The Lying Kind

by Alison James

  ‘But you’re a big girl now, Prince. Time to come clean. Well…’ He shovelled in more crisps. ‘Arguably that time has been and gone.’

  She sighed. ‘I’d buried it. All of that period in my life. And I don’t want to rake over it now.’

  Brickall was grinning. ‘Whoever would have thought the cool, always-in-control DI Prince could do something so deviant?’

  ‘And you’re the only one I’ve ever talked to about it, so for Christ’s sake keep it zipped.’ Rachel helped herself to more wine, then stuck her right leg up on the coffee table. ‘How are things going with the lady barrister?’

  He pulled a face. ‘I asked her out, but she wasn’t too keen. Said maybe coffee some time, blah, blah… usual kiss-off.’

  ‘But she’d given you her number when you were on the trial together?’

  Brickall shook his head. ‘Not exactly. In fact, since we’re having a confessional session, I’ve got one to make.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I used our access to DVLA records to check where she lives. Then I contrived to bump into her on her street.’

  Rachel froze, slopping her wine. ‘Mark! You know how risky that is.’ Using a police database to access someone’s information for personal reasons was a disciplinary offence.

  He shrugged. ‘No one’s ever going to find out. And I know I can trust you, just like you can trust me: Mrs Ritchie.’

  ‘I’m not Mrs Ritchie; never was. I’ve only ever called myself Rachel Prince.’

  He paused with his head tipped back to swallow another fistful of crisps. ‘Let’s face it: you’re just not wife material.’

  Ten

  ‘Not a happy bunny, is she?’

  Brickall jerked his head in the direction of Lisa Urquhart, who was scowling fiercely in their direction, arms across her ample chest. If her sister embodied passive aggression, then Lisa was just plain aggression.

  ‘I don’t get why you need to do this,’ she snarled as a team of forensics officers went through the house, examining the contents of drawers, peering under furniture, climbing up into the roof space, with one of their number snapping photos of everything. ‘It’s not like Lola Jade would be here. That’s ridiculous.’ Michelle herself was at work, apparently, but her lapdog Diva made her presence felt with a volley of yapping.

  Lisa had a husband, Kevin, and two children, Chelsea and Connor, who had been temporarily moved into a shared room so that Michelle could use the third bedroom. Rachel waited until the forensics team had finished before snapping on latex gloves and going in there herself. The single bed had a Disney cover on it, and looked recently slept in; the child’s dressing table was strewn with make-up and hair products and what looked like a dead tabby cat but turned out to be a nest of stripy blonde and brown hair extensions. The wardrobe contained some of Michelle’s clothes and shoes, neatly arranged, and there were several skimpy lace thongs in a drawer that would have been far too small for Lisa.

  ‘So what do we think?’ asked Brickall, as the search was concluded and the forensic team stripped off their paper suits. Diva the dog darted forwards and nipped him on the ankle. He aimed a kick in its direction. ‘Fuck off, you little rodent!’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to see what the DNA samples show up, but my gut’s telling me Lola definitely hasn’t been here recently.’

  ‘Did we look at the husband?’ Brickall asked.

  ‘You mean Kevin Urquhart? Couple of minor disorder offences, brawling in a pub, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Our favourite.’

  ‘Nothing to suggest he’d be involved in snatching his own niece, but it might be worth talking to neighbours or colleagues in case.’

  Rachel turned back and looked at the Urquharts’ house. ‘I don’t know. There’s something… a bell going off in the depths of my brain, but I can’t think what it is.’

  ‘It’ll come to you, Prince: it always does.’ Brickall unlocked the car. ‘So who’s next on the hit list? Gavin Harper again? Is he remanded?’

  Rachel climbed into the driver’s seat, wedging her right leg awkwardly into the footwell. It still hurt intermittently, but she was learning to ignore the pain. To distract herself, she looked at her phone. ‘Not any more he’s not.’ She looked up at Brickall. ‘There’s a message here from Surrey Police saying that after his lawyer provided a prepared statement, they charged him with the passport fraud and bailed him. I don’t think we’re going to get anything else out of him by questioning him, but let’s keep a check on his movements, and talk to people who might be able to tell us more. Which means you’re going to find out what you can about his cousin, Tony Ingram, and I’m going to go and talk to his divorce lawyer.’

