Your Lies Exposed

Your Lies Exposed ALEX HARPER BOOK THREE MARK AYRE Copyright © 2023 by Mark Ayre All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum Get a Free Thriller Novel FREE NOVEL: They’ve taken his daughter. To save her, Matt Monroe has 49 hours to kill one of the most dangerous men in the country. A man who also happens to be his father. Get your exclusive free copy of Forty-Nine Hours when you join Mark’s author newsletter at markayrewriting.com/forty-nine-hours Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter One According to the clock on the wall, it was 10 in the evening. Time, on the other hand, to get moving. Off went the television, and Nigel dragged himself from the comfortable sofa. Despite the time, he was dressed in suit trousers and a shirt. His only concession to relaxation had been removing his tie, shoes, and jacket and undoing his shirt’s top two buttons. When out of the house, Nigel Anderson wore nothing but expensive, tailored suits. There was no footage of him in casual wear. He did not cycle around the town in that stupid biker getup. When people asked what he wore when he went to the beach, he responded that he never went. These days, he tended not to go on holiday at all. Even as a child, he was obsessed with looking smart. While his school friends wore grubby jeans and ill-fitting T-shirts, he wore pressed trousers and an ironed shirt. The other kids’ teasing didn’t bother him. Peer pressure had no effect. Even as a kid, he dressed for the job he wanted. In the downstairs hall, in the cupboard beneath the stairs, Nigel found the bin bag tucked into the corner, hidden beneath a pile of old coats, and hauled it to the living room, along with an empty hanger. The curtains were closed. All the doors were shut. No one would see what he was about to do. That did not stop him from feeling dirty. As quick as he could, he stripped to his underwear and put his clothes on the hanger, hanging it immediately in the cupboard under the stairs. Returning to the living room, he opened the black bag, recoiling as though it contained a chopped-up corpse. As far as Nigel was concerned, that would have been preferable. With a shudder, he pulled out grubby jeans, a faded blue T-shirt, and a vast hooded jumper with holes in the elbows. After forcing himself to dress in them, he removed once-white trainers that were now closer to black, shoving them onto his feet. Repulsive. On the coffee table was a brown envelope thick with cash. Naturally, there was nothing to recommend about being blackmailed by a lowlife piece of scum, but to Nigel, having to dress this way was the worst part of the experience. It was 22:08. Time to go. A cluster of tired shops awaited a thirty-minute walk away. He phoned a taxi en route, and it met him outside a closed pharmacy at 22:41. He kept his head down in the car and offered only monosyllabic responses to the cabby’s few questions. The journey took fifteen minutes, and he chucked a twenty to the driver as he climbed from the car, mumbling for the guy to keep the change. Across the road from where the cab had stopped crouched a pub called The Traveller’s Welcome. An ironic name, given Nigel had rarely seen somewhere he deemed less inviting. Punters glanced up from their beers and darts as he entered, but there were no signs of interest. He was not the only one with his hood pulled up, and with one notable exception, everyone wore jeans and trainers. The notable exception sat in the corner at a beer-stained two-person table. He had a whiskey in hand and wore a gorgeous charcoal grey suit that would have made Nigel drool with envy had someone not poured cold water down his spine. For four months, Nigel had been coming to this pub every two weeks to meet with his blackmailer, Cyrus. On each occasion, they had sat at the corner table now occupied by the man in the charcoal grey suit. The man spotted Nigel and waved. Cyrus never wore a suit. Nor did he have short white hair and a neat white beard. His eyes were not bright blue. His smile was not warm and inviting. He was not one of the country’s most powerful criminals. An urge to turn and run fought to overcome Nigel as a furious thought sprung into his head. Cyrus, what have you done? The man in the suit’s name was Donald Murray. As Nigel stood frozen by the door, Donald called across the room. “Nigel, over here.” This spurred Nigel into action. He rushed over to shh the dangerous Donald Murray. Uncowed by Nigel’s sharp tone, Donald chuckled. “Your concern is cute, Nige, but come on. I know you think these are the kind of people your ‘saying it out how it is’ style of politics reaches, but you’re off the mark. No one here is tuning in to Politics Live. Most have sold their television to buy drugs. Now, please, sit.” “You’re Donald Murray.” “Oh, so you’re allowed