You Can Trust Me: A Novel Read online

  I stare at her, forgetting the keys in Alexa’s drawer for a moment. “You mean the guys you seduce tell you what they’ve done, just like that?”

  Brooke smiles and her slant eyes narrow like a cats. “Firstly, I don’t seduce. We never go that far. Not even a kiss. The conversation is all recorded, so you can hear that for yourself. Secondly, sure they tell me. To be honest, by the time we’ve talked a bit, maybe had a couple of drinks and I’m laughing at everything they say, they’re, like, boasting about what they’ve got away with in order to impress me.”

  Beside us, Alexa smiles. My jaw drops. Is it really that simple to flatter a man into revealing himself?

  “Are men that stupid?” The words blurt out of me in a hollow whisper.

  Brooke and Alexa laugh. Alexa’s chuckle is a light tinkle, but Brooke’s is earthy, as sexy as her eyes. Suddenly I’m not so surprised that men give up their secrets to her. For a second I waver. Then I think of Will and his refusal to admit to reigniting his affair with Catrina. I grit my teeth. Will deserves this. I deserve the truth. And if I say no now, then I will leave here without any way of knowing the truth. And without those keys.

  “Let’s just say men aren’t as smart as they sometimes think they are,” Alexa says with another wry chuckle.

  I nod, determined to see this through. “Show me where to sign,” I say.

  Alexa leaves and Brooke takes notes on a form just like the others I saw in the case files. I hesitate before giving Will’s details. Not because I’m having second thoughts, but because I’m aware it’s the same name as on Julia’s form. Still, it’s perfectly possible for there to be two Will Jacksons in Exeter. Neither part of his full name is unusual. We finish filling out the form. I send Brooke a picture of Will from my phone, tell her where he usually goes for a drink on a Friday after work, then I sign the form at the bottom and look up, expectant.

  “Thanks, Brooke.” Alexa returns as the girl leaves. She sits beside me. “You won’t regret this, Olivia. Brooke is one of our best girls. She’ll get the truth from your husband, then you’ll know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

  “How, er, how long will it take?” I ask.

  “It’s in Brooke’s hands now,” Alexa says smoothly. “She’ll contact you in a week or two, I expect, to set up a feedback meeting.” She produces a portable credit card machine, and I pay using the card from my old bank account—the one that’s still in my maiden name. Alexa stamps my form with the letter P.

  P for “paid.”

  I have a sudden flashback to Julia’s unstamped form. So Julia never actually paid for Shannon to approach Will. That ties in with what Shannon said about the whole thing being a cover.

  I chew on my lip, feeling anxious. It’s time. I get up and pace across the room. Not to the desk at first, just to the end of the couch. I pace back, wringing my hands together.

  “There’s no chance my husband will find out, is there?” I glance over at the desk where Alexa’s papers are spread out between the computer and the water jug.

  “No,” Alexa says firmly. “Our Honeys are discreet above everything. Our business depends on it.”

  She has clearly forgotten about Damian bursting in to the reception area last time I was here—or, at least, is hoping I’ve forgotten.

  I turn and pace again. This time I walk right over to the desk and indicate the water jug. “May I have some?” I ask.

  “Of course.” Alexa starts to rise, but I’m much closer to the jug.

  I reach for it. And send it flying. Water splashes across the phone and the pages on the desk and onto the beige carpet. “Oh,” I say, dropping to my hands and knees and patting, ineffectually, at the spillage. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not a problem,” Alexa says. For a moment I think she’s going to try to use the waterlogged phone to call for help, but instead she walks to the door. “I’ll get a towel.”

  As soon as she’s left the room, I scramble to my feet. In a flash I’m across the room to the drawer, opening it, grabbing at the keys. There are two of them on the key ring, together with a simple plastic label spelling out: CROWDALE.

  Footsteps sound outside. There’s no time to think. I shove the keys into my jeans pocket, shut the drawer, and scuttle back to the front of the desk. I drop to my knees as Alexa reenters, a towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

  She walks over to me. “Oh, there’s no need,” she says.

