The Last Lie: The must-read new thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author

Claire burst into laughter. You sing children’s songs?

I do. What’s so funny? Music is an important part of childhood development.

I know, but – it’s just – well, I had an idea of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll and that’s a bit more—

Nappies and wet wipes and singalongs? I know. Not exactly living the life. He shrugged. But I enjoy it. And it pays the bills. And I do think it’s important for kids to have access to quality music from an early age. It might only be ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ but it doesn’t have to be bad.

I agree, she said. And I admire you. It’s very impressive.

He glanced at the stage. The rest of the band was re-emerging. He grabbed a napkin and took a pen from his pocket.

Here, he said, and wrote his number down. Give me a call sometime. I’ll play you some of my back catalogue.

He handed it to her and headed back to the stage. She’ll call, he thought. She’ll call because she feels superior to me. Stronger. Because I’m a kids’ entertainer and anyone who does that is safe. Weak. Not going to leave her. And that’s what she wants.

So that’s what he’d be. He made a mental note to buy some kids’ music CDs the next day. He’d never played on a kids’ CD in his life, but he’d tell her he was on them. She wouldn’t know any different.

Back on stage, he picked up his bass as the band played the opening bars of ‘Wild Thing’. He glanced at her. She was talking to a friend who had her back to the band, but as he watched she looked up at him. He gave a little wave. She waved back at him.

He knew then this was a done deal.

And it was. They went on dates, ate meals Alfie couldn’t afford in places he’d never known existed. He met her friends and their husbands, listened to how they spoke and matched his accent to theirs, modelled his behaviour – confident, charming – on the way they acted. She fell in love with him, head over heels. He fell in love with the life she offered him.

It was a life he could get no other way. He worked, on and off, but he didn’t get very far. It wasn’t his fault; he was as able as anyone else but he had the wrong background. He’d managed to get into a marketing firm at one point but had got sick of seeing graduates with RP voices and degrees in art history from Warwick and Durham and Oxford show up and take all the promotions. He hated them, hated taking orders from a fucking idiot who just happened to have been to the right school and the right university and whose dad had the right connections and whose mum had the right clothes and gave head to the right fucking people.

And there was nothing he could do about it. He had nothing and he was going nowhere.

But Claire fixed both his problems. She had money, and she had connections, and at first he had quite liked her, which was, for Alfie, as good as it got. He didn’t really care about anybody – he certainly didn’t love anyone in the way other people claimed to; in fact, it seemed absurd to him that anyone could ever be so dependent on someone else – so why not Claire? And what wasn’t to like? She was pretty, quiet, and, if he was ever getting too bored with talking to her there was always sex. Like most new couples, they did that a lot.

But it had all changed now. Now he hated her.

He finished his cigarette and put his lighter and cigarettes back in his jacket pocket. As he did, his fingers brushed the phone he kept with the illicit tobacco. It wasn’t his iPhone; that was in the back pocket of his trousers.

It was his other phone, a pay-as-you-go Android device he’d bought in a backstreet electronics shop.

He took it out and glanced at the screen. There were four missed calls and three messages. He swiped and read them.

The first was from that morning.

Hey! I’m missing you! Give me a call. It’s been a week! Pippa x

Then, a few hours later:

Are you ignoring me? Only kidding. But call! Pips.

Then a new arrival only a few minutes old:

Henry! What’s going on? Get in touch. Please?

It was the ‘please?’ that did it. He’d sensed she was getting too attached and this was confirmation. Besides, he was getting bored with Pippa Davies-Hunt anyway. Most of the thrill with her had been in the chase. She knew how to play hard to get, understood that once she let him screw her the mystery would be gone, the novelty would have worn off.

And she was right. All the thrill was in the chase. She was well educated and rich and lean and pretty but she was a disappointment in bed. She was stiff and unresponsive; compliant, yes – in order to try and keep himself interested he’d suggested some light bondage the third time they’d slept together and she’d gone along with it, not complaining when he choked her hard enough to leave her gasping – but it was the dumb compliance of a farmyard animal. She seemed to take no pleasure in it, seemed to think it was a grim necessity, the price paid for a boyfriend, the thing boyfriends and girlfriends did. It was like she was acting, and Alfie – Henry – was bored of her.

