You Can Trust Me Read online

  That’s how she made the money she spent on her fancy clothes and jewelry.… She was a highly paid prostitute. Alexa Carling fixed it up for her—she’s a whore too. Still, I don’t think Shannon liked the life despite all the money she made. I think she preferred her job at Honey Hearts, where she was free to entrap men, to take from them with nothing given in return.

  Anyway, I followed Shannon when she slipped out to the shops. Told her I had a knife. Forced her into my car. Took her to the beach.

  In the darkness, I did what had to be done, retrieved Kara’s locket and took one of Shannon’s Chanel earrings as a keepsake. Blah, blah … another easy kill, dressed up to look like an accident thanks to drink and drugs.

  So Shannon is over. An unplanned event born out of necessity. I don’t like being pushed or challenged.

  Those responsible will pay.

  Julia has already paid with her life.

  For Livy, the price is going to be much higher.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I pound along the sidewalk. The bus is already at the bus stop. The number 57 to Brixington. The girl jostles through the queue of elderly ladies easing themselves on board. Angry heads turn. I rush toward her. Almost there. The doors wheeze to a close and the bus pulls away.

  The girl is on board. I race up to the stop, seconds too late. I slam my hand against the side of the shelter and bend over, panting.

  “Shit.”

  All the other people standing here stare at me as if I’m a lunatic. But it’s my life that’s insane right now. So insane, in fact, that chasing after a drug addict demanding money for information seems an entirely logical thing to do. If that skinny, greasy-haired girl up ahead gave Shannon Kara’s locket, then she must know something about who killed her. And, therefore, who killed Julia.

  I can’t let her get away. It starts to rain. The road is packed: shoppers bustling and weaving around each other. I peer along the road. The bus is right at the other end of it, but I’m certain I can see the girl peering out at me through the back window, her lank hair framing her anxious face. I watch, defeated, as the bus vanishes around the corner.

  “In a hurry, my love?” An old man with a cane and a cheery, red face smiles at me.

  I nod, grimacing.

  “Never mind, eh.”

  But I do mind. My best chance to find out what really happened to Julia and Kara is vanishing before my eyes. I can’t let this be it. I dash along the sidewalk to the little mini cab office. I hurtle inside.

  “I need a cab. Now,” I say.

  The young guy behind the counter eyes me nervously. “Ben!” he calls out. A middle-aged man with close-cropped gray hair saunters out from the back office.

  “Where to?” he says cheerily.

  “I just saw an old friend get on a bus,” I say, the lie sliding off my tongue with frightening ease. “We lost touch, but we used to be really close. I have to try to find her. Please, hurry.”

  The two men look at each other; then the older man grins. “Car’s outside, love. Let’s go.”

  I explain which bus I saw the girl on. My driver knows its local route, and a few tense minutes later we see it up ahead.

  “D’you want me to drop you so you can get on board?” he asks.

  “Er, no,” I say, blushing at how odd I sound. “I think I’d rather wait to see when she gets off.”

  “Okeydokey.” The driver glances at his meter and drives on.

  I strain my eyes, looking for a glimpse of the girl. She’s still standing at the back of the bus, staring out of the side windows. I shrink back against my seat. I don’t want the girl to see me, to know I’m following her.

  On we drive. It turns out the bus goes to Topsham, then Lympstone—where Julia’s cottage is. I keep my eyes focused on the girl. At every stop, my cabdriver slows. He must think I’m mad. I smooth down my hair, feeling self-conscious. We reach Lympstone, but the girl doesn’t get off the bus. Past Lympstone, we zoom alongside fields, their flowers shiny yellow in the lowering light, and turn onto the main road into Exmouth.

  I watch. And watch. Bus stops come and go. A drizzle sets in, the passing sidewalks gleam for a few seconds as the clouds part to allow sunshine through, then deaden again. The scrawny girl with the lank hair and the track-marked arms stays on the bus, though as it fills, I lose sight of her from my taxi.

  Minute after minute passes, and I’m just starting to think I must have missed her somehow when the bus stops close to the center of Exmouth and the girl gets off. She looks around, her gaze shifty, then scuttles away, hunched over against the rain.

