The Darkest of All Lies

About the Author

Paul Edwards was born and educated at grammar school in Leicester. After a short spell working for a high street bank, he studied German language and literature at the University of Birmingham, subsequently qualifying as a language teacher. He retired from teaching in 2012 and now lives in the Peak District.

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Dedication

To Kathleen; no one could have done more.

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The Darkest of All Lies

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018, Paul Edwards

The right of Paul Edwards to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

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www.austinmacauley.com

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The Darkest of All Lies, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 9781788231916 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788231923 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781788231930 (E-Book)

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First Published in 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers.LTD/

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

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Acknowledgments

My thanks go to my partner Gillian Foort for her undying support and belief in this venture and to Bernice Hayes for giving me the encouragement to see it through, right when I needed it.

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Contents

Chapter 1 – Monday Evening

Chapter 2 – Monday Night

Chapter 3 – Tuesday Morning

Chapter 4 – Tuesday Morning, Later

Chapter 5 – Tuesday Afternoon to Evening

Chapter 6 – Tuesday Night

Chapter 7 – Wednesday Morning

Chapter 8 – Wednesday Afternoon

Chapter 9 – Wednesday Afternoon – Later

Chapter 10 – Wednesday Evening

Chapter 11 – Thursday

Chapter 12 – Friday

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Chapter 1 – Monday Evening

Jonathan Melrose was lost. He’d suspected as much for some time but now the matter was beyond all doubt – no further question. Up until about two o’clock, the weather had been fine and he’d been thoroughly enjoying himself. But then the mist had gathered – and then the mist had turned into fog. The advent of the fog unfortunately coincided with him encountering a field of turnips, ready for harvest, which some inconsiderate farmer had planted right across the footpath he was due to follow, forcing him to take a detour of some considerable length. He hadn’t regained the path at the point at which his usually unwavering sense of direction had suggested and, as the fog was inconsiderately obscuring all view of any landmarks which might have helped him find his present location, he really had absolutely no idea where his detour had led him.

Thus it was that he’d spent the last three and a half hours peering at his Ordnance Survey map, feeling pretty sure that at the next turn he would find himself again and he would be able to continue his walk along its original pre-ordained route. The futility of his quest was soon to be irrevocably confirmed. Put more precisely, when what should have been the remains of an ancient fort actually turned out to be a memorial obelisk, he had no choice but to admit to himself that which was utterly undeniable. He was lost.

Now Jonathan was an intelligent lad. Not everyone scores three grade As and a grade B in their A-levels and gets to study geology and organic geography at Exeter University. As such, it was not beyond his wit and ken, having established that the only certainty he had concerning his whereabouts was that he was somewhere in the western hemisphere, to take a sneaky peak at the GPS app on his mobile phone and re-establish the position of his present location. Sadly his perspicacity hadn’t extended to checking that his phone had been fully charged before setting out on his venture and it seemed to have died on him at some point before three o’clock, thus rendering it as much use as a packet of Polo mints in extricating himself from his predicament.

He should not, of course, have been anywhere at all, except tucked up in the university library, engaged in an intense study of sub aquatic topography of the Atlantic Ocean. This was, after all, reading week, when he should have been reading. Or, more to the point, seizing a not-to-be-missed opportunity to make up for many misspent hours in bed, bars or cinemas, anywhere, in fact, other than in the library, by catching up on the huge accumulated volume of neglected work. Right at this moment he would have given anything even to be ensconced in the dining hall of his hall of residence. Instead, at five thirty on Monday evening, he was roaming the East Devon countryside in deep fog. Lost.

During the three or so hours he’d now spent in this cloud bank, he had not encountered a soul. It was as if the rest of humanity had been spirited away by some alien force, leaving him to wander the planet alone. So, where was he now? Well, he had managed to find a road, wider than fourteen feet on a sharp incline. So, what he needed to find on his map was a bold orange line cutting, at a perpendicular angle, a set of brown contour lines closely grouped together. In the fog. In the dark. Even with a torch – Jonathan’s acumen had extended that far – not an easy task. But even if alien space ships, which had apparently abducted the rest of humanity, were illuminating the entire area and lighting it up almost to state of daylight it wouldn’t have helped. This was East Devon and his map was covered in bold orange lines cutting sets of closely grouped contour lines at perpendicular and a variety of other angles.

