Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘My family curse has rubbed off on you,’ Anna said at one point. ‘Perhaps you’ve done the wrong thing taking up with me.’

  It seemed a lifetime ago that they’d first met, when Mariner was investigating the murder of her elder brother, Eddie. Before long the case had turned into a triple homicide involving her parents too, so she was no stranger to violent death. But still, Mariner couldn’t bring himself to share with her what he’d seen. He kept himself busy by being over-attentive to her so that, in the end, she snapped at him. It was the letting agent who saved them from a full-blown row.

  ‘Mr Mariner? We’ve got someone who wants to look at your cottage.’ Roy Shipley sounded as surprised as Mariner was. This was the first sniff of interest they’d had in the canal-side property. ‘He’d like to see it before going up north for Christmas. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?’ Great timing. The last thing Mariner felt like was being sociable.

  Roy Shipley picked up on the hesitation. ‘If you don’t want to trouble yourself I can show him round. I’ve fixed an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll be there.’ He’d been waiting long enough for this. Back in mid-August it had been clear that Jenny, his previous tenant wasn’t coming back. She’d left university and got a job in the East Midlands. By that time Mariner had pretty well moved in with Anna, along with most of his stuff, so it had seemed sensible to try and bring in some extra cash by renting out his own place. But it hadn’t been that simple mainly because, the agent said, the property was too small for a family and a bit off the beaten track. This was the first enquiry, so Mariner couldn’t afford to pass it up. And it would get him out from under Anna’s feet for a couple of hours.

  * * *

  23 December

  Dave Flynn had never been inside a house like this before. After years of turning over grubby flats and bedsits, uncovering all manner of unsavoury matter, this was how he knew he’d finally made it to the major league. And it wasn’t just him. The whole team was treating the place with the kind of reverence reserved for religious buildings, speaking in hushed tones, their footsteps alternately echoing on the hardwood floors, or cushioned by thick Persian rugs. This was only one of the pleasures of promotion to the Met Special Branch. And no one seemed to mind his being here, even though strictly speaking his presence was unnecessary. His first prominent case he wanted to make sure the troops got it right. No cock-ups, minor or major.

  What he’d seen so far gave Flynn no cause to worry. The lads were doing an efficient, careful, job; drawers, cupboards, shelves — even the contents of the huge American-style fridge. ‘Anything that might give us a clue about what Sir Geoffrey Ryland was doing on a side road off the M40 at two in the morning on December the fourth.’

  Not that they were likely to find anything much here, or that Flynn was under any illusion that he was leading this investigation. That was going on elsewhere. Two weeks on, his team had only just been allowed access to the house, the lack of urgency matching the lack of expectation. Flynn was well aware that so far everything pointed to Ryland’s driver as being the intended victim of the assassination. The super had told them all as much at the briefing and, from the photos of the scene and what they knew of the background, Flynn had little reason to doubt that it was the truth.

  The style of the killing was a strong indication that the thirty-eight-year-old reformed heroin runner had slipped back into some nasty little habits and paid the price. The bullets recovered at the scene had been shot from the type of weapon favoured by drug dealers, and the crude message written in blood an obvious reference. Sir Geoffrey Ryland and his wife had simply got in the way. Until they read the headlines the following day the assassins had probably been totally unaware of the identity of their other, more prominent victims.

  The only contraindications were the grains of white powder on the ground and inside the boot of the limo. It seemed a careless, if not wasteful, mistake for professionals to have made. But that was a trivial point and in the end it wasn’t Flynn’s place to question. All he was doing was the wider evidence gathering, ensuring that Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s death wasn’t about to lead to any nasty surprises. Those further up the ladder would make the judgements about what had really happened that night in Cheslyn Wood.

  Flynn ascended the stairs to the first floor landing. ‘Anything useful?’ he asked.

  One of the team emerged from the bathroom — Collins, Flynn thought he was called. ‘A quantity of drugs of any interest to you, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Diazepam. Prescribed to Mrs Ryland.’

  ‘Valium,’ said Flynn, taking the bag. He studied the typed label. ‘Christ, and a fifty milligram dosage. That’s enough to knock out a horse. Depressed or what?’

  ‘She was a politician’s wife,’ said Collins, as if that was explanation enough.

  ‘Anything else?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘We’ve got a few letters,’ Danny Quinn was the one to speak. ‘But it’s personal stuff, mostly relating to her. You wanted us to look for anything unusual, unexplained?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Sullivan held up a small key. ‘Looks like the key to a bank security box.’

  ‘We’ve already been into his safety deposit.’

  ‘He must have another one. And this key was taped to the inside of his desk drawer—’

  ‘Meaning it’s the one he didn’t want anyone else to know about.’

  * * *

  Anna opted out of the meeting with Roy Shipley, so Mariner took wrapping paper and tape to the cottage, thinking that he might as well do something useful while he was there.

  He arrived at his canal-side home in time to see a silver Audi estate pulling into the service road. Shipley walked over first, followed by another taller man, broad-shouldered with carroty hair and a dusting of freckles that had probably earned him relentless teasing as a kid. He extended a hand and a warm smile. ‘Bill Dyson,’ he said. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mr Mariner.’

