The Lie Read online

  ‘Can you try to remember, Michael? It’s important you do.’

  He frowned. ‘Why? Sounds like she had a bit of a thing for me … She almost admits she did. And now her life’s gone to the dogs and she’s looking for someone to blame.’ He shrugged.

  Romy had retreated to her chair, but she was sitting on the edge of the cushion, leaning towards her husband. ‘So you don’t remember any incident where you gave a girl some wine in your office and she sat on the sofa …’ She paused. ‘She seems to know a lot of detail.’

  ‘Romy?’ Michael stared at her, a wounded look in his eye as his glass clunked down on the table. He seemed to be waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t know what to say. ‘You don’t honestly think I did this, do you?’ He jumped up, still clutching the letter, and began pacing back and forth across the window bay. ‘Of course she knows details. She was probably in and out of my office all week.’

  Neither spoke for a moment. Then Romy said. ‘2002 was when you were doing the Charlie Brigham case, wasn’t it?’

  Brigham was a music promoter accused of grooming an underage fan. It had been a long drawn-out case, because more victims had come forward pre-trial, with a lot of publicity attached. Michael lost and Brigham had gone to gaol. Romy had been working back to the date since she read the letter.

  It was a summer she would not forget. She had fractured her right tibia falling off a bike and careering down a steep bank when they were staying with friends in the New Forest during the boys’ half-term. She was in plaster, couldn’t drive for the rest of the summer, and Michael was hopelessly unreliable in helping out with the boys, then aged twelve and nine. She remembered him being tense and bad-tempered for weeks, which she felt was more her prerogative.

  ‘It was the summer I broke my leg.’

  Her husband nodded as he threw the letter onto the table, a frown of concentration on his face as he began pacing again. Then his expression cleared slightly, although the frown remained. ‘There was one girl around that time … Emily? Emma?’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m sure she was older … already at college.’

  Romy sighed. ‘What was she like?’ she asked. ‘Did you do stuff with her?’

  Michael rounded on her. ‘What do you mean by “ stuff ”, Romy? Are you accusing me of molesting her now?’

  ‘Of course not. I meant did she help you sort documents – as she said in the letter? Did she … I don’t know … Were you friendly with her? Did you offer her wine?’

  He threw his arms into the air. ‘I offer lots of people wine, but I haven’t attacked a single one of them. I told you, I don’t know who this person is,’ he almost shouted, thrusting his head towards her, dark eyes blazing.

  ‘OK, OK. Calm down. I’m just trying to get a picture of the girl, trying to work out why she would accuse you like this.’

  ‘This is insane,’ he muttered, throwing himself into his chair again and covering his face with his hands. ‘And really upsetting.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘You could ask James?’ Romy suggested. ‘Or Wendy? She’s bound to remember. Nothing goes on in the place that gets past Wendy.’ Romy paused. ‘And she said she borrowed a cardigan from –’

  Before she could go on, her husband’s head flew up. ‘Seriously? You want me to bring this ludicrous accusation up with my colleagues? How do you think that will play?’ His look was scornful, but he also seemed hurt by her reaction.

  Romy waited for him to say more, but he remained stubbornly silent. ‘So what are you going to do, Michael?’

  Her husband shrugged. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I don’t know … but don’t you want to find out who she is?’

  ‘Nope,’ he snapped.

  ‘Well, I’d like to, even if you don’t,’ Romy said. ‘We should work out who she is and why she’s written a letter out of the blue like this. Even though she says she’s not going public, we don’t know she’ll stick to that, now she’s made the first move. Shouldn’t we at least be prepared?’

  Michael frowned. ‘So you want me to find her? Confront her? That’s probably exactly what she’s after.’ He shook his head. ‘I feel sorry for her. She’s obviously got issues.’

  Romy wondered if Michael could be right. That the girl – woman – was some sort of attention-seeker, perhaps, and had fixated on him because he’d meant something to her when she was young?

