Only the Truth Read online

  Walking back towards the campsite, I start to feel more positive. It’s almost as if the shopping bags have provided the ultimate disguise. I look just like any other holidaymaker or local walking through the streets. The most normal bloke in the world.

  It’s allowing me to think more clearly, too. Emotion has started to subside a little, and I can feel myself thinking logically and sensibly. I’m starting to be able to put my anger behind me somewhat and focus on the facts.

  Firstly, Lisa came to the hotel in Herne Bay for a reason. It can’t have been off her own steam, either, as she didn’t know where I was staying. Sure, if she’d hacked into my laptop and found the email confirmation it might have been possible, but my passwords are pretty strong and Lisa didn’t know a laptop from a rucksack. Someone else must have lured her there. The killer.

  That person needed a good reason to get Lisa to come all the way over to Herne Bay from East Grinstead. A really good reason, too. They also needed to be able to get into my room and send text messages from my phone. It’s that last bit that I can’t quite fathom. How would someone manage to get into my mobile phone when they would’ve needed to know my passcode? It’s not even something someone could guess, either. It’s 7297 – I chose it because it makes a triangle shape when you type it in.

  Getting into the hotel room without breaking in sounds difficult, but there were a fair few people staying in that hotel and I’m pretty sure each key card must open more than one door. Anyway, aren’t they all just magnetic sensors or RFID chips or something? I’m fairly certain someone could’ve used some sort of gadget, battery or device to fool the doors into opening. That’s one of the downsides of computer technology – it’s never as safe as a big brass bolt.

  Or, of course, there’s always the chance that the killer could’ve got a spare key card from the reception desk.

  The reception desk where Jess worked.

  The people who worked on reception would’ve had access to my room.

  Jess would’ve had access.

  29

  Daniel’s life had changed irrevocably over the past few years. It had initially been difficult for him to come to terms with the feeling of belonging. He’d always felt like he had an identity at Pendleton House, but he’d quickly come to realise that the identity he had there was the same as all the other boys’. His identity had been that he had no identity. Now, though, he was a son. He had parents.

  Mrs Cooper was a strange sort, always fussing around and seemingly desperate to make sure Daniel was happy at all times. She was constantly asking him if he was okay, asking him if he wanted to go somewhere for the day, giving him sweets and cakes. Mr Cooper, on the other hand, would just sit and look at him while Daniel watched TV in the evenings. Daniel could see him out of the corner of his eye, just looking at him and smiling. He could tell Mr Cooper was happy, though, so he didn’t ever let on that he could see him watching him.

  He knew Mr and Mrs Cooper weren’t his real parents, but that didn’t matter. They were the only people in his entire life who had actually wanted him. His birth parents had rejected him from the start, and he’d always felt like he was an imposition on the nuns, as though they were resentful of having to look after him.

  Those days at Pendleton House seemed like an age ago, as if they were happening to someone else and Daniel was watching the memories like a film. Small things like being at school occasionally reminded him – the formal, stilted nature of a class of children obediently listening to every word the adult said. Sometimes it ran shivers down his spine. But school had its own perks, too. School had Roseanne. But today, things were changing yet again.

  He should have realised something was wrong when Roseanne refused to meet his eye when he said hello to her that morning. She’d tried to slink through the school gates unnoticed, but Daniel always noticed her. It was as if she carried a permanent glow, an aura which made her stand out a mile off and made everything else seem insignificant.

  She’d seemed genuinely impressed with the roses the day before. A dozen bright-red flowers picked specifically by him, for her, for Valentine’s Day. It was the first time he’d ever done something like that – the first big romantic gesture of his fourteen years. He’d fancied many girls over the past few years, more and more as time went on, but Roseanne Barker was the first one he really wanted. The one he could see a future with. The one that was worth going the extra mile for.

  Her friends had giggled and tittered as he said hello at the gates that morning. He presumed she was just shy, that she didn’t know how to approach the situation. That was understandable. It was a big thing.

  That morning, he had double chemistry. It was a subject he usually quite enjoyed, as it had that wonderful mix of set rules and logic as well as a smattering of pure magic, watching substances change their states and come together to form something with completely different properties to its constituent parts. Daniel thought he might like to be a chemist one day, but he knew that he lacked the academic ability to do it. Besides which, he knew he’d get bored of it eventually. He got bored of everything eventually.

  Today, though, the chemistry lesson dragged on interminably, the clock seeming to slow down with every minute, every second. The whole of time seemed to slow. All he wanted was to reach morning break and see Roseanne again, to speak to her and make her feel comfortable. She didn’t need to feel embarrassed in front of him. He’d make her feel happy.

  After what seemed like an age, at eleven o’clock the morning break bell rang and Daniel gathered his things and made his way out to the courtyard. Roseanne and her friends were already waiting near the languages block, and Daniel caught her eye as he left the science building. Within a split second, he saw the look of shock on her face before she looked away, diverting her gaze down towards the floor.

  ‘Oh look, it’s Casanova!’ one of her friends called, Daniel not noticing which one as he was still trying to catch the eye of Roseanne. She clearly had no intention of looking at him, though. ‘What you got in your bag today, Daniel? An Italian violinist?’

