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Back The Lie Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. Acknowledgements
  66. Reading Group Questions
  67. Read More
  68. I
  69. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Fincham.’ Haley, from lettings, with her strong Sussex accent, sounded eager. ‘We’re always on the lookout for properties in your location. If you’re in such a hurry, maybe I could pop by later today and take some photos, get some details on the system.’

Finch had taken the bull by the horns first thing the next morning. Hearing Grace’s shriek of excitement when he’d phoned her on her way to work and tentatively outlined his plan had been enough.

For the rest of the day, he was pinned to his screen, clicking forward and back, scrolling through wide-angle photos of sitting rooms, kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms – some of them probably no bigger than a cupboard – checking maps and transport links and noting broadband speed. It was a tiring business, but he didn’t mind: he was on a roll and probably as excited as his stepdaughter. Now he had begun the process, he felt desperate to get going.

By the middle of the week the To Let sign had been stapled to the brick stanchion supporting the front gate and Finch was packing a spare shirt, boxers and socks in his canvas holdall, ahead of leaving for a few days with Grace and Sam in Manchester – and a slew of viewing appointments in the nearby Peak District.

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54

The floodgates were open. As soon as Romy got home after Lucy’s birthday lunch, she threw on her scruffiest jeans and a threadbare jumper and began to rampage around the cottage. She dragged out anything that reminded her of Michael: photographs with his coolly smiling, saturnine face; the pepper mill he’d given her for her birthday; his dressing gown, still hanging hidden behind the spare-room door; his stupid, shiny, designer wellies; his equally redundant Barbour flat cap on the shelf in the coat cupboard; his favourite white Wedgwood cup from which he’d liked to drink Earl Grey, the saucer broken long ago; and Simon Sebag Montefiore’s Stalin, which he’d read to death one summer. She hurled the lot into a black bin bag to take to the charity shop.

As the last item fell into the crammed plastic sack, she collapsed onto the sofa, clutching a cushion to her chest, and listened to her tattered breathing. She was amazed to discover she didn’t feel like crying any more – she was so sick of letting Michael Claire ruin her life.