These Little Lies

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Jenna made a noise like a pressure cooker starting to steam.

  ‘The texts indicate that Lauren wanted your advice about something, Mr Seaton. She was worried. Do you know what the problem was?’

  ‘No idea. I honestly haven’t had a private conversation with her since February. You’ve seen the texts. I kept my replies straightforward. I only agreed to meet her because she sounded so anxious. I didn’t want to. I’d never have contacted her personally again. That’s the absolute truth.’ He directed that at his wife but she sniffed and looked away.

  ‘And whatever was worrying Lauren, she hadn’t mentioned it to you, Mrs Seaton?’

  ‘Oh no, Sergeant. But then the little tart preferred a male confidant, didn’t she? Oh, I’ve bloody well had enough of this!’ She banged her chair back and went into the house.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Seaton said. ‘My wife is under a lot of strain.’

  ‘That’s about it, really. Oh — what colour is your horse?’

  ‘It’s a black Welsh cob. A stallion with white hooves. Why?’

  ‘And that’s the horse you were riding on Monday morning?’

  ‘Of course, yes. Did someone see me?’

  He was looking hopeful but Ali didn’t feel like helping the lying bastard. Let him stew a bit longer. He was a waste of good air. ‘I can’t comment at present. We’ll return your phone tomorrow, if you can call at the station. Thanks for your time. I’ll leave you to your horses.’

  * * *

  There was just sea and sky. The faint hiss of the retreating tide. The quiet evening light was fading slowly, as if someone was turning a dimmer switch. The water below changed from blue to indigo to wine purple as the sun set.

  Siv had the place to herself. She picked a blade of grass and chewed on it. Cliffdean Point was six miles from town, a grassy headland that looked out over the channel. Below were tall sand dunes and a stretch of shingle dotted with wading birds. She lay back on the grass and watched the high, rose-streaked clouds. She was doing okay. Day by day. Other people were responding as if she was functioning and making sense, so she must be. She’d read about impostor syndrome but never felt like it before. There were still times when she felt a creeping numbness and had to fight it. She hadn’t talked to Ed for a couple of nights. Was that a good sign? She thought it must be. Maybe she’d just been too tired.

  This case, these dead. She sifted through what she knew and it didn’t amount to much. Now that Visser and Seaton had alibis, there were so many questions. Mason Granger didn’t own a car and hadn’t hired one. She closed her eyes and saw the child’s face, eager to please the photographer. She lay there until the sky darkened, and then roused herself and drove home.

  She’d bought a bottle of wine for Corran and Paul by way of thanks for her supper and free firewood. As she approached their door, she heard angry raised voices from inside.

  I haven’t had time, Corran! It’s all right for you, working at home, suiting yourself what you do and when you do it!

  I was only asking, no need to bite my head off. And I have my own pressures here, you know.

  What, whether or not the goats are content? I’m knackered. Just want to chill out and have a bath. I’m not up to conversation so get off my case.

  I am entitled to talk. I’ve been on my own all day. I look forward to you coming home.

  Don’t start fucking guilt tripping me. I’m talked out.

  It’s not a guilt trip . . .

  She placed the bottle quietly by the door and walked back to her car on shaky legs. Paul had sounded so vicious. She’d never have thought that he and Corran would row like that. They seemed so peaceable, in tune. She realized that she’d already spun a little story about their domestic harmony, one to suit her needs. She and Ed had never had a row. One of them might be snappy occasionally but they’d never got into a deep disagreement. They’d laughed themselves out of any tensions. She realized that was probably rare. She knew what she’d lost.

  She locked her door and went straight into her routine: on with Ed’s sweatshirt and then a glass of akvavit. She opened all the windows. The river was quiet tonight, just the odd splash from an animal. It was too warm to light the stove. She made cheese on toast and ate at the fold-down table. Then she fetched the section of sculpture she was working on and sat until almost 2 a.m., topping up her glass of cold spirit, checking her diagram and measurements, lost in minute paper folds.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘He’s not a bad bloke at heart and I sort of miss him now,’ Lynda Rochford said. She was dressed in tight, skimpy shorts and a sleeveless vest and was resting back with her feet on a low stool. It was mid-afternoon and she had a large glass of wine to hand. She seemed pleased to have Patrick’s company.

