These Little Lies

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  He sat at the table with his dinner and a glass of milk. He had the paper by his elbow but ignored it, looking out to his patch of garden. All week, he’d been thinking about those bodies and the photograph. The most peculiar thing had been seeing that kid smiling up from the dead woman. As if someone was playing a horrible joke. It had made him feel queer. He’d taken a good look at the photo before he phoned the police. Something had stirred in his memory and he’d wanted to think about it.

  That inspector had rubbed him up the wrong way, keeping him waiting and interrupting. And then she’d got on her high horse about the sign, talking down to him as if he was some kind of idiot. He’d noticed her sergeant trying to cover a smile now and again, making fun of him. He knew what these youngsters thought of him, that he was a boring old fart. The oldest of the fat kids across the road, the spotty one, had called him that a couple of weeks ago when he’d told her to pick up a chocolate wrapper she’d chucked on the pavement. If Drummond could take her time then so could he. He’d mull over what he’d seen, and she needn’t think she could needle him into telling her anything he didn’t want to either. People always underestimated him now he was old; he might as well be invisible. Well, he could turn that to his advantage. The Drummond woman thought she was so smart, let her solve the murders if she could. And then she’d turned on the fake concern, saying he’d had a nasty experience. Hilarious. He’d seen too much of death to get fussed about those bodies by the trees. The dead man was just riff-raff, probably an illegal, and that woman had no right to be swimming where she wasn’t wanted.

  He’d seen the woman at the river last year and given her a piece of his mind. They’d had a real barney, with her going on about wild places belonging to everyone and saying that angling was a cruel sport and should be banned. He’d wanted to hit her then. He’d had two abiding loves in his life: the army and fishing. It was as if she’d spat on him, the way she’d ranted on about anglers: You men and your casual cruelty. Fishing is just another blood sport. Have you any idea of the pain you cause? Would you do that to your dog, stick a hook in his mouth and half suffocate him, traumatize him? He’d yelled back Don’t you insult me! You don’t know anything about me. I love nature as much as you do and by the way, fish don’t feel pain! He’d had to walk away in the end because he thought he might smack her, and he’d never yet raised his hand to a woman. He’d been shaking and when he got home, he’d had to have a rest. So she’d get no sympathy vote from him.

  While he’d twiddled his thumbs in the back of the police car, he’d had time to think things through. First day in the army he’d been given the mantra keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, and had decided to ration what he’d tell the police. Enough to keep them happy. Nick Shelton’s family might own the land at Lock Lane but as far as Alan was concerned, he was the true custodian. Nick had said at the last AGM that he didn’t know what he’d do without Alan staying on watch like the true soldier he was. They’d given him a round of applause. He fished most days, except of course in the close season, and by the end of it, he was fidgeting to get his rod out again. He visited Lock Lane every day to check the place over, clearing any litter that had been left, doing a bit of weeding, observing the state and flow of the river. Sometimes he walked there and took a sandwich and a flask of tea. He’d sit by the riverbank and watch the water. The day he couldn’t go there any longer, his heart might as well stop beating.

  He peeled an apple. One portion of his five a day. He took pleasure in keeping the skin unbroken in one long curling ribbon and then coiling it on the plate. As he drew the sharp blade carefully along the soft pink skin, he thought again about a skinny little thing with bunches, narrowing his eyes to look down the tunnel of the years. He’d been trying to bring her into focus all week. The image sharpened as the peel lifted off and bingo! There she was. Must have been more than twenty years ago, so his memory was doing okay. She’d been down by the river with her dad. That was unusual — kids weren’t encouraged — so maybe that’s why he’d remembered. What was the dad’s name? James somebody. Didn’t come to the river that often. A right snob with a clipped accent, always talking down to you and boasting about the size of his catch. Like some of the loud-mouthed officers he’d had to put up with in the army. He’d avoided the man when he could. Then James had left the club suddenly. Something had happened but Alan couldn’t remember any details. He could see the girl, though, sitting on the grass and playing with her soft toys, chatting to them and pretending to give them a picnic. Sophie — that had been her name. He reached for the notepad and wrote it down: Sophie. He’d said hello to her and she’d smiled at him. A pretty, light little fairy of a thing, not like those tubs of lard across the road. He remembered her dad calling over to her. Sophie, come and see this big fish I’ve caught!

