Lies We Tell

by Niki Mackay

Genres: Crime Fiction; Mystery

Synopsis

Madison Attallee, ex-police officer turned Private Investigator, returns to solve a missing-daughter case that is not as it might seem . . .

Miriam Jackson is a famous radio presenter. Married to a successful film director, she has created the perfect life for herself.

Then her daughter goes missing.

Miriam is desperate to find her before her husband finds out and her perfect life crumbles around her. So she calls the only person who can help: Private Investigator Madison Attallee, who has just solved the biggest case of her career.

Can Madison find Miriam's daughter? And will Miriam share the truth about her past?

(p) Orion Publishing Group Ltd 2019

Release date: March 7, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

 

Prologue

1994

Everything is blurred. It is as if the world is uneven around the edges. When I try to stand, my legs are wobbly and I fall back down again, laughing to myself as I go. Ben hands me a thin joint and I inhale deeply, feeling it all over. I look at him, he looks even more wonderful than usual. I mumble, ‘I love you,’ and he says it back, squeezing me gently. I am too overwhelmed to dance. I settle for watching everyone else instead. They all look so beautiful. When Ben leans down and tells me he’s going to get us water, I just nod.

Happy, unconcerned, high.

I don’t know how much time passes, but he seems to have been gone for ages and I’m beginning to feel unsettled now. Anxious and jittery instead of buzzing and free. The music has changed from bouncy house to a darker, more frantic gabba tune. A distorted voice yells ‘this is hell’, and the strobe changes into heavily pulsating red and black.

I start to feel sick. I have another go at standing.

I lean against the wall for support, slipping and sliding. My heart is racing. He shouldn’t have left me for so long. Underneath the drugs I feel annoyed. I get out into the designated ‘chill-out zone’ where a long chrome bar glistens and sparkles. My eyes get stuck seeing waves, seeing diamonds. I have to stop again, transfixed. I work on finding my balance, finding my feet – at least here the music is less hectic. The lights twinkle. Fat stars, beautiful and bright. My heart soars again. The dark corners and sharp edges of life recede for now. Held back for another time. I can feel my blood pumping. I take a deep breath in.

People are sitting huddled in groups at tables and in small circles on the floor. They are smoking spliffs and fags, drinking beer and champagne. I’m okay. I feel myself calming down.

Darren runs past, heading into the main arena and I grab his arm. ‘Seen Ben?’ my voice sounds funny, like it’s bouncing off the walls and hurtling back towards me. A force with a physical presence. Then I wonder if I’ve spoken at all. Darren hasn’t responded, he’s looking over my shoulder. I try again, shouting louder. He frowns, shakes his head and shrugs, before racing off.

My heart picks up pace. Everyone looks less benevolent, a swarming mass of strangers. I stand still, take a few deep breaths and wander around trying to avoid bumping into people. Finally, I can make out the silhouette of his hair, shoulder length and curly, behind misty white glass. I feel a ball of excitement starting in my belly, working down. Ben.

I’ve found him. The relief is so palpable it fizzes up within me, forcing a laugh. Joy bursting out. I swing the door open, ready to throw myself into his arms, but he looks up at me, pale faced and ghastly. I’m still smiling until I look down. I see that he’s holding Ruby in his arms and something is happening to her. Her limbs are moving, spasmodic and wrong. There is foam coming out of her mouth. I sober up quickly, shock slapping me hard, and I drop to my knees. I grab at her but it does nothing. Then I’m screaming at Ben to get help. Get help. But by the time the ambulance arrives it’s too late. Everything is too late.

 

1.

Miriam Jackson

Now

I finish up at the station. There is a flurry of activity as I try and escape; the phone rings, emails ping in that need attention.

The door is finally in sight when my assistant, Anna, stops me, a big smile on her face. She’s telling me about a new bar she’s headed to tonight and follows me out to my car, nattering away. She lets out a low whistle and I frown at her, then she adds, ‘Look at those shoes.’ On the passenger seat of my car. Sparkly Jimmy Choos. Shoes that say, ‘Fuck me.’ I blush and mutter something about meeting a friend for drinks. ‘What friend?’ she asks, and I feel unreasonably annoyed, and shrug.

‘You don’t know them.’

She nods and says, ‘Nick’s in the States?’

‘Yup.’ I’m actually getting into my car now and still she goes on.

