Someone Is Lying

by Jenny Blackhurst

  Miranda watched from her window, her husband’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. Where would this all end?

  65

  ‘Okay, what have we got?’

  DS Harvey surveyed the items on the table in front of him. They were all bagged in evidence bags, the seals scribbled on with the signature of the scene of crime officer and the date.

  ‘The laptop was in the satchel found in the front room. It’s a Mac Air, currently in with tech for analysis. Wallet, keys, coat, gloves.’

  ‘Has the mother identified the coat and the gloves?’

  The SOCO nodded again. ‘We’re pretty sure it’s all his. All except this.’ The SOCO motioned towards a woman’s handbag lying on the table. Individual bags containing its contents were scattered on the table next to it. ‘These are clearly a woman’s, and the wallet inside has been identified as Mary-Beth King’s.’

  ‘Have we spoken to Mr King?’

  DC Allan nodded. ‘We spoke to him last night, at the same time as we did our door to doors, although we didn’t know the bag had been recovered at that time. He doesn’t know that yet either. Our questions were the same as we asked everyone else, they weren’t specifically relating to his wife.’

  DS Harvey nodded, satisfied. ‘Don’t tell him yet, I don’t want him knowing about this. What else?’

  The SOCO indicated Mary-Beth King’s wallet. ‘There was blood, only a small amount, found on the wallet itself. That’s been swabbed and sent to DNA. There was a larger amount of blood inside the bag itself, but only enough for a small cut maybe on someone’s hand.’

  ‘Anything in the bag to tell us where she might be?’

  The SOCO shook his head. ‘There’s nothing else of hers in the house – no evidence she was ever actually in there in person. There are a ton of fingerprints; we’ll need some control prints from the owner and also anyone she knows has definitely been inside.’

  ‘There was no damage to any of the doors,’ Harvey mused. ‘Did you find any keys?’

  ‘His house keys were in his coat pocket, one of them fits the front door.’

  ‘Right, so we need to find out if he or his parents knew Brenda well. Perhaps he did odd jobs for her or they checked on her cat while she was on holiday or something. Any reason why he might have had a spare key.’

  ‘I’ve got a possible answer for that, boss,’ Allan said. ‘I spoke to the daughter this morning. Apparently, they were preparing to have the house put on the market – the mother is too old to live by herself now and has early-onset dementia. They had been in talks with an estate agent to get a team of cleaners to go in and to have photographs taken before they emptied the house. The estate agent—’

  ‘Let me guess – Tonks?’ The estate agency where Mary-Beth had worked before she went missing.

  DC Allan nodded. ‘Bang on. Mary-Beth had the key so that she could check the place out and decide what needed doing.’

  ‘So even if we find her prints in there, we have no idea if they are from before or after she went missing. Brilliant. Okay, here’s what we need to do. Find out if there’s any link between this lad and Mary-Beth King. We need to establish if he had any reason to hurt her and steal her handbag. And did he have the means? He was only young, I know, but we’ve seen kids much younger than him abduct fully grown women. Were her keys in the handbag?’

  ‘Her house keys and car keys. No spare key for Brenda Fitzgerald’s house.’

  ‘So it’s possible Tristan stole Mary-Beth’s handbag and took the spare key to the Fitzgerald house off to put on his own key ring. But when?’

  ‘We’ve got two options,’ WPC Lewis spoke up. ‘Either it was after the car was dumped, or he’s the one who dumped the car – which probably means he’s done something to Mary-Beth King. She couldn’t have dumped the car if her keys had been stolen.’

  ‘There’s a third scenario we have to consider,’ Harvey said, noting all three points on the gigantic whiteboard on the wall of the briefing room. On the wall he’d written ‘PETER KING DUMPS CAR’. ‘It’s likely King would have keys to his wife’s car, so he could have moved the car without needing her handbag.’

  ‘Nothing about that makes sense, though,’ Lewis said. She looked down at her notes. ‘If he dumped her car then he must have had a reason, so that means he’s the one who killed her – assuming in this scenario she’s dead, which I think we’re all coming round to. So . . . what? Tristan robs her, and then her husband kills her in the same day? Pretty unlucky.’

