HERE THE TRUTH LIES_A gripping psychological thriller_US Edition Read online

  I let instinct take over. Perhaps it’s the effect of Jenny’s words and how they’ve stripped me of so much of what I regard as my self. Perhaps it’s because I’m no longer prepared to feel like I’m being hunted by this man. Or perhaps I no longer care if what I’m about to do might make me look a fool. For whatever reason, I turn and face him.

  He tries to walk past, but I stand in his way. “You’ve been on my heels for days. I need an explanation.”

  The man holds up his hands and stops before me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve been following me. You’re doing it now. What’s you game?”

  He shakes his head. “Listen, I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about. I’m on my way to work. Please let me pass.”

  I stand my ground. “I don’t believe you. You’re on the train every day at the same time as me. Always coming at me from behind on this walkway.”

  He begins to smile. “If that’s a problem for you, I can only apologize. You see, we must both live somewhere close to the same station. I guess we both have the same start time at work. Eight-thirty. So we would come in on the same train most days. I always stop for a quick espresso on the way over here. That means I end up hurrying along the walkway to get in on time. If that’s made you uneasy, once again I apologize.”

  I’m overwhelmed by the sincerity with which he speaks, the look of real concern in his eyes. My first thought is: Oh, what have I done?

  I begin to apologize. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m some kind of terrible weirdo, accosting you in the street like this. It won’t happen again.”

  I turn to walk away but he walks along beside me.

  “Since you’ve been so freaked out by me, you might as well know something about me. My name is James Walsh. I’m a stage manager. At the Globe Theatre. That’s where I’m headed, here on Bankside, every morning. What about you?”

  He’s easy to talk to. I tell him my name and that I work as a journalist at the Herald.

  He gives a short laugh. “Ah, that explains it. We work within a few hundred yards of each other.”

  When I come in sight of the Herald building, still feeling embarrassed, I turn to say goodbye. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  He stops and leans towards me. “Why don’t we make something positive out of all this. Meet me for lunch.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to be any more trouble to you.”

  “I promise I won’t bite.”

  I don’t know why I agree. There’s something about James Walsh that makes me curious to find out more about him.

  “I can’t get away until one.”

  He smiles. “OK. One o’clock it is. Let’s make it the Altan.”

  I nod and hurry into the Herald building.

  CHAPTER 18

  I’m certain McLeish will call me out at the morning briefing. I’m proved right. He wastes no time in putting me at the head of the agenda.

  “Emma. Where do we stand on the Stanley story?”

  I clear my throat. “It’s looking better. I’ve found the person who mailed us the video and had a productive interview with her.”

  McLeish interrupts. “Name?”

  “I promised her confidentiality. I can give you the details after the briefing.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you in my office. But let’s be clear, we can’t accept any more delays on the story. If it doesn’t break in the next few days, we’ll need to park it. Video or not.”

  McLeish moves on to discuss the rest of the day’s priorities.

  When the meeting ends, I make my way to McLeish’s office and close the door behind me.

  “It was Margaret Hyslop.”

  McLeish casts his eyes to the ceiling. “A woman with one too many axes to grind.”

  I try to reassure him. “Agreed. She left me in no doubt about that. But I was convinced by what she said. She has reason enough to want to out Stanley, that’s true. It’s why she sent the video. And the reason what she’s saying needs to be true. She’s not the type to waste anyone’s time. I got her to tell me where the video came from. As long as we keep her identity secret she may be prepared to go all the way in helping us nail Stanley.”

  McLeish settles back in his chair. “That’s more like it, Emma. I knew you could deliver if you concentrated your efforts on what we need.”

  “She was sent the video by a guy named Terry Grant. He works for Fine Line Taxis, based on the Commercial Road. I’m going out there to see him this morning.”

  I’m about to leave but McLeish calls me back.

  “We’ve heard from the police about the threatening message. An officer named DI Stephen Ives. He says there’s not enough evidence of threat for them to assign much time to this, unless you receive more threats or if there is anything more specific you can report. I suspect the main reason is they’re so overstretched.”

  Before this morning’s encounter with James Walsh on the Bankside walkway, I would have told McLeish about a tall man in a black coat following me but now that seems foolish.

  “If there are more threatening messages. I’ll report them straight away. But there’s nothing more I can tell the police at the moment.”

  McLeish opens wide his hands. “Then we have little choice but to accept what Ives is saying. But if you give me any good reason, I’ll get back to him.”

  I thank him and return to my desk.

  The thoughts I’ve just had about James Walsh convince me I should meet him. There should be enough time to travel out to the East End to interview Terry Grant.

  I phone Sophie to let her know I won’t be seeing her at the Tate today.

  Back in my own workspace, I check out Angela Smith’s desk. Her seat is empty. She must be at a meeting. It would be safe, then, to steal a little company time.

  I settle myself at my screen, with a mug of coffee at hand, and begin to search. The days of being dependent on paper based records are long gone. I should be able to verify the authenticity of my Birth Certificate online.