‘No Tabs tonight?’

‘She’s having a sleepover at Delia’s.’

She looks like she might speak again, so I slide myself in and buckle up, blowing a kiss, yelling, ‘Bye, darling.’ And I’m gone.

She can talk for England, Anna. She’s a lovely girl and normally I’m partial to a little natter. But not tonight – tonight I’m in a rush.

A million thoughts press into my mind. Little wispy fragments that contradict each other. Questions, warnings. Unformed things I can’t quite catch that I choose to ignore. The satnav tells me to take the next left and I’m startled by the voice. Then I laugh at myself. It’s a machine. It doesn’t know where I’m going. Or why.

A small inner voice says, ‘Neither do you.’

I shush it – putting a lid on my guilt – and I’m there quicker than I thought I’d be.

I sit for a moment in my car. The shoes, sparkly and too high, glare at me from the passenger side. I have on the carefully chosen black dress that I wore to work. Plain and reasonable, but under it I’m all silk and lace.

I kick off my courts and slide on the heels, heart pounding, hands slightly damp. Nick bought me these shoes. For some reason I’d forgotten that. They were a gift from a beautiful store in LA. They cost more than I made in a month at the time. We’d been strolling through Beverley Hills on one of his rare breaks from filming, hand in hand. It was my first visit to America and I’d been star-struck for the entire trip. Gobsmacked at the hotel, the restaurants, the people. At him, and his ease within it.

Everywhere we went everyone knew him and they were keen to have his time. Phones didn’t have cameras then, but some of the people did, and he’d stopped and smiled for photos. The man behind the camera, not the one in front. But to film buffs he was every bit as recognisable.

There had been lots of women. They knew who he was. Desperate blondes with suspiciously high breasts and hungry eyes. ‘Nick,’ they’d said, ‘Nick Jackson.’ Women at parties, women waiting tables, the concierge in the bloody hotel. ‘I’m an actress, a model . . . a huge fan of your work.’

And I’d sulked. He’d laughed at me for it, taken me in his arms, squeezed me tight. He’d said he only had eyes for me, he only ever would. He’d bought me these shoes to cheer me up. I’d only had to glance at them through the window. Silly shoes, ones I could never have walked in. No one could. I’d worn them to dinner that night and then never again. They were shoes for standing still in. Or for getting all messed up in. They made my legs look never-ending and my arse look amazing. They still do. I checked in the mirror just this morning.

I’d believed him, that he only had eyes for me. And here we are almost twenty years later, and he’s been as loyal as he promised. But still I’d pouted because it was a hard thing to have a man like him. A catch, my mother said with awe. And he was. He is.

Yet I am here. I blink. Once. Twice. Send me a sign, I tell the universe. If I ought to just turn around and go, send me a sign.

The door I’m parked in front of swings open. The light makes him just a silhouette. I watch as he steps forward. Now I see him, and our eyes meet. I am a teenager again, full of possibility and things I am yet to become.

I feel an ache between my legs. A shaking. I could still leave. The key is in the ignition.

He is watching. His gaze is still on me. Intense dark eyes. His face has changed, not much, but enough. I noticed it last week. When it was just coffee, nothing I needed to worry about. It still could be. His hair is slightly greying at the temples and not as long. But those eyes are just the same.

I step out of the car onto my ridiculous, glittery stilts and I walk to the door. He pulls me in, too quickly for me to register it or think.

The door shuts behind me and I turn around to say hi, but his lips are hard against mine before I have time. He presses me to the wall and the kisses become deeper, desperate. Mine match his. Everything mingles. Me, him, time. I think fleetingly about my careful plan, to unzip the dress and let it pool by my feet. To step out delicately, at just the right angle for the big reveal. I feel a moment’s sadness that I won’t get to, and then I don’t think at all.

 

2.

Madison Attallee

It’s yet another manic day at the office. After the Reynolds case last year we have been inundated. When Kate Reynolds asked me to clear her name I never thought it would happen. I was pretty certain she’d killed her best friend, though I didn’t think she was mentally culpable. Turned out to be a lot more complicated, and I’m pleased to say she’s free as a bird and has now received a full pardon. Thanks to me, and my assistant, Emma, of course.

