Your Truth or Mine? Read online

  Chris pulls me aside when she begins telling George about her modelling career.

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Alanna and I . . . I decided to take your advice. We’re giving it another shot,’ he says, fiddling with the wedding ring that’s now back on.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Mia, is everything okay? Have I done something?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You haven’t returned my calls.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ve been busy. You know, looking for a job and all.’

  He gives me a strange look. ‘It’s hard on me too, you know.’

  ‘It’s hard getting promoted?’ I scoff.

  He stares at me, then shakes his head.

  ‘I was asked to leave. Mike called me in right after you left. Thanks to your decision to issue those MDAs.’

  It takes me a few seconds to process this. ‘What? Why? I thought you told them about the tests.’

  ‘I would never do that to you,’ he says. The hurt on his face punctures through my bitterness. He steps away from me, and leans in to whisper something to Alanna.

  A quick goodbye and they’re off.

  I turn on the TV as soon as we enter the house. Still no name, no charge. I leave it on, buzzing in the background, as I go upstairs to get changed. When I go back downstairs a few minutes later, George is in the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘You can’t leave things like this,’ he says, with a swoop of his hand across the kitchen – some of it the mess the police left behind, but most of it my own. I decide not to tell him that. I had forgotten what a clean freak George is.

  ‘Leave it, I’ll do it later.’

  He starts loading up the dishwasher.

  ‘You know, I was thinking, why don’t you come back to Bristol with me for a couple of days? It’ll make a nice change of scene and I really don’t like the idea of leaving you here by yourself,’ he says, wiping his hands and coming around to stand in front of me by the kitchen table.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘What if the police need me for something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . anything.’

  ‘Well, you can always come back. It’s only a couple of hours away.’

  I hesitate.

  ‘Come on, it’ll be just like old times. You could do with a bit of fun, Mia,’ he says.

  He’s right, I could use some fun. And I hate being in this house by myself. Plus I could go to see Uncle Bill and try and get some information about the other house. I nod. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Great. Why don’t you go and pack and I’ll finish up in here,’ he says.

  I’m already in the hall when he calls out. ‘Oh, and Mia, a package arrived for you earlier. It’s on the coffee table.’

  I nip into the living room to see what it is, using a set of keys to tear open the packaging.

  Roy’s iPad is back from the dead.

  ROY

  Friday, 18th December

  They come back with a cup of milky coffee for me and a glass of water for Alistair. They remind me I’m still under caution and then the stream of questions resumes. Dizzying. Relentless.

  ‘Do you have a credit card, Mr Kapoor?’

  ‘I have two. A Mastercard and an Amex.’

  ‘Are these the ones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we record that these were recovered from Mr Kapoor’s wallet when he was brought in.’

  ‘When was the last time you washed your car, Mr Kapoor?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Hazard a guess, will you?’

  ‘November sometime, after my parents left.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I already said I don’t remember,’ I bite back.

  ‘This was recovered from your house earlier today,’ Robins says and slides a piece of paper towards me. It’s a photocopy of a car wash receipt. Seaford, 3 a.m., Saturday, 5th December. Paid for by my Amex.

  ‘My card must have been cloned. That happened to my frien—’

  Dunmore raises a hand and I shut up. ‘We’ve already requested CCTV footage. Shouldn’t be long,’ he says.

  ‘Can I confirm what you were wearing that evening, Roy?’

  ‘Blue jeans and a black sweatshirt.’

  ‘With a hood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And remind me which car were you driving?’

  ‘Vauxhall Astra, black.’

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘LD61 TXM’

  ‘Where did you park?’

  ‘In the hotel car park,’ I say, mimicking her intonation.

  ‘The hotel has two car parks, does it not?’ she asks, irritation lining her voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which one did you use?’

  ‘The one in the basement.’

  ‘Why that one?’

  ‘It was freezing, I didn’t want icy wheels in the morning.’

  ‘There was a notice there, at the entrance of the basement car park. Do you remember it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This might jog your memory,’ Robins says, placing a picture on the table.

  It’s a notice saying the CCTV in the basement car park was broken and guests were advised to use the car park behind the hotel.

  ‘I don’t remember seeing this.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Detective—’ Alistair begins but Robins cuts him off with the flick of a hand.

  ‘Could you confirm the time you entered the car park and the time you left?’

  ‘I was in the hotel from nine forty-five p.m. on Friday till around midday Saturday, so obviously, my car was in the car park for the same duration,’ I cut back. I am starting to get tired of this.

  ‘Perhaps you can explain these then,’ Robins says, pulling out a picture from her file and sliding it across the table as Dunmore glares on.

  I peer at it. Screen grabs from CCTV footage. There’s mud smeared on the number plate, hiding the last digit, but it’s unmistakable. It’s my car. On the Brighton seafront. The time stamp says 1.35 a.m., Saturday, 5th December.

  I rub my eyes. This can’t be happening. It isn’t possible.

  ‘This is a mistake.’

  ‘Here’s another.’

  Marine Drive, Saltdean. 1.52 a.m., Saturday, 5th December.