  * * *

  Howard had coaxed Rachel into practising her dead hang again, and while she was suspended in space, he was taking a long hard look at her body. His scrutiny made her feel self-conscious, but the warmth in her cheeks was fortunately disguised by her general sweatiness.

  ‘Your knee looks a bit better,’ he observed when she eventually relinquished her grip. ‘Less swollen.’

  ‘I think it’s improved a bit,’ Rachel agreed. ‘And before you say anything, I have been very moderate with the drugs. I’m only taking them when I’m desperate.’

  Howard grinned. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  He had such a nice smile, Rachel thought. And she was starting to look forward to him smiling at her, and experiencing a little flip at the base of her stomach when he did. A telltale sign.

  But he was married, and she had sworn off married men. Off men in general. It was a couple of years since she’d dated anyone semi-seriously – a solicitor called Simon – and even longer since she’d dated anyone seriously, although there had been a smattering of one-, two- and even three-night stands. Nobody who had held her interest for longer than that. But with Howard there was definitely interest. Curiosity even.

  ‘What does your wife do?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s a manager in a department store.’

  ‘And how long have you been married?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Kids?’

  He shook his head, sadly. ‘I want them, she doesn’t. Before we were married, she was all over the idea. She’d chosen the names and everything. Now she’s done a complete U-turn; says she can’t see how they’d fit into our lives.’

  ‘There’ll be time for her to change her mind, though?’

  ‘Maybe. She’s already thirty-six. We’ve been having rows about it, non-stop. That’s why we went to the pub: to try and talk properly, on neutral territory.’ He gave a rueful look. ‘Didn’t work, though. I still ended up spending the night in the spare room.’

  Get out, Rachel wanted to tell him. You’re far too nice to be in a lousy marriage.

  ‘Have you got time for a drink?’ Howard said suddenly. ‘A couple of the swimming coaches are heading down to the pub in a bit.’

  Rachel hesitated a fraction too long. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘Thanks, but I’d better get going. I’ve got a couple of things I need to follow up on.’

  She went home via the local wholefood store, picking up the makings of a salad and a bottle of organic Zinfandel. After she’d eaten, she took her glass of wine out onto her tiny balcony, enjoying the late-autumn dusk. The air was cool but ripe, much like the wine. She picked up her phone and composed a text.

  Hi, Stuart.

  What on earth should she say? What could she say, after seventeen years of silence and effectively ruining his life? A tendency towards conflict avoidance and emotional self-sufficiency were two of the many reasons she was still single. Well, technically married, but with a single lifestyle. But on this occasion, she accepted, she was just going to have to face up to her failings, conflict or not.

  Sorry I didn’t take your calls. I’ve been busy at work.

  She deleted the last five words and replaced them with: I’ll admit it, I was avoiding you.

  After she had sent the text, she flicked through
her Facebook account. Danielle Patten had posted a sweet picture of Nigel with their baby, Jack, on his lap. The little boy was clutching a blue plush rabbit. Rachel stared at the photo for a few seconds, the familiar bell ringing in her brain. Then she dialled Brickall, who picked up after two rings.

  ‘I’ve just thought of something, something about the Urquhart house that was bugging me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did you notice—’

  She was interrupted by a pinging on her phone as a text arrived. A glance confirmed it was from Stuart.

  ‘Sorry, Mark, got to go. We can talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘Rude!’ complained Brickall, hanging up.

  Rachel sat sipping her wine and looking at Stuart’s text. His faintly pompous tone melted the years away, and she was once again the impressionable young WPC, fresh from Hendon Police College, working on her first murder case.

  That much was obvious. Nevertheless, I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s important we talk. Soon.

  She sighed, and typed a brief reply.

  Tell me where and when.

  * * *

  The next morning, she tracked down Brickall in the NCA canteen. He was eating a fried breakfast, his favourite meal apart from pizza with hot sauce.

