Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘What about Bev?’ Ed said. ‘You want me to say she’s on the sick?’

  ‘That’ll do,’ Sam said.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Bev said. ‘Now they’ll think I can’t cope or I’m swinging one. Nothing too serious Ed, I mean it, and definitely not stress. A touch of flu…what about clothes?’

  ‘Go home and throw a few things in a bag,’ Sam said. ‘You’ll have to buy her some kit over there. Like I said, I want as few as possible knowing we’ve got her.’

  Sam spun on her heels. ‘Come on. I’ll introduce you.’

  She looked over her shoulder at Ed. ‘Then you and I are going on a boat.’

  Bev’s smile was 1,000 watt strong and powered by sweet revenge. Everyone knew Ed Whelan hated being on water.

  ‘Serves you right Pugwash!’ Bev’s smile was still glowing. ‘She who laughs last…’

  ‘Champion,’ Ed sighed. ‘The day just keeps getting better.’

  Sam opened the interview room door and did the introductions.

  ‘Tara this is Bev Summers. She’ll be looking after you. Protecting you.’

  Tara smirked, loaded up the sarcasm.

  ‘Protecting? Yeah right. That’s how this shit started in the first place, because you lot couldn’t protect people.’

  Harry Pullman answered the front door of the flat, his temporary home within the Gun Wharf Marina complex.

  He’d been in the town as a young man when he joined the Royal Navy, but he hadn’t kept in touch with anyone. Portsmouth was big enough to keep him entertained, big enough to keep him lost.

  He shuddered remembering the Lakes. The pub had been alright, but the place? Christ. Talk about tumbleweed blowing down the streets. It had only been for a couple of nights, but to Harry Pullman, that was two nights too many.

  The Witness Protection Officer followed him into the living room with a view over the marina.

  ‘Settled in Harry?’

  ‘I have, but for how long? Sorted the leak out yet?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  Harry spun round, face redder than a poppy field.

  ‘You’re working on it! Is that the best you can come up with? You’re fuckin’ working on it. They’ve tracked me down twice now. I’m never in one place long enough to find out the barmaid’s name.’

  ‘I understand your frustration Harry.’

  ‘Frustration! How the fuck can you understand that! They’re not trying to kill you! Two weeks to the trial now. They’ll be getting desperate. They found me in Leicester. They found me in Birmingham. I go any further south I’ll be in fuckin’ France.’

  ‘We’re working with Eastern...but they’ve got a dead police officer on their hands’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Killed.’

  Harry walked to the window, picked up the binoculars and watched somebody abseil down the Spinnaker Tower.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shot. Where were you last night Harry?’

  Pullman spun around again.

  ‘Where was I? I’m in fear of my life and you’re asking me where I was? Here! Here all night if you must know, and before you ask, no I haven’t got an alibi.’

  ‘Harry it’s just routine,’ the detective was all patience; part of the job. ‘When were you last in Seaton St George?’

  Harry Pullman sat and leaned back into the modern grey leather sofa. He crossed his legs and fiddled with the strap of the binoculars around his neck.

  ‘What, I’m shooting cops now am I?’

  He stared at the detective before continuing.

  ‘Oh yeah, let me think. Now I remember. I was in Seaton last night, just nipped down to shoot a cop or two, back here in time for breakfast. No driving licence so I took a private jet.’

  ‘Lose the attitude Harry,’ the detective had taken a seat opposite. ‘I’ve got to ask. It’s a query from Seaton St George. I’m just the messenger.’

  Pullman breathed deep and spoke as he exhaled. ’I’ve never been back since your lot picked me up in the Lake District.’

  ‘You weren’t there last night?’ the detective persistent, pushing.

  Harry Pullman exploded.

  ‘Tell the daft bastards I’ve got no car! No access to a car. I’d have to get a train to London. Then up to Darlington. Then train or taxi to Seaton St George. It would take fucking hours. Jesus you people!’

  He got up, walked to the window, and put the binoculars to his eyes.

  ‘I bought a newspaper this morning. Check it out with the newsagent.’

