Your last lie, p.1
Your Last Lie, page 1
YOUR LAST LIE
An absolutely gripping crime mystery
TYRONE SWIFT BOOK 6
GRETTA MULROONEY
First published 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
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©Gretta Mulrooney
PLEASE NOTE THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF UK WORDS IN THE BACK FOR US READERS
GET THE FIRST THREE BOOKS IN THE TYRONE SWIFT SERIES IN A GREAT VALUE BOX SET
UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/BEFORE-gripping-psychological-thriller-killer-ebook/dp/B0742FCJQQ/
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Includes three mysteries:
THE LADY VANISHED
BLOOD SECRETS
TWO LOVERS, SIX DEATHS
“A well written and gripping crime thriller. The chief character is so well defined and so likeable. The story was intriguing and had plenty of twists and turns. ” Julia Corbett
“Swift is a good character, suitable for people who like PD James, the story is believable and comes together well.”
“Absolutely loved this book! Extremely well written with believable characters and lots of twists!” E. Boisvert
CONTENTS
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
THE TYRONE SWIFT SERIES
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
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Prologue
It was midsummer. A quiet, warm evening with scents of lavender, roses and honeysuckle perfuming the air. Windows open, music drifting, people chatting lazily, the sun glowing down the sky. Perfect weather for a bit of al fresco romance.
He was on a promise. She was slim, in her twenties. Older than his preferred type but she seemed much younger with her shy, hesitant smile. She had brown, shoulder length hair and soft, kind eyes. She was no beauty but attractive enough. Not too much make up, just some mascara and lipstick. Enough to show she’d made an effort. A bit demure, which was fine with him. Made a change from pushy, opinionated women with their cleavages and belly buttons on show. Made a change too from Sam all those years ago. Sam with her expensive boob implants that he’d paid for before she told him he needed to see a shrink, packed her cases and ransacked his savings. She’d certainly taken him for a ride. And this girl had such a pretty name: Collette.
She’d come into the bar, sat on one of the high stools and ordered a wine spritzer. Nice simple navy skirt, white lacy blouse and patent shoes. Not putting all the goods in the shop window; leaving a bloke something to imagine. They’d got chatting. He’d told her about his career to date and his plans for the future. He could see she was impressed. A young woman like her appreciated a touch of maturity in a man — bit of life experience. When he talked to his wife, Ashleigh, about his job, she half listened; sometimes she yawned, trying to hide it behind her hand or worse still, rolled her eyes in boredom. Collette had nodded attentively, her gaze lingering on his. She’d asked intelligent questions as she sipped her drink. She hadn’t said much about herself, just that she worked in a bank, dealing with mortgage enquiries. It wasn’t exactly exciting but it suited her. He’d liked that. She seemed contented with her life. Not like the women he’d ended up marrying, always nagging and wanting cosmetic surgery, a bigger house, exotic holidays, spa breaks or a new kitchen. Talk about breaking the bank.
With Ashleigh, it was the fortune she spent on massages, health supplements, facials, exercise classes and her cranky bloody diets — no carbs one week, no protein the next or day after day of cabbage soup. It was hard to get a square meal at home. The previous winter, she’d spent a week at a spa in Surrey, where they charged her a small fortune to wake her at six thirty in the morning for long walks, hours sweating in the gym and bowls of steamed vegetables with quinoa a couple of times a day. Why not just stay at home, run around a lot and starve yourself? As for Yvette . . . no, best not to think about that rotten bitch tonight. Tonight was for enjoyment.
He’d been very gentle and well mannered, kissing Collette on the cheek as she left the bar. Softly, softly, catchee monkey. She’d agreed that it would be nice to meet again and, given the lovely weather, a picnic by the river would be just the thing. When he said how much he liked it, she’d agreed to wear the lacy blouse as well. They’d arranged a date and time and he’d watched her walk away, satisfied that he’d still got it. It had been a while since he’d had a new interest and he deserved a treat. A man could only behave for so long. And he hadn’t even had to go looking. Minimum effort, maximum benefit. Just how he liked it.
Using the magnifying mirror, he shaved extra close and plucked a few errant hairs from his eyebrows. He could hear Havana in her room, chatting away to some friend on her phone in that incomprehensible adolescent slang she used. He’d lied to Ashleigh. Through the frosty chill in the air between them, he’d said that he had to go to an evening meeting about a fly-out. Well, it was a meeting — that wasn’t a fib; just not the kind she’d approve of. He didn’t really need to lie any more. The way things were between them, she was lucky that he told her anything about what he was doing, but old habits died hard. Ashleigh had thought she had him boxed and coxed these days, thought she’d played it clever. But no way was he going to be under the thumb, especially after what he’d found out about her. She’d gone quiet and sullen since he’d told her he knew. There’d been a blazing row, but she could see he had the edge for now. Knowledge was power, as the saying went, and the balance of power between them had tilted in his favour. About time, too. When he’d mentioned the meeting, she’d looked sulky and said nothing, just shrugged and carried on reading one of her style magazines.
