House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com | Cover design by Books Covered 2017

E. V. Seymour asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

ISBN: 9780008240851

Ebook Edition © March 2017

Version 2017-07-04

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

In the Beginning

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

In the End

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

For John

The father of our children.

In the beginning

D awn breaks and the body of the boy is almost imperceptible in its still-grey light. There are no obvious marks upon him, no apparent cause of death. His eyes are closed, lids tinged Delphic blue. His body, which is small for his age, curls in the way it once did in his mother’s womb. Safe and warm. Now dreams he once dreamt lie smashed around him like falling stars. Not for him a future of bright city lights or rural anonymity. No rough and tumble with the lads. No jibes thrown or hurled in boozy pumped-up heat of the moment. No lover awaits him. No marriage or hope of becoming a good old boy and passing on a legacy through his children and their children. For him there is no tomorrow. From this moment on he will be forever in the dark.

Chapter 1

Present Day

It kicks off the moment Tom spots his photograph in our county magazine.

“For God’s sake, how the hell did that happen?”

It all began with a party at Lily Gin’s, a popular cocktail bar off the Promenade. Free booze. Ear-bleeding beat. Everyone hollering. The local newspaper I work for has a sister magazine that held a joint bash there for advertisers and the great and good of Cheltenham. Their way of saying ‘thank you’. A roaming rookie photographer snapping folk glad-handing is the source of Tom’s ire. It’s strange because he isn’t confrontational or quick to anger. Not chilled, like me, but quiet and mostly silent with an undertow of edge that I find a bit Darcy-like and dead exciting. Tom blowing his stack isn’t a thrill at all; it’s worrying.

Personally, I think how nice he looks. “It’s a great snap.” It really is. The picture isn’t posed. We are deep in conversation. Slightly turned away from the camera, the scar at his temple that makes him look dangerous and sexy is more prominent than usual; dark-blonde beard neatly trimmed; his nose with a slight kink at the bridge, full kissable lips close to my cheek. For once we are captured together, which makes a change. Anyone viewing my photo album for the past few years could be forgiven for thinking I’m single.

“Fuck’s sake, you know I hate having my photograph taken.”

To the point of phobia, but as it was clicked, with Tom unawares, by some newbie photographer, I can’t see what the problem is. Sleek, monumentally happy and relaxed, Tom is whispering something in my ear that makes me smile, although I can’t for the life of me think what it was, mostly because I’m now half into my dress, trying to get ready for work.

“It’s only the county mag,” I point out, finally zipping myself up.

“Yours,” he says, fury in his eyes, as if I am personally liable. I don’t bother to point out the inaccuracy of his accusation.

“For goodness’ sake, I’m not the editor, Tom. You know very well I don’t write a thing for the magazine these days.” Still, he glowers. “Look, I’m sorry,” I say, spreading my hands, thinking that I really should be heading out. It was all right for Tom to chunter on. He’d got a day off from the restaurant where he works as a chef.

“I told that bloody photographer to go away.”

“She’s only a kid.” Which explained why the celebrity especially invited didn’t get so much as a look-in, to the embarrassment of all.

“I never wanted to go to the launch in the first place,” he growls, prowling around our tiny sitting room.

Didn’t you? I can’t recall any protest at the time, but think it best not to say so. “Well, you did. It’s done now,” I say, softening my tone. In my experience with men, it’s never a good idea to get arsey. Not really in my nature in any case. Others remark that I’m laid-back to the point of horizontal, a family trait, care of my mother. Somehow my chalk-and-cheese relationship with Tom works. Classic attraction of opposites.

“In a week’s time it will be in the recycling bin,” I add. “Forget about it.”

“How can I forget when it’s online for the world to see?” His normal deep tone is high and tight. How someone raised in South London can sound as if they have Welsh vocal cords remains a conundrum.

