Circle of Lies

by Paul J. Teague

  He’d got Charlotte’s attention. She wasn’t wide of the mark by the sound of it.

  ‘Fred Walker and Barry McMillan were part of a local building consortium. Fred managed all the projects, of course, but there were a group of them buying up land and putting their money into the local infrastructure. You’ll never guess who was in that consortium?’

  Charlotte thought it through.

  ‘Not the men in that photograph you copied for me from the microfiche the other day?’

  ‘Bingo!’ he replied. ‘All but one of them. I don’t think Harvey Turnbull was ever one of them; he was just a local copper. But there were four of them; Barry and Fred, as you know, and then Mason Jones, the head teacher of Morecambe’s secondary school in those days and Edward Callow, who is now the resort’s MP.’

  ‘And they were all sitting around that table in my guest house,’ Charlotte replied. ‘What sort of projects were they involved in?’

  ‘Well, the fancy new arcade on the sea front is one of theirs. They pulled together the funding for that massive new academy building too. They also have some contracts at the university. Now you mention it, I’ve a feeling they may well have bought the land at the holiday camp where you worked. I’m not sure if it’s their group who are redeveloping it though. It’s funny how so many things are connected in a small town like this.’

  He could say that again.

  ‘How could we find out if they’re behind the redevelopment of the holiday camp?’ Charlotte asked. If she could make that connection, perhaps there might be some sense or reason behind what was happening.

  ‘It’s a tricky one. You’d need to check with the planning department, I think. Incidentally, that’s where Edward Callow worked when this little consortium came to the fore. He was head of planning by that stage in his career, I think. At the time he was hailed as a hero in Morecambe. The town needed redeveloping, and he and his pals made a lot of ugly areas look very nice. Well, you’ve read the newspaper article; they were local celebrities then. Edward Callow still is.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him,’ Charlotte said, trying to recollect what she knew about the man. They’d been spared an election since their return to Morecambe. She hadn’t got to grips yet with whoever represented them in Parliament.

  ‘Between you and me, I reckon he’s a nasty man,’ Jon replied. ‘He’s very charming in public, always very obliging and passionate about the town. But I once saw the true man. I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘Oh? What happened?’

  Jon Rogers was a very even, non-controversial type, but he suddenly looked quite worked up.

  ‘I was once cycling home on my bicycle when Edward Callow roared past me in his car. It was bad enough that he almost sent me flying, but about twenty yards ahead of me, he ran over a cat. A lovely creature it was, jet black, just like a panther. He didn’t even slow down for it.’

  Jon flushed slightly at the memory. The incident had obviously made a big impact on him.

  ‘What happened next?’ Charlotte asked. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He stopped his car, looked in his rear-view mirror, then backed up and reversed over the poor creature without a second thought. What kind of man does a thing like that?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Charlotte knew Will would accuse her of over-reacting; it was a good reason for moving the furniture around before he got home. She hadn’t a clue where Lucia was, Olli had gone into town with his girlfriend, and Will had taken the bus to the university to have a look around, prior to his interview there. The guests wouldn’t trouble her for another hour or so, and Isla wasn’t due in for some time, so it was the ideal opportunity to re-stage the photograph in the dining room.

  She placed the copy of the image that Jon Rogers had made for her onto the small, wooden bar top. It was time to do some rearranging of the furniture, moving the chairs to the edges of the room, and shuffling the tables to the sides, taking care not to disrupt the table settings for the evening meals.

  Once the room was cleared, she went through the hallway and into the ground floor cupboard under the stairs. After moving some old boxes and cleaning items, she succeeded in manoeuvring the old circular gate-leg table into the hallway. It was too heavy to lift, so she dragged it, cringing at the noise.

  Hot and sweating, she finally succeeded in pushing the heavy, dark wood table into place. She pulled up the rounded edges of the table, placing them on their supports, then moved some chairs to where the men had been sitting. It was the same table, as far as she could tell. The B&B had been sold to them with its fixtures and fittings intact. It was part of the attraction, and although they’d changed the table cloths, upholstery, decoration and tableware, they’d left much of the furniture intact.

  Checking that nobody was around, Charlotte placed five cushions where the men had been sitting, with post-it notes attached, on which she’d written their names. She then moved the dining room hat stand into the position where the photographer must have been standing. She reckoned even DCI Summers would have been proud of her reconstruction efforts. It was a feat almost worthy of Crimewatch.

  Charlotte picked up the copy of the original photograph from the bar and held it up, making sure everything was in place. It was as close a re-creation as she could have managed, without stripping the wallpaper and tearing down the curtains at either side of the window to change them for the ugly creations that had sat there in 2006. She pulled out her phone and took photographs from different angles. Then she remembered the second photograph that Harvey Turnbull’s wife had given them. She had a copy of it upstairs in the family quarters. It was taken from a slightly different angle. She wanted to compare that one too and see if she’d missed any of the details.

  She ran up the stairs, stopping on the second landing to catch her breath. Events that week had made her realise how out of condition she was getting. She would need to join a gym.

