White Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with an absolutely brilliant twist, page 26
For Alex’s part, what scares me most is that her only mistake in all of this was to have a drunken one-night stand. There’s a lesson for us all there. I’m never going to cheat ever, ever again – because, while I don’t think for one second think my wife has lied to me about what really happened, I still can’t help but think she’s got away with this by the skin of her teeth.
There but for the grace of God.
* * *
‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him all day,’ Alex blurts, once Maisie and Tilly are in bed, having finally settled. Since we moved back into the town centre, it has taken them some time to get used to hearing the sounds of the family on our right through the walls. ‘I wish I could have prevented it somehow.’
‘You’ve said that so often, but he was ruining your life! And what could you have done anyway?’
She looks away. ‘I don’t know. Everybody makes mistakes and nobody deserves a death like that. No matter how badly he lied, I would have forgiven him, rather than this.’
‘Really?’ I am genuinely surprised.
‘Of course!’ she exclaims. ‘I was never interested in punishing him, or revenge. I just wanted people to know the truth.’
I get up, walk over to the cupboard and take out a wine glass. ‘That he was obsessed with you? That he’d never met anyone like you before?’
She sits up uncomfortably, as if someone has placed a hand on her shoulder when she wasn’t expecting it. ‘You keep saying that.’
‘It was obvious when I spoke to him outside his school and he got off on winding me up about you.’ I open the drawer and pull out the corkscrew. ‘I can count the people I dislike on one hand, but I really hated him.’
‘I was reading online earlier about narcissism and the dark triad,’ Alex says suddenly, watching me reach for the bottle and start to open it.
‘The what?’ I frown. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘The dark triad comprises three personality traits: narcissism, Machiavellianism and psychopathy. They all have a malevolent connection: if you have traits of one, you’re likely to share traits with the others. Narcissists have no empathy whatsoever in addition to thinking they are more special than everyone else. Machiavellianism is all about manipulation and the exploitation of others, displaying a total lack of morality as the individual focuses on their own self-interest, and psychopaths are completely remorseless as they pursue their antisocial behaviour.’
‘Sounds about right,’ I say, starting to pour. ‘He was an evil little shit, which is why I don’t understand you saying you wish you could have prevented what happened to him.’ I pass her the glass and cross to the fridge to get myself a Guinness.
‘He was only seventeen when it happened, Rob.’
I open the can and get my pint glass. ‘Young, yes – but seventeen is plenty old enough to know right from wrong. Even Tilly knows you don’t tell fibs.’
‘But does someone with those types of characteristics really commit suicide?’
I pause for a moment, then sit back down at the table. ‘Well, I still think it’s fucking weird that his deranged father came here at seven o’clock, out of the blue, and less than an hour later, his son is here too, apparently topping himself in the woods.’
‘It wasn’t you – was it?’
At first, I think I’ve misheard her, but as it registers, I blink in astonishment and sit right back in my chair with a slight thud.
She looks at me worriedly. ‘I won’t ever ask you this again, but did you do it? I promise I’ll never tell anyone – whatever happens. I just need to know. We talked about doing it – and I know we were only half joking.’
We’re right under Tilly’s bedroom, so I’ve already turned off the kitchen radio in case we wake her and, as we both stare at each other, the only sound is the churning of the water in the dishwasher.
‘You’re serious?’
She nods.
‘No, Alex, I had nothing to do with his death. I’ve made some huge mistakes, but honestly, even I’m not that stupid.’
‘I’ve never said you’re stupid. Far from it. You’re not complicated. There’s a difference. With you, what you see is what you get. At least that’s what I always thought.’
‘Until Hannah you mean?’
She nods.
‘I told you the next day what I’d done. You think I’d be able to hide something like killing someone from you? You think I’m even capable of that? Genuinely?’
‘I think you want to protect us and try to fix things. I think if you’d driven past Jonathan skulking around in the woods by our house on your way home from your Mum and Dad’s, you might have snapped. I’d kill to protect Maisie and Tilly.’ She lifts her gaze and looks unflinchingly right at me. ‘Without hesitation.’
‘OK, but you don’t think the police might have considered that scenario too? We’re all well aware I had a motive. They didn’t charge me, and they would have if they’d had the evidence.’ I pause briefly. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Did you do it?’ I sound more defensive than I intend to. ‘Same thing, then; whatever happens I won’t ever tell anyone.’
‘Because I asked you and David to lie for me?’ she says quietly.
‘That, and the two sleeping pills you said you flushed down the loo. The same type that showed up on Day’s post-mortem.’
‘They’re a very common brand and I really did flush them away. We’ve been over why I asked you to lie already.’
‘I’m not asking you to go through it all again. I’m just asking if you did it?’
This time the pause is longer. ‘You’re right,’ she says eventually, ‘this is a horrible, stupid conversation.’
‘You started it.’ I can hear the hurt in my voice.
‘I know, I’m sorry. And the answer is no, Rob, I didn’t do it.’
‘Well, OK then.’ I lift my pint glass. I know what she means. It’s quite something to be forced into a situation where you have to consider if your partner might be capable of doing something like that, and that they must also think the same of you.
