Don’t Trust Me: The best psychological thriller debut you will read in 2018
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Killer Reads an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by Killer Reads 2018
Copyright © Joss Stirling 2018
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018.
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com
Joss Stirling 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.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Source ISBN: 9780008278656
Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008278649
Version 2018-03-12
For Kate Bradley
Kate, you win the prize for Most Enthusiastic Editor. It’s been a pleasure working with you and the team at Harper Fiction. I hope you like your book!
‘human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.’
(T. S. Eliot, ‘Burnt Norton’, The Four Quartets)
‘She is brave and strong and broken all at once. As she speaks it is as if her existence is no longer real to her in itself, more like a living epitaph to a life that was.’
(Anna Funder, Stasiland)
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About Killer Reads
The door closed on the man lying broken at the foot of the stairs. Life hadn’t yet left him – a twitch of a finger, a shallow lift of the ribs, betraying that there was hope if help got there in time.
But it wouldn’t, would it?
Walking with unhurried steps down the suburban street despite a racing heart, the killer felt that congratulations were in order. Thinking fast on your feet was a trait to be regarded with a certain pride. It had come into its own just a short time ago when it became clear something had to be done. His madness had to be stopped.
The act was self-defence really, when you thought about it.
Oh yes, there were plenty of excuses to be made.
A wild glee bubbled up which had to be hidden from other people out and about enjoying a London summer’s evening. An innocent face was such an asset. Glimpsing the families lingering in shadowy gardens, citronella candles lit to deter the mosquitoes, memories of childhood games stirred. Candlestick in the conservatory by Mrs Peacock? No, no, that was a stab in the dark. Rope in the library, Professor Plum? Really, was that the best you could do? Lead pipe in the kitchen, Colonel Mustard? Warmer. The police would be left guessing like inept players when they found him – that’s if they even suspected a crime had taken place. Underestimated by everyone, the killer knew how not to leave too many traces. The scene was staged correctly. Justice done. Time to fade into the background, just one among the many passers-by. Just look at them. Any one of them, under the right conditions, might also take a cast-iron pan to the back of someone’s head and end a life.
Chapter 1
Jessica, 7th August 2016
‘I’m leaving.’
We have barely just walked through the door when Michael makes his declaration. I’m still standing in my holiday T-shirt and shorts, cradling the duty-free bought at the end of our week in Minorca. Our bedroom is scattered with a week’s worth of dirty clothes and he is already repacking his suitcase.
‘What? Leaving leaving, or just leaving?’ I ask, mesmerised as he transfers ironed shirts from the wardrobe to his carry-on. It’s like he’s become a whole different person after the holiday wear got dumped. Back to business. Item one: deal with errant girlfriend.
He pauses, hand arrested in choosing the right tie. ‘I’ll stay overnight at Gatwick. I don’t want to disturb you by having a taxi fetch me at five.’
And I’m not disturbed now with this sudden departure? ‘Oh, so just leaving. I see. I thought, after… you know… it might be hasta la vista, baby.’ I give a hiccup of laughter and unscrew the top of the lime-green liqueur I bought on impulse at the airport. I take a swig.
‘Jessica! I warned you that stuff was vile.’
‘Yeah, well. It tasted great on the beach.’
‘And now it tastes like bleach.’
He’s right but I’m not backing down. ‘Cheers. My funeral and all that.’
He shakes his head. He’s already finished stowing his conference gear. The Grand Prix pit teams could take lessons from him on efficient changeovers. ‘You know how to reach me.’
I really don’t, not anymore. ‘So we’re not going to talk about it?’
‘What good would that do? Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away.’ He walks past me without a goodbye kiss. I hear the front door slam.
I check the level in the bottle. Perhaps it will taste better with ice and lemon?
It doesn’t. I’m still lying awake at two in the morning, tossing and turning, getting up to go to the loo a million times. I check the time.
02:36.
