Lie in Wait: A dark and gripping crime thriller

by GJ Minett

  Holloway smiled. ‘I always think co-operation is the best way forward, Mr Mitchell,’ he said. ‘So do we have your permission to take your truck, Owen? On the understanding that this is a gesture of goodwill and that we will only be checking inside the cab for fingerprints?’

  Hall looked at Mitchell who nodded. After a pause, he agreed.

  ‘OK,’ said Holloway, ‘moving on. Tell us about the fish and chips, Owen.’

  Hall and Mitchell looked blankly at each other.

  ‘You have fish and chips – large cod and chips and a battered sausage, to be precise – every Saturday evening. Would that be right?’

  ‘What’s that got to d-do with anything?’

  ‘Always from the same fish-and-chip shop? Always on Saturdays?’

  ‘N-nearly always. Yes,’ he added cautiously.

  ‘And you say that this Julie never came to your house?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So where did she take the cod and chips she picked up for you?’

  ‘I d-don’t understand. She d-didn’t. I d-don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘The lady in the chippie says she did. Are you saying she never bought cod and chips for you?’

  ‘No. N-never.’

  ‘What about the After Eight mints?’ Horgan chipped in.

  Hall turned to face him, his expression reflecting his confusion.

  ‘What d’you m-mean?’

  ‘She bought a box of After Eights for you. Told the shopkeeper it was a surprise – they’re your favourite, right?’

  ‘No,’ said Hall and it occurred to Holloway that if he was faking his amazement here he was a very accomplished actor indeed. ‘I don’t like mints. And I d-don’t eat chocolate very often. It’s bad for me.’

  ‘Did you ask someone recently to post a parcel for you at the post office in Rose Green?’ he asked.

  ‘What parcel?’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘No,’ Hall repeated. ‘I d-don’t need to think about it. I haven’t sent a p-parcel for ages.’

  ‘Then you see why we’re anxious to find out who this woman is, Owen. Because if what you say is true, that means she spent a week or so before she disappeared, passing herself off as your girlfriend and inventing stories to support her version of events.’

  ‘I haven’t got a girlfriend,’ he said, colouring up. ‘She’s lying!’

  ‘In which case, we need to know why. I apologise for asking this but it is important. Did you ever hit Julie at all?’

  ‘Hit her? No!’ He looked taken aback by the suggestion.

  ‘The reason I ask is because for most of that week she had a badly bruised face which suggested she’d been struck by someone.’

  ‘I d-don’t hit ladies. I d-don’t hit anyone.’

  ‘Did her face appear bruised to you when you met her that evening?’

  ‘No. I’d have n-noticed. I was n-next to her in the truck.’

  ‘So you’re saying the bruising must have been fake, right?’

  ‘I’m saying I never t-touched her. And she’s not my g-girlfriend. I d-don’t even know her. Why’s she saying these things?’

  He was becoming increasingly agitated and Holloway, able by now to read the signs as well as Mitchell, called the interview to a halt almost immediately. He watched as the two of them walked off down the corridor, the little man taking two steps to his partner’s one, looking more than ever like something from a Steinbeck novel. Then he turned to Horgan, who had thrown his biro onto the table and was leaning back in his chair, hands locked behind his head.

  ‘Well?’ Holloway asked.

  Horgan shook his head.

  ‘I hate to say this, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, go on. Make my day.’

  ‘I think you may have been right all along. He’s being set up.’

  ‘Did we have a little side bet here?’ asked Holloway. ‘I think we did.’

  ‘I know better than that,’ said Horgan, staring at the ceiling as he tried to bring his thoughts into some sort of order. ‘OK, so where does that leave us? If someone’s playing games with him, why? I mean, what would be the point?’

  ‘Well, at a guess I’d say someone thinks we should be looking more closely at Owen Hall, wouldn’t you? The question is who.’

  ‘Someone who’s feeling the heat a bit from South Mundham, maybe? Wants to deflect some of the attention elsewhere?’

  ‘What heat?’ asked Holloway. ‘What attention? We’re back to the same problem we had when you were sure Owen Hall was trying to mess with our heads and throw us off track. We’ve never really been on track. We haven’t had anyone in our sights. I mean, we’ve looked at the Reid woman’s ex-husband but if he’s behind all this I’m retiring right now cos it means I’ve learned nothing in all these years in this job. We’re knee deep in all the shady financial dealings Green was involved in and we may get something out of that eventually but we’re a million miles from pointing the finger at anyone in particular. So who exactly would think he was in our sights?’

  ‘What about the Bellamys?’

  ‘No way,’ laughed Holloway. ‘We’re nowhere near them.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean they weren’t connected in some way.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean they were either. We haven’t got within spitting distance of the Bellamys. And even if we had, they’re not exactly virgins are they? D’you think they’d be even remotely bothered to hear we’re sniffing around their financial records and any possible links to Callum Green? We’ve had them almost bang to rights before now and they haven’t even blinked. I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘So if it’s not someone trying to wrong-foot us, it must be personal. There has to be someone out there with a real grudge against Owen Hall. In which case this whole petrol-station business could be just a sideshow. It may have nothing to do with South Mundham at all.’

