Circle of Lies

by Paul J. Teague

‘If I hide you here, it puts my family in danger. You of all people should know that. You have a daughter and a wife…’

  ‘I had a daughter and a wife,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s something else they took away from me. My wife and daughter refused to believe that I had nothing to do with Piper Phillips’ abduction. Harvey Turnbull saw to that. What chance did I have if the cops were happy to set me up as the fall guy? And then leaving that disgusting pornography in the house and saying it was mine. So yes, I know how scary it is when your family are involved. You can say no if you want to, but if they kill me, the truth will never be known. Edward Callow will get away with everything he’s ever done.’

  Charlotte needed guidance from Nigel Davies. She didn’t dare tell Will what she was about to do, even though it involved the two of them and their children.

  ‘There’s a room on floor two which is empty until next Thursday,’ she said. ‘It will have been cleaned and set up for the next guest. If we get any late bookings, I’ll have to move you. But you have to stay quiet. You can’t go rattling around like you did this afternoon; anybody could have heard you. I’ll bring you food when I can, and I’ll leave you with some bits and pieces to keep you going in the meantime. But you have to come up with a plan; you can’t stay here forever. And if I think for one moment that anybody suspects you’re here, you have to go. Is that understood?’

  Charlotte couldn’t believe she was doing this. But what choice did she have? The safety of her family was at stake. It looked like Jenna had been protecting them all that time. This man was another witness who could tell the story of what Bruce Craven was like and prove why they had to stop him.

  But people were being killed. Barry McMillan, Fred Walker and even Harvey Turnbull. Somebody was settling old scores and clearing out their closet. It was getting too close for comfort. Rex Emery—despite the risk—was best where she could see him, safe in her guest house. But she must make sure nobody could know he was there.

  ‘You’re absolutely certain that nobody’s seen you around the guest house?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not stupid. I stole a cap and sunglasses as a disguise. You can see how I’m dressed now. I had a full head of hair last time I was in this town. Nobody saw me, I swear.’

  Ignoring all the doubts screaming in her ears, Charlotte nodded and stood up.

  ‘If there’s any chance that my family are in danger, you leave, agreed? Or I’ll turn you into the police myself. I will not risk my family to protect you. Do you understand that?’

  Rex nodded.

  ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘And if I’m caught here by the police, I’ll tell them I broke in and hid myself in the room. I know how this place works well enough; it used to be my job before it was repossessed after my imprisonment. I won’t land you in it, I promise. I know how valuable a family is. I didn’t appreciate that fully until I’d lost mine.’

  Charlotte was aware of the time. Guests would be arriving back shortly, Isla would be working away in the kitchen, and the place would get steadily busier into the early evening. She let Rex Emery into the vacant room and brought in provisions from the kitchen: milk, fruit, tea, cereals and some pot noodles from the catering pack in their own kitchen that they kept in for the children.

  ‘Put a towel by the door so that nobody sees the light under the gap and keep your curtains drawn. It’s fine to watch the TV on low volume if other guests are making the same sort of noise. Otherwise, not a sound, okay? I’ll bring you more food when I can get it to you without anybody spotting me.’

  For a moment, Charlotte considered giving Rex the old Nokia phone that had been discarded in a drawer in their family accommodation, along with its charger. Then she thought better of it. If there were records of text messages between them, she couldn’t deny knowing he was in the guest house, should the police ever figure out he was there. It would be useful to be able to communicate with him, but she didn’t want to create a trail of evidence. She’d seen enough TV detective shows to know how these things worked.

  With Rex Emery safely secreted in the room, Charlotte headed back up to the family accommodation to gather her thoughts. Her phone was sitting on the kitchen table where she’d left it before going downstairs to investigate the strange noises. She sat down and checked the screen.