The house clicks and settles in that odd way it does when it thinks no one is listening, like it’s really some living, breathing beast just pretending to be bricks and mortar. A horrible feeling comes over me of there being something wrong, someone out there, with me alone in the house. It’s happened before, usually when I’m in a car after dark on my own, waiting. Be honest, you’ve thought that too, haven’t you? Put your mind to it and it could happen right now where you are. In my nightmare, a man in a Scream-face mask is going to tap on the window. I can see him lurching from the bushes to stare, blank-faced, black circle of a mouth, hands pressed to his cheeks in terror, eyes fixed on me. I know it’s foolish but once the image is there, he’s there in the dark, the Scream guy, real as anything. And now he’s outside my back door as I lie upstairs in bed in a cold sweat.
Stop it, Jessica. You know how this works. It’s the late-night drinking that has summoned your personal horror. Yet my body hums with tension, telling me this time it’s different. This time he’s real. Paralysed, I lie wide awake, listening. There are footsteps in the side alley, I am sure of it, but no way am I going to look. I’m afraid I’ll see him – or not see him, which would be almost as bad, as I’ll know my brain is tricking me again. I take my phone under the blankets with me, thumb close to the emergency-call option on the home screen, but whoever it is doesn’t make another move.
It was probably just a normal intruder raiding the shed, I tell myself, and then laugh grimly at my idea of a small mercy.
Eventually, as it grows light and thoughts of the masked intruder recede, I drift off and sleep through my first alarm. On the second round, I leap up out of the twisted sheets and rush from the house, still buttoning my jacket. On the street, I bump into our neighbour, Lizzy, walking her spaniel. The dog lets off a staccato bark of hysterical joy at seeing me.
‘Had a good holiday?’ asks Lizzy, tugging on Flossie’s lead.
I have no time for the truth. When do I ever? ‘Great. Thanks for feeding the cat. I got you a present but I’m afraid I drank it. Believe me – I saved you from the hangover from hell.’
She laughs, as I hoped. ‘I don’t expect anything, you know that. I like Colette. It’s no trouble.’
‘Thanks. You’re a star. Must dash!’ Giving a cheery wave, I run for the station. Why have I let myself get in such a flap? I scold myself in my mind using Lizzy’s-voice-of-sense, for letting an overactive imagination cause such paralysis last night. The Scream guy never seems real at eight in the morning. Maybe things will improve today? I’ll have a good few hours at work and a decent conversation with Michael later to clear the air. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
Then the train from Clapham is on time. Usually that would be cause for a marching band and trumpet fanfare, except I’m not. On time, I mean. I stumble up the station steps to see the 8:04 slide away to Vauxhall. My phone goes flying, screen hitting the concrete with that crack. I pick it up. Sure enough, the screen has gone all modern art – my life through shattered glass, still just about functioning.
Injured mobile in hand, I wonder if maybe I should take it as a sign? I should stop here, turn around and go home – repack the suitcase and max out the credit card on the first standby ticket to anywhere that isn’t this life of mine. Would Michael count that impulse as ‘stupid’?
The moment passes. Instead, I squeeze myself onto the next service, like a good little rat in the rat race. Suffering the indignities of the short-in-stature at rush hour, I travel with my face pressed against the back of a German student in a Bayern top. That’s no hardship. He smells good, all kind of musk and bath soap with a hint of alpine yodelling, and looks, well, far too young for me. Funny that that constitutes my most sensual experience of the month. Maybe of my year.
Change on to the Underground, another change and finally I make it to Dean Street, Soho, having hoofed it down Oxford Street as if someone gave a damn about what time I clocked in.
And then the key won’t turn in the lock.
Chapter 2
‘Brilliant, just bloody brilliant.’ I ease the key out, wipe it on my skirt and try again. Jiggle. Plead. Swear under my breath. ‘You will not defeat me, you stupid bit of useless metal.’
I’m coming apart at this last hitch. My head is pounding, hands trembling, tears close. Don’t do this to me, world.
I then notice that the Yale lock looks new – a shiny brass face, unscratched, innocent. Right. OK. Reason this through. I’ve been on holiday for a week so it’s possible my boss has had cause to change the locks in my absence – a mugging, a drunken oh-shit-key-went-down-the-drain incident, or maybe he’s finally listened to my doubts about the cleaner? I indulge in a grunt of vindication. I’ve been complaining that she barely wipes the surfaces and seems to think a squirt of air freshener into the scummy bathroom will convince me she’s doing the job. But if he has given her the boot, and changed the locks to pre-empt revenge attacks, why didn’t he at least text me to let me know?
