Human Remains Read Free Page B

isn’t it?’
    Poor Vaughn: he likes to think he’s intellectual because he reads the
Guardian
and drinks a Java blend at weekends.
    ‘It’s how you can tell if someone’s lying to you,’ I explain. ‘You look at body language, visual cues, autonomic responses, that kind of thing. And you may scoff, but the course has been fascinating, in fact.’
    He looks blank.
    ‘Alright,’ I say, ‘let’s try a little experiment. I’m going to ask you three questions, and I want you to deliberately lie in one of your answers. I’ll see if I can tell when you’re lying. If I’m right, you can buy me another pint. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy your drinks for the next month. Want to have a go?’
    ‘Oh, yes, alright, then,’ he says. I get the impression he’s cheering up a bit. He’s smiling, but I don’t always trust my instincts with Vaughn. He might be suicidal for all I know. I have been known to get it wrong. Eleanor smiled at me that night, after all, didn’t she? And look how that turned out.
    ‘Right, then,’ I say, ‘let’s see. Have a think back to the bedroom you had when you were a teenager. Picture what it was like. Now I want you to describe it to me, just as if you’re standing in the doorway looking in. What can you see?’
    ‘Well, goodness. I guess it’s the dorm I shared with Roger Hotchkiss at St Stephen’s. There are two beds, one on each side of the room – mine is neatly made, Hotchkiss hasn’t made his, of course – a wardrobe at the foot of each bed, nearest to the door… Then the window straight in front of me which looks out over the kitchens. And a large desk underneath the window. Bookshelves above the beds. We weren’t allowed posters.’
    He pauses for a moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully, his gaze up and to his left. This is going to be too easy.
    ‘That it?’
    ‘I can’t think of anything else.’
    ‘OK, then, next question. What does your mobile phone ringtone sound like?’
    ‘It’s just the standard ring, I’m afraid. I can never be bothered with anything more elaborate.’
    That one was a bit quicker, but I still pick up on the cue that tells me he is telling the truth. In fact, I know it’s the truth because his answer reminds me that I’ve heard his phone go off in the pub before now. Maybe I’m subconsciously trying to cheat? In any case, the next question is going to be the one.
    ‘Right, final question. Tell me about your journey home last night. Did you go straight home? What time did you get there?’
    It’s only a small hesitation, a brief flick of his gaze up and to the right, but it’s plenty. When he speaks, he even raises his pitch – too easy, way too easy.
    ‘I didn’t go straight home, no. I stopped off at the Co-op and bought some sausages and potatoes for supper. I probably got home – ooh, at about a quarter past six.’
    I sit back and polish off the last of my pint. I press my fingertips into my temples and close my eyes, taking a deep, noisy breath in through my nostrils as though some peculiar psychic process is taking place.
    ‘Your last answer wasn’t quite true,’ I say at last. ‘Although I think the lie was quite nicely buried. You did get home at about a quarter past six, so you probably did stop off somewhere. You did stop off at the Co-op, but whatever it was you bought, it wasn’t sausages and potatoes. Am I right?’
    He’s shaking his head and for a moment I wonder if I’ve got it wrong, or if he is going to try and fudge his way out of it.
    ‘A bottle of Zinfandel and a toffee yoghurt,’ he says softly.
    ‘Another pint of John Smith’s,’ I reply.
     
     
    After I get home I stay up far too late again: too much whisky again, useless porn again, a fruitless wank in the end. Too much whisky, as I said. When I got back from my visit earlier, I started off reading something improving – forensic biology in this case, a topic of endless fascination – then moved on to reading something improving but possibly