These Little Lies

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘Did Lauren mention that she was going swimming at Lock Lane the following morning?’

  He looked perplexed. ‘No. It wasn’t a social chat.’

  There wasn’t much to go on here, unless there was a blood-stained pair of scissors, shoe covers or any other evidence to be found in this flat. ‘We’d like to search your flat, Mr Granger,’ Siv said. ‘We need your permission to do that without a warrant.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I suppose if I don’t agree, you’ll get a warrant and come clumping in here anyway, and the neighbours will know.’

  ‘Well, you have to weigh that up for yourself.’

  He frowned and then shrugged. ‘Fill your boots. I’ve nothing to hide. Is it okay if I do some work while you’re looking?’

  ‘No problem. If you just stay sitting, we’ll get started.’

  He opened his laptop and they started their search, moving from the living room to the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. The bedroom was a mess — drawers stuffed to bursting, a wardrobe crammed with shoes and boxes of Minstergreen pamphlets and a linen basket spilling over with dirty laundry. It took time to sift through all the strewn clothes and belongings. It proved fruitless. The only scissors was a small pair of nail scissors in the bathroom cabinet.

  ‘He’s not bothered,’ Siv said to Ali in the bedroom. ‘He looks relaxed, absorbed in what he’s doing, printing stuff from his laptop.’

  ‘He’s a wee liar and that’s all we have on him. I think Lauren was right, he does like to big himself up.’

  Ali was looking at a pinboard on the wall, covered with photos of Granger taken in TV and radio studios, talking to journalists in the street and photocopies of his newspaper columns.

  ‘Having a fat head isn’t a crime. He might have had motive but there’s no evidence of any kind against him. We might as well let him go out for his run.’

  On the way back to the car, Ali asked drily, ‘Nothing come from checking out Lauren’s mum then? Wild goose chase?’ He had an I told you so look.

  She shrugged. He could be smart at her expense if he wanted. She still thought there was something about Sue Farthing, sitting on a tartan rug, that was yet to be explained, but she’d keep that to herself for now.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Siv sat looking at the incident board, drinking coffee and thinking about Alan Vine. The man had no family but he must have had some social life apart from walking his dog, fishing and bossing people about at Lock Lane. She rang Nick Shelton, spoke to him for a few minutes and then glanced at her watch. She rarely went to pubs at lunchtime but today she’d make an exception.

  She hadn’t slept well, waking at three from a vivid dream of Ed and then remaining restless until dawn. In the pub bathroom, she splashed her face with water and patted it with a paper towel. Her reflection in the wide mirror looked drained, her lips dry and her scar seeming to stand out. She lifted her hair and craned her neck to look at the back of her head. Her hair was definitely thicker than before, but there was still some way to go. She thought she had a cold sore coming at the edge of her bottom lip, she felt it itching. She must remember to stop at a chemist and get antiviral cream. She took a tube of moisturiser from her bag and rubbed the lotion all over her face, trying to restore some colour. Better — sort of.

  The Boar’s Head was small, warm and filled with the aromas of spirits and roasting meat. You’ll find him at the round table to the right of the bar, Nick Shelton had told her. She approached an elderly man who was reading the Daily Telegraph and eating a huge roast beef lunch. A Yorkshire pudding the size of a tea plate was drowning in a well of dark gravy. The newspaper was propped precariously against a menu card, the top folding dangerously towards the food.

  ‘Mr Shelton? Mike Shelton?’

  ‘That’s me. Who’s asking?’ He peered at her, narrowing his pale blue eyes to focus.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Drummond. Your son told me I’d find you here. I’d like a chat. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Now you’re talking. Pint of Bombardier, thanks.’

  She bought his pint and an orange juice and took them to the table. She waited while he chewed a mouthful of beef, nodding his thanks. Behind him was a photo of a merry-looking woman, raising her glass. The caption below said, In memory of Monica Reed who always sat just here. Shelton finished his pint and put the empty glass on the next table.

  ‘Another one bites the dust. I’ve never had a good-looking lady DI buy me a drink before. My day’s looking up.’

