Tell Me A Lie (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  Lucy rang Irene Cavendish and asked if she knew the Barbolins.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Polina ever mention them?’

  ‘No.’

  Lucy made a note in the file and moved on. The team continued sweating the small stuff, checking every convicted burglar in the Cleveland area, as well as plenty they hadn’t been able to convict. Calder’s bank accounts were scrutinised but appeared clean. There appeared to be no insurance on his wife’s or children’s lives. So far they’d had nothing but useless tip calls.

  The newspapers were full of what had been dubbed the Barwick House murders, broadcasting Calder’s failing business, how he would have had to sell his multi-million pound home to keep afloat, pull his kids out of private school and spend his holidays at Scarborough instead of the Seychelles. The consensus was the same as Lucy’s conclusion had been: that he couldn’t bear his family to suffer a loss in lifestyle and status. The press printed photograph after photograph of Polina and her children. They were an attractive family and made good subjects for the front pages.

  She was doggedly going over the Calders’ financial records for what felt like the thousandth time, looking for something, anything to give them a clue where to go next, when one of the team, a skinny DS called Barney, said, ‘What do you mean, another one?’

  His tone of voice, genuinely surprised, made everyone look across.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. We’ll check it out.’ He hung up and looked at Mac.

  ‘Boss, that was a friend of mine at the Met. He’s just heard of another family annihilation, it’s on the news. It’s near Bristol . . .’

  He trailed off as Mac led the charge to the TV in his office.

  A red banner at the bottom of the TV screen read Breaking news. A woman journalist stood on the street in the pouring rain, in front of a pretty stone cottage bristling with police officers.

  ‘A suicidal mother has killed her two daughters and her grandson, who was just four years old. It appears she poisoned them before poisoning herself. There was no note.’

  Apparently Oxana Harris had been known to suffer from depression and although it was rare for a mother to kill her family, it wasn’t unknown. Nobody said a word until the journalist started repeating herself, when Barney said, ‘I can’t see it’s got anything to do with our case.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said another DS.

  Mac obviously agreed because he announced briskly, ‘Back to work!’ and turfed everyone out. He was about to turn off the TV but Lucy said, ‘Wait.’

  She flipped channels until she found another reporter outside the same cottage – a man with a reddened nose hunched beneath an umbrella. He said nothing the female journalist hadn’t but, sensing Mac’s rising impatience, Lucy held up a hand.

  ‘. . . a tragedy for the rest of the family after Oxana Harris’s eldest son Lewis last week killed his two young children and himself by driving his car into a quarry and drowning. His wife survived, and is being comforted by Oxana’s youngest son Ben, who turned twenty-one just before Christmas.’

  She stared at the TV. ‘That’s weird,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Mac was also staring.

  ‘Can you be genetically disposed to kill your family?’ she asked.

  ‘God knows,’ said Mac.

  ‘Or did something else trigger their behaviour? Did Lewis suffer from depression too? Were they all control freaks?’ Her mind was glowing orange, racing ahead, skimming and leaping as it tried to find connections. ‘Maybe there was sexual jealousy on the mother’s part. A reverse Oedipus complex or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘Electra,’ he supplied.

  ‘Or someone was leaving the family, or threatening to break it apart, or emigrating –’

  ‘Lucy.’

  She halted.

  He said, ‘It’s not our case.’

  Lucy lassoed her mind and hauled it back. ‘Sorry.’

  He looked across at her. ‘Fancy a drink later?’ he asked.

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘When will you stop asking me out?’ she said.

  ‘When you say yes.’

  ‘No.’

  She returned to the MIR, struggling to turn her mind from the Bristol suicides. She found it odd to have three family annihilations so close together and, making sure she couldn’t be overheard, she picked up the phone and rang the Bristol police. The SIO who was working Oxana Harris’s case wasn’t available, but when Lucy said it might concern the Barwick House murders, she was put through to a DI who was cognisant of the events that had taken place. Yes, he said, once she’d introduced herself, of course he’d try to help.

