I Never Lie Read online

  ‘Our interview with Mrs Wilcox is all over the papers this morning, which is good. Well done us!’

  ‘Yes, that’s very good.’

  ‘Yesterday was unfortunate, wasn’t it? The technical issue, I mean. Are you pissed off about that?’

  ‘A bit, but it happens. You win some and lose some. That’s the nature of the news business.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You have to learn not to take it personally. Grow a second skin. We made the front page of almost every newspaper today, that’s quite a coup.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you’re right, Alex. It’s so good working with you, you know. I’m really learning a lot.’

  ‘Good.’

  My omelette arrives, and although I really don’t feel like eating, I force myself.

  ‘The police have released a few more details on the investigation this morning.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Don’t know if you remember, but the previous victims were drugged with GHB, a drug that is used a lot in the gay scene. Bit like a date-rape drug, can be fatal when taken in the wrong dosage along with alcohol. They suspect it was used here too.’ She puts her hand on her neck as she says it. ‘Gives me the chills just thinking about it. God, it’s grim.’

  ‘Have the police reacted to our interview?’

  ‘In a roundabout way. They say they still want to speak to Sarah Wilcox.’

  I polish off the dregs of my coffee and down a pint of water.

  ‘We should try and track her down next,’ Audrey says. ‘Wouldn’t that be a scoop?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Not sure I like the sound of that, though. As I think this, our phones beep in unison.

  Audrey has already launched her Reuters app and her face responds to the news flash. ‘Flipping heck. Car bomb at Glasgow airport.’

  I open the browser on my phone and see the headline: THREE DEAD IN TERROR ATTACK.

  ‘You know what this means, Audrey. It means that London probably won’t care about us today.’

  She looks disappointed. ‘We need to find Sarah or get a reaction from the police to our interview.’

  ‘It’s a terror attack. That’s the only story that will get on today.’

  The concern on Audrey’s face creeps into a smile. ‘So I can go shopping?’

  ‘Effectively. Yes.’

  ‘Shall we head downtown then before we catch a lunchtime train?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Let’s meet by reception in an hour.’ She’s readying to leave the breakfast room.

  I give her the thumbs-up and she heads back to her room. Moments later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Dutch.

  Hey, Alex! I had so much fun last night. We really should do that again. I’m sorry I crept out without waking you, but I needed to change my clothes (Audrey may have figured it out :-)), and if your head felt the way mine did I was sure you would need some more sleep. You’re the powerhouse here! You are a gorgeous lady, for the record. Dutch x

  It’s a really lovely text that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. A feeling that has evaded me for a long time. He’s such a darling and was just what I needed. I wonder if his sperm might go the distance. I check my fertility app: today could be my lucky day.

  20

  July 2017

  Dear Diary,

  I thought life would get easier when I stopped drinking, but actually it’s getting much harder. I have to face myself now. I have to get up every day and think about my life. What I’m doing with it. What I plan to do with it. Now everything revolves around abstaining from drink. I literally calculate the hours until I can go to sleep and wake up another day sober. I don’t know how this is going to go on.

  Today I called the debt-collecting agency and spoke to a woman about my credit card bill that I haven’t paid in eight years. How is that even possible? When I was drinking I really had no sense of time passing at all. I mean, eight years! But now I am sober, I am getting on top of these things. That feels good. I’m taking control of my life. Doing the things I should have done a long time ago and getting my affairs in order.

  21

  We have a few hours to kill before the train. I don’t know why, but I have an overwhelming urge to visit the house I used to live in with Greg. Maybe it’s because of what Mrs Wilcox said; I don’t know. It’s one of those things I probably shouldn’t do, but I’m going to do it anyway.

  The taxi drops me at the end of the street lined with two-storey terraces that lean towards the pavement’s edge. There are no trees in sight. It looks so much bleaker than I remember. The only greenery that exists here is a wheelie bin outside each house, making it a challenge to walk along the narrow pavement.