  When she came back into the lounge, Isla was there. She was walking around the lounge, examining the set up.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ Charlotte said, ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour.’

  Isla turned away from the round table and looked at Charlotte.

  ‘I wanted to make an early start, since we’re a bit busy tonight. I thought it best to get going on the vegetables. I was also hoping I might catch you on your own.’

  ‘Well, I’m here, so what’s on your mind?’

  ‘I know George has a soft spot for you,’ Isla said, a worried look on her face. ‘I feel like a woman who suspects her husband of cheating. Can you believe that I went through his pockets while he was out walking Una this morning? I’m becoming obsessed.’

  You and me both, Charlotte thought.

  ‘Are you still worried about him?’ she asked.

  ‘We argued about it. That’s the real reason I’m here early; I had to get out of the house. It was tense when I left. We shouldn’t be having rows at our age; it feels ridiculous.’

  ‘What was the row about? Did you challenge him about being ill?’

  ‘I found an outpatients leaflet in his pocket from three weeks ago. He’d lied to me about where he’d been that day. He said he’d gone to visit an old friend in Lancaster. He told the truth about Lancaster, but he never mentioned the hospital appointment.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s something private. He might be embarrassed. He’s an older gentleman, from a generation which doesn’t tend to speak about private stuff. Had you thought about that?’

  ‘I hadn’t,’ Isla replied after a short pause. ‘He was very defensive when I asked him about it. He told me to mind my business. Can you believe that?’

  ‘It does sound like it might be something embarrassing. Perhaps you need to be a bit gentler with him.’

  Charlotte couldn’t believe the words were coming out of her mouth. There she was, acting as an agony aunt to a woman almost twenty years her senior. The same agony aunt whose daughter had walked out on her earlier that day.

&n
bsp; Isla looked tearful. ‘Promise me, if he tells you anything, let me know. I don’t want to be kept in the dark if it’s something serious. We’ve only just got to know each other. I’m not ready to lose him so soon.’

  Charlotte hadn’t even considered the possibility of George dying. He seemed like one of those men who would keep going forever. Maybe it was just that she’d known him as a young man, when he was strong enough to fight a bully like Bruce Craven.

  ‘I will,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I promise, Isla. If there’s anything wrong with George, I’ll drive him to the hospital myself. And I’ll give him a stern telling off for not sharing what he’s going through. That generation of men, they’re not used confiding in people where emotions are concerned. At least Olli isn’t like that. He seems to be more open about things.’

  Isla turned to look at the table again.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, her tone changing.

  ‘Oh, it’s just something I’m trying to figure out. Barry McMillan’s death has been troubling me.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s better left to the police?’ Isla asked, her voice harsh. She softened again immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to challenge you, but it does seem an extreme length to go through. That table is heavy; why do you think it’s been kept under the stairs for so many years?’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Charlotte replied, keen to keep things friendly. It was her guest house after all; she didn’t need to justify to Isla why she was setting up ridiculous scenarios in her own dining area.

  ‘Whatever you’re chasing, I’d leave it well alone if I were you. I saw what happened to that local builder, Fred Walker, and with Barry McMillan’s suicide, it all feels a bit sinister to me. In your shoes, I’d look after that lovely family of yours and leave the police to do the detective work.’

  Charlotte wasn’t sure if she’d just received a bit of friendly guidance or a warning. It sounded like advice from a friend, but she sensed Isla was telling her to back off. She wasn’t sure how to respond for a moment. Then she had a second breakthrough.

  ‘I’ll put it all away in a moment before the new check-ins start to arrive. But will you just indulge me for one moment? Would you stand behind the bar and lean over towards where the photographer would have been?’

  Isla looked reluctant, but did it anyway.

  ‘Just move along to your left a little. That’s good. Now lean over as if you’re working behind the bar and chatting to the men as the photo is taken. That’s perfect. Can I take a photo?’

  ‘If you must,’ Isla replied. ‘I’m not big on all these photos. You’re not going to put it on Facebook, are you?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Just a couple more. That’s great; we’re done.’

  As Isla stepped out from behind the bar, the sound of the heavy doors opening could be heard along the corridor.

  ‘Must be an early check-in,’ Charlotte whispered to Isla. ‘They’re keen.’

  She went to intercept whoever it was who’d shown up before the designated arrival time. It was a mature woman with short, heavily greying hair and a slim build. At her side was a suitcase, indicating this was more than just a weekend stay.

  ‘Good evening, can I help you?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Yes, you must be Charlotte Grayson. I recognise your voice from the telephone. I’m Daisy Bowker. Remember? I’m looking for my half-brother, Bruce.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Daisy Bowker wasn’t as Charlotte had imagined her. In her mind, she’d pictured this woman as some kind of monster. She was poor at guessing people’s age, but it was even harder in Daisy’s case, with her high-quality haircut and her classy and confident look. She even seemed likeable, which came as a shock.

