Buried Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘Get the fuck off me!’ he was shouting. ‘I didn’t see anything, I’ll swear to it. Let me go!’ But Mariner was bigger and more experienced at this kind of tussle and after sustaining several further blows, he had the man pinned to the ground, face down, with his arms high behind his back, both of them gasping for breath. ‘Please,’ the man said, pleading now. ‘I can forget it. I swear I won’t tell a soul. I didn’t see your face and I’ll walk away without turning round . . .’

  ‘Relax,’ Mariner said, gulping in air. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t know who you think I am but my name is Tom Mariner. I’m a police officer. I’m staying in Caranwy and I’m walking back there after a day out. That’s all. What’s your name?’

  He tried in vain to wriggle out from Mariner’s grasp. ‘Why the fuck should I tell you that?’

  He had a touch of the Irish brogue, Mariner noticed. ‘All right, that doesn’t matter. Just tell me what it is you’re running from.’

  At that the man seemed to suddenly accept defeat and relax in Mariner’s grip. ‘My name is Hennessey,’ he wheezed. ‘Joe Hennessey.’

  ‘Right, Joe, I’m going to let you stand up,’ Mariner said. ‘Then I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on. Understood?’

  Hennessey nodded. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  Bit by bit Mariner released his hold and Hennessey got to his feet, stretching out an arm to lean on a nearby tree trunk for support, but keeping a distance between them. Somewhere in his early thirties, he was slim and pale with mouse-brown hair that was either fashionably, or as a result of the rain and the wrestling, untidily mussed. He was wearing what Mariner could identify now as running gear, complete with trainers, the twin earpieces of an mp3 player dangling around his neck. It was now that Mariner also saw blood mixed with the mud on Hennessey’s high-vis jacket. ‘So?’ he asked.

  Hennessey drew a breath. ‘There’s a man, back there. He’s been . . . he’s dead . . . oh fuck.’ The horror of it seemed to strike him anew. ‘I was just out running and I slipped and fell down the bank and landed on top of him, on the ground. Someone’s killed him. I thought you must be . . .’

  ‘Show me,’ said Mariner.

  Hennessey’s eyes cast wildly about. ‘Ah fuck it; can’t we just go get someone?’

  ‘We will, but first I want you to show me.’ Mariner put a hand on Hennessey’s shoulder. ‘Take some deep breaths. I told you; I’m a police officer, although I can’t exactly prove it right now. All I’m asking is that you take me to where he is.’

  Finally, Hennessey seemed to pull himself together. ‘Sure, okay, okay.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s back this way.’

  He led Mariner back along the footpath towards the rickety bridge. After they’d been walking for about three minutes they came to the edge of a small gully, with the river running along at the bottom, and Hennessey slowed his pace. Then he stopped at a point where the side of the footpath had broken away, and there were deep gouges in the mud that disappeared down the steep embankment. ‘It’s at the bottom there,’ Hennessey said in a hoarse whisper, looking anywhere but into the gully.

  ‘All right, Joe,’ Mariner said, firmly. ‘I’m going to take a quick look and then we’re going to report it. But you must wait. You’re an important witness so I need you to stay right here with me.’ Hoping that Hennessey wasn’t about to scarper, Mariner scrambled down the bank and as he reached the riverside, a wave of nausea swept over him. He’d witnessed unnatural death in many different forms but could never get used to the initial shock. A man, or more accurately the remains of one, was lying on the ground face up, his chest a mass of blood and raw flesh where he had been repeatedly hacked in what looked like a frenzied knife attack. His face, or what was left of it, and clothing were covered in mud, intermingled with the blood, as if he’d been rolled in it. A split-second image of Anna, lying covered in blood on the roadside, careered into Mariner’s head and he rapidly deflected it.

  Bracing himself, he knelt by the body and checked the pulse points knowing that it was futile. The skin was cool to the touch and he could feel the beginnings of the onset of rigor mortis. He also went through the pockets to check for any identification, but there was nothing. Remaining where he was, to avoid the risk of disturbing forensic evidence, Mariner cast a look around the immediate area but could not, on the face of it, see any sign of a murder weapon, though he could determine what appeared to be blood smears on the foliage to his right and there were some signs that a half-hearted attempt had been made to conceal the body with leaves and brush. Careful to retrace his exact steps, Mariner clambered back up the steep side of the ravine. The top was slick and greasy and he was grateful when Hennessey reached out a hand to help him up the last couple of feet. He noticed again the blood on Hennessey’s clothes.

  ‘He really is . . .?’ Hennessey tailed off, reluctant to say the word again.

  Mariner just nodded his head. He’d already taken his phone out, but it was useless. ‘There’s no signal,’ he said to Hennessey. ‘Where’s the nearest place you can get one around here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hennessey said defensively. ‘I’m just staying at the pub for a couple of days. I mean, I’ve tried, but it’s never consistent, one day to the next.’

  ‘There must be somewhere.’

  Mariner cast around him; in the confusion he’d completely lost his bearings, and the trees here were so impenetrable as to block any landmark from sight. As eager as he was to raise the alarm and to preserve the scene, he didn’t want to lose sight of Hennessey — he was in a dilemma.

