The Deadly Lies Read online

  “It’s Walmart, ma’am.”

  “Good, good,” said the captain with a broad, friendly smile. “Look, I’ve got a little time to spare. Why don’t we go find an office upstairs and do a practice run for your interview? I can help you be real confident for later. By the time you’re finished answering their questions, they’ll be begging to hire you.”

  Pete followed Captain Roberts down the corridor and up three flights of stairs. There was no carpet on the first and second sets of stairs, just bare boards. The captain’s flat shoes clattered noisily in front of him. Pete noticed that her calves were very shapely. Such a pity they were enveloped in heavy, dark tights.

  The final flight of stairs was carpeted. Pete had never been up here before. He had been told it was not a place for the shelter’s clients. As they neared the top, he paused and held on to the handrail to catch his breath. The captain turned and gave him a sympathetic smile.

  “Aren’t your legs as cooperative as they used to be? I know what it’s like, Pete. I’m beginning to feel my fifty years now.”

  Pete looked up slowly and swallowed a gulp of air. “Fifty, eh? Well I’ve got thirteen years on you, young lady. And those include three of active service in ’Nam. They take their toll on you, those years.”

  The captain’s face flushed briefly. Pete had not meant to embarrass her, but her attempt to say something nice had irritated him. He took a deep breath and resumed his trudge up the stairs. Captain Roberts entered a small dark office, where early morning sunlight filtered through its single grimy window. She pressed the light switch, and a solitary neon tube flickered into life. Captain Roberts sat behind a dark wooden desk and clasped her hands in front of her, resting them on its well-used surface. Pete hesitated in the doorway.

  “Come in, Pete, and make yourself comfortable. I’m not going to role-play this with you or anything. I just want to make sure you’re prepared for later. We want you to shine, don’t we?” When she smiled, her dark brown eyes lit up her face, and her lips parted to reveal a row of almost even teeth. Pete entered the room, sat down on the hard metal chair opposite the captain, and waited for the interrogation to start.

  “Now, Pete, have you got a copy of the résumé you filled in for the folks at Walmart?”

  Pete shook his head.

  “It’s always a good idea to do that if you can. Do you remember what you put on it?”

  Pete nodded. He could remember word for word. He felt he had written a thousand résumés in the last three years.

  Captain Roberts’s smile once again lit up her face. “Let’s start with your employment record. What was your last job?”

  Pete swallowed hard. Then he began. “Thirty-five years. I was with WRI for thirty-five years. I started on night patrols and worked my way up to be head of facility security. I had thirty people reporting to me when they pushed me out. That’s when the crap started.”

  “Pete, it’s not a good idea to use bad language when—”

  “So I thought,” Pete continued, ignoring the captain, “you know what? I’m not far off retirement. I’ll take it early. I’ve served my country. They owe me. They owe me big-time. That’s when the world turned real shitty—”

  “Pete,” warned the captain.

  “Pardon my language, ma’am, but there’s no other word for it. First, WRI said I had no pension entitlement. So I thought I’d fight them, and meanwhile I’d get my government pension. Add it to my Vet’s pension. But the pension office says, ‘There’s no record of your pension entitlement. You get nothin’.’ Assholes!”

  “Pete! You must moderate your language—”

  “So I go around to every goddamn government office I can. Then one day, the mortgage company comes knocking. Smart young man in a shiny suit says there’s no record of my mortgage payments. But I show him. I show him the statements I’d kept all the years. But he says they’re no good. The computer’s not got ’em. And that means, so he says, they don’t exist. Next thing, I lose the house. And the car. And you know what?”

  Pete took a deep breath. Captain Roberts leaned forward to lay her hand gently on Pete’s trembling arm.

  “I hit sixty, and I’ve got nothing.” Pete looked down at the captain’s hand resting on his arm. “Diddly-squat.”

  His shoulders sagged. The captain squeezed his arm. “We’ve been through this before, haven’t we?” she said. “You’ve got to move on, Pete.”

  Captain Roberts pushed her chair back and stood up. “Now, Sergeant. We both know you can do better than that. We’re not going to let them see that you’re beat, are we?”