  He found himself mesmerized by the sweep of her false eyelashes. ‘Was Mr Rochford ever violent towards you?’

  ‘Not as such. He gave me a push once but then I shoved him, so fair dibs. He got to be really shouty, that’s what did my head in. His voice used to grate. It’s been peaceful since I’ve been on my own. Bit too peaceful. It gets lonely at times but I’ve got the two kids so once they’re home, the noise kicks off. Are you married?’

  ‘No, still waiting for the right woman. What was the shouting about?’

  She made a rubbing motion with her fingers. She still wore her wedding ring. ‘Dosh. Si used to work at the Hind hotel in town. It was good money but he got stressed out. Long hours, lots of responsibility. Weddings and parties to cater for. He’d get awful headaches and his blood pressure was high. We hardly got any time together. So he took the job at Caterpillar Corner. Nice cushy number but a drop in pay. I suppose we’d got used to a better standard of living and then we had to be more careful with money. So you know, there were arguments. Some of them ding-dongs. That was when nosy Nora next door called your lot. I wish people would mind their own business. It all went downhill after that. Si never laid a finger on me though. I told those officers who came here at the time.’

  ‘Has Mr Rochford ever mentioned a Lauren Visser to you?’

  She took a drink. ‘Don’t think so.’ Her tone sharpened. ‘Hang on, isn’t she the woman found at the river?’

  ‘That’s right. She worked at Caterpillar Corner.’

  ‘Crumbs, you don’t think Si did it?’

  ‘We’re making lots of enquiries, talking to everyone.’

  ‘Si wouldn’t do anything like that. He just gets a bit chippy but he wouldn’t harm anyone.’

  That’s what the wives and girlfriends nearly always say, Patrick thought as she showed him out.

  At the door she asked, ‘Are you seeing Si as well?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be contacting him.’

  ‘Remind him he’s got the kids on Sunday. If he wants to stop for a bite of lunch that’s okay with me.’

  Patrick found Simon Rochford sitting in a deckchair on the balcony of his ground-floor flat, his legs propped on the railing, listening to a cricket match on the radio and drinking beer. Their conversation was punctuated by the thwack of bat on ball and bursts of applause. Rochford told him much the same story as his ex-wife had, but with his own slant.

  ‘Lynda persuaded me to take a less stressful job and then she complained I wasn’t earning as much. I couldn’t win. All I got was her whingeing on about us not having enough money. We used to have the odd row like any couple but it got a lot worse. We gave each other hell. I suppose the woman next door was right to report us if it worried her, but we could have done without her sticking her oar in and bringing the police to the door.’ He gave a nostalgic sigh. ‘Sometimes I miss the ups and downs, having a good shouting match. Now I’ve no one to yell at but myself.’

  ‘Did you ever see Lauren Visser outside of work?’

  Rochford turned the radio off and drew himself up. ‘No, I didn’t. I can spot you coming a mile away. Just because Lynda and me had some rows, you’re thinking I might have been violent. Well, I wasn’t.’

  ‘We’re
asking a lot of people these questions.’

  ‘I’ve already told your DI Drummond that Lauren nagged me about my menus. I take pride in my work and I spend a lot of time scheduling balanced meals at the nursery, sourcing free-range meat and eggs and local organic produce. Jenna doesn’t stint on the budget for that. Mind you, it’s reflected in the fees. I put up good, tasty meals and I get lots of positive feedback from the parents. I even arrange taster sessions for them a couple of times a year when I’m trying out new recipes. Lauren was a po-faced moaner who gave me earache but that was no reason to murder her. Maybe her husband did it. I can imagine that I might have contemplated it if I’d been married to her. That’s a joke in poor taste, I know, but I don’t like you coming here asking me stuff I’ve already answered, just because a neighbour overheard our personal business.’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Rochford. I’d like to take a look at your car. Just the outside.’

  ‘Oh, feel free. It’s parked around the corner in front of the garages. The grey Toyota. Tax and insurance all up to date.’