  Which, he realised, would leave them right back where they’d started.

  12

  EARLIER: WEDNESDAY, 17TH SEPTEMBER

  OWEN

  He’s on his own today. She’s working at the bookshop. All day. She said something about it yesterday but he forgot, otherwise he could have made today a work-at-home day. When she’s not here, it’s not the same. Doesn’t feel like something they’re doing together.

  He hasn’t seen much of her recently, not since Saturday. He wonders if it’s because she feels embarrassed about the fuss she made over the necklace. He’s confused about what happened – doesn’t understand why she can’t just accept it. It’s a present. People give presents all the time for birthdays. You don’t hand them back and say they cost too much. He can’t see her doing something like that to Callum. She admitted as much. He also thinks her reaction would have been very different if it was this new friend of hers – this Adam – who’d bought it for her. Why is she like that just with him? Saying that he needs to take it back is just stupid. What would he want with a necklace? Who’s he supposed to give it to if not her?

  He doesn’t want it back. He’d rather she sold it and bought something else with the money. And more than anything else he wishes things could go back to how they were before the weekend because it’s not the same when she’s not here. He needs to be able to show her what he’s done in the garden, have her come out from time to time and tell him what a difference he’s making. It’s not fair to leave him here on his own. It feels like he’s being punished.

  Willie’s very unhappy about Abi’s reaction. He was against giving her the necklace anyway, but the least she could do was show a bit of gratitude. He also suspects there’s more to her friendship with this Adam than she’s letting on. Says she’s lying. Just like Mum lied when she said she’d always be there to look after us. Just like Mrs Winstone lied when she said she’d never allow any bullying in her school. It’s what women do – they can’t help it. It’s part of their make-up. Ask Dad is what Willie says. He’ll tell you.

  Owen thinks that’s
a bit harsh but it does feel as if something’s broken somehow and he wishes someone could tell him how to mend it. When he and Abi do get a few minutes together, she always manages to slip in some reference to the necklace, trying to persuade him to take it back. Maybe Willie was right after all. Maybe he shouldn’t have given it to her. But now he’s done it he can’t undo it. He keeps clinging to the idea that one day she might try it on in a moment of weakness, see how lovely it is. Then she’ll be glad she kept it.

  As for her new friend, he doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t like the idea that she might lie to him but, as Willie pointed out, it wouldn’t be the first time. She’d met this Adam in secret . . . and you don’t do that without a reason, do you? He wishes he understood more about women and how their minds work. Things would be so much easier if you could believe what they said. It’s bothering him, taking all the enjoyment out of his work this morning.

  He breaks for lunch around 12.30, letting himself into the house with the spare key that Abi keeps in a hiding place in the back garden so he can get in when he needs to. He pours a glass of water for himself and is about to tuck into his hard-boiled egg, pork pie and chicken sandwiches but he can’t settle down to eat just yet. His stomach feels funny and he decides it’s probably all the uncertainty. This whole business has ruined his morning; he’s not going to let it spoil his lunch as well. If there’s something he ought to know about Abi’s new friendship, there must be signs of it somewhere around the house. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look. She won’t be back for several hours yet. It’s the perfect chance for him to set his mind at rest and show Willie that he doesn’t know everything.

  So he takes his shoes off, picks up the glass of water and the lunch box and climbs the stairs. There won’t be anything downstairs, he tells himself. Not where anyone can see. The best place to start will be her bedroom. His heart is hammering in his chest as he turns the handle and pushes the door open, only to discover that he’s in the bathroom. There’s more than one toothbrush and various men’s toiletries lying around but those could easily be Callum’s, he tells himself. He doesn’t think she’ll have moved his things out just yet.

  The next room looks like a guest one – neatly made bed, no personal items of any sort. Down the corridor, three more doors: one to an airing cupboard, another to what looks like it might have been another small guest room at some stage but has been converted into an office. Writing desk, expensive-looking chair with adjustable arms and lumbar support. Space for a laptop . . . maybe the police have taken it. Photo of Abi – he wonders if she’d notice if he took it with him. Decides she would.

  Into the final bedroom – large double bed covered by a pink quilt with an oriental floral print. Huge wardrobes. En-suite bathroom. Large window looking out onto the back garden. He takes a sip of water from his glass and puts it on one of the bedside tables next to a Michael Connelly novel. Then he opens the lunch box, takes the egg from it and bites into it as he wanders around the room in search of clues.

  It takes him ten minutes to find what he’s looking for, even though he’s been hoping he won’t actually find anything incriminating at all. Two things actually. The first is in one of the wardrobes, tucked away on a shelf containing half a dozen neatly folded jumpers. Out of sight, out of mind. He knew it wasn’t in the jewellery box on her bedside table because he checked that only a few minutes ago and he’s been talking himself into believing that this might mean she’s actually wearing it today. She tried it on and just couldn’t resist it. But no – it’s here, still inside its case, not even out in the open where she might see it every day and be tempted by it.

