Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

  If I hadn’t met you, I’d still be there. Maybe you would be, too.

  We wouldn’t be together.

  We’d have parted ways after a few weeks, on to pastures new. Different arms, different bars.

  I remember the first morning at Oak View. You were still sleeping, your hair messed up and your lips a fraction apart. I lay on my back and I fought the urge to leave. To tiptoe down the stairs with my shoes in my hand and get the hell out of there.

  Then I thought of our unborn child. Of the stomach I’d once run my fingers over and now couldn’t even bear to touch. Taut as a drum. Big as a beach ball. Anchoring me to this bed. To this life. To you.

  Twenty-five years of marriage. It would be wrong to say I was unhappy for all that time; equally wrong to suggest that I was happy. We coexisted, both trapped in a marriage that convention wouldn’t let us leave.

  We should have been braver. More honest with each other. If one of us had left, we both would have had the lives we wanted.

  If one of us had left, no one would have blood on their hands.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-NINE

  MURRAY

  “What will you do if we find her?” Sarah was navigating, the GPS on her phone sending them up the M40 past Oxford. She tapped the screen. “Off at junction three.”

  “Arrest her,” Murray said, then remembered he wasn’t a warranted officer anymore. He would have to call in reinforcements.

  “Even though you think she was forced into it?”

  “That might mitigate the offenses, but it doesn’t negate them. She’s still committed fraud, not to mention wasting police time.”

  “Do you think they’re together?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Before they’d set off, Murray had called the Wagon and Horses and made inquiries about Tom and Caroline Johnson. Their descriptions hadn’t rung any bells with the landlady, and so coming up themselves had felt like the only option. Would he have done the same, had he still been a detective? He might have wanted to—a jolly on the DCI’s budget was always a perk—but there would have been more efficient ways of finding out if the Johnsons were in Coton in the Elms. He would have put in a request to Derbyshire Constabulary; asked officers to make inquiries; checked their intelligence systems. All of which was possible when you were a warranted officer, and none of which could be easily achieved by a retired DC who had already had his knuckles rapped by the superintendent.

  “It’s nice to get away,” Sarah said. She was gazing out the window as though she were seeing rolling hills or ocean views, not a motorway service station on the approach to Birmingham. She grinned at Murray. “Like Thelma and Louise, but with less hair.”

  Murray rubbed a hand over his head. “Are you saying I’m going bald?”

  “Not at all. You’re just follicularly challenged. You need to stay in the left-hand lane here.”

  “Maybe we should do this more often.”

  “Track down dead people who aren’t really dead?”

  Murray grinned. “Take road trips.” Sarah was scared of flying, and in the forty years they had been together, they had been abroad only once, to France, where Sarah had had a panic attack on the ferry, hemmed in by cars waiting for their turn to drive off. “There are so many beautiful places to see in this country.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Another reason to retire properly, Murray thought. If he was at home all the time they could take off whenever they wanted to. Whenever Sarah felt up to it. Maybe they could buy a motor home, so she would never have to worry about other people. Just the two of them, parked up in a pretty campsite somewhere. He would see this job through—he’d never yet given up on a case, and he wasn’t going to start now—and then he would hand in his notice. He was ready to go now, and for the first time in a long while he looked to the future without misgivings.

  * * *

  • • •

  Coton in the Elms was a pretty village a few miles south of Burton upon Trent. According to the pile of pamphlets in their room—a nicely finished double on the first floor of the Wagon and Horses—there was plenty to do within a short drive, but little in the village itself. Murray couldn’t imagine it had been the most scintillating of destinations for two young women, although he supposed if you lived in inner-city London, the contrast of fresh air and beautiful countryside was a holiday in itself. In the photograph, Caroline and Alicia had looked as though they hadn’t had a care in the world.

  In the recently refurbished bar, the landlady was putting up decorations for the following night’s New Year’s Eve party.

  “It was lucky you only wanted one night. We’re packed out tomorrow. Pass us that Blu Tack, will you, duck?”

  Sarah obliged. “Are there many places to rent in the village?”

  “Holiday cottages, you mean?”

  “Something more permanent, really. Flats, perhaps. Cash in hand, no questions asked—that sort of thing.”

  The landlady looked over her glasses at Sarah. She narrowed her eyes.

  “It’s not for us.” Murray grinned. He’d worked with a few detectives whose questioning skills lacked refinement, but Sarah beat them hands down.

  “Oh! No, it’s not for us. We’re looking for some people.”

  “The couple you mentioned on the phone?”

  Murray nodded. “It’s possible they’re in the area. If they are, they’d want to stay out of the spotlight.”

  The landlady gave a snort of laughter that wobbled her ladder. “In Coton? Everyone knows everyone’s business here. If your pair were here, I’d know about it.” She took another piece of Blu Tack from Sarah and stuck a bunch of silver balloons onto a fake beam. “Speak to Shifty tonight. He might be able to help.”

  “Who?”

  “Simon Shiftworth. Shifty suits him better, though. You’ll see why. People who can’t get a council flat get one of Shifty’s. He’ll be in around nine—always is.”

  Sarah looked at Murray. “It’s a date.”

