Dying Truth

by Angela Marsons

  Monty Johnson was already dead.

  Seventy-Eight

  Dawson spied Geoffrey sitting on a hard bench in the main reception beneath a Last Supper tapestry.

  His backpack rested at his feet, an exercise book balanced on his knees and a textbook open on the bench beside him.

  ‘Hey, you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your room?’ Dawson asked, sitting down.

  Geoffrey smiled and then shook his head. ‘I don’t spend too much time in there,’ he said. ‘Not unless I have to.’

  ‘The Library?’ Dawson asked, as Geoffrey just caught the exercise book before it slipped from his knees.

  He shook his head. ‘I like it here,’ he said.

  Dawson thought he could understand why. Students and teachers were moving back and forth through the space, all going somewhere else, all focused on what they were heading towards. No one even glanced in their direction.

  Dawson smiled. ‘Jeez, you remind me of me,’ he said.

  Geoffrey looked at him disbelievingly. ‘No, I don’t think…’

  ‘I was in my fourth year of high school, fifteen, and I weighed sixteen stone,’ he said, recalling the day he’d seen the scales hit that particular marker.

  Geoffrey guffawed and for the first time looked like the twelve-year-old boy he was. ‘No way.’

  ‘Honest,’ he admitted. ‘I liked my food. A lot. My mum wasn’t one for healthy cooking, and I didn’t much like exercise.’

  ‘How’d you get like this?’ Geoffrey asked.

  ‘I realised I wasn’t happy with me. Some rougher kids befriended me, and I was grateful, but they only did it because they were planning on doing something bad and knew I’d be the one that got caught. I couldn’t run as fast as they could.’

  ‘And did you get caught?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Dawson said. But his memories were not of the police or even his parents. They were still of the poor old woman that fell to the ground when the rest of the group ran off with her handbag.

  ‘So, what did you do, stop eating?’ Geoffrey asked, dolefully.

  Dawson smiled. Food had been his best friend too. ‘No, I started going to the gym. I decided I wanted to change my body for me. Not because of other people but because I wanted to get fitter. I wanted to be able to do more before getting out of breath or starting to sweat. But I did it for me, Geoffrey. Not for some idiots who thought it was funny to call me names.’

  ‘What were the teachers like at your school?’ Geoffrey asked.

  Not like Havers, he almost said. ‘Some were okay, some were crap.’

  ‘Did they make fun of you, too?’

  The question hit him somewhere in the gut.

  ‘Not intentionally,’ he said, honestly. ‘But they sometimes left me out of stuff, assumed I couldn’t do it because of my size. That hurt a bit.’

  ‘I wish Havers would leave me out,’ Geoffrey said.

  He didn’t like the guy but he had a job to do. ‘He has to involve you in the lessons, mate,’ Dawson said, surprised to find himself defending the man.

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘Not the lessons. I get that. He’s chosen me to ring the bell on Saturday night.’

  ‘Ring the bell?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘At the gala that’s now a memorial service. The bell rings three times to signal the opening of the show.’

  ‘And Havers has asked you to do it?’ Dawson asked. Seemed like a bit of an honour to be asked, and he’d thought Havers didn’t like Geoffrey that much.

  ‘Yes, he said the hundred-and-fifty-step climb will shed a few ounces.’

  Dawson had to clench his fist. He should have known.

  There was so much he wanted to say to this kid about the man being a total dick and not even worth his time but once this investigation was over he would leave and never see Havers again. Geoffrey would not.

  ‘I don’t cry, you know,’ he said, quietly. ‘Not any more.’

  Dawson felt something cracking inside him. He said nothing.

  ‘I used to but I’m twelve now. Almost grown up.’

  ‘Hey,’ Dawson said, clearing his throat. ‘No need to be rushing these years away, and it’s no sin to cry,’ he advised.

  ‘So, did they stop?’ Geoffrey asked, looking up at him. ‘The kids, did they stop bullying you when you lost weight?’

  Dawson shrugged. ‘Either they did, or I stopped hearing them. It didn’t matter because I was happy with myself. I felt I was achieving something, so I didn’t care anymore.’

  Dawson could see he had the kid’s interest.

  ‘Listen, I go to Pump Gym in Brierley Hill. They’ve got a cracking swimming pool too. I’ll be there Sunday morning about ten. It’s open hour for new members. Come and have a look and see if you like it.’

  ‘I got a card,’ Geoffrey said, quietly, staring down at his exercise book.

  ‘A card?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘Ace of spades,’ Geoffrey clarified. ‘Shaun’s death left a space,’ Geoffrey continued. ‘And they want me to join.’

  ‘Do you want to?’ Dawson asked.

  Being part of an elite group of powerful kids had to be appealing to the child who seemed to get shit from most pupils and even some of the teachers.

  Being a Spade would offer Geoffrey protection from the bullying and the taunting. It would certainly make his life at Heathcrest easier. It was not unlike his own situation. He had joined that group thinking it would improve his life.

  ‘So, why?’

  ‘It’s because of my mum,’ he said, flatly. ‘She won an important case this week. She was on the news.’