He wouldn’t be surprised if Jude, her bloody cow of a best friend came round tonight, despite him telling her to get lost. She’d be through the back door as soon as she knew he’d gone out. There might as well be a tunnel between her place and theirs. She was there in the living room most evenings, swigging his booze, swapping beauty tips with Ashleigh and more than likely slagging him off. The two of them were joined at the hip and when Jude was there, Ashleigh barely noticed him. No wonder he looked elsewhere. No thrills to be had at home.
He patted on some skin balm. It was creamy and smelled of lemon and thyme. Masculine but not too sharp. He was satisfied with the image in the mirror. Wearing pretty well, no paunch and just a few crow’s feet.
In the bedroom, he grimaced at Ashleigh’s latest addition: a four-poster queen-size bed with a canopy of gauzy voile curtains threaded with poppies. The curtains made him feel hemmed in and sometimes when he woke in the night, they reminded him of mosquito nets. He tripped over the trailing end of one of the curtains as he made for his wardrobe and thought it was fitting that it was trying to snare him — just like his wives. He dressed in black jeans and a cream cotton shirt, which he wore loose over the jeans, as the young blokes did. He thought about Collette’s blouse and the coy girlishness of the lace, especially where it ruffled at her neck. There was something so attractive about a covered up woman. All that promise beneath, waiting to be unbuttoned.
His phone rang as he was enjoying a little fantasy about teasing open her blouse and he tensed as he saw the caller’s name and anticipated the familiar grumbles.
‘How did your meeting go today? Productive?’
He swallowed and kept his voice quiet and steady, making the lies glide more easily. ‘Early days. Looking promising but can’t rush things.’
‘Can’t rush? Listen, I’ve waited long enough and my patience is running out. I’ve told you, you need to pay up. I’m having to watch my back.’
‘Look, I’m doing what I can. I need more time to work the old charm and persuasion. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick about all this.’
‘You don’t have more time. Neither do I. I know you — I know you’re lying. You’ve had your chances.’
‘Come on! Like I’ve said, I’ll manage something. Even if it means I’m out of pocket myself — and I bloody well will be.’
‘Yeah, well, it was all your idea so you can soak up the crap. I wish I’d never listened to you.’
‘Look, I just need to—’
‘You heard! I’ll give you another two weeks and that’s it. I don’t care how or where you get the money — that’s your problem.’
The caller vanished. It was the second threat he’d received that day. He took a deep breath, smoothed his hair and checked his reflection in the mirror. People thought they could corner and coerce him. It was a worry; he had to admit that to h
Downstairs, he picked up his car keys, poked his head around the living room door and announced he was off. Ashleigh waved a hand, focused on a home makeover programme on TV. He knew what that meant. It would hurt his wallet. She’d want to redecorate/get new furniture/have a log burner installed/order a gazebo for the garden.
He left the house with a spring in his step. The air was balmy. Forty-seven and on a promise. He’d bought white wine, posh vegetable crisps and pretzels earlier and stowed them in the car. The wine was in a cooler. Give the lady a deliciously chilled drink before things warmed up. Maybe Collette would like a stroll by the water and a sit down on the warm grass. Then later they could visit the airfield. It had little nooks and corners tucked away. They were shady and welcoming. He’d got to know them well over the years. There was a thrill to misbehaving where he now worked. When you were taking a gamble and breaking some rules, you knew you were alive.
He pulled the front door closed behind him and pointed the car keys at the Mondeo in the drive.
He opened the car door with a smile of anticipation, turned off his phone and started the engine.
He had six hours to live.
Chapter 1
Oliver Sheridan ran at Tyrone Swift in the street and spat in his face. Swift felt the hot glob of mucus trickle down his cheek. Some splattered onto the arm of his jacket. Sheridan was yelling and jabbing a finger at him. There were flecks of foamy spittle on his lips.
‘You think this is finished? You can think again! I could see they were all your pals in there. All pals together. Very cosy. I don’t care what that stuck up judge said. That wasn’t justice! You’re a thief. You stole from my dad and you’re stealing from me.’
Swift wiped his sleeve against his face and stepped forwards abruptly. Sheridan moved back. Swift had gauged that he would. Beneath the bluster, Sheridan was a coward.
‘You come near me again,’ Swift said quietly, ‘and I swear I’ll hurt you. I’ve had you up to the eyeballs. You’re not dealing with a frail old man now, Oliver. I don’t live in fear of you. Not like your dad did. You might remember that I almost broke your arm once when you’d been abusing him.’
He looked down into the broad, sweaty face. Sheridan was a sculptor of mediocre talents who funded himself by cadging money wherever he could. He had combed his hair for the court case but it was lank and greasy. The tired navy suit he was wearing radiated a faint air of mildew and the trousers were too long, skimming the pavement. He had a nasty shaving cut on his chin. Cedric, his father, had always looked effortlessly elegant and spruce, even in the bright colours he liked.
