Lies

by T. M. Logan

  “OK,” I said slowly.

  “We’ve gathered your phone’s metadata from Thursday night, which has allowed us to plot all your movements over the course of the day and into the evening. It shows you at or near the Premier Inn for thirty-three minutes last Thursday, between 5:01 P.M. and 5:34 P.M.”

  “No comment,” Larssen said again, for what felt like the fiftieth time today.

  “You went in first at 5:01 P.M. You claim that you left and then went back a short while later, staying for just a few minutes. That’s pretty weird behavior, don’t you think?”

  “I already told you about this on Monday. Check my home phone records—I called the hotel from the landline when I got home—”

  “Joe,” Larssen said, a warning tone in his voice.

  “It looks like there was a call from your house phone to the hotel. But there’s no way to prove who made the call, the receptionist doesn’t remember it, and there’s no recording of the conversation. So it doesn’t really move things any further forward. It doesn’t help us. Or you. Why’d you go back? Because you realized you’d left your phone there and you knew it would incriminate you?”

  Larssen said, “No comment.”

  “Maybe you returned to the scene to look for your missing bracelet as well, knowing that it would link you directly to the crime? With Mr. Delaney’s body already in the trunk of your car?”

  I shook my head once, a small movement. I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Is that a no?”

  “No comment,” Larssen said again.

  “Either way, you needed to sort out the situation you were in. Clean up the mess.” He traced his finger down a column of figures on a sheet in his file. “So at 5:34 P.M., you’re on the move again, northwest, and then you stop again for twenty-four minutes. At this point, you switched your phone off—bit late by this point, considering the data trail it’s already left. You see, Joe, when a cell phone is switched off, it records the phone mast it was last communicating with so it can find it again quickly when you switch it back on. The nearest to your phone when it was switched off on Thursday night was a mast on the roof of the Kingsbury Leisure Center. Which is right next to Fryent Country Park.”

  He paused and turned another page. I remembered my first meeting with Naylor at the park, two days ago—him getting out of his car as I emerged from the undergrowth, muddy, out of breath, with bloodied knuckles and an empty sports bag that belonged to Ben.

  Naylor said, “Why did you switch your phone off on Thursday night, Joe?”

  “I didn’t switch it off. I lost it at the Premier Inn.”

  “During your fight with Mr. Delaney?”

  Larssen gave another “no comment” response.

  Naylor said, “The metadata from your phone records show that you left the North Circular at Neasden and headed northwest on the A4140, taking you to the country park.”

  “My phone may have done it, but I didn’t. I went straight home to deal with William’s asthma attack, then back to the hotel. Then back home again, where I opened a beer and put my son in the bath.”

  “You went back to the country park on Monday morning. Why?”

  I looked over at my lawyer, and he gave me a brief nod. “Ben invited me there to meet him. He said he had something to show me. I told you this two days ago.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t looking for something else?” he added. “Something you left behind? Or maybe you were finishing the job of concealment that you’d started on Thursday night?”

  “My client has no comment.”

  “Did you kill your wife’s lover and bury his body in that park?”

  “My client has no comment.”

  “How did you kill him? With your fists?”

  “My client has no comment.”

  “He slept with your wife. Did you beat him unconscious and then just keep on hitting him?”

  “My client has no comment.”

  “Or did you kick him to death? Did it feel good?”

  “This is ridiculous,” I said finally.

  “Joe!” Larssen said sharply, giving me a stern look.

  Naylor said, “Ridiculous in what way?”

  “My client has no comment,” Larssen said again.

  Naylor sat back in his chair, a pained look on his face.

  “That’s a lot of no comment for someone who’s not done anything wrong.”

  DS Redford took over the questioning.

  She said, “Is it not the case that you found out Ben Delaney was having an intimate relationship with your wife? You killed him in a jealous rage. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill him. Maybe you just meant to teach him a lesson. But you saw red and gave him a proper hiding, and before you knew it, he was bleeding and dying on the concrete in front of you. So you thought, What the hell do I do now? and you concealed his body and took his phone, and you’ve been trying to cover your tracks by posting various Facebook updates and sending text messages supposedly from—”

  “This is bullshit!” I said more forcefully than I had intended. “And it’s exactly what Ben wants you to think. How can it be a murder when no one’s died? I’ve seen him, heard him on the phone, talked to him on social media. This is ridiculous.”

  “Joe—” Larssen began.

  Redford said, “Would you say you lose your temper quite easily, Joe?”

  “My client has no comment,” Larssen said, his tone that of the disappointed parent of a child misbehaving in public. He turned in his chair to face me and said, “Do you remember our discussion a few minutes ago, in this room, Joe?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Certain advice that I gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be in your interests to proceed on that basis. Agreed?” His expression said, Calm down and keep your mouth shut.

  “OK,” I said.

  Naylor put his hands behind his head and swiveled slightly in his chair.

