Liar Read online

  ‘She was useless in every way,’ Amelia admitted. ‘I don’t know if it was Dad bullying her that made her so spineless, or if she was just made that way. She couldn’t control my brothers, she never got on top of cleaning or washing clothes and as for cooking! By the time I was twelve I was doing it all for her.’

  ‘So that’s why your room is so neat and pretty,’ he said. ‘All the girls I’ve known from organized homes live like slobs.’

  Amelia had surprised herself by talking about her mother. She normally avoided conversations about her background for fear of revealing how wretched it was. But perhaps it was good to have it out the way before their relationship got going. In the past she’d dreaded boyfriends suggesting she took them home to meet her parents. One look at the house from outside told the whole story: a front door that had been kicked open and a board nailed over it; the garden like a waste tip; filthy and torn net curtains at windows that hadn’t been cleaned for years.

  ‘I left home at eighteen never to return,’ she said.

  She wasn’t going to tell him she’d left because her father had beaten her up for refusing to hand over her pay packet. She’d been so badly hurt that she’d only reached the end of the road before she collapsed. A neighbour had seen her and called an ambulance. While she was in hospital the almoner had pulled some strings to get her the room in Godolphin Road, and persuaded a charity to help her buy the basics she’d need, living on her own. That was a time in her life she didn’t want to remember.

  ‘It’s a very strange thing, Max, but I never felt I belonged in that family,’ she said, feeling some explanation was in order. ‘When I was small I used to imagine I’d been left with them, and one day a classy couple would come and reclaim me.’

  ‘I suspect there’s a great deal more to the story than that! But maybe you’ll tell me when you know me better.’

  She shrugged, surprised by his intuition, but not willing to reveal more of herself today. ‘Tell me about your parents. You said they were farmers but now they’ve retired to Sidmouth.’

  ‘They’re kind, loving people, who’ve worked hard all their lives,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘As a kid I thought they were the fount of all knowledge. And they were, in their world. To run a moorland farm requires strength and stamina, patience and fortitude. Not to mention veterinary skills, knowledge of animal husbandry and how to grow crops successfully. But since they sold up and retired to Sidmouth, they seem so much smaller, duller and bigoted. Is that an awful thing to say?’

  ‘Not to me. I know you’re only trying to explain the difference you see in them now from how you saw them as a child. That’s not awful, just realistic.’

  He nodded. ‘They got married young and farmed in a remote part of Devon. Their world was us four boys and the farm. We had a brilliant childhood. But they’ve no experience of big cities – even little Sidmouth seems very urban to Mum, and she says ridiculous things to me like “Watch it when you go out that someone doesn’t stick a needle in your arm and turn you into a drug addict.”’

  Amelia spluttered with laughter. ‘Such naivety is rather sweet,’ she said.

  Max grinned. ‘As if an addict would waste his heroin on a stranger! I just wish Mum would ask me about stuff instead of making crass statements that make her sound stupid. I told her it takes more than one fix to become addicted, and immediately she flew into a panic thinking I’d tried it.’

  ‘She’s just being protective.’

  ‘Maybe. She and Dad have joined a bowling club in Sidmouth. When she told me, I was tempted to say she shouldn’t bend over to bowl in case someone stuck a needle in her bum.’

  ‘Oh, Max!’ Amelia laughed. ‘That’s just cruel.’

  By the time they got to Hampstead station they were laughing helplessly. Max had moved on to tell her some funny stories about old clients. One man had three ‘wives’. He was married to one but insisted on contacting the Inland Revenue to claim an allowance for each of them and the five children they had between them. He was indignant when a tax inspector turned him down.

  Amelia asked if he’d met the wives, and Max said he’d met two of them, and they’d seemed extraordinarily normal. ‘All living in one house! Can you imagine? It’s not as if he’s a heartthrob. He’s weedy and nearly bald.’

  Flocks of people were making their way to the Heath from the station, and Amelia thought that maybe they should have picked somewhere less popular for their picnic. But when they got up to Whitestone Pond and saw the Heath spread in front of them, it didn’t look crowded at all. They walked for a while and found a nice secluded spot to spread out the blanket and sit down.