‘Are you threatening me?’ Sheridan turned to a woman with a pushchair at the nearby bus stop. ‘Did you hear him threaten me?’ he yelled.
The woman glanced down nervously at her child. ‘I saw you spit at that man,’ she said. A bus approached with the hiss of brakes. She got bolder as the doors gasped open and she prepared to board. ‘That’s disgusting, spitting like that and in front of a child! You can spread all kinds of germs.’
‘You heard the lady,’ Swift said. ‘Go home and grow up, Oliver. Maybe you can spend your inheritance on some classes in manners. Try googling social etiquette.’
Before Sheridan could respond, Swift hopped on to the bus as the doors were closing, nodded to the woman who was parking her pushchair and headed upstairs. He ripped off his necktie, stuffed it in his pocket and opened his shirt collar. Well, that was over at last. At least, he hoped it was: with Oliver Sheridan, you never could tell.
Nora phoned as the bus got stuck in a traffic jam near Holborn. It was good to hear her light voice. Her Dublin accent was still strong, despite having lived in London for some time.
‘How did it go?’
‘In my favour. But it was nasty. The judge advised Oliver to calm down and accept the outcome.’
‘Great! Did he behave at the court hearing?’
‘Of course not. He got excitable. Interrupted the judge and his solicitor a couple of times and got a warning at one point.’
‘He’s so full of crap. Was he still claiming that you influenced his dad?’
Swift sighed and scratched his head, his fingers tangling in his unruly curls. He’d tried to flatten them for the court with a product Nora had bought him. Get a Grip Curl Tamer came with the promise that a walnut-sized amount would keep your curls obedient all day. Other than making him sneeze, it had failed to get a grip — but then his hair had always resisted efforts to mould it. Some people said that his hair was like him: stubborn.
‘Yes, that lovely phrase . . . undue influence. Oliver trotted out the usual stuff in court . . . that I prevented him from seeing his father, blocked phone calls and I put pressure on Cedric to give me his car. He claimed that, because I was Cedric’s landlord and living on the premises, I was controlling towards him. He said that I influenced Cedric into changing his previous will, which named him as the main beneficiary. I explained that I never saw that will and that Cedric had destroyed his copy and the one held at the solicitor’s.’
Cedric Sheridan, Swift’s dear friend and tenant, had collapsed with a heart attack just over a year before after a blazing row with his son. Cedric had rallied for a while but died later in hospital. The complexities caused by his will had been troubling Swift for months. He was Cedric’s executor and after his friend’s death he had found the new will, written on a form bought from a chain of stationers. Two of Cedric’s friends at the Silver Mermaid, his local pub, had witnessed the updated will. Cedric had left twenty thousand pounds to his son Oliver, a hundred and fifty thousand each to Swift and Milo, one of his oldest friends, ten thousand to Yana Ayo, a refugee he had helped and ten thousand to Oxfam. Oliver had been enraged by the will and challenged it, refusing mediation and insisting on his day in court. The hearing had been delayed several times, finally taking place on this late October day. It had hung over Swift’s head like a dark cloud for most of the year. It was petty, exhausting and a nasty epilogue to his friend’s life.
Nora clicked her tongue. ‘A pity Cedric didn’t update his will through the same solicitor. Then there’d have been a clear paper trail that would have been much harder for Oliver to challenge.’
‘Well, he reckoned his old solicitors charged too much. I presume he opted to save himself money once he got sufficiently fed up with Oliver’s carry-on to make the change. Anyway, I gave the court the long history of Oliver’s abusive behaviour — how his dad was often frightened of him and that he stole Cedric’s credit card. That last bit was tricky because Cedric never reported it. Milo gave a statement as well, saying he knew that Cedric was anxious about Oliver’s visits. Cedric’s doctor confirmed that he had no mental impairment. It was all messy and unpleasant. Plenty of mudslinging.’
‘At least in the end the judge saw through Oliver’s bullshit.’
‘True. You could see her looking him up and down when he started ranting about unfairness. Luckily for me, he showed his true colours, despite the fact that he’d attempted to smarten up and look less like the struggling artist from the garret. The judge decided that there was no evidence that Cedric lacked mental capacity when he updated his will or that he was influenced in any way. She said that Oliver’s twenty thousand pounds satisfied the terms about making reasonable financial provision under the 1975 Inheritance Act. So, after months of wrangling and solicitors’ letters, he left court with no more than he went in with. Presumably a lot less after he’s paid his legal bills.’
‘At least it’s all over.’
‘Hmm . . . you think? He’s just spat in my face in the street and threatened me.’
‘What a bastard!’
‘Sums him up. And I’m wearing my suit and now I’ll have to clean his slime off the jacket.’