  She’d missed several messages: three from Olli, one from Will and a phone call from Nigel Davies. She hated herself for prioritising Nigel over her son—he’d probably only be telling her he was staying out late—but she still called Nigel Davies first. As her finger moved across her phone, she considered telling him about Rex Emery. She shouldn’t put herself at risk like that, but she was desperate to tell somebody.

  ‘Hi Nigel, it’s Charlotte.’

  ‘Have you heard what’s happened?’ he replied, not bothering with any pleasantries.

  ‘No, what? I’ve been pre-occupied since I saw you earlier.’

  ‘Mason Jones is dead. I found him.’

  Charlotte’s body froze. Had Rex Emery done this? Was she hiding a killer in her home?

  ‘How? What happened?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘After our run-in with Callow, I decided to track down Mason Jones. It took me no time at all. I just called a retired teacher I interviewed a few months back who used to work with him. He lost his marbles a couple of years ago, and he suffers from dementia. He was in a residential home at the far end of the promenade, towards Happy Mount Park; it used to be a huge hotel. The police obviously didn’t think he needed any protection, because I just flashed my ID as I walked in, and the staff let me in to see him.’

  ‘What did he say? Was he lucid enough to give you any information?’

  ‘He was dead when I got to his room. They think it was an overdose of medication, but the coroner will have to decide on that one.’

  ‘Were the police there? Who do they think did it?’

  ‘That Rex Emery guy. Do you remember, the one who used to own your guest house?’

  ‘Why do they think he did it?’ Charlotte asked, not wanting to hear the answer. She worried about how easily she’d been deceived. Had she learned nothing since she was a teenager, so easily flattered by Bruce Craven’s overtures in the holiday camp bar?

  ‘He always claimed Mason Jones was responsible for Piper’s abduction. And he’s on the run from open prison. Who else would it be?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Charlotte began. This was far from irrefutable evidence. At least Rex Emery was safely locked in a room out of harm’s way. If she needed to hand him in to the police, she knew exactly where he was.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Nigel continued. ‘Apparently, Jones had very rare moments of lucidity. When I discovered his body, his nurse alerted her supervisor and they started figuring out what had happened to him. They thought he’d just died of old age, but they notified the police because they’d been told to stay alert over his safety. It’s the police who reckon foul play is involved. Anyway, there was a torn-up photograph in his bedroom waste bin. At the time I didn’t think there was anything suspicious about his death, so I just went ahead and had a look while I was on my own in there. It was an old photograph, very much like the ones taken at your guest house. The wallpaper was the same.’

  ‘How does that help, though? He was probably just reminiscing, wasn’t he?’

  ‘It’s a different photo, and there’s somebody else in it. I had to photograph all the bits on my phone. I need to print them out and piece them together, like a jigsaw puzzle. There must have been another person in your guest house lounge with those men, Charlotte, and looking at the fragments of the photo, once I’ve managed to reassemble all the torn pieces, I reckon we’ll be able to figure out who it was.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  This was a development Charlotte hadn’t anticipated. Who could the extra person be?

  ‘Can I help?’ she asked Nigel. She could hear lots of activity going on in the background, it came over loud on her phone.

  ‘I’m
still at the home, now. Can you get down here? I’m at the reception desk, trying to piece this photograph together.’

  ‘I can’t believe Mason Jones was living along the road from us all this time. It can’t be far; probably about a mile away?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the Bare area, rather than Morecambe itself. You’ve probably passed this place a hundred times and never noticed it. It’s the Evergreen Retirement Home.’

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ Charlotte said, and ended the call.

  She jumped up from the table and thought about Rex Emery. Was it safe to leave him there? Surely it was; he’d be unlikely to go anywhere. If he’d been responsible for Mason Jones’ death, she’d hand him into the police herself.

  But there was something that was making her doubt Nigel’s interpretation of events. Rex Emery did not seem like a killer to her; he’d had genuine fear in his eyes. She was convinced that was no act. And he’d said he didn’t even know where Mason Jones was living, or if he was alive or dead. He was no threat to her or her family; she had to trust in that assessment.

