Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  * * *

  Sandie didn’t appear to have missed him at all and was nowhere to be found upstairs when Mariner finally surfaced. But in the hushed corridors Mariner tracked the sound of her voice to the open door of an office he hadn’t yet been shown. He could see why. The tiny box room lacked the order of the main office, with a small computer work-station surrounded by piles of cartons, haphazardly stacked on the floor. Sandie was in conversation with another young woman of about her age, with dark intense eyes in an oval face.

  ‘Hi,’ Sandie smiled, perhaps with relief. ‘You found your way back then.’ Was it Mariner’s imagination or did she just check his trousers for tell-tale residue? The girl she was talking to looked on curiously. ‘This is Trudy, she’s new to the team. Detective Mariner is here to look round.’

  ‘Public Information Officer,’ Mariner read from Trudy’s badge, simultaneously thinking that he really ought to break this habit of staring at young women’s chests. ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘I’m still finding out,’ admitted Trudy, unconcerned by his scrutiny. ‘I’ve only been here a few weeks. The Freedom of Information Act gives the public a right to access some of the Commission’s data, so I’m here to process the requests.’

  Of course. The legislation that might just work in Mariner’s favour. ‘Have you seen much action yet?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit. At the moment most applications seem to be from organisations concerned with miscarriages of justice, wanting information about referrals that have been turned down. They like to compare the performance of individual members of the Commission.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re the very person I need to speak to,’ said Mariner, smoothly, as the idea occurred to him. ‘Helena James said I’d be able to get a list of the cases rejected by Sir Geoffrey Ryland. Would it be convenient to have that now?’ He made a point of checking his watch. ‘I have to leave shortly, but—?’ It was a technique called bulldozing, not allowing the other party time or opportunity to object.

  Trudy looked unsure. ‘I should probably check with Miss James. There’s paperwork to complete—’

  ‘You should,’ Mariner agreed. ‘Although she did say she had a lot on this afternoon. All I need are the names and basic details,’ Mariner went on, the epitome of the voice of reason. ‘I mean, everyone on that list has rightly or wrongly, been convicted of a crime, so I could easily track them down through police systems, but you’d be saving me a lot of trouble.’ It’s really no big deal, he was telling her. ‘And if the list is being sent out to other groups anyway—’

  ‘All right then, but you won’t thank me. It’s a long list.’

  Long wasn’t the word. Nineteen pages of tightly packed data, Helena’s fifteen cases a month and ninety-six per cent rejected over the last eight years, and it took Trudy several minutes to print out a copy for Mariner. As the inkjet clattered and hummed they stood making small talk in the tiny office, and it was while he was idly scanning the notice board above the desk that Mariner spotted the business card for JMB Professional Investigation Services, an address in High Street, Hammersmith. In other words, a private detective agency. ‘I’m sure I’ve come across JMB before,’ he said casually to Trudy. ‘Who is it runs that outfit?’

  It was Sandie who provided the answer. ‘That’s up there from when I worked in this office,’ she said. ‘It’s a guy called Mike Baxter.’ M.B.

  ‘Where does he come in?’

  ‘Sometimes the members of the Commission want more background information on a case. Mike helps out.’ Good old Mike.

  ‘There you go,’ Trudy presented Mariner with the printed and stapled list. ‘Some bedtime reading for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, folding it and tucking it into an inside pocket. ‘Now I’ll leave you ladies in peace.’

  * * *

  The sky outside was darkening as Sandie showed Mariner out. ‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said, with sincerity. ‘And perhaps you could pass on my thanks to Miss James, too. Tell her it’s been — enlightening.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sandie. ‘Where is it you’re staying?’ When Mariner told her, she described, with great precision, each step of the route he should take back to his hotel.

  ‘If I’m going through Euston I could return that locker key to the left luggage office,’ Mariner offered.