Yes, Henry was bored of her. Henry Bryant – handsome and elusive doctor, frequenter of the websites where people like Pippa went to meet men, owner of the Android phone in Alfie’s pocket – was no longer interested in her.

And there was only one way to deal with it. He had to rip the plaster off. Put an end to it, immediately and irrevocably. It might as well be now. She didn’t know it, but this had been coming from the start. As far as she was concerned, he was Henry Bryant, a doctor, single, and devoted to his work, which was why he would often be out of touch for a few days. She had no idea he was married and called Alfie Daniels and about to shatter her dreams.

Sorry, he typed. Been busy. I’ve been thinking too. I’m not sure this is working out. I think it’s better if we call it a day. Sorry to do this by text, but I’m a bit of a coward.

Nice touch of humility at the end there, he thought. Bit of humour too. Should soften the blow.

The reply was immediate.

Are you fucking SERIOUS??! We need to talk, Henry. You can’t end it like this.

He chuckled. There was no point being gentle with her. This was the last he’d have to do with her and so he might as well leave her thinking he was an arsehole. It’d help her get over him.

I can, and I just did. Sorry. It’s over. Please don’t contact me again.

He hit send and took a mint from his pocket. He slipped it into his mouth. Time to go back in.

The screen lit up with a message. Pippa, again. Fucking hell. She needed to get the message and fuck off.

You bastard. You absolute bastard. You can’t do this to me! I won’t let you. I love you, Henry! I need to see you one last time so we can talk about this. I’ll come to your hospital at a time that suits you. OK?

Shit. She wasn’t going to give up easily. It didn’t matter, though. She had no idea who he really was, and if she did show up at the hospital he’d told her he worked at, they’d inform her there was no Dr Henry Bryant on the staff. He smiled at the thought of it. She really would be shocked then. Anyway, it made no difference to him. He was done with Pippa Davies-Hunt. He deleted her message and headed for the house.

Claire

Jodie, Claire’s oldest friend, was walking towards her across the living room. She was with a man Claire vaguely recognized – perhaps a university acquaintance – and as she reached Claire she gestured at her companion.

‘You remember Trevor?’ Jodie said. ‘I think you may have met at Bunny’s wedding last year?’

Trevor shook her hand. ‘Sorry to crash your birthday party. But I was out with Jo this afternoon. Happy Birthday, by the way.’

Claire smiled, and glanced at Jodie. No one called her Jo. Jodie rolled her eyes slightly, in a look that said I can’t get rid of him.

‘No problem,’ Claire said. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘Where’s Alfie?’ Jodie asked.

‘I’m not sure. Maybe getting a drink? He’s around.’

‘That was quite the … performance earlier,’ she said.

‘It was sweet of him,’ Claire said. She felt defensive, especially after Hugh’s comments. ‘You know Alfie. That’s how he is.’

‘God, I totally agree,’ Jodie said. ‘I didn’t mean anything negative, but not every guy sings songs at his wife’s birthday, you know? I actually thought it was amazing.’

‘He has a really good voice,’ Trevor said. ‘It was … impressive.’

‘He was in a band,’ Claire said, looking at Trevor. ‘That was how we met.’

‘He picked you out in the crowd?’ Trevor said.

‘Not exactly. They were playing at a wedding and he was on his break. I know – it sounds like a cliché, but he wasn’t the band guy looking for groupies at all. He was so nice. So relaxed. He told me about his career singing children’s songs. He wasn’t embarrassed, like some guys would be.’

‘He sings children’s songs?’ Trevor said.

‘He used to,’ Claire said. She was aware there was a hard edge in her voice, but she was getting sick of people thinking Alfie was some kind of beta male because he didn’t run about thumping his chest and downing pints of lager. ‘But sadly not any more.’

‘Well,’ Trevor said, finding it hard to know where to look. ‘It’ll – er – it’ll be a useful skill when you have kids.’

Jodie caught Claire’s eye. She knew they had been trying – unsuccessfully – and she changed the subject.