  ‘Make a speech! Get down on one knee!’ another one of the girls called. Daniel could see Roseanne’s face going bright red at around the same time he felt the blood rushing to his own features, pulsing in his ears.

  She’d told them. She’d told her friends. And it hadn’t been in a good way, either.

  ‘Roseanne?’ he called, trying to catch her attention as he walked closer to her. At the sound of her name, she looked up, gazing at him like a policeman on one of those television programmes who’d come to deliver bad news.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daniel.’

  He didn’t go to any of his lessons that afternoon. He sat on the bench at the edge of the sports pitches, his toes turning numb in the cold, the blood pulsing through his veins keeping everything else warm. The adrenaline hadn’t left him since morning break, and he could feel himself getting angrier and more humiliated by the minute. The more he thought about what had happened, the worse it got.

  The bells continued to ring between lessons, but they all blurred into one in Daniel’s mind. Between morning break and lunch, a couple of teachers had come up to him to check that he was alright. He’d nodded, and they’d gone on their way. The teachers at the school all knew Daniel’s history, that he had been adopted, even if it had been hidden from the other children at the school. Right now, though, he felt like he wanted to tell all of them – let every kid in the school know that his parents weren’t his real parents. He was sure that the shame and humiliation he’d feel from that could never be as bad as what he felt now.

  ‘Daniel?’ called the voice from his right-hand side, getting closer to him. He turned his head. It was Mr MacArthur, his head of year. ‘Daniel, the bell’s gone for the end of the day. Are you okay getting home or would you like me to call your parents to collect you?’

  Daniel shook his head and stood up, his knees creaking as his cold legs struggled to fight back to life.

  H
e walked slowly towards the school gate, skulking behind groups of older lads, hoping to blend in and make his way home without further humiliation. He was doing well, too, until he came to walk through the recreation ground that provided his route home from school. Sat on the wall next to the cricket pavilion was Craig Power, a year-eleven boy who had a reputation as one of the toughest kids in the school. Unlike many of his less fortunate compadres, Daniel had managed to avoid Craig Power’s sights since he’d been at Stanbrook Upper School. Had Craig known about Daniel’s parentage, no doubt that would have changed very quickly.

  But it wasn’t the sight of Craig Power that left Daniel’s heart lurching and his legs carrying him as quickly as possible in the opposite direction. It was the girl in his arms.

  30

  I walk quicker now, heading back towards the campsite whilst trying to process the thoughts in my mind. To think you know everything, to feel like you understand someone, and then to have that all ripped away from you in one horrible moment of realisation – that’s the worst feeling in the world. It’s not the first time I’ve been led or destroyed by a vindictive woman, but I sure as hell know it’s going to be the last.

  I can’t quite get my head around what it means. But the problem is it all makes sense. Jess would’ve been able to get into my room with very little difficulty. After all, she worked at the hotel and could’ve easily got a spare key or used a staff key to get access to all sorts of areas. Could she have sent the text message? I suppose so. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was some sort of secret computer hacker. Nothing would surprise me about her.

  But killing someone? I suppose she’d need to have taken Lisa by surprise. Then it’d be possible. I can’t imagine Lisa taking any prisoners if she was being attacked, but then again I reckon Jess could put up a pretty good fight for such a slim, petite girl.

  It would also explain why she didn’t need to see the body when I told her what had happened. She would have already known damn well that Lisa was dead. Because she killed her.

  It explains, too, why she was so keen to go on the run with me and to know I was innocent. She knew I was innocent because she’d done it. And who would want to go on the run more than the actual killer?

  Plus, she would’ve known how to either avoid the CCTV cameras or disable them for a few minutes. She’d know the way everything worked at that place. She was in complete control of the whole situation and she’s played it to perfection. And what now? Does she intend to kill me as well? If so, why hasn’t she done so before now?

  I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I suddenly start to realise how everything falls into place. Yes. It’s all starting to make perfect sense now. The only thing I don’t understand is why. Jess has never met Lisa. Not as far as I know, anyway. How would a hotel receptionist from Herne Bay possibly know my wife? I’ve never been to Herne Bay before, and neither has Lisa. So why would she want to kill her? So she could have me? No. Not a chance. She told me enough times herself that she wasn’t a relationship sort of person. She was happy to have the fun while it was there, but that was it. She doesn’t get emotionally attached. And I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was telling the truth. She’s purely a have-fun-and-fuck-off kind of woman. So that’s that theory blown out of the water.

  But it still doesn’t explain why.

  Right now, I don’t need to know why. I can find out from her. I need answers, and I’m going to demand that those answers come from her. I know I need to tread carefully here, though. If she can kill a grown woman, she’d have a good old go at me, too. Particularly if she’s been planning this for a while. She might be lying in wait for me, ready to bash me round the head with a cricket bat when I walk through the door. I doubt it, but I know I need to be careful now. Too careful, though, and I could arouse suspicion. I can’t go pussyfooting around and making it obvious that I know she’s a cold-blooded killer. Jess might be many things, but she’s not stupid.