  Mariner was normally good at placing accents but the closest he could get with Dyson’s was somewhere north of the border. ‘That’s no problem,’ he said.

  ‘How are you?’ Shipley asked. ‘I saw your picture in the local rag. That explosion thing.’

  ‘You were involved in that?’ Dyson echoed Shipley’s horror. ‘It must have been awful.’

  ‘It wasn’t much fun.’

  ‘Hideous, I would think,’ Shipley said. ‘But you’re here to tell the tale. Thank God, eh?’

  Dyson was mortified. ‘Look, I had no idea,’ he said. ‘If this is a bad time—’

  Mariner shook his head. ‘Not at all. It will be good to see the place occupied. As Mr Shipley’s probably explained, I seem to spend most of my time at my partner’s house now so it’s lying empty much of the time.’

  A squall of icy rain blew down. ‘Why don’t we go inside?’ said the agent.

  The tour of the three-floor cottage didn’t take long but Dyson seemed impressed. He ran his hand over the varnished inlaid wood of the cupboards. ‘I love these old places. When was it built?’

  Mariner gave him a potted history of the place, as much as he knew. ‘The original drawings are even knocking around here somewhere. I’ll try and remember to look them out for you.’

  ‘Great, thanks. It looks perfect for me. I’d been looking at flats and bedsits but this place would suit me much better. All I need is a bolthole to save me from having to retreat back up the motorway every week. I’ve been living in hotels up to now but that can be pretty soul-destroying after a while and financially it’s really not viable.’

  ‘Well, some of my stuff is still here and I do come back from time to time, but this is really just a stop-gap arrangement until we decide what to do.’

  ‘And meanwhile I’ll find out if I can make a go of it down here.’

  ‘I can understand that. What kind of business is it that you’re in?’

 
‘Security,’ Dyson dug in an inside pocket and passed him a business card. ‘Domestic mainly. I’m pretty well established in the north but would love to make it work down here, too.’ He smiled. ‘I could start right away. I noticed that you don’t have a system. I could do an assessment for you if you like.’

  ‘That’s good of you, but to be honest I’ve never felt the need.’

  ‘I should have said,’ Shipley interjected. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Mariner.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dyson responded in the same way that most people did.

  ‘I hope that doesn’t change anything,’ Mariner said, knowing that sometimes it could.

  But Dyson seemed relaxed enough about it. ‘Not at all. I’ll just have to make sure and keep my nose clean, won’t I?’

  They all smiled at what they knew was a well-worn line.

  ‘Where’s your main base?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘I’m originally from Galloway.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful area.’

  ‘Yes, it is. A man’s got to earn a living but I’d love to retire back there.’ Dyson gestured towards the shelf of battered Wainwright Guides. ‘I see you’re a walker yourself.’

  ‘It’s the best way to get some peace and quiet, I find.’

  ‘You’ll have to recommend some local routes for me. Stuck in the car all day visiting clients, exercise is the thing I really miss.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Mariner said, hoping that Dyson wouldn’t be looking for company too. For him one of the attractions of a good walk was the solitude. ‘When are you thinking of moving in?’ he asked.

  ‘Right after the holidays if that’s okay. Do you want me to give you a call first?’

  ‘No. The references seem in order,’ said Mariner. ‘Move in when you’re ready.’

  ‘Cheers, I appreciate that. I’ll probably dump some of my kit for now and come back from time to time.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Well, we should be going,’ Shipley prompted.

  ‘Aye. Back to the bosom of the family and all that. There’s snow forecast for later today and I’d like to miss it if I can. What about you? Getting together with the folks for the celebrations?’

  ‘Not many of them left,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Lucky you.’ The remark seemed heart-felt and Dyson was apparently compelled to qualify it. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I love my parents, siblings and their offspring dearly but you can have too much of a good thing, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine you’re the only one to feel that way,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Well. Merry Christmas to you, Tom.’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Chapter Four

  Mariner watched from the doorway as Shipley signalled and then pulled out onto the main road, his tailgate disappearing from view. The house, perched on the edge of the frozen canal was frigid now that the central heating only came on twice a day to stop the system from seizing up. After Dyson had left, Mariner jammed his hands in the pockets of his fleece and sat for a while enjoying the uninterrupted silence, trying once more to exorcise the new images crowding his brain.

  What tormented him more than anything else were the sounds. When he’d first ventured into that black hole of choking dust, visibility was non-existent, so what emerged to begin with were the bits of noise; the settling of debris and plaintive cries for help; grotesque way-markers in the darkness. At one point he’d been driven on by a faint whimpering. Others came to help and they laboured for an hour, clawing in desperation at the rubble until their hands bled, until finally Mariner made contact with soft clothing and flesh. ‘Over here!’ he’d shouted to newly arrived floodlights.

  Through a chink in the debris Mariner saw big blue eyes, with long lashes, blinking but unfocused in a ghostly face. Pushing his hand through the powdery rubble he found a hand, whose small fingers tightened around his. But when the lights came on, illuminating the tons of wreckage heaped above, the enormity of the task became evident. A paramedic came alongside him, working quickly and quietly. Mariner kept talking, nonsense really, about the church and the music, the carols and Christmas, anything to keep those eyes open and engaged.

