These Little Lies

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  He nodded. He was supposed to be taking Polly for a late lunch in a gastropub near Cliffdean Point but it looked as if that wasn’t going to happen. Just one more apologetic call to add to the dozens he’d made to her over the years, but at least it meant a few less calories in his day.

  * * *

  In the stifling afternoon heat, Siv let herself into Alan Vine’s bungalow. The next-door neighbour Daisy had given her a key and was now watching from her doorway. Daisy had informed her that Alan Vine had no family. She’d seemed more concerned about the dog than at hearing that her neighbour was dead.

  ‘I got back from my daughter’s around noon and I’ve heard Monty barking on and off. Alan’s car is there, so if he didn’t stop, I was going to knock on the door before long. Don’t like to think of an animal fretting.’

  It didn’t seem to have occurred to her that the barking might have meant that her elderly neighbour was on the floor incapacitated. ‘Mr Vine never had a partner?’

  ‘Not in my time and I’ve been here twenty-five years. He always said he was a confirmed bachelor — doesn’t that usually mean gay these days? I don’t think he was though — gay, that is. Never saw any gentlemen callers, nor female ones either come to that.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him in the last couple of days, or did you notice if he had any visitors recently?’

  ‘Alan kept himself to himself. We said hello now and again and that was about it. I haven’t seen him to talk to for a couple of weeks, but he goes out regular with the dog. Monty will need feeding and walking.’

  ‘Can you have him for now?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m not sure about that.’ She stepped back.

  Siv gave her a full beam smile. ‘I can see that you’re a good neighbour and very concerned. Just overnight, until we can sort something out. It would be such a help. I can bring food over from Mr Vine’s.’

  ‘Well . . . I suppose. I can get my Cherie to walk him later. Yeah, okay, she’ll like that.’

  As Siv stepped into the hall, the dog came rushing towards her. He skidded to a stop when he saw her. Unsure. She went to the kitchen, found his lead and a box of food and took him to Daisy. He was barking loudly as Daisy closed her door. If dogs could express indignation, that’s what he was doing.

  The bungalow was a basic, four-roomed building with a living room, one bedroom, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen with a pine table and two chairs. It was shady in the heat but also gloomy and smelled faintly of antiseptic. The living room had one two-seater sofa, a TV and a stack of newspapers on a low table. No landline but a well-thumbed phone book lay on top of the newspapers. The kitchen was neat with a frying pan and saucepan drying on the rack by the sink, with one plate, a knife and fork and a dessert spoon. She looked in the bin and saw an empty egg box and a tin that had held creamed rice. A pack of medication lay on the counter — Ranexa 375 mg. She recalled that Vine had angina. She saw a lined notepad on the table, with a biro alongside it. Written at the top of the page, she saw “Sophie.” She took the notepad and bagged it. That was it. There was nothing else lying around. The man must have cleared everything up as he went.

  A search of the bedroom and kitchen drawers provided nothing of interest: bank and utility statements, birth certificate and army discharge. There was one black-and-white framed photo on the bedroom wall of Vine as a young man in army uniform, posed against a backdrop of jungle. A clock ticked on the bedside table. Siv felt drowsy in the warmth and stillness and had an urge to lie down on the neatly made single bed. It looked so inviting. She could hear Monty’s monotonous barking from next door, punctuated by the occasional high-pitched whine.

  There was nothing here except for the name Sophie, which could mean anything or nothing. She was hoping that Vine’s phone would be found on his body but suspected that it would be missing. This killer covered the bases.

  She rang Daisy’s bell again and Monty rushed to the door, throwing himself against it. There was the sound of Daisy shushing him and an internal door slamming. The barking receded.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you again, but do you know if Mr Vine knew anyone called Sophie? Did he ever mention her to you?’

  Daisy scratched her head. ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me, and there’s no Sophies that I know of around here. Bit of a posh name for this street. I can’t have that dog any longer than tonight. He’s driving me bonkers with his barking.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to sort it first thing tomorrow — or this evening if that’s possible. Thanks for being so helpful, I appreciate it.’

