Circle of Lies Read online

  Circle of Lies

  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

  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

  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 - read it here

  Book 2 - The Murder Place - read it here

  Book 3 - The Forgotten Children - read it here

  Standalone Thrillers

  Dead of Night - read it here

  One Last Chance - read it here

  No More Secrets - read it here

  So Many Lies - read it here

  Two Years After - read it here

  Friends Who Lie - read it here

  Paul J.Teague & Adam Nicholls

  Now You See Her - read it here

  Morecambe Bay Trilogy

  Book 1 - Left For Dead - read it here

  Book 2 - Circle of Lies - read it here

  Book 3 - Truth Be Told - read it here

  Prologue

  1984: Sandy Beaches Holiday Camp

  The knock at the door came just after midnight. It was too late for a social call, even at a holiday camp which barely slept at night.

  Jenna had been expecting it all day. She still couldn’t believe what she’d done. It was already more than twenty-four hours ago, yet the nervous exhaustion that had set in was every bit as intense as when she’d watched the life slipping away from him.

  Had he really gone? It didn’t seem real. She’d covered him in rubble, concealing the body, expecting him to leap up and grab her by her throat at any moment. If he did, he’d break it like a twig; his hands were so powerful. She’d felt those same hands caressing her body, touching her gently with affection and desire in the early stages of their relationship. But it had soon become clear that Bruce Craven was the kind of man a woman should avoid.

  Jenna had spent the day like a stunned bull, waiting for the final act of slaughter, knowing it would be coming soon, but not sure when. It was an adrenaline-fuelled cocktail of fear, relief and exhilaration. She’d escaped him at last, but at what cost to herself? Was the danger of being found out, the risk of prison, any better than living with his dark, oppressive presence? She’d dug her own hole with Bruce and happily jumped into it. She’d even begun to pull the mud in on herself, right up to neck height.

  But when the opportunity presented itself, she decided to fight back and dig her way out; she believed she’d killed him. She’d tried to put an end to the violent bully who’d trapped her in an abusive relationship. And in doing so, the three of them had created a circle of lies and deceit. Only she knew what had truly happened. Only she had watched the entire tragedy playing out. Yet somehow—incredibly—Bruce had handed in his resignation and supposedly walked out of the holiday camp. How could that be?

  She’d spent much of the day considering treachery. She could blame it on Will; she could pin it on Charlotte. If the police came, asking questions, she could deflect all the blame. Nobody saw what she saw. They had all killed Bruce Craven; all three of them had played their part. Charlotte struck him with a stone, Will strangled him with his bare hands, and she just finished the job they’d bungled. He was a formidable man; he took some killing. He must be dead.

  There was another knock at the door: impatient, more aggressive. Was this the police? Was her time up? Had they found Bruce’s body in the foundations of the paddling pool, hauling it out of the newly poured concrete before it had time to set? Was he really alive and had he reported them all to the police? Maybe somebody saw what she did. Perhaps they weren’t the only ones wandering through Sandy Beaches Holiday Camp in the dead of night.

  Jenna had run through the scenarios several times. It was easiest to blame it on Will. He wouldn’t let Charlotte take the blame for her part in Bruce’s assault. She’d done it in self-defence, after all. Bruce was trying to rape her on the beach. Any woman would have done the same thing if the opportunity had presented itself.

  As for Will, he’d gone to see if Bruce needed help but, like the feral animal he was, Bruce had attacked him. She’d been terrified as she watched Bruce’s pursuit of Will from her hiding place behind the gorse bush. The power and speed of the man was enough to paralyse anybody with fear. There was no doubt about it; it had been self-defence for Will, too.

  So, if she removed herself from the equation, her two friends would be charged with manslaughter at the very worst. They’d likely get off without a sentence, particularly if they told the court the truth about what had happened. And if Bruce was still alive? Who knew how he’d take his revenge?

  As Jenna had searched her soul that day, she found that when push came to shove, she was lacking in the moral fibre that her parents had tried to instil in her. After all, in the eyes of the law, she was what Charlotte and Will were not. Jenna Phillips was a murderer. At least, she’d intended to murder Bruce.

  She hadn’t finished off Bruce Craven in self-defence. She’d taken that last, agonised breath from him because she hated the man. She could no longer face the rough way he forced himself on her in bed, and the constant, erosive comments about her appearance and her behaviour, knowing that she simply did not have the courage to walk away. Bruce Craven had to be stopped. Jenna could see no other way out.

  Yes, she would happily throw her friends under the bus to avoid prison, if it came to that. The thought of the police coming to question her, taking her down to the station for fingerprints and those terrible prisoner photos that she’d seen on the TV and in the papers; the fear and shame of it all consumed her.

