Dead Feint

by Grant Atherton

  A sharp complaining voice brought her back to the present. “Excuse me, Miss. Are we going to get any service over here today?”

  Mia turned towards the scowling middle-aged woman waiting at the linen stall and then back to me, a pleading look in her eyes.

  “Why don’t you serve your customer and then come and talk to me again.” I pointed to a row of metal-framed wooden benches over by a low brick wall that flanked the square’s side boundary. “We’ll wait for you there.”

  Her face relaxed, and she dipped again in a half-curtsy before scuttling over to the complainant.

  Karen’s took my arm as we walked away and, after a quick glance back at Mia, lowered her voice, and said, “I should warn you, Mia’s a bit of a fantasist. She’s the kind who can make a drama out of the smallest thing.”

  “She seemed genuine enough.”

  “I’m just saying. Don’t take everything she says at face value.”

  We reached one of the benches and seated ourselves. Over at the linen stall, Mia was wrapping her customer’s purchase and occasionally glancing our way.

  I said, “Let me try something. When she comes back, say something to show you doubt what she says. Nothing confrontational. Just a gentle rebuff.”

  Karen wrinkled her nose. “How is that supposed to help?”

  “I want to see how she reacts. It should be different depending on whether or not she’s fabricating or building it up.”

  Before Karen could question me further, Mia was hurrying towards us. As she reached us, I stood up to greet her.

  Out of breath, she pressed a hand to her chest, and said, “Sorry about that.”

  I offered her a seat between us, and as I reseated myself, I said, “Nothing you’ve said so far persuades me that this man had anything to do with our investigation.”

  Mia wriggled into place. “It was what I heard later. She was on the phone. In the Ladies. I heard her.”

  Karen interjected. “Mia, you are sure about all this, aren’t you? It was a long time ago. Sometimes things get exaggerated in our minds. Are you sure this actually happened?”

  Mia’s hand flew to her throat and rested there. A pacifying action. An attempt to calm herself. It was a telling moment. But it was over in a trice. A momentary flicker and her hand came down again.

  Hands now pressed together, and her voice an octave higher, she said, “No really, I remember it well.”

  Our bodies never lie. It’s easy enough to spin a tale, to confound and deceive with words. But our bodies betray us every time. Learn to read a body and you learn to see the truth. It’s what I did. And I did it well.

  Caught in a lie, most people react in similar ways. It’s usually in the hands. Twisting them together, clutching hold of something.

  For women, it’s often a hand covering the front of the neck or playing with a necklace or other piece of jewellery. For a man, he may play with or adjust his tie, tug at his collar, or brush some imaginary specks from his shoulder. And it is in the continuing and prolonged use of such pacifying actions that the lie is caught. It’s the fear of being found out.

  Not so, in Mia’s case. A reaction to an unexpected challenge. Over and done with in a moment. I was sure she was telling the truth.

  I tipped my head to Karen, signalling that I was satisfied, and turned back to Mia. “Tell us what you heard, Mia.”

  “She was saying how frightened she was. She actually said that. Something about being in danger. That was the word she used. She was talking to this Rusty bloke. She said his name.”

  Karen and I shot each other knowing looks.

  Turning to Mia once more, I said, “Can you describe this man?”

  Mia stared out in front of her, fading out of the present as her mind bore her back to the past. She described him as tall and thick-set, fair hair cropped short, and dark, deep-set eyes. But what she remembered most distinctly were two tattoos; one, a snake, green and red, coiling its way up his right arm, and a date, inked in blue on the back of his neck.

  I said, “A date?”

  She nodded briskly. “It was ‘1488’. I remembered it ‘cos it reminded me of when my brother was born. 1st April 1988, see? I thought that was funny.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, an old memory stirred, conjuring up a feeling of unease. Something about that number. I pushed it aside for the moment.

  “Mia, you do know the police will want to talk to you?”

  “I wasn’t sure. Abby said I would be wasting their time.”

  I assured her she wouldn’t be and asked if she had something on which to write her address and phone number. Karen interrupted, explaining that she had Mia’s personal details in her employment file.

  “I can let you have those,” she said, and, turning to Mia, added, “If that’s all right with you.”

  Mia nodded.

  After reassuring Mia her information would be taken seriously, we ended our conversation, and as Mia hurried towards her stall where a queue was already forming, Karen and I returned to the car.

  As we crossed the square, I took Karen’s trolley from her and handed her the keys to the Elan. “You drive,” I said.

  “What?” The surprise in her voice was obvious. “You’re going to let me drive your precious Elan? What have I done to deserve this honour?”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me but I ignored it. “My iPad’s in the car. There’s something I want to check on the way home.”

  While Karen started the engine, I packed her trolley in the boot and, once in the car, grabbed my iPad from under the passenger seat. I found what I was looking for as Karen drove us out onto the main road.

  “Listen to this,” I said, reading from the screen. “14 stands for the fourteen words quoted by the Nazi leader, David Lane, ’We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ The 88 is shorthand for the eighth letter of the alphabet twice, HH, the initials of the phrase ’Heil Hitler’. This tattoo can be found anywhere on the body.”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “I’m quoting from a site about prison tattoos. Whoever our man is, he sure as hell is no saint. A white supremacist with a prison record by the looks of it. Not someone you’d want in your circle of friends.”