  ‘Would you?’ She was back in seconds, still chattering. ‘I should have returned it straight away, but I didn’t think about it until today when we got talking about—’

  ‘I know just what you mean,’ said Mariner. ‘Thanks again, Sandie. And good luck with the flat.’

  * * *

  Mariner’s intention had been to find a pub for a quiet pint, but after Sandie’s painfully detailed directions he felt obliged to go back to the hotel first. Maybe he’d have something to eat there before sampling the London nightlife. Already the rush hour was gathering pace and by the last leg of his journey the crowds on the underground were beginning to swell. Though he arrived on an almost deserted platform the bodies were pouring in as if somewhere a sluice gate had been opened, and in minutes it was jammed solid, people on all sides, pressing close, with scant regard for personal space. Instinctively Mariner checked that his wallet was still safely stowed.

  As his discomfort increased, a distant rumble and rush of warm air signalled the arrival of the train, a primeval beast emerging from its lair. The racket grew louder and Mariner’s ears popped as they had in the explosion, and the bitter taste of adrenalin flooded his mouth, quickening his heart rate.

  Headlights appeared from the darkened tunnel. There was a surge from behind and Mariner was violently shoved in the back, making him stagger towards the open rail-bed as the train thundered towards the platform. For a moment he flailed, the pull of gravity toppling him forward in slow motion, until something grabbed at his jacket and he was yanked back onto the platform again, regaining his balance on solid ground, his heart thudding. Almost immediately he was buffeted to one side and a piercing scream faded hideously in his ear, lost in the deafening screech of brakes as the train hurtled by. Murmurs of disgust gave way to a flurry of activity as the crowd, as one, backed away from the platform’s edge. Several men wearing the uniform of the transport police pushed through from nowhere, making for the front of the train.

  ‘A jumper.’ The tall, suited African-Caribbean man beside Mariner must have read the shock and bewilderment on his face. ‘It happens a lot this time of year. Quite often they come from the back, a last-minute decision.’

  ‘He nearly took me with him,’ said Mariner, breathing deeply to control his jangling limbs. He scanned the crowd trying to identify who it was that had saved him, but no one returned his gaze.

  ‘She,’ the man corrected him. ‘Only a kid. They often are. They’ll close the station now. Have to find another route home.’ And tutting at the inconvenience of a fellow human being taking her own life, the man turned and began to push his way towards the exit. Weak and slightly nauseous, Mariner allowed himself to be swept along with the herd, up to the surface and refreshingly cold evening air. A pub was non-negotiable now and the first one he saw was just across the road. He was on his second pint and following it with a restorative whisky chaser when his mobile went. In all the noise and chatter it was difficult to hear, and Flynn’s voice sounded hoarse and somehow different. ‘Meet me on Damask Street,’ he said. ‘It’s round the corner from your hotel, quarter of a mile. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘What’s going on, Dave?’

  ‘I’ve got something you’ll be interested in.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me—?’ But Mariner found he was talking to himself.

  * * *

  Consulting his A-Z Mariner saw that if he left now and made it brisk, he was within walking distance of his hotel, and of Damask Street. Either way he had no desire to go back down onto the underground tonight, and if he stepped it up he could easily cover the ground in twenty minutes. With a twinge of regret for the aba
ndoned drinks, he ventured into the night air. The London nightlife was in full swing, but as he followed the route he’d committed to memory, the noise and the light faded away to a quiet darkness until Mariner turned into Damask Street, which was, in reality, nothing more than a narrow lane that ran between the unseeing rear aspects of high Victorian factories. A row of skeletal fire escapes rose from huddled dustbins, skips and rubbish piled high, the buildings probably defunct and certainly empty at this hour.

  It had begun to drizzle and the flat broken cobbles glistened under the shining glow of interspersed door lights. A lone rat scurried across the road and rain dripped from an overhanging pipe with tedious regularity. It was bloody cold, too. What the hell did Flynn want to meet him here for?

