The Deadly Lies Read online

  Dominic fumbled his hand into the single back pocket of the man’s jeans and pulled out a bank card. He turned it over in his hand and peered at it.

  “His name’s Karl Michael Meyer,” he announced. “Nothing else in his pockets. I presume you don’t want me to go any further, Jonathan? I do think you should let the young man turn over now.”

  “The trouble with you, Dominic,” said Jonathan, flipping Karl Michael onto his side and watching him spit out a mouthful of sand, “is that you’re just too nice.”

  Jonathan stood up and offered his hand to Dominic. “But then, that is one of your adorable features as well.”

  Dominic got to his feet. “Jonathan, a word. Don’t ever criticize me in public again. It’s grounds for divorce, however many times you rescue me from dangerous German boys armed with lighted cigarettes.”

  Jonathan laughed and kissed Dominic on the lips. “I’m going to give you lessons in hand-to-hand combat and airport frisking. It could come in very handy in the bedroom.”

  The sound of retching at their feet interrupted them as Karl Michael choked out the last of the sand he had ingested. He looked up with fury in his eyes.

  “That is so touching. In love. Even married. And Mr. Delingpole was only getting fucked by Bernhardt the week before your wedding. Perhaps it’s a new kind of British stag party? A bridegroom visits all his former lovers for a final fling. Oh yes, Mr. Jonathan McFadden. You’re not the only one who yearns for a so-called open relationship.”

  “WHAT THE hell are you two doing down here?”

  Steve pushed his head past Sinon’s naked torso, to see a short, red-haired female flight attendant staring furiously at them.

  Sinon levered himself up on Steve’s chest and poked his head out from the tiny bunk bed situated eight feet above the floor. It was one of fourteen similar bunks in the compact crew quarters hidden below the plane’s economy deck. “I can explain, really. Charlie said—”

  “I don’t for a minute believe Mr. O’Donnell gave you permission to come down here to—” The flight attendant struggled to find words. “—do that.” Her voice, hardened by the edge of a strong Glaswegian accent, seemed to explode across the cramped cabin.

  “Right, gentlemen,” continued the flame-haired woman firmly. “You have exactly one minute to put your clothes on and get back upstairs. Otherwise we’ll be getting the flex cuffs out to restrain you two reprobates for the rest of the flight.”

  Sinon jumped down from the bunk bed, stretched out his arms to the flight attendant, and grinned. “Flex cuffs? Yes, please. A bit of bondage is always welcome—” He peered at her name badge. “—Margaret. Didn’t know you were such an accommodating airline.”

  Margaret looked Sinon up and down with disdain. “I thought that tall boys like you were supposed to be well-endowed. I was clearly misinformed.”

  Sinon dropped his arms and reached down to pick up his clothes from the floor. Steve jumped down beside him and began to dress. In the cramped space of the crew compartment, he towered over the diminutive woman.

  “Well, love,” said Steve, “you should know more than most that size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it that counts.” He winked at Margaret, pulled up his briefs and bleacher jeans, and reached for his polo shirt.

  “Margaret? Are you all right?” At the sound of a man’s voice, Steve turned. Another member of the cabin crew had joined them. His name badge showed him to be Charles O’Donnell, Inflight Services Manager. O’Donnell looked to be in his early forties, with crew-cut salt-and-pepper hair and a deeply tanned face and forearms. He looked past Margaret, saw Steve and Sinon, and rolled his eyes.

  “It’s all right, Margaret,” he said. There was a strong Northern Irish accent in his voice. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Margaret looked from her boss to the giggling figures of Steve and Sinon. “If I had my way, I’d tan their backsides,” she said and pushed past O’Donnell to climb the stairs back to the passenger deck.

  O’Donnell folded his arms, leaned against a bulkhead, and closed his eyes. “Of all people to discover you, it had to be Margaret the Mouth. I’m really going to be in the shite now.” He opened his eyes. “Couldn’t you two wait a few more hours until you were back on the ground before you got your dicks out?”