  ‘I want to know if Oxana Harris and her family are related to the Calder family in any way. If they know one another through friends, business or some such.’

  ‘I’ll have to check and get back to you.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  She asked if a forensic psychologist had been brought in, but apparently not.

  ‘It’s pretty cut and dried the mother and son did it,’ the DI said, but his voice had changed slightly, making Lucy come alert.

  ‘But . . .?’ Lucy prompted.

  ‘It’s just odd.’ He sighed. ‘According to the survivors there were no signs. Makes you wonder if every seemingly happy family is seriously fucked up in some way.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lucy wryly.

  ‘Yeah.’ He gave a half-chuckle. ‘Mine’s not exactly a hundred per cent.’

  ‘I wonder if something in their genes made them do it?’ Lucy pondered aloud.

  There was a short pause.

  ‘It’s funny you say that,’ he said, tone turning thoughtful, ‘because the only survivors were Lewis’s wife, and Oxana’s youngest son, Ben. Ben is, apparently, adopted.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Lucy murmured.

  ‘For a geneticist maybe,’ he responded. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll get back to you, OK?’

  Lucy hung up, her mind unable to stop chewing on the Oxana Harris case, and it wasn’t until she began going through Polina Calder’s finances that her attention finally shifted. It appeared that even during the halcyon days Calder’s wife had never had a particularly extravagant lifestyle. Yes, she’d had regular manicures, the odd facial and spa day with a girlfriend, but nothing that could be termed excessive or wasteful. She appeared to be remarkably frugal considering her wealth, and when Lucy delved into her spending over the past quarter it appeared she’d recently stopped all beauty treatments aside from her six-weekly bikini, underarm and leg wax. This did nothing more than prove that Calder had told his wife about their financial difficulties and that Polina was prepared to – as he’d said – pull her horns in. Downsize. Economise.

  Lucy pushed her chair back and rubbed her forehead. What if Calder hadn’t killed his family? What if someone else had? Like a debt collector? Did Calder gamble? Had he fallen foul of a loan shark?

  She went and fetched a coffee. Sipped it while she trawled through Calder’s accounts to see that – surprise, surprise – everything appeared to add up. She’d just started studying the individual restaurants – choosing one in Leeds that she’d gone to a couple of times – when out of nowhere all her energy vanished, sucked out of her as though her soul had been vacuumed.

  Go away, she told it.

  Suddenly it was too bright. The lights felt as though they were piercing her eyes.

  Leave me alone.

  She couldn’t move. She felt an urge to put her head on her arms and sleep forever.

  She had to keep busy and fight it.

  She forced herself back to the restaurant accounts, fighting her lethargy, wondering how Calder was paying his bills. Did he already have a bunch of creditors in place? He was at the tipping point of going under but few people seemed to realise it, not with all those supposedly successful sandwich bars to his name. How had he been paying the household bills? How was he paying his lawyer?

  A grey wave washed through her brain.
She pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to make it hurt. Fought to keep the murk from devouring her. Sod it. Had she been wrong about Calder’s tell? She pictured the rise and fall of his shoulders and knew she had to keep digging until she found what was bugging him. Fighting the grey in her mind, she rose and stepped into the corridor. Walked up and down, trying to keep the blood flowing and get her brain to colour once again and come up with something new.

  Zilch.

  Lucy headed to the beat office, hoping for some inspiration but when she got there it was empty aside from Howard, who was unwrapping a sandwich.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

  ‘Fight at the Reindeer.’ He took a bite and pulled a face. ‘God, this is crap. Bought it at the garage. Won’t be doing that again.’

  Out of nowhere, a crimson thread floated through her mind. She said, ‘How do you fancy a Melted sandwich?’