  Dawson could hear the pride in his voice.

  ‘But that’s why they want me,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do with me. It’s because of my mum.’

  Dawson tried to put himself in Geoffrey’s position. Away from home, on his own, being bullied and taunted.

  ‘Maybe it’s not such a bad—’

  ‘I told them no,’ he said, as a bell sounded along the hallway.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Dawson asked, feeling his admiration for this kid grow.

  ‘It’s not the kind of club I want to join,’ he said, collecting his books together. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to head off…’

  ‘No problem,’ Dawson said, watching him amble away.

  Dawson silently applauded the boy’s strength of character in not taking the easy way out of a difficult situation.

  He only hoped the kid didn’t live to regret it.

  Seventy-Nine

  Bryant indicated to turn at the first cordon into the road that led to Lye railway station.

  Evening traffic began to build up behind them as the two officers stared and shook their heads to say no access. Kim smashed her warrant card against the window as they both scrambled to move the orange cones out of the way. The female officer held up her hand in apology as they passed through, ignoring the horns of the disgruntled commuters behind.

  Bryant pulled up at the second cordon at the entrance to the old station building.

  Three officers were busy questioning pale-faced witnesses who were either leaning against or sitting on the wall. Kim heard a bespectacled young man in his late teens mention “phone” as they passed by.

  She spied the train driver in the waiting room sipping a glass of water. A rail official was leaning over him, a hand resting on his shoulder. The driver was pretending to listen, nodding occasionally while staring at the wall opposite. There was only one film playing through his head right now, and it was a film that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  Kim continued walking. She had no words that would make him feel better.

  The train was perfectly parked against the platform. Kim realised that the driver would have been slowing to ease into the station. Monty Johnson had gone and stood at the furthest point from the station building so that the train would hit him on its way in.

  The train hadn’t been moved since and wouldn’t be until the pathologist said so.

&n
bsp; She headed to the end of the platform.

  ‘What we got, Keats?’

  Two crime scene techs were down on the line with him, and Kim couldn’t help feeling relieved that she couldn’t see the state of the body.

  Keats heaved himself up onto the platform. ‘What’s this guy to you?’ he asked, removing the latex gloves. ‘Definitely a suicide, according to eleven eye witnesses and I’m guessing that camera up there, so what’s your interest?’

  ‘He’s the driver of the car that hit Joanna Wade.’

  ‘Aah, I see. Well, there’s no wallet or phone on him,’ Keats said. ‘Just driving licence in his front pocket, which we used for identification.’

  ‘Injuries?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Too many to count just yet,’ he answered with a sigh.

  ‘Okay, thanks Keats,’ she said, heading back towards the station.

  ‘Going so soon?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘Nothing to gain,’ she answered. ‘We know he killed Joanna, and we know he killed himself. Getting a road map of his injuries isn’t going to tell us why he did either.’

  Bryant began to speak but she’d already changed direction.

  She stood in front of the train driver. Maybe there was something she could say to help after all.

  ‘Listen, you’re never going to get that picture out your head,’ she said, honestly. ‘And it wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done and right now that’s gonna mean absolutely nothing; but one thing you should know is that guy under the wheels of your train was no saint. He deliberately mowed down and killed a young woman last night, which is something else you should try to remember,’ she said.

  He raised his head and looked at her. Nothing would mean anything to him right now. No truth would penetrate the shock shield around him. Right now he wasn’t looking to excuse himself. At this very minute he was happy to absorb all the blame, but once the shock wore off and he was looking to get clear of the misplaced responsibility, he might just remember her words.

  ‘One second he was messing on his phone and the next…’ He shook his head ‘It was the sound of his body hitting—’

  ‘His phone?’ Kim interrupted.

  The man nodded and lowered his head.

  As they’d entered the station she’d heard a witness mention a mobile phone too.

  ‘Could have just been looking down, guv,’ Bryant said, quietly. ‘These days we all assume—’

  Kim stepped away from the driver. ‘But he’s the second person to mention Monty Johnson paying attention to a phone. But why right at that moment, Bryant?’ Kim asked, heading back through the waiting room towards the platform. ‘He’s about to end his life and he’s messing around on a phone. Who gives a shit if you’ve not replied to a message? You’re gonna be dead in a minute.’

  ‘But Keats said there was no phone.’

  ‘And I’m saying there is,’ she said, stubbornly.

  She walked the platform until she was roughly where Monty Johnson had been standing.

  If he was messing with his phone in his final few minutes, then he wanted to communicate something to someone.

  They had been sitting in the man’s living room with his partner at the time of death and nothing had been communicated to him. If he wanted to let someone know something he wouldn’t jump with his phone. He would leave it behind.

  ‘On the ground, Bryant,’ she said, dropping to her knees.

  He groaned but followed suit.

  ‘It’s around here somewhere,’ she said, as they both rested on their stomachs and lowered their heads to the ground.

  ‘I’ll take the benches over there,’ he said, nodding to the right.

  ‘Thanks for nothing, buddy,’ she said, realising she’d been left the two vending machines. She would need to get her hand right under there amongst God knows what. But she knew it had to be around somewhere. Either he had thrown it before falling onto the tracks or someone had kicked it out of sight during the initial chaos.