  Max dived into the picnic basket with boyish enthusiasm, delighted with everything.

  ‘You’re amazingly easy to please,’ Amelia remarked. His boyishness really appealed to her. Past men in her life were always trying to be ‘cool’, never showing enthusiasm for anything. ‘It’s nice being here in the sun, with such good company.’

  ‘I’d marry you on the strength of that picnic alone.’ He laughed and blushed. ‘Oh, gosh! Talk about the need to engage the brain before opening the mouth! That wasn’t a real proposal, but I’m sure you know what I mean. I can’t believe we’ve lived so close to each other for so long but only got talking because of a murder.’

  ‘I can hardly believe I spotted a dead body. Normally people who discover one are out in the countryside with their dog.’

  ‘Confession time,’ he said, with a grin. ‘I’ve got to admit I always fancied you. The first time I saw you, and it must be two years ago or more, you had longer hair and a beaded band round your forehead. You were wearing an embroidered cheesecloth dress, and I christened you Pocahontas. I have to say you don’t look like a Red Indian squaw now.’

  Amelia giggled. ‘We all wore some mad stuff back then. I saw you once in purple flares.’

  ‘Don’t remind me of that fashion disaster,’ he replied, looking mortified. ‘I bought them in Carnaby Street, and a pair of platform Chelsea boots. The first time I wore the boots I fell over, and it was a miracle I didn’t break my ankle.’

  ‘It was fun in ’sixty-eight and ’sixty-nine,’ Amelia said wistfully. ‘I loved the free rock concerts in Hyde Park, the fabulous music and the freedom to be whatever you wanted to be. But we were left with a lot of people who had drug problems. Did you get into the druggy thing?’

  ‘I smoked a few joints, had a bit of speed, once tried LSD, but that scene wasn’t for me,’ he said. ‘It all seemed a bit phoney. People suggested we should share everything, but the truth was that they wanted blokes like me, who had a job, to supplement them so they could lie around all day.’

  Amelia’s experience had been so similar. ‘So we were both failed flower children,’ she said impishly. ‘Something else we have in common.’

  ‘So how do you imagine yourself – I mean, where do you want to be in a couple of years’ time?’ he asked.

  Amelia lay back on the blanket, tucking her cardigan under her head. ‘It’s not something I’ve really thought much about,’ she said. ‘Well, not until the murder happened – it’s opened up possibilities. I might be promoted at work, but I like to fantasize that I’ll be head-hunted by one of the nationals. It’s also made me think I need to get my book finished and try to get it published. But there is another possibility, which you’ll think is mad.’

  ‘Go on, tell me.’

  ‘I’d like to try and solve this murder.’

  Max leaned over her and, with one finger, smoothed back a lock of hair that was close to her eyes. ‘It’s mad, but entirely understandable. I thought the same myself.’

  ‘You did?’ She was surprised at such an admission. He seemed such a grounded person.

  ‘Yes, I did. Not that I’ve got the first idea how to go about it. But I did wonder if you could get the Whelans to give you Lucy’s friend’s address. Maybe we could go and see her. She works at the Beachcomber, too. She might agree to get us in.’

  During the
day Max told her lots more amusing stories, some from when he was a kid in Devon, others from when he’d first come to London and shared a flat with four friends. Amelia told him about working at the newspaper and the characters there, Jack being the main one. She admitted she was a loner. ‘I don’t make much of an effort to find friends any more,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ve got a bit of an inferiority complex. I just assume people won’t be interested in me. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. From what little you’ve said about your family it’s not surprising.’ He kissed her nose. ‘But I promise you, Amelia, you aren’t some sad little girl who needs to hide away. You’re pretty, bright, amusing and very caring. The depth of feeling you clearly had for the Whelans brought a lump to my throat.’

  Amelia’s eyes prickled with unshed tears. She knew exactly why she didn’t try to make friends, and when that had started, but she didn’t think she could tell Max.