“Jesus, if you looked like the Elephant Man, I could understand it but …”

“It’s an invasion of my privacy.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I appreciate that Tom is a private person. He’s not into social media like all my friends. He’s more of a low-profile, right-under-the-radar kind of guy. I get all that, but this is an extreme reaction by any standard. Time to shake him out of it. “For goodness’ sake, lighten up.”

“Don’t you dare fucking speak to me like that.”

My cheeks never flush because I have a sallow complexion. Heat fills my face as if I’d been plunged head first into hot water. “Will you please keep your voice down,” I hiss. “You’ll wake Reg.” Reg is my younger brother. He’s actually called Max; more suitable for his rock god, shag everything that moves, image, but I christened him Reg years ago because I thought it would annoy him. Somehow, it stuck.

Tom’s expression is one part grimace, two parts hauteur. “I don’t think that’s very likely, do you?”

He has a point. Reg, who has the lifestyle of a bat, stumbled in around four in the morning and is dead to the world. But I could do without Tom’s sarcasm.

I try to outstare him and fail. The stubble on his cheeks, the set of his jaw, the rawness and slightly lost expression in his eyes, which are the colour of dark rum make him despite myself, maddeningly attractive.

“Bloody hell, Tom. Are there to be no photographs at our wedding?”

He blanches. “What wedding?”

He was joking, wasn’t he? He means no photographs, no twenty thousand quid down the toilet matrimony? Stupidly, I burble on. “And family snaps with kids– ”

Now he looks as if I plunged his head into hot water. “Kids?”

“The ones we’re going to have.” I practically screech, thinking the row has taken a surprising and horribly revealing turn. Didn’t we discuss this? I’m sure we did.

Lines set into his forehead contract. “I don’t want them.” His brutal words pound into me, smacking the air out of my lungs. Dear God, he means it.

Had I been kicked in the gut by a mule while drinking ten double Stollys in quick succession, I couldn’t feel more wounded. At thirty-seven years of age, my biological clock, unlike some of my friends’ timepieces, ticked, tocked and apparently stalled. I have many ambitions but, as much as I have a life plan, I envisage children being part of them. My mum gave birth to my brother when she was forty-three. Everyone says she looks younger than her years and that she passed that same ‘youth’ gene on to me. In my head I reckon I’m roughly thirty, same age as my kid brother. Surely state of mind and disposition count for something when it comes to reproduction? Besides, Tom is younger and in his prime. Even if my fertility is jeopardised by age, there is always adoption or fostering. To know that the man I love simply does not want children leaves me stunned. Bereft. Desolate.

“Besides,” he continues quietly, “it’s not really on the cards, is it?”

Words that threaten to tumble out of my open mouth halt in the back of my throat, retreat and expire. Had they lived, they would have gone something like: “YOU BASTARD. WHAT ABOUT ME? YOU NEVER SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT KIDS.” So much for my horizontal ‘hey man’ and chilled disposition.

I gawp at him, trying to contain the hurt in my expression. Denial dribbles out of me. “You don’t mean that.”

He stares stony-eyed – so much worse than saying something.

“You’re being daft, Tom.” My voice is dead shaky.

“Am I?” This is not said with rhetorical intonation, but bone-shaking affirmation. Doesn’t he realise what his words are doing to me? Doesn’t he see that he is not only trampling on but also destroying my dreams?

“Tom,” I say, nervously, trying to dislodge the unexpected shard of fear stuck fast in my soul. “We really should talk it through.”

“This,” he says, rustling the shiny pages and thrusting the magazine in my face, “is what we need to discuss.”

Something in his expression, unnerving and creepy, alarms me. Dumbfounded, I realise what it is.

Tom is afraid.

I swallow, glance at my watch, dance from one foot to the other. “Look, I’ve really got to go. Elliott will have me spit-roasted if I’m late again. Can we talk this evening?”

He doesn’t answer. Standing there, bare-chested, abs rippling impressively, he seems outwardly inviolate yet also vulnerable, reminding me of myself when we first met. When he runs his fingers through his thick mane of hair as if he single-handedly carries the weight of the world’s problems, I have a sudden, urgent desire to dump my bag, take off my clothes and fuck him right there and then. Instead, I ask him what he is doing for the day.