  My phone rings as I shove some cash at my cabdriver and scramble out. It’s Robbie.

  For goodness’ sake.

  “Hi, Livy.” His voice is warm and intimate. Far too intimate. “Can you talk? I was a bit worried about how we left things earlier. I—”

  “I can’t talk, Robbie,” I snap. I’m beyond irritated, wound up like a spring and tired of being nice. “I explained earlier that I would call you when I could.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “You’re not listening,” I interrupt. “Please don’t call me again.” I flick the phone off.

  The girl takes the right turn at the roundabout at the top of the road. I follow her, keeping my head down. I’m aware that if she turns around, she will see me immediately, but she doesn’t. She takes a right, then a left. She’s walking purposefully, like she’s got a definite goal in mind. Or maybe she’s just hurrying to a place where she can get out of the rain. It’s still drizzling, a fine mist settling on my hair and my clothes.

  The girl makes a sharp right turn. I peer around the corner after her. My heart thuds as I realize where we are: the building containing the Honey Hearts office is halfway down this road, and the girl is heading straight for it. A moment later she stops outside and jams her finger on the intercom buzzer. A voice answers. Male. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the girl is speaking loudly.

  “Yes, Honey Hearts on the second floor…”

  I stiffen, remembering how Damian and I wondered if Shannon had originally been given Kara’s locket from someone at the honey trap agency and if discovering this connection was what had brought Julia here. The scrawny girl doesn’t look much like the other agents I’ve seen, but if she’s not an agent, then what is she doing at Honey Hearts?

  “There’s no one on reception up there, but I know Mrs. Carling is in.” The girl is shouting now. “She always comes in on a Sunday afternoon to catch up on paperwork. Please let me in, she’s my mother, for fuck’s sake.”

  Alexa Carling is this girl’s mother? My heartbeat quickens.

  I edge closer. If the girl looks around, she’ll see me, but she’s pushing at the door, as if expecting it to be buzzed open. It stays firmly shut.

  I reach the office block next to Honey Hearts. I duck behind the far wall, then peer carefully around it. The rain is getting heavier. I wipe a strand of damp hair out of my eyes.

  The girl is hammering the door now with her fist. She swears out loud, then pulls a phone from the small plastic bag that swings from her hand. She presses at the buttons, making a call, then holds the mobile to her ear.

  A second or two pass. The girl is huddled under the doorway. She makes a pathetic figure, white-faced, rocking slightly back and forth.

  “Mum?” The girl’s voice is harsh: hurt, trying not to cry. “I’m outside. That bastard security guard won’t let me in.”

  There’s a pause while whoever is on the other end of the line speaks.

  “Please, Mum. I’m not going to—” The girl stops abruptly as the door opens.

  A second later and she disappears inside.

  I lean against the wall behind me and let out my breath in a slow, shaky sigh. I am close now, to answers. Everything comes back to that locket. And the locket keeps bringing me here. Honey Hearts is the connection between all the disparate elements that Damian and I have been struggling to make sense of since Julia died.
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  And yet I still don’t understand how.

  The rain falls harder, driving into my face like tiny knives. Water trickles down the back of my neck. Without stopping to think through what I’m doing, I march over to the front door of the office building. I press on the buzzer for the Honey Hearts office on the second floor. There’s no reply, so I press the button marked MAIN RECEPTION.

  “Yes?” It’s the security guard who spoke to the girl.

  “Hello.” I give my maiden name, Small, as I did before. “I’m one of Mrs. Carling’s, er, clients at Honey Hearts. I’m sorry to bother everyone on a Sunday, but I really need to speak to her. Please let me in so I can pop up to see her. It won’t take long, but I have to see her now. It’s an emergency.”

  I wait. A drop of rain threads its way down my cheek. There’s a long pause. And then the door buzzes. I push at it, my chest tight with anticipation.

  I’m in.

  The security guard does a slight double take when he sees the state of me: wet through with bedraggled hair.

  “I spoke to Mrs. Carling,” he explains. “She’s with someone right now, but she says she can see you in just a minute if you want to wait up in their reception.”

