‘That’s ridiculous. I don’t, Martin. I promise you, I do not still love this man.’
There’s silence and just as I think I’ve lost the connection, he adds, ‘I wanted to try to understand why you fed me all those lies, Sarah. Why you strung me along for all those years.’
My instinct is to hit back – to ask him about his lies, about his secret money stash and shady cash dealings – but I don’t. I bite my tongue and suffer in silence.
‘Jesus, this is such a mess,’ he says, sounding desperately low. ‘Such a ridiculous, bloody mess.’
I feel wretched. ‘I know it is. And I’m so sorry that I’ve done all this to you.’
‘You know what?’ He blows his nose again and takes another sigh. ‘What hurts most is the thought that we’re not going to get our happy ending. Because I believed in that. I really believed in it. I thought you were the one. The one I could stay with right until the very end of everything.’
Now I am in tears. I am facing the door of a grim, stinking train toilet and I am sobbing my heart out, with people pushing past me. ‘Martin, my darling, I can still be that one, I—’
The signal has gone.
Gone at the most crucial moment of my life.
I dial his mobile.
I know he called from an ‘undisclosed’ number, probably a police-station phone, but I try it anyway.
It trips to his message service.
‘Martin, please call me back. I love you. Love you so much. We can work this out, sweetheart. Trust me. I won’t let you down again. Please, please trust me, trust us.’
I stare at the phone. Then I hang up. Hang up and hope. Half a dozen people are watching me. Have heard every word. Tears run down my face. I don’t care. I just want him back. Right now, I’d give anything, years off my life, limbs off my body, anything, just to kiss him, hold him, be with him again.
84
Annie
I call Nisha as I drive away from the hospital. I give her a short update and a whole list of actions for her and Alice to work their way through as quickly as possible. She says they’re both overworked. And she’s right. These days everyone is overworked. Overworked is the normal state.
Next, I call DI Fellowes at Thames Valley Police HQ.
‘Adrian Fellowes,’ he answers in a voice that’s more west country than Oxfordshire.
‘Good morning, this is Annie Parker, from Historic Crimes. I just wanted to say thanks for sitting on Danny Smith for us.’
‘Our pleasure. Did he give you what you wanted?’
‘Let’s say he was helpful. Anyway, we don’t need him watching any longer, so Smith is all yours now.’
‘I hope to interview him later today, Annie. I’d like to have done it already but we’ve got a child murder on the patch, so, as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s all hands to the pump at the moment.’
‘You have my sympathies.’
‘Thank you. I’ll let you know how my interview with Smith goes, once I’ve got around to it.’
‘Appreciated.’
We end the call and I return to thinking about Ashley Crewe. I believe Danny Smith’s account of what happened back in the nineteen-nineties. It finally explains how his wife was so convinced she was involved in a murder and burial. More than anything, though, it means Ashley Crewe left the scene alive.
So, where is he?
What has he been doing for all these years?
Is he still in England, or is he overseas, living under a different name?
Did the other gang find and kill him anyway? If they had, then his brothers could hardly have run to the police, could they?
Dead or Alive?
I’m afraid there are now probably more unanswered questions than there were before.
Whatever Ashley Crewe’s fate, there are certainly no longer any grounds to charge Sarah Johnson with murder. Bigamy, yes, once we sort all her paperwork out, but murder, no.
When it comes to Martin Johnson, he’ll be interviewed by Thames Valley Police, just as soon as Fellowes has seen Smith, and no doubt charged with GBH and also illegal possession of a shotgun, unless it turns out he has a licence for it.
And Danny Smith?
Sadly, you can’t charge anyone with lying to their rape-traumatised wife for more than twenty years, otherwise I’d have already done it. He walked uninvited into Martin Johnson’s house, carrying a lump of metal. The entry qualifies as trespass, but that’s a civil not criminal offence, so Martin Johnson would have to take out a private prosecution against him, and I suspect he might not want all the publicity that would bring, once he’s been put in the spotlight at his own trial. I suppose Thames Valley might charge Smith with behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace. After all, he did have a tyre lever in his hand. But then again, Johnson might not want to give evidence and have the story of him and his bigamous wife all over the papers for a second time.