His mood lifted as the road ahead was lit up from behind him by a comforting sign of civilisation, in fact probably THE sign of civilisation, a sight which is reassuring to any inhabitant of the western world, and probably many of the eastern world too. Jonathan turned round to see the approaching lights of a motor car. Any hope, however, which this particular sign of civilisation might bring was soon to be dispelled. Jonathan waved his arms frantically in a vain attempt to flag it down, so that he might, at least, be informed of his whereabouts, or maybe even be offered a lift to whichever port of call the driver was heading; he was instead rewarded for his efforts with a soaked pair of legs as the car shot through the large puddle adjoining the grass verge, ignoring Jonathan completely and continuing on its single minded journey towards the summit of the hill, over which it promptly disappeared. Now he was lost and wet. And hungry. He’d just noticed that. There was one thing that this event had told him though. He could see from the progress of the red tail lights that the top of the hill wasn’t too far away and, indeed, after a few further minutes walking, the road began to level off. Perversely, during his ascent the fog had eased a little and had reverted to mist. Visibility was possibly as much as two hundred yards. Not that that was an enormous help as the problem of the fog had already been compounded by the falling of the November night.

In the distance, though, there was a glow of sorts, which must have been coming from the street lights of whatever town was on the other side of the hill. By peering through the mist, which was gradually turning to drizzle, and with the aid of his torch, he could make out the silhouettes of trees at the roadside. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. Among the trees, the beam of Jonathan’s torch had momentarily picked out a strange shape before being obscured by the lightly moving trees again. But no, there it was once more. A curious domed structure, the like of which he didn’t recognise and—my God, yes, behind it a second one, exactly the same shape. As he approached he could see that it was most definitely not a house. It didn’t even have any visible windows. Fascinated by his find, Jonathan forgot the fact that he was cold, soaking wet and hungry and trudged on, only to be further amazed by the sight of a third such structure.

A feeling of unease was beginning to creep over him. Jonathan wasn’t possessed of a particularly vivid imagination; nevertheless, it was somehow slightly unnerving to be up here alone watching three mysterious structures being alternately revealed and then shrouded by the fog which was slowly returning and taking hold. As much as anything else, it was the complete silence which contributed to the uncanny atmosphere evoked by the sight. As he began to draw level with the buildings, he saw a low fence running along the roadside. He then saw two large signs attached to the fence, standing at a height of four or five feet. One was old and quite dilapidated and the other was much newer and had been erected there more recently. The paint on the older sign was badly flaked, but he could just make out the words THE CARNEGIE OBSERVATORY. Of course! That’s what it was, a disused observatory! That shouldn’t be too hard to find on the map. There can’t be many of those around. Jonathan eagerly shone his flashlight onto his map and scanned it expectantly. Nothing. Knowing a disused observatory was somewhere on a map was one thing, finding it among all the tumuli, quarries, triangulation points and what-have-you that are detailed on Ordnance Survey maps was quite another. He scoured the entire region south of Exeter and near to the coastline two or three times but in vain. He couldn’t see it. It was a bit like looking for a piece of a jigsaw which must be very distinctive in shape and colour, but was proving to be equally elusive. He gave up and walked on.

The second sign was now much more visible. SOLD. STC. Just beyond that, the fence was interrupted by a low gate and on the other side of it he could see an area of wasteland before the three eerie domes which rose out of the mist and—no, surely not. Yes, there was. There was definitely a car parked on that wasteland and where a car was parked, someone could not be far away. That someone would certainly be able to tell him where he was and, if he was really lucky, possibly be able to give him a lift back to Exeter. Jonathan put the map back in his rucksack and, renewed and invigorated by the hope recent developments in his plight had presented him, squelched purposely through the mud to the gate, over which he climbed effortlessly and he entered the grounds of the observatory.

‘Hello!’ Jonathan called out in a voice which he would have preferred to have sounded less frail and fragile and more commanding and assertive. He cleared his throat with the intention of giving his next call more bass. ‘Hello! Anyone around?!’ Much better. All the same, his voice was strangely deadened by the fog, and the three domes stared back at him in almost defiant silence. He tried again. ‘Anyone around?’ No answer. Now this was odd. A car parked not fifty feet away from him must signify the presence of another member of the human race and his voice, which he now thought was quite booming, must be audible to that person. So, why no reply?