‘Great party,’ she said. ‘I saw Derek Pritchard. He’s back from Australia. Isn’t he the—’ Jodie was interrupted by her phone ringing. She looked at the screen. ‘God,’ she said. ‘I have to take this. It’s a friend. She’s been having a tough time.’ She lifted the phone to her ear.

‘Pippa?’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

Claire watched as her friend’s eyes widened.

‘The bastard,’ she said. ‘That is so awful.’ She looked at Claire and Trevor and shook her head. ‘Pips,’ she said. ‘It’s noisy in here. I’m going to call you back, OK? Give me five seconds.’

‘Everything OK?’ Claire asked.

‘Not exactly,’ Jodie replied. ‘Her boyfriend dumped her by text. I think you met her once – Pippa Davies-Hunt?’

‘Yes,’ Claire said. She had a vague memory of a tall woman with very long hair. ‘Maybe at someone’s Christmas do?’

‘Dave Chapel,’ Jodie said. ‘She was dating him for a while. Anyway, she was convinced this new guy was the one, but I had my doubts. He came and went, you know? Blamed it on his job. He’s a doctor.’

‘Did you meet him?’ Claire said.

‘No. But I got a bad impression from the way she talked about him. Anyway, now he’s dumped her, and she’s distraught. The thing is, Pippa is a little bit’ – she pointed her finger at her temple and twirled it – ‘and she doesn’t take this kind of thing well. She wants me to come over. I ought to.’

‘No problem,’ Claire said. ‘You need to leave now?’

‘Maybe in half an hour,’ Jodie said.

‘Great.’ Trevor grinned. ‘I’ll grab some more drinks. Champagne?’

They watched him walk away. ‘Is he—’ Claire began. ‘Are you?’

Jodie shook her head. ‘He called out of the blue and asked if I wanted to meet for coffee. I remembered him from Bunny’s party and I figured it couldn’t do any harm, but now I can’t get rid of him. I told him I was coming to your birthday party and he invited himself along.’

‘At least you’ll be able to tell him you need to be alone with Pippa.’

‘Right,’ Jodie said. ‘Not that that’s going to be great fun. She’s really upset.’

‘I’m not surprised. Dumping someone by text is pretty harsh.’

‘Not something you’d have to worry about,’ Jodie replied. ‘Alfie’s not going anywhere.’

‘No,’ Claire said. ‘I doubt he is. It’s such a relief to be with someone who makes you feel secure. In every other relationship I was always wondering whether whoever it was really loved me, and if they did, why, what it was about me that they loved. It was a constant search for proof so I could relax. But with Alfie – I know he loves me. We connect on some deep level. It’s like we were made for each other. And it’s such a lovely feeling.’

‘You really are lucky,’ Jodie said. ‘I hope I end up in the same boat.’

‘But not with Trevor.’

‘No, not with Trevor. And I know it’s not going all that well right now, but you’ll be pregnant soon, and you two will be the perfect parents. Your kids will be the luckiest kids around.’

Claire didn’t want to say so, but she agreed. It was part of what attracted her to Alfie. She knew their kids would grow up with a dad who showed them how to be affectionate and loving, taught them it was OK to cry and show emotion, hugged and kissed and cuddled them long after they were babies. She had an image of her and Alfie and two children camping in the Lake District or riding bikes in a forest or eating popcorn on a family movie night. It was all she wanted – all he wanted, too – and the thought that it might not happen was unbearable.

‘I hope so,’ Claire said. ‘I’m not sure what I’d do if it didn’t work out. And Alfie would take it hard. I think he’s more desperate than me for kids.’

Jodie gestured to Trevor. He was walking towards them with a bottle of champagne. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘There is one saving grace about not being pregnant. You can have another drink.’

Alfie

Alfie headed back to the house. There was a group of people smoking on the terrace. Perfect. He could stop for a chat and then if Claire detected any lingering smell of smoke on him he could blame it on them.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Nice evening.’

There were five of them, four men he didn’t know and a woman he vaguely recognized. Her face was flushed and she was a little glassy-eyed. No wedding ring and probably no boyfriend, which was why she was out here smoking with a bunch of men who were no doubt hoping she’d leave them so they could talk about football or rugby or the other women at the party. He looked at her for a few seconds longer than was polite. She was starting to put on weight she would never get rid of and was on the cusp of losing the youthfulness that gave her what little appeal she had. She knew it, too; there was something desperate about the way she smiled at the men and laughed too loudly at their jokes.

