The Deadly Truth

by Valerie Keogh

  Minutes later she was on her way back to Edgware Motors. It was a long, uncomfortable journey, heavy traffic forcing the taxi to continuously stop and start. Her earlier fear hadn’t receded. She kept her eyes shut, rested her head back and tried to get things straight. If Eric confirmed her fears about Quinn, she’d ring Elliot… then it would be all over, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Looks like you won’t be buying a car today, love,’ the taxi driver said, after almost an hour’s jerky, unpleasant drive.

  She leaned forward to peer out the front windscreen, her eyes widening at the police cars and ambulance parked on the roadside.

  ‘This is as close as I can get you.’ The taxi stopped several yards from a crowd that had gathered, some with craned necks trying to see what was going on, others with arms wrapped around each other and tearful, shocked faces.

  ‘This is fine,’ Melanie said, paying the fare and climbing out.

  Now she knew why the phone wasn’t being answered, there’d been a robbery or something. Joining the edge of the crowd, she looked around in frustration, trying to find Eric. He wasn’t in the group that was kept back from the door by crime-scene tape and two burly, uniformed police officers, but there was someone among them she recognised. The woman with the pink hair, standing hunched over, a picture of misery.

  Melanie edged through the gawking bystanders to her side. ‘Hello,’ she said, then repeated the word a little louder until she got the woman’s attention. ‘Has there been a robbery?’ The woman showed no recognition, staring at Melanie with blank, red-rimmed eyes. ‘I met you here on Saturday, remember, I’m a friend of Eric’s.’

  The woman’s creased face seemed to fold in on itself, then she opened her mouth and wailed. It was a ghastly sound, full of sorrow and disbelief. Horrified, Melanie put an arm around her shoulder and led her away from the crowd to an area around the corner of the building that was sheltered and quiet.

  ‘Please stop,’ Melanie said as the wailing continued unabated. ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’ Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a clean tissue and pressed it into the woman’s hand. ‘Come on, stop crying.’

  The woman’s pink, tear-blotched face now matched her hair. She gave a heaving snuffle, blew her nose noisily and wiped her tears away with the arm of her coat. ‘You still don’t know, do you?’

  The feeling of dread was instant. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Eric. He was found dead in the doorway this morning. It was his turn to open the showroom, you see, so he was here first. One of the other lads, Vic, found him lying in a pool of blood. Eric’s bunch of keys were in the door but he’d never managed to open it.’

  Dead. Melanie felt suddenly weak and nauseous. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to hold herself together. The last thing she’d said to Quinn… I’ll ask Eric, he’ll tell me the truth about you. My God, had she signed the man’s death warrant?

  27

  Melanie gave the woman a hug. ‘I have to go. Will you be okay?’

  ‘I’ll never be okay again,’ the pink-haired woman said, her shattered expression saying clearly that Eric had been much more to her than simply a co-worker. She patted Melanie’s arm and headed back to the group that congregated outside the police cordon.

  Eric was dead. Melanie stumbled back to the road. There were police cars and policemen standing about but she couldn’t gather the courage to speak to them. She’d get a taxi, go straight to the police station, and talk to DI Elliot. But no magic worked in her favour and no taxi suddenly appeared. Feeling exposed, she looked across the road towards The Londoner, the pub where she’d met Eric only days before. It would be safer inside than standing there.

  The lunchtime crowd had already started to gather and the only table free was the same table in the window where she’d sat with Eric. It gave her an eerie sensation to sit there, looking across the road to where he’d been killed. She dragged her eyes away and reached into her bag for her mobile. The card DI Elliot had given her was tucked into a side pocket, she slid it out and quickly dialled the number, relieved to immediately hear his calm voice. ‘Detective Inspector Elliot.’

  ‘It’s Melanie Scott.’ Her words rushed out on an exhaled breath. ‘I need to speak to you, to tell you everything.’