We still get the old bread-and-butter spouse-cheating gigs, and that has recently extended to parents spying on teenagers. Another dubious line which I tread carefully. But, alongside this stuff, we finally have some more-meaty work. I’ve even been asked to consult on a few cases at the station. I suspect my old colleagues there all thought, as I did, that MA Investigations would be a disaster. Yet here we are, thriving.

Claudia has become a permanent member of our little team and it seems to have done her the world of good – and us. Initially she was going to temp for us after I tied up the case, one that led to her now ex-husband – Kate’s brother – being convicted of perverting the course of justice, and Claudia’s separation from him. She was meant to be here just long enough to get herself and her young daughter back on their feet. Not an easy thing to do after years of domestic violence. To say she has blossomed is an understatement. She has a law degree, a sharp mind and a way with people that I’ll never have.

She’s sitting in the outer office at her new desk next to my assistant, Emma. Both of them are tapping away at their keyboards and talking quietly. I tell them I’m nipping out on a pastry run and I walk over to Starbucks. It’s not a boss’s generosity so much as a way to pack in some nicotine. Both of them are nagging at me to quit. It’s my own fault for announcing the date it was going to happen. That bloody date came around way too fast.

My phone rings. It’s Peter. My heart jumps a little and I think – not for the first time – how ridiculous this is. I’ve known Peter my whole life, but us being a proper ‘us’ is all new. He’s taken to calling me every day. Since I’m now queuing, I ignore it.

When I get back, Emma is still typing furiously and Claudia is filing. The radio is on. A talk show, currently discussing stay-at-home mums vs working mums. Claudia fires off that it’s good for parents to have a life, Emma makes an agreeable muttering sound. I hand out pastries then head into my office and turn the radio on in here. I missed my daughter Molly’s early years by immersing myself in work and she’ll be twelve soon. I still don’t know if there would have been any other way for me to have survived them, so I can’t say I regret it. However, now that our time is limited I do wish I hadn’t been quite so absent. My head slips into the dangerous territory of hindsight and I manoeuvre it away.

I listen to the radio over the next hour while I catch up on emails. It’s distracting enough to keep my noisy fears away. Fears of failing, of not being good enough. I came closer to death than I care to think about just three short years ago, but I’m on the up again now. I cling to that thought and listen to the show. The presenter is very good. Miriam Jackson, she’s a Kingston resident and it’s a local station, so most of the town tunes in. I often catch her now as the girls tend to have it on in the office – Claudia likes to keep up an almost constant stream of chatter back to whoever is talking.

There is a clear divide in the callers today. Between the mums who work and the mums who don’t. There are no calls from men, as though child rearing is none of their concern. Not for the first time I wonder if the world might be better for the sisterhood if we could just agree that we’re not all the same. It ends with a particularly irate caller shouting about a study showing how children with working mums grow up to be almost criminally insane. I switch it off.

The day passes in companionable work mode. No dramas, and by the time five o’ clock rolls around, I’m surprised and glad it’s Friday. I’m looking forward to the weekend. After the others leave I stay behind for a while. I always do. I read through the day’s news. I like to keep up to date with what’s going on in the neighbourhood, not least to see if there’s work I can poach.

The last ‘job’ the force gave me was surveillance. There had been a spate of burglaries in the local area. I spent five nights in a row prowling Kingston Hill until I literally caught the culprit red-handed. As Peter is always telling me, his team are stretched to the limit and while the budget isn’t always there for overtime it often is for ‘consultants’. It’s probably not right, but it sure as hell suits me. Burglaries are one of those crimes people seem to see as almost victimless. Usually no one gets physically hurt, the occupants are out. But once you’ve sat with someone whose home has been violated, you get that it’s far from victimless. The fear it engenders is real. Everyone needs somewhere safe.

I finish looking over the headlines, most of it shite.

I call Peter.

‘Madison.’

‘You rang?’

He laughs. I frown into the hand set. He says, ‘Always nice to hear from you too.’ Boyfriend. I suppose Peter is my boyfriend now, which seems ridiculous and comforting all at once.

I find a smile twitching at the corners of my mouth despite myself. But I still snap, ‘I can’t see you tonight. I already said.’

He laughs again, ‘Yes, I know that. I was calling to say have a lovely weekend and I’m looking forward to seeing you Monday evening.’

