The Lie (22 page)

It’s been a week since I was knocked off my bike and, other than the yellowing bruises on my face and body, it’s starting to feel like a remote horrible nightmare. Will insisted I stay in bed for twenty-four hours after we drove back to his house, and he and Chloe took it in turns to bring me drinks, snacks and entertainment. He even popped over to my cottage to pick up my TV and DVD player so he could install them at the end of bed.

“Now you can finish watching
Battlestar Galactica
,” he said, whipping the DVD out from under his jacket and making me smile for the first time in what felt like forever.

He insisted that I hand my mobile phone over to him.

“You’ll drive yourself mad,” he said as he tucked it into his back pocket, “checking and re-checking it to see if there’s been any new messages or texts. The police said they’d be in touch once they’ve traced where the messages originated from.”

“But—”

“If CID ring, or you get any weird messages, I’ll give it back to you. And if there’s anything really dodgy, we’ll ring PC Barnham. I promise. But I don’t want you to worry, Jane. I just want you to get well. We both do.”

At first I welcomed the warmth and safety of Will’s cosy home, and the weekend filled with continuous re-runs of
Frozen
and lessons in how to create loom bracelets, but, after a week, I found myself yearning for Green Fields Sanctuary. I missed my dogs. I missed the clean, feed and walk routine of my days. I missed the freedom of walking them through the fields and the feeling of fresh air on my face and in my lungs. I started to feel stifled, as though whoever was responsible for the texts and messages had succeeded in taking me away from the one thing that made me feel content and fulfilled.

Will was resigned when I told him I was going back to work – he’d seen it coming – but he insisted on dropping me off on my first morning back. Not that I’ve got any other choice – my bike was a write-off and the alternative is a four-mile walk from Will’s house.

“You’ll take it easy, won’t you?” After parking outside Green Fields, he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “If you feel unwell, just give me a call and I’ll come and collect you.”

“I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, don’t worry: Sheila or one of the others will run me home. Look, there’s Angharad.” I gesture at the black VW Polo pulling into the yard. “I’d better go.”

I open the passenger door then look back at Will. “And thank you, for everything.”

“Least I could do. We both love you, you know.” He glances away, his cheeks colouring as he registers what he just said. It’s the first time either of us have used the word “love”. Neither of us says anything for several seconds. “Anyway” – he turns the key in the engine – “I’ll pick you up later, Jane. Have a good day.”

“You too.” I slam the door shut and he pulls away.

I continue to stare after his car, long after it’s turned the corner and disappeared back down the lane. He’s not the sort of man to use a word like love in a throwaway context, but ten days ago, before Chloe’s summer fair, he was asking for space – some time to process everything. If I hadn’t had my accident, would we even be talking now? There have been moments, countless moments over the last week while he’s been looking after me, when I’ve felt perilously close to telling Will that I love him. But I’m too scared to. Not because I think he’s got anything to do with the accident or the messages, but because it’s been so long since I truly trusted anyone. My barriers have been up for so many years that I don’t know if I’m even capable of bringing them down any more. There’s a part of me that thinks it was wrong of me to accept Will’s offer to stay with him and Chloe. If PC Barnham is right and the person who ran me off the road was deliberately trying to harm me, then I’m putting Will and Chloe at risk.

I turn away from the road and return Angharad’s wave as she gets out of her car.

“Have you got a minute, Jane?”

I stop typing and glance round. Sheila is peering around the door of the staffroom. “What’s up?”

“Nothing urgent. I just want a chat, that’s all.”

“Do you want to read the advert I just wrote for Willow for our Facebook page? I’m desperate to find her a home. She’s been here too long.”

“I know. I’ll take a look at it in a second.” She nods towards reception. “Could you come with me? It won’t take long.”

“Okay.” I wheel the chair back from the desk and stand up. “Is this about the dry food order? I was going to put it in this morning but I needed to—”

“It’s not about the food.” Sheila takes me by the elbow and guides me down the corridor towards reception. I stop short when a dozen beaming faces stare back at me from across the counter. “It’s about you and how we wanted to do something to help after your accident.”