  I stand up and take the glass of water she offers. I take a few sips, but the water almost chokes me. The keys in my pocket feel like they are giving off some flashing neon sign. Stay calm, I tell myself.

  “So…” I force a wan smile onto my face. “We’re all set?”

  Alexa looks up from the floor, where she’s laying out the towel to soak up the water and gives a brisk nod. “Absolutely.” She gets to her feet. “Like I told you, Brooke will take it from here. She’ll be in touch soon.”

  I make myself walk down the stairs rather than run, though I can’t resist jogging down the final set of steps. Outside, the rain has stopped though the sky is still overcast, the steel gray clouds lowering and heavy.

  I scurry away from the Honey Hearts office. My heart is thumping. I’m a thief. I’ve stolen a set of keys. I’ve never robbed anything before, not even as a little girl. Kara did. A memory flashes into my head, sharp and true. It’s hard to square with the image I have of Kara now, but when she was thirteen or so she stole sweets from under the nose of our local, elderly newsdealer. Kara would smile her angelic smile, and the Asian man who ran the shop would smile back, oblivious of the fact that as soon as his back was turned, checking on newspaper returns or dealing with another customer, Kara’s slim fingers would filch a couple of chocolate bars and slip them into her pocket.

  She never panicked either, just strolled out of the shop like a hardened criminal. I would be watching from the doorway, half-impressed and half-appalled. I always gave her a hard time about it, telling her she was evil and stupid, but the truth was I was envious of her cool and her ability to feel no guilt whatsoever. I liked the Asian man with his stooped back and graying beard. My cheeks burned at the thought we had robbed him.

  But I never told on Kara. And it wasn’t just because she always took an extra chocolate bar for me. I didn’t want to expose her because, on some level, her guilt felt shameful. Maybe, even then, I wanted to protect the family version of my little sister—the one that Mum and Dad and I had built up over the years: Kara the dreamer, Kara the naïve, Kara the meek.

  But perhaps our version of Kara was an illusion, a construct that we simply wanted to believe in. After she died, Innocent Kara became the only possible version of the person she had been: the victim who was too good for this world, taken from us too young. Everyone who knew her believed in Innocent Kara.

  Everyone except Julia, I think wistfully. Perhaps that was why Kara adored her so much, because Julia let her be herself.

  I reach the end of the road and break into a jog as I turn the corner. I try not to run too fast and draw attention to myself, but the keys are now burning a hole in my jeans pocket and I’m imagining Alexa noticing they’re gone and calling the police immediately. My imagination is so fixed on this outcome, I can almost hear the sirens as I duck into a coffee bar. It’s a bit of a dive—with stained plastic tables and the smell of stale coffee wafting across the dirty linoleum floor. I head for a table at the back and ask for a cappuccino from the sallow-skinned waitress. She retreats behind the counter. I look around. There are only three other customers in the café, a man reading a newspaper in the corner and two women intent on their conversation by the window.

  No one is watching me. I put my hand in my pocket and take out the keys to Alexa’s vacation house. I hold out the plastic label attached. CROWDALE.

  I whip out my phone and Google the word. Less than a second later the details flash up on screen. Crowdale, in Princetown, Dartmoor. There’s even a postal code. I click through to Zoopla. The
house last changed hands three years ago.

  I shake my head. I still don’t see how anything significant could be stored in a vacation rental. Even if Alexa—a groomed, middle-aged businesswoman, albeit with a rather seedy business—is somehow connected to a rape and murder from eighteen years ago, why would she keep part of the evidence somewhere so public?

  I look at the keys again. Princetown is about an hour’s drive away, in a fairly desolate part of Dartmoor. My cappuccino arrives. I take a sip. The coffee tastes both weak and burnt. Disgusting.

  I call Damian, explaining where I am and that I have news, but I can’t speak. He tells me he is at Honiton staion, picking up his car, and that I should wait while he drives over. I can’t finish my coffee, so I order an orange juice, then use the dryer in the ladies’ to get the worst of the damp out of my hair. My clothes still feel uncomfortable against my skin. I sip my juice and think about calling Will. He should have both Zack and Hannah with him by now. I send him a text, asking if the kids enjoyed their day, but he doesn’t reply.