  Pete shook his head vigorously. He blinked hard and looked down at the desktop. He didn’t want the captain to see his tears.

  WHEN DOMINIC left for his mysterious shopping trip, Jonathan stood at the balcony rail of their sixth-floor holiday apartment, watching people wandering to and fro in the wide street below. The apartment was in a perfect central location. Directly on Passeig de la Ribera, the main promenade of Sitges, alongside the wide, clean beaches.

  Jonathan waited nearly twenty minutes before checking his messages on Scruff. He felt a little guilty; he was technically breaking his promise to Dominic. Maybe they were on their honeymoon, but he convinced himself he was only being courteous to his correspondents. He was certainly not making plans for any hookups. Even Jonathan conceded that would be unfair to Dominic. He reminded himself of his husband’s exact words as they waited in the departure lounge at London’s Luton Airport for their flight: “Don’t let me catch you looking at other men on Scruff. We’re on our honeymoon.” And Jonathan had promised faithfully he would not.

  But Jonathan needed sex. A lot. He loved Dominic deeply. Dominic was caring, thoughtful, endlessly self-deprecating, and full of humility. All the things Jonathan felt he was not. He loved the fact that Dominic maintained these qualities in his professional life and could still remain successful. He was a compassionate lawyer. Now there was an oxymoron if ever there was one, he thought. Jonathan would die to save his husband and lover. But it took several years before he felt confident Dominic understood his need for an open relationship, his need for sex with other men, even the occasional woman.

  It was not something Dominic needed. Certainly he was attracted to other men and flattered by their attentions. But his lust and sexual needs were fully satisfied by Jonathan’s endless inventiveness. Jonathan knew his partner had experimented with occasional hookups in the three years before they married, but he felt Dominic was practicing bravado when describing them to him, that he was doing it out of a sense of duty to help Jonathan justify his own needs.

  Perhaps he was overthinking the whole thing. Not something he would ever have done in a previous relationship. Dominic was different from the other men he had known. It took only three years for Jonathan to decide he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Dominic. So long as their relationship could be open. After all, love was about much more than simply sex.

  The photo of a good-looking young man with a shaved head and soulful brown eyes lit up the screen of his phone. Jonathan tapped the incoming message icon alongside it.

  Hey, horny. Bored with married life already? If not, why the fuck are you reading this?

  Jonathan sighed. Steve knew him too well. He scrolled down as the message continued.

  Seriously. If you are reading this, can you ask Dominic to do something for me? I might want some legal advice.

  Jonathan and Dominic had first met Steve in a bar in Brighton at the end of last year. During the events that followed their meeting, Dominic was nearly killed in a car filling with exhaust fumes. Thanks to Steve’s technology skills, Dominic survived. That moment of crisis made Jonathan realize he could not live without his partner. He had asked Dominic to marry him—something he knew Dominic wanted more than anything in the world—and of course, Dominic had accepted. It was all thanks to Steve. He was much more than a sexy guy. But he was that as well.

  Jonathan wondered what free lega
l advice Steve needed. He knew the young man’s principal work was in surveillance. Perhaps he was in trouble. Again. Jonathan looked back at the photo. Steve’s brown eyes were very appealing. And his smooth-skinned chest was very defined. Perhaps he might be on hand for a Skype video call.

  Chapter 3

  ALFONSO DE la Torre pulled the earpiece of the two-way radio out of his ear as the crackly voice rose to an almost deafening pitch.

  “What do you mean, you lost him?”

  He put the earpiece back into his ear once he was sure the volume had subsided. “It’s the mountains. Or something went wrong with the transmitter. Suddenly there was no signal. I kept on riding for several kilometers. But I’m sorry, Captain Ricardo. The car has simply disappeared.”

  Alfonso de la Torre sat astride his police motorbike, waiting for his captain’s response. He idly wiped the dust of the road from his tall leather boots. Alfonso took pride in his appearance. He devoted a lot of attention to his uniform. His tight avocado-green breeches were a perfect fit, and the sleeves of his tunic shirt were just the right degree of snug around his biceps.