  He said, “You’d be amazed how common it is, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Suspects going back to the scene of wrongdoing. Like a dog returning to its own vomit. People just can’t help themselves, a lot of the time, even though they know it might draw suspicion. Sometimes they just can’t leave it alone. Sometimes it’s about showing the police how clever they are.”

  “I told you: Ben asked me to meet him at that park.”

  “So you said. We’ll know soon enough either way—we’ve got a full evidence recovery team at the park tonight, checking sites of interest.”

  A shiver of fear went through me, like a razor blade sawing up and down my spine.

  Larssen said, “Of interest in what way?”

  “There are some interesting areas of woodland at the country park. Isolated spots. Quite private even though they’re not too far from the road. There are a couple of spots in particular that we’re taking a closer look at.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they show signs of recently disturbed earth.”

  58

  Larssen spoke slowly, as if he wanted to make sure there was no room for confusion.

  “Could you be more specific about what you mean when you say ‘disturbed earth’?”

  “Potential burial locations.”

  The room suddenly seemed airless, claustrophobic, and I had a powerful feeling of wanting to be somewhere—anywhere—else in the world at that moment.

  Larssen said, “Burial of what?”

  “Burial as in shallow grave. Of human remains.”

  “With all due respect, Detective, that seems incredibly presumptuous at this stage of the investigation.”

  “Does it? We’ve got the cell phone data taking us there after our last known sighting of the victim. We’ve got the relationship between Mrs. Lynch and Mr. Delaney, blood on the seat of his burned-out car, we’ve got your client returning to the country park on Monday. We’ve got a six-foot patch of recently turned earth in the woods there, very near to the spot where your cl
ient emerged from the woods on Monday morning—muddy and out of breath. We have your client’s phone found at this secondary crime scene at the country park. And this afternoon the forensic team found a cigarette lighter at the scene with Mr. Delaney’s DNA on it. Believe me, there’s nothing presumptuous about it.” He let this sink in for a moment before asking his next question. “Tell me again, Joe. What words would you use to describe your encounter with Mr. Delaney last Thursday?”

  Larssen said, “No comment.”

  “When you left the parking lot on Thursday evening, he was unconscious, correct?”

  “No comment.”

  “Describe to me again what you did in the following two hours.”

  Larssen gave me a small nod, so I ran through my movements as briefly as possible. The drive home, William’s asthma inhaler, the return to the parking lot. Home again, a bath for my son, dinner, washing-up, TV, bed.

  Naylor addressed his next point directly at Larssen, opposite him at the small table.

  “Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m not giving you all this case-relevant material because I’m a warm-and-fluffy human being and I want to be your best friend, Peter. I’m telling you so that your client is absolutely clear about the weight of evidence we already have in the bag. So we can perhaps shorten this whole process and save a lot of time, legwork, and heartache for the victim’s family. Bearing in mind we’re only just getting started on forensic searches of your client’s car, his computer, and his house.”

  “We appreciate your candor,” Larssen said.

  “In the light of the new evidence, is there anything else that you’d like to tell us?”

  “A minute alone with my client?”

  “Of course.”

  Redford picked up the Dictaphone and said, “Interview suspended at 7:26 P.M.”

  She hit a button on the machine and followed Naylor out of the room.

  Larssen half turned in his chair and looked at me with an intensity I hadn’t seen before. “Well, Joe?”

  “Well, what?”

  “They’ve been rather busy, haven’t they?”

  “Busy chasing the wrong man.”

  “But they seem to have put together a fair amount of evidence in a short time.”

  I looked at him for a sign that he believed me. A sign that he was on my side, that he would fight my corner. That kind of person seemed to be in short supply just now.

  “I’ve never been in this situation before. Never even been arrested before. How bad does it look?”

  “Hmm. Well, that would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On how honest you want me to be at this point.”

  I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “Just give me your professional opinion.”

  “Well, they’ve got the evidence from the cell phone data, DNA evidence, physical evidence. They’ve got motive, in the affair between him and your wife. Opportunity, in your meeting at the hotel that night. A possible shallow grave site. It’s a rather … unfortunate collection.”

  “It’s bloody unfortunate, considering I didn’t do it.”

  “Do what, exactly?”

  “Kill him.”

  He paused for a moment before asking his next question. “You’re quite sure about that?”

  My stomach dropped, and I stared at him for a moment. It felt like I’d just discovered my best friend—who was supposed to be watching my back—didn’t actually care either way what happened.

  “Yes. Certain.”

  “Do you ever play cards, Joe?”

  “Played poker with Ben a few months back. I was pretty terrible at it.”

  “Well, this is the point in the game when it’s time to put your cards on the table.”

  “OK,” I said slowly.

  “The truth.”

  “OK.”

  “Can anyone else corroborate your movements last Thursday night?”

  I shrugged. “Only William.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She came back from tennis a bit before sevenish, I think.”

  He checked his notes. “And that was … an hour and three-quarters after your confrontation with Ben.”