He shrugs, the anger dissipating from his voice. “This and that. Might go for a swim.”

I brighten up. Displacement activity, I think. “Will you sort dinner?”

At the mention of the word ‘dinner’, his field of expertise, he relaxes. “I’ll pick up something, a bottle of wine too.”

I read contrition in his eyes. “Fine,” I say, smiling with relief, as I make for the door.

“But what about Reg? Will he be joining us?” Tom’s inflexion is arid. Why does he have to spoil what I assumed is a truce? Admittedly, things between us have not been easy since Reg pitched up. My thirty-year-old ‘baby brother’ came to stay for a few days that turned into three weeks. Since our old hippie mum moved to Australia with her new husband ten years earlier, and our dad, a retired dentist, lives in the States and has done for many years, I feel responsibility for him. In my head, I’m sort of in loco parentis. If I tell Reg this, he’ll laugh in my face. I love him, yet can’t help count the days before he flies to LA with his band Robberdog. He plans to pay Dad a visit while he’s there, to ‘reconnect,’ he maintains. I don’t know what I feel about that, other than the fact that our father will throw a fit when he sees the state of Reg’s buckled teeth.

I assure Tom I’ll sort it with Reg. Once more, I turn to escape.

“Roz,” he calls after me.

“Yeah?”

Tom moves like a ghost. One moment on the opposite side of the room, the next right up close, hypnotic eyes melting into mine. When he reaches out I drop my bag, the intoxicating smell of warm, naked skin and man enveloping me.

His mouth finds mine. Lust radiates from my brain, through my chest to my groin. He doesn’t ask me to stay. He has no need. He simply hitches up my dress, slides down my knickers and takes me there and then in the sitting room, up against the wall. Fool that I am, pulsing with desire, I’m willing.

Chapter 2

Praying the darkening late-January sky doesn’t unleash its payload, I run all the way from my rental in All Saints Road to a drab seventies-style office block in the centre of town. It usually takes under fifteen minutes at a good walking pace. Today, I bomb it in ten, which is impressive considering my mind is blown with disappointment and my legs feel vaguely sticky and tremble from instant and urgent sex. Tom’s behaviour is counter-intuitive for someone who professes never to want children. On my race to work, this thought consumes me.

Elliott takes one look at my shiny, perspiring face and hikes a hairy eyebrow. “Miss Outlaw, so glad you can join us.”

“Erm … sorry, I got held …”

He raises one pudgy hand, the thin band of his wedding ring almost buried in his fleshy finger. My boss doesn’t believe in excuses, no more than he believes in God, or accidents. Suspicion, the single most important attribute for a journalist, or so he tells me, is as firmly enmeshed into his corpulent physique as his DNA. I believe curiosity is a pretty good attribute too. Elliott also maintains that this is why he gets to do all the juicy investigative stuff instead of me. When I once argued the point, he left me in no doubt about where I stood.

“I don’t want you landing me in court.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’re simply not ready, Rosamund. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you have to walk before you can run?”

My mother told me a lot of things, mainly about auras, finding my bliss and the necessity of being centred, but walking before running was not one of them. A product of the hippie generation, she spent her youth in a commune in Totnes, Devon, where she met my dad. Frankly, I count myself lucky not to be born with a name like Zoflora Moonstone, particularly as I have weird-coloured eyes that are a similar hue to the gem. Put it this way, my parents were free spirits until the spliffy glow wore off and they decided to rejoin the real world. Safe to say, she believes in us kids ‘going for it’, as she puts it, which is why she never smashes Reg’s dreams and tells him to find a proper career. To be fair, she never warned me of the perils of aimlessly flitting from one dead-end job to the next well into my thirties either. When I finally decided to settle down and get a degree in journalism, admittedly from a little-known college that punched above its weight to obtain uni status, it wasn’t due to any parental guidance.

