Джеймс Паттерсон - Liar Liar

I gathered up the wad of paper on Regan and shoved it into my backpack. The phone was sweaty against my ear. I turned back into the hall and saw through the glass doors that the FACS woman was nearly finished securing the new tyre on her car.

‘Seems to me,’ Regan said, ‘you like your scores settled. You like vengeance. You see yourself as a powerful being, sometimes the only person powerful enough to bring down justice.’

‘Oh please.’ I went to the glass door. ‘Give me a fucking break. Don’t do this. Don’t try to relate to me, Banks. I’m not going to be the one to finally understand you. We’re not going to cry on each other’s shoulders about our sucky lives and how we’re justified in being violent because the world owes us something. You want to hold up a mirror to someone? Do it to yourself. If you have any sense at all, you’re not going to like what you see.’ I grabbed the doorhandle. ‘You’re a monster,’ I told him. ‘I am nothing like you.’

I could almost see his smile, heard it lingering in his warm voice.

‘ You sure? ’ he asked.

I hung up, jabbing the phone screen too hard in my fury.

I jogged on my toes out into the car park, making a wide circle so that I didn’t alert Maria to my presence. I snuck to the car, chucked her keys back into her bag, then took off into the night.

The night air was unseasonably cold. However, a part of me wondered whether the trembling in my bones was not from the cold but from Regan’s final question. You sure?

The realisation hit me, crushing, becoming heavier and heavier with every step.

I wasn’t sure at all.

Chapter

17

WHITT KNEW HE was in dangerous territory, wandering along the line he’d drawn in the sand, from the moment he sat down at the bar beside her. The whole situation was seductive. In the corner, an old-style jukebox was playing Miles Davis, just the kind of soft, rolling jazz that usually loosened Whitt right up. The lights were low and the place was almost exclusively theirs. Burgundy leather armrests on the bar top, Vada’s deep red hair glossy, shimmering. She smelled good. Expensive perfume. They ordered a couple of wines, and Whitt was drawn out of his fantasies when the bartender drained the end of a bottle into his glass. Whitt didn’t say anything, but even from where he sat he could see the sediment at the bottom of his glass. Disappointing.

‘How are you coping?’ Vada said without warning, fixing her eyes upon him. ‘You want to talk about it?’

‘Uh. I’m not sure.’ Whitt was startled as he realised that his glass was already a quarter empty. ‘It’s just hard not to blame myself for it all.’

‘Blame yourself for what?’ she asked.

Whitt drew a deep breath, doubting he could possibly explain it. And then suddenly it was all flowing out of him, beginning right back at the start when he’d sabotaged an investigation into a child’s murder. Vada watched him, coaxed him gently with occasional questions. Whitt didn’t speak to people like this. He didn’t dump all his problems on strangers in bars without asking them a single question about themselves. But the words went on and on. He spoke about seeing his friend Tox Barnes near dead on a hospital stretcher. About having to tell Harriet her brother had been killed.

When the words finally dried up Whitt felt his face had grown hot. He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.

‘Edward,’ she began.

‘Most people call me Whitt,’ he said, and cringed. It was Harriet who had branded him ‘Whitt’, against his will. Vada was not ‘the new Harry’ in his life. He had to remember that. ‘Sorry. I interrupted you.’

‘It’s fine.’ She put a gentle hand on his. ‘Whitt, I feel like what you might be experiencing is something called survivor’s guilt.’

‘Oh, I haven’t survived anything,’ Whitt said. ‘It was Tox who got himself stabbed. And now Harry’s out there, running around, putting herself right in harm’s way. I’ve never been in the middle of the danger.’

‘Exactly,’ Vada said. ‘Your friend was stabbed. Harriet’s brother was killed. But what have you actually suffered? The guilt comes from not participating in the pain. Feeling like you haven’t taken your share.’

Whitt thought about it. He felt the stirrings of relief in his chest. Vada’s hand was still on his.

‘How are you sleeping?’ she asked.

‘Terribly.’

‘And you feel anxious?’

‘All of the time.’

She sat back, folded her arms, her theory confirmed. Whitt chanced a tiny smile and played with his wineglass.

‘You need a support system.’ Vada returned the smile. ‘You’ve got me now. I may not be the most experienced detective around, but I’ll be right by your side from now on.’

‘How new to the rank are you?’

‘I just got the promotion a few weeks ago. I’m out of North Sydney metro. This will be my first major case.’

‘Oh wow.’ His eyes widened. ‘That is new.’

‘I’m the rookie,’ she said. ‘But I feel like I’m going to be an asset to this case. I did a bachelor of psychology at the University of Sydney before I joined the force. My thesis was in personality disorders. I think the key to catching Regan will be to get into his head. Understand the way he thinks.’

Whitt couldn’t help but like her. Vada was sitting upright on her bar stool, gesturing with one hand as she explained the various aspects of her degree. She had a lot of confidence. Whitt tried to guess her age. Early thirties. She’d made detective long before he had. He was broken from his reverie by her hand, slipping a wineglass into his.

‘Oh no.’ He pushed the glass away. ‘I only ever have one. I’m not a drinker.’

‘Come on.’ Vada rubbed his arm. ‘You look like you need it. It’s OK to take a break every now and then, Whitt. It’s called self care. You need to be kinder to yourself.’

She excused herself and went to the bathroom. Whitt turned the glass on the bar before him. His first glass had been soured by sediment, the dregs of the bottle. A waste, really, of his one and only daily treat. He’d had a hard day. He deserved an extra reward. Perhaps he could have one more. Only one more. He didn’t want to be rude.

He lifted the glass to his lips.

Chapter

18

I STOOD IN the queue at the soup truck, hoodie pulled up around my face, the gathered homeless men and women grinding the heels of their battered shoes into the dirt. With my face downcast and hands in my pockets, I was, I hoped, no more remarkable than the gaggle of down-on-their-luck prostitutes standing nearby – freelance girls banned from the glittering red-light district only streets away, park-dwellers who stood on corners and took rides in dark cars. Kings Cross’s parks were full of young women like these, girls who had come from the country to make their fortune and instead found themselves on a waiting list for overcrowded brothels.

The roller door on the side of the van went up, and a young man with lip piercings began handing out trays of food, no questions asked. A styrofoam cup of steaming brown soup topped with floating cubed pieces of ham and potato, two slices of toast and a coffee. I took my tray and moved off towards a low sandstone wall in the middle of the park. A decent dinner that wouldn’t eat into my already substantially diminished funds. I ate as I spread Regan’s papers out before me, reading them for the third time.

Regan had my police personnel file. In it, details of every promotion, every infraction, every unusual occurrence during my eighteen years in the police. He had my medical records, my yearly physical results, and details of every case I’d ever worked on. He also had a duplicate of my Department of Community Services file, which the police had dragged out to question me about when I applied to join the force. I was a state-care baby. They’d been concerned about my time ‘in the system’.