House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist. E. Seymour V.

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СКАЧАТЬ I hear his low voice humming from the kitchen. Probably talking to Reg, although one o’clock in the afternoon counts as dawn in my brother’s eyes.

      Intrigued, I creep towards the kitchen door, which is ajar. I hope to surprise him, in a good way, of course, but instinctively I hold back and, as sneaky as it is, find myself listening. It becomes clear that Tom is on a mobile, a fairly rare event. Do I imagine a thread of panic in Tom’s low and urgent tone?

      “Don’t you understand? Anyone could see it … What do you mean, hang loose?… It’s all right for you, but what if there’s another cock-up?… She doesn’t suspect … No way … Well, you’d better find out.” I blink. Was she me? My head spins. Gripped with nerves, I’m only thinly able to process that the person on the other end of the line is delivering a lecture. Eventually, Tom says, “Yes, I think that’s best … When?… No sooner?… All right, if you say so, the usual place … Wednesday.” He hangs up.

      Now I was in a bind. Burst in and shout “Honey, I’m home,” better still, “What the hell was that all about?” Or should I hightail it back to the front door and pretend I never set foot in the house? Crushed with indecision for all of two seconds, I blunder in at the very point the landline rings.

      “No worries, I’ll get it,” I say, retreating and glad of the diversion.

      “Is Tom there?” I recognise the voice immediately. It’s the sour-faced manager of the hotel and restaurant where Tom works. A call like this spells trouble. At once, I see my rare evening alone with Tom vanishing into next week.

      “I’ll get him.”

      Tom pops his head around the door. “For me?” He is unflustered and not remotely guilty. He is back to his default position: calm as a secluded reservoir in high summer.

      “Work.” I hand him the phone.

      I leave him to it and stroll into the kitchen. Surprisingly, Reg’s laptop is open on the kitchen table. My naturally inquisitive nature kicks in. At a glance I see that it’s open on Facebook. Tom is one of those people who ‘lurk’ but don’t post. What’s he up to?

      I look. Compute. Stare. A strange buzzing sound rattles through my brain, only half of which absorbs what I’m viewing.

      A good-looking brunette called Stephanie Charteris looks back at me. Casually dressed. Smiling. Pleased with life. A more detailed inspection reveals an oval-shaped face, olive skin and bone structure. Only her eyes, brown like Tom’s, are different to mine. Her hair would be similar too, except mine is currently dyed deep magenta. Other than that, she’s a dead ringer for me.

      Unable to take it in, the other part of my brain jots down the setting. A castle with a cannon in the foreground. Park with benches. People sitting, cartons of coffee clutched, some eating sandwiches. My eyes scroll down to the message: ‘Happy times. I miss you so much.’ Instantly, I recoil and my blood sprints. What is Tom doing viewing a woman who looks so similar to me?

      “There was a mix-up over a game order,” Tom says, striding in. I jump aside, desperate to quiz him, yet not keen to be caught snooping. A pulse flutters above my top lip that I can’t control as Tom, with a cool half-smile and without a word, reaches over, closes down the page and switches off the laptop. He doesn’t explain that he borrowed it from Reg, although I know this is not unusual and that Reg doesn’t mind.

      I nod rapidly. My skin feels raw, irritated, physically reflecting my state of mind. Jealousy is an alien emotion to me, yet following on from the morning’s revelation, I register something dark, bitter and corrosive, which is how I imagine it to feel.

      “A potential crisis averted,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to be home,” he adds with a loose grin, as if we might have an action replay of sex in the sitting room.

      I force a smile that hurts my face. “Forgot something.” Improvising, I swipe an apple from the fruit bowl. “Gotta go. Appointment at the police station,” I say, with as much throwaway style as I can manage. Colour instantly drains from Tom’s face.

      “What?”

      “For work,” I say uneasily, making a fast exit. Inside, my heart is thumping.

       Chapter 3

      “Are you getting this all down?”

      Detective Sergeant Mike Shenton seems like a no-nonsense copper. After making a wisecrack about my unusual surname, we get down to business. Except I don’t.

      Tom’s phone conversation spins around inside my head, each damning sentence equal to the combination numbers of a safe. However I rotate, slice and dice them, I cannot open the contents.

      “Mmm? Yes, of course, you said that violence was nothing like the media presented.” I recite like teacher’s pet, the statement an own-goal seeing as I am part of the ‘meedja’, but I can’t give a rat’s arse. “We’re more likely to be the victim of someone we know than be attacked by a stranger.”

      Detective Sergeant Mike Shenton’s Air Force-blue blue eyes smile back, my reward for giving him the impression I’m keeping up. He’s nice looking, clean-shaven and with even features, but I’m too ensnared in analysis of Tom’s phone call to pay much attention.

      “That’s not to say you can’t take simple measures,” Shenton reminds me. “And of course if you suspect …”

      I tune out. She doesn’t suspect … Suspect what? If the alarm in Tom’s voice is anything to go by, I don’t think a nice surprise is on Tom’s agenda. And who the hell was on the other end of the line? Could it be ‘that’ woman – the pretty brunette on Facebook? If so, oh my God. Was that why he doesn’t want a child? Does he ever plan to marry me? Is he cheating?

      Attempting to shut Tom off and look interested, I gaze at Shenton, who is still talking. Elliott is a dinosaur for detail and I worry I missed something important. I nod and grin as Shenton runs through a list of bog-standard safety precautions that any sensible person past the age of twenty should automatically know. Two stand out from the crowd: walk with confidence and, if suspecting trouble, notify the police. Hmmm. A mate of mine once alerted the police when a brawl broke out in the street. He got arrested.

      Thirty minutes later, I wrap up the session with my tame copper and head back to the newspaper office. Helen is out and Elliott, thank the deities, is tucked away in his office engaged in a high-level meeting with the publisher of our newspaper and sister magazine. Rumour has it that both are in trouble. This should bother me more than it does, but I’m a glass-half-full merchant. Or I was until Tom took a dirty great gulp out of it.

      Sneaking a quick glance over my shoulder, I slip my laptop from my bag, log on to Facebook and check out the brunette. I gawp again at the pile of ruins in the background and wonder where exactly it is.

      Stephanie Charteris’s profile tells me that she lives in Shropshire, not a part of the world with which I’m familiar. My face clouds when I see how old she is: twenty-sodding-nine, nearly a decade younger than me. It turns out that she is a sales advisor for Argo Homes, a national property developer. Clearly, she has friends, both male and female. She also has a fat black cat called ‘Theo’. She makes no political statements. She doesn’t push what she does for a living. She doesn’t get into rants or scrapes.

      My СКАЧАТЬ