  I place my elbows on the table and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I black out the images. I don’t understand how they got these.

  ‘Perhaps we should call it a night, Detective. My client is visibly tired,’ I hear Alistair say.

  I stay like that, head in my hands. I breathe deeply.

  ‘No problem, Mr Stanton. We’ll pick this up first thing tomorrow. Lots more where these came from. You left breadcrumbs all the way to Seaford, Mr Kapoor.’

  I hear the door shut and then I look up. Spots of red and blue dance in front of my eyes, then slowly the room reappears.

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  Alistair holds up a finger, pointing to the red light flashing above us. We both stare at it for a few seconds.

  Alistair nods when it finally goes off.

  ‘Roy, this is the last time I’m going to ask you this. Have you told me everything?’

  ‘Yes! I don’t understand why they’re asking me all this. I have an alibi! You need to find Celia. She will confirm I was with her all night.’

  ‘They have pictures that prove you weren’t.’

  ‘I don’t know how they got those. Maybe they’ve faked the photos. Can they do that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then someone obviously stole my car.’

  ‘And put it back?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe it was one of Emily’s ex-boyfriends. Those men they released didn’t look right.’

  Alistair gives me a wry look and gets up. He doesn’t believe me.

 
; ‘I didn’t do it, Alistair. I promise you.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he says before the door slams shut again.

  MIA

  Friday, 18th December

  ‘Wine?’ George calls out, going straight into the kitchen.

  ‘Just some water, please,’ I say, dumping my bag on the floor. The living room is warm, the old radiators ticking along noisily. George had got here before me; I’d insisted on bringing my own car, a little assertion of independence. I walk up to the brick fireplace that dominates the room and look at the photos on the mantelpiece.

  ‘There you go,’ he says a minute later, handing me a glass of water. He pours out some wine for himself. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’

  I shake my head. ‘Where is this?’ I ask, picking up a picture of George and a brunette from the mantelpiece. She’s pretty.

  ‘Cambodia.’

  ‘You travel so much! I always wonder what things would have been like if I hadn’t moved into sales. Do you remember how much fun we had when we went to Senegal for that artist exchange?’

  ‘You mean when you got wasted on that fifty-pence wine, threw up all over the group leader’s backpack and then passed out in the bathroom?’

  ‘I forgot about that!’ I say and we both laugh. I put the picture back. The laughter dissipates and an unexpected panic takes its place.

  ‘Oh Georgie, what am I going to do? It’s all just so . . . I mean, how did I even get here? Fired, running from my own home, married to a man who’s accused of murder?’ I sigh. ‘And Mum . . .’

  ‘Hey, don’t go weak on me now, Mia. You’re one of the smartest, most independent women I know. You’ll figure it out.’

  I nod. There’s more, I want to say. I want to tell him about what I discovered the other day but I can’t seem to form the words.

  ‘Look, let’s attack this one thing at a time, okay? We’ll come up with a plan,’ he says. ‘You’re brilliant, you’ll get a new job the minute you start looking. But maybe this is a good thing. You clearly need a break, Mia. You need to go to India, spend some time with your mum, and then you need to get back to being yourself. As for Roy, I don’t know if he’s guilty or not, but he’s an arsehole for the way he’s treated you, and Emily. I know it might not seem like it right now, but you were right to leave him.’

  I take a deep breath and smile. I feel my heart rate go back to normal. The buzzing stops. I start to feel solid again. ‘Thanks, George.’

  ‘Anytime. You’re better than him. Don’t forget that. Now, how does pasta sound for dinner?’

  ‘Sure, it’s the only thing you know how to cook,’ I attempt, my eyes still wet.

  He squeezes my arm and turns to go to the kitchen. I start to follow but he steers me towards the sofa instead. ‘Sit down, chill out. And have some wine. You know where the glasses are.’

  I sink into the sofa, the cream leather folding around me in habitual creases. I feel myself relax for the first time in days. I lean back and close my eyes. I’m exhausted. I haven’t been here in years but it feels like I never left.

  I flick through a copy of the National Geographic on the coffee table. By the time George comes back, I know the top ten holiday destinations for the next year. Cambodia and Peru top the list. I can’t imagine ever visiting either of them. Not the way my life is going.

  ‘So, I was thinking about that deed you told me about,’ he says. ‘Remember Phil Buckley?’

  ‘Vaguely. Tasha’s brother?’

  ‘That’s the one. He works at the land registry, he’s quite high up. I can ask him to look into it if you want?’

  ‘That’ll be great.’

  ‘Sure, just give me the papers tomorrow and I’ll pass them on.’

  ‘Okay.’ I look down at my spaghetti. I twirl some on the fork.

  ‘Hey, you’ll be all right, I promise,’ he says.

  I fight to hold back the tears.

  This isn’t the life I wanted. None of this is right. In a matter of days, my whole life has fallen apart. Everything has changed. I’m drained, exhausted, and alone.

  George puts his bowl down, then takes mine and places it on the coffee table next to his own.

  He pulls me into a hug and for the second time in one day, I cry into his shirt. His sturdiness feels safe and I don’t want to let go.