He’s working Saturday and Sunday. Peter is a DI of the good variety, in that he often shows up for weekend shifts. It’s generally the busiest time for the force but plenty of higher up officers ditch out, staying ‘in contact’ by phone or email. Having time off, effectively. It makes officers on the beat resentful since it’s one of the downsides of the job. Peter’s not like that, he’s a good guy. He’s always been a good guy; in the twenty-odd years I’ve known him I’ve not met a better one. I soften my voice and say, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you too.’

He says, ‘If Sunday’s not too hectic I’ll pop in and say hi to you guys.’ It’s my weekend with my daughter, Molly. Thankfully she and Peter get on well, and she’ll no doubt ask after him. I say, ‘Okay, that would be nice.’

He says goodbye and I pack up for the evening.

I get in the car and turn up Metallica full blast. I arrive at the shitty church hall room ten minutes later. I make polite chit-chat with people that I’ve come to know and who have come to know me. Martin walks up and asks how giving up smoking is going. I scowl at him and the fucker laughs. Jane comes over and hugs me, despite the fact that I hate being touched and make my feelings pretty obvious. I feel myself stiffen as her arms encircle me. She squeezes before she lets go.

‘You’re looking well.’

I nod, still scowling, thinking a fourth fag on the way home probably would be nice. I’ll start a fresh again tomorrow. That can be day one. I feel an overwhelming relief when proceedings begin. We go around the room and introduce ourselves and I feel my shoulders drop slightly as I hear myself say, ‘Hi. My name’s Madison and I’m an alcoholic.’

 

3.

Miriam Jackson

Ben watches everything I do. I have often wondered over the years whether I’d fabricated that, making our romance into something more than it was. His devotion somehow greater. But it turns out I hadn’t.

I’ve never erased him entirely from my mind or my heart, and occasionally I’ve wondered . . . what if? What if I’d gone looking for him then? What if I was his wife instead of Nick’s? I feel terrible even playing with the thought, but it would be a lie to say I don’t think it. That I haven’t thought about it on and off for many years. I have a great life, a better than average life. One that has taken commitment and dedication on my part. I am grateful, I am. But that little niggle has always been there in the background. That maybe something’s missing. That I might have been a different person had I made different choices. It’s what enabled me to say ‘yes’ to coffee when my path crossed Ben’s two weeks ago. What made me turn up here last night. What is holding the guilt at bay – for now – and keeping thoughts of my husband and my daughter squashed.

What if this is who I was supposed to be all along?

He sits on a long, white sofa and pats at me to sit next to him. I do, still half in and half out of my dress. He pours a large glass of red wine from a bottle on the table and hands it to me. I take a sip. It’s nice, expensive. Looking around his place I realise it must have cost a fortune, that Ben must be worth a pretty penny now.

A far cry from the boy from the council estate. He always said he was going places. He used to sell drugs, I know that. He always had bundles of cash wrapped in thick red elastic bands. I’d loved it, the excitement, the danger. Sticking two fingers up at my dad, not that he cared. I’m not certain what he does now. He’d said ‘events’ when I’d asked. They must be pretty large scale for all this. It doesn’t matter. There’s no point over-thinking any of this. I don’t even know what this is – this new ‘us’ – and I don’t know whether honesty is part of the deal. I can’t think straight. Certainly not while I’m here.

He runs his fingers over my shoulder, making gentle circles, then he takes the glass from my hand and sips. He says, ‘I’ll run us a bath,’ as I say, ‘I should probably get home.’

‘Why?’

‘Well . . .’ I actually don’t need to rush. Tabitha is sleeping over at Delia’s, Nick is away as usual. But staying the night here seems somehow worse than having sex with him. He leans down and whispers close to my ear, ‘Let me indulge you, just a little while longer.’ And the thought of my empty house, just me and my guilt for company, feels like something I’m willing to put off.

I find I am self-conscious taking my clothes off in front of him. Ridiculous after what we’ve just done but I’m suddenly aware that the last time he saw me naked I was a teenager. Everything was in the right place and free of cellulite. He sees me trying to pull my dress off slowly, hidden. He frowns and says, ‘Stop.’ Then he unzips, unfastens, and peels everything away. He runs a hand up the side of my, now bare, body and says, ‘You’re as magnificent as I remember you to be.’ And I suddenly feel emotional, which is ridiculous, isn’t it?