  She crawled closer to the drinks machine on the left. The plastic skirt around the bottom was slightly higher, offering more room for her hand.

  She closed her, eyes and slid her hand beneath the skirt. Immediately her fingers met some kind of wrapper that she flicked out of the way. She placed her hand palm down and began to pat the floor in a grid-like formation, careful not to miss an area. Her thumb landed in a pile of sticky liquid that she didn’t even want to identify.

  She rearranged her arm and turned her head. Bryant was trying to hide a satisfied grin.

  She frowned. ‘You’ve got it, haven’t you?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘You did say I should let you get your hands dirty now and again.’

  She growled at him and pushed herself to a standing position.

  ‘Here, it’s clean,’ he said, passing her a handkerchief from his pocket.

  She gave her hand a good wipe before giving it back to him. She took the smartphone from her colleague and touched the home button. Surprisingly it spurred into life as all Monty’s icons and apps appeared on the screen.

  ‘No password?’ Bryant queried.

  Kim shook her head as she sat down on the bench.

  ‘He wanted us to find this,’ she said, scrolling through his call register.

  ‘You think he took his own life out of guilt?’ Bryant asked.

  Yes, that was exactly what she thought.

  ‘But why not just come to us and tell us the truth?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘Because of that bloody oath he made years ago,’ she said with disgust.

  Having scrolled back to the day before Sadie’s death, Kim found no call made to or received by any name she recognised.

  She pressed on his text message icon and her eyes widened as she saw the header for the top message in the box.

  The stream held seventeen messages and was entitled ‘Welcome back.’

  Eighty

  Stacey replaced the receiver and leaned back in the chair, stretching her neck.

  The boss had sounded a bit miffed that she would struggle to identify the person who had sent the messages to Monty Johnson’s phone with a pay-and-go handset. With frustration, the boss had explained that it was all there. A message stream that detailed the instruction to kill Joanna Wade along with a promise that the club would welcome him back with open arms. The sender had even told Monty where Joanna would be and at what time.

  Stacey had understood but the sender could have admitted to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby while riding Shergar and she still wouldn’t have been able to find out who sent it. And the boss’s final sentence telling her to go home had sounded like an order instead of a suggestion.

  Stacey checked her watch. Yes, she had been at her desk for thirteen hours. Yes, she was also mindful of the boss’s words during her appraisal. And yes, she really should think about going home. And she would have done if she hadn’t hit on an old student record, hidden in the Heathcrest archives.

  She reached into her bag and took out her mobile phone. Her call was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hey babe, just ordered Chinese and am filling two wine glasses with—’

  ‘I’m gonna be late, D,’ she said, using her pet name for Devon.

  Stacey still couldn’t believe how easily they had fallen into a relationship once she had found the courage to trust the woman whose dark skin and short blonde curls turned heads wherever she went. Devon was the first thing she thought about in the morning, last thing at night and plenty of times in between.

  ‘Is this a keep my dinner warm late or feel free to eat it all late?’ Devon asked with a smile in her voice.

  Stacey’s own lips reflected that smile. Being an immigration officer meant Devon could completely understand the pressures of work. Only last week Devon had been called in from a day off as they’d wandered hand in hand around Dudley Zoo.

  ‘Probably the latter,’ Stacey admitted looking at the computer screen.

  ‘Tomorrow night?’ Devon
asked.

  ‘For sure, D. And I’m sorry, okay?’

  ‘All right, love you, babe,’ Devon said, ending the call.

  Stacey held the phone in her hand, stunned. Devon had said the L word. It was the first time the word had surfaced in their budding romance. Stacey automatically stilled the warmth spreading around her body and told herself that she’d just said it casually, like one would to a good friend or family member.

  But she’s never done it before, a small voice said.

  She wanted to go straight round to Devon’s place and ask her exactly what she had meant by that comment and if it was what she hoped for because she was pretty sure she was falling in love with Devon too.

  She wanted to but she couldn’t.

  Because the file she’d found had a dated encryption code. She’d broken through the first layer to discover that it was for a fifteen-year-old girl named Lorraine Peters.

  Eighty-One

  The Spades filed silently into the candle room. The dancing flames distorted their shapes into grotesque silhouettes creeping along the wall.

  Once seated, the Joker looked directly at the empty chair.

  ‘The card was left in Piggott’s bed,’ he said.

  An air of expectation travelled around the room. A new card breathed fresh life into the group. The cards were already mentally preparing ideas for his initiation.

  ‘And it was refused,’ the Joker added.

  Stunned silence filled the room as cards turned to each other in confusion.

  ‘Sir?’ asked the King breaking protocol.

  The Joker let it pass. On this occasion it was understandable. To his knowledge it had only ever happened twice before.

  Each card was wondering the exact same thing.

  Why would anyone refuse the opportunity to become part of an elite, exclusive club that sheltered you for life? An invitation into the Spades offered access to every member of the club either past, present or future. Hundreds of influential, powerful men located in every sector: medicine, education, sports, business, politics and law.