Friends Who Lie Read online

  Friends Who Lie

  Paul J. Teague

  Contents

  Also by Paul J. Teague

  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

  Epilogue

  Two Years After preview

  Author Notes

  Also by Paul J. Teague

  About the Author

  Also by Paul J. Teague

  Don’t Tell Meg Trilogy

  Book 1 - Don’t Tell Meg

  Book 2 - The Murder Place

  Book 3 - The Forgotten Children

  Standalone Thrillers

  Dead of Night

  One Last Chance

  No More Secrets

  So Many Lies

  Two Years After

  Friends Who Lie

  Paul J.Teague & Adam Nicholls

  Now You See Her

  Coming Soon!

  If you enjoyed Don’t Tell Meg, you’ll love the Morecambe Bay Trilogy:

  Left For Dead - available for pre-order here

  Circle of Lies - available for pre-order here

  Truth Be Told - available Jan 6 2019

  Prologue

  Benidorm: June

  As murders go, it was a beautiful place to die. There were two of them at the top of the hill. Both had started their day with different intentions. For one, it was going to be an adventure, an expedition in the early morning Spanish sunshine. For the other, it would be a time to settle scores. A day that was full of promise would end before it had even begun, with a blow to the head, a desperate struggle, and then strangulation.

  The Benidorm Cross was one of the best-known tourist spots in the area and was often featured on TV in holiday shows and drama series. It perched high on the hill overlooking the resort with its glorious golden beach and the sparkling blue seas of the Mediterranean.

  There was no way anyone else in the group would make that climb before they had to pack up for the flight back home. Sure, they’d all said that they might when the Cross was pointed out to them in the distance. It was a challenge, goading them from the beach and the bars, always whispering in their ears: Will you do it? Can you do it? But, when push came to shove, the arduous walk had always been too much effort when set against the lure of the bars, the beach and the vibrant nightlife.

  They had left in the early hours of the morning. Their lightweight companions were still sleeping, tired and hungover from the previous night. What a night it had been, too – the big bust-up, the falling out that nobody had seen coming. But it had been cathartic. They’d needed it to blow away the resentments and friction, to make a fresh start.

  At five o’clock precisely, a mobile phone had vibrated under a pillow. Its owner was already awake, plotting, planning, working through every scenario.

  They all had the motivation to commit the murder, that was for sure. That’s if the finger was even pointed at the group of friends. The police would probably think it was some hobo or opportunist. That’s how it would look. The others would still be in bed while it was happening – the body would be discovered before they’d even opened their eyes.

  The Benidorm Cross was a feature of the resort, perched high up on that hill. It was always seen on TV, in holiday show reports and drama series set in the seaside town. It wasn’t immediately obvious how to reach it, which is why the walk had to wait until they’d had time to settle in.

  Just after six o’clock a second mobile phone alarm had vibrated and was immediately switched off. There would be no shower, no breakfast. An immediate start should mean avoiding any other tourists. There was always the danger of the early morning dog walkers, but so high up on the hill? Unless they lived in one of the walled houses that lined the winding road to the Cross, that seemed unlikely.

  The streets were quiet at that time. The late-night revellers were not that long home and in their beds, while the early starters wouldn’t get served breakfast in their hotels before half-past six. The resort’s thoroughfares were getting the only two hours’ respite from the noise and shouting that they got in any twenty-four hour period.

  The mobile phone map indicated the route. It was straightforward, a short walk along the seafront, then the road began to rise, a warning of the climb to come. There was not a person to be seen. Benidorm was wonderful like this, but you had to be an early bird to catch this stillness. T

  he road became steeper and more difficult to tackle, residential properties taking the place of hotels to either side. On foot it was a long slog, but at least the sun was not in its midday intensity, there was still a coolness to the air.

  It was necessary to pause from time to time – the incline was relentless. The concrete blocks which lined the now single-track road provided an ideal resting place.

  The scenery became rockier, the vegetation sparser, but the higher the climb, the greater was the promise of the views from the top. All was quiet. Not a dog walker to be seen, no cars raced by on the narrowing road, making an early morning dash to the top.

  Eventually the road came to an end. There was a parking area there, but no vehicles anywhere and no sign of anybody else. Perfect, this was perfect. The others would miss it all, wasting the last day in their beds sleeping off the night before. This was the ideal antidote to the rowing and bickering, and then the drunken hilarity of the reconciliation afterwards. It was a place to think.

  The climb was more gradual at this final stage, a dirt track lined with rough wooden fencing marking the way to the large metal cross mounted on its concrete plinth.

