by Alison James
Michelle narrowed her eyes, but otherwise made no response. The lawyer leaned in and whispered something to her, which earned her a contemptuous look.
‘You must be aware,’ Farrelly continued in an eminently reasonable tone, ‘that perverting the course of justice carries a maximum penalty of life in prison. So, with that in mind, can we talk about your decision to pretend your daughter had been abducted, while pretending she was a boy called Harry.’
‘I can do whatever I want with my daughter,’ hissed Michelle. ‘She’s mine; it’s completely up to me.’
Pat Farrelly raised his eyebrows and looked down at his notes. ‘I see. I also need to ask you what you know about the death of a woman called Carly Wethers.’
Michelle’s eyes flickered slightly, but she resumed her outraged look. ‘I don’t know anyone called Carly Wethers. Never heard of her.’ She leaned forward, getting into her interrogator’s personal space. ‘This is all just a stupid misunderstanding. I’m here on holiday, with my sister. Lisa. She arrived last night.’
There was a heavy pause. Pat Farrelly glanced at the lawyer, who gave a faint nod and coughed to clear her throat before addressing her client directly. ‘Michelle, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you. Your sister passed away. A few hours ago.’
Michelle’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘What are you talking about?’ she said eventually, in barely more than a whisper. ‘You mean she died on the plane?’
‘No,’ said Farrelly bluntly. ‘Her husband crashed the car. They were being chased by police, who were attempting to arrest them. For assisting you.’ He gave her a ‘see what you did’ look.
‘The police!’ croaked Michelle. ‘The bloody police did this! I’m going to sue. When I get back to the UK, I’m going to sue the bastards for killing my sister.’
Ignoring this, Farrelly raised an eyebrow. ‘Though of course their chief concern at the time was the whereabouts of your daughter. I’d say you’re very lucky they found her.’
‘Where’s Lola Jade now? Are they bringing her out here?’
Farrelly shook his head. ‘No, that’s not going to happen. Your daughter’s in the care of social services, where she’s safe.’
Only now did Michelle crumple. She buried her face in her hands and started to cry. She’ll never get it, Rachel thought sadly. Or if she does, she’ll never admit it: that her sister’s death is her fault, and that she endangered her daughter’s life. And when she’s charged with murdering Carly, she’ll plead not guilty. She’ll put everyone through a gruelling trial in the hope that the jury get it wrong. Her sort always do.
She consoled herself by preparing Michelle’s formal extradition. The arrest at Sydney airport had been under a provisional warrant; an emergency measure available when an offender was a flight risk. Rachel now filed the paperwork for a formal extradition order, which required input from first the CPS and then the Home Office. Then it would be the job of the force requesting the warrant to arrange for the offender to be collected and returned to the UK.
After a volley of emails and form-filling, and a couple of long phone calls to Nigel Patten, Rachel shut down her monitor, and went downstairs to see if she could secure a free patrol car.
‘Hello, stranger!’
She looked up from her conversation with the reception clerk to see Giles Denton standing there, wrapped in a greatcoat and huge scarf and looking for all the world like a Celtic Heathcliff. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘Almost,’ Rachel corrected him, aware that she was blushing again.
He flapped a large manila envelope. ‘Just dropping off some reports from the guys in Victim ID.’
Her mind raced back to the mistletoe incident. She felt a craven urge to justify her behaviour. ‘Giles, that night in the pub. I…’
‘Oh, go on with you. It was Christmas. What else were we going to do?’
‘Only I don’t normally go round randomly kissing people.’
‘Good God, Rachel, nor do I. But there’s nothing random about you.’
There was an unmistakable wink this time. Rachel grabbed the car keys the receptionist was holding out and turned to go.
‘See you soon, I hope, Detective Inspector Prince.’
Without turning back to expose her flushed face, Rachel gave a curt wave, then hurried down to the car park and programmed the satnav for HMP High Down for what she hoped would be the last time.
* * *
‘I’m being transferred,’ Gavin Harper said as soon as she sat down at the visitors’ table. ‘To Ford Open. So, lucky you caught me.’ He attempted a smile. ‘But you’re not here about that, are you?’
Rachel smiled. ‘I wanted to talk to you before the details hit the news… We’ve found Lola Jade.’
He nodded, but seemed afraid to speak.