  When Lucy asked her sarge, he refused to let Howard join her on her Melted mission and she couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t as though she had a concrete lead to follow, but with the DCI’s endorsement of her superlative lateral thinking on her last case along with the fact she’d be on Mac’s team next week anyway, Jacko decided it would be politic to let her go.

  Swiping a pool car she headed to the Melted restaurant in Leeds, situated at the entrance into the Merrion Centre. She parked opposite on Wade Lane – no yellow lines, just a parking restriction – hoping that since she was in a police car she might avoid getting moved on too soon. Unless the Officious Little Bastard had a cousin in town, of course.

  She watched the restaurant for a few minutes. A couple sat in the window chatting, a young guy at a table behind them, working on his laptop. It was quiet, but then the shopping centre wasn’t exactly heaving either; the cold weather was keeping everyone at home. She gave a shiver as the car began to cool. With its warm lighting, red and dark green Victorian lampshades and leather club chairs, Melted looked cosy and inviting but she thought she’d watch a little longer before she went inside. She turned on the radio. Listened to the news. The newsreader had just handed over to the sports presenter when her phone rang. She felt a rush of affection as she answered.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Yup. I’m just sitting in the car staking out a sandwich bar.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘Hardly. It’s freezing.’ Lucy stretched. ‘Everything OK your end?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. I just wanted to check in, make sure you’re OK. That’s all.’

  Lucy had rung her mother the day of the Barwick House murders, just after she’d put her clothes – stiff with Jessie’s dried blood – in the washing machine. It had been her mother who’d instructed her to run a hot bath and curl up on the sofa with her duvet and a mug of hot chocolate.

  ‘Yeah.’ Lucy exhaled as the vision of Jessie’s frightened eyes returned. ‘I’m OK. But thanks.’

  ‘Proud of you,’ she said.

  Lucy’s mind hummed a soft yellowy peach. Of all the approbation she’d received before Christmas, it had been her mother’s that meant the most. After Dad abandoned them, Mum had struggled hard to bring Lucy up on her own, ploughing everything into supporting her every step of the way and when she finally saw her daughter graduate from police college, she’d cried. And she was even more proud now Lucy was joining CID. Lucy’d better not mess things up; it would kill her mum.

  ‘Any chance you can come home for Easter?’

  ‘Doubtful,’ Lucy said, and stretched again. ‘Being single with no kids means I get last dibs.’

  ‘That seems unfair.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Lucy, thinking of Howard and his wife, their three children on an Easter egg hunt. ‘Besides, I like having time off out of school holidays. It’s cheaper and a hundred per cent quieter.’

  After they’d hung up, Lucy checked the area for traffic wardens before climbing out of the car and walking across the road. The instant she opened the door she was enveloped in a cloud of freshly ground coffee, melted cheese and toasting bread but her saliva glands did nothing. She could have been breathing fresh air for all the effect it had. Not for the first time she found it disconcerting how badly her mood affected her appetite. She must make sure she ate something. Even if it was only a few mouthfuls, it would help.

  She considered the health scare briefly, but it had been ages ago, and salmonella hadn’t been found in any of Calder’s restaurants but franchised stores. So she should be safe.

  A girl with dyed black hair, black T-shirt and a nose ring came over. Her name badge read Tammy.

  ‘The Flamenco, please,’ Lucy asked. Flame-grilled chicken, crispy onions, chorizo, smoked paprika and chilli tomato sauce, roast red peppers and creamy cheese. ‘To take away.’

  While Tammy made her melt, Lucy looked around. ‘It’s pretty quiet,’ she remarked.

  ‘It’s always quiet,’ Tammy said.

  ‘What about before Christmas?’ Lucy asked. It should have been rammed with all those shoppers walking past.

  ‘Busier, but we weren’t exactly rushed off our feet.’

  ‘How come?’

  The girl opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it, and shrugged.