  Then Mariner saw a reassuring human movement, a solidly built, figure approaching from the end of the street. Relieved, Mariner began to walk towards him to meet halfway along the alleyway. But ten feet apart something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t Flynn after all.

  Mariner raised his head to nod a cautious greeting at about the same time as the stranger moved his arm, and Mariner glimpsed the faintest flash of something shiny — a blade grasped in a gloved fist. Mariner began to back off but the man moved correspondingly, and as Mariner turned to run, his foot skidded on the slick cobbles and he stumbled. Snatching his chance, his assailant grabbed Mariner’s arm, swinging him round, and in his peripheral vision Mariner saw the stiletto swing back. Instinctively he raised an arm to defend himself and cried out as he felt a stinging across the heel of his hand. At that moment a dazzling glare washed over him. A car had turned into the street and was driving straight at them. Instantaneously Mariner’s attacker relinquished his grasp and pulled away, running back past the oncoming vehicle in the direction from which he’d appeared. The car slowed beside Mariner and a window slid smoothly down. ‘Are you all right, my friend?’

  His heart hammering and mouth dry Mariner realised that he was. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You came by at the right time.’

  ‘This is not a good place to be walking at this time of night,’ the driver advised, helpfully. ‘But if you’re sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m certain. Thanks.’ And Mariner watched as the car, a top of the range Mercedes, glided away and rounded the corner at the far end of the street.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he immediately became aware of a warm stickiness on the right one. He took it out again, inspecting it in the dim light. A two-inch gash across the fleshy part of his palm was pouring blood so he found as many tissues as he could, stuffed in various pockets, and pressed them against it. Following the direction of the sodium glow above the rooftops, Mariner worked his way back to a main, well-lit road and as soon as he was among people again and able to relax, he took out his mobile and called Flynn. There was a delay before Flynn answered and his voice sounded groggy. ‘What’s up?’

  Hearing his voice now Mariner was pretty certain that the earlier call hadn’t been from him. He cursed himself for being so careless. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  A pause. ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘You’d better come here then.’ Flynn gave him the address.

  He sounded reluctant and Mariner’s fear that Flynn could somehow be involved in what had just happened resurfaced. This was an opportunity to check it out. If Flynn was party to what was going on, surely Mariner would be able to see it on his face. He hailed a black cab and relayed the address that Flynn had given him.

  At the main entrance to Flynn’s apartment block Mariner pressed the buzzer on the intercom and heard Flynn’s voice. ‘Wait there, I’m coming down.’

  ‘Bring a clean towel or something,’ said Mariner, clutching the soggy tissues in his right hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  * * *

  Eventually Flynn appeared. He smelled lightly of perfume and in the light of the lobby his face was oddly defined. He’d been woken from a deep sleep, with someone else. Mariner was hugely reassured.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve caught you in the middle of something, or someone.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Not your perfume, is it?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So nothing,’ said Mariner. ‘You’re single. You can see whoever you like.’

  ‘Yes. I can.’ Flynn offered up the tea towel, a pale checked affair. ‘Here. What’s this for?’

  Mariner showed his blood-soaked palm. ‘I had a mishap.’

  ‘Jesus. That needs stitches. You should get to A & E.’

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ Mariner lied, feeling the throbbing pain creeping up his wrist. He wrapped the tea towel tightly round the wound. ‘I could do with a sit down though. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?’

  Flynn took him to the end of the street where an all-night greasy spoon was serving twenty-four-hour cholesterol specials. From the activity inside it could have been the middle of the day. The tea Flynn got them was the colour of the Severn in full flood. As he sat down Mariner quashed a smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got a smear of lipstick.’

  Flynn wiped it off with the back of his hand, looking so guilty that Mariner was forced to conclude he must be screwing his boss’s wife, or at the very least a married woman. ‘So what did you want to talk to me about that can’t wait until morning, apart from the fact that you’ve cut your hand open?’

  ‘There’s a reason you’ve been kept away from Ryland,’ said Mariner.

  Flynn shook his head with frustration. ‘Why can’t you leave this alone Tom?’