  It was nothing special up close. But there was so much of interest up there, before you even stopped to admire the views. The Cross was surrounded by memorials to people who’d visited Benidorm and cherished their time there. There were photos of loved ones with messages saying how important this place had been for them.

  In memory of mum, she adored this resort and now she can enjoy it forever xxx

  To Tom, from your Benidorm boozing mates. We had great times here. We miss you pal, The Wigan Crew

  There must have been fifty memorials surrounding the Cross – artificial flowers, teddy bears, photographs – many of them held down by gaudy mementoes or stones, to prevent the hilltop winds from blowing them away. Somebody had even left an urn of ashes on the concrete plinth.

  The light wooden fencing marked the limits of the designated viewing area. The panorama was stunning. The sun glistened on the gentle waves below, the sands were golden and bright, and in the distance was the black rock of Peacock Island.

  The high-rise hotels and tacky bars merged into an architectural vista which it was easy to miss out on when submerged in the energy and noise on the streets below. It was a wonderful view of a much-maligned resort. To be there alone, at such an early hour and in such peace, was a real treat.

  The killer was concealed among the clusters of bushes, lurking, ready, nervous but determined. Watching from their safe spot, they too had admired the magnificent views that the hilltop afforded. They should have all walked up there together really, but it was t
oo late for that now. It was too late for many things.

  As the second visitor arrived at the hilltop, they saw that it would be easy enough to duck under the fence and walk right out to the edge of the summit. There were memorials out there as well, so it had to be safe enough to step out a little further. There was no cliff edge, it was free from danger.

  The memorials were touching in their simplicity and sincerity. In many ways they showed a more acute sense of loss than any grave could ever convey.

  To Grandma & Grandpa. We had so many lovely Christmases here with you. We miss you both so much, but we know you’re still laughing in heaven. Dave, Lorna & kids xxx

  Toni. We loved this place together. I’ll always love you. Mike.

  It took a moment to realise what was happening: a rustle to the side … a sudden movement … a sickening blow to the head … a fall to the ground … blood running down the face. Before there was time to recover, a second blow, hard and violent. What was this? Who was it?

  There was a struggle to stay conscious, then a moment of darkness followed by the full brightness of the sun in their eyes.

  A face, at last a face. Who was doing this? Then, a third, violent blow to the forehead and the sensation of fading away.

  Why was this happening? The moment of realisation. This person was known, it was no stranger. This was no random attack.

  There was a final surge of energy, a last attempt to escape and perhaps even to reason. But then the hands came down around the neck and the squeezing began. It was almost finished; their victim was growing weaker.

  The killer would always remember those last, choked words as the body weakened and death finally came. It was slower than expected, it took some time to die. The area was checked for silly mistakes. No water bottle left behind, nothing with fingerprints. The assassin rolled the corpse into the undergrowth, then swept the surrounding area with a branch from one of the nearby bushes.

  It was still early – there was nobody else to be seen. The killer rapidly walked down the hill, clinging to the walls of the houses beside the road, alert to anybody who may have been looking out of windows or taking in the delights of the new day from their balcony.

  All was quiet as the murderer walked through the empty Spanish streets and headed back to the apartment. Nobody was awake. They would not even be aware that somebody was missing, not until nine o’clock at least. That left plenty of time to reflect on the victim’s last, plaintive words.

  ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  Chapter One

  Caitlen: April

  Caitlen cursed Terry, and not for the first time that week. His careless, happy-go-lucky demeanour was wearing thin. Another night late back from work. Another night eating dinner on her own. She was beginning to wonder if she’d even notice the difference without him. Only she was scared of being on her own again.

  She sifted through the post which had been thrust through the letterbox after they’d left for work. She wanted kids eventually, but after the day she’d just had she wondered what life would be like with them. She was tired out from a shitty day, hungry – with no inclination to cook – and in desperate need of a good night’s sleep. Terry’s snoring was becoming a problem, too. Intermittent had become regular, it was keeping her awake at night. But when do you tell a person it’s over?

  The post was non-existent most days. They’d gone paperless with the bills, so that had culled most of what they received. Nobody wrote letters any more, meaning that anything they did get was just a pile of crap. Unwanted circulars seemed to be all that was keeping the Royal Mail in business.

  Caitlen looked in the fridge. The problem with them both being out at work all day was that they never shopped properly. It was a constant process of grabbing bits on the move. Terry was no use. He always seemed to remember his beers – never milk, bread, eggs, or something else which might have kept the two of them alive.

  She looked at the clock on the cooker. Just after six-thirty, she was starving. Anything that they did have in the house needed some preparation, and she couldn’t be bothered.

  Her phone vibrated. It was a text from Terry.

  Sorry luv, going to be held up until after 10. Big case, you know how it is. See you later.

