arrives. The smell makes me heave, but I make an effort to eat it under Audrey’s watchful eye. She has her notebook and pen at the ready, like a novelist collecting material to use against me, and insists on filling me in on what she knows. I’m too hung-over to argue, so I listen and try to be nice, although I don’t feel very nice this morning.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Wilcox live about five miles from here. UKBC Manchester is sending a cameraman from the bureau to work with us for the day. He should have a car, so we can drive over to Didsbury together. See if we can get them to talk to us.’

  ‘Sounds like the obvious plan.’ I don’t know why I’m being so sarcastic, but hangovers do that to me. Thankfully Audrey is ignoring it.

  ‘I’m hoping the police will release something new on her today. It would help, wouldn’t it? If we can get her mother asking for her to come forward, they can then run it on the lunchtime bulletin.’

  ‘Seems like a bit of a stretch right now, but let’s see.’ Thankfully, the omelette is helping soak up some of the booze in my bloodstream. It tastes better than expected. ‘Where are we meeting the cameraman?’

  ‘He’s on his way here. I just got a text.’

  ‘Where’s he coming from?’

  ‘Should I know that?’

  ‘Don’t panic. I thought they might have said, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay.’

  With nothing more to say to each other, we both check the morning headlines on our smartphones. Sarah’s face is all over the Internet. A smiley, carefree, attractive woman. Twitter has gone nuts. There’s a new line posted on most news’ sites that says: The police are also seeking a man who they believe may have been in the area at the same time. Audrey has already read it.

  ‘Did you see this?’ Her face has lit up.

  ‘Well, that’s something at least. Gives the story a fresh angle.’

  ‘Our exclusive will give the story a new angle.’

  ‘That it will. That it will. Well done, Audrey. Really great work.’

  She positively beams at the praise and I make a note to myself that I should offer more of it to offset my snappiness, because I’m sure there’ll be more of that given that I’m in the eye of an emotional hurricane.

  The papers have mixed opinions on Sarah Wilcox and her role in the crime. They range from her being the main suspect to being an accessory. The official line is that they are seeking to rule her out. The man the police say they are looking for is six foot, brown hair, stubble, wearing casual clothes and seen leaving London Fields train station around seven o’clock. The description sounds a lot like Nigel, but then it could be anyone in east London really.

  ‘Did you read that new comment on Twitter by a bloke who said he’d been on a date with the Homerton victim? He said he met her on a dating site called COMEout. Do you know it?’

  Do I know it? That’s the website I met Nigel on.

  ‘Heard of it, yeah. It matches people when they pass each other in the street, I think.’

  ‘God, that’s terrifying. So someone who means harm to another could literally have them within their sights.’ Audrey physically shudders.

  ‘I guess so, yes.’

  ‘Look. Here it is.’

  @Davetherave: She was a bit odd, but charming when we met.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What if the murderer really is an online dater using this site? It was alluded to in the Homerton case, although the police didn’t confirm it.’ Audrey is scrolling on her screen.

  ‘I asked DI Brook about it yesterday. He didn’t want to confirm or deny it.’

  ‘Looks like a pattern is emerging, though, doesn’t it? I mean, after the second victim… what was her name?’

  ‘Maggie Horrocks.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, Maggie Horrocks, and now this one. Maybe Dave the Rave came forward because he thinks it’s important, now there’s been a third victim, you know. Maybe he’s a good guy who just wants to help. Maybe he’s worried about Sarah Wilcox.’

  ‘Maybe, but we can’t report that. We can’t use the name of the site unless the police release it.’

  ‘Are we going to wait for the police to tell us everything?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying, Audrey, but we can’t just go claiming that a dating app is being used by a serial killer. Where’s our proof? We’ll be sued.’

  ‘Right.’ She’s not particularly listening now. Her face has come alive with the possibility that all three deaths are tied to a dating site. ‘God, can you imagine if there is an online serial dater who kills women in east London by using an app where he can literally have them in his sights? I mean, a serial dater who has become a serial killer. It’s terrifying. A modern-day Jack the Ripper.’ She’s reading from her phone. ‘“The UK has the highest Internet dating turnover of any European country. Last year more than nine million Britons logged on to dating sites.”’ She scratches her nose.

  ‘Let’s just stick to the facts, shall we? Don’t go getting ahead of yourself. It will do no good.’

  She looks deflated but accepts my comments.

  ‘Okay. Looks like our cameraman has arrived.’ She nods towards reception, where a stocky man wearing the usual garb – casual sports clothes and good walking shoes – is standing.

  The receptionist points him in our direction, and as he gets closer, I realise I know him and that he knows Greg. We all went to school together. How is this happening to me?

  ‘Alex South? Is that really you?’

  Stephen Holland, aka Dutch. Last I knew, he was living in Europe. He looks just the same, although with less hair. He throws his huge arms around me in a bear hug. Dutch is a big bloke. He always was taller and broader than the other boys in the class. No one ever messed with him, so he was a good person to know.

  ‘You look great, Alex. You’ve kept yourself well. Shot up in the world, I see, working in London now, huh?’

  ‘Thanks. Life brings its just rewards, you know.’

  ‘As cocky as ever, I see.’ His grin is wide and his eyes light up as he looks at me.

  ‘I’m Audrey, the producer.’ Audrey asserts herself by extending her hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Audrey. I’m Stephen, but people call me Dutch.’

  Before long, we are on our way to Didsbury. I let Audrey sit in the front of Dutch’s dog-hair-covered estate car. I don’t want to get into personal questions about my life or relationship status. I’m not sure how much he knows about me and Greg, and whether he’s been back in touch with Greg since moving back. It’s not a subject I want to get into before the interview.

  It takes about half an hour to get to Didsbury from the city centre. Driving through the village is torturous. Every time we slow down, I get butte
rflies in my stomach imagining I’m going to see Greg walking towards us. Stupid, I know, but I have no idea what he’s doing these days: I can’t see his Facebook page any more since we blocked each other.

  Number 22 Mill Avenue is a semi-detached two-storey red-brick house with a well-kept front garden and a gravel driveway made of white Cotswold stones. The downstairs bay window is dressed with a display of fresh exotic purple flowers. This is a wealthy neighbourhood, although the street Greg and I lived on was modest. We made our home in a two-bed terraced house at the other end of the postcode.

  ‘What do you suggest, Alex?’ Audrey has her notebook in hand as ever. Now that the moment is here, she looks quite nervous.

  ‘That we knock on the door and see if anyone’s in?’

  Dutch smiles, recognising that Audrey is wet behind the ears.

  ‘I should probably go on my own first,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to scare them.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What if they won’t talk?’

  ‘Then they won’t talk.’ I shrug. ‘We just wait and try again.’

  ‘Okay.’

  There is no gate to the driveway, which is good. Fiddling with a latch is the last thing I need right now. This part of the job never gets any easier, and today is exceptionally hard given the circumstances. I really need to get through it quickly, as my need for a drink is looming. Without it, I’m going to crash. I need to keep my blood alcohol content topped up so that I can function for one more day. My headache is back, and it isn’t helping my mood, which is utterly depressed and shitty.

  I step across the border that separates public from private property, crack my knuckles and take a deep breath. There’s a bell and a knocker. I choose the bell. Moments later, the door opens, and standing in the doorway is a very handsome older woman dressed in racing green from head to toe. I assume this is Sarah’s mother. She’s clutching a pack of cigarettes and her eyes are waterlogged. I guess the police have already contacted her. Not that it would matter: her daughter’s face is plastered over every front page in the country. She invites me in silently with her body language, as if we’ve met before. Not quite the welcome I was expecting.