He felt a twinge of lust. He found that kind of vulnerability irresistible. He’d have to behave himself, though. He could hardly go chasing women at his wife’s birthday party.

‘You want a ciggy?’ one of the men said. He was tall and had thick red hair and a thin, irritating voice.

‘No thanks,’ Alfie said.

He walked across the terrace to the house. Through the window he saw Claire. She was clinking champagne glasses with Jodie and some tall guy. Did Jodie have a boyfriend? He’d be jealous if she did. He looked at her for a moment. He would have loved to fuck her. Two summers ago they’d gone for a weekend in St Tropez with her. She had a white bikini and he’d spent the entire time staring at her from behind his sunglasses, and then thinking about her while he was having sex with Claire.

Claire. It was getting worse. As soon as he was in there she’d ask where he’d been, and he’d say nowhere, just a walk, when what he wanted to say was none of your fucking business. He hated the feeling he was being watched the whole time. It made him feel trapped, like a wild animal that had wandered into a house and was now being kept as a pet. He couldn’t look at her without feeling a deep and mounting anger.

Because there was no escape. Worse, by acting so in love with her from the start he had set a precedent, which left him with things like singing that awful song. He shook his head. It was so humiliating. But he had no choice. If he didn’t totally overdo it he was worried the mask would slip and she would see his true feelings, and then it – all of it, the cars and houses and holidays and money – would be gone. And he had no intention of letting that happen, especially not now when he’d had a taste of it. All he needed was an escape.

Which was where Henry Bryant came in. It had started with a fake email address. It was amazing, really: all he’d had to do was open a gmail account in the name Henry Bryant and pop! All of a sudden, he existed. He could communicate with people, log into chat rooms, post underneath newspaper articles, get Facebook and Twitter accounts.

Which he did for a while. He got involved in conversations in chat rooms and comments sections, and one of them – he’d forgotten which one – had led to an app which brought people who were looking for illicit, extra-marital affairs together.

You posted a photo, your age, some interests, and the app proposed some matches. You messaged back and forth, and, if you both agreed, you met up.

The first woman did not look like the photo she had posted at all. In the photo she looked in her early thirties and in reasonable shape; in reality she was ten years older and about three stone overweight.

Alfie didn’t care. He would not have been attracted to her under normal circumstances, but that was the whole point: these were not normal circumstances, and he was not Alfie Daniels.

The second candidate he chose was a blonde, stick-thin mother of three in her late thirties. It was a clinical transaction; afterwards, Alfie asked her if she wanted to meet again. She didn’t. The third one did, though, and she wanted to learn more about Henry Bryant.

So Alfie gave her more to learn.

It became a kind of game, to see how far he could take it.

And he had taken it much, much further than he had thought possible.

He got an address – a PO box number – and used it to get a bank account. With that, a bank account and then a credit card and a PayPal account. With his PayPal account he could buy and sell on eBay, which provided Henry Bryant with an income. The fact that the things he sold – first editions of books, rare vinyl, other collectables – were things Alfie bought was neither here nor there. None of his customers would, or could, ever know. He just needed a way of getting some money to Henry Bryant.

And with the money came – all acquired illegally and incredibly cheaply on the dark web – a birth certificate, passport and National Insurance number. Which meant Henry Bryant was real in every meaningful way possible. He could buy a house, get a job, cross international borders. He could do anything he wanted.

He just happened not to exist.

It had been perfect for Alfie. It offered him everything he wanted: a release from his life with Claire, the thrill of illicit sex with a variety of women, and most of all, a sense that he was beating the system, outsmarting everyone around him. And there was no link to him. The phone, bank account, everything – it all led to Henry Bryant.

It was odd: the longer it had gone on, the more he had started to feel that he and Henry Bryant were different people. When he was with some woman he’d met online in the corner of a pub in a part of London where Claire and her friends would never go, he was Henry Bryant. He didn’t really feel guilty, but the slight misgivings he did have were eased by the thought that it wasn’t him doing it.