He approached the first structure. Below the dome was a single window and he shone his torch inside. Apart from a dusty table and a couple of wooden framed chairs, it was empty and had probably been so for some time. He called out again, this time almost in annoyance. ‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ Still no response. He set about investigating the other two buildings, but they proved to be equally deserted. He returned to the car, which he’d presumed to be empty, and shone his torch inside that. His presumption proved not to be unfounded. Jonathan was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. It didn’t make sense. An empty car at a deserted disused observatory? He decided he didn’t like it here and he didn’t like the bad feeling it was giving him. On electing to go back to the road, he shone his torch ahead of him and its beam of light illuminated a bundle of rags on the ground some thirty yards distant. As he approached it, the bundle of rags developed legs and arms and then a head. It was a person. Lying on the ground. Not moving. There may be a number of reasons why people lie on the cold ground on a dark November evening in the fog at disused observatories in the middle of East Devon while people call out for their attention in deep, masculine voices without responding, but in reality there could only be one. And yet somehow his brain was failing to register all the evidence his eyes were giving him and he went right up to the body, which he could now see was lying face down. The back of the head was covered in some dark, sticky looking substance and there was a sweet sickly aroma which he recognised but could not identify as his senses and his brain had stopped talking to each other.

He should not have done what he did next. Later, he couldn’t believe he’d done it and could offer no explanation for his actions, other than that his intellectual system had suffered a temporary dislocation. He bent down and touched the substance. Yes, it was definitely sticky. As he put his fingers to his nose to sniff, the connectors between his senses and his brain woke up and he recognised both texture and smell – blood. He was now dealing with disbelief. His actions became detached from what all his senses were telling him. He felt the neck and the hands of the body. Cold, but not totally stone cold. All the same, this man was clearly dead. Yet Jonathan’s brain wouldn’t let him believe it. Never having been faced with a cadaver before, he was on alien ground and didn’t really know what to do next. What he should have done, of course, was absolutely nothing. Doing the right thing in hindsight, however, is all too easy. At the time, when all your normal perceptions have been thrown into confusion, it’s a rather different matter. In this vein, he continued for the next few moments with a kind of detachment coupled with morbid fascination. Until, that is, the point at which he turned the body over and then the connectors in his entire intellectual system all started doing their job with ruthless efficiency and the truth behind what he’d discovered hit him like the Paddington to Exeter express train going down a steep hill with a strong wind behind it.

Jonathan’s psyche was not unlike a lot of people’s anyway, in that he was given to doing things in the full knowledge that the consequences were going to be unpleasant, but he did them all the same. As a result, Jonathan Melrose turned over a dead body to look at the face – and immediately regretted it. It wasn’t the right hand side of the face that bothered him. The right hand side of the face he liked. There was nothing wrong with the right hand side of the face. The left hand side of the face, now that was a different matter entirely. Or rather, where the left hand side of the face had been. For where the left hand side had once been, there was merely a bloody pulp, which would probably have had Jack the Ripper running for the sick bucket. It was certainly going to be some time before Jonathan ate plum jam again.

Jonathan was a fan of action hero films. He would have loved to have been like those heroes. Right at that moment, he would have loved to have curled up the corner of his mouth into a disdainful sneer and muttered something like ‘poor bastard’ before leaping to his feet and rushing off to bring the perpetrator of this hideous crime single-handedly to justice, thus rendering the world a safer place for the rest of us to live in and ensuring we can all sleep safely in our beds at night. But Jonathan wasn’t like that. Jonathan was like the rest of us in that respect. So Jonathan did what any of us might have done in that situation. He put his hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to stem the flow and vomited copiously. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the presence of mind not to vomit copiously all over the body, an event which was not, for all sorts of reasons, going to endear him to the crime scene investigation team who were to arrive some forty minutes later, although he had, it later transpired, inadvertently done the investigation team something of a favour.