  ‘I’ll see myself out. Lynda said you can stay for lunch on Sunday if you like.’ Patrick felt foolish as Rochford stared and then nodded. He had the feeling that given a nudge, these two might get together again. Maybe he should add relationship guidance to his Twitter profile.

  He walked around the car in the heat and glare. The tyres were Pirelli and all in good nick. He reckoned Rochford had a clean slate.

  * * *

  The mayor had declared the May festival open. A group of women Morris dancers in red and white skirts and black tights were executing a stately dance outside the fish market at the harbour. Their clogs rang on the cobbles. Siv stood in the high sun, watching them. The bells on their straw hats jingled as they turned and dipped, waving white flags. They’d pinned fresh flowers all over their bodices and hats. They looked warm but jolly. Mutsi had once insisted that she and Rikka attend a Finnish folk dancing club in Wimbledon. You must know about your Finnish culture, it’s your heritage. They’d had to wear scratchy long skirts with black-and-white-striped aprons. The dances had been faster and lighter than the plodding Morris type and they involved couples and groups. The dancing hadn’t lasted long because they’d flitted to Biarritz, Finnish heritage abandoned for a French financier with a yacht.

  There was a tap on her shoulder and Patrick was there with a man in a wheelchair.

  ‘Hi, guv. This is my brother, Noah. Noah, my new guv.’

  ‘Hello, Noah. I’m Siv.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Noah said slowly, smiling crookedly. ‘Hope Patrick’s behaving.’

  ‘Oh, I never tell tales,’ Siv said, smiling back.

  Noah had thick fair hair, streaked with gel. The right side of his face was askew, his mouth slanting. His electric wheelchair looked top of the range, with a joystick on the left side. His fingers rested on the arms and Siv saw that he had two words tattooed in red on the backs of his hands: No on the right and Pity on the left.

  Patrick waved to one of the dancers. ‘Our mum was a Morris dancer one time. Sewed the costumes as well. She used to practice steps in the garden.’

  ‘Hate bloody folk music,’ Noah grumbled. ‘Fol-de-rol-de-diddly-dee. What d’you think, Siv?’

  ‘I like it, as long as no one wants me to take part.’

  ‘There was a big bust-up a couple of years ago.’ Patrick rubbed his face briskly. ‘Some women wanted to join the male Morris team and they weren’t allowed. There was a campaign but I think it all fizzled out.’

  Sounds like the kind of issue Lauren Visser would have got caught up in, Siv thought. ‘Amazing, what gets people fired up and falling out.’

  ‘If it escalates far enough, it brings business your way,’ Noah said wryly.

  ‘That’s true. If people didn’t argue, we’d be short of customers.’

  ‘We’d better get going. Don’t forget to stop by our Berminster police stand outside the fire station. We’re there for two hours,’ Patrick reminded her.

  ‘Hashtag keepingberminstersafe. Patrick’s the media savvy poster boy. I’m handing out community safety leaflets.’ Noah attempted to wink at her but it didn’t quite come off and his face twisted.

  She watched them head off, Noah gliding quietly, Patrick walking beside him. They were both smartly dressed in suits. That would have taken an effort. She wondered how long it took Noah to get ready and if a carer had helped him or if Patrick had had to do it.

  She wandered among the thronged streets and stalls for a while, moving between aromas and music. She was glad to see uniformed officers circulating. This jostling crowd would be heaven for pickpockets and bag snatchers. Minstergreen had a stall, bedecked with greenery, oak leaves and flower garlands. It was laden with posters and banners about climate change and the projects underway in Berminster. Dozens of teenagers flocked around, some of them signing up as volunteers. She watched Mason Granger speaking to them, gesticulating, the centre of attention. He was a showman and a minor celebrity. A couple of young women were getting close, gazing at him intently and nodding. Well, now he had a committee that would hang on his every word without an annoying dissenter on the sidelines.

  She moved on, sniffing frying onions, and saw Simon Rochford standing by a burger van called Hamborghini. He was flanked by two children, a mutinous-looking girl and a younger boy who was jumping up and down, holding a bun and licking tomato ketchup from the edges.