  “Thank you.” I take the flight of stairs to the second floor. Was it really only a week since I was here? It feels like I’ve lived several lifetimes.

  I reach the deserted reception area, wood-floored and beige, and remember how struck I was before by how respectable and dull the place seemed. I look around, but there’s no sign of either the girl or Alexa Carling.

  I’m too wound up to sit down and wait. I pace backwards and forward. How is Alexa Carling mixed up in all this? I peer along the corridor to her office. She must be inside. I head towards the room, slowing as I reach the door. I glance up and down. There’s no one else here. I stop and press my ear to the door.

  I hear Alexa Carling immediately. “I don’t want to hear it, Poppy.” She sounds so full of contempt that I shiver.

  “I’m sorry, Mummy.” It’s the girl, Poppy, her voice all wheedling and babyish. She’s clearly hoping to come across as endearing, but from the sound of Alexa Carling’s voice, she’s falling way short of the mark.

  I take another look along the corridor. No one is coming. I bend down and peer in through the keyhole. I can see the pair of them facing each other in the middle of the room.

  Alexa takes her daughter by the wrist and wrenches her arm away from her body. She stares down at the track marks I know are there, then shakes her head. “Give me back the keys,” she says.

  “No.” Poppy tries to back away, but Alexa keeps a tight grip of her wrist.

  “This was your last chance. I told you, if you started using again…” Alexa’s voice is like steel, but I can hear the pain behind her words. For a second I forget why I’m here and imagine how I would feel if my own daughter were a drug addict.

  “Please, Mummy.” Poppy is weeping now, her head hanging. “I’ve got some money, I—”

  “It’s not about the money.” Even from where I’m standing, I can see the agony etched on Alexa’s face. “I just can’t do this anymore. Keys.”

  Poppy holds up the plastic bag. Alexa takes it, finally letting her daughter go. Poppy slumps against the wall. “Where will I go? You can’t kick me out.”

  Alexa fishes in the plastic bag and pulls out the keys. I hear the clink of metal as she shoves them inside the drawer behind her and slams it shut.

  “What you have to understand is there’s only so much help other people can give you,” Alexa snaps, coming into view again. “I have given you chance after chance. I know you’ve been stealing from Crowdale. How could you do that, Poppy?”

  “I didn’t,” Poppy protests, but she can’t meet her mother’s eyes. “It wasn’t my fault,” she says, more quietly.

  “It never is, is it?” Alexa sighs. “You need to leave now.”

  “No,” Poppy sobs.

  “Now.”

  I back away from the door as footsteps approach. Turning, I scurry along to the bathroom, darting inside just as Alexa’s office door opens. I rush into a cubicle, my heart pounding.

  I’m getting closer and closer. Poppy told me earlier she got the locket from the place she was staying. It sounds like she stole it from somewhere called Crowdale, the keys to which are now in a drawer in Alexa Carling’s office.

  I emerge from the cubicle and check my face in the mirror. I look terrible, my damp hair plastered against my flushed cheeks, no makeup and a wild, unhinged look in my eye. No wonder the security guard did a double take.

  I push myself away from the sink and head outside. Alexa Carling is waiting for me. She looks up as I appear, giving me a smooth, professional smile. There’s no trace of emotion in her face.

  “Dear me, Olivia, you’re soaked,” she says.

  “I’m fine,” I say as she lets me into her office. My eyes dart immediately to the drawer where I saw her put the keys.

  Alexa gestures for me to sit. As I do, I’m suddenly and uncomfortably aware of just how damp I am. My palms are clammy with sweat. Now that I’m here, I have no idea what to say.

  “Olivia, has something happened?” Alexa leans forward, a picture of concern. “What are you doing here on a Sunday?”

  For a moment I doubt everything I’ve assumed. How can this woman have anything to do with Julia’s death? I take a deep breath. “I heard you just now,” I say, plunging recklessly in. “Was that your daughter.”

  Alexa looks away but not before I see the pain behind her eyes. I imagine for a second just how terrible she must feel, cutting her daughter off as she’s just done. It’s unthinkable. Except … look how nuts Hannah drives me right now, aged twelve, when I can make all manner of excuses for her bad behavior. For all I know, Alexa has been supporting Poppy for years and this is the last straw.

