These Little Lies

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 1

  THESE LITTLE LIES

  An addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming

  GRETTA MULROONEY

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  © Gretta Mulrooney

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Gretta Mulrooney to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  www.joffebooks.com

  ISBN 978-1-78931-240-9

  With fond memories of Derry and Magee

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  ALSO BY GRETTA MULROONEY

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  Monday 29 April. 7.20 a.m.

  Matis gasped.

  There, stretched out on the ground at his feet, was a silvery alien.

  Just wait till Filip heard about this. His jaw would drop. His family would never believe it. Matis had come to England hoping to find all kinds of things — a decent job, independence, a better life — but an extra-terrestrial was something else. He carefully stepped forward, a blur of images flashing through his mind: the headlines, his picture on the news, going viral, TV studios, interviews, a Hollywood film. Steven Spielberg. Money!

  Yet, neither his family nor the press would ever hear about his incredible discovery.

  Chapter One

  Just before seven a.m. on a soft late April morning, bright after a night of rain. No one around. The ideal time for an angler without a permit to go fishing. There shouldn’t be anyone by the river because British anglers seemed to stick to the rulebook, but it was best to be careful. When Matis Rimas first arrived in the UK, he couldn’t believe that people caught fish and then put them back in the water. What a waste. You caught a fish, you cooked and ate it! But he was adjusting to life in Sussex and his English was improving slowly. He now understood when one of the guys at work said Wanta cuppa? Or I’m just off for a leak.

  He was thinking of fat carp as he drove out of Berminster on the back road to the river. Carp were nomadic but they seemed to like a particular stretch of the River Bere, where the riverbed was silted, the water slow flowing. He could already taste the fillets, covered in mashed garlic and butter, then fried slowly in hot oil, the way his grandmother in Krosna always cooked them. He liked the cod and haddock that the British smothered in batter, but slow-fried carp were heavenly — and, most importantly, free. He sent a chunk of his wages back to Krosna every week and needed to keep to a tight budget.

  He drove slowly past compact blackthorn hedges heavy with white flowers, looking for the lane to the left. He found it and then the little turnoff that led into a small patch of scrubby ground that ran along the western side of the river. Further along was the official entrance and the car park with the big sign that made it very clear that his type wasn’t wanted. The dense woodland here was ideal because it was hard to access compared to others near the Bere. He’d found it all by himself a couple of months back and had been pleased by his ingenuity. The Polish guys knew about it too, of course. He’d seen one of them here, who introduced himself as Nowak. They’d given each other amused, furtive glances and Nowak had told him to watch out for the old guy from the anglers’ club that he called ‘Grandad,’ who came to check up now and again. He’d also told Matis about a recipe for jellied carp. It sounded delicious but too complicated for his tiny kitchen. Instead he’d emailed the recipe to his sister.

  He tucked the car in the shade of a riot of holly and buckthorn bushes. There was one other car parked there. He didn’t recognize it. Probably one of the Poles who’d come with the same idea, but he’d approach the river carefully, just in case one of the club members was around. He checked his watch. He had about an hour. That should give him time to take his catch back to his small fridge before he was due on-site. Matis had been catching carp since he was four. As his grandmother had always told him, he might not be burdened with brainpower but he was pretty clever with a fishing rod.

  He took his rod from the boot of the car, the only possession apart from clothing that he’d packed when he left Lithuania. He headed down the narrow, soggy path to the riverbank, brushing against valerian and stumbling over the odd hornbeam root. His jeans soaked up moisture from the grasses and the right leg snagged on a thorn. He pulled it free, forged on and then slowed as he drew near. He could see no one else at the river and he wondered where the owner of the other car was. Maybe they were walking in the woods. There would be mushrooms and young nettles to pick in the spring. The best time was after rain. That’s what his grandmother would be doing on a morning like this: out with her woven basket, collecting fresh, juicy nettles to make soup. He could taste it now, sharp and peppery, and wished there was a pan of it waiting for him at home.

  After just ten minutes, he struck lucky and caught a large carp, about six pounds in weight. One more would be plenty. Then there’d be one for him and one for Mrs Mazur. He liked to keep on the right side of Filip’s mother. He’d landed on his feet at their place and it was clear she ruled the roost. But right now, he needed to piss or even take a leak. Too much beer last night. He put his rod down carefully and headed up towards a dense cluster of ash trees where he’d relieved himself before. He went to unzip his flies when his eye was caught by a flash of bright blue further back in the trees. Forgetting his urge to empty his bladder, he followed it, stepping slowly through damp ferns and leaf mould.

