Little White Lies (23 page)

He nods heavily. “My son.”

My heart plummets like a rock. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he says, clearing his throat.

“How old was he?” Vix asks gently.

Bertie closes his eyes. “Nineteen.”

“So young.” My heart constricts. Just two years older than Poppy.

He nods, swallows. “Too young. I’d hardly begun to know him.”

I nod, memories of Poppy filling my head. I knew her so well, and yet there was so much I didn’t know. Like if she’d been hanging around art galleries before she was attacked, or if she’d met anyone new, or was planning to take someone else to Glastonbury in my place. Things it would’ve taken only moments to ask, but I never took the time, never made the effort. I didn’t realize how much we’d grown apart before she died. How little attention I’d given her.

And now it’s too late.

Bertie takes a ragged breath and I look up as a tear slips down his face, streaking a path through the wrinkles. He wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly. “You’d think it’d get easier—with time. But it’s always there. Always with you. Well, you know.”

I nod. “How long’s it been?”

“Three months he’s been gone. But he’s still everywhere. Everything’s a reminder.” He closes his eyes, sighs. “That in itself is a mixed blessing. It’s wonderful to remember—but you’re always reminded of what you’ve lost.”

“How did he die?” I ask quietly.

Bertie smiles weakly. “He didn’t.” He sniffs. “He didn’t, but he may as well have.”

Vix frowns. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It makes no difference. He’s gone.” He sighs heavily. “He’s gone, and I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll see him again.”

“But... but if he’s still alive...” I hesitate. “There must be some hope—there must be a way?”

“That’s the worst part,” he sighs. “The hope. The hopeless hope. That’s what’s destroying my wife. No matter what she does, she just can’t let Leo go.”

I freeze.
Leo
?

Vix and I glance at each other.
This man is Christian’s father?

Suddenly I realize he’s not nearly as old as he looks. He must only be in his fifties, but his eyes are so drawn, so sad and tired-looking, it makes him look much older. I’d never have recognized him from the photograph in Joe’s flat.

“Anyway.” Bertie clears his throat. “I’d better get home. My wife—it’s a worrying time at the moment. She frets if I’m out too long.”

I bet. They must be terrified now Christian’s on the run.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you both.” He tucks his puzzle book under his arm and locks the shed. “And please accept my deepest condolences for your uncle.” He lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. “He was a good man.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And I hope you see your son again soon.”

“Me too.” He smiles sadly. “Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” I say, watching him slowly trudge away, my heart dragging after him.

“Poor guy,” Vix says quietly.

I nod. I’ve never seen a man so broken, so lost.

“It’s not just Christian who’s suffering,” I say sadly. “It’s his whole family. Joe’s right, they’re grieving for someone who’s not even dead.”

“What’s the difference?” Vix sighs. “He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see him again.”

“Unless we find Poppy’s phone and prove his innocence,” I say, glancing at the locked shed. “We should tell him why we’re here—that we want to help prove his son’s innocence. He could help us look.” I move to follow Bertie.

“Wait.” Vix catches my arm. “What if Poppy’s phone
isn’t
here?”

I look at her.

“ ‘That’s the worst part,’ Bertie said. ‘The hopeless hope,’ ” Vix reminds me. “We can’t get his hopes up—I’m not sure he could take another huge disappoint
ment.”

I watch as he lumbers slowly through the gate. She’s right. He looks so fragile, so terribly weary.

“What must they have gone through—es
pecially now that Christian’s face is splashed all over the TV and papers again?” I sigh. “At least in prison they knew he was safe, but now...” Now they have no idea where he is, if he’s safe, if he’s even alive.... I think of the violent mob at Joe’s flat. “They must be worried to death.”

We watch as he shuts the gate behind him.

“But now we can put a stop to that,” I tell Vix. “Or we can at least try.”

We give it five more minutes, just to make sure Bertie doesn’t come back and there’s no one else around; then Vix yanks the shed door. It doesn’t budge. I look around for a spade or tool to break the padlock with, but there’s nothing, only crumbling flowerpots.

Before I can stop her, Vix picks up a flowerpot and smashes it through the shed window.

I stare at her. “Subtle, Vix! The moment anyone enters the allotment they’ll see the broken window. They might even call the police!”

“Then we’d better hurry!” she says, knocking away the remaining shards of glass and scrambling inside.

I glance around once more, then follow. The shattered glass crunches under my feet and my heart pounds loudly in the darkness.

“So where’s the bag?” Vix asks, flicking on the torch on her phone.

“Christian said it’s under a loose floorboard beneath the table.”

She sweeps the tiny light around the musty room. We’re standing beside a garden chair on a tatty-looking mat. A cluster of rakes, hoes, and shovels lean lazily in the corner, and a table stands to my right, stacked with flowerpots, damp cardboard boxes, and a roll of kitchen paper. Beside it, I spot a cardboard box full to the brim with screwed-up tissues, and my heart aches.

This is Christian’s dad’s private hideaway—how will he feel when he sees the broken window, the shattered glass all over the floor? Guilt swims icily in my veins, but I try to ignore it. This is the only way to help him, after all. To help them all.