  Three years ago, the word ‘luv’ had seemed slightly endearing and even a little novel. The way Terry said it there wasn’t a hint of being patronising. It was just how he and his family spoke. Now it grated like a toddler’s screams, it was an assault to her ears. She winced every time he said it. It was only a matter of time, but it was so hard for her to jump off the moving vehicle. Life kept moving on, jumping out of a relationship took grit. Caitlen wasn’t sure that she had it. And with Terry, it wouldn’t be easy.

  His text had sealed the deal. She would go to the new bistro that had opened up the road. It would still be happy hour – she could grab a pizza and a glass of wine and they wouldn’t worry about her using her laptop in there. It was one of those cool places run by hipsters.

  Caitlen checked herself out in the mirror. She looked tired, but perfectly alright to be seen in public. A change of jacket, a brush of the hair and she’d be good to go.

  She reached out to pick up her MacBook, but then hesitated. Her old laptop was sitting on the kitchen worktop where it had been getting in the way for some time. It was ready to be thrown out, but she wanted to check over the hard drive first and make sure there was nothing on there that she needed. Nobody was getting her information from an old hard drive and stealing her identity, she knew the drill. Then she’d pound the thing to bits using Terry’s mallet from the shed. Terry was the kind of man who kept a mallet. He had a toolbox, too. He even had a workbench. Only dads use workbenches in the twenty-first century, she’d thought to herself.

  His hands were rough and dry, toughened from doing jobs around the house. Caitlen wasn’t used to men who were practical. Most of her previous boyfriends would have struggled to put up a curtain rail. She missed their soft hands touching her. When Terry caressed her, the callouses on his hands scraped her skin. Over time, it’s the little things that drive us crazy.

  She placed her MacBook on the kitchen table and picked up the laptop, opening the lid and switching it on. It was half-charged, enough for her to do what she needed to do without it dying on her. She’d kill two birds with one stone, check the computer and get a bite to eat. And if Terry’s time estimates were accurate – and he was usually later rather than earlier – she might even get an hour alone in the bathtub, with her vibrator. It was now beginning to look like a night that she could get enthusiastic about. If things went really well, Terry would be back after she’d gone to bed and she could play dead, dozing peacefully in the glorious release of multiple orgasms. He’d feel guilty, so he’d try not to wake her. And she could postpone biting the bullet for another day.

  Caitlen knew that she had to end things with Terry. But it was so disruptive. She’d moved into his house and rented out her small terrace. She’d have to coincide the break-up with the end of the tenancy agreement so that she’d have somewhere to live. And she still wasn’t completely certain that she wanted to end things. She was mid-thirties and beginning to wonder if she’d ever meet the right man. Her ovaries wouldn’t stay ripe forever. She’d even considered using Terry, then leaving him and taking the child. Naomi and Rhett made her realise what she was missing. They always seemed so good together. They were a proper couple.

  The bistro was just what she needed. Being happy hour, it was pleasantly full. There was a work party on the big table in the corner, but the waiter considerately placed her at the couples’ tables some distance away from them. There was another guy working on a tablet two tables along from her, a couple in earnest conversation to the other side, and other small groups dotted about creating a nice hubbub of conversation so as not to make her feel too self-conscious.

  The guy who was sitting on his own looked up and checked her out as she was shown to her table. She noticed it and glance
d back at him.

  Soft hands, she thought to herself. He won’t have seen a day’s manual labour in his life. I prefer that in my men.

  As she studied the menu she considered the possibility that she might not need to use a vibrator when she got home after all. She shrugged it off. She had to break it off with Terry, but not that way. For all his faults, he was good to her most of the time and he still made her laugh. Maybe that’s why she was still around. Nobody had ever made her laugh like Terry. Even if he was an idiot, he knew how to tell a joke.

  ‘I’ll try a vegan pizza,’ she said to the waiter. He had a beard like she’d never seen before. Its end hovered just above his notepad as he scribbled down her order.

  ‘And a small glass of red wine, please. Do you have Wi-Fi?’

  He pointed out the password at the bottom of the menu and walked off to pour her glass of wine. As soon as she’d taken the first sip, Caitlen relaxed. She’d done the right thing – this was just what she needed. It had been a tough day at work. The new boss was a prize bitch. Caitlen had often wondered about going it alone, but she was as scared of leaving her job as she was of leaving Terry.

  She took out her laptop and placed it on the table. She forgot her password at first – the constant array of secret words that were needed to navigate modern life sometimes got the better of her.

  At last, she was in. As Windows finally booted into life the jingle announcing the device was ready to go sounded out loudly, causing the hubbub to stop momentarily. The laptop’s speaker hadn’t been disabled.