  He shared the inspector’s interest in the child’s photo. Sophie’s photo. He could tell she thought it was important when she showed it to him. Why would anyone have left it there? The more he mulled it over the more his interest grew. It was something different, a real-life puzzle instead of the ones he completed in the newspaper. He thought he’d call into the Boar’s Head tomorrow lunch time and have a chat with Nick’s dad, Mike. Mike always called him Viney in a matey way that reminded him of being in barracks. He was always there with his pint at around half twelve, getting nicely pissed. Mike had been a sergeant in a tank regiment but he never pulled rank. He was always up for a bit of a yarn, particularly stuff about the club, and he’d be interested to hear how Viney had given a DNA sample. He’d enjoyed that bit. It had made him feel important. He’d buy Mike a drink and drop in something about the little girl and her dad. Mike would know what had happened, he had a razor-sharp memory, and now that he’d handed over the land and business to his son, he liked to reminisce about the old days.

  If he could find out the details about Sophie and her dad, he might get the police a lead on who’d committed the murders. That would give the inspector and her sergeant a shock, if he walked into the police station and told them he’d got them crucial information. He’d like to see their faces when the boring old fart came up trumps.

  He finished his apple — core and all — and washed and dried up. He set his place for breakfast: bowl, spoon and cereal in a Tupperware container. He’d read that the Queen kept hers in one and if it was good enough for HRM, it was good enough for Private A. Vine. Then he sat in the armchair by the window. Satisfied that he had a plan of action, he picked up his history of the Suez crisis and listened to the dog snoring, his tail thumping as he dreamed.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Met report had come in. It said that Ms Serena Davis had confirmed that Ade Visser had been with her in the early hours of Monday morning. They’d sent a voice recording. She sounded a confident, upbeat woman:

  I’ve known Ade for years. He’s one of my regulars. We have an arrangement about once a month. Sometimes he rings in advance, other times it’s impromptu. He rang me around half two in the morning and said he was in Earl’s Court. I could tell he badly needed a session so I said I had availability for a couple of hours from half three. He arrived about then and left at half six. The session was two hours but it was strenuous so he needed to have a shower and rest for an hour before he left.

  They’d released Visser, which meant that Siv had to head to the top floor and report to Mortimer that their main suspect was in the clear and out of custody, and that the other suspect’s whereabouts at the time of the murders was still being checked but seemed firm.

  ‘We’re following every lead, sir. It’s hard to believe that no one recognizes the child in the photo.’

  He rubbed his inflamed face. ‘Well, you need to push on. Push harder, make sure everyone’s pulling their weight.’

  That was a lot of pushing and pulling. ‘Okay, sir. I understand.’

  ‘Good. This is all very unfortunate.’

  She wasn’t sure if he meant for her or the corpses in the morgue. She didn’t stay around t
o ask.

  * * *

  Jenna Seaton was fed up to the back teeth. Mrs Dexter had gone down with tonsillitis and within a day the house had started to look untidy. Harvey had been moping about ever since he’d seen the police. They’d barely spoken since his confession. All he’d told her was that he’d spoken to Inspector Drummond and she’d made him draw a map of his route on Monday. When Jenna had pressed him, he’d turned on her, yelling, I don’t bloody know if the police bloody believed me so can you get off my bloody case! He’d never shouted at her before and she’d locked herself in her bathroom and wept. This was the thanks she got for being his rock!

  She found herself distracted at work, constantly replaying the past months as if they were a film she was pausing and examining from different angles. She tried to recall if Harvey’s tone had been different or if he had seemed inattentive, but couldn’t spot any signs that he’d been hand in hand with Lauren. Her stomach churned. In the middle of the night, she’d realized that the worst aspect of all this was that she now knew that her husband was a good liar. She’d have said she trusted Harvey with her life and here he was, just another phoney who cheated on his wife with one of their friends because he was bored. Then she thought that no, there was an even worse aspect — she didn’t know if she’d ever want sex with the pathetic two-faced bastard again. Hunky, sexy Harvey had dwindled to a pigmy overnight.