‘It’s okay: she’s fine. Michelle had been hiding her, but she’s not been hurt.’
‘Michelle?’ He spat her name. ‘I knew it. I fucking knew she was trying to set me up. This had her written all over it. Where was she? What did that bitch do with her?’
‘She moved her to another house in Eastwell and made her look like a little boy.’
‘What, why? The woman’s insane.’
Rachel inclined her head without comment.
‘And all this was to take her from me? How long was she going to keep that up?’
‘She was planning to take Lola Jade to Australia and start a new life with her there. That’s where Michelle is now: in custody.’
Gavin was shaking his head in disbelief.
‘There’s a lot more to the story, but I just wanted to tell you before you heard it from somewhere else.’
‘So where’s Lola now?’
‘She’s in foster care.’
‘Can’t she go to Andy and his wife? Surely she’d be better off with family?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ll look into it, I promise.’
Gavin rubbed his fingers on his forehead. ‘Will I get her back? When I’m out?’
Rachel sighed. ‘It’s too soon to say for sure. But there’s a chance.’ She leaned in and squeezed his arm briefly. ‘Assuming you keep out of trouble.’
‘Oh, I will,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ve got something to aim for now.’ As Rachel stood up to go, he added. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you. I don’t have my phone with me, but look on my Instagram for the video I posted in September last year. That will help you understand.’
Forty
Merry Christmas from Worthing! trumpeted the lights on the seafront.
The town did not feel merry in the slightest, with a gunmetal sky, clammy sea mist and streets devoid of any activity bar SALE signs in the shop windows. It was probably quite nice in high summer, Rachel thought, trudging from West Worthing station in the direction of Goring-by-Sea. She stopped at a neat semi-detached brick bungalow and rang the doorbell.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Brickall stood on the doorstep wearing jeans and a sweater with a reindeer on the front.
‘I thought we ought to have a proper chat.’
‘How did you find me? Oh, wait, don’t tell me you breached the Data Protection Act and found my grandmother’s address on the PNC. Because that would be insanely fucking hypocritical, in the circumstances.’
‘Actually, I looked in the phone directory.’
Brickall grinned. ‘How very old-school of you, Prince.’
‘For our elderly population, the phone book is still very much a thing. And there are only three Brickalls in the Worthing directory. I reckoned my best bet was Edna Brickall, rather than Percy or Arthur.’
‘Hold on a sec.’ Brickall threw on a ski jacket and stuck his head round one of the doors in the hallway. ‘Just popping out, Nana.’
‘Where are we going?’ Rachel enquired.
‘To get some sea air. That’s just about all there is to do in Worthing.’
They walked together down to the Marine Parade, stopping to buy c
offee, and a cake for Brickall, then found a bench on the seafront. Seagulls swooped around them in a circle, waiting for cake crumbs, and the sea fret made their faces damp.
‘How was your Christmas?’ Rachel asked.
He shrugged. ‘Quiet. Yours?’
‘Same. I’m not a big fan.’
Brickall stared out at the grey horizon. ‘I fucking hate Christmas.’
There was something in his tone that made Rachel turn and look at him. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because that’s when Paul died. My brother.’ He blinked rapidly, and Rachel could tell from his expression that he was furious with himself for this lapse into emotion. She rested a gloved hand briefly on his wrist. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He was killed in a car crash. By a drunk driver.’
‘Shit, Mark; I’m so sorry.’
He jutted his chin. ‘That’s what made me want a career in the police. So I could lock up scum like that.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘My career in the police… yeah, right. Look how that worked out.’
‘Actually…’ Rachel swatted away a seagull and turned to face him. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I spoke to Patten yesterday, and he told me he’s heard back from the PCC. There’s still going to be a disciplinary hearing, and it will go on your record, but he’s had unofficial word that it’s going to be a six-month suspension only. A chunk of which you’ve already served.’
‘Thank fuck for that.’
Rachel’s tone became stern. ‘I hope you realise how lucky you’ve been. If things had gone badly, you could have been looking at a four-year stretch. Apparently Amber Crowley’s second statement – saying it was all a misunderstanding, and that she’d encouraged you – had a lot to do with it.’
Brickall gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘And I have you to thank for that. You’re not such a loser after all, Prince. Or should I say, Mrs Ritchie.’