  ‘It’s okay, you can stop now,’ the young woman beside him put a gentle hand on Mariner’s arm. Only then did he realise that the blinking had ceased. ‘She’s gone.’

  For hours he’d known his discovery only as victim number three. Then, when her beaming photograph appeared in the paper, he learned that she was ten-year-old Chloe Evans who had come to the service with her retired police officer grandfather. Mariner was tortured by the failure. Never mind that countless others had been helped to safety, they’d failed that little girl.

  * * *

  Mariner wrapped Anna’s presents with little enthusiasm. Picking up a takeaway on his way back to the house, he found Anna curled up in front of the TV watching a Christmas special of some sort.

  ‘What’s he like?’ she asked. ‘The lodger.’

  ‘Seems like a nice guy. He lives up north and wants a base here for business purposes. He’s moving in right after Christmas.’

  ‘That’s great. How long is the lease?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I don’t know. What?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’

  Mariner was beginning to take this as a bad sign, and was wary. ‘Oh, yes?’

  Anna wasn’t deterred. ‘Now that Jamie’s settled we’ve got a bit more flexibility. It’s lovely out where Becky and Mark live. I think we should consider it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Moving out of the city. If we sold both of our places we could get somewhere really nice. Somewhere we could do up and make into a proper family home.’

  ‘We haven’t got a family yet,’ Mariner reminded her.

  ‘I know but—’

  Chloe Evans’ face returned unbidden into his head. ‘It’s too soon, Anna. Leave it, will you?’

  ‘But it would be something to focus on, to get us through this.’

  ‘We’ll get through it anyway,’ Mariner snapped. ‘We weren’t victims. We got away with it.’

  ‘I know but—’

  ‘I can’t talk about this now. I’m going to bed.’ Climbing the stairs he knew he’d reacted badly, but for God’s sake, as if there wasn’t already enough going on.

  * * *

  The following day two detective constables from Special Branch came to talk to them and take statements. If they noticed that the atmosphere was cooler inside the house than it was outside, it didn’t show. It was a frustrating interview. Mariner was still coming to terms with the fact that his only role in proceedings was as a witness, and in this respect he felt entirely inadequate. He’d been over and over it in his head but on the walk towards the church he’d seen nothing unusual, no one behaving suspiciously, not a thing out of place. Up until the point when the building had erupted it had been a perfectly normal evening. If they’d been there sooner there might have been something, but they hadn’t.

  ‘I really don’t remember seeing anything,’ Mariner reiterated yet again, his annoyance showing through. ‘I heard it and felt it, but by then it was too late.’

  The interviewing officer was sympathetic. ‘You’re not alone, sir,’ he said. ‘An event like that, we must have had a hundred expert witnesses in the area, but none of the survivors have seen, or can remember seeing, anything that helps our investigation.’

  ‘Do we know yet what caused the explosion?’

  ‘The investigation is ongoing, sir.’

  ‘But they must have some idea.’

  Mariner was almost certain he was missing something . . . something he’d initially expected to remember with time. It had been four days since the explosion: more than long enough for the police to have pieced together some idea of the cause, but there seemed a high level of secrecy surrounding it. The team would have been in there examining the forensic evidence and, if it was a bomb, wou
ld have drawn some conclusions about the type and amount of explosive used.

  ‘If they do know they’re not ready to share it with us yet, sir,’ was all the officer would say.

  Mariner flatly turned down the counselling that was offered. Resources were stretched and there were others whose need was greater. But he suggested to Anna that she should take it up, using the one lever available to him. ‘If we do start a family . . .’

  She stared at him. He’d used the ‘if’ word.

  * * *

  Jamie had been due to come home for Christmas, but Anna called and arranged for him to stay at the hostel. ‘He’ll have a better time there than he will with us,’ was her reasoning and Mariner couldn’t argue with that. Even without their recent experiences, things were strained to say the least. They drove over and took Jamie’s presents instead to where he had lived since Manor Park, his residential care home, had been swallowed up by a national organisation whose ethos followed the national trend of community-based care. At the time Anna had experienced mixed feelings. Largely indifferent to his role in society, Jamie had been happy where he was, but gradually Anna had been persuaded that getting involved with the community on a daily basis would be of long-term benefit.

  Mariner pulled into the drive of the unremarkable semi-detached house to see Louise, the manager, in bright yellow rubber gloves, gathering up rubbish from the front garden and stuffing it into a black bag. It included old nappies, takeaway cartons, and far more than the wind would have randomly deposited.

  ‘An early Christmas present from the neighbours,’ she said, grimly.

  ‘What have you done to deserve that?’ Mariner was horrified.

  ‘Oh, nothing specific.’ Louise assured him. ‘It’s just the general threat we pose to the neighbourhood. That old confusion between mental illness and learning difficulties lives on.’

  ‘Not any more, surely.’ But the bag of rubbish said otherwise. ‘Have you reported it?’ Mariner wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t want to inflame the situation. They’ll get used to us eventually.’