I thump on the door. ‘Jacob, are you in there? It’s me, Jessica?’ I shout my name with a rising inflexion. Remember me? You know, the research assistant who’s been working alongside you for three months.
No response.
Defeated, I sit down on the top step and review my options. This comes as a particularly fat fly buzzing on top of the pile of crap that is my morning so far. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
OK, some would say I’m being overdramatic. So what do I do now?
I try ringing Jacob but the number is unobtainable. No surprise there, as he usually keeps it switched off, claiming he doesn’t like the idea that his position can be triangulated from every phone mast. I’d once made a lame joke about drone strikes but he just looked at me in that way of his. Some men, actually most men, seem to find me the equivalent of the tissue left in a pocket during the wash. My jokes and ill-thought-through comments are fluff to be brushed away with a show of mild irritation. I then try ringing the office phone, just in case. It’s only a few metres from me on the other side of blue door and if he is in he’ll have to pick it up. I should be able to hear it ringing, but there’s only silence. I lift my mobile to my ear and hear the distressed beep of another unobtainable line.
OK, think this through. I don’t wait for a solution to come to me; I always act. This is my place of work, right? Starting to doubt myself – and that’s very easy to do as doubt is my factory setting – I go back down the stairs and stare at the number 5a on the front door.
Yes, it is the right one, with the busted entrance that yields to a firm push. Our narrow door is sandwiched between the empty shop that was briefly a nail bar and the ex-tapas restaurant that rapidly went bankrupt in the way of overambitious eateries. Both premises are gathering post and circulars on the doormats like letters from an obsessed lover who really just won’t give up. They’re gone. Get over it.
I go back upstairs and carry on an extra flight. I know there is a flat up here as I have heard the sound of feet and occasionally bursts of loud music as I did my internet searches in the office below. I’d never seen the inhabitants so my mind has naturally run riot. We keep very different hours and I’ve sometimes speculated as to whether it is home to one of the prostitutes for which the area is famed. Don’t take any notice of me though. Little do I know about the contemporary sex industry, not having met a sex worker recently – at least, I’m not aware that I have. I probably have. I mean, do Michael’s students count? Some are said to be sleeping their way through college to avoid taking on crippling debt. Well done, government, prostituting the best and brightest.
I realise immediately that I’ve got my picture all wrong when I see the messenger bike blocking the stairwell – unless this is a form of sexual delivery about which I am ignorant. That is entirely possible as my recent experience has been vanilla all the way – and what came before that I really don’t want to remember. I shuffle past, reminded of my less-than-sylphlike proportions as my hip takes a jab from a brake and my butt squashes against the wall. I knock on the door.
After a few seconds, I hear someone approaching. The door opens and a lanky guy wearing an entirely too-small towel, is staring down at me.
‘So?’
What kind of greeting is that? ‘Um, hi, I work downstairs but I can’t get into my office. I don’t suppose you know if there was a locksmith here during the week?’ Stupid question. Why would he know that? What am I even doing here? I try a friendly smile even though my head is still throbbing. I probably look demented.
He rattles off a reply in a foreign language, Polish I think. I can get the ‘nie mowie po angielsku’ (I don’t speak English) thanks to a Polish barista who had once taught me a few words and given me a free coffee for my attempts. It dawns on me that the man hadn’t said ‘so?’ at all, but ‘co?’ – Polish for ‘what’, which sounds almost the same.
‘No English?’ I find myself saying, as if this is in any way relevant to my situation. In post-Brexit Britain I go for an over-friendly, I’m-not-one-of-the-haters, commiserating tone.
‘Leetle,’ he says. As little as his distracting towel.
‘Sorry, never mind.’ I back away before the towel gives up its perilous grip on his hips.
‘You have problem?’ he asks.
Not as long as you keep a hold, mate, I want to quip, but bite my tongue. This month’s goal, agreed with Charles, my therapist, is not to blurt out inappropriate comments or jokes. I failed spectacularly last week but am trying the new-leaf approach. Anyway, here is someone actually showing an interest in helping. I feel so grateful to find a human who cares that I begin a pantomime of my predicament, complete with props: key, lock, downstairs, shake of head.
‘OK. Moment.’ He goes back into his flat and closes the door.