“Sheila—”

“No, don’t say anything.” She scans the crowd of faces in front of us and frowns. “Where’s Angharad?”

Everyone looks around blankly. Several people shrug their shoulders.

“Never mind,” Sheila says. “We’ll have to start without her. So, Jane” – she squeezes my elbow – “we know how much you loved your blue bike, so we had a little whip round and, well, it’s not exactly the same but we hope you like it.” She waves at Barry, who’s standing outside the double glass doors. He disappears around the corner then reappears pushing a beautiful blue mountain bike. Claire opens the doors for him and the crowd parts as he pushes it into reception.

“I put it together myself,” he says proudly. “It’s one of those kit bikes you can get. Made one for my grandson last Christmas. They’re very sturdy.”

“Barry, Sheila, everyone …” I press my hand to my mouth and inhale deeply through my nose to stop myself from crying.

“It’s okay.” Sheila clasps my shoulder and pulls me into her side. “You don’t have to thank us. We just wanted you to know how much we appreciate what you do for Green Fields, and it really hasn’t been the same without you over the last week. We have missed you, you know – especially Barry.” She winks lasciviously and everyone laughs.

“I missed you too, Barry,” I say, and everyone laughs again. “Seriously, thank you all so much.”

“Take it for a ride!” someone shouts.

“The bike or Barry?” someone else shouts and, as the room explodes with laughter, Sheila lifts up the reception counter and Barry wheels the bike towards me. Thirty seconds later I’m riding around the yard, being applauded like a five-year-old who’s just had their stabilisers taken off. Sheila has the biggest smile on her face as I ride round and round, but there’s tension in her cheeks and worry in her eyes. She told me when I came in that Gary Fullerton and Rob Archer both have alibis for the night that Green Fields was broken into, and the car that was recorded driving into the yard on the CCTV was later found abandoned in a layby on the outskirts of town. It had been stolen earlier that evening. Whoever broke into Green Fields that night is still out there.

My ears ring with the sound of applause and laughter as I walk back through reception and down the corridor, but it’s the worried look in Sheila’s eyes that haunts me. I was
sure
Gary Fullerton or Rob Archer must have been behind the break-in.

“Oh!” I stop short in the doorway to the staffroom and Angharad, sitting in the chair in front of the computer, visibly jumps then, lightning fast, shuts down whatever file she was looking at, snatches something from the USB drive and twists round to look at me.

“Sorry Jane, I was just … I was …” Her gaze flits around the room. “I was just checking my email. I … I … um … I’ve been waiting to hear back from a job I applied for, and with all of you out in the yard I thought … I …”

“But you know employed staff are the only ones allowed to use the computers, don’t you? It’s Green Fields’ policy. Sheila will have explained that to you in your induction.”

“She did and, yes, I do; I do know that. But I was just passing and the computer was on and …” She pauses and looks down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Jane. I was desperate. I haven’t been able to concentrate all morning.”

Her phone is on the table next to the mouse. It’s a top-of-the-range Android model; I remember her showing it to me on her first day when she was telling me what great photos it takes.

“Couldn’t you have checked your email on your phone? I thought you had 3G. That’s what you said.”

“I have but” – she reaches for her phone and shoves it into her pocket – “I’m out of data for this month.”

“There are some very sensitive files on the computer, Angharad. Case histories, evidence for court, reports from the animal behaviourist, that sort of thing. We can’t let just anyone—”

“I know, and I only accessed my Yahoo mail. I promise.” She jumps up from the chair and crosses the room towards me. “Please, Jane, don’t say anything to Sheila. It was a one-off. I promise.”

She holds out her hands, imploringly. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes shining – either with excitement or adrenaline, I can’t be sure.

“I don’t know, Angharad.” I shake my head. “I really have to say—”

I’m interrupted by the tinkling tune of my mobile. I reach into my pocket and pull it out as Angharad continues to step from foot to foot, wringing her hands in front of her. The call is from an unknown number.

“Hello?” I press the phone to my ear.

There’s a pause then, “Emma, is that you? It’s Al.”

