The Dead Tell Lies: an absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by J. F. Kirwan

  This was strange. If she was right, and Jennifer hadn’t been abducted but was in hiding… Why was she doing it so effectively? What – or whom – was she afraid of? Never mind. She stored it for later.

  ‘Ellerton?’

  ‘I fixed up a visit with the estate agent at 6.30pm, to view Ellerton’s apartment. The sale of Ellerton’s flat goes through in a week, but it’s still intact for now.’

  ‘Fergus?’

  ‘Spoke to a social worker. Said he was attending some clinic for help.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘St Thomas’, a stone’s throw from where he lives.’

  ‘Find out who leads the sessions there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Dreamer?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay, text me the address of Ellerton’s flat, and the name of the estate agent.’

  ‘You gonna share what you’re doing?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You okay? You sound a little–’

  ‘I’m busy, Matthews.’

  There was a pause, during which she felt like she was being a shit, because she was. But she needed to do this her way.

  He tried one last time. ‘You know we’re partners, right?’

  ‘You can find another one anytime you like.’

  He grunted something and clicked off.

  She considered what she was about to do – investigate a colleague. Call it routine, call it curiosity, call it what it bloody-well was: she wanted some dirt on Rickard, to get some leverage for Greg, and also because he was the reason her lover was still locked up in Reedmoor.

  She searched for a while on the Yard’s database and found the retired professor’s details, made the call, then picked up her jacket and headed to Bloomsbury, to a relatively quiet crescent with its curved row of Georgian mansions converted into hotels or luxury flats, overlooking a tiny private park replete with tennis court. The professor had done well for himself.

  Joseph Tressler looked the part: chiselled features, tweed jacket, full head of silver hair. Probably smoked a pipe. His warm smile broadened as he looked her up and down. Quite the charmer. Finch imagined he’d had more than a few students with a crush on him, back in the day.

  ‘Miss Jones, is it? You’re with Professor Rickard’s publisher, correct?’

  Finch beamed, slipping into the role.

  ‘Exactly, Professor Tressler, so nice to meet you,’ she said, flashing a smile she reserved for occasions like this. For her, smiling was camouflage. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘You are most welcome, my dear. May I get you something, a beverage, a cup of tea, or perhaps… something stronger?’

  ‘A glass of white wine would be nice.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He returned with two glasses, his red, hers white and already chilled.

  Ushered into his sitting room, she perched on a chaise longue while he sat in a high-backed armchair, an antique Indian coffee table between them, a grandfather clock ticking time away in the corner of the room.

  ‘So, you’re here, I understand, because I’m referred to in Rickard’s memoir, is that correct?’

  ‘Precisely. He cites your lessons and tutorials as the launching pad, his – what does he call it? Ah yes, his “foundation”.’

  Joseph let out a little chuckle. Finch smiled exuberantly.

  ‘But…’ she bowed her head a little, as if searching for the words.

  ‘Come, come, my dear, you can say what you like here. I am good at keeping confidences, it is my job, after all. And I certainly won’t say anything to Rickard.’

  She noted he referred to Rickard formally, not by his first name. Not that close then.

  ‘Thank you, Professor, you are too kind. The thing is,’ she lowered her voice, ‘the book is interesting, but a little…’

  He nodded wisely. ‘Clinical?’

  ‘Exactly! I feel, well, the reader will want to form a connection with him, that’s what drives sales these days.’

  He nodded again. ‘Ah yes, poor Rickard.’ He took a sip, savouring before swallowing. ‘Never did get emotion.’ He touched his nose with his forefinger. ‘Just between you and me.’

  She leaned forward. ‘Really. But there were no… I mean, no problems?’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, no, no. Model student and all that.’ He gazed towards the window. ‘Well, there was that one incident… But, no, never mind.’

  She sipped her wine.

  He leaned forward again, and she reciprocated, meeting him halfway over the table.

  ‘Well, if you must know, the other students played a prank on him, you know how they can be.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’

  ‘And he was so self-righteous back then. Still is, from what I’ve seen.’ Tressler smirked.