  ‘We’re nearer to the Hall,’ Hennessey said, eventually seeing Mariner’s uncertainty. ‘The edge of the estate is just a couple of hundred yards up that way.’ He pointed up to the left.

  Mariner considered. Gwennol would at least have the benefit of landlines and would provide a useful reference point for the police when they came. ‘Shit,’ he said, thinking aloud, ‘it might be nearer, but there’s all that bloody barbed wire to negotiate.’

  Hennessey swallowed. ‘There is a way through that,’ he said. ‘But if anyone finds out . . .’

  Mariner glared. ‘A man’s been killed,’ he reminded him. ‘We’re not pissing about here. Show me.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hennessey was suddenly uncertain. ‘It might look as if . . .’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Mariner impatiently. ‘We’re losing valuable time. Now move.’ Mariner gestured towards the path, making sure that Hennessey went ahead of him. From the state of the man, he was pretty certain that he was telling the truth about his discovery of the body, but one could never be sure. Again they had to battle their way through deep brambles that ripped at their clothing, emerging at the end of the path alongside the tantalizingly close estate park, the tarmac road clearly visible a few yards ahead of them, in parallel with the barbed-wire fencing. ‘Christ,’ Mariner murmured under his breath. ‘What is it about people round here?’

  ‘Come up this way,’ Hennessey said, leading Mariner about ten metres along the fence. Suddenly, he crouched down beside it. After a few seconds’ manipulation, he pulled open a panel large enough to crawl through, where the wire had been cut.

  Mariner gave him a sideways look. ‘I can see why you’d want to keep this a secret,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not doing any harm,’ Hennessey grumbled. ‘I take photographs. There’s some unbelievable wildlife here, especially around dawn, and with the trees in the background you can get some great shots across the parkland and through the mist. Sometimes even the odd stray deer. I’m not hurting anyone.’

  Mariner hesitated before crawling through. ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘They’re only part-time,’ Hennessey said. ‘They work Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.’ He had done his homework.

  They scrambled under the wire, picking up the darkened line of the footpath across the grass, then following it until it emerged part way along the tarmacked drive of the manor, from where they could see the s
olid Palladian building towering up ahead. Mariner led the way up to the main entrance.

  ‘I’m not sure that they’ll appreciate me being here,’ Hennessey said, hanging back.

  ‘I can’t imagine they’ll be overjoyed to see either of us, particularly the state we’re in,’ Mariner said brusquely. ‘But there are more important things to consider, so get over it.’

  Broad, shallow steps ascended between twin statues and up to the huge double doors. Mariner sprinted up them and pressed on the bell. They waited and waited some more. Mariner had little idea of how such grand houses were run and had the sudden thought that they might have made a serious mistake in coming here first. There may not even be anyone at home. The storm itself had passed, but the rain was still coming down — and for as long as that was happening, the crime scene was being disturbed, not to mention any wildlife that might be interested.

  ‘Have you seen the helicopter this afternoon?’ he asked Hennessey.

  The Irishman shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I have,’ he said. He’d gone deathly white and his teeth were starting to chatter, the enormity of the last hour starting to impact on him. Delayed shock was setting in and he looked close to passing out.

  Cursing inwardly, Mariner was just trying to calculate how far they were from the village itself, when the heavy oak door swung open. The woman who stood behind it was dwarfed by the oversized doorway. She was petite to the point of childlike, with black hair tucked back behind her ears, and olive-skinned oriental features. She wore a business-like white blouse and dark skirt, making Mariner think he must be looking at the housekeeper. As she took in the walking and running gear, the mud and the blood, Mariner watched her half-formed smile falter. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  Mariner had expected some kind of exotic Eastern European accent, but if those were her origins she’d worked hard to disguise them. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mariner,’ he said, feeing oddly ineffective without his warrant card. ‘I need to use your phone to call the local police. A serious incident has occurred in the woodland bordering this property to which we are both unfortunate witnesses. We need to get the police here as soon as possible, and this man needs to go somewhere warm and get a hot drink inside him.’ He became suddenly aware of Hennessey swaying on his feet and put out an arm to steady him.

  Whether due to the unexpectedness, the uncompromising tone of Mariner’s voice, or simple common sense, the woman set aside any objections she might have been considering and opened the door to let them inside. They walked into a cavernous reception hall with wide staircases sweeping up from each side, and handsome portraits looking down from the walls.

  ‘Christ,’ Mariner heard Hennessey breathe beside him.

  ‘You can use the phone in here,’ the woman said, taking them into a room to the right, which appeared to be some kind of study, traditionally and somehow appropriately furnished straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, complete with leather Chesterfields and dark mahogany furniture, the walls lined with bookshelves. A huge walnut desk was incongruously topped with a state-of-the-art computer, printer and phone.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mariner. ‘We could use some blankets, and if you could organize some hot drinks, please?’ he ordered, nodding towards Hennessey, who had slumped on to one of the sofas. He picked up the receiver. Clearly reluctant to leave them, the housekeeper nonetheless did as Mariner had asked and, as he punched in three nines, he heard her speaking urgently to someone just outside the door. In seconds the dispatch centre cut in and Mariner described what they had found and the location, keeping his voice low so as to minimize any alarm. As he was doing so the housekeeper reappeared moments later with an armful of fleecy rugs, which she took over to Hennessey. Ending the call, Mariner nodded his thanks. ‘The police will be in here in whatever time it takes them to get from where they’re coming.’