Vix kicks the glittering glass off the mat and it sparkles like stars as a cloud of dust flurries in my face, making me cough. I wave it away quickly as Vix folds up the chair; then I push the table aside and slowly, carefully, we roll up the mat to reveal the gnarled wooden planks beneath.

Cautiously, I run my fingers over the splintery surface, searching for a loose floorboard. Nothing.

I try knocking against each plank instead, listening carefully, but they all sound the same—and not hollow at all. Panicking, I grab at the rough edges, tugging and pulling, but they all stay firmly in place.

“This is impossible!”

“Move,” Vix says, picking up a spade.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to pry up every single floorboard till I find the bloody thing, that’s what,” she says, lifting the spade. “We haven’t got time to mess about—you’ve got a funeral to get to. Move!”

“Wait!” I cry suddenly, pointing to the floorboards beneath the window. “Look! That patch of floor is a different color to the rest.”

The darker wood stands out in a clear rectangle beneath the window—the exact size and shape of the table. It must have been moved! Instantly, we set to work on the darker planks, clawing at the edges till at last one gives way. Carefully, we pry it out, and I reach into the dark damp hole beneath.

The hole extends beneath the bottom of the shed, and gradually my whole arm disappears as I reach inside.

“Anything?” Vix asks anxiously. I shake my head, my fingers fumbling blindly, desperately, but finding only damp dirt and stones and weeds.

“What if it’s not here?” I say anxiously.

I reach further, my cheek pressed hard against the rough grain of the wooden floor, my fingers grasping, clutching—till finally they touch something solid, soft.

Quickly, I tug it out, and tears spring to my eyes as I stare at the dirty pink backpack in my hands. Poppy’s bag.

“Oh, Lou!” Vix cries. “Christian was telling the truth!”

I beam at her. “I just hope he’s right about Poppy’s phone too,” I say, hurriedly unzipping it. Makeup spills out, jewelry, then two tickets.... My stomach tightens.

“Kenny was right,” I say quietly. “The Glastonbury tickets were in here. Christian could easily have found them—he could have made the whole story up.”

“We don’t know that,” Vix argues gently. “Let’s keep looking—the phone will prove it one way or another.”

Jeans, socks, T-shirts... I freeze. One of the T-shirts has a huge dark stain.

I stare at it. “Is that—”

“Blood.” Vix nods grimly. A chill scuttles down my spine as I stretch it out. It’s big. A guy’s T-shirt.

“Christian’s,” I gasp. “It must be.” I run my fingers slowly over the mark, my heart aching as I think of his scar. “He must have been in so much pain, been so terrified.”

I swallow hard, then continue emptying the bag. iPod, purse, hairbrush, but no phone.

“There’s nothing left!” I stare at Vix, panic surging inside me as I turn the bag upside down.
“It’s not here!”

“Pass it here.” She scrabbles quickly through the belongings again.

“Maybe Christian didn’t see the mobile like he thought,” I fret. “But then there would be a cassette tape in here, wouldn’t there?”

Or maybe he lied. Maybe there was no text message in the first place, no phone to find. The police
said
they had Poppy’s phone, after all,
and
that Christian took her bag—finding it here doesn’t prove anything. They said he was a thief. A thief and a liar.

“Wait!” Vix cries, shaking the bag. “There’s something here—it’s in a different compartment!” I watch anxiously as she searches for another zip, opens it, and pulls out what looks for all the world like a cassette tape.

“Poppy’s phone!”
I cry, dizzy with relief.
“
Christian
was
telling the truth!”

“Now we just need to find his text.” Vix smiles as she presses the power button. “Then we can take it to the police and
prove
Christian’s innocence.” I lean closer as we both stare expectantly at the screen. But nothing happens.

Vix presses the power button again.

Nothing.

“It’s out of battery,” I sigh. “It’s been over a year, after all.”

“Bollocks!” Vix groans.

“Still.” I cradle the phone, gleaming like treasure in my hands.
“Now we have proof.”

She nods. “All we have to do is charge it up.”

Suddenly there’s a snuffling noise at the shed door and I whip round just as a dog begins to bark loudly.

Vix and I stare at each other in panic, then quickly shove everything back into the bag. I swing it over my shoulders as Vix scrambles to the broken window.

“Shit!” She leaps backwards as a large Labrador jumps up at the window frame, all black gums and teeth and drool. Vix tumbles to the floor, knocking over a pile of boxes, and the contents spill everywhere noisily.

Beyond the dog I spot an old man with a stick hurrying towards us, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

I look around desperately for an escape route, but the door’s padlocked from the outside and the only way out is the window—but the crazy dog is just below.

Vix grabs the spade, wielding it like a spear and jabbing it through the window, but immediately drops it as the dog jumps up again. I look around the shed desperately: seeds, bulbs, flowers—and a tennis ball.

I grab it and, never expecting it to work, hurl it out of the window. To my amazement, the dog immediately bounds after it, tail wagging madly. I laugh incredulously, then follow Vix as she scrambles out of the shed—till the backpack snags on the broken glass, pinning me in place.

“Hey!” the old man yells. “Hey, you!”

“Come
on
!” Vix urges. “Hurry!”

“I can’t—I’m stuck!” I pull at the strap.

“Lucifer!” the man yells. “Lucifer—k
ill!” The dog immediately turns and heads for us.