  ‘But I said I didn’t want mustard!’ the girl was wailing.

  ‘Okay, okay, the sky hasn’t fallen in but if I change it I’ll have to get back in the queue and that’ll take ages,’ Rochford told her. ‘It’s too much in this heat. Here, do you want my burger and I’ll eat your hot dog?’

  The girl wavered and then nodded grudgingly. He sighed and swapped with her. As he sank his teeth into the hot dog, he saw Siv and nodded dourly.

  ‘Hello. Enjoying the day?’ she asked.

  ‘’Scuse the mouthful,’ he said, holding a paper napkin under his chin. His colour was high, his face shiny with sweat. ‘Got a day off from trying to find a murderer?’ He spoke gruffly.

  ‘Sort of. Maybe he or she is here today, you never know . . .’

  The children had crossed the road to watch a conjuror, the boy still hopping on the spot. Rochford ate his hot dog quickly and efficiently, blowing on it as he reached the middle.

  ‘You sent someone round to my ex and to my place, asking loads of questions. I didn’t appreciate that. I told you about me and Lauren up front. So much for being honest with the police.’

  ‘We irritate lots of people when we’re investigating. It’s how it is.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He gestured at the food van. ‘Lauren certainly wouldn’t have approved of meat central here. She’d probably have been trying to persuade people not to buy.’

  ‘She got under your skin, from the sound of it.’

  ‘Nah, not really. Not in the way you’d like to think.’ He finished his hot dog and wiped his mouth and glistening brow. ‘I’d best get over to my kids before you accuse me of child neglect.’

  Stroppy, she thought, watching him stride away. It smelled as if the onions were burning so she walked on to the arts-and-crafts area near the museum. Corran was selling his throws and cushions, with Paul helping him. They were both small with round glasses — Corran’s frames were red and Paul’s bright green. Both were light on their feet. Like bookends. Paul saw her and waved and she smiled back.

  It was odd, being back in a community where people knew each other and it was hard to go out without someone calling a greeting. She felt exposed after London’s anonymity and thin-skinned, because it was the bank holiday and they still had no suspect in their sights for the murders.

  No steps forward. The forensics on the postcard showed no prints except Lauren’s and Natasha Visser’s and the type of card and glue were widely available. This was a careful, thoughtful killer.

  Crossing the harbour, she saw the Polska stall with
white-and-red Polish flags fluttering on the awning. A small group was dancing to three men playing fiddles and an accordion. A large crowd had gathered, whooping encouragement and waving glasses of beer in the air. Betty Marshall was there on the edge of the spectators, clapping along to the music. Siv hardly recognized her out of her working clothes. She looked carefree and younger in a silky striped shirtdress and a silver necklace.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Such amazing weather! You know, there’s an old superstition that May is an unlucky month but it doesn’t look it from here. Isn’t it good to see everyone out enjoying themselves?’

  ‘Certainly is. Do you have Polish connections, or do you just like the music?’

  ‘My friend Julia manages Polska and she’s running the stall, so I’m lending a hand. She’s an amazing woman, never tires. She’s just popped back to fetch some more brochures. Any news about these awful murders?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, Ms Marshall.’

  ‘Oh do call me Betty! I was at a litter pick at the beach the other night and I missed Lauren. She always geed us up. Her poor husband must be in pieces. I saw him down by the sea. He was sobbing.’

  ‘It’s a very hard time for him.’ Especially as he was involved in strenuous activities with another woman just hours before his wife was stabbed.

  ‘And of course it’s an awful time for Jenna and Harvey as well. They’re such close friends. Jenna was very tense the other day.’ There was a certain relish and question in Betty’s words. Her eyes were glinting with the story she’d been swept up in.

  Siv nodded. ‘As you say, it’s a difficult time for anyone who was close to Lauren. I met your friend Julia this week when I visited Polska.’

  ‘That’s right. We were saying . . . ah, here she is now.’

  Julia hurried up, stopping to speak quickly to the musicians and handing a pile of brochures to a man behind the stall. She was out of breath and rosy. Her tapered jeans and tailored shirt emphasized her slender bones, but the lines scored around her eyes and neck belied the youthful image.