  ‘Maybe he sees what’s happened to her. Maybe Peter drops her bag on the driveway while he’s dumping the car and the body. It’s late, dark, he doesn’t see it. Maybe Tristan sees this and steals the bag.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he tell anyone that his neighbour murdered his wife? Seems a pretty big secret for a lad to keep.’

  ‘He was bribing King. Says he’ll keep quiet but he wants cash or something. King gets fed up of it and – bang! – Tristan takes a fall.’

  ‘Are we discounting that this had anything to do with what happened to Erica Spencer, then? Seeing as they disappeared the day the podcast was first mentioned.’

  ‘We’re not discounting anything. At this moment we haven’t processed enough evidence, and the last thing I want to do is make the evidence fit a theory. Let’s get the answers to our questions first, then see where that gets us.’

  ‘Guv, one last thing?’ Allan asked as they turned to leave.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are we planning to officially reopen the Erica Spencer case in light of all this?’

  DS Harvey sighed. Why wouldn’t this man give up? He felt a burning knot of shame pulsing inside him – perhaps if he’d been as insistent eleven months ago, that young man would still be alive. He couldn’t think like that now, though – it wasn’t helping anybody.

  ‘Not today. Get tech on that computer and see what they find. I want to know that all this is connected before I open that can of worms.’

  66

  The door to flat 11a was opened by a mop of dark hair and a grunt.

  ‘John Lucas? My name is DC Allan. Can I?’ He inclined his head and the young lad stepped aside without a word.

  In the twenty minutes since Allan had called, John had gone to the effort of getting rid of any illegal substances and spraying the place with aftershave but the sickly smell of weed still hung around him like piss on an old dog’s bed. The surfaces had all been cleared off in as much of a hurry, and Allan would place bets that if he opened any of the cupboards they would be full of magazines with rectangles ripped from the covers and week-old plates crusted with blobs of tomato ketchup.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me. It must have been quite a shock to hear what happened to Tristan.’

  John was long and scrawny, pale-faced and incapable of sitting up straight. He nodded.

  ‘Yeah, it seems like I was only speaking to him a few days ago, you know? It’s crazy that he’s not here any more. Like I can’t just call him up and go for a . . . drink or whatever.’

  ‘Did you hang out often? His mum put you down as his closest friend.’ DC Allan had to admit, the contrast between the two boys and where they lived was unexpected. Although John had no criminal record, he still lived like a student, whereas Tristan’s house was – well, Tristan still lived with Mummy and Daddy in one of Cheshire’s gated communities. That was some difference.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I probably was. He had workmates he saw every day but I don’t think he ever hung out with them outside of work. Didn’t see him much in the week – he did early shifts, like – but most weekends he’d stay here and we’d get some drinks, watch some Netflix, whatever.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about home?’

  John shook his head and sniffed. ‘Not much. He didn’t really like that place. That’s why he was always here. Said it felt more like home than home did.’

  ‘That place being Severn Oaks?’ Allan made a note, his eyes not leaving John.

  ‘Yeah, said th
ey were all stuck-up cunts. Sorry, but that was what he said.’

  ‘No worries, I’d rather you were accurate, I’ve heard bad language before. Spent three years in uniform.’ Allan went with what he hoped was an encouraging ‘I’m cool’ grin.

  John didn’t look impressed. ‘Right, yeah.’

  ‘So he didn’t like his neighbours. Did he mention anyone in particular?’

  ‘Nah, well, maybe sometimes he’d say like one of them had pissed him off but I can’t remember names. He didn’t talk much after Erica bit it. Sorry, died.’

  This was what he’d come for, and DC Allan had to force himself not to sound too keen. Mates were the best sources of information, but that didn’t mean they would want to get their friends in trouble, even if they were dead.

  ‘Right, that’s Erica Spencer. Tristan’s mum said they were close at one point – they were in a relationship, right?’ Allan lied. He had a hunch that he hadn’t shared with the DS yet and he wanted it confirmed.

