HERE THE TRUTH LIES_A gripping psychological thriller_US Edition Read online

  Seb Kirby

  HERE THE

  TRUTH LIES

  US Edition

  First Edition published as a paperback, April 2018

  First Edition published as an eBook, May 2018

  © Seb Kirby, 2018

  This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and the publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  I’m alone in the bed, unable to sleep, my eyes wide open, willing darkness. One of those who needs complete absence of light.

  This means, as a minimum, full blackout curtains to take care of the lamps in the street outside. Even then, I detect stray splinters of light appearing around the edges of those curtains once my vision adjusts to the supposed blackness. This involves using the bed sheets to cover my head just enough to shade my eyes while leaving space to breathe. It’s a ritual that, once complete, is an essential prerequisite to any more sleep this night.

  But here I am, awake, aware that something is wrong with the room.

  I close my eyes. Too much is happening in my mind. Above all, McLeish, my boss, is hounding me for progress on the Stanley story. I doubt I’ll get back to sleep again but I must try.

  A faint noise, a rustling sound, comes from the corner of the room. I don’t want to look. I’m phobic about moths, spiders, crane flies and anything with spiny legs. It could be one of those or, worse, a mouse. Nocturnal visitors are more than likely in the ground floor rooms I rent in this old Victorian house.

  It’s at times like this I wish I were with someone. But I live alone now that Mark has given up on our marriage and gone to work in Prague. I miss him, yet value the feeling of independence. But now I want someone beside me to say: Emma, what’s that?

  I raise my head from the pillow and turn toward the sound.

  It’s a young girl. The rustling is made by her nightdress dragging on the ground as she walks towards the bed.

  I look away and dig my fingernails into my wrist so hard I fear it might draw blood. The pain is intense. I need to know I am, in fact, awake.

  I turn my head back. The girl is still there but she has stopped still now and is standing looking straight at me. She is nine or ten years old with curly blonde hair. Her blue-green eyes hold a look of fear that tells of great suffering and sadness. She is speaking, her mouth opening and closing, but I can hear no words. Yet I’m sure from the way the girl stares at me that whatever she is trying to say is meant for me.

  My voice, when it comes, amounts to nothing more than a whisper. “What do you want?”

  The girl’s lips stop moving for a moment and her eyes widen, as if she’s heard what I’m saying.

  As she mouths silent words again, I strain to decipher them. It looks like I’m here now. And now, perhaps she is trying to say her own name. I’m Jenny. I can’t be sure.

  I struggle to find my voice again. “Tell me. You know you can tell me.”

  The little girl says no more. Instead, she turns and retreats to the corner.

  I raise myself from the bed. “Come back. I need to know who you are.” But, by the time my feet touch the floor, the girl is gone.

  My eyes search the room, looking for any sliver of light. There is none. All is once more pitch black and silent.

  As I lie back down, my heart is racing. My nightclothes are heavy with sweat.

  There is no chance of sleep now.

  DAY 1

  CHAPTER 1

  The same journey to work each morning.

  Walking out of London Bridge station, skirting the Shard with its ever-present ground wind that all but blows me headlong down London Bridge Street towards the spire of Southwark Cathedral. This is how each workday begins.

  As I walk, my mind turns over. No sleep last night. I don’t want to think about the young girl I know as Jenny who came to me in the darkness of my room. But the image of that troubled face keeps appearing before me, here amidst the tumult of London in the rush hour.

  And then there’s the Brian Cooper story, the issue that has already resulted in so many sleepless nights. The evidence for murder is circumstantial, anyone with eyes to see should realize that.

  But few do, not even my friend Sophie Taylor.

  All Sophie will say is, “Emma, you’re obsessed. And not sleeping. It will ruin your health. What’s the good in that?”

  Sophie doesn’t understand. There are some things you just know are right, though everyone tells you otherwise. That’s how it is with Brian Cooper.

  I pause these thoughts to take care while crossing the busy highway that passes close by the Cathedral. Teeming with cars, buses, taxis and freewheeling cyclists weaving between the onrushing traffic running downhill from London Bridge itself and on beneath the overhead railway into the turmoil of Borough High Street, the road is a physical barrier to the tranquility that lies on the other side. As I wait to cross, the metallic structure of the railway bridge above amplifies the sounds below. Most days I’m able to filter them out – but not this morning. The cacophony assaults my senses, makes my ears ache and my mind reel. That’s what another wakeful night can do.

  And now it’s starting to rain.

  Crossing the road when the traffic lights call me on, I aim for the walkway that runs between Borough Market and the Cathedral itself. As I clatter down the stone steps leading from the roadway to the Cathedral grounds below, my thoughts return to what Sophie says about Brian Cooper.

  “What makes you so sure he’s innocent?”

  “I don’t know why you keep asking.”