She shook her head. ‘Not any more. I’m divorced: it’s official.’
‘London’s male population has got to be running scared at the news.’
She thumped his arm. ‘Just hurry up and get back to work, because right now you’re about as much use as a vibrator in a mortuary.’
Brickall threw the remains of his cake to the gulls, pulled out his phone and checked the screen. ‘Speaking of locking up criminal scum: news update about Lola Jade also says Lisa Urquhart’s carked it. Nice one, Michelle: you probably killed your son, almost killed your daughter and now you’ve indirectly killed your sister.’ He looked up at Rachel. ‘Any news on what will happen to the kid?’
‘In foster care for now, but Gavin Harper could be released early on a supervision order, so all being well, she’ll be able to live with her dad before too long.’
Brickall whistled, shaking his head. ‘All that absolute shit Michelle put everyone through; all that deceit and destruction…’
‘And death. Don’t forget about poor TruthTella.’
‘… and death: all to avoid Gavin taking their daughter. And it looks like he’ll end up with her anyway.’
‘Oh, that reminds me. I visited Gavin and he wanted me to look at something online…’ Rachel pulled out her phone and scrolled through endless posts until she found the video clip for 13 September 2015. Lola’s sixth birthday. She held it up so that Brickall could watch too, and pressed play.
Gavin was filming a party held by his own family: Terry Harper, the Ingrams and the Whittiers were visible, but no Michelle. A cake with six lit candles had pride of place, surrounded by swags of sugar-pink balloons. ‘Where is she? Where’s the birthday girl?’ teased Gavin from behind the camera. Lola Jade came into shot, and Rachel and Brickall heard her speaking for the first time. After all these months, she finally had a voice.
‘Daddeeeeee!’ She launched herself into her father’s arms, sending the phone flying from his hand, and capturing a few seconds of carpet. Gavin refocused it on her face, lit up with a joyous smile. She had never looked like that in any of Michelle’s prized pictures. ‘You having a nice party, sweetheart?’
Lola Jade nodded vigorously. ‘It’s the best. Cus you’re the best daddy in the whole wide world!’ She flung her arms out wide and the clip ended with a freeze frame of the little girl’s beaming face.
‘I think the kid’s going to be all right, don’t you?’ asked Brickall.
Rachel nodded, standing up and extending her hand to pull Brickall to his feet. They walked arm in arm along West Parade, the icy drizzle at their backs.
‘I’d better head back to London. Not long before I have to pack my bags and leave the country again.’
‘Good old “Call me air miles” Prince… Where to this time?’
‘Sydney.’
He stopped in his tracks. ‘You’re kidding.’
She shook her head. ‘Nope. We’ve put in the extradition request for Michelle Harper, and Patten wants me to go.’
‘That’s one hell of a lot of air miles. But also twenty-plus hours on a plane handcuffed to the Mother of the Year. Or “the most hated woman in Britain”, as the tabloids are calling her.’
She grimaced. ‘I don’t want to go. At all.’
‘You could have got out of it. Found someone else.’
‘Possibly. But I need to see it through. Find my way to the very end of the maze.’
‘Belt and braces, DI Prince.’
She reached for his hand, and squeezed it. ‘Exactly, Detective Sergeant.’
* * *
If you loved The Lying Kind and can’t wait to find out what’s next for DI Rachel Prince, then sign up here to be the first to know when the next book, The Unlucky Ones, is released.
A Letter from Alison
I want to say a huge thank you for choosing to read The Lying Kind. If you enjoyed reading and would like to keep up-to-date with all my latest releases, just sign up here. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
I had enormous fun creating and writing the character of Detective Rachel Prince, I do hope you continue to follow her story. There is lots more in store for Rachel - and I want you to be gripped by her future investigations just as much as this one!
If you loved The Lying Kind, I would be very grateful if you could write a review. I’d love to hear what you liked most about the story, as it makes such a difference helping new readers to discover one of my books for the first time.
I’m always pleased to hear from readers – so do say hello on my Facebook page, through Twitter, Goodreads or my website.
* * *
Thanks,
Alison James
Acknowledgements
With huge thanks to the wonderful Meg Sanders, whose advice and encouragement helped this book become a reality.
Published by Bookouture
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An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
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www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Alison James 2017
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Alison James has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-78681-331-2
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