Truth is – Danny Smith could get away scot-free.
The prospect of such an outcome sticks in my throat.
He helped the man who raped his wife, he traumatised her into thinking she’d assisted in a murder, and then he blackmailed her with that lie so she’d stay with him. And on top of all that, his deception ended up wasting a lot of my time and budget. Unfortunately, as the search was instigated by her and not him, we have no grounds for charges.
A thought hits me.
Smith’s wife – Paula as he calls her, Sarah as I know her – was the breadwinner in their relationship. He gained a rich lifestyle from the company she built out of his busted market stall business. There’s an old charge of ‘obtaining pecuniary advantage by deception’ – meaning if you get money by being dishonest in any way you’re breaking the law. He certainly deceived her, and he benefited financially. The main problem is, given she has admitted bigamy – itself a massive lie and deception – she is not, absolutely not, going to make a credible witness.
I call Ray Goodwin as I drive north.
Naturally, he wants to hear every detail.
I duly oblige, then finish by begging for more manpower: ‘I need them for twenty-four hours, boss, that’s all,’ I tell him, sounding just like my son when he begs to borrow the car. ‘Then I promise this case is shut. We go into the weekend with no more budget uncertainties and no loose ends.’
‘Fine,’ he says in the grudging tone of a worn-down parent, ‘but you keep me in the loop on everything – especially the costs. Come the weekend, consider the plug pulled and your time over.’
‘Understood.’
I’m still smiling at my small victory, as I drive off the A38 and onto a business park between Derby and Chesterfield. I slide my filthy Mondeo into a parking spot alongside a personal-plate Merc that’s seen more wax than a supermodel’s legs. I zap the Ford shut and walk into a large red-brick building.
There’s a small reception area, marked out by a white curved desk behind which a smartly dressed young woman smiles apologetically for making me wait because she’s on the phone. Her name badge says ‘Chomechai’ and I find myself trying to pronounce it because it’s so unusual.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she says as soon as she hangs up.
‘Chomechai, that’s a lovely name.’
‘Thank you. My friends call me Chai, as in tea.’ She adds a beautiful smile to her beautiful name. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Detective Inspector Parker.’ I show my ID. ‘I’m here to see Raurie Crewe. And please don’t tell me he’s not in the building. I just parked next to his car.’
85
Paula
Martin doesn’t ring me back.
I leave several messages, but my calls don’t get returned.
I phone Terry. Give him new instructions. Urgent ones. And then I give myself some as well.
I get off the train at Leicester rather than London St Pancras, where I had been heading.
I hire a cab and make calls as the driver sets off on what I’m sure will be his best fare of the
day. Everything now is a race against time. The police will come for me and arrest me for bigamy. When that happens, I’ll be back in the system with little opportunity to put my affairs in order.
I ring Fin and update him. And, of course, I ask for more info on Martin and his mystery money movements. He has nothing new for me.
Then I call the American CEO overseeing the purchase of Cloth Eared Kids.
‘Hello?’ says New Yorker, Randy Stadler, no doubt wondering who on earth is calling so early.
‘Randy, it’s Paula Smith. I know it’s unspeakably early in New York, so please forgive me calling.’
‘It’s fine, Paula, it’s after seven a.m. I’m just back from my jog. What can I do for you?’
I bury my shame and dive straight in. ‘Randy I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in a police station being questioned about murder and bigamy. Although I haven’t been charged, I expect I shortly will be.’
‘My – that’s quite a way to start my day. And how will you be pleading if these charges are brought?’
‘Is that an elegant way of asking if I did it?’
‘I sure hope so.’
‘Then I will be pleading guilty.’
‘On both counts?’
‘On both counts.’