  It was when she’d first got the room at Godolphin Road. She was still in physical pain from her father’s beating and felt terribly alone and scared. Yet when she went into that room and locked the door behind her, she felt safe for the first time she could remember. It wasn’t much of a place then – nasty old dark-wood furniture, grubby walls and a threadbare carpet. As soon as her cuts and bruises had stopped hurting, she had set to work to paint the room white. Each week when she got her wages, she bought something: a pot of paint for a piece of furniture, some vivid material, a lamp, a cushion. She scoured the junk shops in Shepherd’s Bush looking for bargains. The carpet was the best one, three pounds for a dark green piece big enough to cover the threadbare one.

  Transforming the dismal room to a bright, clean, colourful sanctuary had become a passion. She didn’t want other people in it: it was her place of safety where she could forget the mother who cared more about a bottle of cider and a packet of fags than her daughter, or her bully of a father who had made her believe she was useless at everything.

  She had a few dates in the first three years she lived there. One had led to a relationship that lasted an entire year. Paul was a few years older than her, an articled clerk at the firm of solicitors where she worked as a typist. He was religious and believed it was wrong to have sex outside marriage. She liked that he wanted her to go to church with him, and didn’t pester her for sex as other men had done before him. While she didn’t think she was in love with him, he was decent, and she hoped real love would grow. But when the mini-skirt hit the magazines and shops in Oxford Street, Paul was horrified when she met him one evening wearing one. He sent her home to change, and it was then she realized he was controlling her. He would sulk if she didn’t want to go to church every Sunday morning, he monitored what she wore, and he picked every film they went to see. He was appalled when he caught her reading a novel by Harold Robbins, because it was well known for graphic sex scenes. She knew if she didn’t end it with him, she’d be trapped before long in a narrow, cold marriage.

  He took it badly. He said she should be grateful he’d wanted to marry her – after all, she was hardly out of the ‘top drawer’. She had to find another job, too, so she didn’t have to see his chilly, disapproving expression any more.

  The experience with Paul cemented the idea in her head that she must stay free. But soon loneliness emboldened her to try again, mostly with men she met through working for a temping agency. None of the dates led to anything worthwhile, and she knew she was at fault because she tried too hard to please, just as she’d always done with her father.

  It was difficult to make girlfriends, too: they always seemed to be in little cliques and didn’t want anyone new joining them. So, she drew back into her room on a programme of self-improvement, reading books on that subject, then the classics, and magazines, so she was up to date with fashions and current trends. She listened to classical music on the radio, imitating the BBC voices she heard. Sometimes it occurred to her that her room had become like a caterpillar’s cocoon, and that one day, when she was completely ready, she’d shed the cocoon and emerge a complete and perfect person.

  She’d thought that moment had come when she’d run into Emily, an old school friend, three years ago. Emily had always been an extrovert, and popular with everyone at school. She’d given her fair hair an Afro perm and wanted to set the world alight.

  Amelia got her hair permed too, and together they went to clubs in Soho, festivals in parks and love-ins at Alexandra Palace. Amelia lost most of her inhibitions, with hippie men, who were not bossy, mostly good lovers, fun and imaginative. She and Emily had a blast until Amelia began to notice that people were always dossing on her floor, eating food she’d bought and cooked, and when they drifted off to Cornwall or to Spain, they never invited her to come too.

  Then in early 1970, Emily drifted off too, to a commune in Scotland, without as much as a goodbye. All that was left of those heady fun times was a lingering smell of patchouli oil, a mark on her neck from hippie love beads and a big scratch across the Beatles’ Abbey Road album.

  Amelia realized it was time to pull back into her cocoon, to update her image and to find a job with some hope of promotion or she would drift aimlessly, like so many others she knew. She had been temping all along, but now she was determined to find a job with a future. In March 1970, when she was twenty-five, the West London Weekly took her on.