After retching for the third time, he tried to get to his feet. His legs were shaking, he felt cold, his eyes were full of water and his skin felt clammy. He retched a fourth time, only to bring up bile which burned the back of his throat. He coughed violently for a couple of minutes and eventually managed to stand up straight, legs still trembling notwithstanding. In a surprising fit of lucidity, given the circumstances, a horrible thought suddenly struck him. The man had not been completely cold and when he’d turned him over, the arms and legs had been quite movable. All of which meant that the man was not long dead. What if the killer was still around? What if he’d seen Jonathan make his discovery? What if he thought that what was good enough for the man on the ground was good enough for Jonathan? What if he’d SEEN Jonathan? He couldn’t have failed to have heard him. He’d announced his arrival at the top of his voice and had continued to confirm his presence at pretty regular intervals ever since. His imagination now kicked into gear and the ensuing fear, as they say, gave him wings. He considered it highly judicious to put as much distance as possible between himself and the body, as rapidly as possible. To this end, still trying to regain complete command of his system, he staggered towards the open gate, which was clearly the vehicle access, using his torch to help avoid the potholes caused by the crumbling and fragmented concrete.

As he reached the gateway, he froze again. Oh, dear God, it couldn’t be. Sweet Jesus, yes it was! Someone was hiding in the bushes on the other side of the road. The beam of his torch had definitely picked out the shape of someone’s head and shoulders before they’d ducked down out of sight. It had to be the murderer. Now, as Jonathan was hardly a prime candidate for president of the Land of Super Heroes, what he did was hurry through the gateway and, facing the opposite direction from which he’d approached the observatory, he ran. My God, did he run. It’s a long established medical fact that you can’t clench your sphincter muscle and run at the same time, but Jonathan was giving it his best shot. Bearing in mind that he was also wearing heavy walking boots and carrying a rucksack, which he hadn’t had the presence of mind to shed before setting off, he was putting in a pretty impressive performance.

As is usually the case with observatories, the Carnegie Observatory had been built at the top of a hill. Thus, Jonathan was now propelling himself down a steep incline, much steeper than the one he’d taken to get up to the observatory. As he was running at considerable speed in footwear highly unsuited to the task and in a state of high anxiety down a steep hill, he had only gone fifty yards or so before the inevitable happened. He fell. Actually, he didn’t just fall. He sprawled, dived in fact, about ten feet or so, tearing the knees of his jeans and the elbow of his jacket and sustaining severe cuts and bruises to the consequently exposed skin. He wasn’t aware of this at the time, having other things on his mind, like how far behind him the homicidal maniac was, and could he get to his feet quickly enough before he caught up with him? He scrambled to his feet and in yet another moment of bad judgment turned around and saw---nothing. There was not a sign of anyone in pursuit. He shined his torch along the road back to the top of the hill. Nothing. No one. No bearded evilly grinning figure with psychotic eyes, obviously bent on his victim’s destruction. No one giving chase whatsoever. He listened hard for a few seconds, but there was complete silence. He’d got away. He was safe. Just as his eyes were beginning to fill with tears of joy and relief, there appeared over the brow of the hill, like the eyes of a predatory cat, the headlights of a car. Idiot! Dolt! Imbecile! Buffoon and moron! There he stood, a first year student at a prestigious university, ten GCSEs to his name (all As and A*s, three grade A A-levels and one at grade B), and yet he hadn’t been able to work out that if a seasoned and practised murderer was intent on ruining your good looks to the extent that not even your own mother would recognise you afterwards, he’d hardly bother to chase after you on foot when he’s in possession of a perfectly good car far better suited to the purpose.

Although still master of his sphincter muscle, Jonathan was rapidly losing control of his bladder. Suddenly realising that the strange whimpering noise he could hear was actually coming from himself, he was also almost simultaneously aware of the warm, burning liquid running down the inside of his left leg. Turning to face downhill again, he shot off in a valiant attempt to outrun the car which was probably going at about three times his speed. As he ran, he gradually became aware that the greenery to his left was becoming ever lighter and, as he turned the bend, the whole road ahead of him was fully illuminated by the lights of the car which could only be a matter of yards behind him. Suddenly, he saw something which brought to him a huge sense of relief. To his right, just beyond the growth of trees extending downhill which came to an abrupt end, he saw a house. What’s more, not just any old house, it was a house with lights on. If it was a house with lights on, there was more than a good chance that it was inhabited and that the inhabitants were at home. He lurched across the road and in through the gateway, which was covered by a gravel path leading to the front door. The crunching of his boots on the gravel, together with the sound of his breathing and the pounding of his pulse in his ears, robbed him of his ability to tell whether the car had sped past, or whether it had drawn to a halt. Not being of a particularly optimistic frame of mind at that moment, Jonathan assumed the latter.