  “I’ll call the aerial team,” replied Captain Ricardo. “We must find that man. And the documents he’s taken.” His voice betrayed a hint of panic as he berated de la Torre. “Europol is giving the Guardia Civil a real hard time on this. They won’t say why they want the suspect, Herr Freude. But it’s putting everything else on hold across Europe, so it’s got to be some serious shit. They tracked him across Germany, through Switzerland and France. You can’t just lose him now. Go back up the road and look again. Perhaps he had an accident and he’s gone over a cliff or something. I’ll put you in touch with the aerial team once they get the chopper up. Meanwhile we’ll put a trace on Freude’s mobile phone.”

  The radio went dead. Alfonso de la Torre took off his helmet and took out a packet of Ducados cigarettes from his top pocket. Lighting one, he leaned back and drank in the scenery and the heat of the afternoon sun. If the man had gone over the cliff, then there was no hurry.

  THE VIDEO connection was intermittent, but Jonathan could clearly see Steve’s shaven head, the collar of his pale blue polo shirt, and his red braces. In the background was what looked like a high-class hotel bar. The people were smartly dressed, in contrast to Steve.

  “Looks like you’re somewhere very swanky,” said Jonathan. “I’m surprised they let a lowlife like you in. You’re not dressed as a skinhead again, are you?”

  To confirm Jonathan’s suspicions, Steve raised a 14 hole Grinders boot to the camera, revealing in addition a pair of skintight bleacher jeans.

  “Fuck off, mate,” Steve replied. “It’s only an airport lounge, not the bloody Ritz. Mind you”—Steve’s defined cheekbones and razor-smooth head leaned toward the camera lens—“it’s the fucking executive lounge. I’m off to San Fran. First class.” He leaned back, a cocky smile clearly visible.

  “I’m impressed,” Jonathan said. “But do you have to wear all your skinhead gear? They’ll think you’re some white supremacist and throw you off the plane.”

  Steve flicked his middle finger at the camera, and a broad grin spread across his face. “C’mon, Jonathan, you find it just as sexy as thousands of other gay men. When the British skinheads were kicking the shit out of gays in the 1970s and ’80s—”

  “I know, I know,” interrupted Jonathan. “You don’t have to give me the old lecture about adopting your enemies’ uniform to defuse their attacks. And I know you’re no racist. I just think there’s a time and place.”

  Steve’s face loomed in toward the camera. “Does getting married mean you have to become an uptight middle-class wanker?” he asked. “I can tell you, this executive lounge is the time, and it’s definitely the place. I’ve been cruised twice already.” He leaned back and raised a can of lager to the camera. “Cheers, you old fart.”

  Jonathan laughed. “So who’s the innocent client you fleeced to pay for that?” He went on before Steve could answer. “No. Don’t tell me. The client’s only paying for economy, so you’ve pulled the gay network stunt. Yet again.” Jonathan picked up his glass of cava and raised it to the screen. “Here’s to Steve, always ready to service the ground crew.”

  Steve shook his head. “Nah, that’s for pussies, mate. Much simpler than that. It took me just a few moments at the computer. These ancient airline-ticketing systems are full of holes. The companies are so fucking tight. They pay peanuts to their software guys. And you know what you get when you pay peanuts.” Steve raised his can of lager again and waved it around his head. “Upgraded to first class, mate. On an Airbus 380. It’s like taking candy from a fucking baby. I’m not servicing the ground crew this time. In a few hours, it’ll be the cabin crew servicing me.” He leaned into the screen again, a broad grin across his face. “It’ll be more than fucking cruising altitude, mate.”

  Jonathan laughed and then choked as a mouthful of cava went down the wrong way. Once again, he held his glass up to the computer screen. “I salute you, young sir. You’re always one to do things in style. Your own particular style, of course. Now why are you going to San Francisco? Apart from the obvious.”

  “It’s work, mate. Well, it’s a hackfest, actually.”

  “Hackfest? Is that a festival of hackers? You’re not going to start sharing your hacking secrets, are you? You’ll be flying back economy if you do.”