  Sinon finished buttoning his fly. He stepped forward and clumsily tried to hug O’Donnell. “Sorry, Charlie boy. But you did slip me the key. I didn’t think we’d been spotted.”

  “With him dressed like that?” O’Donnell pushed Sinon away and refolded his arms, glowering at Steve. “Shaved head, tattoos, braces, Doc Marten boots—”

  “Grinders, Charlie,” interrupted Sinon. “Steve’s got a really smart set of Grinders.”

  “Whatever,” Charlie continued. “It might be an attractive look for some people—”

  “People like you and me, Charlie,” added Sinon, grinning. “You know it makes you horny.”

  “All right, all right.” O’Donnell sighed. “Look, I’ve had several people ask me why we’re allowing a Nazi thug to fly with us. He’s been scaring the life out of my passengers. Couldn’t he have toned it down? Just for a few hours?”

  “Why should I?” asked Steve, stepping forward. “Why should I be forced to dress like everyone else? I’m Steve, by the way. And for your information, I’m not a Nazi thug. I’ve been a member of Unite Against Fascism since I was sixteen. Just because I like the look—as do you by the sounds of it—”

  Charles O’Donnell’s face flushed red.

  “—doesn’t mean I like the politics.”

  “That’s a bit naïve, isn’t it?” replied O’Donnell.

  “No, Charlie boy,” Sinon said. “What’s naïve is judging people by appearances. Just because someone’s wearing a smart suit and tie doesn’t mean they’re a good little boy.” He turned to Steve. “You should have seen Charlie in his leathers during London Fetish Week. On Masters and Slaves night, he had them eating out of his—”

  “Enough, you little shite,” said O’Donnell, holding up his hand. “Get up those stairs, the pair of you.” Steve and Sinon squeezed past him, kissing O’Donnell on the cheek as they went. “And keep a low profile, please,” he continued.

  When he heard the hatch slam shut at the top of the stairs, O’Donnell leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. “For my sake. I’ve got a boyfriend and two Yorkshire terriers to feed.”

  Chapter 9

  GABRIEL AND Alfonso arrived in Sitges shortly after midnight. Gabriel encouraged Alfonso to take a brief detour along the waterfront and into the old town. Finally, they rode up the narrow streets that led to the heart of the town’s gay nightlife. The 1200cc touring bike drew a small crowd of admirers, particularly as Gabriel and Alfonso had dressed to impress. Alfonso brought the motorbike to a halt, and Gabriel dismounted. He removed his helmet and casually unzipped his black leather Dainese jacket. He watched as Alfonso dismounted and pulled the bike back smartly onto its stand. Alfonso gathered together their helmets and gloves and locked them in the bike’s top box. The two men stood for a moment, their arms wrapped around each other’s waist.

  “We haven’t been here for over five years,” said Gabriel.

  “You haven’t been here for over five years,” corrected Alfonso. “Remember, I have to come catch the bad boys of Sitges sometimes.”

  “Oh, I quite forgot.” Gabriel held his husband at arm’s length and looked him up and down. “You must be quite a distraction when you roll into town in your close-fitting breeches and boots.” He glanced to his left and smiled at a man who was staring in their direction. The man was wearing shorts far too tight for him. “Rather like now, in fact. Mind you, I don’t fancy the competition’s luck tonight. Where do people get their dress sense from these days? The magazines in the doctor’s surgery?” He took Alfonso’s hand. “Come on, my love. Let’s see if they’re as badly dressed inside. I think we could make ourselves the focus of attention.”

  “SATISFIED?�
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  Dominic looked at Karl Michael with contempt. “I should have left Jonathan to suffocate you in the sand. He’s right. I’m too soft when it comes to poisonous liars like you.”

  Despite Dominic’s pleas, Jonathan had stormed off when Karl Michael made his allegations of infidelity. Dominic had only seen Jonathan this angry once before, and he knew better than to chase after him. He would wait half an hour and then go look for him in the nightspots of Sitges. Anyway, he had some business to finish with Karl Michael.

  “You know you can’t deny it, Dominic Delingpole,” replied Karl Michael, still wiping away sand from his face. “You were in Berlin from the twenty-eighth to the thirtieth April. While you were there, you stayed at Nollendorfstrasse on two occasions.”