  She had the feeling this wasn’t his first – or last – glass of the day. She beamed encouragingly. ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Do? Oh, well, it was nothing really. They got someone to pretend they were from a TV channel, asking him for an interview. Nothing happened really. Well, he went to the studio and realised it was all a prank, but then…’

  ‘Yes, Professor?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘The one who’d come up with the prank, well… He left, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor… he left?’

  ‘Yes. Left the country as I recall. Jonathan Stevenson was his name. Bright chap. Turned up in America. I met him at a conference, years later, completely by coincidence. When I mentioned the prank, he went white as a ghost. Said Rickard threatened to kill him.’ His brow furrowed, and suddenly he looked lost in thought. Then he shook his head, took another sip, more like a gulp. He sat back. ‘Of course, stuff and nonsense and all that.’

  Finch nodded, smiling. ‘Rickard must have done a bit of method acting.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Joseph said, excitedly, spilling a few drops of wine without noticing. ‘You are a smart woman. Insight and beauty wrapped into one beautiful package, eh?’

  She beamed for the last time. ‘My husband certainly thinks so.’

  ‘Eh? Ah yes, of course, can’t see one like you being left on the shelf.’ He poured himself some more wine, forgetting to offer her any.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ she said, smoothing down her skirt as she rose.

  ‘Yes, yes of course, but if you do find you need to know anything else, don’t hesitate to call on me…’

  Finch walked towards the tube. Her face muscles ached from her little acting spree. The fact that Rickard hadn’t shared the intel about Ellerton having a painting by Boris Skiner should be enough to dislodge him from his pedestal and remind him that he was surrounded by detectives. And get him to see that the Schism theory didn’t really add up, that murders he’d dismissed were indeed part of a larger pattern. Which also meant the killers wouldn’t stop once Greg was put away.

  Then there was the Jonathan Stevenson incident. She had no intention of contacting him. The name would be additional ammo to force Rickard to sit up and listen, if needed. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d tell him about the Ash Ranges. That would get his attention. She checked her watch, then took the tube from Russell Square to Charing Cross, and boarded a train to the place where Alfred Ellerton had been murdered, which also happened to be the place where Rickard had grown up.

  Bromley.

  24

  It was dark when she reached the leafy suburb along with a subdued horde of pinstripe suited commuters. She’d stood on the tube all the way, no seats during rush hour, gallantry a distant memory. She had no need for it. Feigning fatigue, she observed everyone in the carriage to see if anyone was watching her, or studiously not watching her. She’d told no one about the incident in the Ash Ranges. Not Donaldson – who apparently had rushed off somewhere for the rest of the day – or Matthews. Her ace in the hole. She could only play it once. She’d filed an electronic report, but the email was on a time delay, not yet sent. Her insurance policy, just in case. But if she let them know n
ow, they’d either take her off the case or put a tail on her before she could unravel the Ellerton connection.

  She left herself in play.

  Her phone directed her along stark halogen-lit streets of tidy four-bed semis, front gardens paved over to serve as drives for Mercedes, Range Rovers and Beamers. Each residence easily a million-and-a-half. No DCIs living here, that was for sure. Maybe the top woman could afford it. Good for her.

  Money doesn’t make you happy, her mum had told her plenty of times. She’d yet to hear a rich person say that.

  Odd that she should think of her mother now. Probably because the houses weren’t that dissimilar in shape from where she’d grown up in Altrincham, one of the posher suburbs of Manchester. But they’d only been able to live there because of her father – God rest his soul – on account of his long military career, during which he’d been stationed abroad for increasingly longer spells. He’d poured everything into it, while his wife had a string of affairs back home. And then he’d died in a reckless moment of bravery out in Somalia. She could understand her mother’s needs, but understanding doesn’t guarantee forgiveness. She’d punished her mother the only way she could, by going into the army herself.

  She stopped walking. It had been ten years since she’d spoken to her mother. What a fucked-up family. And people asked her why she didn’t want kids.

