Dead Feint

by Grant Atherton

  “Is that all you think this is?” His eyes burned. “You just casually brush aside our relationship without a thought. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “I didn’t know what to say?”

  “It’s really quite simple. You could have introduced us and told him who I was.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Seems easy enough to me. Unless you have a problem with our relationship.”

  This was escalating into something serious.

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I gave up everything I had for this. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Oh really? You mean your failed marriage and your sad wasted life? You mean that? ‘Cos I don’t see much of a sacrifice there.”

  His words hit me like a blow and I flinched, stunned into silence.

  He went back to his meal, grim-faced, and squeezed several sachets of ketchup onto his burger.

  Around us, other diners carried on with their conversations. Someone laughed. The counter staff called out more orders.

  We sat in a small dark pool of silence and I watched him toy with his food, head down, a scowl on his face.

  And for the first time since my return, the doubts crept in. Uncertainties. Could we still make this work? Or had we grown too far apart?

  He was right of course. My life had been a waste. And while he was carving out for himself a successful career as an openly gay man, I was living a lie.

  I was successful and popular in all the ways that didn’t matter. Alone and unhappy. Trying to conform to a lifestyle that had never suited me. And now here I was, hoping for a second chance at the only relationship that had ever mattered.

  But what did I know about committed gay relationships? About the constant need to stand against discrimination and prejudice, against presumption and hetero-centric thinking, about the need for openness?

  I had returned full of hope, willing to commit myself to a long-term relationship, but without the experience or the social tools to help me make it work. So many issues I hadn’t thought through. I had so much to learn. But I needed Nathan’s support when I got it wrong, not his criticism. Did he even understand what it was like, how difficult it was to adjust? Or was he so well integrated into his lifestyle, he couldn’t see the problems? Or maybe he did see them. Maybe he had his own misgivings. Maybe that explained his present mood.

  A darkness settled over me and my spirits sank.

  We sat a while longer in uneasy silence, until, eventually, Nathan pushed his plate away, and said, “I’m not up to this. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. We should do this another time.”

  I nodded without speaking.

  We left the remains of our meal, and I followed him out onto the Esplanade.

  Nathan’s Astra was parked at the roadside and, as we reached it, he said, “You need a lift?” He said it without enthusiasm, his voice flat.

  I tried a smile, a feeble attempt to make amends. “No need. It’s not far.”

  He didn’t react to the smile and, unable to face him any longer, I turned and walked away without looking back.

  A cool breeze blew in from the sea. I pulled up my collar as I trundled home to the Fairview, my spirits at an all-time low.

  I’d thought I was making a new start, leaving all my problems behind. I hadn’t realised I was creating a whole set of new ones.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Five missed calls. Four from Nathan and one from Lowe. Nathan could wait. After the previous night’s disastrous meal, I needed a couple of strong coffees and a decent breakfast inside me before I was up to talking with him.

  I took the stairs down to the dining room and returned Lowe’s call on the way. He had some good news.

  “There’s been some progress on your case. We have a potential witness on her way over. You might want to sit in on this.”

  Breakfast could wait.

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the car-park at the front of Elders Edge police station.

  Nathan’s Astra was parked in one of the bays. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I needed to clear the air between us, but I was hoping to put it off until later. I was still smarting from his jibe, and the last thing I wanted right then was another unsettling confrontation.

  Inside the station, I stood in line while a lively young woman with spiky hair and a spiky attitude lambasted the desk sergeant with demands for access to her boyfriend. I kept a guarded eye out for any sign of Nathan, hoping he was safely ensconced in his office, out of the way.

  Fortunately, the sergeant recognised me and waved me on my way through Reception, so I didn’t need to linger any longer than necessary. My luck held, and I made it to Lowe’s office without having to cope with an embarrassing encounter.

  Lowe offered me a seat, waving me toward the chair at the side of his desk. I took it, and said, “I didn’t know the Chief would be here this morning.”

  His forehead furrowed as he sank into his chair.

  “I’m trying to stay out of his way. Not sure what’s eating him but he’s been growling at everyone since he got back from London.” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  My relationship with Nathan was no secret to Lowe. And God knows, we’d had our ups and downs. But why did anyone have to presume I was responsible for his moods?

  I spread my hands in a show of incomprehension. “Just for once, it has nothing to do with me.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I wasn’t about to take the blame for the sour mood that had preceded our recent spat.

  Lowe shrugged, but he didn’t seem convinced. “If you say so.”

  I grunted and changed the subject. Nathan’s unaccountable mood swing would have to wait for the moment. We had more pressing issues to deal with. “So what’s with this new witness? And, more to the point, witness to what?”

  Turning his attention back to the matter in hand, he brought me up to date with recent developments. “I’ve already briefed my men, and they’ve been making local enquires in anticipation of a full case review in a couple of weeks’ time. We also had some coverage on the local community website which seems to have paid off; it looks like we’ve come up with a possible lead.”