  The detective saw The Sunday Telegraph scattered across the floor.

  Harry stared through the glasses: ‘And make sure you tell them that if they sorted their leak out, I wouldn’t have to keep moving. You can see yourself out.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘Harry Pullman’s in Portsmouth,’ Sam said, pulling away from the police station.

  Ed settled into the white leather of her Audi.

  ‘I’ve just had it confirmed by the Director of Intelligence.’

  ‘Still could be up here. Not like he’s housebound,’ Ed said.

  ‘He’s there now though. Witness Protection just paid him a visit. He hasn’t had time to get back there by train. The 12.25 hasn’t left yet.’

  ‘Who’s to say he went by train?’

  ‘Tara. She even recited the train time.’

  ‘She could be lying, or more likely, he’s lying to her.’

  Ed looked out of the passenger window at nothing in particular.

  ‘Could be,’ Sam said. ‘Let’s say it is down to Harry, and Paul was involved in tipping off the Skinners where Harry was.’

  ‘Go on’

  ‘If that’s right, how did Harry Pullman find out it was Paul?’

  ‘God knows,’ Ed said. ‘He’s obviously been tipped off.’

  ‘But by who?’

  ‘Harry worked for the Skinners long enough. Might know who’s on their payroll.’

  Sam turned up the radio. The national news was full of reports about Seaton St George. They both listened in a silence that lasted until they reached their destination.

  Sam turned off the engine. ‘Tara targeted Paul Adams.’

  ‘What?’ Ed unclipped the seat belt.

  Sam turned her head to face him.

  ‘Tara followed him, got chatting, buttered him up and hey presto. Led him by his balls straight to his execution.’

  ‘Why are we treating her as a witness if she’s complicit in Paul’s death?’

  ‘It’s why she was complicit we need to examine,’ Sam had swiveled to look Ed’s way. ‘She was terrified that if she refused to set Paul up, she’d be killed herself. It’s Harry Pullman’s house she rents, although she doesn’t pay. He comes and goes as he pleases, as do his associates.’

  ‘Cuckooing,’ Ed said.

  It happened. Criminals would use the homes of the weak, vulnerable or debt-ridden to run their rackets.

  Ed let the seat belt retract.

  ‘Another thing that seems a bit far-fetched,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe it is, which is why we need to interview her at length.’

  Sam opened her door. ‘Come on. Let’s go and see Megan. Then I’ve got the post mortems to sort.’

  For a woman who was small in stature and a couple of stone overweight, Megan Redwood was very nimble on her feet, grabbing one of the amidship’s shrouds and leaping onto ‘The Conquistador’, a 36’ Hallberg-Rassy yacht.

  Sam followed her with the dexterity of someone used to boats.

  Ed, by stark contrast, grabbed the wire rigging and tentatively placed his right foot onto the yacht. They may have been in a marina, but the boat was gently bobbing. Pedaloes in Skala or bodyboards in Cornwall were one thing; boats were a whole different matter. He always suffered from seasickness and whilst his left foot was swinging in mid-air, he was already regretting not popping a couple of ‘Sea-Legs’ tablets.

  On board, bent over, grimly hanging onto whatever was to hand,
he inched his way along the yacht and fell onto the moulded seats in the rear cockpit.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet us Megan,’ Sam said, perfectly relaxed around the cockpit table. She introduced Ed, resisting the urge to refer to him as Nelson.

  ‘No,’ Megan shook her head. ‘Thank you. All we want is for every last avenue to be explored. We don’t think it has been. My father was no saint, but…’

  Her words trailed away as Megan turned her head and looked across the marina, the steady breeze causing white tops on the waves beyond.

  ‘But what Megan?’ Sam asked.

  Megan gazed out for a moment more before she turned her eyes back to Sam, a hint of tears shimmering on their surface.

  ‘Great sailing conditions,’ she said quietly. ‘Dad would have been out today, perhaps making a couple of days of it, maybe sailing down to Whitby, fish and chips at ‘Trenchers’, then a few beers.’