As we are all aware, standard procedure when wishing to attract the attention of the inhabitants of a house to which one is a stranger is, of course, to ring the doorbell. Jonathan had tried to escape a rabid murderer by running away, initially being of the belief that said murderer would abandon his car and give chase on foot, to give him a fair chance of getting away presumably, while still wearing a heavy rucksack, suggesting that he was perhaps not thinking as lucidly as he ordinarily might. In that vein, Jonathan didn’t follow standard procedure. What Jonathan did was kick his feet and bang his fists on the door while shouting, ‘For God’s sake, let me in! Someone’s trying to kill me!’ This is, admittedly, much more dramatic than ringing the doorbell, but not necessarily any more effective, as he was about to discover. It took the resident of the property, a relatively sprightly septuagenarian by the name of Mrs Titheridge, almost a minute to come to the door.

After engaging the safety chain, Mrs Titheridge opened the door the few inches the chain would allow and enquired, ‘Are you in trouble, young man?’

Was he in trouble? What was wrong with the woman? Why did she think he’d been beating seven bells out of her front door for the last minute and a half?

‘Please, you’ve got to let me in. There’s a murderer on the loose. He’s already killed someone at the observatory and now he’s after me. You’ve got let me in.’ Jonathan’s voice had been getting more and more anguished and shrill during this delivery and he rounded his appeal off by sniffing back a substantial volume of tears.

‘Just a moment, please.’

Just a moment, please? What did the stupid old bat want? Did she want to see his head turned to strawberry jam before her very eyes? What the hell was wrong with her? Again, anyone of a rational state of mind might by now have realised that if the murderer had stopped his car in order to do Jonathan in before he could report his misdemeanours, he would have had ample time to have done so by now. As Jonathan was still standing in one piece by the front door, albeit rather the worse for wear, it could safely be assumed that the car had made its way down the hill and was now weaving its way through the streets of the town. Jonathan was not of a rational state of mind and had therefore failed to reach this conclusion.

What actually was wrong with the old bat was that a couple of years ago at about this time of year, as chance would have it, she’d heard a plea of a similar tone to Jonathan’s from a young man at her door, claiming that he’d crashed his car just up the road, that his girlfriend was still in it unconscious and could he telephone the hospital, please? On that occasion, Mrs Titheridge had opened the door to him without hesitation and had spent the subsequent twenty minutes held against the wall in her hallway at knifepoint while two other stocky, ill-mannered youths emptied her house of anything looking vaguely valuable. Hence her reluctance to accede promptly to Jonathan’s frantic appeals. This was different though. There was an extra urgency in this young man’s voice, which had been lacking on the previous occasion. After a few moments contemplation she opened the door fully, allowing Jonathan to spill into her hallway. She was immediately reassured that she had not made a grave mistake. There he stood, tears staining his cheeks, bathed in sweat, blood pouring from three wounds and giving off a curious smell which Mrs Titheridge couldn’t immediately identify – probably just as well.

‘You’d better use the phone, young man,’ she said, indicating the telephone on the hall table at the side of him. Eagerly Jonathan snatched up the handset and held his finger poised over the keypad. He froze for a few seconds, not really understanding why. Then it occurred to him.

‘The number of the local police station. What is it?’

‘Don’t you want to dial nine nine nine?’ Of course he did. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have needed that pointing out to him. But this wasn’t ordinarily. Also, if Jonathan had been in a listening mood, his response might have been more appropriate. But Jonathan wasn’t in a listening mood. He hadn’t even listened to Mrs Titheridge’s question.

‘The number of the local police station. What is it?’ His question was repeated with a force and in a tone of voice which suggested more than a little tension in his demeanour. Being somewhat cowed by the vehemence of Jonathan’s enquiry, Mrs Titheridge indicated a number on a piece of paper pinned to the wall. It was the number of Salmouth Bay Constabulary, Salmouth Bay being the coastal fishing town on whose outskirts Mrs Titheridge’s house stood and through whose streets Jonathan’s assumed killer was at present wending his way. Jonathan made two attempts to dial the number but misdialled each time, so violently were his hands trembling. He’d been attempting to hit the right numbers for about thirty seconds when