  * * *

  • • •

  They ate in the village’s other pub, the Black Horse, in order to ask the landlord if he knew of any incomers to the village. He didn’t. Murray was surprised to discover he wasn’t overly bothered by their lack of progress. In fact, if the entire trip proved to be fruitless, he didn’t care. Sarah was looking happier than he’d seen her in months. She had polished off steak and chips and a treacle tart, along with two glasses of wine, and the pair of them had laughed in a way Murray didn’t think they’d laughed since they first got together. A change was as good as a rest, they said, and Murray could feel his own spirits lifting, as surely as if he’d spent a week in a health spa.

  “If Shifty’s not here, we can just go to bed,” Sarah said as they walked back to the Wagon and Horses.

  “It’s still early; I’m not . . .” Murray caught Sarah’s wink. “Oh. Good plan.” He hoped Shifty would decide to have a quiet one at home. But as they headed to the bar to get a nightcap to take upstairs, the landlady jerked her head toward the snug.

  “In there. You can’t miss him.”

  Murray and Sarah exchanged a glance.

  “We’ll have to see him.”

  “But . . .” It had been a very long time since Murray had had an early night.

  Sarah suppressed a laugh at his obvious frustration. “We’ve come all this way.”

  They had. And with any luck, their chat with Shifty wouldn’t take long. Plenty of time for an early night.

  The landlady had been right; there was no missing Shifty.

  In his sixties, he had greasy yellowed hair pasted across a bald head, and thick-rimmed glasses so smeared it was a wonder he could see through them. A cold sore wept in the corner of his mouth. He wore pale blue jeans, black trainers with white socks, and a leather jacket cracked at
the creases of each elbow.

  “He looks like a public service announcement for pedophiles,” whispered Sarah.

  Murray shot her a look, but Shifty showed no sign of having heard. He looked up as they approached.

  “Caz says you’re looking for someone.”

  “Two people. Tom and Caroline Johnson.”

  “Never heard of them,” Shifty said, too fast for it to mean anything either way. He looked Murray up and down. “Not police, are you?”

  “No,” Murray said, with a clear conscience.

  Shifty drained his pint glass and set it down deliberately in front of him.

  Murray knew the score. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll have a pint of Black Hole.”

  Murray caught the landlady’s eye. “A pint of Black—”

  “And a whiskey chaser,” Shifty added.

  “Right.”

  “And a couple lined up for later. I’m feeling thirsty.”

  “I tell you what.” Murray opened his wallet. “Why don’t I give you this?” He pulled out two twenty-pound notes and laid them on the bar. From his pocket he took out photographs of Tom and Caroline Johnson, given to the police after each was reported missing. “And you tell me if you’ve rented a flat to this couple.”

  Shifty pocketed the cash. “Why do you want to know?”

  Because they’re pretending to be dead.

  If Shifty had half the nous he appeared to have, he’d tell them nothing and get on the phone to the Daily Mail.

  “They owe us money,” Sarah said.

  Inspired. Murray wanted to applaud. Shifty was nodding, no doubt reflecting on his own experiences of absent debtors.

  “Never seen this bloke.” He jabbed at the photograph of Tom Johnson. “But the bird”—he jabbed at Caroline—“she’s in one of my bedsits in Swad. Different hair, but definitely her. Goes by the name Angela Grange.”

  Murray could have kissed him. He knew it! Fake suicides. This was huge. He wanted to spin Sarah around, buy champagne, tell the whole pub what they’d discovered.

  “Great,” he said.

  “At least, she was . . .”

  So close.

  “She scarpered, owing me a month’s rent.”

  “Take it out of her deposit,” Sarah suggested helpfully.

  Murray tried to keep a straight face and failed.

  Shifty looked at her as though she had suggested he wash his hair. “What deposit? People rent from me because there are no deposits. No contracts. No questions.”

  “No carpets,” Caz contributed, from behind the bar.

  “Fuck off,” Shifty said mildly.

  “Could we take a look around the bedsit?” Nothing ventured, Murray thought. A regular landlord would tell him where to go. Shifty, on the other hand . . .

  “No skin off mine. Meet you there tomorrow morning.” He looked at the full pint and the tumbler of whiskey in front of him. “Better make it after lunch.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The address Shifty had written down for them was in Swadlincote, five miles from Coton in the Elms, and with none of the latter village’s charm. An array of charity shops and boarded-up premises graced the town’s main street, and a motley collection of youths outside Somerfield suggested employment opportunities were limited.

  Murray and Sarah found Potters Road and parked outside the block of flats Shifty had described. The building was redbrick. Several windows had been covered with metal grilles, which had in turn been covered with graffiti. A large yellow penis was sprayed across the front door.

  “Nice place,” Sarah said. “We should move here.”

  “Lovely outlook,” Murray agreed. A cairn of mattresses filled the scrubby garden at the front of the property. In the center, a charred circle showed where someone had tried to set fire to them.

  Sarah nodded toward an oncoming car—the only one on the otherwise deserted street. “Do you think that’s him?”

  There was nothing low-key about Shifty’s car: a white Lexus with lowered suspension and out-of-proportion wheels. Blue LEDs glowed from behind a silver mesh grill, and a giant spoiler weighed down the rear end.