With our faraway parents, my brother and I have a strange, more complex, relationship. Physically absent for much of our adult lives, in the past five, our dad is displaying more interest than during the previous twenty. Age and impending mortality does that, but it’s hellish confusing for offspring.

I glance over to Helen’s desk. Our sports correspondent, she is one of the few full-time staff. Most of our crew are contributors who write columns in return for a by-line. God only knows what the National Union of Journalists would make of that. I can be writing about counterfeit items one day and interviewing a local publican about his plans for a new venture the next. Book and theatre reviews sometimes fall into my lap and that’s great because it means I have a constant delivery of brand-new releases and get to see all the best plays fresh from the West End. For a couple of days a week, I basically go where Elliott, the editor, and hulk of a man, sends me. Jack-of-all-trades, I also knock out blogs for any company that will pay; the odd bit of copywriting when I can lay my hands on it. I’m not a workaholic. By nature, I’m lazy. Financial needs drive me. In short, I’m a woman trying to make up for decades of drifting and earning a pittance. Not good. Unlike when my parents belatedly decided to make waves, you’re now considered over the hill in the career stakes after the age of thirty-five.

Helen grins and winks. Goodness, is my mascara smudged? Surely, my knickers aren’t caught in my dress? I surreptitiously smooth down the creases and run an index finger under each eye. I badly want to talk to her about Tom but, judging from the predatory light in Elliott’s eye, he has my day already mapped out.

“Get yourself down to the train station,” he says.

Fabulous. London beckons, or could it be Oxford, Birmingham, perhaps? “Where am I going?”

“Nowhere. You’re going to interview train users about the travelling experience at Cheltenham Spa.”

“Is this a wind-up?” Purleese, surely we have more important issues to report than this?

“Spend what remains of the morning there and, this afternoon, two o’clock sharpish, you’re interviewing Detective Sergeant Mike Shenton.”

At this I brighten, dare I say. My nosy gene kicks in good and proper. “Terrific. About what exactly?”

“The force are– ”

“Can’t call it that any more. It’s a police service.”

“Whatever,” Elliott says, “although it’s pleasing to see that you’re paying attention to detail at long last.” Why is it that Elliott always manages to turn my desire to impress into an insult? “The police are running a big initiative to target sexual crime and crime against the person. You are covering it.”

“It’s such a wide subject, wouldn’t it be better as a rolling news story? We could expand it over several weeks?”

Elliott briefly closes his thick-lidded eyes. “Did they teach you nothing at that college of yours?” College? Before I can respond he taps his watch and thrusts me a dirty look. I get it. Scarper.

Train stations are hubs enabling travellers to get from A to B. That is their sole purpose in life. They are not supposed to be entertainment centres or the hippest place in which to meet your best mate for coffee. It’s stating the obvious and why, whether coming or going, nobody wants to be rail-stepped by someone like me and especially on a day when the wind is howling and the rain is sheeting. The only good news is the cafeteria on the platform, from where I purchase several cartons of coffee. Variations on a similar theme emerge. Frankly, I could have written them myself from the comfort of my own kitchen table: ‘For what they charge for the rail fare they could fly us to the moon’; ‘The service to London is crap.’ One glossily dressed woman complained: ‘You should see the state of the toilets,’ although which toilets she is referring to I have no clue because she pings off her impossibly high heels and leaps into a taxi, speeding off before I can ask her to be more explicit.

Fed up and freezing, I decide to slope back home. Tom’s outburst and white anger bother me. Correction, it undermines and concerns me. His challenge to my worldview makes me question the entire nature of our relationship. I think I get him and now realise I don’t. I think I understand myself, too, and that, also, seems elusive. To my mind, I’m a strong resourceful individual. In my heart, I’m a mushy mess. If Tom doesn’t want marriage and kids, really doesn’t want them, where does that leave us? Is it an emotional deal-breaker? Honest answer: I don’t know.