  Then Ade had turned up half an hour ago. He was the last person she felt like seeing. He and Harvey were sitting out on the terrace, not talking. She’d made a pot of coffee and put biscuits out but they were untouched, apart from the odd fly dive-bombing them.

  She glanced out at them, both sitting slightly hunched like two old men with hours to waste and nothing to say to each other. She didn’t think Harvey had showered today and his skin looked dingy. Ade might look terrible but at least he was scrubbed and smelled nice. He always did look newly minted. She took her fruit tea out and joined them, another hunched and silent figure. The late-afternoon sun was mellow and clumps of bluebells were flowering at the edge of the orchard. Many a time they’d sat out like this, chatting and laughing. Lots of horse talk, inevitably. It had always been better if wet blanket Lauren wasn’t there with her serious face, because of course she’d objected to horse racing, saying it was cruel and wrong. She’d dragged on for ages about the Grand National. She might as well be here today because she was certainly still putting a dampener on everything.

  ‘How are you managing, Ade?’ Jenna asked at last.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. My mother found a postcard in the kitchen drawer and gave it to the police. Cut-out scissors glued on with paint that looked like blood and a threatening message. Horrible.’

  Jenna put her cup down. ‘Sent to who?’

  ‘No name on it, or address.’

  ‘It hadn’t been posted?’

  ‘No. There was no stamp. The police wanted to know if I’d ever seen it and I told them I hadn’t. My mother didn’t tell me about it — she phoned the police instead of talking to me.’

  Jenna looked at Harvey but he ignored her gaze, completely withdrawn. He knows something. It was as if someone had stolen the man she knew and left a malfunctioning replica. ‘But how did it get in the kitchen drawer?’

  Ade shrugged. ‘No idea. Lauren must have put it there. I’ve found out that there were all sorts of things she kept from me. She was organizing a protest of some kind about a notice at Lock Lane, calling for crowdfunding and such. I’m starting to think I hardly knew her. I felt like a complete idiot when the police brought that up and then when they showed me the postcard.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s hard, finding out that someone’s been keeping secrets. Isn’t it, Harvey?’

  Harvey looked into his cup and made a noncommittal noise. Jenna wanted to kick him hard.

  Ade stirred his coffee and drank it down. ‘Sorry, I haven’t come here to burden you. Jenna, I wondered if you’d help me with arrangements for Lauren’s funeral. I have to wait for them to release her but it would be good to know I’ve got some support. I just can’t think straight about anything.’

  Jenna pictured a large wreath with SLUT written in flowers in the centre. ‘Won’t your mother want to help you with that?’

  ‘She’s gone home. I told her to go. I didn’t want her around. I felt she’d betrayed me by looking through the drawers and ringing the police without informing me about the card. You expect your close family to have your back, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jenna agreed. ‘You would hope that you can trust your nearest and dearest but sadly, it doesn’t always seem to work out that way.’

  Harvey stirred himself and put a paper napkin over the biscuits. ‘We’re all fallible. We all make mistakes.’

  Ade looked at him. Jenna felt an urge to tell Ade, heard herself say the words that would force Harvey to reveal what a true friend he’d been. What a relief it would be! Ade deserved to know what his wife had really been like. The stuff about crowdfunding and a hidden postcard only touched the surface!

  ‘Of course I’ll help you. I’m sure Harvey will too, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure. I think I’d better see to the horses now.’ Usually, he’d have asked Ade if he wanted to wander over but the invitation wasn’t forthcoming.

  As he stood, a tall bulky man with short cornrows appeared around the side of the house.

  ‘Oh, not again,’ Ade groaned. He grew even paler. ‘Have you found the murderer?’