  “Classy.”

  Murray got out. “Maybe you should wait in the car.”

  “Not a chance.” Sarah hopped out and waited for Shifty to emerge from behind the tinted windows of the Lexus. The man was a walking cliché; Murray was surprised he hadn’t seen a gold medallion glinting between his shirt buttons.

  No time was wasted on good mornings. Shifty gave them a curt nod and strode past toward the penis-adorned entrance.

  The bedsit where Angela Grange—aka Caroline Johnson—had spent the last twelve months was depressing. It was clean—cleaner, Murray suspected, than when Caroline had moved in, judging by the filth in the communal stairwell—but the paint was peeling from the walls, and with all the windows shut fast, condensation glistened on every wall. Murray nodded at the extra bolts on the inside of the front door.

  “Standard around here, are they?”

  “She did that. Someone had the frighteners on her.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “She didn’t have to. She was jumpy as fuck. None of my business.” Shifty was wandering around the room, checking for damage. He pulled open a drawer and picked up a black bra, turning to Murray with a leer. “Thirty-six C, if you’re asking.”

  Murray wasn’t. But if Shifty was going to poke around, so was he.

  Someone had the frighteners on her . . .

  Tom. It had to be. And if Caroline had skipped town, did that mean he’d found this flat? Murray was finding it hard to keep up. This investigation had morphed from a double suicide to a possible double murder, to a fake suicide, and now . . . what?

  Was Caroline still on the run, or had Tom caught up with her?

  Was Murray now looking at an abduction?

  It would be the perfect crime. After all, who’s going to look for a dead woman?

  There wasn’t much in the flat. Some clothes, a tin of soup in the cupboard, milk Murray wouldn’t risk opening in the fridge. The garbage can stank of rotting food, but Murray took the lid off regardless. A clutch of bluebottles flew into his face. He picked up a wooden spoon from the draining board and poked around in the rubbish. His mind was working overtime. What if Caroline hadn’t faked her own death for financial reasons, but because she was scared? Tom was blackmailing her, asking for more and more money, until Caroline felt the only avenue open to her was to disappear. After all, it had worked for her husband.

  Murray’s attention was caught by a sheaf of paperwork buried beneath a pile of used tea bags. Something about the layout—the logo—was familiar, and when he pulled it out he knew exactly what it was. The question was, why did Caroline have it?

  As he read through the document, pieces of the puzzle began to drop into place. He didn’t have the whole answer—not yet—but everything was beginning to make sense. Fake suicides were driven by money, yes. Sex, too. But there was another reason why people wanted to disappear, and it looked as though Murray had just found it.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY

  ANNA

  Mum is packing. She doesn’t have much—the small bag she took with her to the Hope, and a few bits I’ve persuaded her to take from her own wardrobe at Oak View. I sit on her bed, wanting to beg her to stay but knowing it’s pointless to try. She won’t stay. She can’t stay. The police will be back, and next time they won’t let me off so lightly. It’s going to be hard enough convincing them I know nothing about my parents’ crimes, without worrying about whether Mum is well hidden enough.

  “Won’t you at least stay for the party?” Mark said, when she announced at breakfast she would leave today. “See in the New Year with us?”

&
nbsp; “I’m not really one for parties,” she said easily.

  She loves parties. At least, the old Mum loved parties. I’m not sure about this one. My mother has changed—and I don’t mean just the weight loss and the dyed hair. She’s anxious. Subdued. Constantly watchful. She’s been broken, and now my grief is twofold. I am mourning not only a mother, but the woman she used to be.

  I make one final attempt to keep her.

  “If we told the police everything—”

  “Anna, no!”

  “They might understand why you did what you did.”

  “And they might not.”

  I fall silent.

  “I’ll go to prison. You might, too. You’ll tell them you’ve only known since Christmas Eve that I’m alive, but do you think they’ll believe that? When it looks as though Tom and I planned this together? When the house is in your name now?”

  “That’s my problem.”

  “And when you’re arrested it’ll be Mark’s and Ella’s. Do you want that little girl growing up without a mother?”

  I don’t. Of course I don’t. But I don’t want to be without one, either.

  Mum zips up her bag. “There. Done.” She tries for a smile that convinces neither of us. I reach for her bag, but she shakes her head. “I can manage. In fact . . .” She breaks off.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll think me ridiculous.”

  “Try me.”

  “Could I say good-bye to the house? Just a few minutes . . .”

  I pull her to me, hugging her so tightly I feel the very bones of her. “Of course you can. It’s your house, Mum.”

  Gently, she breaks away; smiles sadly. “It’s your house. Yours, Mark’s, and Ella’s. And I want you to fill it with happy memories. Do you understand?”

  I nod, blinking hard. “Mark and I will take Ella around the park. Give you a bit of time to say your good-byes.”

  I don’t think her ridiculous at all. A home is far more than just a house, far more than bricks and mortar. It’s why I wouldn’t countenance Mark’s suggestion that we sell; why I didn’t want to challenge Robert’s Grand Designs extension. This is where I live. I’m happy here. I don’t want anything to change that.