  Daisy had a lightbulb moment. She raised a finger. ‘Can you put me on Twitter? You know, how I’ve helped you out in your investigation.’

  ‘Of course. Not by name, but I’ll get you a mention.’

  ‘Great! I’ll tell my daughter. She’ll be dead envious.’

  Siv smiled. Whatever it took to keep the public on side. As she unlocked her car, Monty was howling pitifully.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Siv had trudged upstairs to Mortimer to discuss this third murder.

  ‘There’s a lot of interest in these murders both locally and beyond,’ he’d said. ‘Yet you don’t seem to have much.’

  ‘We’ve ruled suspects out, which is important. And we have more than yesterday, sir. We might have the name of the child in the photo.’

  ‘Might. Yes.’ He’d looked at her shrewdly. ‘Some of these people have been running rings around you. Don’t let that happen again.’

  ‘I can’t stop people lying.’

  ‘Maybe you need to change up a gear. I know it’s hard when you’ve been off work for a while, but this is important. I need to know I’ve got the right DI for the job. I’d like results soon. Make sure you maximize everyone’s time.’

  She couldn’t protest. They had so little. She felt as if this case was slipping through her fingers.

  Now they were holding a meeting, going over everything from the beginning. She sat on the edge of a table at the front of the room, gripping the edge and summarizing the chronology so far. She looked out at the faces and the appraising eyes staring at her and thought she’d never sounded so unsure.

  ‘We work on the basis that this latest murder is connected to the other two. It’s possible that the child in that photo is called Sophie. We need to get new publicity done with that suggestion.’

  Steve Wooton was back from France, his cold long gone and looking energized, and he swung into his report. ‘The post-mortem on Alan Vine showed that he was killed with a thirteen-centimetre serrated kitchen knife. As yet, no sign of the weapon. He died on the edge of the pond and fell there. His killer had rolled him over the edge and into the bulrushes. No phone has been found. Quite a few hairs, other traces of DNA and scraps of fabric were gathered from the hedges in the area.’

  Siv nodded. ‘According to Kitty Fairway, children played around the pond and in and out of the greenery all the time so that was to be expected.’

  ‘Sure. The ground was dry and there were no distinctive footprints. It looks as if Vine’s killer waited in the hedges but there are lots of broken twigs and branches because kids mess around there, so it’s hard to say anything definitive,’ he told them.

  ‘I spoke to Nick Shelton again,’ Ali reported. ‘He confirmed that Alan Vine had no family. He had a sister but she emigrated to Melbourne and died years ago. He said he hadn’t spoken to Vine since last Monday, when they talked about the events at Lock Lane. He knew that Vine walked his dog regularly at Halse woods. He’d never heard of a Sophie.’

  Siv gave instructions for a door-to-door to be organized along Vine’s street to ask if anyone had spoken to him or seen him recently, and if they knew of a Sophie. Also to go through the list of people who had been at Halse woods when Vine was found and make sure they’d all been spoken to. She looked at Ali, who was eating what looked like dried apricots from a plastic tub. Patrick seemed wired. His foot was tapping today instead of his fingers, pattering a rhythm on the floor. He was still on a hig
h over the number of people who’d stopped by the police stall over the weekend to ask about the detective on Twitter.

  She stood, trying to sound decisive. ‘I think that Alan Vine had spoken on the phone about that photo to whoever killed him. They agreed to meet in Halse woods and that’s why his phone’s been taken. He must have known something. We keep digging. A couple of you ring around all the members of the angling club again, ask if any of them had spoken to Vine in the past week or knew a Sophie.’

  ‘What about the angle on Lauren’s mother?’ Ali asked.

  ‘I’ll pursue that. I want to go through the stuff Visser gave me again.’

  She drove home, skirting the edge of the harbour. A huge clean-up was still going on after the weekend’s festivities. A fresh southerly breeze had blown in, setting the bunting flapping. On the deck of a small yacht, a man lay on a lounger, reading a book. She stopped for a couple of minutes and wound down the window so that she could sniff the salt air and listen to the creak of boat masts.

