Those Who Lie: the gripping new thriller you won’t be able to stop talking about. Diane Jeffrey
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on her pretty face, and her hair is cropped very short and dyed a copper-red. She inches her chair forwards, closer to Emily’s bed. The legs of the chair make a scraping sound on the floor. Emily feels intimidated.
‘I’m Sergeant Campbell,’ the woman says, fixing her piercing, green eyes on Emily, ‘and this is my colleague.’ She waves her hand towards the robust man as she introduces him by name, but Emily only catches the word ‘Constable’.
Emily must look bemused because the constable smiles at her again from beneath his impressive moustache. He means this reassuringly, she supposes, but the right side of his face appears more animated than the left, and Emily finds his crooked grin rather unsettling.
What’s going on? What do the police want? Emily can’t shake off the unnerving impression that something is very wrong.
‘What can you tell us about your movements on Friday the first of August?’ asks the redhead officiously, whipping out a notebook and a pen from a pocket in her uniform. She has a lilting Scottish accent that mitigates the hard edge to her voice.
Emily tries to speak, but she’s very thirsty and no sound comes out. She clears her throat.
‘May I have a drink of water, please?’ she asks.
Her head is pounding.
The constable pours some water from the transparent, plastic jug on the cupboard and presses a button on the remote control to raise Emily’s bed. Then he gives her the glass. He watches her, a concerned look on his face, as she takes a few tentative sips before handing back the glass.
‘The first of August, Mrs Klein,’ the sergeant repeats, ‘what happened on that day?’
‘Well, that’s my mother’s birthday,’ Emily begins. Her throat is still dry and her voice sounds strange. ‘Oh, that’s right; I’d sent her some flowers and bought her a necklace. I rang to wish her a happy birthday. She turned sixty-five.’ Emily plucks at the stiff, white sheets before she adds, ‘She is…um, she has been ill recently, for a long time really, and…well, she’s doing a lot better at the moment. We’re so proud of her.’
‘We?’ the sergeant echoes.
‘My sister and I,’ Emily says, and then the thought strikes her. ‘Where is she? Where’s my sister?’ she asks. Amanda was there last time Emily opened her eyes, she’s sure of it.
The sergeant ignores Emily’s outburst. ‘What happened after that?’
Emily shifts her gaze to the friendlier face of the constable. Are these two police officers real? They seem like caricatures, characters from a bad television series.
‘I met my husband for lunch,’ she answers, wondering where Greg is.
The constable doesn’t give her a chance to voice her concern. ‘Where?’ he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
‘At Gee’s. It’s not far from my husband’s shop.’
‘Oh, I know that restaurant,’ the constable says. ‘The one on Banbury Road? I’ve only eaten there once, though. It’s a bit pricey, isn’t it?’
Emily isn’t sure if she’s meant to reply, so she remains silent, trying hard to think. She’s in hospital. She’s groggy. She’s in pain. She knows all that. But she can’t get beyond that. She’s having difficulty associating her two new acquaintances with her surroundings. Shouldn’t there be doctors and nurses or family and friends by her bed rather than police officers? What on earth am I doing here?
Emily’s gaze flits from the constable to the sergeant. She scans as much of her room as her neck will allow. Hers is the only bed, so she’s in a private room rather than a hospital ward. There are flowers and fruit next to the water jug, so she’s had visitors. Greg and Amanda, probably. But for some reason, they’re not here now.
‘Can we get back to the interrogation?’ Sergeant Campbell reprimands her colleague, clicking her pen off and back on.
‘Is this an interrogation?’ Emily asks, bewildered. She almost asks what she has done wrong, but stops herself just in time. She wonders if she’s dreaming. She certainly feels sleepy.
The sergeant looks vaguely uncomfortable and squirms in her seat. ‘No, not really,’ she says, her voice softening a little. ‘That wasn’t the right word.’
‘Not at all,’ the constable says. ‘It’s a routine investigation after—’
‘Mrs Klein…Emily, we just want to know what happened that day,’ Campbell interrupts. ‘For our report. Did you drink anything with your meal?’
Something doesn’t feel right. Emily’s mind is even foggier, and she’s struggling to organise her thoughts. What had the constable been about to say? A routine investigation after what? Into what? It must be serious if these police officers have been waiting for her to wake up. Or are they here for her protection?
Campbell repeats her question.
‘Yes. A Perrier water, with a twist of lemon,’ Emily replies. ‘That’s what I always have.’
‘I meant, did you have any alcohol? A glass of wine, for example?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t drink. And anyway, I was driving.’
‘Yes, you were,’ the sergeant says. ‘Why was Mr Gregory Klein, your husband, in the car with you?’ Her voice is silky now, but Emily gets the feeling she’s hiding something.
‘Well, he wanted to have a look at an Edwardian inlaid satinwood wardrobe.’
Now it’s the sergeant’s turn to look perplexed.
‘An antique wardrobe,’ Emily explains, seeing Campbell’s expression. ‘The owner lived in Staunton Road, in Headington. I didn’t have any urgent work that day, so I drove Greg there.’
The policewoman seems temporarily at a loss for words and purses her lips as she digests this piece of information. Her pale pink lipstick has been applied rather haphazardly, which makes Emily wonder if she had difficulty colouring inside the lines as a young child.
‘Did you need new bedroom furniture?’ the sergeant asks after a few seconds.
‘Oh, no.’ Under different circumstances, Emily might have found the question funny. ‘My husband’s an antique dealer. The wardrobe was for his shop. It’s odd, but I’m not sure whether he bought it or not.’
Before Emily can reflect any more on that, the sergeant resumes. ‘What did you and Mr Klein talk about in the car?’
‘I think we had an argument.’ A vague memory stirs and Emily tries to grasp it, but it fades away. Talking is making Emily’s head thump even more, and so is trying to call to mind the conversation they had in the car. ‘Greg told me something. I’ve forgotten exactly what it was he said. But I do know I was very angry about it.’
Emily pauses. Sergeant Campbell waits for her to continue. The constable gives her what is no doubt intended to be an encouraging look. ‘I just remember Greg asking me over and over: “Who was it, Emily? Who was it?” He was shouting.’
Emily has a sudden image of her husband’s furious face.
‘Who was what?’ asks the sergeant, somewhat impatiently.
‘I don’t know.’ Emily frowns.
‘Do you recall your answer to your husband’s question?’
‘Yes,’ Emily replies, surprised, ‘I do. The answer was: “My father.” I told him that it was my father.’ The mere thought of him makes her shudder.
‘So, you remember you were arguing,’ the sergeant recaps, looking down and pointing her index finger at the notebook on her knee, ‘but not what it was about.’
Emily glances at the sergeant’s pad. Although for her the notebook is upside down,