Hanging on to the promise in that ‘Moment’, I wait for him to emerge, which he duly does a minute later, wearing lycra that looks like it’s been slapped on with a roller brush. Soho’s answer to Chris Froome, he hefts the bike out of my way and follows me downstairs. I hold up my keys, and point to the lock. Then magically, he produces a brand-new Yale key on a ring with a fob in the shape of a little bicycle-wheel.
Thank God, some sanity is being restored to my morning. Jacob must have had the locks changed and had the idea of leaving the spare with the guy upstairs. He could’ve told me. My headache begins to ease.
My Polish white knight opens the door and stands back.
‘Thanks.’ I hold out my hand for the key, but he shakes his head.
‘I keep. For boss.’
I don’t really hear this explanation because the room I enter is just not right. Ten days ago, my messy desk with laptop sat in front of the sash window, a grey filing cabinet in the corner, a pinboard of all the cases we were working on next to that. Jacob’s desk had taken up the majority of the room across from me, a chair for clients and a coffee table pushed against the wall. The decor had been gunmetal grey with water-stain accents. The door opposite the entry had led into a depressing little kitchen and bathroom in the cheap extension, which I guess had been put on in the 1930s when it was decided indoor plumbing was here to stay.
Now I feel like I am walking into the same room but in a parallel universe. The place is bigger. Someone has knocked through to the kitchen, laid a wooden floor and painted the walls white, refitted the kitchen. All in the space of ten days. A treatment table, still wrapped in plastic, has replaced Jacob’s desk, and all the paraphernalia for an aromatherapy-cum-massage is neatly laid out on a pale-wood counter that takes up one wall. A feng shui kind of arrangement of ominous forked twig and stones – I mean, where are they planning to shove that? – stands on a low table where my desk had been. It smells new – new paint, new people, new business. There wasn’t even a nail mark in the wall to show where the pinboard once hung.
I resist the temptation to slap my cheek to check I’m not dreaming. ‘What happened to all the stuff that was in here?’ I ask, pointless though it is.
My Polish helper just smiles that bemused ‘seen enough, lady?’ smile.
‘Where is Jacob Wrath? Who’s renting this place?’ Finally I think of a relevant question with which the key holder might be able to help. ‘Do you have a number for the landlord? Landlord? Yes?’ Meeting incomprehension, I type the word into Google translate and let him squint through the spiderwebbed screen.
He nods and pulls a phone out from God knows where in his close-fitting outfit. Also in dumb show, he selects a contact and turns the screen to me. I jot down the number with a biro on a receipt dug out of the bottom of my shoulder bag.
‘Thanks.’
My guide stands back. He’s not going to leave me here, clearly, in case I steal a box of patchouli essential oil. I walk back down the stairs and on to the street. A few moments later, my new friend is outside with the bike slung over his shoulder. He dumps the bike on the road, gives me a wave, and mounts in one smooth move.
‘Jen-Coo-Yan. Thanks!’ I call after him in my one remembered coffee-powered phrase.
And then it starts to rain. Of course it does. But not glamorously, not like that scene at the end of Four Weddings and a Funeral, where the girl stands looking damp but still adorable. This is thunderous downpour where no one escapes with any shred of dignity. Deciding to take my phone call to a drier spot, I scurry to the coffee shop I like on Soho Square.
Buying an Americano to cut down the wait produced by the arcane art of working an espresso machine, I slide into a table near the back. Chasing a couple of paracetamol with a shot of black coffee, I tap in the number I got from the Two-wheeled Pole.
The phone is answered with an aggressive ‘Yes? What the fuck is it?’
God, I wish I was the least bit assertive but that was missed out of the baby shower of cradle blessings thrown by my good fairies. Instead I got impulsiveness, disorganisation and an inability to swear in public. I can swear perfectly well in private – fuck it – see what I mean? But whereas other people seem to regard the f-word as an ordinary intensifier, I can’t use it. Not at all. Not even when it is literally what I’m doing. Especially not then.
‘Um, hello, is that the landlord of 5a Dean Street?’
‘What’s it to you? You’re not that fucking woman from Number 7? Don’t waste my time telling me Marek is playing his music too loud. Fucking racist bitch. Take it up with him.’