  At home, a case of akvavit had been delivered and was sitting on the bottom step. She was relieved because she’d finished her last bottle the previous night. The rooms were stuffy, holding the heat of the day. She had a dull headache over her eyes. She left the door ajar and unpacked the dark green bottles. She opened one and poured a glass, adding ice because it was warm from the sun. This was a different brand and had strong citrus notes.

  She took her drink down to the river where she wandered along the bank, treading through cow parsley and watching the ripples and eddies of the water. When she got back, she folded for an hour to calm and clear her mind. She started on a new icosahedron, putting the crease pattern into the paper. Her hands were sticky in the heat and she had to rinse her fingers under cold water several times.

  In the evening, she returned to the photo album Visser had given her and went through it again. She paused at one of the photos of Lauren and her mother under some trees on a tartan rug. Lauren looked about two years old and was standing leaning against her mother and holding one hand up with a daisy in it. She wore a pretty lilac and white dress and white sandals. Sue looked proud and a little defiant. They were posed among the remains of a picnic. Sandwiches rested on a paper plate to one side, with a carton of fruit juice. At the edge of the rug, just visible, was the corner of a sectioned Perspex box with brightly coloured shapes inside. She brought a lamp close and peered at the grainy image of the box, thinking about childhood walks along riverbanks and wondering. She took a photo on her phone and emailed it, then waited a few minutes before she phoned Nick Shelton.

  ‘Apologies for disturbing you at this time of night, Mr Shelton. I’m very sorry about Mr Vine.’

  ‘Yes. I can’t credit it. We’ve been in shock here. Alan wouldn’t have hurt a fly. Why would someone want to do that to him? Is what happened to Alan connected to Lauren Visser in some way?’

  ‘Possibly. I was hoping that you might be able to help me with something. I’ve just sent you a photo and wondered if you could open the attachment.’

  ‘Okay. Give me a minute.’

  She could hear a TV being turned down, some murmurs and then he was back on the line.

  ‘Okay, I’ve got it. Who am I looking at? I don’t know them.’

  ‘That’s Lauren Visser as a young child with her mother. Just by the edge of the tartan rug in that photo, there’s a box. Can you make it out?’

  ‘Hang on, I’m just enlarging it. Yes, I can see it now.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  He made a little clicking noise with his tongue and then confirmed what she’d been thinking. ‘I’d say it could be a box of fishing lures. I wouldn’t want to swear to it but that’s definitely what it looks like to me. Those look like sinking lures at the near edge.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, thank you.’

  ‘Where was that photo taken?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I hope to find out. Thanks so much. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  She poured a fresh drink and sat on the steps of the wagon. The air was warm and dense. Paul was playing his tin whistle, a plaintive air that drifted faintly across the meadow and made her shiver with pleasure and regret. The goats were calling and she heard the clank of a bucket from their shed, the noise carrying in the stillness. If Lauren’s absent father had taken that photo, it seemed that the man had had a connection to angling, which was an odd coincidence in the circumstances. But the photographer might not have been her father and the photo wasn’t necessarily taken in Berminster. Those trees could have been anywhere. And of course, none of this might be anything to do with three murders.

  It was a tease and a possibility and she wasn’t sure if it got her any further along the road.

  * * *

  Patrick came to see her the following afternoon. He looked clear-eyed, as if he’d caught up on some sleep.

  ‘Guv, we’ve got a result on the door-to-door in Spring Gardens. We’ve had a call from a Yasmin Jerwood who lives at number twenty-six. She says she saw a man going into Lauren’s house the Sunday before she died, the twenty-eighth, around lunchtime. She was driving back from the supermarket. She didn’t recognize him but then she was at the festival over the weekend and she visited the Minstergreen stall and saw Mason Granger. She says he was the guy she saw at Lauren’s.’

  ‘Why has it taken her over a week to tell us she saw someone?’

