Tell Me Lies [Paperback]

From small lies do big lies grow. Until they are unstoppable and your whole life depends on them. This is the background to Tony Strong's new, unputdownable tale of rape, stalking and murder. Based on a true story, it is the tale of two lively girls living in London and enjoying life to the full. But maybe too full for one day Ros returns home from work early and the direction of her life is changed forever. Waking up from a drug-induced sleep the following day she finds her flatmate murdered in the shower, herself raped and their flat burgled. But she is unable to recall any of the events. It soon becomes clear that the police know who the perpetrator is but are unable to prosecute due to lack of firm evidence. Ros takes a momentous decision, believes the police and lies in court to convict him, pretending her memory has come back. But the consequences soon turn into a nightmare worse than ever imagined, resulting in lie upon lie hiding truths that are always likely to raise their ugly heads when least expected. Excitingly written, clearly plotted but enigmatic till the end, this is a story that could happen to anyone - and did. - Lucy Watson

Detective Bill Thompson discovers that his girlfriend Ros, who has been raped and her friend murdered, has the rare ability to lie convincingly. So he persuades Ros to lie in court about the identity of her assailant and between them they weave a tangled web of deception as danger

'I can only read Tony Strong with all the lights on.'
Tony Parsons

Ros Taylor wakes from a drugged sleep in her North London flat to discover that her flatmate, Jo, has been raped and murdered; and that she has been sexually assaulted. But Ros can remember nothing.

During the investigation that follows, Ros becomes increasingly close to one of the detectives. He admits that the police know who the killer is, but don't have enough admissible evidence to be certain of a conviction.

So Ros decides to lie. She tells the court that she can identify the accused man as her attacker.

But her action has unexpected and unwelcome repercussions. As events spiral out of control, she realizes that neither the police nor she herself understand what really happened that night. Soon she discovers that she is capable of things she never thought possible - and that sometimes the truth can be even more dangerous than a lie.

In Tell Me Lies, master storyteller Tony Strong has crafted an ingenious, taut and horribly believable novel about crime, passion and the shifting, unstable nature of reality.

Tony Strong; A graduate of Oxford, Tony Strong lives in London and Oxfordshire with his wife and three sons. He is the author of the Poison Tree, The Death Pit and The Decoy, all available in Bantam Paperback.

The needle hovers over the soft vulnerable skin in the crook of my elbow. I feel the tiny sting as it skewers me, then a deeper, subcutaneous ache as it pushes inside the vein.
‘Almost done,’ the doctor murmurs, loosening the tourniquet.
She’s solid and professional, her grey hair pulled back in a bun. When she withdraws the needle, a tiny red berry swells from the puncture. She presses a pad of cotton wool on it and places my finger on top to hold it there while she tears a strip of tape from a dispenser.
This isn’t happening.
She measures the blood from the syringe into three different phials. Their tops are colour-coded; purple, grey and red. On the red-topped tube are the words: ‘ATTENTION. Serological samples only. This tube contains no anticoagulants. For DNA use purple jar.’
The doctor picks up her clipboard. ‘Do you have any allergies, Ros?’
My mouth forms the word No. It must be almost inaudible but it seems to be enough.
‘Are you currently taking any prescription drugs?’
No.
‘Have you taken any non-prescription drugs in the last forty-eight hours?’
No.
‘Is there any possibility that you might be pregnant?’
Oh God, no –
‘If you’re worried, Alice can take you to the clinic later to get a morning-after pill,’ the doctor says gently. ‘For now, I just need to know if you could have been pregnant before the assault.’
I shake my head.
‘When was your last consensual sexual activity?’ My confusion must show because she adds, ‘We have to know this. It may affect the tests.’
‘About six months ago,’ I whisper.
‘And your last period?’
A thick fog is gusting through my brain. ‘I can’t remember. Sorry. It’ll come back to me.’
‘Don’t worry. You can let Alice know later.’ She makes a note. ‘Have you urinated, defecated, or rinsed your mouth or hands since the attack?’
‘I think so. I can’t remember. I went to the loo. That was when I found—’ Images crash through the fog. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
‘It’s all right,’ she says quietly. ‘You don’t have to talk about that yet.’ She pulls out another form. ‘I’d like to examine you now, Ros. My report will be used by the police as evidence, and it will also help me see what medical treatment you need. But I won’t examine you unless you give your consent and you can ask me to stop, or to pause, at any time. If you’re all right with that, I’ll need you to sign this to say that you agree.’
She hands me the form. At the top are the words ‘Declaration of Consent to Medical Examination for Non-treatment Purposes’. I have to sign twice, once where it says that I give my consent to examination and the taking of forensic samples, and once where it says that the doctor has explained what the form means. When I take the pen from her my hand shakes and my signature – a weird, unfamiliar calligraphy, like a loop of stray hair – veers erratically off the dotted lines. It belongs to someone else, some other Ros Taylor. Someone to whom nightmares happen. Not me.

The rape suite is on the seventh floor of a tall police station just off the Edgware Road. Its double-glazed windows look down at a queue of traffic, inching along the Westway flyover in the morning sunshine. The main part of the suite is like a hotel room, or perhaps the waiting room of a private osteopath. There are bland Scandinavian sofas, a cheap wooden coffee table and an incongruous stack of magazines. Beyond this are two other rooms. One is the doctor’s, with an adjustable couch and shelves piled high with medical paraphernalia, where my examination is happening. The other door leads to a shower room. When the examination is over I will be allowed to help myself to towels, clean clothes and a range of toiletries. Alice has told me about the toiletries. They are a recent addition, one which Alice is rather proud of.
Alice is a sergeant, although she doesn’t wear a uniform. According to the leaflet I have been given she is also my designated chaperone, whatever that means. If I had written it I would have tried to find a better word. ‘Chaperone’ conjures up visions of debutantes and dances, kisses snatched behind fluttering fans, men in breeches and girls in bonnets; not this cold, scientific drama of serological samples and blood tests. The leaflet also says, in the vague, soothing way that characterizes all of its fifty-four pages, ‘Your chaperone has received special training to deal with this type of matter.’ Sergeant Alice speaks very slowly and quietly, which is presumably what she was taught in her special training. She wears a knee-length straight skirt, as round as a barrel. In any other circumstances I would probably have had nothing in common with her at all, but as it is I find myself pathetically grateful for her presence.
The doctor has put on see-through plastic gloves and is cleaning under my fingernails with short wooden toothpicks, a different one for each nail. She asks me to open my mouth and she rubs my gums vigorously with a thing like a large cotton bud. Then she plucks half a dozen hairs from my scalp, gripping them with tweezers close to the skin.