  Matis’s vivid imagination, fuelled by endless reruns of ET and Star Trek, ran wild. One of the first things he’d done on arriving in England was visit a Star Wars exhibition in London. Since his early teens, he’d been convinced that life forms from other planets were already visiting the earth. Back home, other adolescent boys spent their time searching the internet for porn. Matis crouched in his room reading websites with titles such as Aliens — The Latest, Ancient Aliens, Aliens Are Here! His sister teased him unmercifully about it, saying that if any aliens did discover us, they’d give us a wide berth as soon as they realized what a mess we’d made of our planet.

  Matis peered short-sightedly. He’d broken his glasses a couple of weeks back but couldn’t afford to replace them just yet. For now, the world was slightly out of focus until he was close up. So his first thought was that he was
looking at an alien, a prone, spread-eagled form of shiny silver, shaped like a human, with silvery feet and hands and a blue-and-red head. Astonished and giddy, he drew nearer. Suddenly he understood what he was actually seeing, and his heart started hammering. He stopped in his tracks, crossing himself, and stared at the prone human.

  She’d been cut savagely around the face and neck and was lying face up. Her head was thrown slightly to one side with one eye staring, the other torn open. The Lycra covering her body was spattered with blood. There was a photo lying on her chest. He halted, terrified, leaning against a damp tree trunk. For a moment, the world went misty. His hand went for the phone in his pocket but he stopped.

  He had no licence or permission to be here.

  He thought about the police, the questions. He’d watched cop shows and seen the small rooms they took you into for interrogation. His English was still slow and he might not understand them and they might think he was dodging the questions, had something to hide. They might get him to confess. His job. He might lose his job.

  He stood paralysed with indecision, looking at the woman, who stared sightlessly back. But he had a sister, a sister he missed and loved dearly. What if something happened to her and the person who found her ran away and left her all alone?

  He took his phone out and started to dial. He didn’t hear the soft rustle behind him. A sharp, stabbing pain in the back of his neck made him cry out and stagger, and then another and another until his eyes were full of blood. He fell forward, his life seeping into the damp, fresh smelling earth.

  In the minute it took him to die, as he drifted into his long sleep, he dreamed of a silver woman falling from the sky and settling under the trees.

  The carp lay abandoned on the grassy edge of the river, its protruding mouth puckered, the golden tinted scales growing dull.

  Chapter Two

  Siv woke early. She panicked. Where was she? Then she looked around. Okay, calm down, you know this place. You chose it. Breathe.

  She lay for a while in the comfort of Ed’s T-shirt. The three-quarter bed was pushed up against diamond-paned windows. She reached up and twitched back the curtain. The glass was rain-spattered, the sky washed and milky. Then she reached the same hand back to the shelf behind her head and looked at the time on her phone. 6.50. If she moved to the outside of the bed and stretched her other hand out, she could open the wardrobe. The compactness of this doll’s house of a home was a strange delight. Four paces from the bedroom took her into the kitchen, two to the right from the kitchen into the bathroom. Another four led into the living room.

  Monday morning. First day, new job. She started to panic again as the reality dawned. She was lying on her back but felt as if she was falling, spinning down a deep chasm, her heart thudding. Would she be able to remember anything? What if she walked in and everything was a blank? What if she made a crucial error that compromised an investigation? She stared at the wood-panelled ceiling, focusing on a knot shaped like a comma and concentrated again on breathing. She felt her pulse. It was steady enough.

  She spread marmalade on her toast, listening to the River Bere flowing fast nearby. For the first couple of nights it had kept her awake but now she’d adjusted to the music of it, playing constantly in the background. It had moods: at times quiet and lazy, at times faster and murmuring. This morning, after the heavy rain, it was swollen and rushing. The rain had tumbled down for hours during the night, the wind whipping the trees, but now there was bright sky promising a warm spring day.

  She wondered if it had been wise to rent a place at the bottom of a meadow, so near the water. In London, she’d looked at photos on a website and agreed a year’s lease. There’d been floods in this part of Berminster five years ago. Her father had needed sandbags because of the stream that ran at the bottom of his garden. She stirred a teabag, watching the hot water darken to the colour of peat. Well, it would be the owners’ problem if she came home and found her feet were damp. That was how she felt about things these days — let someone else deal with it. Apart from her job. That, she would have to deal with herself. It would at least keep her sane. Sane-ish. Or she’d be sent home when they realized she was incompetent, with a wet sponge for a brain. Did you hear about DI Drummond? She only lasted a couple of weeks. Total nightmare. Reckon they’ll find a way of easing her out now she’s made a complete balls-up.

  She opened the fridge for milk. Someone — presumably the last tenant — had left magnetic Scrabble letters attached to the door. She’d left them there because they spelled out, It can’t get any worse. Hopefully.