  Now that I’m here, it feels like a terrible idea. I’m not sure what I was thinking, but since the Milk Tray arrived I can’t seem to get him out of my head. I feel out of place on this modest street now. I have outwardly changed to such an extent that there is nothing left of the girl I was when I lived here. Scruffy trainers and hoodies were my signature then. Such is life on the radio, but TV, well TV is TV. It demands more.

  The window of number three displays the same tired sign it always did: TORIES OUT. BRING BACK FREE EDUCATION. It makes me smile. A reminder of where I came from.

  A black cat shoots out from behind a bin, crossing my path. I can’t remember if it’s lucky or unlucky; either way, my stomach is in knots. I haven’t had a drink this morning for the sheer lack of anything in my minibar. I wonder how long I can go without one. I’m going to try my best. It’s a good day to detox; what with the terror attack, the news centre won’t be bothered about the London murders. I need to make the most of the opportunity to wean myself off this binge. I feel sick, exacerbated by fear pulsing through every cell in my body. I’m afraid to see Greg and I’m afraid not to see him. I’m just a mess and am having serious doubts about what it is I want to achieve by coming here, but then retreat is not an option.

  Outside number 11, I have a flash of fondness remembering our very first day here. We had fun, Greg and I. He really got me for a while, more than anyone ever has. The day we moved in, he carried me across the threshold as though we were some loved-up married couple. Wouldn’t let me put my foot through the door on my own, like we’d bought the place, when in fact we were only renting. But then that was Greg, a man of outdated romance and traditions. The thought makes me smile, but it’s soon replaced with anxiety. I have no idea what I’m going to say if he is here.

  There’s no bell where there used to be one, so I hammer on the door with my fist. After a minute or so, I try again, but there’s still no answer. The net curtains look like they’ve seen better days. I don’t remember there being net curtains. Someone else must have moved in. Maybe he has a new lover? I try again, but no one comes.

  Across the street, a petite girl comes out of number 14, struggling to carry an art case. I wave to get her attention but it’s a futile attempt: she’s off at a pace, most likely late for class. Then an elderly man exits the house next door. He must be in his seventies. I’ve never seen him before.

  ‘Hiya. Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you know who lives here?’

  ‘Sorry, love. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. Can you speak up?’ He’s pointing to a pair of hearing aids.

  I repeat the question and he smiles in understanding.

  ‘Only been here a few months, me. The place has been empty since then. Think the bloke who used to live there moved, not sure.’

  I fish out my phone to show him the photo of Greg on my dating app, but it’s crashed and I can’t retrieve it. I beg him to wait a moment so I can restart it. He locks his door and waits politely for me to find the image. When the app finally opens, the photo has gone and a new profile is in its place.

  * * *

  In the taxi on the way back to town, I feel deflated by my morning. I’m not sure what I was thinking. It was strange to stand outside our old house and yet see nothing familiar in it, not even the neighbou
r. Like our lives never existed there. I really need to talk to someone. I need to get my head straight and my drinking on the right track. I wonder whether I should open up to Charlie when I get back to London, but then my phone buzzes and my thoughts of good intentions come to an end.

  Hey, Alex! How’s it been being back in your home town? Hope all is well. I caught the news yesterday and it looked like you had a technical failure. Hope that wasn’t too annoying! When you back? Nigel x

  The taxi crawls through traffic slowed by a torrential downpour. That’s one thing I don’t miss about the north, the rain. There’s a woman about my age standing at a bus stop who has been completely caught out by it. I almost want to offer her a lift, but I don’t. Instead I ask the driver to head in a different direction, because she looks like someone I used to know and reminds me of how and why I met Sarah Wilcox.

  Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside a church and I wonder if this is an even worse idea than visiting the house I lived in with Greg. It’s where I attended my first AA meeting, one of a handful. It didn’t really work for me, all that talk of a higher self, of God, but I’m trying to figure out what happened, I suppose. Looking for remnants of the past, something that might help explain how I got to where I am. I ask the driver to wait and he agrees for a cash deposit.