  I pull away slightly when the anxiety passes. I attempt a smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice hoarse from the crying. ‘I’ve ruined your shirt.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he whispers.

  His breath feels hot on my face and it occurs to me how close we are. The atmosphere changes in that instant.

  ‘Remember when you crashed your bike when we were little? You totalled it, twisted your ankle and then went home to find that Scooby had died. You wept for a week straight. You were convinced your whole life was over.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I murmur. His hands feel warm on my back.

  ‘That’s what this is. I know it feels like the end but you’ll make it out, stronger,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye, his brows knitted together. ‘I promise.’

  It all seems so familiar – the way he smells, the way I fit into his arms, the way his eyes droop after a few glasses of wine. He’s still the same. He’s still here. He’s still dependable.

  It would be so easy.

  I allow myself to lean into him once more. I close my eyes. It feels exciting and comforting at the same time. Like coming home. His mouth brushes mine, soft, gentle. Delightful.

  Slut.

  I jerk away. I flop back on the sofa, clutching on to the armrest to regain my balance. My head begins to throb.

  George has hurled himself to the other end of the sofa. He looks lost.

  We sit like that for a minute, staring at each other, me in shock, him in . . . I don’t know, disgust?

  He speaks first, his voice muffled. ‘Mia, I’m so so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. Not like this.’

  I nod. I don’t know what to say. I look at the bottle of wine in front of me. It’s empty.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ I say.

  George nods from the other end of the sofa. ‘We just got lost in the moment, that’s all.’

  I get up and go to the guest room.

  ‘Mia, please. Can we just talk about this . . .’ I hear George call out.

  I close the door. I rip off the bedspread and climb into bed.

  I close my eyes. George was drunk but I hadn’t even touched the wine. That was all me, sober as day.

  Look at that. You’re a slut too.

  Just like Emily.

  Nothing happened, I tell myself.

  Nothing happened.

  ROY

  Friday, 18th December

  My cell is on the fourth floor of the police station. ‘Penthouse suite,’ the jailer smirks as he opens the cobalt blue door to let me in.

  The door slams shut and the stench of urine fills my head. I take a look around. It’s tiny, smaller than my bathroom at home, all the walls covered in light grey tiles. Masquerading as a bed along the right wall is a narrow concrete bench. A steel sink and lavatory with no lid take up the corner of the opposite wall. I peer at the pot. Skid marks all over. I shudder. I can hold it in till the morning.

  I cover my nose with my hand and lie down on the bed. I stare at what is meant to be a skylight – it’s no more than an eight-inch-by-eight-inch square. It’s too dark to see anything out of it, but I suspect even during the day it would be foggy at best. It doesn’t look like this cell has been cleaned in years.

  I toss and turn. The blue plastic mattress is too limp to provide any real comfort but I suspect tonight would be hard even in a real penthouse suite.

  Dunmore’s and Robins’s words echo through the airless cell.

  They say you aren’t real. They say that I made you up to protect myself. That Celia Brown is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

  How do I explain to them that you are more real than any of them could ever h
ope to be?

  I see a shadow pass across the rectangular window in the door and I prop myself up to try and decipher who it is but it’s too dark to make out. I lie back down and turn on my side. The mattress slides to the other side and I pull it back in. I think back to that night in Brighton, how we luxuriated in the king-size bed, falling asleep in each other’s arms. When I woke up, I could hear the water running in the bathroom.

  ‘Come back,’ I called out, still in bed.

  A moment later you appeared, all wrapped up in a towel, beads of water trickling down your neck.

  ‘What’s that?’ you asked, leaning on the bathroom door.

  I don’t think you could ever look more beautiful than you did in that moment. Your head cocked to one side, sunlight streaming in from the bathroom windows, turning your pale skin luminous.

  ‘Come back,’ I repeated, pulling the duvet over me so you wouldn’t see how hard I was.

  You smiled. You let the towel drop to the floor. You walked over slowly and drew the duvet away. All while you held my gaze. You climbed into bed and lay down next to me, close enough for me to feel the warmth of your skin but far enough to drive me wild with desire.

  ‘You’re driving me crazy,’ I croaked, propping myself up on my elbow so I could look at you. You smiled, but stayed put.

  ‘What if we don’t go back?’ you said, looking at the ceiling.

  ‘Back?’

  ‘To our homes, our marriages.’

  ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘I don’t know, we could go anywhere. Everywhere.’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘We could travel. Write. Build a life together.’

  You closed your eyes, lost in this fictional paradise. I knew how seductive it could be, that promise of opportunity, the chance to be different. I wanted to tell you how much I wanted it as well. But I didn’t. We were suspended in an alternate reality, one where this was real, where we could be together. The silence allowed the dream and I let it.

  I reached over. I ran a finger down your neck and you smiled. I kissed your nipples and you stirred. I fingered you and you moaned. I entered you and you cried.

  Afterwards as we lay tangled in the sheets, your legs, pale and smooth, entwined with my own, your fingers running across my chest, you whispered, ‘Maybe there is a way.’