  “I didn’t stay there on two occasions. I visited Bernhardt once at his apartment. And where did you get this ridiculous idea he was fucking me?”

  Karl Michael’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Because he told me. And he told me you came back for more. I know it’s reliable information. Bennie has always been open with me about his lovers.”

  The two men stood on the sand, glowering at each other. Dominic was the first to break the silence.

  “How long have you and Bernhardt been together?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s our twelfth anniversary this October.” Karl Michael sat down on the sand and stared out at the sea. “He was the most wonderful thing in my life. And now he’s gone missing, and all I know is that the last message from his mobile was sent to your phone. Why?”

  Dominic sighed and sat down next to Karl Michael. “I’ve got no idea. And I’ve also no idea why you told Jonathan such a dirty lie.”

  “It’s not a lie!” Karl Michael turned to face Dominic. “It’s what Bennie told me. He fucked you twice. Once in the bedroom, and when you came back for more, he fucked you on the settee in the sitting room. I don’t believe he ever lied to me. Why are you denying it?”

  “Because it’s not true,” Dominic tried to protest.

  “No, you’re wrong, Mr. Dominic Delingpole.” Karl Michael rose slowly and stood looking down at Dominic. “I know a lot about you. I know you first met Bennie at the Berlin Opera House seventeen years ago. I know you saw La Bohème together, and after that, you spent fifteen nights with him in his studio in Fuggerstrasse. Then you simply left one night. But you’ve been back, haven’t you, Mr. Delingpole? You’ve been back many times since. Just who is the liar here?”

  THE HEAVY industrial elevator doors clanged shut as Nick stepped out into the cavernous warehouse space on the ground floor of their waterfront building. He flipped a row of switches on the pillar in front of him and watched as the bright overhead lights flickered into life, filling the space with a warm-tinted luminance. This was what he and Jeff had christened the “Creative Cavern.” Tomorrow, it would be occupied by more than fifty highly intelligent and creative people from a range of backgrounds and from across the world. Half of them would be computer coders. Nick and his partner, Jeff, would team them up with designers, artists, sociologists, writers, even actors. They would set them the simple task of thinking without boundaries, imagining the impossible and then trying to create it.

  Jeff Woodfield had researched the science of designing creative spaces when he built this home for the Grain Street Hackfest in 2001. Although the space was vast and industrial, thick carpet on the floor and sound-absorbing material on the walls gave it an intimate acoustic. Plentiful soft seating areas with beanbags and battered, fading leather armchairs and sofas were scattered about. A web of electrical cables hung down from the ceiling, bringing power outlets to about a dozen large round tables equipped with huge flat-screen monitors. Six or eight chairs were arranged around each table. This was to be the fifth hackfest. Jeff organized them every couple of years. On the exclusive membership list Jeff and Nick had drawn up, there were now more than a hundred people from across the world.

  Nick crossed the floor to an iron spiral staircase and climbed thirty steps to a silver steel motor home, tethered thirty feet in the air by a series of taut metal cables. It served as the control room for the three-day hackfest. From here, Steve could monitor the creative dramas playing out on the floor below. Over the years, he had built an increasingly sophisticated computerized tracking system that alerted him to coding developments that might be of interest at any moment.

  Inside the motor home, he powered up a bank of monitors on the back wall, took his seat in a large leather swivel chair, and picked up a keyboard. As the screens flickered into life, he selected a video feed from one of the ninety cameras installed around the building. It showed him the sidewalk outside 101 Grain Street. Two men approached the ground floor entrance to the building. He recognized them as Fortran and Cobol, the chosen names for two organizers of a half-dozen or so eager volunteers who helped out during the hackfest. Before either of them could press the intercom button, Nick buzzed down.

  “Hey, guys. Welcome!” He enjoyed the startled look on their fresh, young faces. “Come on in. I’m about to get things going here. I could sure do with your help.”