  Fortunately, the rain has stopped. I walk slowly through the church gates, taking a moment to remember why I came here in the first place. I was a mess. My life was spinning out of control. It had become unmanageable. Greg had threatened to leave unless I did something about my drinking. He blamed it for our failure to conceive, and then for the miscarriage, which really hurt. I’m not sure that’s what happened, though. People get pregnant all the time while drinking too much.

  Maybe he was just tired of me. Tired of not being able to make plans. Tired of my mental instability, as he put it. Tired of being provoked into arguments. Tired of my bullshit basically. Tired of my lies. He was desperate to be a father, as I was to be a mother; as I still am.

  Standing here in the rain, I ask myself whether I’m really fit to be a mum. I mean, I say I won’t do it again, but then I do. I binge-drink to the point where life blurs into one long messy corridor and the only way forward is to have another drink. I don’t mean to do it. I truly don’t. I’ve been doing so well lately. But then the voice in my head reappears and tells me it needs it. So I give in and the voice wins.

  The place looks exactly the same. I make my way around the back of the building and down the ramp towards the green door. A door that held so much hope for me then. It made Greg so happy when I decided to come here. It held our relationship together. It supplied us with hope that things could be different. It convinced Greg that we were on the same page, but we weren’t.

  He seemed to think I couldn’t control my drinking, but that’s where he was wrong. I’ve always been able to control my drinking. If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be able to hold down this job, would I? I mean, people who can’t control it, well, they end up on a park bench, doing nothing with their lives, just like Sarah Wilcox. Yes, I remember now how we met. She’s a real alcoholic, not someone like me. Not a news reporter.

  As I approach the door, I see the letters on the bottom bell: AA.

  The door is locked. Of course. The group meet on Thursdays, and today is Wednesday, or at least I think it is. There’s a groove in the door where someone tried to break in once; I remember that from when I used to come here. I run my finger over it, wondering what happened to all that hope Greg and I had, but my thoughts are brought to an abrupt end by a woman who appears behind me.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, no. No. I’m just, um…’

  I was so lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear her sneak up on me. I feel like I’ve been discovered, but doing what I’m not sure. My hand pulls back from the door and takes cover in my protective pocket. Then I realise, as does she, that we’ve met before.

  ‘Alex? Is that really you?’

  It’s Jessica. One of the women in the group.

  ‘Shit, it is. It’s you. How the bloody hell are you?’

  ‘I’m okay. Was just passing and thought I’d… you know…’

  She smiles. It’s a genuine smile born of a profound sense of empathy nurtured in AA. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Then her expression changes and she looks at me differently. ‘Oh gosh. I just realised. I’ve seen you on the news, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She repeats my sign-off: ‘Alex South, UKBC.’

  ‘Yes. I…’ I don’t know why I came here.

  ‘It’s okay, Alex, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. You know we practise confidentiality. What stays in the room and all that.’

  ‘Yes.’ I can’t seem to say anything else.

  She’s nodding. ‘So you’ve made it big in the south? Did you see what I just did there?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well done. Really, well done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So you’re doing okay?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  My head is pounding and I can just about stand up right. I need something to drink, but I’m doing okay, better than Sarah Wilcox.

  ‘You do know Sarah Wilcox used to come here?’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t been here for a long time. Heard she’d gone to rehab. You look great, by the way. Really great.’

  ‘Thanks. Look, I really must get back to work, but do you know which rehab?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid. Somewhere near Manchester, though. Possibly Wilmslow, out that way. We’ll pray for her at the weekly meeting. Shall I call you if I hear anything? Stranger things have happened.’

  I don’t want to give her my details, so I take hers instead and leave, relieved as the taxi carries me away from the past back to the present. I shouldn’t have gone there. Rehab. That’s hardcore. I’m not a hopeless alcoholic like that. I’m a success story. I’ve moved on. Done well for myself. Achieved a lot.

