The Ultimate Truth Read Online Free PDF

floor, suddenly realising that when I’d taken them out of the safe, I’d inadvertently turned the pile upside down. So the
photograph hadn’t been at the bottom of the pile after all, it had been at the top. I thought about that, imagining Mum or Dad coming into the office the day before they died, opening the
safe and putting the photo inside . . .
    Why would they have done that?
    There was nothing else in the safe that had anything to do with this or any other investigation. So what was so special about this photograph? Why was it so important?
    I turned it over and looked at the back. There was a note scribbled in pencil in the top right-hand corner.
    dem 5/8
    last day 4th?
    There was no doubt it was Dad’s handwriting – I’d recognise his spidery scrawl anywhere – but what did it mean?
5/8
could be the fifth of August,
and
4th
the day before? But what about
dem
and
last day
? Was
dem
short for something? Demonstration, perhaps? Demand? Or someone’s name – Dempster, Dempsey?
And what did
last day
mean? The last day of what? Or the last day
for
what?
    I took out my mobile and checked the date. Today was the second of August. So if I was right, and the
4th
was the fourth of August, that meant there were only two days to go before the
last day
.
    I put the rest of the papers back in the safe, locked it back up, and closed the hinged section of floorboard. I got to my feet, and was just about to go back into the main office to show the
picture to Courtney, when I heard her say, quite loudly, ‘Who the hell are you?’
    I froze, wondering who she was talking to, and then almost immediately I heard another voice, a man’s voice.
    ‘Ah, good morning,’ I heard him say, his voice deep and confident. ‘My name’s Owen Smith, I’m here about the insurance. And who might you be, if you don’t
mind me asking?’
    ‘Have you got some ID?’ Courtney said.
    ‘Of course, just one moment.’
    I folded the printout into my pocket and went through into the office. The man was standing just inside the doorway, and as I entered the office he was taking a business card from his wallet. He
looked over at me, blinked once, then went over to Courtney and passed her his card. I’d never seen him in person before, but there was no mistaking who he was. I’d spent the last few
minutes staring at a picture of him with two other men.
    The man who called himself Owen Smith was the man with the shaved head from the photograph.

8
    My mum once told me that you have to be very careful about judging people by their appearance. ‘For example,’ she’d said, ‘just because the man at your
front door is carrying a clipboard and wearing a high-visibility vest and a name badge, that doesn’t necessarily mean you can trust him. Anyone can buy a clipboard and a high-visibility vest.
And even if someone isn’t trying to trick you, it’s not always possible to judge their character based on physical appearance alone.’ She’d smiled mischievously at me then.
‘You only have to look at Courtney to know that.’
    There was nothing remotely insulting about what she’d said. In fact, Courtney herself had said much the same thing on countless occasions. All Mum had meant was that because of the way
Courtney looked and dressed, a lot of people – especially men – tended to assume she was some kind of brainless bimbo, just a pretty face and a curvy body. And Courtney was quite often
happy to let them think that.
    ‘If they think I’m dumb,’ she explained, ‘I’m already two steps ahead of them. By the time they find out I’m not so dumb, it’s already too late for them
to do anything about it.’
    Courtney Lane wasn’t dumb.
    She had a first-class degree in mathematics and philosophy from Oxford University, she was fluent in at least four foreign languages, and she knew more about almost everything than anyone
I’d ever met. She’d also competed at Under-23 level for the England Athletics Team, running the