  Sam’s nose twitched. She could smell the fish and chips, hear the gulls. That particular restaurant was a firm favourite of hers.

  Megan wiped her eyes and turned back to Sam.

  ‘My father got into something dodgy. I don’t know what, but something. He’s always had boats. Nothing flash, but he’s been sailing since he was a kid, and I mean a kid. Ten maybe.’

  Sam looked at the boat. She knew that these yachts were a premier brand. Swedish; very sea-worthy and very expensive. They were flash in her eyes.

  Megan caught Sam casting her eyes around the boat.

  ‘Do you sail?’ she asked.

  Tristram, her husband, came into her mind, grinning and licking sea spray from his lips. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe he was dead.

  ‘Not now, but I have done,’ Sam said. ‘Qualified day skipper.’

  Megan’s eyes, clearer now, widened and she gave a small smile.

  ‘Oh, well done you. Dad was an examiner. Stickler for protocol. He loved people like you getting trained.’

  Megan leaned forward, adjusted her ‘Dubarry’ sailing boots.

  ‘He got this boat about seven years ago. It was quite a few years old then but he paid nigh on a hundred grand for her. I knew his pension pot wasn’t that big, but when I asked him about it, he just told me not to worry.’

  Sam glanced at Ed; geisha-girl white face, beads of sweat glistening on his brow.

  ‘What did you think he was into?’ Sam pushed.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Megan said. ‘I tried not to think about it, but he did start sailing to Holland a lot.’

  Thought he might, Sam told herself, mental cogs oiled and running smooth.

  Megan bit her lip.

  ‘I suppose I wondered if he was running drugs,’ she said. ‘Things were tough for him when mum died, emotionally and financially, and it crossed my mind that maybe he wanted a bit of excitement and some extra cash.’

  Megan put her hands in her white ‘Musto’ sailing jacket.

  ‘As a mother myself I hoped it wasn’t drugs, but I suppose I just turned a blind eye. Ask no questions, hear no lies.’

  The questions in Sam’s head formed an impatient but orderly queue.

  ‘What do you think happened to him?’

  Megan’s response was instant, ringing with cast-iron certainty.

  ‘Not for one second do I believe he fell in between the boat and the jetty,’ she said. ‘On his home pontoon? Not in a month of Sundays. Someone killed him. I’m convinced of that. But as your Inspector Wright continually reminded me, where’s your proof?’

  Megan shuffled in her seat, summoning up the courage to drive her point home.

  ‘Well pardon me, but I thought proof was your job, sorry his job.’

  ‘Do you mind if we have a look below?’ Sam asked.

  Megan shrugged and shook her head.

  ‘Be my guest. I’ll stay here.’

  Ed wobbled to his feet, watching Sam vanish down a short flight of stairs she called a companionway. Why was the language of the sea like some secret society?

  He descended the steps slowly like he was going down a ladder. Sam, of course, had all but run down with her back to the steps.

  Down below, bent over to stop his head hitting the roof, Ed felt claustrophobic, the eye level mahogany lockers closing in on him. He dropped onto a blue velour sofa-style seat in the saloon.

  ‘Where is it?’ Sam said, lifting the desktop lid on the chart table and rummaging around amongst the charts, dividers, pencils and rulers. ‘Come on, where are you?’

  ‘Where’s what?’ Ed said, standing up and immediately lurching to his left as the wash of a passing vessel sent the yacht rocking and his stomach heaving. He grabbed the edge of the seat for support, regained his balance.

  ‘His log book,’ Sam said, firm-footed despite the sudden motion.

  ‘We’ve just been told he was a stickler for protocol. If that’s the case, where’s the log book?’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t that much of a stickler after all,’ Ed said, the bile rising in his throat as the view from the porthole alternated between murky sky and murky water.

  Sam turned, looked towards the companionway, bent down and shouted: ‘Megan, do you know where your dad kept the log book?’

  Megan’s head appeared at the top of the companionway.

  ‘Should be in the chart table.’

  ‘I need to go,’ Ed said, face now ashen. ‘Right now.’

  He dashed up the stairs, staggered to the side, and vomited into the water.