  An hour passes. Damian is stuck in traffic. I order another juice and wait. The sun is setting and the café is about to close by the time Damian arrives. He leaps out of his Mercedes and rushes into the café before I can even get up from the table. We head outside, into the rain, and walk over to his car.

  “What did you find out?” he asks, his whole body tensed.

  We sit in his car and I explain how Poppy sought me out and tried to sell me information. “I don’t think she was ever really going to tell me where she got the locket—or who from—she just wanted my cash. Anyway, I followed her to Honey Hearts.…”

  Damian’s eyes widen at this, getting bigger still as I explain how I overheard Poppy’s conversation with her mother and, then, how I stole the keys to the holiday rental where she’s been staying.

  “It’s called Crowdale, on Dartmoor.”

  “What about the police, Livy?” Damian interrupts, looking shocked. “I thought we agreed earlier you were going to take everything to the police?”

  I stare at him. I’d completely forgotten our earlier plan for me to go to the authorities.

  “I can still do that.” Rain drums on the car roof. “I can give the police the keys. They can look in the the rental.”

  “But … but…” Damian shakes his head. “Don’t you see that if Alexa is involved with Julia’s death, then she’ll know the locket that Poppy stole is significant—and the house where she stole it from is a significant place.”

  “Okay, then—”

  “So if she realizes you took her keys, she’s going to try to cover her tracks straightaway.”

  “Why does that stop me taking the keys to the police?” I look at him, bemused. “Like I said, they can go there and investigate.”

  Damian stares at me as if I’m mad. “The police won’t go anywhere without a warrant, which there’s no reason to grant, other than you saying the locket was once there.”

  “But it was. Poppy said she found it where she’d been staying. Which was her mother’s vacation house.”

  Damian shakes his head again. “The word of a drug addict won’t count for much, believe me, that’s if you can even find her again or if Alexa backs up her story, neither of which seems very likely.” He sighs and rests his head on the steering wheel.

  “So what do we do?”

  Damian looks up. “Well, we don’t have much choice now. Alexa Carling said this Crowdale place is a vacation home, right?”

  I nod.

  “So … if her daughter has been using it, but she’s just had to give Alexa back the keys, the chances are high that the place is empty. We need to take a look at it as soon as possible, before Alexa works out what you’ve done.”

  We drive in silence toward Dartmoor. The sky darkens as we travel. I check my phone, but Will still hasn’t replied to my text. He will definitely be with Zack and Hannah now. My heart twists at the thought of the three of them together, in our home, without me. I glance across at Damian. He suddenly seems very young and far less attractive than he did yesterday.

  The rain grows heavier, bringing with it a soft gray mist that makes it hard to read the passing signposts. In the end, we get lost only once on the way to Princetown, but it’s still not easy to find Crowdale once we’re there. The houses are spread out across the moors and set back from the narrow lanes with their dry stone walls. Our task is made harder by the driving rain and the mist that swirls creepily around us.

  We crawl along as the light fades completely from the sky and the rain slows to a pattering. The darkness and drizzle make it feel later than it really is.

  “Here.” Damian looks up from the map he’s consulting and points to a turnoff on the left. We drive along the unpaved road—not much more than a muddy track—stopping when we reach a low gate that crosses the path. A sign by the gate reads CROWDALE. The house itself is fifty yards or so beyond—a squat stone cottage on two floors. I pull the hood of my jacket up as I get out of the car. Damian turns up his collar. Silently, we climb the gate and trudge along the path to the house. Against the charcoal and silver sky, it looks bleak. Deserted. Spooky. Dark curtains hang at the closed windows. No lights are on.

  We reach the front door. There are two locks. Ivy crawls up the wall on either side. A sign hung over the door flaps against the stone: CROWDALE. Damian looks at me.

  “You’re up,” he says.

  I take Alexa’s keys out of my pocket and fit the first of the two into the top lock. It turns with a click. I take the dead bolt key and twist that inside the lower lock. It sticks at first. I give it a wrench. The door, stiff and old and heavy, swings open. The house inside is in darkness. I step in, the stone flags on the floor are cold underfoot, even through my shoes.