  In the twenty-four hours or so since she thought Bruce Craven had drawn his last breath, Jenna had learned some harsh truths about herself. She was a coward, treacherous, preferring to see her friends suffer rather than have to go through the process of facing justice for Bruce Craven’s attack. If this was the police at the door, she’d deny everything and point the finger at her friends.

  There was a third knock. Someone was leaning against the door, trying to force it open. She’d have to answer it now; if she didn’t, it sounded like they were coming in anyway. Would the police behave like that?

  She looked at the LED alarm clock at the side of the bed. It was Bruce’s. Ten minutes past midnight. Bruce had supposedly left a letter with the admin department saying he was quitting his job at the holiday camp without notice. Jenna hadn’t a clue how that had happened or who’d written that note. There was no way Bruce Craven was alive when she left him in the foundations of that pool and, even if by some twist of fate he’d survived, he hadn’t com
e back to his room to collect his things.

  Jenna walked up to the door and twisted the small handle on the Yale lock. Before she’d even completed the motion, two men burst into the room. One of them pushed his hand against her neck and propelled her over to the bed, lifting her up from the floor momentarily and throwing her down onto the mattress.

  The other checked that they hadn’t been seen, quietly closed the door, then locked it. He stood in front of the entrance, blocking it with his massive frame.

  Jenna drew breath to scream. The first man sat on the bed, his substantial weight compressing the mattress so that she rolled towards him. He put his finger to his mouth and indicated that she should be quiet.

  From a sheath attached to his belt, he removed a large knife with serrations at the tip; the type a hunter might be seen with in an American movie. Slow and deliberate in his movements, he gently pressed the knifepoint into her groin, then ran it up to her stomach, moving to her neck, then bringing it level with her eyes.

  ‘Such pretty eyes,’ he said.

  Jenna was motionless on the bed. With only three words, she knew they were more dangerous than Bruce.

  ‘Where is Bruce Craven?’ the man asked. His voice was steady and regulated, approaching the intimidation of Jenna in much the same way as she’d place a cup of tea in front of one of her customers in the dining hall. To him, it was all in a day’s work.

  He placed his free hand on her thigh and moved it towards her groin, working underneath her nightshirt so he was in direct contact with her flesh. His skin was smooth, but his hands were fat and threatening. She flinched.

  ‘Where’s Bruce Craven?’ he asked again.

  Jenna tried to speak, but her throat was dry and taut; the words wouldn’t come.

  The man moved his hand up a little further. Jenna tensed again, fearful for what was coming.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Where’s Bruce Craven?’ the man said again, as if this was the extent of his vocabulary.

  His hand was now gently massaging just below her groin, the knife perilously close to her right eye.

  ‘No, please,’ Jenna pleaded. ‘I don’t know. We argued last night. He never came back to the room. I’ve been waiting for him all day. Everybody says he left the holiday camp and went back home. Ask the people in the admin block. He left a letter. He never came back, I promise.’

  ‘Who saw what happened?’ the second man asked. His voice was deep and gravelly; she’d never heard one like it before. It was as if he’d had some kind of throat problem in the past.

  ‘Nobody, I swear. We argued in the pub last night and he stormed out. I thought I’d find him here, but he wasn’t in the room when I got back. I assumed he’d stayed in a friend’s room, maybe even gone with another woman. I waited all night. When I went to work this morning, everybody was talking about it. Bruce Craven just quit. He went back home. It’s a pretty shitty place to work; we just assumed he’d thrown the towel in. That’s it, that’s all I know.’

  In the few minutes of the exchange, her nightshirt had become sodden with sweat.

  The man with the abrasive voice moved closer to Jenna. She stayed on the bed, not daring to move for fear of the knife.

  ‘If you see Bruce Craven, tell him we’re looking for him. We’re not finished with him yet. And if I find out you’re lying… have you ever been with two men before? That look on your face tells me no. Well, we’ll be back if we find you’re lying to us. And next time we might even bring a friend. It’d be a shame not to make the most of a nice girl like you. Especially before we remove your skin and throw it in the waste paper basket.’

  Jenna closed her eyes tight shut, like she used to when she was five years old, to repel the bogey man in the dark. She kept them closed for ten minutes after they’d left her room. She had never known fear like it in her life. But it was a fear that would find her once again, many years later.

  Chapter One

  Day One: Tuesday

  There was an effusive round of applause as Barry McMillan finished his question-and-answer session at the Midland Hotel. He’d pulled a large crowd; as the homecoming hero, it was only to be expected.

  Charlotte was a recent convert to his novels, having lived in Morecambe for almost a year. The residents always spoke of Barry McMillan with pride, as the local boy made good. He’d risen from the boy who used to get his short stories published in magazines to the man who’d snared a big-time publisher with his compelling historical fiction based in that part of Lancashire.