  “Who? What?” I was eager for him to cut to the chase and give me the specifics.

  “Abby Walsh. A shopkeeper over in Colton Drey. It’s only a couple of miles away, so it’s still close to town. We’ve not got the full story yet, but it seems one of her customers fits the description of our victim, and she supposedly moved away at about that time.”

  He sounded bullish and upbeat, and I hoped he wasn’t going to be disappointed. I was apt to be more sceptical about these things. “Let’s hope she’s not a time waster. We both know the sort who likes to be centre stage in local dramas. Especially something as big as this. It could be nothing.”

  He glanced at his watch. “She’ll be here soon so you can judge for yourself.”

  Reaching over the desk, he turned on the monitor. “The camera’s already set up in the interview room. Miles Barber will conduct the interview.”

  He finished fiddling with the controls and, once satisfied, sat back in his chair. “He’ll be wearing an earpiece, as usual, so anything you need to ask, just use the mic here.”

  While he was explaining, the phone rang. It was Reception. Barber was on his way through the station with the witness.

  A few minutes later, we were watching the screen as Constable Miles Barber showed Abby Walsh into the interview room.

  Abby was somewhere in her middle years, long tangled locks of dark-brown hair and overly made-up eyes in a sallow care-worn face. She accepted the proffered chair and sat with her hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently and in silence for the interview to begin.

  Miles Barber, an experienced interviewer, tried to put her at ease, asking if she was comfortable or if he could offer her some refreshment. All his attempts met with terse responses. Abby Walsh was clearly not in the mood for social nicetie
s.

  “Where would you like me to start?” she asked.

  As Lowe and I watched them on the screen, I said, “She strikes me as the no-nonsense type. That can’t be a bad thing.”

  Lowe agreed.

  Barber began his interview by asking what had prompted her to come forward.

  Abby Walsh’s story was straightforward enough. Tammy Page, an old school friend, and later a regular customer at her baker’s shop, had struck up a friendship with another woman, Melony Draper, a newcomer to the area.

  “Everyone presumed they were sisters; the two were very much alike. But, of course, I knew they weren’t. Tammy didn’t have a sister. I have to say though…” and here she wrinkled her nose to express her distaste “…there seemed to be something a little - how shall I put this - a little unnatural about their relationship. They seemed to be much more than just friends if you see what I mean.”

  She broke off for a moment to allow Barber to react to the full horror of her revelation. When he failed to do so, she drew in a breath and shot him a disdainful look.

  I silently thanked him.

  She continued, “They spent all their time together. To the point of obsession, I have to say. They even shared their clothes. And they were always swapping jewellery and makeup. It all seemed rather strange to me.” She sniffed again. “Well, anyway, I lost touch with Tammy. We used to socialise now and then. At first, I thought she’d changed her routine and was spending more time with her…” another sniff, “…her new friend.”

  Did I detect a hint of jealousy here?

  Barber said, “I presume that wasn’t the case?”

  Abby pulled a face. “I never saw either of them again.”

  “You must have been aware of the investigation into the murder of Candy Bayliss. Why did you not come forward then?”

  There was a touch of truculence in her tone when she replied. “I thought they must have moved away together. It never occurred to me that one of them could have… well… that something might have happened to one of them. And besides, the name meant nothing and neither of them fitted the description. They both had short brown hair. The woman in the papers had long blonde hair. I didn’t make the connection.”

  “So when did you make the connection?”

  “It was the tattoo. Your Constable made a thing about it. A tattoo of a hummingbird on the left shoulder. I suppose because the rest of the description didn’t fit, I didn’t give it much thought at the time.”

  “So this friend of Tammy’s had a similar tattoo?”

  Abby Walsh blinked and faced Barber with a blank stare. “No, you don’t understand,” she said. “It was Tammy who had the tattoo. It was Tammy you found in the woods that day.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We sat for some time after the interview was over, arguing over the implications of what we’d learned. Abby Walsh’s statement had blindsided us, raising possibilities neither of us had considered. We were having to come to terms with the unpalatable; that the original investigation had identified the wrong woman. But Lowe was having a hard time taking it in.

  “We can’t have got it so wrong,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. Both women disappeared at the same time, they both fit the general description of the victim, and Tammy and the victim shared a specific identifying feature. It has to be her.”

  He wasn’t convinced. “She had ID. And Candy Bayliss’s prints were all over the handbag.”

  “You heard what Abby said. They shared possessions. Something they did all the time.”

  “Ah, but you’re forgetting something.” Suddenly animated, he snatched up the file and rifled through the pages. “We had a fingerprint ID, remember?”

  “I seem to remember the ID was made from personal documents and Rusty’s later confirmation.”

  Lowe stopped at one particular page, ran his finger down it, and groaned.

  “Well?” I said.

  “You’re right. Fingerprints were taken from the bag, not directly from the victim.”

  “Shouldn’t that have been done as a matter of course?”