‘Well, I can’t say that I’m not shocked – or disappointed.’ He takes a beat, then adds, ‘You realise I will have to notify the rest of the board and under our governance rules we will be forced to terminate purchase discussions?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then I thank you for your honesty – at least to me. I like you, Paula, and I like your company. I hope this all works out for you better than it sounds.’
‘Thank you, Randy. And please give my apologies to everyone.’
‘Duly noted.’
He hangs up and I stare out of the window of the car. The deal would have been the pinnacle of my business career, so I’m allowed this moment of reflection. Liz once told me that you should never grieve for what you never had. I guess she’s right. I am not millions worse off. Or millions in debt. I am as fortunate as I was before I even entertained the idea of selling Cloth Eared Kids.
The car smells as badly as the taxi I got to the station. It’s impregnated with the odours of past lives and misdemeanours. Sweat. Sick. Cheap perfume. Body odour. Air freshener. Beer. It’s easy to imagine my predecessors, the drunken short-skirted girls returning from clubs, the lairy boozed-up boys out for whatever the night holds, and, after it all, Mr Singh, my turban-wearing driver, doing his best to clean up before the start of another long day at work.
‘Lady, lady, we here,’ he announces.
According to his meter, ninety minutes of driving amounts to a fare of ninety-one pounds. I open my purse and slide two fifties through a slit in the glass dividing us. ‘Here’s a hundred pounds. I don’t need any change or a receipt. Thank you.’
Mr Singh is still praising me as I pull out my case and head away. Briefly, I suck in fresh air. The kind that’s zinging from a recent downpour of rain and gives you an oxygen jolt equal to a double espresso.
People of all ages, shapes, colours and disabilities stream past as I approach the entrance of a big building fronted by a straggle of hardened smokers. I seem to have been dropped at the multicultural epicentre of Britain.
Inside, I find an information point and a middle-aged woman with a soft, patient face. ‘I’ve come to see my husband, Danny Smith. He was brought in yesterday, but I don’t know which ward he is on.’
86
Annie
Raurie Crewe is in his late forties, but he’s so trim, tanned and toned you’d take him to be ten years younger. Tall and broad, he’s dressed in a perfectly tailored jade green Zegna suit. I know it’s Zegna because I see the label as he hangs his jacket over the back of a Mastermind office chair. ‘Please take a seat,’ he says.
As I round his desk, a giant slab of glass supported by the trunks and tails of two stainless-steel elephants, I take in his well-cut, greying hair and the equine nose familiar to me from the photo of Ashley in his football kit and my prison visit to see middle brother, Kieran.
He flashes me a businesslike smile, plants his elbows and forearms on the shimmering desktop and asks, ‘So, how can I be of assistance to Her Majesty’s Constabulary?’
I know I only have one shot at this. If I get it wrong, then I might as well resign before the morning and kiss my pension goodbye.
‘I love the desk. Indian elephants or African?’
‘Thai actually. Elephas Maximus. The only Latin I know.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I slide my pocket book out. ‘Thanks for seeing me; and my apologies for dropping in without even calling in advance.’
‘Not a problem—’ he glances at his watch ‘—but I have shuffled a meeting to accommodate you and I am a bit pushed for time.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll come to the point.’
Again, the professional smile.
‘You’re a businessman, a seasoned deal-maker, right?’
He smiles. ‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Okay. Then here’s a deal for you. You come up with a vast sum of money and, in return for it, I don’t tell my bosses that you helped fake the death of your brother Ashley.’
There we go. That’s my one shot. It’s a guided lie-finder missile, cruising right under his radar. Now I’m watching to see how he reacts. In this split second before impact, I’m scrutinising every inch of him. Such a remark should bring outrage or sadness to someone who’s lost a loved one.
Crewe frowns. Shifts his facial expression to look annoyed. His reaction is clumsy. It’s not how he feels – it’s how he thinks he should appear to feel.
‘Inspector, that’s a very odd – and very sick – thing to say. You know my brother was legally pronounced dead more than a decade ago.’