  ‘Her daughter’s just had a baby and she went to Chichester to stay with her last Monday, so she said she’s been “a tad distracted and not in the loop.” Fair enough.’

  ‘Very generous of you. Tell Ali I need him.’ She knew he was in because ten minutes ago she’d heard his “Danny Boy” ring tone.

  Within seconds, Ali was leaning against her door, hands in pockets. ‘Shall we bring Granger in, guv?’

  She stretched and ran her fingers through her hair, touching a thin patch below the crown. She was certain it wasn’t as bare as it used to be. ‘No. Let’s go round there. We can ask his permission to search his flat at the same time. I’m not sure we’ve got enough for a search warrant, and if he’s nothing to hide he’ll maybe give us the go-ahead.’

  Half an hour later, they were at Mason Granger’s flat. He opened the door dressed in shorts and a singlet and wearing a black leather belt bag. He looked taken aback.

  ‘I was just about to go for a run,’ he said.

  ‘That will have to wait. Can we come in? This is Sergeant Carlin.’

  ‘Don’t you usually make an appointment?’

  ‘It depends. We need to talk to you urgently. If you don’t want to talk here, you can come to the station.’

  ‘Right. You’d better come in.’

  ‘Let’s sit at the table today,’ Siv said. She didn’t intend to look at the view and Granger’s profile again.

  The table was long, made from recycled oak planks with a white trestle base. They sat opposite Granger while he fiddled with his watch, resetting something. Siv waited while Ali sneaked a glance out of the window.

  ‘What’s this about then?’ Granger asked, settling his forearms on the table.

  ‘When I spoke to you, you told me that you last saw Lauren at your committee meeting the Tuesday before she died.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We have information from a witness that indicates you saw her after that, on Sunday the twenty-eighth, the day before she was killed.’

  Granger swallowed. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘That’s for us to know, and you to explain’ Ali came in sharply. ‘Quit messing about and answer the inspector.’

  ‘There’s no need to take that tone.’ Granger bridled but he was looking worried.

  ‘I think there is,’ Siv said. ‘We don’t like it when people lie to us, especially in murder investigations.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to answer,’ he hedged.

  ‘Well, of course you can choose to go down that route. Then I might have to arrest you for que
stioning and organize an ID session with our witness. It’s much better for you and less invasive if you just speak to us now.’ Siv shook her head at him. ‘You have no alibi for the morning of Lauren’s murder and of course another person was killed around the same time. As I say, up to you.’

  ‘For God’s sake! I didn’t kill Lauren or anyone else!’

  ‘Then there’s no reason not to be straight with us.’

  He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. The left one was inflamed, with mucus in the corner. He took a small bottle from his waist bag, tilted his head back and dispensed drops into each eye, blinking rapidly. Ali tutted impatiently. Siv waited, rubbing her finger in a sunken knot in the oak.

  ‘Blepharitis. I get eye irritation from staring at a screen too much,’ Granger said. ‘Okay, I did see Lauren on the Sunday. I didn’t say because I thought it wouldn’t look good, and you’d make more out of it than it was.’

  ‘Tell us about it. Did you arrange it?’ she asked.

  ‘I rang her about half ten that morning. I wanted to talk to her about our difference of opinion over strategy. I thought if we could speak outside of a meeting, I might get her to see my point of view. She said okay and to come round about half twelve. I walked round to hers.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We sat in the kitchen and talked. I went through the vision I had for our work and how we needed to develop and engage more people. It was pointless, she just banged on about focus and getting the job done. She got quite unpleasant, saying I wanted to use Minstergreen to big myself up. Whatever I said, she argued back. I left after about half an hour. I could see I was getting nowhere. That was it.’

  ‘So you had a stand-off and bad feeling.’

  ‘Not as such. In the end, I just said the committee would see that she was trying to hold us back with her narrow views. I left her and walked home. I wouldn’t have hurt Lauren. We might not have seen eye to eye, but ultimately we were devoting ourselves to the same cause.’