  Now, since finding Lucy Whelan, she felt she had plunged head first off a diving board into a new pool. Meeting the Whelan family and getting respect from Jack and other journalists was good, as was meeting Max. She felt she’d finally found her niche, not clinging to the comfort and safety of her room but marching boldly out into the world.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Max asked. He was propped up on his elbow next to her, looking down at her.

  ‘Just how long it’s taken me to find out what I really want,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Seven years, in fact.’

  ‘So are you going to tell me what that is?’

  She lifted her hands to cup his face, smiling up at him. ‘No, I can’t put it into words. But I’d like to be kissed.’

  His head came down towards hers, but he stopped just a couple of inches from her face. ‘I’ve been thinking that since we left home. But you’ve got a knack of disappearing inside yourself, which makes a chap like me anxious.’

  Unable to think of an answer to that, she pulled him closer and kissed him. He responded eagerly, his hands sliding beneath her to take her in his arms. It was the kind of kiss she’d imagined a hundred times, but never actually experienced. Slow, sensual and sensitive, sparking waves of desire that made her arch her whole body into his, and the world around them to disappear.

  ‘Gosh,’ was all she could say, when he moved away slightly. ‘That was …’ She paused, unable to find the right words.

  ‘It made me wish we were back in your pretty room and I could make love to you,’ he murmured, against her cheek. ‘Is it too soon for that?’

  ‘Possibly.’ She wanted to say she wasn’t on the Pill, but that sounded too mechanical. She certainly couldn’t ask if he had any Durex. Yet even under the sleepy spell of sweet seduction she knew she couldn’t risk unprotected sex: she’d seen too many other girls panicking at an unwanted pregnancy.

  ‘So if it’s “possibly” too early, does that mean you aren’t averse to the idea?’

  His eyes were twinkling and the corners of his mouth looked like he was trying not to laugh.

  ‘In books people can have sex seamlessly. They don’t seem to concern themselves with time, place or consequences.’

  ‘Did you mean you’d like to do it on Hampstead Heath without anyone noticing?’

  Amelia laughed. He had put on a very innocent questioning expression and she knew he was teasing her. ‘I’m sure you know exactly what I mean. Sex without all the usual hang-ups, the fear of seeming too easy, of becoming pregnant et cetera …’

  ‘So are you afraid of being “too easy”, or of becoming pregnant? Or is it
one of the et ceteras, which I’m not familiar with?’

  She looked into his lovely woodland-pool eyes and knew she’d finally met an intelligent man who could be trusted. ‘Both I guess,’ she said, putting one hand over her eyes, feeling self-conscious.

  He took her hand away. ‘Amelia, I really like you, not for a one-night stand, but with the hope that we’ve got something special, because that’s the way it feels to me. Does it to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Well, in that case we need to be adults about it and discuss what we want, or don’t want. So do you want me?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not on the Pill,’ she said, blushing furiously as no man had ever said anything like that to her before.

  ‘Then I’ll take control until you can get on it. But for now let’s have some more kissing.’

  6

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Max whispered, as he kissed Amelia’s neck and cupped his hands round her breasts.

  ‘Surely not already,’ she said sleepily. ‘It’s not even light yet.’

  ‘It’s nearly seven and I’ve got to shower, shave and get to Uxbridge by nine. You go back to sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’

  It was weeks since the day they’d found Lucy’s body and become friends. A week on from that, when they’d had the picnic on Hampstead Heath, their love affair had started. They’d got so sunburned that they didn’t go to bed together then, and Max had had to go away to see a client in Brighton where he stayed for the remainder of that week.

  Amelia went to the doctor and got the Pill, but it would be a further two weeks before she was fully protected. She was shocked by how much she wanted Max: he was on her mind all day, and at night she tossed and turned, thinking of him. But he’d gone off on another business trip to Birmingham, so she couldn’t even tell him.

  It was early on a Saturday morning when it finally happened. She awoke at six thirty to the sound of Max throwing gravel at her window. ‘I got the first train back from Birmingham to be with you because I couldn’t bear it any longer,’ he said, as she let him in. ‘I even gave up the hotel’s full breakfast!’