  I find The General Register Office site, the government online record of births, marriages and deaths, with ease. I enter the details from the Birth Certificate and take a deep breath.

  Jenny told me I’m not Emma Chamberlain. If the certificate is a fake, there will be no record of it here on line. If the document appears, I can prove Jenny was wrong.

  I pause. Why should I be so concerned about what a phantom in the night tells me? If, on reflection, she’s told me anything. Wasn’t this the consequence of the pressure of overwork that Sophie warned me about? Haven’t I just imagined Jenny’s words to test myself?

  But there is no going back. I click the button. There’s a long pause as the online database searches through the millions of records it holds. I continue to take deep breaths.

  Then, the screen changes and there is a message confirming a match. Emma Chamberlain, Born at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, August 10, 1991.

  Just as it says on my paper certificate.

  Do I want a pdf copy? I opt for yes. To proceed I need to register with the site and pay a small fee. That doesn’t matter. I’m overjoyed to have discovered that my worries are unfounded. When the pdf download is complete, I open and display it with a feeling of relief and pride.

  Another button appears on the screen. Would I like to search for more records on Emma Chamberlain? There is a link to a drop-down menu that I click on.

  I stare at the screen for a long time before choosing any of the options.

  Why would they be here? There must be some kind of glitch in the system, one of those dialogue boxes that become available even though selecting the options would lead nowhere.

  I don’t want to make a choice but I know I must.

  I click on the option that says death certificate and wait as the database search begins.

  I pull back in shock as my screen changes to show that a match has been found. Emma Chamberlain, deceased on 9th Novembe
r, 2007 at Reading. Reported by John Chamberlain, father. It states that Emma died by drowning. I request the pdf copy and wait once more as it’s downloaded.

  When I open it, there is no doubt. Emma Chamberlain died aged sixteen.

  Perhaps someone has hacked my computer and I’m now facing a cruel deception? But the site is a secure one. My link from the Herald offices is secure. What I’m looking at must be genuine.

  I can sense a vast void opening inside me, as if my whole being has somehow been compromised and all that now remains is this empty, nameless space.

  I return to the drop down menu and click on the link that says burial details. This leads to a site headed Burial and Death Records. Using the information from the death certificate, I’m able to call up more information. Emma was buried in Brompton Cemetery. The clergyman who officiated at her funeral is named as Raymond English. The plot number is O1563.

  My heart is beating at twice the rate it was just five minutes before. I place my hand over my mouth, fearing that at any moment I might scream.

  Whoever I am, I’m not Emma Chamberlain.

  Emma died.

  Jenny is right.

  I turn at the sound of someone approaching from behind. It’s Angela Smith, back from her meeting.

  I open a new window on the screen before Angela can catch sight of what I’m doing.

  “Just thought I’d come over to say hello.”

  I try to sound matter of fact but I suspect my words must convey my inner turmoil. “Excuse me, Angela. I have a deadline to meet.”

  “Adam Stanley?”

  “Yes, of course, Adam Stanley. Bill wants answers and I’m the one to provide them for him.”

  Angela walks away, pretending not to have been snooping.

  Inside I seethe with the anguish of what I’ve discovered.

  I try to stop the flood of emotions surging through my mind and body but the more I struggle to control it, the stronger it becomes

  There is an overriding feeling emerging from the turmoil. It’s not new. It’s one I’ve encountered often and convinced myself I can master.

  The feeling is that of guilt.

  It’s my fault. Things I must have done. Things I should have done but have failed to do. People I must have deceived in pretending to be something I am not.

  I’m about to cry.

  This is no time to remain here.

  I close down the computer, pick up my coat and bag and leave the office without saying a word.

  As I walk away I have time to notice Angela Smith watching my every move.

  CHAPTER 19

  The lunchtime gathering at Glenridge House is in full swing. Eight couples sitting round a long table while hired help from what looks like one of those posh catering companies serves food and drink.

  From his vantage point behind the summerhouse in the spacious garden, Evan Cargill fine-tunes the focus of his binoculars.

  There he is. William Bishop. Magistrate. Upstanding pillar of the community. Entertaining his well-heeled guests.

  The woman at the other end of the table must be Eliane, his beautiful French wife. How little she suspects about the sick excuse for a husband she’s chosen.

  Bishop looks to be suspecting nothing at this point but this window of opportunity won’t last long. The trick is to find a way of getting Bishop to leave the excellent company he’s enjoying and come outside.

  Cargill keeps the binoculars focused on his man as he calls him from his mobile phone.

  He can see Bishop twitch as the phone vibrates in the man’s pocket. Then, talking to the woman in the red dress sitting opposite, ignoring the call.

  The message comes back: The number you are trying to reach is not available.

  Cargill calls again. Through the lenses, he observes the look of irritation on Bishop’s face as his phone alerts him again. He turns his head to address his guests and begin speaking.

  He must be apologizing, saying he has to take the call.

  Cargill steadies himself as Bishop stands, leaves the table and goes out of sight. This is a good sign. He must be somewhere out of earshot of the others.