  Lucy settled in the car to eat her sandwich but could only manage a couple of bites. I must eat. She ate another two bites but it was like trying to eat a flannel for all the appetite she had, and the demon fog was thickening, tempting her to go home and lock the doors, curl into bed and sleep. The problem was, if she gave in to it, she might not move for days. The last time she’d succumbed had been in London when she’d been with Nate. What a mess. If it hadn’t been for Nate covering for her, she might well have been found out. Now she was on her own, she couldn’t afford to let go. She had to fight it every step of the way until it passed.

  You won’t win, she told it.

  She drove to another Melted, this time in York. Once again, the restaurant had a great location and interior decor, with an art deco snug and roomy service area. Just five customers. This time, Lucy bought a sea-salted chocolate bar.

  ‘How come it’s so quiet in here?’ She nodded at the café opposite which, although it didn’t look half as nice, was heaving.

  The barista looked away, obviously uncomfortable.

  ‘Surely it’s not that health scare,’ Lucy said. ‘It was over a year ago.’

  ‘People have long memories,’ the barista replied.

  Wasn’t that the truth? Until today, Lucy hadn’t eaten at a Melted since the scare, proving she was just as cautious as the next person. Still fighting the demon, she headed to Newcastle and two more Melted restaurants. Both in top locations, both quiet. On another day she would have given up by now – it was getting late – but she wanted to take advantage of the light traffic. More importantly though, she had to keep working to fight the murk in her mind, knowing the instant she stopped she’d be felled. At the last restaurant she asked to see the manager, a young Chinese man with quick brown eyes and a ready smile: Lee Adamson.

  ‘Yes, the scare affected us really badly,’ Lee agreed. ‘Overnight we went from over two hundred customers a day to under thirty.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘They’re coming back, but slowly. Adrian’s convinced if we sit tight things will return to normal but it’s taking longer than we thought.’

  ‘So what were your weekly takings back then?’ she asked. ‘And what are they now?’

  He fetched them both a coffee before settling them at a rustic teak table in the window. Booted up his laptop. There, he showed her the weekly records. Everything added up.

  Her eyes went to the door as a man entered the restaurant. Big woollen coat. Blue-striped beanie. Large features. He had a tatty nylon messenger bag across his chest.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lee said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  She watched Lee approach the man, whose fingers went to the plastic clips at the front of his bag but stoppe
d when his eyes clicked to Lucy. She was wearing civilian clothes – trousers and boots, red sweater beneath a jacket – but this guy pegged her within a nanosecond. She put on her most bland, disinterested expression, but she could practically see the thought form in his mind, surrounded by blue flashing lights and fireworks.

  POLICE.

  The man’s hands fell from his bag. He turned on his heel and without looking left or right, walked outside.

  Lee stood there looking baffled. Then he returned to Lucy.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

  ‘A friend of Adrian’s. I don’t know his name.’

  A shimmer of silver edged the grey cloud.

  ‘What was he doing here?’

  ‘He comes in once in a while and drops something off for the boss.’

  A tingle started at the top of her head. She said, ‘Do you know what?’

  ‘Usually it’s a present for one of his kids. A book or something that he wants to keep secret.’

  Yeah, right.

  She quickly ascertained that the man made a delivery to Adrian roughly once a month. There was no pattern to the delivery that he knew. No particular day. Lee would text Adrian to tell him when it arrived and Adrian would come by and collect it, usually the same day. The biggest package Lee had taken delivery of was the size of a case of wine, but a quarter of the weight, and the smallest an A4 padded envelope. The deliveries had been going on for the past year.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’ Lee looked at her anxiously.

  Since she couldn’t be sure, she decided not to offer any opinion. ‘Has the man ever left a package when you’re not here?’

  ‘He’s pushed an envelope through the letterbox once or twice. But usually he hands it to me or one of the staff.’

  ‘If he comes in again,’ she said, ‘please ring me immediately.’

  She gave him her card, which showed her office number as well as her mobile. Thanked him for the coffee. And left.

  She didn’t go far.

  She was pretty sure the man would return.

  And when he did, she’d be there.