  ‘Good afternoon. Not yet, Mr Visser. Still investigating. I knocked on the door but there was no answer and then I heard your voices. DS Ali Carlin, Berminster police. I’ve come to speak to Mr Seaton.’ Gazing at him with wary eyes, Ali thought they made a furtive-looking threesome. Visser didn’t want the Seatons to know about his BDSM interests and they didn’t want him to know that Harvey had been canoodling with Lauren. Good basis for a friendship, Ali thought.

  Ade looked relieved to hear he was off the hook for now. He glanced at Harvey and then at the sergeant. ‘What are you bothering Harvey for?’

  ‘Just routine. We’re talking to all the people who knew your wife.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’ll be off, then. Thanks for the coffee. Talk later.’ He walked away fast, stumbling as he turned the corner.

  Harvey stood frozen to the spot, like a child playing statues. The sergeant sat without being invited in the chair that Ade had vacated. Jenna fumed. This is how the police treat you once you’ve made yourself a suspect.

  ‘Lovely garden,’ Ali said. ‘Is it okay to talk here, Mr Seaton?’

  Harvey scratched his eyebrow. ‘I was just about to check the horses, if you want to walk over with me.’ He was trying to sound relaxed.

  ‘I’m sure Sergeant Carlin doesn’t want to tramp across fields.’ Jenna adjusted her seat cushion. ‘We can sit here. There’s coffee in the pot. You don’t mind if I sit in, do you, Sergeant?’

  ‘No skin off my nose,’ Ali said, glancing at their faces. This could be interesting. They looked like rich, comfortable people who were losing their gloss and wondering where it was vanishing to.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Harvey said to her.

  ‘I’m sure, but I’d rather I did.’ Jenna sat and poured coffee for Ali, asking if he took milk and sugar.

  Harvey glared at her and then sat. He took his panama hat from the table and put it on his head, pulling the brim low.

  Ali took a sip of his coffee. Full-bodied, with a kick. He eyed the biscuits and put his hands under the table to resist temptation. Instead, he glanced at the Seatons. He reckoned that if he touched the air between husband and wife, he would come across a wall of ice. ‘Mr Seaton, when you spoke to Inspector Drummond you explained that you’d had a close friendship with Lauren Visser.’

  ‘A tendresse apparently,’ Jenna said icily.

  ‘Jenna, please. Don’t make this any more painful. Yes, that’s what I told the inspector.’

  ‘You told us that this
friendship ended by mutual consent in February.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve looked at your phone and retrieved data which you’d deleted. You exchanged texts with Lauren last Saturday. You agreed to meet her at Halse woods on Sunday afternoon, the day before she was killed.’

  Seaton folded his arms. Looked away, then down. ‘Yes, I did.’

  The air seemed to quiver. ‘You’re such a fucking liar,’ Jenna said. She shoved her chair back and it screeched on the paving. ‘Such a fucking, unbelievable liar! If you told me it was raining, I’d know it was sunny.’

  There was a silence. Ali copied the guv’s example and let it roll.

  Seaton leaned on the table, his face cupped in his hands. ‘If you’ve looked at the texts you’ll know that Lauren initiated the contact. I didn’t meet her.’

  ‘But you planned to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I can answer that,’ Jenna said. ‘At least you know it will be the truth. I wanted to go for a ride. Wanted to spend some quality time with my husband. So we set out after lunch and we didn’t get back until five. Sorry to spoil your little tryst in the woods, darling.’

  Ali looked at her gleaming, sculpted hair and wondered how much it cost to keep in that condition. Polly’s was always scrunched flat and tied back. She said it never quite lost the smell of cooking, no matter how often she washed it. He liked the homely scent of it because it reminded him of his granny’s kitchen, but he knew better than to tell her that. ‘Thank you, Mrs Seaton, that’s clear. You lied to us, Mr Seaton and you tried to cover up a contact with a woman who was murdered by deleting information. That’s serious.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted it all to go away and in the end, I didn’t think it was that important because I didn’t actually see her on Sunday. I’ve no idea what she wanted.’