  ‘Okay.’ He dragged the word out. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a pub, The Londoner, in Edgware.’ She wondered if he thought she spent her time in pubs. The Fulham Arms last night, The Londoner today. Then she remembered, he hadn’t turned up. ‘You never came last night,’ she blurted out.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Listen, stay where you are, I’ll be with you in about an hour, okay?’

  Get across the city in an hour? Impossible. She resigned herself to a long wait. Leaving her coat across the back of the chair, she went to the bar and ordered coffee. She still felt nauseous and weak but the list of sandwiches on a board behind the bar looked appetising. Maybe she’d feel better if she ate something. Certainly, she couldn’t feel any worse.

  Her order given, she sat back in the chair; her eyes fixed on the drama across the road. The crowd around the front door was thinning, probably bored from staring at the sides of the white tent that had been erected around the crime scene. A breeze had picked up, and the loose ends of the bright yellow-and-black crime-scene tape that had kept the crowd at a distance fluttered almost gaily. There was nothing to see, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away.

  The pub was either very busy or they were short-staffed because it was fifteen minutes before a harried woman came towards her with a tray bearing coffee and the chicken sandwich Melanie had ordered. The coffee was good, if not as hot as she liked, and the sandwich was perfect. It was gone within minutes and she sat back sipping her now-cold coffee and resumed her stare across the street.

  To her surprise, a little over twenty minutes later the door opened and DI Elliot walked into the pub, a brown, scruffy raincoat open over his suit. From across the room, she could see he was wearing yet another ghastly tie, this one a neon orange that stood out for all the wrong reasons. His eyes scanned the room, zoning in on her as she raised a hand to attract his attention.

  He made his way through the crowded pub and folded his gangly frame into the seat opposite. ‘You have a bird’s eye view,’ he said, looking out the window.

  ‘You know about it?’

  He smiled briefly. ‘We haven’t yet got that blasé about murders that we don’t know about each one. A colleague is heading the investigation, I called over and had a few words with him before coming here. I’m not actively involved in it though.’ His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘At least, I’m not yet. I wouldn’t be a very good detective if I didn’t think, bizarrely, that there might be a link between the dead man, your presence here and your panicky call to me.’

  Her gaze flicked between him and the fluttering crime-scene tape, finally settling on him. It was time to tell her tale. ‘This is quite a story,’ she said, ‘you might want to get something to drink or eat.’

  ‘Coffee,’ he said, and looking at her empty cup, asked, ‘Some more for you?’

  ‘An Americano, please.’

  He returned a few minutes later and placed the coffee on the table in front of her. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘fire ahead.’

  She took a sip of her coffee, good and hot this time, and wondered where to begin. ‘It’s probably best if I start at the beginning,’ she said, almost to herself. Taking occasional sips of coffee, over the next twenty minutes – sometimes having to go back to clarify something and sometimes stopping when her voice choked with emotion – she told him everything. He was a good audience: he didn’t interrupt, didn’t even feel the need to make noncommittal sounds; he sat and listened, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes, she noticed as she stumbled over her words for the umpteenth time, stayed warm and encouraging.

  ‘…so, I came today to ask Eric to confirm that he knows Liam Quinn and to ask what his connection was to Matthew.’ She looked out the window towa
rds the showroom. ‘But as you know I was too late. Worse,’ she said, her voice breaking, ‘it’s my fault. If I hadn’t told Quinn that I was going to ask him, Eric would still be alive.’

  ‘These emails you got, can I see them?’

  ‘Of course.’ Melanie picked up her phone, scrolled through and handed it to him, watching his face as he read, feeling a little uneasy at his lack of response. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  Ignoring her question, he returned her phone. ‘And you think this ex-policeman, Liam Quinn, is responsible for these and for breaking into your home? All to get revenge for the death of this Matthew Thomas?’

  She nodded, too emphatically. ‘I know it all sounds so far-fetched. But don’t they say revenge is a dish best served cold? Someone waited until Cherry and I had made it to the top of our careers before they decided it was time to make us pay. Cherry paid with her life; I’m not willing to do the same.’ She frowned. ‘You should have come last night, as you promised you would, you could have asked him questions then.’ And maybe, she wouldn’t have blurted out about speaking with Eric and maybe he’d still be alive. Turning away from him to hide the tears that had welled, she looked out the window.