  “Because this thing is taking hold of you and it troubles me to see what it’s doing to you.”

  “So, help me get justice for him.”

  “Only if you promise to stop pushing yourself so hard.”

  “OK. OK. I promise.”

  That’s the problem. If I were being honest, I’d have to admit there is no way of being sure. For every innocent man serving time there are ten more denying they are guilty as charged. What makes Brian Cooper any more special?

  As a journalist, I know I have a duty to be skeptical about claims made by anyone and everyone until evidence proves otherwise. People try to get to you in the belief that the Press is the place to be heard once all other avenues of appeal are exhausted. Your training prepares you for that. Yet I’m drawn in to Brian Cooper’s story by what feels like an irresistible force. And when I speak to him, that attraction grows stronger. Even though I can’t hear in him the clear-cut voice of truth. He comes over as his own worst enemy. Someone better educated would sound more convincing.

  That’s what prevents Sophie, and other criminal defense lawyers like her, from taking up the case, despite the evidence against Brian Cooper being circumstantial and resting on a single witness who identified him at the murder scene.

  But that’s just why I feel compelled to investigate. If he were quick-witted and slick in his replies, I’d be concerned I was being conned. Inarticulate men like
Brian Cooper are always likely to be the victims of miscarriages of justice.

  I reach Cathedral Street, heading towards the river.

  A stranger approaches and is on the point of saying something before walking on past me. I know what’s passing through the man’s mind. It’s a reaction I encounter more often than I like. For a moment, people I’ve never met recognize me and are convinced they must know me. But then they realize why. My appearances on the late night news channels reviewing the next day’s newspapers have made me a minor celebrity. At least amongst those who worry more about the state of the world than getting a good night’s sleep.

  As I turn onto Clink Street and take care to pick my way across the cobbles without ruining my high heels, I try to concentrate on the business of the day.

  The reason the Herald keeps paying my salary. The answers my Editor, Bill McLeish, is waiting for.

  I make it onto Bankside. There is the Thames at high tide and in full flow. The life-blood of this city, why since Roman times any of this is here. I skitter on, turning my coat collar against the rain blowing in from the river and threatening to soak me before I reach the office.

  Something makes me turn as the Thameside walk threads its way under a short tunnel beneath Southwark Bridge. I’ve noticed the man in the black overcoat before, in the same carriage on the train as it came into London Bridge. He’s been behind me all the way from the station. Why is he following me?

  This feels different from the casual recognition of a stranger who’s seen me on TV. More premeditated. I try to tell myself this is just paranoia brought on by nights without sleep, but my suspicions won’t go away. I hurry on, trying to make it to the end of the tunnel.

  Most mornings there would be an early morning busker in here, taking advantage of the echoing acoustics to sing, play violin or pick at some African instrument I don’t know the name of. But now I’m here alone.

  Is my follower about to attack? Is this the ugly side of the minor fame that the TV paper review appearances have brought me? Some head case prepared to turn into reality the sexual abuse and death threats I receive on social media without fail every time I speak out against the conventional wisdom of the mainstream press. I wouldn’t be the first woman to be attacked for speaking out.

  In a city of eight million why, all of a sudden, am I here, so alone?

  The Herald building is little over two hundred yards beyond the end of the tunnel. If I can make it through the front door into the lobby, I’ll be safe.

  I hurry on. I don’t want to look behind again but fear compels me.

  The man is gaining on me. If he doesn’t mean harm, why is he closing the gap on me when all the way along Bankside he must have been keeping a respectful distance?

  I begin to run and curse the choice to wear high heels today. My efforts make no difference, he is right behind me, within arms reach.

  A couple, arm in arm, appear at the other end of the tunnel, walking towards me. They will witness what happens.

  The man brushes past me without touching me, pretending, no doubt, that he has never meant me harm.

  I slow and allow him to go ahead and exit the tunnel. I smile at the couple as they pass, engrossed in conversation with each other.

  When I emerge into the daylight, my follower is nowhere to be seen. He’s been spooked by the sight of the advancing couple, I’m certain.

  My heart is racing. I take deep breaths. Write this off as a narrow escape. Try to find a different route to work tomorrow.

  I make it to the welcoming front doors of the Herald building with feelings of real relief and rush inside.

  All thoughts about Jenny are now buried in the pressing business of the day. At least there is some comfort in that.

  CHAPTER 2

  The easy part is killing them.

  The tough part is luring them into the trap.

  Evan Cargill looks at himself in the mirror as he shaves. Not bad for a forty-year-old, considering all he’s been through.

  All that captivity.

  The years in the children’s homes they forced him into were difficult but nothing compared with the times he spent in the Middle East, first as a soldier of fortune, then as a hostage.