It was Henry Bryant.

He even developed Bryantisms; mannerisms and affected patterns of speech – a pursing of the lips and drawing out of vowels – that he only did when he was being Henry. In some ways – and this was worrying – he preferred Henry. He was funnier, more relaxed. Moreover, he didn’t have to be the soft, unthreatening little bitch that Alfie Daniels pretended to be.

He could be whatever he wanted, and he was. He cancelled at the last minute (on the occasions when it was too risky to go), drank hard when he wanted and was rough in bed. Most of all he didn’t apologize, didn’t simper and coo, and didn’t sing any fucking stupid songs.

It was wonderful. And it was the only thing that was keeping him sane.

He became aware of a tapping on the window. He looked up. Claire was beckoning him inside.

Christ. He’d almost forgotten. He glanced at Jodie’s buttocks; she was wearing a pair of very tight jeans. He pictured peeling them off, revealing some expensive underwear, an image which allowed him to force a smile on to his face. He waved at Claire, then blew her a kiss; she mimed catching it and planted it on her cheek.

It was sickening.

Inside, he kissed Claire for real, then hugged Jodie, enjoying the press of her breasts against his chest. She gestured at the guy standing with them.

‘This is Trevor.’

Alfie shook his hand. He had a fixed, goofy grin. If this idiot was fucking Jodie he didn’t think he could take it.

‘We were on our way out,’ Jodie said. ‘I have to go and meet a friend. She’s not doing so well.’

‘Oh,’ Alfie said. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Boyfriend troubles.’ Jodie took out her phone. ‘Quick photo before I go?’

She handed the phone to Trevor, who looked put out she didn’t want him in the picture. Alfie thought it might be deliberate. Maybe he wasn’t getting any with Jodie, after all.

The three of them lined up and Trevor took a few snaps. When he was done, he gave the phone back to Jodie.

‘Nice to see you,’ Alfie said. ‘And good luck with your friend. I’m going to grab a drink.’

As he walked away, Henry Bryant’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Pippa, again. Obviously, despite how clear he’d been, she hadn’t got the message. He’d reply later and get rid of her once and for all, before she became a problem.

Henry Bryant would never let her become a problem. He dealt with things, decisively. He would never have put up with what Alfie put up with. He would have found a way to deal with Claire.

And Alfie needed to. He just had no idea what to do.

Claire

Dr Singh sat opposite Claire and studied his notes. He looked to be in his sixties and had small, precise features. She had googled him and, as her dad had said, he really was an expert in the field of fertility; he had pioneered a number of treatments with spectacular results, which probably explained the fee her dad was paying.

It was the second time they had met that day; in the morning he had asked her a bunch of questions and discussed her goals, and then he’d sent her into the room next door where a nurse had drawn blood and performed an ultrasound scan, along with some X-rays.

We’ll have the results shortly, he said. But you’ll have to see when Dr Singh is free to take you through them.

Dr Singh was free that afternoon, and Claire had left work to come and meet him. She’d had to move a couple of meetings around, but as a partner she had that flexibility. Besides, she had been thinking about it all day, unable to focus on anything other than what the doctor might tell her.

‘Well …’ He smiled. ‘So far, it’s good news.’

‘What do you mean “so far”?’ Claire said.

‘I mean the tests we did showed no abnormalities, but there are more procedures we can do. However, I’m not sure they’re warranted, at this point. I see nothing wrong.’

He pulled a piece of A4 paper from a file and handed it to her. ‘These are the results of your Hysterosalpingography – that’s the fancy name for the X-ray we took of your uterus and fallopian tubes. As you can see, nothing showed up.’

She studied the paper. There was a lot of text, but her eyes settled on the only words that mattered to her.

Abnormalities: None

‘What about the other test?’ she said. ‘The one about the eggs?’

‘The ovarian reserve test,’ Dr Singh said. ‘That, too, was fine. You have a normal egg supply, and they are of good quality.’ He laced his fingers together and leaned forwards. ‘As far as I can tell, there is no problem with your fertility. We could do further imaging, or even a laparoscopy.’