  ‘Make the most of it, it might never happen again.’

  He laughed, his shoulders shaking, and speared a carrot with a mound of mashed potato. He had yellowing teeth, thinning hair, a deeply lined face and a slight stoop but he seemed feisty. His prominent pot belly attested to his liking for beer and roast dinners. ‘There must be a reason for your generosity. Hoping I’ll spill the beans?’ He spattered flecks of food over the table when he spoke, and she felt one land on her cheek.

  ‘That’s the idea, if you’ve got any beans to spill. I’m here because of Alan Vine.’

  His mouth drooped. ‘Terrible, that. Poor old Viney. You’re after whoever did it?’

  ‘That’s right, and you might be able to help me.’ He had a spot of gravy on his chin. She wanted to dab it away. ‘When did you last talk to Alan?’

  ‘That’s easy. Last Friday. He came in about this time. We had a good old chat, in fact. I didn’t roll home until after three.’

  He picked the Yorkshire pudding up in his fingers and ate it as if it was toast. She could barely see his face behind it. ‘How was Alan that day?’

  ‘Fine. Upset, of course, because he’d found those bodies. He loved that bit of the river and he said it was like a personal insult, what had happened. He told me about you lot and your questions. Said he’d given a DNA sample.’ He put the half-eaten Yorkshire back on the plate. ‘Food in here’s tasty but between you and me, that’s not the best Yorkshire I’ve ever had. Not crisp enough. Don’t tell them I said so, though. Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Mum it is. What else did you talk about?’

  ‘This and that. Bit of a trip down memory lane, I suppose. Chatted about the club back in the day, when I ran things. When I got to seventy, I’d had enough and handed it all over to Nick. Let him do the worrying for a change. Viney was very interested in a chap who used to fish with us occasionally, years ago, wanted to know a bit more about him.’

  ‘Who was this man?’

  ‘James Stenning, his name was. It was all very sad. This was back in the nineties. He wasn’t a full member because he lived in Kent somewhere but he liked the fishing in that stretch of river. He paid half-rates for about three years.’

  ‘Why come from Kent to fish? Isn’t that a bit of a trek?’

  ‘He was a financial advisor and he had some clients in this area, so I suppose it was easy enough to go to the river here. He left suddenly. Had a bereavement. His little girl died in an accident.’

  ‘What was his little girl’s name?’

  ‘Sophie.’

  Siv took a breath. ‘Did Alan Vine know about this little girl?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Viney knew a bit, but he didn’t know why Stenning left the club or what had happened.’ He tapped his glass. ‘This is looking a tad empty.’

  She knew he could tell her more, and that he wouldn’t be hurried. He liked having an audience and a bit of chat that made the hours go by. She bought him another pint and a packet of peanuts for herself. The salt in them made her lip tingle.

  ‘I think I might have apple crumble and custard, then I can just have cheese and crackers tonight. As long as there’s no cinnamon in it. Can’t abide the stuff.’ He called across to the barman who confirmed that the crumble was cinnamon free.

  ‘Tell me about James and Sophie Stenning,’ Siv said.

  ‘I only knew James a little. Met him once or twice at the river. He gave me a few tips about investments. He never came to club meetings because of not being a loca
l. He rang me one day to say he was cancelling his membership. Just said that his little girl Sophie had died in an accident and he was giving up. I remember her name because I’d just been watching a film with Sophia Loren so it sort of stuck.’

  ‘He didn’t give you any more details?’ she asked.

  ‘That was it. I didn’t really know him, so to speak. I gave my condolences. Never spoke to him again.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Sophie?’

  ‘No, just her dad.’

  ‘Do you remember when this happened?’

  ‘Not exactly, just that it was early nineties. Funny, this is like a replay of the chat I had with Viney.’

  A bowl of apple crumble arrived with a separate jug of custard. ‘Did Mr Vine say why he was interested in James Stenning?’

  ‘Can’t say he did. We just got talking. At our age, you suddenly recall random things. They come from nowhere and flit away again.’

  ‘How did he react when you told him about Stenning and what had happened to Sophie?’

