These Little Lies

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  She dried her hair and dressed in one of her work suits. They’d been in the wardrobe, unused, for months. She had four: navy, dark grey, light grey and black. Ed had always said they made her look the business. That was the idea. A woman needed armour to face the world. She had a dozen or so T-shirts to wear with the uniform in reds and greens, splashes of colour to offset the plainness. She’d go for fire-engine red today. Bold statement, not matched by the flutter in her stomach and the taste of anxiety at the back of her mouth. The waistband on the dark blue trousers was loose. They were going to rest on her hips for a while. She looked in the mirror. Nice enough face, shame about the pallid skin and hollow eyes.

  She pushed her dark hair back. Clumps of it had fallen out when she’d been at her lowest. She’d paid a fortune before she left London and had it chopped into springy layers in an attempt to hide where it had thinned almost to baldness. The hairdresser had advised her on how to style it for maximum concealment. You had to make an effort. She was operating on the basis that if she acted like a fully functioning person, she’d fool herself and everyone else.

  She drove the lanes into town, the Bere fast and brimming to one side, carrying a haul of branches and leaves from the night’s mischief. The sun moved through the treetops, dappling the tarmac. Tractors were busy in the fields on her right, digging furrows for seeds. The seagulls and crows watched the tractors, seeking opportunities. She’d spent five years of her life in Berminster but she didn’t know these roads on the southern side of the town or, as locals called it, the posh end.

  Her phone rang when she was minutes from the station. DCI Mortimer, telling her two bodies had been found by the river at Lock Lane. Male and female.

  ‘Who called it in?’ she asked.

  ‘Chap who found them, an Alan Vine. You’re SIO. DS Carlin will work with you, along with DC Hill, and there are four other officers I’m attaching to you. As you know, we’ve staff shortages. Of course, if you need other help— I have to go. They’ll fill you in at the station. Keep me updated.’

  So much for getting a feel of things. She took deep breaths, rolled her shoulders. Get through today. One day at a time. That was the mantra.

  She walked into the station, her expression neutral, the way she did before she entered an interview room. She had no idea if her new colleagues would know her history. It seemed inevitable that some details would have leaked out. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be defined by what had happened.

  She headed to her office on the first floor. Blank, musty, a gouge in the worn laminate flooring in front of the desk. There was a faint smell of stale food. The office had been partitioned off from the main room with a dark wood surround, inset with small windows and beige vertical blinds, drawn half across. A tall side window gave a view of the car park and a fine row of beech trees. Across the road was the museum and theatre.

  She sat behind her desk, which was placed so that she looked out through the blinds into the room beyond. Someone glanced over at her. Others were busy on phones and at computer screens. One officer stood with his hands pressed against a window, as if he’d like to leap out. Sitting in here was like being in a shop window, exposed to public view. She rose, closed the blinds, and then looked at the empty desk and silent computer. Her mouth was dry. She could do this. She’d done it before. The therapy hadn’t been much use but it had taught her that.

  When you experience these anxieties, focus on how you’ve dealt with the issue successfully before.

  The worst had happened. What else could the world throw at her?

  Chapter Three

  The answer to that was a DS who never stopped talking in a broad Northern Irish accent that she had to strain to understand. Ali Carlin was a substantially built man, tall, quick-moving and wordy. He took up a lot of space in the car and his seat was pushed right back so that she had to turn her head around to look at him. He was squeezed into black jeans, cream shirt with straining buttons and black leather jacket with the collar twisted. Everything about him was a bit awry, as if someone else had dressed him in a hurry. His deep bronze hands on the wheel of the car were assured. He was a smoker, judging by the richly aromatic smell from his clothes. She reckoned he must just about pass his annual fitness test.

  ‘Haven’t had a murder for a while, ma’am, and then two come along at once.’

  ‘Guv. Call me guv. Any IDs yet?’

  ‘Aye, one, on the man.’

  ‘What time was it called in?’

  ‘Eight twenty. CSM and forensics already there.’

  ‘Good work. Anyone reported missing?’