  ‘So what was that about last night? I was all psyched up for the big reveal.’ He shovelled mushrooms and sausages into his mouth with hedonistic abandon.

  Rachel had the grace to look sheepish. ‘My husband.’

  ‘Demanding his conjugal rights, was he?’ Brickall winked as he squirted brown sauce over his fried eggs, then proceeded to puncture the yolks with his fork.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ snapped Rachel. ‘He thinks we should talk, and let’s face it, he’s probably right.’ She drank some of her mug of canteen coffee, wincing at the acrid taste. ‘Listen, what I was about to say was this: the early footage of the house in Willow Way shows a hideous big studio portrait of Lola on the living room wall, and her favourite Katy Bear teddy in her bedroom. Michelle then takes it to the press conference, uses it as a prop to demonstrate how devoted she is.’

  ‘So?’ Brickall slathered butter on some toast.

  ‘So when I visited her on my own, I checked, and neither of those items – those very important items – are still in 57 Willow Way. Michelle’s decamped to her sister’s in Jubilee Terrace, so you might expect her to take them with her. But they weren’t there yesterday during the search. Not in her room, not in the loft, not in the garage.’

  Brickall thought about this for a moment. ‘Maybe she’s packed up some stuff and put it in storage. Or taken it to her mum’s place. Doesn’t want to be reminded.’

  ‘My brain says maybe.’ Rachel ventured another sip of the bitter coffee. ‘But my gut doesn’t necessarily agree.’

  ‘I’ve got something much juicier than that anyway.’ Brickall dipped the toast into the egg yolk, then swirled it through the brown sauce.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know the cousin, Tony Ingram? The one who’s so devoted to little Lola Jade?’

  Rachel could tell from his tone that he was excited, even though he appeared to be concentrating on his breakfast. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Old Tony’s on the sex offenders’ register. For molesting a little girl.’

  Eleven

  ‘Not what I’d planned to do this morning – I was going to speak to Gavin Harper’s divorce lawyers. They’re in the City.’

  Rachel checked her phone as Brickall negotiated the South Circular, heading for Ruislip Gardens. No further communication from Stuart, which was a relief. Until she was actually face to face with him, she wanted no interaction at all; just to blank him from her mind. She looked out of the windscreen at the almost stationary queue of traffic. ‘So I’m now on completely the wrong side of London.’

  ‘Stop bloody whining,’ muttered Brickall. ‘You know that information like this needs looking into as soon as possible. An actual paedophile, connected to the missing child. Even if he did only get community service.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Rachel forced a smile. ‘Game face on.’

  The Ingrams lived in an anonymous pebble-dashed end-terrace house, with net curtains and a mid-range family saloon parked on the drive. When Joyce Ingram answered the door, Rachel felt as though she’d walked onto the set of an advert for gravy, or garden furniture, with Joyce being the fifty-something mum of the family. She even wore an apron, and wiped her hands on it as she showed them into a drab but tidy living room.

  ‘Is your husband at home?’ Rachel asked, after she had introduced herself and Brickall.

  ‘No, love. He’s back at work now. He’s a finance clerk at Harrow Council.’ She indicated a framed photo of a harmless-looking grey-haired man in steel-framed glasses.

  ‘Back after?’

  ‘Sick leave.’

  ‘So how long was he away from his employment?’ asked Rachel, counting back rapidly.

  ‘About five months.’ Joyce flushed slightly. ‘I know what you’re probably thinking, but that… unpleasant business was years ago. It’s over with now.’

  ‘So how are you and your husband related to the Harpers?’

  ‘Gavin’s mum Pat – Lola Jade’s gran – is Tony’s first cousin. We used to look after Gavin, Andy and Karen quite a bit when they were little.’ She gave an awkward smile. ‘We couldn’t have our own. We tried. Even did the IVF, when it was quite a new thing.’

  ‘And you also saw a fair bit of Lola Jade?’

  ‘A bit,’ conceded Joyce. ‘We’re not exactly local, so it’s only now and then. But we have a caravan in Rhyl, and Gavin used to bring Lola out there for a few days in the summer.’ She screwed up her mouth. ‘Not this year, obviously. It’s just so dreadful.’