  She hovered uncertainly, wringing her hands, clearly uncomfortable with these developments. ‘We ought to let Mr Shapasnikov know what is happening,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure how he’d feel about the police coming here . . . it’s not really my place to give permission . . .’

  ‘It’s not a question of permission.’ Mariner was pragmatic. ‘This has happened adjacent to his property.’ He could see her trying to work out exactly what was going on but didn’t want to give away anymore until the police had the full story.

  ‘Yes, but all the same, he should be contacted.’ With an apologetic nod, she left the room. As she did so, another younger woman appeared carrying a tray of tea and biscuits that she placed on a table in front of Hennessey. ‘Thank you,’ said Mariner. Loading sugar into the mugs, he passed one to Hennessey before taking the other himself. Then, unable to sit still, he got up and paced the room, noting from the photographs that covered any blank areas of wall that Mr Shapasnikov appeared to be a man with influential contacts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hunched over the stream, Glenn McGinley was retching his guts up in ugly rasps, and watching the water that flowed away from him turn a pale reddish green. His throat burned and his ribs and stomach ached, but it didn’t matter; the job was done. He had found ‘closure’ as they say. Again the surprise factor had worked in his favour, but if he was honest he would have to admit that on this occasion his temper had got the better of him and rather spoiled the experience. It was messy. All the years of misdirected anger and resentment had come bubbling to the surface and this time he had lost control. But he didn’t care. The outcome was the same, and every bit as satisfying as his previous efforts, giving him a sense of achievement he’d rarely felt before. In different circumstances he could imagine this kind of buzz developing into an addiction of sorts.

  And now he had fulfilled his commitment. ‘I did it for you!’ he bellowed at the sky.

  * * *

  Tom Mariner’s house was a former lock keeper’s cottage on the edge of the Grand Union Canal, between the back of a small cul-de-sac and the wide, green expanse of Kingsmead Park, a popular public space. Despite being in the city suburbs, its position was relatively isolated behind the cover of trees, and although secured as well as any policeman’s house was likely to be, it was always vulnerable on the rare occasions when Mariner was away for extended periods. Knox drove to the far side of the park and he and Nelson did almost a full circuit of the playing fields, before branching off down the narrow footpath to the canal. When Knox’s marriage had broken up a few years earlier, leaving him temporarily homeless, he had lodged with Mariner for a while and had appreciated the seclusion as much as he knew the boss did. But being so remote also had its drawbacks. This morning everything about the property seemed outwardly fine. To make sure, Knox opened the gate and went into the garden to look in through the window. That was when his day took a downturn.

  Where Mariner’s TV usually stood there was a conspicuous space. Knox wasn’t aware that Mariner had ditched his TV; in fact only a few days ago they’d been discussing the European Cup game they’d both watched the night before. Taking out the key he’d retained since his stay there, Knox let himself into the house and Nelson skittered in behind him. A swift glance around told him that the stereo was missing too, and after a tour of the other rooms he’d added a computer, microwave and a couple of radios to the list. He considered checking the cellar to see if Mariner had just been security conscious enough to lock all the valuable stuff all away out of sight, but when he got to the kitchen and found the mess of beer bottles and spilled beer and opened food packaging, he knew that the boss hadn’t left things like this. The curiosity was that, though he checked thoroughly, Knox could find no indication anywhere of a forced entry. The sturdy locks and window fastenings were all intact, meaning that this was the work of someone with a key. The only other obvious candidate, besides Knox himself, was Katarina, and while it was not impossible to think that she might have borrowed some of the appliances, it didn’t explain the mess in the kitchen. She would never have been so inconsiderate as to leave it like that. Knox spen
t a fruitless few minutes hunting around for her contact details but found nothing and had to conclude that they were stored on Mariner’s missing computer. Reluctantly he called Mariner’s mobile. It went straight to voicemail, so he left a message.

  * * *

  Mariner had just stood up to get himself another hot drink when he saw, through the window, that the local police were drawing up quietly outside. It was encouraging to see they hadn’t been gung-ho enough to herald their arrival with a blare of sirens and squealing brakes. Hearing the subsequent activity and voices beyond the door, he went out into the vestibule to meet them. The plain-clothes officer leading the pack was not tall but was solidly built, with a shaved head and a thick neck that didn’t sit comfortably in his pristine-white shirt collar. His scrubbed complexion was high, with a network of broken veins on his upper cheeks.

  ‘Mr Mariner?’ he asked briskly, taking a foil pack from his pocket and popping a tablet Mariner recognized as nicotine gum into his mouth. ‘I’m DCI Bullman and these are my colleagues DI Ryan Griffith and DC Debra Farthing.’