  “Not if the original ID was made by other means. Prints would have been lifted from the scene as a possible means of identifying the murderer. When some of them matched those on Candy’s records, they would have been considered as additional confirmation of the original ID. And then her brother’s later identification would have clinched it.”

  We sat in silence for a while, both lost in our own thoughts.

  “This is going to change everything,” I said.

  Lowe nodded, finally accepting the inevitable. “I’ll have to take this to the Chief.” He picked up the file and rose to his feet. “Might as well get it over with.” He hovered over me, waiting for me to follow his lead.

  “You want me there too?” I said.

  “Sure I do. I want your support.”

  Reluctantly, I rose from my seat and followed him out into the corridor towards Nathan’s office. I’d hoped not to have to face Nathan yet but I hadn’t been left with much choice.

  Lowe knocked on Nathan’s door and stuck his head inside. “You got a moment, Chief? We have a situation here.”

  “Sure. Come in.”

  I followed Lowe into the room.

  Nathan was seated behind his desk, a large mahogany affair with an inlaid green leather surface. Files and papers were arranged in neat orderly piles on the desktop, unlike Lowe’s desk which always looked as if it had been thrown around in an earthquake.

  A flicker of surprise crossed Nathan’s face when he saw me but he said nothing. Pushing aside the file in front of him, he waved us towards a couple of chairs on the other side of his desk, leaned back, and waited for an explanation.

  We seated ourselves, and Lowe handed Nathan the Bayliss file before briefing him on the recent interview.

  While he listened, Nathan flipped through the file and, once Lowe had finished, he closed it and said, “Your interviewee referred to Tammy’s friend as Melony Draper. How sure are we that she and Candy Bayliss are the same person?”

  I said, “We’ve already discussed the possibility of Candy Bayliss living under an assumed identity. It would explain why there’s no trace of her in the months before her death. This new information would support that theory. And Candy Bayliss’s prints were on the bag. We know that the two women shared their clothing and accessories, so it seems almost certain they were one and the same.”

  Nathan picked up a pen and turned it over and over in his hand, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance behind us.

  A side window opened onto the car park, and the muted sound of passing traffic drifted into the room while Lowe and I sat in silence, waiting for Nathan’s reaction.

  “Okay,” he said, “here’s what we do. We go public with the two names but, for the moment, the official line is that we’re making enquiries in respect of the Candy Bayliss murder. No mention of a possible misidentification. For the moment, we’ll keep that under wraps.”

  I said, “We can’t keep it quiet indefinitely. It will be public knowledge soon enough. So we need to be ahead of the game. We need to tell Rusty.”

  Nathan agreed. “Can you deal with that, Richard?”

  I butted in before Lowe could respond. “Would you mind if I spoke to him? It might be better coming from a friend.”

  A slight hesitation. “Okay,” he said, and turning to Lowe again, “But be sure to follow it up, would you? Let’s do it by the book.”

  He rose from his chair, indicating that the meeting was over. Lowe and I followed suit and Lowe said, “I’ll get things moving.” He headed for the door.

  I waited for him to leave.

  There was some unfinished business to deal with here and now was as good a time as any. As Lowe closed the door behind him, I turned to face Nathan and squared my shoulders.

  “You were trying to get hold of me,” I said.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d got my
calls.”

  “My phone was off. And then all this.” I waved a desultory hand across the room.

  “Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat.

  With so much more to say and neither of us finding the words to say it, the exchange dried to an uneasy silence.

  He seemed as lost for something to say as I was and we faced each other, embarrassed, unsure how to continue.

  And then a flurry of words.

  “I just wanted to say how sorry—”

  “I shouldn’t have said—”

  We both stopped and smiled. And the tension eased away. Nathan’s jaw relaxed and the wide shoulders dropped.

  “I’m an idiot,” I said.

  “Welcome to the club.” He stepped around from the other side of his desk, opened his arms, and murmured, “Come here.”

  A moment later, I was in his embrace and this time the silence was warm and comforting.

  I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him close. “I know it was a dumb thing to do and I’m sorry.”

  He tightened his hold around me. “Yeah, well. I could have chosen my words more carefully.”

  Pulling away, he held me by the arms and stared into my face, a questioning look in his eyes.

  “Come sit,” he said and, keeping hold of one arm, he lowered himself onto the nearby couch and pulled me down beside him. Still holding on to my arm, he said, “I know it’s not been easy for you, Mikey. I know what you had to put up with back in the day. But this isn’t the Dark Ages. You don’t need to live a lie anymore.”

  “I know that up here.” I tapped the side of my head with a forefinger. “It just came out wrong. This is all new to me.”

  He tilted his head to one side, and his forehead creased into a frown. “Am I asking too much of you?” he said.

  “No more than you’d ask of any reasonable person. Not your fault you ended up with a flake.”

  He responded with a grin. And his cheek dimpled.

  I became serious again. “I know these aren’t the Dark Ages. But someone forgot to tell my parents. And I’m still learning how to deal with the fallout from that.”