  Charlotte liked the books because they were bodice-rippers. The historical dimensions were purely secondary to her. Judging from the size of the largely female audience, she wasn’t alone. She suspected Barry McMillan’s female-friendly and highly erotic love scenes were the real source of his literary success, not the historical accuracy or sharp definition of the local landscape, as the dreary man who’d introduced him had claimed.

  Even better, Charlotte had exclusive access. For some unknown reason, the author had chosen to stay in her guest house for the night, rather than availing himself of the luxury and elegance of the Midland Hotel, the art deco jewel in the crown along Morecambe’s sea front.

  Charlotte and Will were making their business work, beginning to feel like a part of Morecambe’s furniture. When she attended events like this one, spotting people that she knew well or at least recognised, it made her believe that their life was now firmly secured in the resort. Olli was settled at school and had a lovely girlfriend. Will wasn’t so happy in his job, but he was getting by and bringing in his share of the cash. And she had escaped from teaching and found a rhythm at the guest house which suited her. Isla had played an important part in that.

  ‘Fancy a Prosecco, Isla?’ Charlotte asked. ‘My treat; it’s the least I can do, considering you saved those sausages from burning tonight. I’m sorry, I was completely distracted. I got carried away talking to our friend over there.’

  ‘I can’t blame you,’ Isla smiled. ‘Did you read the boudoir scene in his latest book? It made me blush. I didn’t dare mention it to George; I wouldn’t want to make him feel inadequate.’

  Charlotte burst out laughing. ‘I’m saving the new book for the weekend, when I can sneak some time on my own. I’ll make sure Will is elsewhere when I get to that bit. I swear he can detect my face flushing from a hundred metres when I’m reading the naughty bits!’

  Charlotte stood up and made her way along to the end of the row to reach the bar. There was a long queue already, but the bar staff had poured the Prosecco in readiness for the rush, and were serving as swiftly as was humanly possible.

  ‘Good to see you here, Charlotte. How are you?’

  She recognised the voice straight away. It was Nigel Davies, from the local newspaper. He wasn’t a friend, as such. But after what had happened at the holiday camp, she felt like they were bound by something more than just a casual acquaintance.

  ‘Are you here for work or for pleasure?’ Charlotte said with a smile.

  ‘I’m not sure I ever go anywhere entirely for pleasurable purposes,’ Nigel replied. He’d foregone a Prosecco and opted for a soft drink instead. Charlotte paid the barmaid and picked up a glass in each hand.

  ‘I always seem to pick up some titbit of information when I come to events like this’ Nigel said. ‘However, it is primarily for pleasure. Barry McMillan is a bit of a local hero to all of us, I suppose. He gives off a hint of possibility that we might all make it one day. And secretly, I’d quite like to write a book.’

  ‘It won’t be a bodice-ripper like Barry’s, will it?’ Charlotte teased.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Nigel replied, his cheeks colouring a little. ‘I’m more likely to write crime or real-life stories, I think. I’ll leave the adoring female audience to Mr McMillan.’

  They exchanged smiles and Charlotte made her way back to Isla. The majority of the seats had cleared now, and Barry McMillan was surrounded by fans seeking an autographed co
py of his latest book and a selfie with the great man.

  ‘Must be nice, mustn’t it?’ Isla asked as she took her glass from Charlotte. ‘To know that whatever you do, there’ll always be people who appreciate it and adore you. I wonder what the real Barry McMillan is like. I’ll bet he’s had to fight his way to the top of the tree. It won’t all be sweetness and light, I’m sure.’

  Charlotte looked at Isla, surprised to hear her speaking that way.

  ‘Well, I know it’s not the same, but that’s the way Will and I feel about you and George. It’s been almost six months, and we couldn’t have got the guest house running so well without you. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for us. And look at George: handyman, occasional barman, kitchen help and general good egg. We couldn’t be happier. Thank you, Isla. Here’s to us!’

  They chinked glasses, and Charlotte took a large gulp of Prosecco.

  ‘I’m certain this stuff makes me feel light-headed the moment my mouth comes in contact with it, but this is a nice one. I’ll have to see if I can get a couple of bottles for our lounge bar from the cash and carry.’

  The evening passed slowly after the main interview on stage, and the line for autographs seemed to take forever to die down. Isla had left some time ago, Nigel looked like he’d made his escape, and the crowds were dwindling, if persistent. By the time Barry McMillan was finally ready to leave, she’d drunk three glasses of fizz. She was beginning to regret having agreed to wait for him so he could escort her back to the guest house. A combination of alcohol and a long day changing the bedding in all the rooms had worn her out, and she was ready for bed.