  Sam popped her head out of the companionway and smiled up at Megan.

  ‘Not one for boats.’

  Megan nodded: ‘He won’t be the last.’

  Sam saw a chance to search the boat alone and, in truth, she was enjoying herself, the sounds and smells of the vessel rocking pleasantly beneath her feet.

  ‘There’s no sign of a log book Megan,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I check out your dad’s chart-plotter?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Perhaps you could take Ed ashore and get him a cup of tea in the yacht club.’

  ‘Of course,’ Megan told her. ‘Take as long you like, but his log book should be in the chart table.’

  Forty minutes later they walked back into Sam’s office.

  Ed took a sip from an ice-cold can of coke.

  ‘That’s the best I’ve felt since I got on that bloody boat. Me and the sea don’t mix.’

  Sam burst out laughing as she hung her jacket on the peg on the back door. ‘You were in the marina.’

  ‘Okay then, me and boats don’t mix.’

  ‘Right then, while you were drinking your sweet tea with Megan, all sickly and feeling sorry for yourself, I went and examined Bill’s chart-plotter.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Think of it as a superdooper Sat Nav,’ Sam said. ‘His was a nice piece of kit. ‘Raymarine’. Like a Sat Nav, if the recent trips aren’t deleted, they’re stored in the memory.’

  She sat down and slowly unscrewed the top on a bottle of sparkling water.

  ‘Planning your journey in a yacht takes a little bit more effort than a car.’

  Sam tore a piece of paper from her A4 pad and drew a circle at the top and bottom of the page.

  ‘If I want to go from the top circle to the bottom circle, not only do I have to work out wind directions, I need to work out the speed and direction of the tidal flow, which, like the wind, can knock me off course.’

  Ed studied the sheet.

  ‘Yeah, I get it,’ he said. ‘If the tide is moving horizontally right to left across the page it would push you off course to the left?’

  Sam nodded, took a sip of fizzy water.

  ‘Basically yes. Speed and direction of the tidal flow are taken into account when you chart your route. Skippers programme what are called ‘waypoints’ into the plotter, so they can periodically check their position against them and alter course if necessary. It’s easier than using charts. The waypoints act as a reference. You can put as many in as you want.’

&nb
sp; ‘Okay, I sort of get it.’

  Sam smiled: ‘Well, without giving you a navigation lecture, I found Bill’s record for his trips to Holland, but it’s the last one recently to Whitby that caught my attention. This is way better than his log book. He has a waypoint two miles south of Seaton marina. Just off the coast. Why?’

  Ed looked at again at Sam’s two-circle sheet as if the answer would appear like magic ink.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘He doesn’t need a waypoint that close to home,’ Sam said. ‘There would be no issue. He’d know where he was by the coastline and he’d be well aware of any hazards. These are his home waters, plain sailing if you pardon the pun.’

  Ed smiled, nodded.

  Sam was in full flow, fired by the fuel of a possible breakthrough, her excitement clear.

  ‘For me, that waypoint might not be a waypoint at all,’ she said quickly. ‘It could be a drop-off point. As in rowing someone ashore.’

  She took a longer drink from the bottle.

  Ed watched and waited.

  The bottle air-popped as it left the seal of Sam’s lips.

  ‘There would be no customs or checks to worry about,’ Sam said. ‘Even if he’d been abroad, he would only tell customs he was back once he was safely at the marina. What if first he rowed somebody ashore?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tara said Harry Pullman used to sometimes arrive by boat.’

  Ed worked through the theory and came to a question still floating out of reach.

  ‘So, if Bill Redwood didn’t fall, why kill him?’

  ‘That’s what we need to sort out. But he didn’t fall,’ Sam said. ‘I’m convinced of that.’

  Chapter 28

  Ranjit Singh appeared at the open door.

  ‘Got the footage from Green’s phone loaded up Boss.’

  Sam beckoned him in.

  He put the laptop onto the desk, powered it up. The in-house techies had already downloaded the film onto it.

  ‘Have you watched it Ranjit?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Let’s see it then.’