  “No wonder Candy looked scared. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “And it seems Rusty knew about it. The sooner he gets here, the better. He has some explaining to do.”

  I needn’t have worried about the timing of Rusty’s return. We arrived back at the Fairview to find him and Lowe waiting for us in Reception.

  I felt my face flush as we crossed towards them. Since the discovery of Candy’s body, I hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that, somehow, her murder was my fault. As though by revitalising the investigation with its subsequent publicity, I had set in motion events that had ended with her death. I was embarrassed.

  Maybe he sensed my discomfort. Not one to show his feelings, he had never, to my knowledge, made a public display of his emotions. But this time, he reached out and embraced me, hugging me close. “None of this is your fault, Mikey.” He must have read my mind.

  Karen greeted him. “Welcome back,” she said. “I’m sorry the circumstances are no better.”

  Puzzled, I frowned. Rusty caught the look and said, “Ms Dyer and I are already acquainted,” and, with a trace of sarcasm in his voice, added, “I stayed here the first time my sister was killed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I checked my watch again. 8:10am.

  Karen stirred her coffee. “You’ve plenty of time. Stop fidgeting, Mikey. He’s not coming till ten.”

  Karen and I were sharing morning coffee in her private sitting room. Lowe was picking me up later on his way to the station in readiness for Rusty Naylor’s interview.

  “Any sign of him yet?” I said, tipping my head towards the door leading to the public area. I didn’t need to say who.

  “No. He stayed in his room after dinner last night.”
/>   “Hardly surprising. I doubt he’s feeling sociable right now. Probably didn’t get much sleep either.”

  “He should be down before you leave if you want to see him.”

  I shook my head. “No, I need to be objective during the interview, stay detached. Maybe later when it’s over.”

  I drained my coffee mug and put it on the table. “I’d forgotten he’d stayed here before. I remember you telling me about the murder at the time but I never connected it to Rusty.”

  Karen finished her coffee too and pushed the empty mug to one side. “That’s how I met Richard. He brought Rusty over to book him in.”

  I snorted. “Priceless. Only you could turn a murder investigation into a dating opportunity.”

  She glowered at me. “That’s not quite how it happened.”

  “What sort of impression did he make on you?”

  “Richard?”

  “No. I think I can work that out for myself. Rusty Naylor.”

  She dwelt on this for a moment and pulled a face. “He didn’t make much of an impression. He’s the sort who keeps to himself. Not very demonstrative.”

  “Hmmm. That’s what worries me.” I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. “He’s too undemonstrative.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She reached over for the coffee pot and filled our mugs again before settling back in her chair, mug in hand.

  I picked up my coffee. “Richard is relying on me to guide the interview. It’s going to be difficult.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You remember last night? When Rusty hugged me? That’s what brought it home to me. It was out of character. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never been one to show his feelings. We’ve gotten close over the months but, in all that time, he’s always held back, always kept something in reserve.” I drank some coffee.

  “Why should it matter?”

  “I need to read his body language. It’s how I can tell if someone is lying or not. Doesn’t matter what we say, our bodies tell the truth; the way we cross our arms, glance at the exits, wrap our legs around each other. We all have our own quirks, our own ‘tells’ that give us away.”

  “And you don’t get that with Rusty.”

  “No. And it’s knowing where those differences are that helps me direct an interview; what questions to ask, where to focus, when to probe more deeply. With someone like Rusty, I’m not sure I can give it my best.”

  “But surely, Rusty’s interview will be straightforward. He doesn’t have anything to hide, does he?”

  Before answering, I took another swig of coffee. Maybe Rusty was hiding something, but instead of saying so, I avoided the issue.

  “It’s not my opinion that counts here. I’m just part of a team. And I have a professional duty to treat him as I would any other interviewee.”

  Truth be told though, Rusty’s claim not to know of any motive for Candy’s murder worried me. If Mia’s account of that phone call was to be believed - and I’m sure it was - it cast doubt on that claim. Maybe there was a simple explanation, but it needed investigating all the same.

  I said, “It needs the same rigour I’d bring to any other investigation.”

  “You’d think even the most reserved of people would show some emotion. Everyone has feelings.”

  I finished my second mug of coffee. “Yes but…”

  I cut myself short as a thought burst into awareness and I stared at Karen transfixed.

  Leaning towards her, I took her head between both hands and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  “You’re a genius,” I said, and fell back into my chair.

  “Recognition at last. Any particular reason for this sudden insight into my superior intellect?”

  “You’ve just given me an idea.” I put down my mug and dug into my pocket for my mobile. “Now I need to get my hands on your fiancé. Figuratively speaking that is.”

  She shot me an old-fashioned look and rose from her chair. “Glad to be of help.” She gathered up the mugs and percolator and carried them over to the kitchen.

  By the time she returned, I was talking to Lowe. I’d interrupted his breakfast. “Do you have a high-speed camera down at the station?” I asked.

  They hadn’t.

  “We don’t have much use for one,” he said.