  ‘Because he was my father, he was shot dead, and I think there’s some kind of cover up going on here.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Someone doesn’t want me getting anywhere near it either.’ Mariner held up his hand. ‘Before this happened I almost got pushed under a train.’ He described what had happened at the underground station, aware that his voice wavered as he spoke.

  Flynn gave it short shrift. ‘People commit suicide on the tube on a daily basis,’ he said. ‘Especially post-Christmas. Sometimes other people get in the way. Count yourself lucky you didn’t go too, but don’t take it personally.’

  ‘The phone call wasn’t bad luck, and it definitely was personal. Whoever made it knows where I’m staying and they’ve got my mobile number.’

  ‘What phone call?’

  Mariner told him. ‘To be honest, I thought it was you.’ Flynn looked at him. ‘It’s all right, I realise now that it can’t have been.’

  ‘Maybe it was just a mistake,’ said Flynn. ‘Someone got the wrong number.’

  ‘Someone who knew that Damask Street was in walking distance of my hotel? And how is it that when I get there a mugger conveniently appears and tries to stab me?’

  ‘Be sensible, Tom. You said this Damask Street was little more than a dark alleyway. You’d have been a prime target, a bloke hanging around in a deserted street,’ he looked Mariner up and down, ‘reasonably smartly dressed. It was an opportunist thing.’

  The second time in recent weeks Mariner had heard that word. ‘I don’t think so. I’m being targeted. If that car hadn’t come along—’

  ‘The guy in the Mercedes.’

  ‘He could have been the contact,’ Mariner said.

  ‘So why didn’t he stop?’

  ‘Perhaps the mugger put him off. I don’t know. Or maybe the whole thing was staged.’

  Flynn sighed. ‘You’re overwrought Tom. You’ve been through a lot recently—’

  ‘No, I mean it.’

  ‘Be sensible. Why would anyone do this? What could you possibly have uncovered about Sir Geoffrey Ryland that anyone would be so desperate to keep quiet?’

  ‘He was involved in some kind of gambling syndicate.’ As expected, this was clearly news to Flynn, but as Mariner began to expound h
is theory about the betting scam it seemed, even to his own ears, to lose credibility in the telling. ‘Ryland was paying out large, regular cash sums as some kind of horse racing scam. I was told it was a straightforward flutter, but in practical terms that doesn’t make sense. If all Ryland was doing was placing bet, he’d do it through a phone account. It would help to check his bank accounts to see how much he was spending.’ He threw Flynn a meaningful look.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. I can’t just wade in and demand that kind of information. There would be questions. And so what if he was into something like that? It’s not against the law.’

  ‘So why was his assistant sworn to secrecy over it, and how come you didn’t know about it?’

  ‘Hypocrisy,’ said Flynn. ‘Ryland was a pretty outspoken critic of the government’s recent relaxation of gambling laws, wasn’t he? It wouldn’t look great if he himself was found to be indulging.’

  Mariner hadn’t thought of that, but Flynn was right. Ryland had opined at length in the press about it. That’s why it had seemed so unlikely. It could even be the reason for Ryland’s sudden need to jump ship on the enterprise.

  ‘As far as I know there’s nothing to suggest he was into anything like that,’ said Flynn. ‘So why don’t you leave the real investigators to do their job?’

  ‘Because they’re not doing it properly.’ Mariner’s frustration was growing. ‘The theory that Joseph O’Connor was the target for the shooting has more holes in it than a sieve.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Joseph O’Connor’s supposed meeting with Brady. Sure, they were in the same pub on the same night but that’s as far as it goes. Brady left almost as soon as O’Connor arrived. There was no interaction between them.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says the pub landlord, the same pub landlord who gave a witness statement to that effect. Somebody’s playing a game of Chinese whispers there.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a misunderstanding,’ said Flynn. ‘The witness didn’t make himself clear, or changed his story. It happens, you know that.’