  “I heard you say she stole from you? Was it from your home?” I’m on terrifyingly dangerous ground with these questions, but I have to know.

  Alexa frowns. “Just one of my vacation properties,” she says. “But we’re here for you, Olivia. I’m sorry if you overheard anything unpleasant.”

  I run my hands through my damp hair, confused. What was Kara’s locket doing in a rented holiday house?

  “It’s not that,” I say quickly. “It’s just things are worse, aren’t they, when your home is violated. It’s kind of like a rape.”

  Alexa’s frown deepens. “Olivia, please tell me why you’re here.”

  I force my eyes to focus on her face, keeping them away from the drawer with the keys. I take a quick look around the rest of the office. The case files are still neatly stowed on the shelves, the desk still cluttered with papers.

  “It’s my husband.” I heave a huge sigh. “I’m more sure than ever he’s seeing someone else.” The truth of these words brings real tears to my eyes. I swallow them down.

  It all pours out of me. My heart cracks; there’s no need to lie. I don’t give anyone’s names, just explain that since I was last here, I’ve got more proof that Will has been unfaithful. “You see, my husband’s boss actually saw him leaving her hotel bedroom—it’s the same woman he slept with before.”

  Alexa nods sympathetically.

  “The problem is, my husband is still refusing to admit what has happened. I need him to confess so I can move on. I need to know for sure what he’s capable of.”

  “Oh, my love,” Alexa says soothingly. “I’m so sorry, this all sounds very painful for you.”

  “It is.” I look around the room with a sniff. No sign of any tissues. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

  “Of course.” Alexa reaches behind the couch where we’re sitting and retrieves a box of tissues from the low table that I hadn’t even noticed.

  I take one. “Thanks.”

  I glance at the drawer with the keys again, a plan forming in my mind. Maybe I could take a look at this holiday rental myself, see if there are any clues that might lead me closer to th
e truth about what happened to Julia. Now that Alexa has kicked Poppy out, the place should be empty. I’m not going to take anything. I won’t even be breaking in. I’m just going to have a look.

  But first I need the keys. Which means getting Alexa out of this room.

  “Now, let me check my notes.” Alexa flicks through a file as I blow my nose. “Ah, now, what about Brooke? She’s here right now. I was just briefing her on another client so she’s right next door. Would you like to meet her? It sounds like you need closure on all this as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, please,” I say, hoping Alexa will leave the room. Instead she heads for the desk and picks up the phone.

  “Could you come into my office, please, Brooke, dear?” Alexa replaces the receiver and stands in front of the desk, leaning against it. My eyes light on the water jug and two glasses beside her. They give me an idea.

  Before I can even think how to execute it, the door opens and a tall, curvy blonde walks in. Apart from her height, she’s got the same looks as Shannon—a sort of coy, baby doll prettiness dressed up in a tight, cropped T-shirt and red silk pants that hang from her slim hips. She’s gorgeous, late twenties, I’d say, and with a sleepy sexiness about her dark, slightly slanted eyes.

  She comes straight over and shakes my hand.

  “Olivia. Brooke.” Alexa’s manner is suddenly brisk and professional. “Now, Olivia, perhaps you would explain your situation to Brooke.”

  I do as I’m told. Brooke nods throughout. She’s not stupid, this girl. I can see it in her eyes. When I’ve finished, she glances at Alexa, who gives her an approving nod, encouraging her to speak.

  “So the way it works…,” Brooke says. “You tell me where I’m likely to find your husband—maybe a bar he goes to after work—then I’ll approach him there one evening in the next few weeks. I’ll make eye contact, tell him he looks good in his suit, or that his aftershave smells great … something small. Then I’ll get chatting, flirt a bit, sound him out, really. Usually I tell the guys that I manage a hotel around the corner, lead the conversation to how people check in for flings, especially married men. That’s often all it takes to get them talking about sexual encounters they’ve heard of. We swap stories for a bit, then if there’s anything to confess, that’s usually confession time.”