  Shelton poured his custard slowly over his bowl. ‘Not sure, really. Can’t recall anything in particular. What’s this all about anyway?’

  ‘Just part of our enquiries. You have no idea where Stenning lived?’

  ‘No. The club must have had his address at some point I suppose, but I wasn’t much of a record keeper back then and I had a big clear-out when I moved house in ninety-five. Once Viney took over, things were much more organized. If you wanted anything knocked into shape, Viney was your man. Poor bloke. What a way to go. This is a terrific pud. Nothing sets you up like a crumble.’

  He spooned it up happily. She wondered if he might find it less palatable if he knew that she suspected the information he had given Viney had led directly to the man’s death.

  Back in the car, she looked at her face in the mirror and picked flecks of chewed carrot from her right cheek.

  * * *

  At the station, she closed her office door and started an internet search. A James Stenning of Aldmarsh had died in January 2017, aged fifty-eight. Aldmarsh was a large village about twelve miles from Berminster. The address wasn’t in Kent but he was the right kind of age and he’d been a financial advisor with his own company. She looked up the company address, which was the same as his home. When she delved further she saw that he’d lived at the Aldmarsh address since 2001. Then she searched for Sophie Stenning and sat back to read the news article dated 6 April 1993.

  A three-year-old Ashford girl died in tragic circumstances last Friday night. Sophie Stenning fell from a rolling chair in her father’s home office while reaching for a pair of scissors. The chair moved on its castors as Sophie attempted to take the fatal blades from a shelf. She lost her balance and the sharp blades of the scissors were plunged into her neck. Sophie was rushed to hospital but sadly, she died on the way. There will be a coroner’s inquest.

  Okay, she thought, we’re inching nearer. She rang Ashford police and asked for the records for 1993. While she waited for an email to arrive, she stood at her window, looking down onto the car park as Patrick drove in fast and parked. He got out of his car, phone pressed to his ear, and jogged up and down on the spot while he was speaking. Then he took a can from the car and sprayed its contents around his torso before heading into the building. Strange.

  She heard the ping of an incoming email, sighed as she read the grim report made in April 1993, and saw the full names. All this time and it was right in front of us if we’d known where to look. There were photos of Sophie Stenning, one in life and several post-mortem. She looked again at the parents’ names. She’d recently met someone with that first name who looked the right kind of age. She checked for a current address. As she’d expected, she saw that it was in Aldmarsh.

  Ali was at his desk and came through when she called him. She recounted her discussion with Mike Shelton and showed him what she’d found.

  ‘So Vine lied to us, he did recognize the kid’s photo.’

  ‘Perhaps not intentionally at first or he wasn’t sure, which is why he went to talk to Mike Shelton. Vine must have met her at Lock Lane with her father at some point. We’ve found the child in the photo but apart from death by scissors, we still don’t know what links her to Lauren Visser. But at least now we know who to ask. Sophie was two years older than Lauren Visser. James Stenning worked in this area and must have got to know people. We have to consider if he was Lauren’s father. And if he was, did his wife know?’

  They talked tactics for a few minutes. Then Siv made a phone call but put the receiver down as soon as it was answered.

  ‘She’s at home. We’ll have to tread carefully. We’ve no forensics and only a tyre imprint to go on, which is hardly robust evidence. No pithy comments, okay?’

  Ali was eating sultanas that he’d magicked from his pocket. ‘Gotcha, guv.’

  * * *

  It was a detached stone cottage, double-fronted with shutters at the windows and set on a bank with winding steps to the front door. The front garden was paved, with a bench and a cast-iron sundial. There was no car outside but there was a stand-alone garage at the side of the house. Siv tapped the heavy knocker twice, loudly.

  She opened the door wearing a blue apron patterned with red tulips, her hair tied back. Her eyes darted between Siv and Ali. ‘Inspector Drummond. What brings you this way?’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you, Mrs Stenning.’

  ‘Of course. Do come in.’

  She led them into a living room with dark beams on the ceiling, waxed floorboards and chairs covered in green linen. There was a partly completed jigsaw on a coffee table. It was shaded and felt peaceful. She took her apron off and asked them to sit down.