  I think it’s a suspicion that has been in the back of my mind for a while, now I think about it. Something’s been not quite right about her from the start. And what surprises me the most is that I seem to have this instinctive knowledge of how to handle the situation. Maybe it’s the male instinct to fight for your life and protect what you love and cherish. Or perhaps I’ve just been watching too many films.

  I feel my heart start to beat in my chest as I get closer to the campsite. My legs feel like jelly as I walk through the main gate, and I have to tell myself to stop being so silly. I need to stay calm. Stay vigilant but don’t let her suspect a thing. Thinking about it logically, I’m fairly sure she doesn’t want to kill me. She would’ve done so by now, otherwise. She’s had plenty of opportunities. She killed the dog, though, I tell myself. That should’ve been a sign in itself.

  As I get closer to the caravan, I notice the door is ajar. Not by much – it’s closed, but not shut. I swallow heavily and step carefully towards it, pulling it open with my finger as I peer inside, half expecting to see that cricket bat swinging towards my head.

  ‘Jess?’ I call out, pleasantly surprised at how confident my voice sounds.

  I make my way up the three steps into the caravan and look to my right, towards the bedroom. The door’s closed, but it’s then that I notice the broken plate on the floor. It looks like it’s been swiped from the work surface and landed here.

  I look into the dining area and see Jess lying on the floor, her face and arms covered in cuts and bruises, the blood having trickled down her face and onto the floor. She’s not moving.

  My first instinct is to check whether or not she’s still alive. She doesn’t look it to me. I throw myself to my knees amongst the broken glass and crockery and start to shake her.

  ‘Jess? Jess, answer me!’

  I put the side of my face to her nostrils.

  I can’t feel her breathing. There’s nothing at all.

  I take her arm in my hand and feel for the pulse on her wrist. She’s still warm. I count two seconds. Three. Five. Ten.

  It’s no use. There’s nothing. Not even the faintest flutter of a pulse.

  She’s dead.

  31

  In an instant, I realise what this means. Jess wasn’t the killer. Not only that, but the real killer has caught up with us and killed her. He knows where we are. He knows where I am. He could be watching right now.

  I head over to the bedroom door and listen carefully. I can’t hear anything, but I can’t take the risk. I go back to the kitchen area and grab the largest knife I can find. I notice another knife on the counter, blood congealing on its blade as it pools on the surface of the worktop. Jesus Christ. He’s stabbed her, too.

  I try not to look too closely, don’t want to have to look at Jess’s lifeless body. All I feel is guilt. Guilt that I ever suspected her. Guilt that I left her, gave the killer the opportunity. I should’ve known that when push came to shove Jess wouldn’t be able to handle this on her own. She needed me as much as I needed her, and I failed her.

  I think back to that night at Pendleton House, the night the switch flipped and I tried to protect Teddy Tomlin the only way I knew how. But then I knew what I was fighting against. Mr Duggan was there, a visible, physical presence. Now, my nemesis is far more elusive.

  I go back to the bedroom door, listen again for a moment, then step back and kick the sole of my foot into it as hard as I can. The door flies open and slaps against the wall, and then there’s silence. I step inside, knife poised and ready, but there’s no-one there.

  Thank God.

  I delve into the holdall and take out the cash I withdrew in Herne Bay. Then I find Jess’s coat and take out the Swiss francs. This is all the money we have, but I’m not going to sit around and count it. Whoever killed Lisa and Jess knows exactly where I am.

  I stuff all of the cash into the holdall, grab a few clothes and pieces I find lying around, zip up the holdall and walk down the steps out of the caravan. I check no-one is stood waiting for
me, close the door behind me and head for the car.

  I don’t have a clue where I am, so I can’t risk trying to get around on public transport. I know I’ll need to ditch the car as quickly as I can because they’ll be looking for it, but I reckon I can make good ground to a nearby city before trying the trains. Either way, I just have to keep moving.

  There’s still plenty of fuel left in the car. This thing seems to go on forever, and we filled up not long before arriving here. I know home is north-west, so I need to head south and east. The car starts perfectly first time and I drive as calmly as I can towards the exit from the campsite. I know we turned in from the right when we arrived, so I indicate left and turn out.

  None of this road looks familiar, which is perfect. I’m confident I’m heading in the right direction. When I see the signs for the main motorway, I allow myself a small feeling of relief.

  In just over an hour I’m crossing the border into Liechtenstein. I only know how long it’s been because I distinctly remember the time I left the campsite – 13.44 – and the clock in the car now says 14.53. That time seems to have passed like the blink of an eye. I think my brain is starting to shut down completely, almost as some sort of defence mechanism. I can barely remember anything of the drive.

  What I can’t quite comprehend is the fact that I’m now completely alone. With Lisa dead, and the prospect of the combined police forces of Europe out to track me down, the only person I was able to confide in or have trust in was this beautiful, intriguing stranger. Even if I’d known her for twenty years she’d still be a stranger. That’s the kind of person she was.

  Was.

  I can’t get over how much that word hurts. And what’s worse is the guilt I feel at ever having suspected her, even fleetingly.