I laugh. A genuine, enjoyable, seize-the-moment-of-pure-nonsense, copper’s laugh. ‘Raurie, Raurie, Raurie – Ashley’s not dead.’ I flap a comedy hand at him. ‘You know he’s not. Danny Smith – maybe you knew him back then as Kenneth Aston – assures me you know he’s not dead.’
Now he reacts genuinely. Real shock. Widening of the pupils. Shifting back in his chair. Gripping the edge of his wonderful desk.
‘I don’t think I know a Danny Smith or Kenneth Aston.’
‘You’re a poor liar, Raurie. You knew him. Knew your brother Ashley had raped his girlfriend, knew he was the kind of teenager you could threaten and manipulate.’
‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘I agree. But before I go, consider this: tomorrow I have to give a case report to my boss. You know the kind of thing. Review progress. Assess costs. Decide next steps. So what’s it to be? Do I mention that Danny Smith said you provided a van for him to carry your supposedly dead rapist of a brother from the children’s home in Lawndale to Black Rocks? Oh, and do I also add that you provided a mannequin, for Ashley to dress in his pig-blooded clothes so Danny’s girlfriend would be convinced she helped bury your brother’s corpse in the woods?’
I stand and take a pen and a block of yellow Post-it notes off his desk. I write on one. Peel it off. Slap it down on the glass. ‘That’s my mobile number. You have until the end of the day to buy my silence, or order yourself some comfy prison wear. I’ll see myself out.’
87
Paula
I haven’t spoken to Danny since I told him about the divorce. Since he said he knew about Martin. I remind myself of this as a dark-haired nurse, pear-shaped and flat-footed, walks me to his room.
I’m taken aback when I see him through glass in the door. The man who used to light up my life is bandaged, bare-chested and looks lost and bewildered.
She shows me in and innocently announces, ‘Your wife is here, Mr Smith.’
Danny looks surprised to see me.
‘Remember,’ the nurse warns me, ‘he’s not long out of surgery and is very tired. Please don’t exhaust him. I’ll
leave you to it.’
She closes the door after her. Danny breaks his silence and scowls at me. ‘Why the fuck are you here?’
‘Well, I’ll give you a clue.’ I put my handbag down on the bed. ‘It’s not to bring you grapes and a get-well card.’ I sit on a black plastic stacker chair and add, ‘I’ve got things to tell you and it’s in your interest to listen.’
‘Shit! Even here – even when I’m in hospital after being nearly killed – you’re still tellin’ me that I have to listen to you. Well, for once, you’re goin’ to listen to me—’
I try to stop him going off on a rant. ‘Danny, I’m not—’
‘Ashley Crewe is alive, Paula. We never killed him. Me and the Crewe brothers faked his death.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard. The murder wasn’t real. You were tricked. The whole fuckin’ world was tricked.’
‘That doesn’t make sense – I saw it – saw – the blood – his body.’
‘You thought you did. He’s alive. I’m not takin’ the piss.’
I can tell he’s serious. I’ve seen Danny lie a million times about drink and other things. He’s telling the truth and I almost wish he weren’t. ‘You mean you lied to me? For twenty-four years you made me believe I was responsible for his death?’ I look into his eyes and see nothing back. No remorse. No sadness. No regret. ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’
‘Talk to your fuckin’ solicitor. He’ll give you all the details. I’ve already told the cops all about it.’
‘You tell me. You owe me that much, for God’s sake. Tell me why you made me live a lie for more than half my life.’
‘Don’t come all fuckin’ innocent and saintly with me,’ he sneers. ‘You’ve been fuckin’ “married”, or at least pretendin’ to be married, to someone else for a quarter of the time we’ve been together.’
‘Danny, I—’
‘Bigamy – that’s what you’ve done.’ He wags a finger at me. ‘The police are goin’ to jail you for that.’
‘I know. I’m fully aware of the crime I’ve committed and the punishment I’ll get.’
Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist Page 25