  It’s time to get into character. As Mikey Spence, a schoolboy from Harlow, Cargill has been in regular contact with Bishop through their favorite chat room. They’ve long discussed how they might meet one day soon. In fact, their plans have gone much further and, Cargill is sure, his man, calling himself John, is in a high state of expectancy that their meeting is imminent.

  Here is Bishop. “Yes?”

  Cargill ups his voice into a passable falsetto. “John, it’s Mikey.”

  There is a long pause. “How did you obtain this number?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m here. Outside. In the garden. I want to meet, now.”

  “That’s not possible. I have people here. Maybe later tonight.”

  “I won’t be able to get away then. My parents will wonder where I am.”

  “Well, Mikey, I can’t see you now. You know you mean a lot to me and I want to meet as much as you do. But it will have to be another day.”

  Cargill allows his voice to drop to its normal register. “Well, Mr. Bishop. Come outside so we can talk or the first thing that’s going to happen is I’ll be in there, telling your fine friends just what you’ve been planning with my son.”

  “You’re his father?”

  “Yes. And, after I’ve told your wife what you’ve been up to, I’ll call the police.”

  “You want money?”

  “Come out and talk. I’m by the summerhouse.”

  Cargill closes the line and waits.

  Here he is, making his way down the gravel path.

  As he comes up close and sees Cargill for the first time, there is a moment when he looks as if he’s about to stand and argue. But the simple sight of Cargill, the bulk of the man, is enough to make him want to turn and run.

  Cargill draws out the knife and pounces. He takes the man’s legs from under him with a deft sweep of his right leg. Once on the ground, Bishop is easy meat. He has time for only a whimpered shout as the blade pierces his back and Cargill pulls up hard so the serrated edge does its damage.

  Cargill turns the man over as the sun highlights the agony in his victim’s eyes. He draws out the blade and slits the man’s throat from ear to ear. He takes a moment to marvel at the satisfying gush of blood that streams out over the man’s white dress shirt. Reaching into his victim’s trouser pocket, he removes the phone. A wise precaution.

  Then, the final act. He tears open the shirt to expose the man’s chest and cuts two deep grooves in the flesh between the nipples.

  Everyone will come to know why he is here.

  CHAPTER 20

  Fine Line Taxis trades from a run down row of shops on the Commercial Road, not far from the Troxy. Being this close to Canary Wharf, the whole area is ripe for redevelopment. Neat, well-appointed apartments, with the attendant middle class offshoots of barista coffee places and supermarket seven-elevens, are springing up everywhere as the banking wealth created at the Wharf spreads out, eating up what remains of the East End of old.

  Except here.

  The owner of the taxi business, Hamid Sherif, refuses to move on, whether through plain stubbornness at the advent of progress or because he’s waiting on a higher price, no one is sure. Those who gamble on the expected gains from the gentrification of this part of the Commercial Road must be sticking pins in Hamid’s effigy. Yet the run down terrace remains, a reminder of the depression and decay that has been the signature of the area for years.

  I’m trying to control the switchback emotions coursing through me as a result of the discovery I made in the Herald offices. I walked up and down along Bankside for over an hour, struggling to make sense of something that made no sense. All the while telling myself there must be a simple explanation, some honest enough mistake, yet failing to discover what that might be. The only answer I find is that I should try to put this to one side and continue as best
I can with what I’m being asked to do by McLeish. So, here I am, seeking out the contact that Margaret Hyslop gave me.

  I push at the distressed front door and force my way into the Fine Line office. It’s Sherif himself who looks up from the battered desk at the rear. I know this since, in a show of unintended irony, a framed photograph of the man in presidential pose adorns the wall above him.

  He waves a hand to shoo me away. “There’s nothing for the next hour, maybe two.”

  I stand my ground. “I’m not here for a taxi.”

  Sherif turns his eyes towards the door.

  “I need to speak to Terry Grant.”

  “He’s out on a job.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  Sherif shakes his head. “If this isn’t to do with taxis, it’s no business of mine. Just leave.”

  “I only need a word.”

  “You heard what I said.”

  I’m pleased I’ve done my homework on Fine Line before leaving the office. Here is a man with an interest in money.

  I open my bag and pull out a twenty. “Call him in. I just want a few moments of his time.”

  Sherif doesn’t move.

  I pull out another twenty. “My last offer.”

  He holds out his hand and he smiles as I place the notes on his palm. “Take a seat, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I don’t have to wait long. Grant must be idling somewhere nearby. He’s a large man with tattoos down both forearms and on the side of his neck.

  “You wanted me, boss?”

  Sherif gestures in Emma’s direction. “Lady wants a word.”

  Grant looks me over with leering eyes and a smile that makes me shudder.

  I stand to face him. “I’ve got a message from Margaret Hyslop.”

  Grant’s expression changes to one of just-concealed anger. “So?”

  I glance towards Sherif. “So, let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

  I accompany Grant to the café across the street. We are the only customers. No one to overhear us.