  John looked surprised at this, obviously he was under the impression Tristan’s parents had no idea about the nature of Tristan’s ‘friendship’ with Erica Spencer. They probably didn’t, they thought their son was involved with Mary-Beth King. Allan didn’t.

  ‘Yeah, but Tris didn’t want anyone to know. He said they had to be careful cos of the kids, like.’

  ‘Erica’s kids?’

  ‘Yeah – she was worried her husband would take them away if she left him. So Tris said they had to keep it all quiet. Then she was . . . she fell, didn’t she? And he just wouldn’t talk about it any more.’

  Then she was . . . was he about to say she was pushed?

  ‘Did Tristan think there was more to Erica’s death than the official reports? He thought she was pushed?’

  Spots of pink appeared on John’s pale cheeks. He pushed the dark hair from his face. ‘Nah, I don’t know nothing about that.’

  Allan sighed. ‘Look, I get it, you don’t want to get him in trouble, even now. But we already know Tristan made the podcast, you’re not grassing on him. We have all that evidence. All I’m looking for is to understand him a bit better, find out why he was so invested in what happened to Erica. You’re not telling me anything that will incriminate him.’

  ‘Right.’ John leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘I just, he told me stuff in confidence sometimes, when we were drinking. I don’t think he’d want me talking about it.’

  ‘I get it. But right now it’s looking like Tristan was going a little bit mental – maybe too much . . . drinking . . . if you know what I mean? A bit paranoid. If you can help me understand, maybe we can get him a bit of justice. Help people understand why he did it. And there’s still a woman missing, you know . . .’

  ‘Tris wouldn’t have had anything to do with that,’ John said quickly. ‘He loved Erica – you already know that. He was in love with her and he got a bit . . . I don’t want to say obsessed, that sounds bad, but a bit – keen? I don’t know about this podcast thing, and getting Erica justice, but he wouldn’t kidnap anyone.’

  ‘I don’t think he did either, but some people will. That’s why I need your help.’ DC Allan leaned closer to the boy. ‘You said he loved her – but their relationship finished years ago, right? When she pulled him out of the river.’

  That was what Erica’s diary had said – there was barely any mention of Tristan after that – but John shook his head.

  ‘Nah, that was a misunderstanding. He said she didn’t mean to shove him – and she got him straight out. They didn’t break up. If anything, it got more intense. I thought you knew that?’ He looked panicked now.

  ‘I think I might have misunderstood the evidence we have. So, to your knowledge, when did their relationship actually end?’

  ‘When she died. They were still together the night she fell. That’s why he was so cut up about it.’

  ‘Right, but he didn’t talk about what he thought really happened?’

  ‘Look, we didn’t exactly have deep and meaningfuls – we’re not girls, like. He’d just mention it sometimes when he got agitated, he’d say about how the truth was going to come out. I thought he was just messing, he could be a bit of a conspiracy theorist, you know? Like the moon landing was a fake, Lee Harvey Oswald was innocent – that sort of shit. He’d go off spouting all sorts of shit when he was s— I mean, when he was drunk. I never took him seriously. Not until I heard about the podcast, anyway.’

  ‘And did you ask him about it?’

  ‘Not straight out, but I thought it might be him. He asked if I’d heard it and he had this look in his eye, all smug and proud. I said yeah, but I didn’t know how this Andy guy could know what had happened unless he was there. He just said maybe he was.’

  ‘And that was all he said about it?’

  John screwed up his nose. ‘I think so – I don’t remember everything we talked about. It would be pretty late, sometimes we’d stay up watching films until, like, three or four, and I’d have forgotten the plot the next day.’

  ‘Fair enough. If you do think of anything else, anything you think might clear up Tristan’s state of mind before he died . . .’

  John let out a chuckle.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was one thing – this Andy Noon.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I asked him what kind of name Andy Noon was – he was still pretending it wasn’t him, even though we both knew it was. He just grinned and said, “Oh, I don’t know, probably just a no one.”’