  She cleared a space on the small fold-down table, opened her laptop and wrote the email to her sister that she’d been building up to. It would be evening in Auckland so she might even get a reply before she left for work. Unlikely, though. Weeks could go by before Rikka might send a brief response. She wasn’t even sure why she was giving her sister her news. Rik had vanished to the other side of the world six years ago and rarely got in touch. She’d always been aloof, tucked tight into herself. At school, she’d been nicknamed Clam. Still, just putting it in writing felt like a validation. Something about linking the past and the future. Illusions could be a comfort, including the idea that her snotty sister gave a toss.

  Hi, Rik. Happy birthday and hope you’re doing well. I did send a card so hope it arrived.

  Just thought I’d give you the heads up about me. I’ve moved back to Berminster, renting for now. Came down a week ago, pretty much settled in. I’ve got a new job, DI in the local cop shop. I’ll see how it goes. Wasn’t sure about the wisdom of returning but decided I couldn’t face completely new territory. Drove past Dad’s old house yesterday. Looks like a family living there now. Love, Siv.

  She pressed send and then stood for a while at the narrow kitchen window, sipping her tea, watching the clearing clouds drift over the river and the tall, arching willow tree downstream. There was a light on in Corran and Paul’s kitchen at the other side of the meadow. Her landlords lived in a beautiful converted barn, a place with wide, light-filled rooms. On the day she’d arrived they’d insisted that she come in for a coffee. She’d sat at the farmhouse table in their kitchen, absorbing the little details of their lives. They had five types of coffee beans, made their own pasta, wine, bread and preserves, grew their own vegetables, chopped their own wood in the two acres of woodland they owned bordering the meadow, and bickered amicably about who did the most housework. Both were allergic to cows’ milk so they kept three goats. Corran rose early to feed them before he started his day’s work weaving in the shed just beyond the house. Paul played the tin whistle and entertained her with a rendition of a jig. After an hour of their warm, embracing hospitality, she’d felt suddenly forlorn and had left abruptly, making some lame excuse.

  She’d rented this trim home from them, a circus wagon that they’d bought on eBay. They’d worked on it between them, turning it into a bright, snug and comfortable home. Full-length oak doors at the front led to a decked area with a barbecue, table, chairs and tubs of shrubs and flowers. The wagon was a bit patterned for her taste, with throws and cushions made by Corran in contrasting prints and colours. She’d been alarmed the first night she slept there, wondering what she’d done, feeling strange and dislocated. But it was fine. It would do. It was quiet. A safe haven.

  Corran and Paul had been delighted when she contacted them, offering to rent for a year. It had taken her just two days to unpack and sort the things she’d kept before consigning the rest to storage. This space forced her to be minimalist. She touched the top of the wood burner, fuelled by the free logs that Paul had left for her. The stove was still warm from last night and she put her arms around the pipe that ran up to the ceiling, absorbing the comfort. Poor substitute for a hug from Ed, but for now, it was the best she’d get.

  She looked at her watch and saw that it was 7.45. She’d no idea where the time had gone. Mind wandering, it happened a lot these days. She’d emerge from a reverie and find that she
’d lost an hour. She needed the discipline of work. She’d head there soon. Get a feel of things — the layout, the pecking order, how her desk was situated and the hot drinks supply.

  In the shower, she thought about her meeting with her new boss, DCI Will Mortimer, who’d explained that the station was short-staffed. He’d clearly decided that a crisp, no-nonsense approach was best with her. Maybe he was frightened that she might dissolve in front of him and make a mess on his new-smelling, brown twill carpet. She was used to it by now. People being that little bit too cheerful, a bit too positive. It was the modern equivalent of wearing a talisman to ward off the contagion of someone else’s sadness. He hadn’t spent long on niceties, which was fine with her.

  ‘So, DI Drummond,’ he’d said, flexing his narrow shoulders and sniffing hard, ‘settled in to your new home?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re from Berminster originally?’

  ‘I came to live here when I was thirteen, sir.’ When my mother finally decided my sister and me were too much baggage to be hefted around. ‘I moved back to London when I joined the Met.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Very good.’ He’d tapped a key on his laptop and peered at the screen. ‘Well, your last OH report recommends a full return to duties.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m fine with that. It’s what I want.’

  ‘Good, because we’ll need you to hit the ground running.’

  ‘I understand.’

  His sparse hair was dyed an intense shade of brown. It didn’t go well with the inflamed, pinkish skin on his face. Rosacea, she thought.

  ‘Yes, right. Good. Well, you come highly recommended re the work you did before, ahm . . . yes . . . anyway. Welcome aboard.’

  She’d stepped out of his office on the third floor of the station, amazed that she’d conned OH and Mortimer into thinking that she was competent again. She didn’t mind him being a bit wary of her and her history. It could work to her advantage.