  He picks up the box and carries it over to the window. Places it on the window sill and puts alongside it the pork pie, from which he’s just taken a bite, in order to free up both hands. Then he lifts the lid and gently removes the necklace, holding it up to the light pouring in through the window. It’s so pretty. It doesn’t belong in a dark wardrobe. He carries it over to her pillow and lays it out there. He’d like to leave it that way so that it’s the first thing she sees when she comes home but he’s not sure how he can do that without giving away the fact that he’s been searching through her bedroom. He puts it back with a heavy heart, taking great care to leave it exactly where he found it.

  His other discovery comes almost by accident, just as he’s getting ready to leave the room. He picks up the book, wondering what sort of things she reads. He prefers to watch television himself but if he knows what sort of books she likes reading, it will give him a few ideas as to what he can buy her for Christmas. He rests it in his lap and opens it at the bookmarked page. Only it’s not a bookmark. It’s a birthday card – a long, thin one. He picks it up and looks at a photo of a peaceful, rural setting, a pale sun dragging itself over a hilltop to signal the start of a new day. The message on the front says:

  Some things you just know you can rely on.

  Inside it continues:

  . . . some people are just the same.

  And it’s signed Adam with one small cross after the name. Adam with a kiss.

  That’s not good. Doesn’t sound to him like a friend who’s just a good listener. It sounds like someone who’s a bit more than that. And he’s just trying to process this when suddenly there’s a loud ringing sound throughout the house to signal that someone is at the front door. It startles him and he leaps to his feet, forgetting the book, which falls to the floor and shuts. He’s standing there, holding the card in one hand and wishing he’d made a note of the page she was on because now he doesn’t know where the makeshift bookmark is supposed to go. In his desperation he picks the book up and slides the card somewhere in the middle – it’s the best he can do.

  He needs to get out of there. He knows it won’t be Abi – if she’d forgotten her keys, she’d just go round the back and use the spare. But what if it’s her father-in-law – the policeman? What if he knows where the key is kept? What’s he going to think if he finds him wandering around upstairs?

  He straightens out the quilt, grabs his lunch box, remembering the empty glass at the last moment, and races across the landing. Then he tiptoes his way downstairs as quickly and as quietly as he can and dashes into the lounge, where he peers around the curtain just in time to see the postman turn away from the door and start walking back down the path. Relieved, he bangs on the window to get his attention, then goes to the front door and signs for a parcel in Abi’s name. His breathing’s just about back to normal by the time he’s returned to the kitchen and started eating the remaining chicken sandwich.

  His mouth is dry, probably from all the excitement of the last few minutes, so he pours himself another glass of water and resumes his place at the table. His mind is clearer than it was a few minutes ago. He might not like it but at least he knows where he stands.

  He has a rival now.

  ANNA

  ‘Got a joke for you,’ she said. ‘Good one this time.’

  ‘Is it better than the last one?’

  ‘Which one was that?’

  ‘The one about the morris dancer.’

  ‘Yep. Even better than that.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘OK. Duck walks into a baker’s shop and goes up to the baker and says, “You got any matches?” The baker says, “No – sorry,” so the duck walks out. Next day, duck comes back in again and says, “You got any matches?” The baker says, “No. I told you yesterday. We don’t sell matches. This is a bakery – we sell cakes, bread, pastries . . . no matches.” Duck says “OK” and walks out. Next day . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me – I’ll bet the duck walks in again.’

  ‘Aaah, you’ve heard it,’ she said sarcastically. ‘No, listen. It’s a good one. So . . . next day, duck walks in again, goes up to the baker and says, “You got any matches?” This time the baker loses it, reaches over the counter and grabs the duck by the neck and says, “Listen – I keep telling you this is a bakery. You come in
here once more and ask if we’ve got any matches, I’m gonna take a bloody great hammer and nail that beak of yours to this counter. Do you understand?” The duck nods and walks out.’

  ‘And next day –’ he says.

  ‘Next day, duck comes in, goes up to the baker and says, “You got any nails?” And the baker’s all surprised like, so he says, “Nails? No, we haven’t.” So the duck says, “Right. Got any matches?”’

  She was already giggling during the lead-up to the punchline, at which point she burst into laughter. He liked her laugh – it was uninhibited, genuine. Infectious too, to the extent that an elderly couple coming towards them felt obliged to smile along with them, as if wanting to be included as well.

  ‘Good one, eh?’ she said, dabbing at the corner of one eye with her finger.

  ‘Yeah. Good one.’

  ‘Better than the morris dancer?’

  ‘Anything’s better than the morris dancer.’

  ‘Well, it got a smile out of you at any rate,’ she said. ‘I told it to Lucia . . . my sister? Nothing. Not a hint of a smile. Know what she said? “Why would a duck need nails?” Seriously,’ she added, when he shot a disbelieving look in her direction. ‘God’s honest truth. Why would the duck ask for nails? I really worry about her sometimes. Stand close enough to her, you can hear the sea.’