  ‘Welcome to Morecambe,’ Charlotte said, slipping into her automatic check-in procedure. She moved to the computer and went through the dual combination of checking for the essential information—such as home address, preferred credit card and email address—alongside issuing keys and running through the mealtimes at the guest house.

  Charlotte was consciously stalling Daisy, terrified of engaging in a broader conversation. It was only a matter of time until she started asking for details about Bruce, and Charlotte still hadn’t figured out how she was going to deal with the matter when it came up.

  ‘What a lovely little place you have,’ Daisy said. ‘I was intending to stay at the Midland Hotel, but I thought it would be nice to base myself here. It’s amazing that you worked in the same place as my half-brother all those years ago. I feel closer to unearthing his story already.’

  ‘Shall I show you to your room?’ Charlotte asked.

  Daisy Bowker was the first guest to stay in Barry McMillan’s room since he hanged himself. All the guests who’d been staying with them when his body was discovered had now moved on, meaning that she could sneak Daisy in there without some big mouth recounting the story of how he was discovered hanging from the beam.

  Charlotte had no intention of telling her guest about the incident. The quicker it was forgotten, the better, as far as she was concerned. Besides, the police were done with it and the professional cleaners had been. It was part of the business, and the room needed to start earning its keep once again.

  As Charlotte unlocked the door, she recalled the sight of Barry McMillan’s lifeless body hanging there. If anybody had asked her what it looked like, she’d have used the word heavy. It was a bizarre way to describe a dead man—there were so many other things she could have said—but the overriding feeling she got was of a dead weight pulling down on the noose, his body entirely unsupported.

  Daisy was oblivious to what had gone on in there, and Charlotte did her best not to think about it. She’d taken her guest’s case, and she placed it on the carpet, just below where Barry’s feet had been, swinging gently above the patterned fabric.

  ‘This looks nice,’ Daisy said. ‘Thank you for helping me up with my stuff.

  So, how did you know Bruce?’ she asked.

  Charlotte felt her face burning up.

  ‘It feels hot in here; shall I open the window for you?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a nice temperature for me,’ Daisy replied. ‘I like it warm.’

  Charlotte cursed herself for not having her responses planned; she’d had enough warning, after all. And now Daisy had caught her off guard. This is how they’d get caught out. What was she even thinking of, believing they could keep a secret like that?

  ‘Well, it’s such a long time ago, I can barely remember it, to be honest.’

  ‘You and your husband met at the camp, didn’t you?’ Daisy asked. She was unpacking one of her bags into the wardrobe, evidently oblivious to the fact that such a simple question sounded like the Spanish Inquisition to her host.

  ‘Yes, we did, we were both students. To be honest with you, it was a bit us and them at the camp. The students tended to stick together, and the seasonal workers got to know each other better before we all arrived. I can’t remember most of the people I worked with there.’

  Daisy was fumbling in her case. There was a large, hardback book sitting among the items of clothing. Researching Your Family History: How To Investigate Your Past.

  Family history left Charlotte cold. She couldn’t care less what her great-grandfather’s eldest daughter did one hundred years ago. As far as she was concerned, unless the family tree concealed some long-lost inheritance, it was all water under the bridge. She’d watched the TV programmes featuring celebrities who would begin to get emotional when it was revealed that a woman who was vaguely related to them more than a century ago went to the workhouse because her husband died in a mine and left her massive family destitute. Charlotte didn’t get why that mattered. Sure, it was a sad story, but there were a million of those happening every day. She failed to understand what compelled people to research information like that. But Daisy seemed to be taking it seriously, and that meant danger for her family.

  Daisy dr
ew out a photograph from between the pages of the book. It was a photo of Bruce, taken at about the same time as she’d known him. He was with a bunch of mates, smiling and looked relaxed. For the first time in many years—and after blaming herself a thousand times for her poor judgement—she saw why she’d been attracted to him as an eighteen-year-old. He was a good-looking guy. Turned out he was also a manipulating, violent psycho.

  ‘Recognise him now?’

  Charlotte realised that she’d have to admit to knowing him. That was all she’d confess to though, and Will would have to do the same. She thought about what it would be like if Lucia was in a similar situation. Everything her kids did was recorded on phones and surveillance cameras. When Charlotte was young, photographs were few and far between. Even if she took them, she couldn’t always afford to get them developed.

  ‘Yes, he used to work in the kitchen. On the dishwasher, if I remember correctly. It was a big, industrial thing. I didn’t know him well, though. We just had snatched exchanges while I was loading up my dirty dishes to put through the washer.’

  ‘Were you and your husband a couple when you arrived at Sandy Beaches?’

  It was easier when DCI Summers had been asking the questions earlier in the week.

  ‘Are you sure this room isn’t too hot for you?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re going through the menopause, I discovered these patches they have nowadays. They changed my life. I used to suffer from sweats and a red face all the time. Ask your doctor, if you’re going through the change. I’m done with all that now, thank God. I can devote myself to more interesting matters, like researching family history. You didn’t say if you and your husband were an item back then?’