  Behind me, Damian fumbles for the light switch.

  With a flick, the corridor fills with bright light. There are two doors, one on either side and a flight of stairs leading up to the first floor. Both doors are open. I peer around the first door, into a living room. It’s anally neat.

  A memory from Kara’s murder investigation years ago flashes into my head: Our profilers say the guy who did this is obsessive about covering his tracks. He has left no clue, no hint of his presence.

  I shiver as I follow Damian into the living room. There is hardly any furniture. Just two low couches and a large-screen TV. A built-in cupboard on the far wall opens easily to reveal a shelf of DVDs. I pick a couple at random. They are all art films, mostly foreign.

  “These are odd films for a vacation rental,” I whisper. “You’d expect stuff for kids, not this.”

  Damian nods.

  I look around for evidence of Poppy’s stay. Surely the straggly-haired addict I met would make more mess? I cross the hall into the room opposite: a kitchen. A large bottle of Pepsi stands open on the table, along with the detritus from a meal—bread, a slab of butter, some cheese.

  We head upstairs. The landing at the top of the stairs is tiny. A small bathroom with the door open is opposite; a closed door on either side. I peer inside the bathroom. A sink, with a small cupboard above and a bath. No ornaments. No decoration. Just like the rest of the house. Not even a mirror.

  I open the cupboard. It contains a bottle of mouthwash, a toothbrush, and toothpaste on one shelf. Shaving foam and a shaving brush and razor on the other. This is, literally, all. I stare down at the sink. A large bar of orange soap. A threadbare towel hangs to one side.

  “I don’t understand. It looks like a man lives here,” I say, coming out of the bathroom. “A monk.”

  “Really?” Damian gestures into the room on the right. He is standing in the doorway. I go over and peer in. It’s a tiny bedroom in a phenomenal mess. Clothes and magazines scatter the floor. A small wooden wardrobe is empty, the doors hanging open. A low bed stands in the center of the room. A single blanket is strewn over a dirty mattress. No sheets. Two grubby cushions appear to serve as pillows. A toiletries bag is open on the mattress. Two tube
s of lipstick, an apparently unused toothbrush and a box of tampons spill out, onto the blanket.

  “Christ, I don’t know.” I turn away and head to the other room, opposite this one. I open the door.

  We’re back to Mr. Anal. The iron bedstead is covered with a tightly drawn white duvet. The walls, floor and fitted cupboards are painted white. Damian strides over and pulls open the doors. Inside rows of shirts and a couple of suits and slacks hang neatly, each item spaced separately from the next, so none of the hangers touch. A row of men’s shoes—mostly smart and brown or black—line up underneath the clothes. As Damian heads for the chest of drawers under the window, I look around. There is absolutely nothing to give any indication of the personality of the owner of this room. No books—in fact, there’s not a single book in the house. No computer. No photos. No pictures. No ornaments. Even the top of the chest of drawers is completely empty. I check under the pillows. No sleepwear lurking anywhere. All I can find is a long, old-fashioned key, tucked under the mattress.

  The room is eerily sterile. I shiver. Damian puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “I don’t get it,” he says.

  We head back downstairs. I’m about to tell him that the whole house—apart from the messy bedroom—fits the profile of Kara’s killer, when I catch sight of a small door under the stairs. I turn to Damian. “What about in there?”

  Damian strides over. The door is locked. He steps back with a groan. “If I break it down, it’ll be obvious we’ve been here.”

  I open my palm, revealing the key I found under the mattress upstairs.

  “Try this.”

  It fits the lock. Damian turns it with a click. The door opens onto stairs. Narrow and concrete, they lead down into darkness. Damian feels for the light switch. Turns it on. I follow him down the stairs. It’s a small, square cellar. No doors, no windows, just bare brick walls and a concrete floor. Two cardboard boxes stand against one window. I peer inside and see only books: crime novels, dog-eared paperbacks, a few ancient encylopedias. Nothing personal, nothing to indicate who the books’ owner might be. A naked lightbulb hangs from the ceiling.