‘I feel like what we’re really voicing is that the way the coroner laid everything out earlier doesn’t feel like the whole picture – to either of us,’ I say. ‘Gary Day must have had a solid-gold alibi, that’s for sure. But you know what?’ I look my wife in the eye, ‘at the end of the day, I’m just glad it’s all over. I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ she says, and takes a sip of her wine.
Part 3
The Attack
Chapter Twenty-One
I didn’t have much time to get there. I stayed on the road, listening for cars as I walked, ready to jump into hiding, but no one appeared. Once I was in position, crouched behind the tree, waiting, I wasn’t thinking anything other than: would he really come?
It’s me, I’d texted. Did he have the phone? Was it near him?
I held my breath and felt an almost visceral thrill of satisfaction as it delivered.
Me who?
* * *
You know who. I have to see you. Come to the woods. Clearing on left before house. Will signal when you arrive.
I wasn’t afraid, waiting for him in the silence. I was focused and determined. It was quite calming standing there in the dark listening to the sound of my own steady breathing. Gradually my senses became heightened. I heard an owl, felt the wind pick up, heard the snap and rustle of an animal of some description moving about in the leaves – and eventually an approaching car engine.
The headlight beam bounced as the driver steered it into the clearing, coming to a stop, facing me. I stayed hidden away. The engine cut, the lights went off and I heard a car door opening, then slamming shut.
I took my pencil torch from my pocket, switched it on then held the light up in front of me, before covering it with my hand, showing it again – and repeating the signal once more. Would he risk it? Would he follow it into the woods to find me?
I held my breath and listened to the sounds of footsteps crashing through leaves, thudding into the ground. Yes, he would. His obsession had won. He couldn’t bear not to come running. I killed the light and there was a pause as he stopped, disorientated.
‘Alex?’ I heard him whisper. ‘Where are you?’
I flashed the light once more, and he set off again. I reached into my pocket, curled my fingers around the handle of the knife, swallowed, and once he was practically upon me, I stepped out from behind the tree.
He yelped then froze rigid, his eyes widening as I held up the torch to illuminate the blade.
‘Do not move,’ I said. ‘You really believed, in spite of everything you’ve done, that you’d been summoned here for sex tonight? You’re that narcissistic?’ I put the torch in my pocket, then reached into my coat and brought out the plastic plunger I’d carefully removed from the Calpol packet in the bathroom. Every parent has one these days. I stepped over to him and placed the knife tip at the base of his Adam’s apple – but not close enough to actually touch him – in one precise movement. Perhaps I should have been a surgeon, except I prefer to make the difference at grass-roots level.
‘Open, please,’ I instructed, and with my left hand, I squeezed the 5 ml water solution into his mouth. ‘Swallow and then open your mouth again.’
Terrified, he held it – I could see his cheeks bulging. I sighed, put the plunger back in my pocket, reached out and pinched his nose tightly. The fingers of the disposable latex gloves felt almost slippery as I squeezed.
‘If you spit it out, I’ll shove this knife right into you here and now,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I don’t even care any more.’
He closed his eyes and swallowed.
‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Open wide, please?’
He did as he was told, and I reached back into my pocket for the torch and shone it in his mouth. All gone.
‘What the fuck have you just given me?’ He tried to sound angry, but his bottom lip trembled. He was frightened it was going to hurt.
‘It’ll be painless,’ I said truthfully. ‘You can relax. I’m going to move the knife a little bit further away from you so that you can sit down. I want to talk to you.’
He watched me warily, but stayed standing, although he visibly wobbled, almost swaying on the spot.
I frowned. The pills wouldn’t have an effect that fast. ‘When did you last eat something?’
‘What do you care?’
His words were slightly slurred and I realized he was sweating. Ah, now this was interesting. I relaxed immediately. This was going to be much easier than I had anticipated. ‘Jonathan?’
‘I had a bit of tea about an hour and a half ago.’
‘And your last shot?’
‘Same time.’
‘So you’re already hypo? That’s poor management, Jonathan. Really. Reach into your pockets and drop your phones – both of them – your keys, pen, any snacks you have, and your wallet on the ground. What’s your iPhone code?’
He didn’t take his eyes from me but did as he was told. ‘What did you just give me?’
‘Your code please?’ I held the knife steady.
‘2256. What did you just give me?’
‘Don’t shout. Two sleeping tablets – the same ones your mother takes – dissolved in water.’
‘Why?’ He couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice. ‘What is it you want from me?’
I raised my eyebrows, amused. ‘You think you have any bargaining power now? Really?’
‘I’ll say it if you want. I’ll say sorry.’
I shook my head. ‘You don’t have to say a thing. Not if you don’t want to. I already know you lied. For the record, pretending your iPhone was stolen outside the surgery, to cover up the fact there was never any initial message ‘stored’ on it in the first place, was weak. The texts on that,’ I pointed at the android phone, ‘were better. Obviously, they could have come from anyone, of course, although I get that was somewhat the point. Quite a nice touch though. Very dramatic. What did you do, buy another handset and message yourself?’