  ‘What’s funny about that?’

  ‘It’s his name, isn’t it? Andy Noon, initial A. Noon, no one. There was this one time when we were out once, we were about eighteen and we were in town. We bumped into Erica and some mates and Tristan went over to her – I don’t know what he expected, he knew they weren’t allowed to be seen together. She kind of brushed him off and he sloped off, tail between his legs. When we walked off, someone asked Erica who he was and she said, “Oh, a no one.” Not just “no one”, but “A no one”. It was like the ultimate brush-off. I took the piss out of him constantly about it – that’s why he was so pleased with himself when he said “probably just a no one”. He was telling me it was definitely him, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I think he probably was,’ DC Allan replied. I just wish he’d told you what the hell he’d done with Mary-Beth King.

  67

  The final podcast, when it dropped, was given a two-word title. The Confession.

  Felicity was the first to see it. They’d listened to the last one separately and it had been awful, not knowing what the others were thinking, not knowing what might be said next. Which is why the minute her phone notified her that The Truth About Erica had one new episode, she flipped through her phone and called Peter.

  ‘I know. Marcus just called. I’ve got somewhere to be, I’ll try and meet you at theirs.’

  Peter hung up without a goodbye. It occurred to Felicity that he didn’t want them walking in together, but she shook that thought out of her head. Everyone knew now – what would be the point in being cagey? But he’d been off with her this afternoon after he’d got back from identifying his wife’s handbag at the police station. Where was he going at this time? And what was going to be in this fucking podcast?

  And Peter knew it wasn’t as simple as ‘I’ll meet you at theirs’. It was 8.30 p.m. – she had two five-year-olds!

  Predictably, Amalie was still awake.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, we’re going for a midnight adventure.’

  ‘In my jammies?’

  ‘Yes, baby, in your jammies and with your quilt . . . look, pull it here. Don’t forget Benji. I’ll get Molls.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Amalie asked.

  ‘To Aunty Karla’s.’

  ‘Yay! Can I play in Zach’s room?’

  ‘If he’s still awake. It is very late.’

  Mollie was fast asleep and confused when Felicity tried to rouse her. In the end she gave up and picked up her sleep
y daughter, still wrapped in her blanket, and leaned down.

  ‘Jump on, baby.’ She tilted her shoulder and Amalie wrapped herself around. Felicity had never imagined that her life would go like this. If someone had told her that at the age of twenty-three she would be a dab hand at carrying five-year-old twins around on her hips, and under suspicion of murder, she’d have laughed in their face. Still, she had also built up a business, had a beautiful home – yes, the deposit had been financed by Peter, but she still had to meet the mortgage payments, didn’t she? And they were higher than any of the others around here would be paying out because which high-street lender would give a mortgage to a twenty-one-year-old girl with less than three years’ business accounts? Even with a hefty deposit and a guarantor.

  Karla opened the door before she had time to kick it. Felicity shoved Mollie at her.

  ‘Come on, everyone’s here except Peter. I’ll put Molls down in the princess room, shall I?’ The princess room was what the twins called the guest room that Karla had had decorated in pink, with miniature four-poster beds just for them. ‘Don’t start it without me.’

  68

  Good evening, listeners, I’m Andy Noon, host of The Truth About Erica, and you’re listening to our final ever episode: The Confession.

  Let me set the scene. It is one a.m. on the 28th of October 2017, the tail end of a fairly standard Halloween party. Most of the guests have left, only the core Severn Oaks residents remain. Miranda Davenport is listing all her year’s achievements to anyone who will listen – I wonder why it is so important to her that people think she’s wonderful? Her husband looks bored to tears – wouldn’t we all assume he’d be the one with wandering hands, and yet even Erica couldn’t find evidence that he’d done any worse than mentally undress every woman he came in contact with. Alex certainly took the ‘looking but not touching’ adage seriously. Felicity is chatting with Marcus, still wearing Karla’s costume from earlier, while Karla herself has donned an oversized jumper and is tidying the kitchen. She doesn’t notice but there is a smear of blood across her right wrist.