  ‘I’m amazed you feel sorry for her, Michael, making false accusations like that. She could cause you a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Which is my point, exactly. It’s not a can of worms worth opening.’ His voice was calm now, almost matter-of-fact, and Romy, not a little puzzled by his reaction, sat without speaking. She didn’t know what he should do, either. But he didn’t seem angry with the anonymous girl, didn’t seem to find her significant at all.

  ‘Are you just going to leave it, then?’

  ‘Well, what else do you suggest?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  Before she’d had a chance to say any more, Michael seemed to shake himself. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘What about that pork belly?’

  7

  ‘Maybe we should arrive separately,’ Finch joked. They were sitting round the oak central island in his kitchen. He’d poured her a glass of white wine and pushed a bowl of pistachios towards her.

  Romy laughed. ‘We were invited separately and nobody’s aware we even know each other. So if we arrive together won’t it just seem like coincidence?’

  ‘Hmm, well, almost nobody.’ He looked a bit sheepish. ‘I did tell my friend Jenny. But I don’t think she’ll have told anyone.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Although who am I kidding?’

  Romy was enjoying herself, her eyes drawn to the many photographs on the walls of Finch’s family. ‘That’s Nell?’ she asked, pointing to a frame with an attractive blonde and a girl of about twelve, with a cheeky smile and wheat-coloured hair in a thick plait.

  ‘Yes, and Gracie, my stepdaughter. She lives in Manchester with her husband, Sam. I adore her.’ Romy noted the tenderness in Finch’s voice as he gazed at the photograph. ‘She’s the only family I have.’

  Cathy and Keith’s home was above the delicatessen on the main street of the village. The place wasn’t smart – the walls could have done with a freshen-up, the furniture had seen better days – but Romy instantly felt at home as she sank into the huge sofa and accepted a large glass of wine from their host. Keith was loud and overweight, with a manic, laughing energy. He never talked about anything but food, never did anything that wasn’t food-related – it was his lifelong obsession. Cathy was quiet and blonde and well organized, the perfect foil for her husband.

  Supper consisted of a huge home-cooked ham with baked potatoes and numerous salads. Finch sat across the wooden table from her, flanked by Jenny and Cathy. Romy had Keith to her left and their teenage son, Louie, on her right. It was impossible not to catch Finch’s eye over the candles. She felt suddenly lighthearted from the wine and their innocent secret as the conversation flowed and laughter rang out above John Denver on Keith’s Bose stereo.

  Jenny was talking to her. ‘How are you finding village life, Romy? Don’t you miss the bright lights of London?’

  Romy thought her smile a little forced. ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I needed a change of scene, a new direction to my life.’

  Jenny nodded, clearly unconvinced. ‘You won’t get bored with all us bumpkins and run back to the excitements of the city?’

  Romy couldn’t resist giving Finch a grin. Life in the country was far more exciting than she’d previously imagined.

  But Jenny must have clocked the look, because she added, rather sharply, ‘It’s very different from weekending, you know. That lot never involve themselves, just invite their London mates to stay, bring their own fancy food instead of buying locally, then bugger off back to the Smoke.’ Although she’d spoken lightly, Romy sensed the simmering anger behind her words and thought it might
be about more than weekend visitors and second homes. ‘I hope you’re going to be a proper part of our community.’ It was as if she were throwing down the gauntlet.

  ‘I fully intend to,’ Romy said, drawing herself up and giving Jenny her very best smile. When she glanced at Finch again, she saw his eyes widen in mock-alarm. ‘I was brought up in the country, Jenny. I know how it works.’

  It was true: her parents had been hippies – before hippies were invented. Her father, Alan, was part of what would now be called the ‘gig economy’ – a part-time gardener, handyman, painter and decorator – while her mother, Peggy, baked cakes for the village shop, looked after their extensive vegetable garden and chickens, and smoked the trout Alan regularly pulled from the local river.