He cleared his throat and eyed the knife. ‘I’m sorry I did it.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘I’ll say sorry publicly too.’
I looked at him with interest. ‘Will you now? Why did you make it all up, Jonathan?’
He didn’t answer, just glanced wildly to his right and suddenly bolted off into the dark. I could hear him crashing off through the trees, panting with exertion as he hurtled towards the road. I sighed and got the torch out again, shining it up just in time to see him collapse and crumple to the ground. I bent and picked up his belongings, then walked over to him. It only took me about thirty seconds; he’d hardly managed to get any distance at all.
I stood over him. He was lying face down on the leaves, almost motionless. Perhaps he sensed me there, because he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Fuck off, you fucking cunt! You’re full of shit with your hands waving near!’
‘That’s it. You just keep lying down – and thank you.’ I said soothingly.
Such insults have not the slightest effect on me. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last, and actually, as he was making no sense whatsoever, I suspect he already didn’t have a clue what he was saying. It was no more than a physiological response; too much insulin in his system and horribly low blood sugar. As if to confirm my assessment, he fell silent and went still. I felt almost cheated. I’d wanted to tell him what was going to happen, how I was going to pour oil on the waters he’d so maliciously whipped up. I could have just left him – he was already as good as dead – but it wasn’t enough to make it appear an accident. Questions would be asked: why had he come to the woods in the first place? Everyone needed to see that he’d had intent. That there had been a plan.
I crouched down next to him. ‘I wonder how it will feel for your parents when they have to listen to an account of how you committed suicide here?’ I whispered. ‘Because, you know, lies hurt, Jonathan.’
He still didn’t reply, which was, frankly, very disappointing. ‘Let’s pretend you haven’t let yourself become hypoglycaemic already,’ I said conversationally. ‘Although – thank you. It’s been a great help. So – this is what everyone is going to think: you came to the woods, took two sleeping pills – because no diabetic intending to take their own life would want to wake up here hypo, hungry, confused and alone – and then you emptied your entire pen into yourself.’ Moving swiftly, I reached for his pen, gently parted his coat and lifted his top to expose his tummy. I discharged the contents into him and threw the pen on the leaves as if he’d dropped it. He would quite simply never wake up. I can think of worse ways to go – I have seen many of them.
I waited for a moment or two, lifted his heavy hand and selected his index finger, pressing the home button then ‘2256’ on his iPhone. I checked his messages. He’d sent one to ‘Cherry’ telling her he was still at home – he might see her later– so I sent another saying he’d decided to stay put after all. It was laborious having to use his single finger, but necessary. Once I’d selected the notes, typing ‘sorry for everything, and what this will do’ – because that was the least apology he owed – I put the phone down beside him. Finally, I picked up his pay-as-you-go phone and put it in my pocket, before beginning the walk back to the cottage. It was useful to have a moment to clear my head. When I arrived there was no car on the drive: Rob wouldn’t be back for at least another twenty minutes, and I knew Jonathan would already be dead. I peeled the plastic bags from my feet before I walked up the drive and left them carefully by the front door, reaching into my back pocket, removing the keys and letting myself back into the house. I quietly padded upstairs, but Alex’s door was shut; she’d even put a note on it helpfully telling her husband she’d taken the pill.
I thoroughly rinsed the Calpol plunger and put it back in the box, then tiptoed to the downstairs loo, retrieved my ‘forgotten’ phone from the side by the loo roll and carefully sent Mother a text telling her I was sorry if she was already home from bridge and I wasn’t, but that I’d be back soon. Once I re-emerged I placed Alex’s keys on the sideboard again and let myself back out, closing the door behind me.
I picked up the plastic bags, blipped my car and began the drive home. The whole thing had taken less than an hour.
As I drove, I felt only the calming of the storm. It had been difficult to watch that filth about Alex circulate in the press. I had started to become distracted myself at work – which unsettled me, as that should never happen. Poor Alex herself was evidentially clinging on by her fingernails – so unhappy and exhausted. Her hapless husband didn’t have a clue what to do, of course. She needed to be back at work, doing what she did best. I meant what I’d said – I missed having her there, we all did. It wasn’t the same without her. We support each other at work; we’re a good team.
I did wonder once if I might be in love with Alex, around the time she first arrived at the surgery, but before I’d had a chance to explore it any further, Rob Inglis arrived on the scene. I could have overreacted, I suppose, but I managed to calm my own feelings and instead reported her – anonymously, naturally. I was concerned that she might leave the practice in an attempt to ‘remedy’ the situation; start afresh elsewhere – and I didn’t want to lose her in a professional sense. The restrictions she received severely hampered her future employment prospects elsewhere and, as I suspected, she stayed put. So, in reward – I nurtured her, helped her develop her career, made her my partner.
The strategy has paid off very well, we’ve achieved a great deal together. She’s not suffered from not moving on – quite the contrary, she’s blossomed. Everything has worked nicely for all of us. I value her input and support; she values mine. We have a lot of respect for each other. Almost better than being married in some ways.