  ‘Isla? I’m popping out for about half an hour. Are you all right holding the fort here? Give George a call if you need an extra pair of hands; I’ll pay him. I won’t be long.’

  She didn’t bother to wait for an answer; she was going whether Isla liked it or not. As she walked along the pathway in front of the guest house, she remembered the missed messages from Will and Olli. As she walked along the path, she examined her phone. Will had messaged her to say that he’d met a colleague whilst calling in at the supermarket on the way home and they’d gone for a coffee. He’d be back later.

  Olli had also used Facebook Messenger to try to raise her. She dialled Olli’s number, regretting having ignored him for so long.

  ‘Mum, I’m pleased I’ve got you at last. Lucia is with that guy I told you about. The one with the purple hair. They’re in Wetherspoons having a drink. I’m watching them from the other side of the pub. Do you want me to follow them?’

  So, the man with the purple Mohican had shown his face again. The cheek of it.

  ‘Are they drinking?’ Charlotte asked, realising that her daughter might be committing an offence.

  ‘No, they’re both on soft drinks. But they’re sharing a plate of nibbles. They seem very comfortable together. Do you want me to say something? I’m worried about her, Mum. That guy must be ten years older than her.’

  Charlotte wanted to be in two places at once. It was a quicker walk up the promenade to the pub than it was towards Happy Mount Park. But she was desperate to know what was in that photo. Lucia was in a public place, she wasn’t drinking alcohol and Olli could watch her. It was safe enough for now.

  ‘Look, don’t do anything stupid, Olli. Is Willow with you?’

  ‘No, she was feeling unwell, so I took her home. I saw Lucia while I was walking back through the town centre.’

  ‘I’ve got my phone with me. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, but follow the guy with the purple hair when he leaves the pub. I want to know where he lives, so I can pay him a visit. He’s good at staying out of sight, so keep an eye on him; he’s a slippery one. But please, Olli, don’t intervene. Just get me an address if you can and come straight home. I’ll deal with this chap later. He’s far too old to be dating a girl as young as Lucia.’

  ‘Okay, mum, I promise, I’ll stay out of sight. I’ve got my grey hoodie on, so I blend in nicely. It’s pretty packed in here this afternoon. I doubt I’ll get spotted. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘You’re a good brother to her, Olli. Thank you.’

  Charlotte ended the call and began a slow jog, remembering how fast she’d managed to run when chasing that same man earlier in the day. She’d surprised even herself. It wasn’t long before she reached the retirement home.

  Nigel was right, she must have passed it hundreds of times, but she’d never even registered the place. It wasn’t that far from the town’s secondary school, where Mason Jones had been head teacher. She wondered how that must have felt for him, in his moments of lucidity, knowing that his brain was gradually fading to nothing. It must have been hard for him, living less than a mile from the place where his younger self used to be so sharp and active.

  She could see where she was heading before she arrived, thanks to the police cars parked outside. As she turned into the driveway, her feet crunched the gravel. The pensioners were visible inside, looking out to sea from their armchairs next to the large windows which ran along the entire length of the building. Charlotte blocked out the thought that she might end up there herself within another couple of decades. There had been a time when dementia and old age seemed to belong to another world; now they seemed to be an ever-closer threat.

  She saw Nigel Davies the moment she walked into the reception area. He was perched on the edge of a sofa, with scissors, paper and a glue stick on the coffee table in front of him. He had a cup of tea too, delivered in an ornate bone china cup and saucer; he’d made himself at home.

  ‘May I help you?’ the lady at the reception desk asked. She sounded flustered.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Davies, if that’s all right? I’m not here to visit anyone.’

  For a moment, Charlotte feared she might get a rejection. Fortunately, Nigel looked up and vouched for her.

  ‘It’s all right, Sandy, she’s my assistant.’

  Charlotte joined him at the table.