  “Give or take, yes.”

  “Enough time for you to drive to Fryent Country Park, dump a body, and drive home again.”

  “With a four-year-old in tow? In Friday-night traffic? Without being seen?”

  “It’s Naylor’s primary theory at the moment.”

  “It’s bonkers.”

  “Of course. But we also need to be ready for forensic results from property seized today from your house. How often had Ben been in your house, or your car, in the last three months? We can look at using any recent visits to counter forensic evidence they might find.”

  “Pretty sure he’s never been in my car, but he’s been to the house a half dozen times.” I thought about the geography of his affair. “Of course, there are the other times when he might have been there, with Mel.”

  “Of course.” Larssen nodded sympathetically.

  “Surely they can’t go ahead with a murder charge if they haven’t got a body?”

  “It’s unusual, but it does happen occasionally if the rest of the evidence is strong enough. There used to be something called the ‘no body, no murder’ rule. But things have changed since then, and you do see a few cases where the police proceed without a body and still get a conviction.”

  “Like the Blaisdale case. The email from Ben.”

  “That would be one example, yes.”

  “What did Naylor say about the Facebook posts?” I said, unable to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “The David Bramley account? Can’t he see that’s proof Ben’s still alive, for fuck’s sake?”

  Larssen shrugged, unmoved by my frustration. “There’s no proof that Ben sent them. Anyone could have sent them. So their evidential value is limited.”

  “Can’t they trace the IP address they were sent from? Trace the account in some way?”

  “Usually they can, if the person is using an existing cell phone account, or a desktop PC, or accessing Facebook via the app on their phone—which is the way most people do it. That will leave a trace that they can pick up. But according to DS Redford, the Bramley Facebook posts and the Messenger texts you received were sent by someone using a pay-as-you-go phone, via a web browser rather than the app.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means there is no trace. You’ve got multiple layers of disguise: not only is the Facebook account an empty shell, but you’re also not generating metadata via the app. And in any case, you’ve got nothing to link the IP address to apart from a pay-as-you-go phone, which apparently hasn’t been used for any other calls or texts and hasn’t been topped up using a credit or debit card. It’s one of the few ways of evading this type of check. It basically gives the police a bit of a dead end.”

  I shook my head. “Who the hell knows this stuff?”

  “Someone who’s very smart indeed. Someone who lives and breathes technology and knows exactly what they’re doing.”

  “He lives and breathes it, all right. Ben’s very much alive. You see that, don’t you?”

  Larssen capped the end of his pen and put it down on the pad. He sat back in his chair. “You realize, Joe, that if they had found a body, they would have charged you already? Naylor certainly wouldn’t be so keen to lay out all his new evidence.”

  “So why did he?”

  “Because he wants you to be overwhelmed by it all and admit that you did it. In the absence of a body, he’s looking for the next best thing: a confession.”

  “Well, they’re not getting that from me, so what’s our plan of attack?”

  “Attack?”

  “What do we do next?”

  “Short term, we see this out tonight. When they come back in here, they’ll start with the questioning all over again, right from the beginning.” He checked his watch. “After that, we try to get bail and get you back home
to your family tonight. Then it’s just a case of seeing what they come up with, staying calm, and keeping our powder dry.”

  “What else?” I said.

  He looked at me, cool and level, his face absolutely without expression. “Pray the police don’t find anything at that country park.”

  59

  Mel gave me a large whiskey when I finally got home just before 11:00 P.M. We sat at the kitchen table like mismatched strangers on an awkward first date, and I gave answers to her questions about Naylor and Ben, about evidence and accusations, pictures on Facebook, and cell phone data. About what might happen next. It was beyond weird not being able to trust my wife, my supposed soul mate. While I wanted to confide in someone other than my lawyer, my instincts told me not to trust her. So I kept my answers short and basic.

  She decided I was in shock.

  “Poor Joe. You poor thing. You’re exhausted, aren’t you? What a day. What a horrible day.”

  She patted my hand, soft fingertips against my skin, the floral scent of her perfume stirring all kinds of wonderful memories. Her touch felt so good, so right, that my guard almost crumbled right there. I wanted more than anything to hug her, bury my head in her shoulder, tell her she was forgiven. Tell her I wanted more than anything for life to go back to how it was before Thursday night. Tell her everything.

  But the barb of betrayal was buried deep, and it made my heart ache with sadness whenever I looked at her.

  “It’s going to be OK,” she said quietly.

  “It’s not looking great at the moment.”

  “The police can’t do anything to you. You haven’t done anything to Ben.”

  “They seemed pretty gung-ho today.”

  “Sooner or later they’ll see.”

  I took a large swallow of whiskey, enjoying the burn as it went down.

  “Ben just has to break cover once. Just once, long enough for the police to realize that he’s still very much alive and kicking. And then I can get my life back.”

  Her face crumpled as if she might cry. “I don’t know how I could have been so stupid, Joe. Can you forgive me?”