  Nick reached behind him and pressed the main door-release button on the wall of the control room. He watched on the monitor as the heavy wooden entrance door slowly swung open. Fortran and Cobol strode enthusiastically into the building and disappeared from view. Nick waited until the door closed securely before he stood up and walked out onto the small platform surrounding the suspended motor home.

  “Right, you two,” he called to Fortran and Cobol as they emerged into the Creative Cavern. “Get yourselves coffee and doughnuts. Then the first thing I need you to do is check the table monitors and finalize the seating plan with me. I’ve worked out the groupings. I want you guys to print out the table cards so we can get everyone seated in the right place. When’s the rest of the team arriving?”

  Fortran looked up. “They’ll be here in a while. Tomorrow, the call time is 0800. Briefing at 0900. I can go through that later with you, Nick. We’ll kick off with the tech check first.”

  He and Cobol walked over to one of the four kitchen areas, which were each equipped with commercial-sized chrome coffee machines. As they started brewing their kicks of caffeine, Nick reentered the motor home control room and took his seat in the leather swivel chair. He leaned back for a moment, deep in thought. Then he reached forward and started typing rapidly on the keyboard in front of him. It took him only a few moments to call up Steve Brown’s travel plans. He pulled a small gooseneck microphone toward him and pushed the button.

  “Fortran?” Nick heard his own voice, strangely muted by the heavy soundproofing of the Creative Cavern below. “Come up here a moment, would you? I’ve got a little exercise for you.”

  Nick pushed the microphone away and looked back at Steve’s travel records on the screen.

  “Now, young British skinhead,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s see how good you really are. Fortran’s going to send you a minor zombie attack for your arrival. Welcome to the city of broken dreams.”

  DOMINIC STOOD up and dusted the sand from his clothes.

  “Karl Michael, there’s something that doesn’t add up with your paranoia over Bernhardt,” he said. “If you know as much about me as you claim, you’ll know I’m a lawyer, just like Bernhardt. I’m not nearly as clever as him, but nevertheless, he values my opinion when it comes to matters affected by English jurisdiction.” He looked down at Karl Michael. “Over the years, he’s consulted me on several issues relating to rights—”

  “I don’t believe you. Since twelve years, Bennie and me have not just been lovers and partners in life, but business partners as well. We work on the same projects together. If he was consulting you on business, I would be involved. Yet why has he not included me in these meetings with you?”

  Dominic hesitated. His professional obligation of confidentiality was to Bernhardt, but he had never heard Bernhardt refer to Karl Michael as his business partner. He wondered which of the two w
as telling the truth. But then, there were elements of his long relationship with Bernhardt that, for the moment, he preferred to keep from Karl Michael.

  “I’m not in a position to say, Karl Michael. Bernhardt told me you wrote computer programs for him—that’s all he ever said.”

  Karl Michael slammed his hand down on the sand. “No! We were always equal. I’m sure of it.” He stared down at his hand, sweeping it back and forth in the sand beside him vigorously. Then he stopped and looked up at Dominic. “Except in the last few weeks. He was planning something, I know it.” He scrambled to his feet and gazed intently at Dominic, their heads a few inches apart. “I need to know why he was coming to see you. You must tell me what was in that final message he sent.”

  Dominic took a step back from Karl Michael. He could see the man’s shoulders were shaking, and his fists were clenching and unclenching at his side.

  “Karl Michael, I need you to calm down before we go any further.” He waited and watched the blond-haired German breathe deeply. “I’ve lost my husband tonight. I hope I can get him back, but I hold you responsible if I don’t. You’ve lost your lover, and now, so you tell me, your business partner.” He held up his hand as Karl Michael opened his mouth to speak.

  “I will help you. I promise. But you must help me. I can’t think straight when people throw petulant tantrums like the one you just did. I don’t have my phone with me, but I’ll happily give you Bernhardt’s message. It made no sense to me. It said something about Adam and a series of numbers. Do you know anyone called Adam?”

  Karl Michael frowned. “No, there’s no one. But why was he coming all the way by car to see you?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. He said that neither of you could get to the wedding. But then a business trip came up in Spain, so he said he would meet us here to give us our wedding present.”