  They tried to break him every which way but all they did was hone his spirit of defiance. Each time they tortured him, he felt his body responding, strengthening, becoming ever more resilient. Each time they trashed him and left him for dead, he recovered, stronger, more determined.

  He survived.

  Time to take back what is owed.

  But how can you reclaim a childhood?

  That’s where it all began. The never-ending struggle that became his whole life.

  He dries his face on the towel and dresses. Grey suit. White shirt. Polished black shoes. He checks once more in the mirror, straightening his tie. Nothing to give the game away.

  The list. That’s what matters now.

  He sits at the desk and starts the computer.

  Who’s online today?

  One of his personas is that of a ten-year-old boy. He’s taken the profile picture from a scouting magazine. As Will Murphy he will be quite a catch.

  For the disgusting creature he’s about to lure and trap.

  Not that this will be easy. His list has no real names, just screen names, the online false identities they use to attract boys like Will Murphy. Up to a dozen for each target on the list. It requires patience to entice and follow the targets home, one by one. But with the address, identifying them is straightforward.

  Here’s one. Peter Booker.

  He checks the list.

  Peter Booker is an alias used by the last man he needs to find.

  And, look, he’s offering to meet.

  As Will Murphy, Cargill replies, suggesting where.

  When the target agrees, Cargill ticks off the last name.

  The game is on.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Emma. It has to stop.”

  Bill McLeish is adamant. He demands to be told why I’m wasting my time on matters not associated with the paper’s aims. “You know how important it is that we investigate Adam Stanley. Yet, your heart doesn’t seem to be in it.”

  I avoided his eyes at the customary morning briefing when the assembled staff identified the day’s priorities. I thought I’d kept my head down enough to escape the attention of the Editor but he called me into his office as soon as the meeting ended.

  I don’t have a reply. I’m still recovering from the incident in the tunnel. But I know where this is heading.

  MacLeish continues anyway. “I know you’ve been working on that Cooper story again, Emma. You promised me you’d give it up.”

  “You’ve been spying on me?”

  “That’s my job, Emma. It’s what being the Editor means. You haven’t given up on Brian Cooper, have you? Even though you promised you had.”

  Someone close to me must have been talking. “Who’s been filling your head with lies about me?”

  “Are you denying this?”

  I know I have to come clean. “OK. I did spend a couple hours on Cooper. It was a chance I couldn’t miss. He’s only allowed fifteen minutes of calls a week and I got him to agree to talk to me.”

  “That was time you should’ve been putting into what really matters.” McLeish softens his anger and takes on a more paternal tone. “Look, Emma. You’re one of our brightest prospects. It’s been really gratifying to see your career flourish here at the Herald. You have a great future ahead of you. Don’t throw it away now.”

  “Don’t think I’m not appreciative of all you’ve done for me, Bill. Giving me a chance to prove myself here. But didn’t you have times when you went out on a limb to cover a story no one thought was worth anything? One that just wouldn’t let go of you?”

  He sighs. “We don’t have that kind of luxury any more. The way this business is changing, there may be no print journalism in ten years time. No, make that five. Who’s going to be buying papers whe
n they can get all the news they want on their smart phone or on their voice controlled app? And who will employ journalists in a large expensive facility like this here on Bankside when half a dozen untrained youngsters with laptops can hack together an online paper in their spare time and set it in front of a few hundred thousand readers on the Internet without it costing them a dime. We’re in a fight for survival, don’t you understand? And the way we survive is to deliver and keep on delivering to show that we are so damn good at what we do that we can’t be ignored. That means working as a team, trusting each other, acting solely for each other.”

  “You’re saying I’m not pulling my weight?”

  “It’s not that. But you must know there’s no place for part-timers, Emma. That’s the simple truth of where we are.”

  I can’t deny he’s right. I’m cheating on the team, on my colleagues. It makes me feel bad. I have to stop working the Cooper story no matter how strong the attraction. “OK, Bill. I promise. I’ll let Brian Cooper drop.”

  McLeish gives a smile. “That’s better. Make sure you don’t place that phone call to him.” He pauses. “You know this is the last time. If we need to have this conversation again, I won’t be able to be as lenient. You understand?”

  “I get it, Bill.”

  “So tell me where you’ve got to with Stanley.”

  I try to put beside me the threat to my future at the paper and focus on what McLeish wants to hear.

  It’s never easy to take on people in high places, those filled with such a sense of entitlement they believe they can do no wrong. A senior politician responding to lobbyists and seeking to influence decisions is nothing new. But when undercover video showing MP Adam Stanley, identifiable by his signature well-trimmed grey beard, handing over a thick wad of cash in a brown paper bag to an unknown man is obtained from an anonymous informant claiming that Stanley is corrupt, it’s in the public interest to investigate. The video must have been made by someone, the one receiving the money, with a hidden video cam and the exchange had taken place in a crowded bar.