  ‘No, guv. Not recently. Well, only an old man who absconded from a care home and we found him at the betting shop. First day here and a couple of murders, eh?’ The prospect seemed to make DS Carlin smile. Maybe he’d been stuck on routine investigations.

  ‘Who’d have thought it? Detectives investigating murders. DCI Mortimer informs me that we’re short-staffed,’ she said.

  ‘Aye. Major budget cuts the last couple of years. Mortimer was like a bear with a sore head for a while. Then he went to a conference and heard that other forces are using volunteers. Essex did a successful recruitment campaign so he talked to them and cheered up a bit. We’re using volunteers now in forensics, rape cases and even at crime scenes sometimes. Checking fingerprints and the like. When we questioned it, Mortimer told us that volunteering is a proud tradition and brings in valuable skills as well as encouraging young people to consider policing as a career. Waxed on about it as if it had all been his own idea. Makes you wonder why we bother training.’

  ‘Brings a new flavour to work experience,’ she said. ‘We’d better be on the ball then, Sergeant, otherwise they might replace us with unpaid helpers.’

  ‘Aye, well, plenty of people think they know all about solving crime these days. Everyone watches the telly and thinks they’re an expert.’

  She nodded, watching the road. She knew these routes towards the river. She’d gone to school near here, parachuting in part way through a term as usual, having to navigate being a newbie when allegiances had already been formed. By the time she was thirteen she’d been to eight schools in London, Surrey, Oxfordshire and Berkshire and in the most bizarre relocation, for six months in Biarritz. Each move had coincided her mother’s latest whim, often a romantic interest, though at times just boredom and a need for constant change. The grass was always going to be greener just over another county border. Her mother’s abandonment of her at thirteen had been a savage release. Sometimes she thought that’s what made her a good cop. At an early age she’d got used to watching and reading people, working out their motives and back stories, understanding how frail and confused they were, finding a way in. ‘Here we are. Pull in over there, by the fence.’

  A uniformed constable was flagging them down, pointing into a potholed car park closed off with blue-and-white police tape. He moved the tape as they drove in through an open gate where a large sign with red lettering read:

  Berminster Anglers Association. Strictly Members Only.

  No fishing without a licence. We prosecute!

  No Polish or Eastern European Anglers! Brak Polskich Wedkarzy!

  No dogs.

  ‘How welcoming,’ Siv said. ‘I wonder if anyone’s told them the “no Poles” bit is unlawful?’

  Apart from the police cars, there were two other vehicles — a red Seat hatchback and a blue Volvo.

  ‘We think the Seat might be one of the victims’ cars, ma’am,’ the constable said. ‘The Volvo belongs to Mr Vine who found the bodies. The Seat’s locked. We’ve had a good look through the windows but can’t see anything immediate. We’re running a check on the number plate and on a Honda found further up the riverbank.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you get names. Where’s Mr Vine?’

  ‘He’s in our car for now. Not exactly lost for words.’

  ‘Have you got his details?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. He’s membership secr
etary of the Anglers’ Association. Elderly gent but fit-looking. I’ve given him a bottle of water.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘He keeps saying he wants to see the officer in charge. Very fidgety and tetchy.’

  ‘He will, but he’ll have to wait. Keep checking that he’s okay, won’t you?’

  She and Ali donned coveralls and overshoes and then followed another constable along a well-kept gravelled path with the tape at either side. It led to the river, which was soon visible. The Bere broadened around here and a little further upstream there was a small island in the middle of the river, dense with weeping willows and alder. Siv saw two swans gliding towards the reeds below a wooden jetty, one at the front and one at the rear of their six cygnets who bobbed in a line between them. Rowan blossom scented the air and dangling yellow lamb’s tails brushed her head as she passed by. A peaceful, pastoral scene. So far. The constable gestured to a wooded area just in front of them and to the side of the path, where two tents had been erected about three metres apart.

  ‘That’s the CSM by the nearest tent, ma’am. The pathologist, Dr Anand is in situ.’

  In situ. She covered a smile, wondering where he’d learned that.