  I stop and buy some ibuprofen to stave off the pain. I also buy a healthy drink, a fruit juice, aimed at keeping my oral fixation at bay. I have to detox today if it’s the last thing I do. I need to get myself straightened out. I rub my tummy and recall Dutch’s message. An offspring with his sweetness would be grand.

  Audrey is in the bureau when I arrive and beckons me over.

  ‘Have you seen the news?’

  ‘Have they caught the Glasgow bomber?’

  ‘Not that. The police have just named the victim from yesterday as Alice Fessy.’

  ‘What?’

  My phone is ringing. It’s Mrs Wilcox.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘No one. Look, we need to get back to London. This will make the evening news bulletin now.’

  ‘But the terror attack…?’

  ‘They can’t really ignore this, though.’

  ‘I think DI Brook is about to give a press conference on one of the agency feeds.’ Audrey has the remote in her hand. ‘Yep, here we go.’

  DI Brook is readying himself to speak to the press.

  ‘We have been able to identify the woman in the park yesterday as Alice Fessy, a French citizen. Aged thirty-eight. Actress. We have notified her family, who live in Paris.’

  A journalist out of shot shouts: ‘What about the online dating angle? Is it possible the killer met her on the site COMEout?’

  Brook hesitates, then clears his throat. ‘We will release that information when we feel the time is right, but until then, I would ask the women of east London to remain vigilant.’

  The journalist pushes him for a proper answer. ‘What does that mean, vigilant?’

  It’s a good question and it’s the right question.

  ‘My advice would be to refrain from using all dating sites until we have caught the person responsible for th
e deaths of three women. Thank you.’

  ‘So you are connecting all the deaths?’

  He ignores the question and disappears inside the police station once more. My phone is ringing. It’s the London newsroom.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen the latest developments?’

  ‘Yes, we’re on the next train.’

  ‘Good. Please come to the news centre when you get back. We need you on the ten o’clock bulletin tonight. And look into this online dating theory. That’s serious. See if you can firm up which site, something official from the police. If there is a guy out there plucking women from dating sites, then that’s terrifying. Jesus.’ Marysia hangs up.

  Ten minutes later, we are in a taxi heading to the train station and I’m thinking about the drink I need to get my hands on to get myself through the ten o’clock bulletin. Today is not a day for detox after all. I had good intentions; it’s just a question of life getting in the way.

  ‘This is crazy. We need to find Dave the Rave and interview him.’ Audrey is on her smartphone, scrolling through various news feeds.

  ‘Dave who?’

  ‘That guy on Twitter who Laura what’s-her-name spoke to. He said he met Maggie Horrocks on COMEout. It’s a lead. It might be what we’re looking for to move the story on.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to find Sarah Wilcox?’

  ‘I do, and I’m going to make every effort to do that, but this is what we’ve got for now and I think the online dating angle is huge.’

  I’m relieved that Audrey’s focus has shifted. The information I got about Sarah going to rehab could be a start, but I’m not going to go there. I need to push away thoughts of Greg, Sarah and the past, if I can, and concentrate on the present. Audrey is right. The online dating angle is huge. So I’ll support her on that.

  The first thing I do once we are safely on the train is call DI Brook, but the reception is terrible and I can’t get a stable connection. Somewhere around Birmingham my phone starts vibrating and doesn’t stop until we reach Rugby. It’s Mrs Wilcox. I have no idea what she wants, but I can’t deal with it right now. My head is such a mess. It feels like it’s about to explode into a million tiny pieces. I need a drink and I can’t have one until we’re off the train because I don’t have any on me and I can’t let Audrey see. I really thought the Glasgow terror attack would give me a breather, let me detox, but it hasn’t panned out that way. This story is still developing. I just need it to die down for a day. I lean my head on my jacket rolled up against the window and try to get some sleep, if only to stop me thinking about booze.