  Romy and her brother Blake lived a wild, unsupervised childhood, roaming the fields and woods around the village with glorious freedom. They never wanted for anything, although their clothes and every single thing in the house were secondhand, picked up from goodness knows where by her father on one of his mysterious forays with his bicycle and trailer. They didn’t have a fridge, a Hoover, heating or pocket money and certainly not a television. It was Michael’s party piece, to recount her parents’ eccentricities – he seemed almost proud of them – but she wondered with amusement how Jenny would view the way in which she’d been brought up.

  ‘Game, set and match,’ Finch joked, as they walked home later that evening.

  ‘Is Jenny always that fierce?’ Romy asked.

  ‘I’m not sure she appreciates a city interloper on her patch, however much she claims to want you to join in.’

  ‘It was such a fun evening, despite Jenny giving me the third degree,’ she said, as they stood on the corner where their paths diverged, Finch going north, she south across the village. And it had been. Although she barely knew any of those present, she’d found herself oddly relaxed in their company. She felt she’d been heard, that they were interested in what she had to say. She was not just making conversation, as she had so often in the high-octane social gatherings of her past.

  ‘So you don’t think Jenny has a point?’ he teased. ‘You must have hung out with some pretty interesting people through Michael’s work.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she acknowledged. ‘But, on the whole, the networking dinners I gave for Michael bored me to tears,’ she told him. ‘I much preferred tonight.’ As she spoke, she imagined turning up to Cathy and Keith’s supper with Michael. He would have stolen the show, been so charming and magnetic that the other guests would have gone home feeling privileged to have met him. But she would have got barely a word in as she listened to all of his stories for the thousandth time. She sighed unconsciously.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Finch asked, laying a hand on her arm. It was late and he spoke quietly as they stood outside the silent row of houses – all in darkness at this time of night.

  Romy noted his curious glance. He had the sort of eyes that invited confession, and she wanted to say more, didn’t want to leave Finch on this note. But thoughts of Michael among her new-found friends left her scarcely able to speak.

  She looked up at him, her expression clouded. ‘I’m sorry … Sometimes …’

  Finch seemed to understand, because he just pulled her into his arms and held her close for a moment. ‘Tell me about it one day,’ he said into her hair.

  Watching him walk slowly away, Romy let out a slow breath. She dreaded the prospect that one day she might, indeed, have to tell him – or keep her disturbing secret for ever.

  8

  December 2015

  In the weeks since Romy had read the letter, she had been in a quandary. She had promised Michael she would not talk about it to anyone, but the words ran round and round her brain whenever there was a quiet moment, such as at three o’clock in the morning when she couldn’t sleep.

  Finally, despite her promise, one miserable December day she found herself confiding in her best friend, Bettina.

  Sitting at a window table in the fifth-floor café of the local department store, with a view over the rooftops of Chelsea, Bettina had listened carefully to Romy’s précis of the letter. ‘God,’ she said, ‘how awful.’ She let out a long breath. ‘That’s just horrible.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Romy said.

  Her friend frowned. ‘You don’t think it’s true, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she said hurriedly, feeling almost ashamed it was her husband they were talking about. ‘Of course not. Michael wouldn’t attack anyone, not in a million years. He’s not even a ladies’ man. You know that. He only has eyes for his beloved work.’

  Bettina gazed at her. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t …’ She stopped, and Romy, sensing a ‘but’, waited for her to go on. ‘It’s just such a strange thing for someone to do, write an accusing letter like that. Especially since she says she’s not going to the police. I mean, what does she gain from it?’

  ‘Satisfaction in telling me, I suppose.’

  Her friend looked puzzled. ‘But that’s implying Michael did it.’ Her Australian intonation – modified after decades in England – was heightened when she was making a serious point.

  ‘I’m not.’ Romy was shocked to hear the waver in her voice. She wanted so badly to allay her own niggling fears. In telling Bettina, she had thought her friend would laugh at the letter, dismiss it as simply the ramblings of a sad, deluded person. And she needed to share the burden with someone. ‘But he won’t talk about it at all, Bet. He gets hurt and upset when I mention it, as if he’s surprised I should want to. Like the letter only exists in my head. He seems to think that just by bringing it up I believe he’s guilty. Which I don’t understand.’