  ‘It’s a devil of a job, piecing all these torn fragments together. I’ve got almost half of it done, but I’m not quite there yet. The staff here let me use their printer, but it’s not very good quality. What do you think? I reckon it’s from the same set of pictures as before. Maybe not the same occasion, but it’s the same place, with some of the same people.’

  Charlotte studied what he’d done. Some of the pictures were blurred, but when they were stuck together, it was easier to see what was going on.

  ‘That’s Barry McMillan, I’m sure of it. He’s always wearing light jackets in the photos I’ve seen. He had one on when he died. And that’s definitely the same wallpaper that was in the lounge at the guest house; I’d recognise it anywhere, it’s particularly nasty looking.’

  She leaned closer to peer at the composite picture. ‘I don’t know who this fellow is though. It looks like somebody’s standing in front of him. We need to find the pieces that fit in this gap. It’ll give us a better idea what’s going on.’

  As she was speaking, Charlotte became aware of two dark figures stepping into the reception area. She looked up. It was a police officer, accompanied by DCI Summers.

  ‘Talk about a couple of bad pennies,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I should bring the two of you in for questioning. You both seem to turn up wherever there’s trouble.’

  ‘Even I’m beginning to feel the same way,’ Nigel replied. ‘I’ve already told one of your officers in there that I disturbed a photograph in Mason Jones’ bin before we had any inkling that his death might be suspicious. I’m sorry about that, but it was done in good faith. If you can get those original pieces reassembled as soon as possible, you’ll be doing yourself a big favour. I think we might get a clue from this image, but I’m struggling with my copy; it’s hard to make it out.’

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ DCI Summers acknowledged. ‘I take it you’ve given a formal statement already?’

  ‘Yes, I know the drill. If you need me to answer any more questions, you know where to find me. And I promise we’ll do our best not to turn up at any more crime scenes.’

  DCI Summers smiled again and headed along the corridor that led to the residents’ rooms.

  Charlotte had been busying herself with the pieces that Nigel had cut out whilst he’d been chatting to DCI Summers. It was better to keep her head down; the DCI would sense her guilt from a mile away. She was, after all, giving sanctuary to a fugitive.

  The two of them worked quickly, exchanging pieces, trimming edges and applying the glue when th
ey were certain of the positioning.

  As they added pieces, bit by bit, Charlotte felt a sickening feeling in her stomach. Once they had built up more of the image, it became clearer what they were looking at. At last, Nigel completed a section and she finally understood exactly what she was looking at. She rushed to the unisex toilet in the corner of the reception area to be sick, and only just made it in time.

  It was a horrible scene, taken in the lounge of Charlotte’s guest house several years previously. The flock wallpaper, the decor, and the pictures were all the same.

  But this photograph hadn’t been taken at the same time as the newspaper images. This was a very different set up. It showed Barry McMillan and Mason Jones, both smoking cigars, with whisky tumblers at the table in front of them and smug, entitled smirks across their faces.

  Sitting on Mason Jones’ knee, half-dressed, blindfolded and looking scared stiff, was a sixteen-year-old Piper Phillips.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘You look terrible,’ said Nigel as she returned. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ll be all right; it’s just that I don’t have much stomach for this sort of thing. You’ve probably become hardened to it as a reporter. It makes me feel ill, just thinking about it. Poor Piper; no wonder her life is so screwed up. And how did Jenna ever cope with knowing this? It’s horrible, just horrible.’

  ‘You never get used to it,’ Nigel said, ‘But you get better at handling your reaction to it. I had no idea this was going on. I had it all down to property deals. This is something different altogether.’

  Charlotte sat down and forced herself to look at the pieced-together image once again.

  ‘Do you think someone was blackmailing Mason Jones with this image? I wonder if that’s what made Barry McMillan hang himself. How would you react if the game was up and your secret was out? Photographic evidence like this would be damning to a former head teacher and a world-famous author; you’d never recover from it.’