  ‘Guv.’ Siv heard DS Carlin murmur the correction to him as they headed to the nearest tent. The ground was damp from rainfall. The man outside the tent was checking his camera but stopped when he saw them approach. He was small, with shiny skin and narrow, darting eyes.

  ‘I’m Steve Wooton, CSM. You DI Drummond?’

  ‘That’s right. Good to meet you.’

  ‘Hi, Alistair, my man. How’s it hanging?’

  ‘It’s hanging fine, Steve.’

  ‘So, DI Drummond, you’re the brand new kid on the block. Joined us from the mighty Met to share your expertise, have you?’

  She wasn’t taking to his hearty manner. ‘Had the bodies been moved or touched at all when you got here? I’m thinking of the man who phoned in.’

  He spoke in a rush. ‘No sign of that and he says he didn’t touch. We’ve got a nasty scene here I must say, pretty savage, so whoever attacked must have been—’

  ‘Do you mind if I look at the bodies before we discuss it? I like to know who I’m talking about.’

  He looked taken aback. Slight frown. ‘Your call. Be my guest. The woman’s in here.’

  It was warm inside the first tent from the climbing sun. The scent of blood hung in the air. A tall man straightened up as they entered. He had a neatly trimmed beard and rimless glasses.

  ‘Dr Anand. I’m DI Drummond. I’m sure you know DS Carlin.’

  He nodded, his face still. ‘Rey Anand. Morning. Though not a good one for this young woman, or the man.’

  Siv stepped closer to the body and leaned down, taking in purple, red and pale pink tissue. Half of the woman’s face was torn and damaged, the other half was a mess of bruising and blood. Her neck was a mass of wounds. She was slim and encased in a silver wetsuit, with matching neoprene shoes and gloves. Her head was covered in a close fitting blue Lycra cap with a narrow light stick attached to the side. A pair of goggles trailed around her neck. On her chest was a photo of a child, a head shot of a fair-haired girl of around three years old with bunches and a big grin.

  ‘No immediate evidence of a sexual assault,’ Anand said. ‘Before you ask, for now I’d hazard time of death at between the early hours of this morning up to whenever this was called in. Rigor has just started in the face and neck. Usual cautions apply about waiting for post-mortem results. There are numerous wounds. The weapon split the skin and there are rough edges to the wounds. I’d say it could have been something like scissors.’ He spoke precisely. Unflappable.

  ‘I don’t see any defence wounds,’ Siv said.

  ‘None immediately visible, nor on our other victim, although he is face down.’

  ‘Looks as if she’d been swimming,’ Ali said. ‘I was reading a piece in the paper about wild swimming a couple of weeks ago. It’s become very popular in lakes and rivers.’ He had a warm, reassuring baritone voice.

  Siv leaned down again, examining the woman’s earlobes. She wore tiny gold stud earrings with a deep red centre. Siv didn’t know much about jewellery but thought they looked expensive. ‘Any sign of a bag or ID?’

  ‘Nothing on the body. No pockets in her wetsuit. Your forensic colleagues have been searching the area.’

  ‘She must have brought a bag, towel, car keys, something.’ She nodded to Ali. ‘Can you take a look at the male body and then talk to Wooton, check what they’ve seen?’

  ‘He’s a good sergeant, that one,’ Anand said after Ali had gone. ‘On the ball, even if I can’t always understand his accent.’ He was wearing a strong aftershave; the woody scent competed with the blood and losing.

  I’ll be the judge of how good he is. ‘Pleased to hear it,’ she said. ‘Do you think she was killed here, in the trees?’

  ‘I think so but I don’t know for certain yet. I can tell you more when we move the body and once the ground around the river has been checked. The same applies to the male victim,’ he said.

  ‘Had she been swimming, or was she about to go in?’

  ‘Her skin, general dampness and the slightly murky smell coming off her tells me she’d been in the river.’

  ‘When will you do the post-mortems?’ Siv asked.

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll email the time when I’ve checked my diary.’

  ‘Have you examined the other body?’