  ‘You probably understand why we need to talk to your husband,’ said Brickall, happily slipping into bad cop. ‘With him being on the sex offenders’ register.’

  ‘Well he shouldn’t be on it,’ said Joyce firmly, bright red patches appearing at the centre of her cheeks. ‘It was all a big misunderstanding. He was just trying to be civic-minded, helping out with the girl scouts’ camp, and look what he gets for his efforts.’

  Rachel and Brickall exchanged a familiar look. The well-worn wives’ defence: it was all a big mistake.

  Joyce saw it, jutting out her chin. ‘And if you’re going to ask about his whereabouts when Lola went missing, that’s very easy. He was in Northwick Park Hospital having a quadruple heart bypass. He came out of hospital at the end of May, and he’s been here, and in Rhyl, recuperating until he was fit enough to go back to work a week ago.’ She looked defiantly at them. ‘I suppose that would be easy enough for you to verify.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Rachel stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Ingram.’

  As she headed for the door, she caught sight of a large photo in a frame. It was the prized caravan, awning out, against a vivid blue sky. Joyce and Tony sat on deckchairs, both wearing shorts, and Lola Jade Harper stood on the caravan steps. Rachel picked it up.

  ‘That was last summer. Gavin took it,’ said Joyce. ‘It’s a nice one of Lola, even if she is still in her nightclothes at ten in the morning. Gavin tended to be a bit relaxed with the rules when he was on holiday with her.’

  Rachel looked at the photo. For once, little Lola Jade was smiling and it transformed her otherwise plain face. And the nightdress she was wearing was white, with coloured stars.

  ‘Did Michelle pack Lola’s clothes when she went away with her dad?’ she asked, handing the photo to Brickall.

  ‘Always,’ said Joyce firmly. ‘She was very organised about things like that. Always very inappropriate stuff too: frilly this and sparkly that. No rainwear or sensible shoes.’

  ‘And when Lola went home at the end of the holiday, did you pack her stuff, or did Gavin?’

  ‘Gavin did.’ Joyce smiled fondly. ‘He always left it to the last minute, then shoved everything in all jumbled up, not folded o
r anything. He’s a bit messy, our Gavin.’

  Brickall handed back the photo and they headed back to the car. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Rachel, as Brickall put the key in the ignition.

  ‘Why? Paedo Tony’s out of the frame, if the heart surgery checks out.’

  ‘The nightdress,’ said Rachel. ‘Michelle said she didn’t pack it for the holiday, when she clearly did.’

  Brickall looked at her as the engine roared to life. ‘Because her version of events makes it look as though there’s something sinister about Gavin randomly having the nightie in his rucksack.’

  ‘Exactly. She lied to us.’

  * * *

  Hepburn, Willis & Bell was an undeniably upmarket firm of solicitors in Blackfriars. Their offices occupied several floors of a sleek glass tower on Victoria Embankment, with a huge ground-floor reception area featuring low-level seating, state-of-the-art light fixtures and copies of Country Life.

  Rachel was collected by a PA in an elegant black dress, and taken to see Conrad Bell, the partner who was dealing with the Harpers’ divorce. He was a bony, ascetic young man with wired-framed glasses, dressed in the type of three-piece suit that Rachel’s grandfather used to wear. He pointed to a chair facing his desk, revealing double cuffs and monogrammed cufflinks.

  ‘Detective Inspector Prince,’ he said smoothly. ‘How may I be of assistance? And did Camilla offer you refreshments?’

  Rachel began by expressing surprise that Gavin Harper wasn’t using a firm of local solicitors. Bell inclined his head slightly.

  ‘Ah yes, well, perhaps in some instances that is the most sensible thing. But this is an exceptional case that features some unusual… challenges. So Mr Harper very correctly sought representation by a firm that has expertise in children’s issues.’ He waved his hands in an expansive manner. ‘Leave to remove overseas, child abduction, Cafcass reports, that sort of thing. And you’re right in your assumption that we have done some preliminary work for Mr Harper, but he is not currently instructing us.’