  ‘Wendy organizes the work-experience kids. Knowing how meticulous she is, there’ll be a spreadsheet somewhere with all the names stretching back to the year dot,’ Michael had stated, with deceptive equanimity, one morning over breakfast, not long after the letter’s arrival, when Romy had brought up the subject yet again. ‘If you’re so desperate to know, why not ask her?’

  Romy was amazed. He’d been furious when she’d made the same suggestion before. Was he testing her? But while she hesitated, wondering whether she might actually do so, Michael had erupted.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Romy, you seriously think it’s a good idea to draw attention to someone possibly hell-bent on destroying me … us, our family?’ He’d shaken his head, as if she, Romy, were the madwoman here.

  Then he’d scraped his chair back and dropped his napkin on his empty toast plate, his mouth clamped shut in a resentful line. ‘Drop it, Romy. Just drop it. She’s had her say. Hopefully she’ll leave it at that.’ He stood above her, fixing her with a hurt stare. ‘Because you realize if you do anything, say anything to anyone, you’ll be opening up a whole nightmare scenario. Which, despite the fact I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, could finish me.’ His voice broke and he cleared his throat, his gaze softening somewhat. ‘You do realize that?’

  Romy, taken aback by the emotion in his voice, had nonetheless persisted. ‘Don’t treat me as if I’m stupid, Michael. I just can’t understand why you’re not even a bit curious as to who she is and why she’s doing this.’

  ‘Change the record,’ her husband had muttered wearily, turning to leave the room.

  Bettina was nodding. ‘Tricky to say what I’d do in the same circumstances. I don’t have so much to lose, obviously. It’s a bit different for a pillar of the justice system, like Michael.’ She eyed her friend. ‘So are you saying him not talking about it is making you suspicious, Romes?’

  Not suspicious, exactly, she thought. More baffled. But she couldn’t bring herself to voice – even to her closest friend – the vaguest notion that maybe something did happen … like a kiss or something. And this woman, for whatever reason, had inflated the situation. Or she and Michael had had a consensual affair at some stage. When it didn’t work out, this was her sinister revenge.

  Bettina was watching her again, waiting for her to re
spond. Romy shrugged. ‘He spends all day every day with people accused of things they might not have done. Perhaps he’s right to be cautious.’

  ‘As long as you believe he’s innocent, Romy, and this woman shuts up …’ she paused ‘… saying nothing, doing nothing is probably the best plan.’

  But do I believe him? Romy asked herself, as she walked slowly home. Bettina’s momentary doubt had made her realize she wasn’t as completely certain of Michael’s innocence as she kept telling herself she was.

  9

  Romy had agreed to meet Finch at the station at five. She had dressed up a little – so far Finch had only seen her in jeans or joggers. Although those were her comfort zone, she didn’t feel the black trousers and soft blue linen jacket with the mandarin collar would frighten the horses. Clothes had always been a thorn in Romy’s side: her not very extensive wardrobe ranged with stuff that never seemed quite right on the night. She blamed her mother, who, as far as she could make out, had worn the same jeans and bobbly pink sweater for Romy’s entire childhood.

  He was already there when she arrived, pacing up and down the almost empty platform. He looked scrubbed and handsome in his white shirt and dark jacket – and slightly nervous, she thought.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘This is fun. I haven’t been to a play in ages.’

  He grinned back, making no effort to hide his pleasure at seeing her. ‘It’s had pretty good reviews.’

  Romy wasn’t really concerned about the merits of the play, but she’d been looking forward to the evening with Finch in a quiet hum of excitement. It was cosy, sitting side by side as the train slid through the beautiful coastal wetlands in the fading light. Just Finch’s proximity, the warm bulk of him, was enough for Romy. They didn’t say much – she had never been one for entertaining the entire carriage with her life story – but it was a comfortable silence she didn’t feel the need to fill.