  But she heard it when she stopped. A faltering step some way behind. As if she was being followed. She began walking again, and reached into her jacket pocket and activated the alarm, the one that went straight through to Matthews, sending a continuous update of her GPS coordinates and a simple, two-word automated text message:

  Find me.

  Turning the corner, she came upon the block of flats, four storeys high. There was a woman sitting in a car with the window slightly open, smoking a scented electronic cigarette – cherry from what Finch could tell – the car’s sidelights on. She walked towards the car and gave a little wave, whereupon the woman clambered out, putting away her e-cig.

  ‘Mrs Appleby?’ Finch asked.

  ‘Inspector Finch?’

  She nodded and held up her ID long enough for the estate agent to read it under the street light. Appleby’s make-up had clearly had a long day, her fifty-something hair on the wrong side of the tracks between tousled and bedraggled. She gave a smile that initially Finch presumed was her work-face, but then decided it was genuine. Sometimes you just instantly liked someone and trusted them. Which meant she wanted to protect Appleby in the event the killer turned up. She glanced over her shoulder. Whoever had been behind her hadn’t turned the corner. Which meant either it was nobody, or they were good.

  ‘It’s this way,’ Appleby said, brandishing a set of keys. ‘Top floor.’

  Appleby tottered to the lift on heels she was a tad too old for. Finch followed, while checking where the emergency stairs were.

  The one-bedroom flat had that stale smell of decay about it. Not that it had put off a buyer – any property in this area would sell before the ink was dry on the ad. This one had taken longer, initially due to difficulties in tying up the estate. Then, successive sales had fallen through once prospective buyers had found out about a death in the flat, possibly involving foul play.

  ‘Anything particular you’d like to see?’ Appleby asked.

  ‘The bathroom.’

  Appleby swallowed, and tried to smile again, fumbling with the keys as if they were a rosary, maybe to ward off evil spirits. ‘Ah, yes. You’re just in time, really, the one room that the buyer wants totally redone. It’s this way.’

  The flat still had furnishings and the paraphernalia that everyone accumulated, precious to them, junk to almost everyone else the moment the owner expired. It told her something.

  ‘No relatives came to take anything?’

  ‘There were no relatives, I’m sorry to say.’

  She did sound sorry. Finch liked this woman. Maybe she could rent her as a substitute mum.

  Finch studied the bathroom. Enamel bath, a toilet, a sink, a mirrored cupboard, faded Paisley wallpaper, lino floor and a metal handrail to help get in and out of the bath. Like millions of other bathrooms. She pictured Alfred Ellerton being held underwater, then imagined herself in that position. She’d have kicked like hell. Flooded the place. She inspected the lino on the floor. It wasn’t ruined as it might have been. No dirty grey watermarks of where it had been drenched. She recalled the file. He’d been found after three days, when his weekly physical therapist had turned up and found him dead in the bath, and alerted the authorities. The police who investigated the death must have noticed the lack of spillage as well, probably why they’d presumed the primary cause of death was heart failure rather than drowning. ‘His eyes were open wide.’ That phrase in the report had stuck in her mind. Usually it would have said ‘eyes open’, or nothing at all, so why had someone gone to the trouble to write it into the report? She gazed down into the empty bath, imagined him lying there, his eyes wide open, as if in shock, or… as if in recognition.

  Her phone beeped. She stole a glance. Matthews.

  On my way.

  Bring your weapon, she texted back.

  Always got your six, he replied.

  She shook her head. Matthews knew nothing about the army except what he watched on TV, so he was always using gung-ho American phrases that would have had any British soldier in fits of laughter.

  ‘Is that your beau?’ Appleby asked politely.

  ‘My what? Oh, no, a colleague.’

  ‘A special colleague, then,’ Appleby said, with a smile that could cut through your defences like a hot knife through buttered scones.

  ‘Do you have children?’ Finch asked conversationally, because she wanted to put Appleby at ease.