  ‘I didn’t promise I’d come,’ he said calmly, ‘and, to be honest, I don’t think anything you or I could have done would have changed the outcome here. My colleague told me that there was no attempt made to enter the showroom and Eric’s wallet was still in his pocket so theft doesn’t appear to have been the motive. They are running with the theory that he was targeted for some reason but if that’s the case it was planned in advance by someone who knew he’d be opening the showroom today.’

  She turned back to look at him, her eyes brighter, feeling pathetically grateful. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. If Quinn is involved with his murder, and’ – Elliot shook his head – ‘nothing you’ve said so far is convincing me of this, he would have had to have planned it long before last night.’

  Relief swept through her. She’d been responsible for one person’s death; she hadn’t wanted to be responsible for another. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She saw him nod, then smooth a hand down his tie. ‘What are you thinking?’ She smiled at his look of surprise. ‘You do that,’ she said, pointing to his tie. ‘You rub your hand down it when you’re going to come out with something I won’t like. At least’ – she shrugged – ‘that’s how I’ve been interpreting it.’

  He flicked the end of his tie. ‘A bit like worry beads, I suppose.’ He sighed. ‘It can’t have been easy for you, all these years, keeping your secret. And these emails you’ve been getting… it’s obvious they’ve had a bad effect on you. Then to cap it all, you fell into the hands of a scam artist like Hugo.’ Elliot smiled sympathetically. ‘Now I think you’re seeing monsters where there are only ordinary people.’

  She bit back a groan of frustration. He thought she was paranoid. It was what she’d thought herself, more than once, so she shouldn’t be surprised. ‘It was the comment he made about men like Hugo wreaking havoc with people’s lives without ever being brought to justice. Now that you know my story, couldn’t that also apply to me?’ She leaned forward slightly, willing him to agree. ‘And there was definitely something between Quinn and Eric.’ She met his calm gaze. ‘You think I’m being paranoid, but I know I’m right.’ She sat back and stared out the window to where she’d last seen Eric ambling back to the showroom. ‘If only I’d managed to speak to Eric. It’s why I was coming here. To see him, to get him to name names rather than give me that stupidly vague warning about not trusting people.’ Dropping her hands on the table, she said more quietly, ‘I mean, what was that all about? Why couldn’t he have simply said “don’t trust Quinn?”’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t who he meant.’

  She took a deep breath and let it out in a gust of frustration and confusion. There was no point in continuing to argue, she knew she was right but with Eric dead she’d no way of proving it. ‘You will look into him though, won’t you?’ she said, more calmly.

  ‘Yes, and I’ll keep you in the loop, don’t worry.’ He smiled, looking suddenly much younger. ‘Don’t tell DI Ballantyne that I’m being so unprofessional.’

  ‘Caitlin would understand.’ Melanie leaned closer again, her eyes entreating. ‘She doesn’t know about Anne Edwards. I’ve never told her.’ She saw his surprised look and shook her head. ‘I wanted a part of my life to be… unsullied, I suppose, by what I’d done as a child. Caitlin thinks I’m this honest, hard-working strait-laced lawyer, I’d like her to stay thinking that of me. Is that possible?’

  ‘There’d be no reason for DI Ballantyne to read City of London police reports.’ A group of people at the next table stood to leave, shouting loud goodbyes across to the bar staff, banging chairs, laughing loudly, filling the air with cheerful sounds that hung heavily over the two by the window. When the group had left and relative silence resumed, Elliot looked at Melanie kindly. ‘Listen, don’t worry. I appreciate you telling me your story, and I know you believe Liam Quinn is to blame for everything but’ – he shook his head – ‘leave the detective work to me. I will look into him, don’t worry, but nothing you’ve said has given me reason to look at him too closely.’ He moved his hand as if to rub it down his tie, stopping with a smile. ‘Hmmm, I’ll need to stop doing that.’ A serious expression returned. ‘I won’t be writing anything about what you’ve told me yet. You haven’t broken any laws by changing your name, after all.’ He tilted his head questioningly. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  She smiled at his suddenly worried expression. ‘No, relax, I had it legally changed by deed poll years ago.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Bloody hell. I have to fly.’ He reached out and patted her hand gently. ‘Go home, stay safe. You have my number, ring me any time, okay?’