  “It’s not that kind of hacking, you prick. Anyway I don’t do hacking, me. I specialize in what they call ‘unconventional entry.’”

  Again Jonathan sputtered on a mouthful of cava as he laughed. “And you more than anyone know a thing or two about unconventional entries.”

  “Fuck off, Jonathan,” replied Steve. “For an opera singer, you’ve got a fucking puerile mind. A hackfest is where clever people like me create some cool stuff for the unfortunates who are too thick to understand technology. Mostly arty twats like you. They’ll pair me up with some designer or artist or, God help me, an opera singer. And we end up with some cool tech that no one’s done before. We save the world from itself through tech.”

  “What do you mean, ‘save the world through tech’?” asked Jonathan. “It’s tech that got us into this mess. A billion cars guzzling the world’s resources. The next must-have device eating up precious rare earths. It’s people like me who’ll save the world, through the power of music. And my fabulous garden designs, of course.”

  This time it was Steve’s turn to roar with laughter. “I never saw you as someone with his finger on the pulse of the global crisis. Perhaps you should come to the next hackfest. They can pair you up with someone clever like me.”

  Jonathan leaned into the screen. “Well, Dominic and I will be in San Francisco in a few days’ time. We’re finishing off our honeymoon down the coast from there, at Big Sur. We’ve been invited to a wedding. Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

  “Dominic doesn’t strike me as the jet-setting type,” said Steve.

  “Oh, he’s changed,” said Jonathan with a broad smile. “Sadly, my dear, it’s a lightning visit. Five days only. So we won’t have time for your little hackfest thingy, I’m afraid. Intriguing as it sounds. And positively philanthropic. Not like you at all. Don’t tell me you’re doing it for love?”

  Once again Steve flicked his middle finger at the screen. “I don’t know what Dominic sees in a cynical cunt like you. Oh, that reminds me. Can you ask him to do something for me?”

  Jonathan thought back to the original message on Scruff that had prompted him to Skype Steve.

  “Are you in trouble? He doesn’t do criminal law, you know.”

  “Nah, mate. It’s clever stuff I’ve invented that might need protecting. I’m branching out from security these days. The new horizon is control. Remote control. I can control anything, me. Phones, computers, houses. Cars. Hang on a minute. I’ll show you.” Steve began typing on the keypad of the laptop in front of him. A few seconds later, Jonathan’s laptop started screening a raunchy porn fil
m. He reached across to turn it off, but the keypad no longer responded. The video faded, and the words “Gotcha, tosser!” scrolled up the screen.

  “Now who’s being puerile?” Jonathan was disconcerted at how quickly Steve had taken control from hundreds of miles away. “Anyway, isn’t that a bit old hat? Even I know you can use your mobile these days to turn your heating down when you’re away from home—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” interrupted Steve. “And Google’s got driverless cars. Any bastard knows that. But what I can do takes it to a whole new level. And that’s where I need Dominic’s help.”

  OFFICER DE la Torre surveyed the wreckage below him. The car had landed on its wheels, and the impact had shattered every piece of glass in the vehicle. Alfonso could see two airbags had deployed on impact. They were spattered with the blood of the only occupant, a middle-aged man wearing a once-white T-shirt and tan chinos.

  Alfonso slowly dismounted his bike and pulled it onto its stand. He removed his crash helmet and placed it on the seat. Then he looked for a path down to the rocky plateau where the car had landed. He grasped at narrow ledges with his leather gloves. His boots found dubiously secure toeholds. Slowly, he eased himself down the thirty feet or so to the wreckage. In his teens, Alfonso had climbed regularly in the Pyrenees and in Spain’s Sierra Nevada mountains. This short descent was a minor challenge for him. What he steeled himself for, with apprehension, was the corpse.

  The body was still propped up in the driver’s seat, pinned in position by the airbag. Alfonso carefully opened the door. He waited for splinters of glass to finish falling before he leaned in. Then he went through the routine he had been taught. First, check the body for vital signs. There were none. Then, trying to disturb the corpse as little as possible, he searched the clothes. All he could find was a mobile phone. With difficulty he extracted it from the driver’s pocket.