  “Not to worry, I have my own. But I’ll need your help setting it up.” I glanced down my watch. “You can forget breakfast. I’ll meet you at the station in ten minutes.”

  Looks like I’d found a way forward after all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lowe ran the back of his hand across a sweating brow. Perspiration stained his shirt underarm and a larger patch spread over his chest.

  Occasionally, he pulled on his collar and blew down the inside of his shirt in a futile attempt to cool his skin.

  We were taking a breather in the shade of the covered walkway at the front of the station. Lowe had helped me set up the camera on the wall of the interview room and the increased temperature from the continuing heatwave had made it a sticky unpleasant task.

  I didn’t envy his having to wear the uniform. Even in just a tee and light cotton slacks, I was uncomfortably warm. Rivulets of sweat ran down my back and chest and the sodden tee stuck to my flesh.

  Nathan was crossing the car park towards us, suited and booted as usual in a lightweight grey summer two-piece. A heat haze played around his feet as he approached.

  God knows how he managed to appear so cool in these temperatures.

  He greeted us cordially enough. But my informal dress style earned a disapproving glance. A stickler for protocol, he expected his team to adopt the same regulation look. I mentally dared him to challenge me but he knew better than to say anything and kept quiet.

  Trying to sound as casual as possible, I said, “I forgot to ask. How was your London trip?”

  That seemed to throw him. As much as he was ever thrown. He stammered and said, “It was fine.”

  “Those bosses of yours sure like to keep you on your toes.”

  Lowe said, “I didn’t realise it was official business. Anything I need to know?”

  Brushing the question aside, Nathan said, “It was personal.”

  I interjected. “You never said.”

  Instead of responding, he changed the subject. Addressing Lowe, he said, “Miles Barber tells me you set up another camera in the interview room and moved the desk. What’s that about?”

  Already tetchy from the heat, I bristled at the perfunctory dismissal of my probing. It was such an obvious brush off.

  No matter what Karen said, something wasn’t quite right here. I wasn’t so stupid I couldn’t read the signs; Nathan was keeping something from me.

  Lowe responded to his question. He flipped his head in my direction and said, “Mikey asked me to make some changes to help with the interview.”

  Nathan raised a brow and fixed me with a quizzical look. “Was there any real need for that, Mikey?”

  Already irritable, I was in no mood for his heedless criticism. I snapped. “What kind of dumb question is that? You think I just worked myself up into a sweat for the fun of it?”

  I groaned inwardly. Even as the words spilled out of my mouth, I regretted them. That was so wrong. Caustic comments in private might just about be acceptable, but not in front of his men. It was unprofessional. But that was me; speak first, think later.

  Nathan blanched and his jaw muscles tightened. He didn’t respond, but I knew I was in for an ear-battering later. He opened the door to usher us inside.

  As Lowe stepped through into Reception, he raised his eyebrows and shot me a wide-eyed look but said nothing. My heart sank.

  We followed him in and Lowe said, “I’d like to interview Naylor if you’ve no objection. Mikey’s briefed me on the direction he wants to take.”

  Nathan grunted his agreement. “I’m sure you know best,” he said, but his tone was cool. “And this girl Mikey spoke with yesterda
y, where are we on that?”

  Lowe said, “We took a statement from her yesterday.”

  Nathan nodded. “Put the file on my desk when you have a moment. I’d like to look through it.” He turned his attention to me. “I want a word with you in my office, please.” It sounded more like a command than a request.

  “I’ll go wait in the interview room till Naylor arrives,” said Lowe. “The monitors are set up in the small meeting room when you’re ready.”

  Nathan nodded again, brusquely, but didn’t reply. He headed towards his office. I knew what was coming, and I followed meekly behind, mentally bracing myself for a roasting. He opened the door, stood aside to let me in, and closed it behind him.

  Gesturing over to the couch, he barked out an emphatic, “Sit.”

  I knew better than to object and sank onto the couch as ordered.

  Holding up my hands in surrender, I said, “I know what you’re going to say and I’m sorry. I was out of order.”

  “You’re going to hear it, anyway.” He stood over me, and said, “I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that in front of my men, Mikey. And if you don’t have the wit to work it out for yourself, we need to reach some agreement about how we communicate on a professional level.”

  His rebuke was justified. Suitably chastened, I apologised. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

  I spread my hands out to him, a gesture of appeasement, and said, “In my defence, I had just spent an uncomfortable hour wiring up and bracketing that camera to the wall. I mean, come on, questioning my professional judgement about its use wasn’t likely to improve my mood any.” I raised my eyebrows and tried a smile. “Okay?”

  That wasn’t the main reason for my bad mood but it came a close second.

  The hard line of his jaw slowly relaxed, and he nodded. “Okay. I could have been more diplomatic. But no more, okay?”

  I bit my lip and nodded briskly.

  He seated himself beside me and squeezed my thigh. “There’s nothing else troubling you is there?”

  Had he already sensed my deeper concerns? Maybe realised I knew something was wrong? And just how was I supposed to respond, anyway? I could hardly voice my worries based on some nebulous unfounded feelings. And the last thing I needed was to alienate him even more.