“Al?” The world stills and the only thing I’m aware of is the banging of my heart in my chest.
“Al?”
A look of curiosity crosses Angharad’s face and I wave her away. “I’ll see you back in the compound in five minutes. The blankets and dog toys need washing, if you could do that.”

“But …”

“Five minutes.”

I step into the staffroom and gesture for her to leave. She hesitates then slips past me, her eyes trained on the phone in my hand as she leaves the room. I close the door behind her.

“Sorry,” Al says in my ear. “Do you want me to ring back in five minutes, or something?”

“No, no.” I cross the room and drop onto the desk chair as my legs give way beneath me. “Fuck, Al. I can’t believe it’s you.”

“I know.” She laughs dryly. “It’s been a long time, Emma.”

“What … how … did you get my Facebook message?”

“Yeah, literally five minutes ago. I haven’t used my Facebook account in years, and then … what the fuck’s going on, Emma? Someone from CID called me this morning, that’s why I checked it. They said you’d been involved in an accident and they wanted to know where I was in the early hours of Tuesday morning last week. They asked if we’d been in touch. I said I hadn’t spoken to you for years.”

“Someone ran me over,” I say. “I was on my bike and a car hit me. They think it might have been deliberate.”

“And they think I did it?”

“No, I … they asked me to give them a list of people who might have grudges against me, and I …” I run a hand over my face. “We fell out about the article you sold, and—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Emma.” She sighs heavily. “That was four years ago. Four years! I told you, the journalist twisted my words. You don’t seriously think I’d try and run you over because of an argument we had four years ago?”

“No, of course I don’t. I—”

“And what’s all this shit about Daisy being alive? Emma …” She sighs again, only this time she sounds exhausted. “I’ve tried so hard to put all that behind me. I’ve got a new life in Brighton. I’m with an amazing girl, Liz. We got engaged last month. I’ve got a good job with Amex and I don’t totally hate it, and life is … it’s okay. It’s good. That’s not to say I don’t think about what happened. I do. But sometimes I forget, too. And it feels good. I feel good. I feel …”

“Normal,” I say.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us says anything for several seconds.

“Someone’s been pretending to be Daisy,” I say. “They’ve been sending me messages on Facebook. They said they were cold, that I’d abandoned her, that I’d left her for dead. Then, after the accident, I got a text message from someone saying ‘Only the good die young, maybe that’s why you’re still alive.’”

Al says nothing.

“Al? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I heard what you said. I was just … Emma, has it occurred to you that maybe it’s some sick internet troll? You hear about this sort of thing all the time – people writing sick things on the memorial pages for people who’ve been murdered or died tragically. They do it to get a reaction, and you’re giving them that.”

“I haven’t.”

“So you didn’t reply?”

“Well, yes. I asked who it was and why they were doing it.”

“So you reacted. And then they upped their game a bit and found your mobile number on the web and sent you that text.”

“How could they have found out my mobile number? I changed it when I came here, and I’ve never put it on the internet. Apart from in my direct message to you, which was private.”

“Doesn’t matter. There are sites that you can pay to get someone’s details. They masquerade as a service to help reunite you with long-lost family, but it’s basically a stalking service. If you’ve got someone’s name and date of birth, that’s all you need.”

“How do you know this?”

She sighs. “Remember Simone? How do you think I found out where her girlfriend lived? If you’ve got the money, Emma, you can find pretty much anyone.”

“But I didn’t receive any text messages until after the hit and run. It seems too much of a coincidence to get a text message about dying young on the same day as I’m knocked off my bike. ”

“Coincidences happen.”

“The police don’t seem to think so.”

“That’s because it’s their job to take this kind of shit seriously. Can you imagine the backlash in the press if something did happen to you and they’d dismissed your concerns? Listen, Emma.” Al lowers her voice. “You need to be careful about what you say to the police, especially what you say to them about me. I did what I did to protect you.” Her voice is little more than a whisper.

“I know.”

“Some sicko is trying to freak you out, and they’re succeeding. You’re jumping at shadows. The police have started asking questions and who knows where this will lead? I don’t want to go to prison, Emma.”