  ‘Yes. He had a wallet in his jacket pocket, with a driving licence. Car keys also. Steve has them. I’d say he died around the same time as our female. Possibly after her, as rigor hasn’t set in yet, but that’s only a guess. Same weapon, same types of wound.’

  ‘Okay if I take a photo of this child?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, just be careful.’

  She took her phone from her pocket, leaned down again and took a close-up photo of the child’s smiling, happy face. There were smears of darkening blood above the picture. Nearer to the body, she could smell faeces and she turned her head sideways to breathe. She thanked Anand, went back outside and gulped fresh air. The green of the woodland was intense after the tent’s foetid confines. The sun was hotter now, drying the riverbanks and shimmering on the Bere. A haze was rising off ferns and leaves. She entered the other tent. The young man was face down, his right knee slightly bent. He wore an old, dirty blue anorak over a sweatshirt and ripped, stained jeans. His feet were in shabby grey trainers. His hair was matted with blood and his neck a mass of gashes. Gazing at the dead man, she registered with relief and pleasure that she’d slid back into gear without thinking. Maybe it would be okay.

  Ali was talking to Steve Wooton by the river and she walked down to them, skirting the cordon. ‘Can I see the driving licence from the man’s body?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. It’s a Lithuanian licence so it doesn’t give an address here.’

  ‘That means he’s been here less than a year. Otherwise, he should have had it amended by DVLA,’ Ali said.

  ‘He’s a Matis Rimas, aged twenty, from Krosna in Lithuania.’ Wooton took the licence from his case and handed it to her. She looked at the purple-and-pink laminated card without removing it from its protective bag. It was headed Lietuvos Respublika and showed a photo of a young full-faced man with glasses and a neat moustache.

  She handed it back. ‘Anything else in his wallet to indicate where he lived or worked?’

  ‘No. Thirty pounds in cash and a photo of an elderly couple. He had a mobile lying near his body but it’s locked. We found a fishing rod by the river and car keys belonging to a Honda parked off the road near here just before you got to the scene. Nothing much in it except an old coffee cup and a map of Berminster covered in dirty marks. We’re running a number plate check just to make sure the car’s his. There are other fresh tyre tracks near the Honda, suggesting that another car was here very recently.’

  ‘Where is this Honda?’

  Wooton pointe
d. ‘Up that way, through a jungle of bushes. Not the official entrance for a spot of fishing, so I reckon he wasn’t a paid-up member.’

  ‘Steve says there doesn’t seem to be any blood here,’ Ali told her.

  Wooton nodded. ‘That’s correct, and there’s no sign of the bodies being dragged the ten or so metres to the trees. There are a number of footprints around here and some leading up to where the bodies were found. It’ll take time to sort those.’

  ‘What about a weapon?’ Siv asked. ‘Dr Anand is thinking it could be scissors.’

  ‘Nothing so far. Could be in the river. We’ve found no ID so far for the woman, no belongings. If the Seat is hers, there might be something in the boot. What I have got to show you is this.’ He stepped back and pointed to a dead fish lying on the grass inside the cordon, next to a fishing rod. ‘It’s carp and pretty fresh. Eastern Europeans like their carp.’

  Ali nodded. ‘That’s right. In Poland they eat them at Christmas.’

  Wooton grimaced. ‘I’ve eaten carp and it tastes like oily mud. And it’s full of bones. Take my advice, if you ever eat it, make sure you’re with someone who knows the Heimlich manoeuvre.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Siv said. ‘So it looks like Mr Rimas ignored the notice on the gate by coming in a back way, caught the carp and then for some reason, he went up to the trees.’

  Wooton nodded. ‘Looks like it. If you follow the tape that way, you’ll find an overgrown path and a scrubby area where the Honda is. Be careful, we’re still examining there.’

  ‘Thanks. Can you bag that photo on the woman’s body? I want copies made ASAP.’

  Siv led the way along the tape to the path Wooton had indicated and they picked their way through thicker, still dripping vegetation. After a few minutes, they arrived at a churned-up area where a forensic photographer was taking pictures of tyre marks and a battered black Honda that was begging to be taken through a car wash. Siv looked around, memories surfacing.