  ‘I just need to rinse my hands and turn the oven off. I’ve been baking for the church festival. I won’t be a moment.’

  Siv rose as soon as she left the room and stood watching the hallway. Ali looked at the photos on the wide mantelpiece. None of the child, he mouthed.

  Mrs Stenning came back from the kitchen, smiling. ‘Did you enjoy your cheesecake, Inspector?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  She sat opposite them near the door, loosening her hair and slipping the elastic grip over her wrist. ‘We sold out quickly. You were lucky to come along when you did. I’ve just made another batch if you’d like some before I put it in the freezer. Blueberry topping this time.’

  ‘This isn’t a social call, Mrs Stenning.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Sorry to witter on about the baking in that case.’

  She knew, behind the polite pretence. When cornered, some people were surly or aggressive or mute with fear. Others like Julia Stenning used their social skills to help them tread water. ‘Sergeant Carlin would like to show you a photo again, Mrs Stenning. You have seen it before, at Polska, but I’d like you to take another look.’

  Ali took the photo of Sophie Stenning from his pocket and handed it to her mother. Julia stared down at it. Her bony hand trembled.

  ‘Do you recognize that little girl?’ Siv asked. ‘She died in a tragic accident in 1993 in Ashford. I think you do know her.’

  Julia gripped the photo. ‘How do you know about the accident?’

  ‘Through asking questions and reading the police report. Is that Sophie?’

  ‘Yes. This is Sophie.’

  ‘Your daughter Sophie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When I showed you the photo previously at Polska, you said you didn’t know this child.’

  Julia held the photo in her palm and traced a finger across it. ‘I was taken aback, shocked. I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘But the photo had been left at a murder scene. You must have realized that it was crucial information. I made it clear that I needed to know the little girl’s identity.’

  ‘Yes, you did. I’m sorry. I was appalled, you see. How did anyone get hold of Sophie’s photo, and why would they leave it where people had been murdered?’

  ‘You didn’t look shocked or appal
led when I showed you the photo. You held it up to the light and replied perfectly calmly.’

  Julia looked down at her feet. They were aligned neatly together. She wore sandals and her toes were narrow and straight. Her sleeveless shirt revealed well-honed arms. Siv had a sense of enormous self-control. She must work hard at staying so fit and lean.

  ‘I can’t explain it. How can one explain that kind of terrible shock?’

  Siv shook her head. ‘No, I don’t understand. I saw you subsequently at the festival and you looked quite well and relaxed. You offered me cake. You didn’t think to mention it then, or to phone me once you’d recovered from your shock?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I was trying hard not to think about it because it’s so painful. I know it sounds odd and hard to credit but to me, it’s as if Sophie died yesterday, not years ago. She was everything to us. A bright, bubbly girl with such an engaging personality. We were entranced by the way she turned our lives upside down. We called her the rocket because she never stopped moving and chattering. I’d gone out that evening, you see. I hardly ever went out but that night there was a talk in the church hall I wanted to attend and James, my husband, urged me to go. He was in his office over the garage with Sophie. He took a phone call and while he was talking and looking something up, she climbed on to his chair and reached for a pair of scissors. The chair rolled from under her and she fell. The scissors went into her neck.’ She drew her fingers slowly down her own neck, pressing them into the side. ‘Such a savage thing to happen to a little girl. I never spoke to her again. She was unconscious and she died in the ambulance. It was so quiet afterwards. I couldn’t get used to the quiet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stenning.’

  ‘Yes. You get a lot of sympathy from people. James kept telling me he was sorry and how guilty he felt. I was angry with him for a long time. I did blame him and then I felt bad for blaming him. It almost split us apart. We couldn’t bear to have any more children, to tempt fate again. We moved house eventually, came here to get away from the memories. Inspector, I know you find my silence hard to believe but when you told me about the photo, it was as if someone had desecrated Sophie’s memory. I think I just blanked it out because I didn’t want to think about it. People tell you that time heals but it doesn’t. Grief doesn’t fade, you see. It squats in the corner of your mind and speaks to you every day.’