  She smiled gratefully and watched him go with regret. She felt safe in his company. The thought made her frown.

  Hadn’t she felt the same about Liam Quinn?

  28

  Melanie sat for a few minutes after Elliot’s departure, reluctant to leave a place where she felt safe. Or maybe she was simply afraid to go home. But she had to, she realised with a frustrated shake of her head, the estate agent was coming around to do a valuation at seven. There was no point in sitting there until then, she needed to get home to make the place look respectable.

  Ringing for a taxi, she sat back and stared out the window. Eric Thomas, he hadn’t been very pleasant to talk to but she supposed it was understandable. She wondered if his parents were still alive. Now they’d lost both their sons… and despite what DI Elliot had said, she couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that somehow, she’d been to blame.

  She waited until the taxi pulled up outside before grabbing her coat and bag and hurrying from the pub. A light rain had started to fall. It was only early afternoon, but low, dark clouds made it feel later. By the time the taxi pulled into her street, the rain had turned into a deluge. A loud crack of thunder rumbled in the distance followed seconds later by a fork of lightning across the darkened sky. She shivered as she handed the driver the fare.

  ‘It’s a bad ’un,’ he said. ‘You better run for it.’

  Run she did, but her wet fingers slipped on the gate handle and fumbled with the keys as she tried to get one in the lock. Cursing her clumsiness, she pushed the door open, stepped inside and shook herself, drops flying everywhere.

  Another louder crash of thunder made her turn quickly and shut the door.

  She was by nature an organised person, so the apartment just needed a quick tidy to make it ready for the agent. It didn’t take long and checking the time, she saw it was only four. She checked her phone for emails; nothing from the office, nothing further from nobody. She frowned; the note left on the table had been the last contact. Two days ago. Was this another form of intimidation, keeping her wondering, on edge, bloody terrified?

  She’d have liked coffee but she was jittery enough and sett
led for camomile tea, hoping it would calm her, but pretty sure it hadn’t a chance. Her apartment had lost its gloss, even sitting looking out the French windows to the garden no longer had the power to calm or charm. It was all spoiled for her. Maybe she’d look a bit further from the city, she’d get more for her money, perhaps even a house. She looked out at the dripping foliage, the dark clouds that loomed across the sky and thought briefly about moving somewhere sunny.

  Tempting, but she’d never leave London.

  She put her mug down as she felt weariness sweep over her. So terribly tired, so utterly exhausted. She rested her head back, shut her eyes and fell into a light doze, her jaw relaxing so that her mouth opened a little, drool puddling to the side of her mouth. A noise woke her. She sat up and tried to shake away that brief disorientation that comes with sleeping in the wrong place at an odd time. What had she heard? Her eyes swept the room, peering out into the garden where daylight was fading fast; shadows, dense darkness, the flicker of movement. Wind perhaps, tossing the wet leaves? Nothing more threatening than that; the garden was safe. She gulped, wiped her mouth, and jumped up to pull the curtains.

  The sound came again, louder, more insistent… recognisable. It was nothing more sinister than the doorbell. The clock on the wall told her she’d slept for nearly an hour. It was too early for the agent and she wasn’t expecting anyone else. She moved into the hall, feeling a flicker of fear when she realised she’d left the safety chain off. Slow steps took her to the door, her hand reaching out for the chain to slide it into place, the chain rattling against the door, the noise swallowed by the sound of her heart thumping.

  ‘Melanie?’

  ‘Caitlin?’ Stepping closer to the door, Melanie held her ear against the wood. ‘Caitlin, is that you?’