Nick isn’t a physical man. He’s romantic in his own way, and he takes great care of me and Tabitha. But his eyes have never lingered like Ben’s are now. Sex with Nick is infrequent – we barely see each other for starters, and the attention is normally on me, so I shouldn’t complain, of course I shouldn’t. But it’s so good to feel the power of Ben’s want. Nick is a focused, driven man, and compared to many of his peers, who are like demented rutting monkeys, he’s an absolute sweetheart. Which just makes this worse.

I try and push the thoughts away as I sink into the deep tub. Ben has lit candles and brought the wine through. He slides in behind me, his hand rubbing my shoulders again. I lean back and forget about Nick.

 

I wake with a start. For a moment I have no idea where I am. The room is bare, white. Long curtains blow gently at a slightly open window. Not home. I roll over and my breath catches a little in my throat. For a moment I just stare at him. I am fifteen again, that whirling churn of emotions. I am worn down by my mum, missing my dad, but none of it matters because I’m lying here next to him.

He smells the same. Funny the things you don’t forget. Though I’ve spent many hours reliving moments with Ben, I had never thought it likely that I would be here again.

My parents divorced when I was ten. No one would say it, but my dad had had an affair. With Wendy. My mother was devastated and sank into a deep depression, which terrified me. Initially I went to his house every other weekend. He paid maintenance on time with no complaints, and expensive school fees, but my mum – who already struggled with what I would later learn was depression – never got over it. Our house was dulled after he left in so many ways. All of her sadness, all of her need, was spilled onto me, and a child is no substitute for a partner.

When I was twelve Dad and Wendy decided to sell up and move to Spain. Even now I’ve not truly forgiven him. For leaving me, not once, but twice. For letting my mother down, for making her sadder and less than I’d thought she was. For leaving me to try and heal her. It was an overnight lesson that grown-ups were not infallible, that they could not be expected to cope but that I somehow had to.

To my dad I felt I became something to be paid for and inconveniently slotted in to his new life at designated, pre-arranged times. I was a leftover link to my mum, a woman who could suck you dry with her need. Her silent, teary recriminations. Even before he went to Spain, he never rang, he never came to a parents’ evening.

I didn’t stop loving him though, but I wished I had. I couldn’t get over it, even if Mum bitterly said it was all for the best, fooling no one, least of all herself. He didn’t seem to be the one who deserved happiness. I’d always thought he should have ended up miserable and alone. Punishment.

For the affair.

I feel tears tickling the back of my eyelids as the irony of who I’ve become hits me. I slide out of the bed and walk slowly through to the bathroom. My clothes are piled next to the tub and are slightly damp to touch. I put them on anyway. Splashing water on my face first, I look in the mirror and am surprised to see that I look the same.

I don’t know what I expected. Horns and a forked tail? I wonder if this is how Dad felt after the first time. I wonder if it gets any easier.

I head downstairs and check my handbag. My phone. A message from Nick sent at about three a.m.:

I’m sure you’re asleep, darling. Sorry I haven’t managed to contact you sooner. It’s been manic here. Thinking of you. Speak this afternoon. Your time.

That’s today. Saturday. My stomach churns a little bit. It’s nine a.m. That’s late for me, ordinarily I don’t sleep much past five. On the three days a week I’m on air, I have to be at the station by half seven, so I start early. When I’m not on air I still have things to do. I don’t work weekends. I haven’t since we had Tabs and I’m firm on it, even though the station pushed for me to keep my Saturday show. I’d been proud of the decision too. That my daughter came first. But since she hit thirteen she’s been around less and less, and with Nick almost nearly always somewhere else, I’ve wondered if I ought to take up the show again. Especially since I know Anna is jostling for my position.

‘Hey.’ I almost jump. I hadn’t heard him come downstairs. I smile at Ben, though I find I can’t quite meet his eye. He’s naked and stretches up, yawning. I try not to look. Suddenly embarrassed.

I look at my shoes instead, sitting on the floor, the light catching the glitter, and I feel a swell of self-hatred.

I pick them up, sling my bag over my shoulder. As I go to walk past Ben, he wraps me in his arms. I can smell his smell again. Familiar and nostalgic, lemony and fresh. I am suddenly aware of myself. Sweaty, damp, the smell of sex underneath it. I slept but fitfully, as though my . . .