  ‘Yes,’ she beamed. ‘A daughter.’

  Want another one?

  ‘That’s nice,’ Finch said, trying to recall how small talk worked.

  Appleby’s face saddened. The key-fumbling began again. ‘I don’t get to see her often.’ She brightened herself up. ‘Of course, she’s busy, you know, we all are these days, aren’t we?’

  Finch nodded. She made a mental note. Call mother when this is over.

  She wandered back into the lounge. No photos of the deceased or anyone else.

  ‘Was there a painting here, somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

  Finch recalled The Painter’s work. ‘If you’d seen it, you’d remember it.’

  Appleby pulled out a smartphone and began stabbing her forefinger at it, slowly, deliberately, as if she was entering a nuclear missile launch code. ‘No, I don’t see one on the manifest.’

  Interesting.

  Finch went over to the small bookshelf. Hesse, Koestler, Nietzsche… Alfred must have been the life and soul of the party. A book caught her eye, sticking out slightly, as though it was read often. Another Kind of Darkness. She pulled it out. An author she’d never heard of, with a subtitle: Serial Killers – What Makes Them Tick. A folded piece of paper slipped out of the book as she flicked through the pages, and wafted its way to the floor. She picked it up and opened it. The she put the book on the table and sat down.

  ‘Is everything all right, dear?’

  She felt a shiver. The paper had elegant writing on it, a single line. ‘Thanks for my initiation.’ It was signed ‘E. R.’

  The initials ‘E. R.’ could stand for many things. It was just that they also stood for Emerson Rickard. Had he known Alfred Ellerton? She recalled that Rickard had grown up here, too, in Bromley. Was that why he dismissed the case, because he knew him?

  The lights flickered, then went out. In one fluid movement, Finch drew the Glock from her bag and flung herself at Appleby, rugby-tackling her to the ground as she clamped her hand over the woman’s mouth. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ she whispered, while she trained her weapon on the slightly ajar front door, beyond which was the darkened hallway leading to the lift. She released her hand from Appleby, who la
y there panting, but otherwise not uttering a peep.

  There was a metallic thunk, the sound of the lift doors opening on their floor as the outside hallway brimmed with light. Finch took the safety off and, as quietly as she could, breeched her pistol. Appleby made a whimpering noise. Finch kept her own breathing smooth, her arm rock steady. The light from the lift stayed. Someone was holding the lift door open. Finch had a simple choice. Go to the door to try and catch whoever it was, or stay and protect Appleby. Her father had said there was only one rule he’d stuck to during all his missions.

  Protect civilians.

  The light dimmed as the lift doors began to close. Finch sprang up and dived to the floor at the doorway, landing with her weapon levelled through the gap, poised for a body-mass shot at whoever might be there. But the hallway was empty, the lift already descending. ‘Stay here,’ she shouted to Appleby, then ran to the emergency stairs, lit by stark blue light, grabbing her phone at the same time, speed-dialling Matthews. As she hit the first floor, he picked up.

  ‘The killer’s here,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Fuck, I’m still on the train, five minutes away!’

  Bollocks! She raced down three steps at a time, then burst through the emergency exit doors, dropping to one knee, her gun arm locked out, her left hand supporting it at the elbow. The barrel of her Glock swept the area in one clean move. The street lights were on, but the block behind her was in darkness. She heard shouting and swearing coming from some of the apartments. Otherwise, nothing. The forecourt and beyond were empty. The lights in the block came back on, to a small cheer somewhere up above. She rose and made her way to the main entrance, where she encountered a man well beyond retirement age closing a rusty metal cupboard.

  ‘Somebody pulled the main switch,’ he grumbled. ‘Probably kids, they’ve done it before.’

  ‘Are you the caretaker?’ she asked.

  He nodded heavily like it was a curse. ‘Gonna have to fix the lock again,’ he said. His greasy handprints were all over the cupboard and switches.

  She wandered past him to the lift and went back up to the top floor. Appleby was peering around the door frame when Finch arrived.