Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  She broke away from Bev, put her hands in her pockets, rested her chin on her chest.

  ‘Usual shit I suppose. They came home from a night out. My mother crashed out on the sofa pissed. He came into my bedroom. Told me to be quiet.’

  Tara let the memory replay in a monotone..

  ‘I was in bed. He knelt down, kissed me, shoved his tongue down my throat. I still remember his beer breath. Fuckin’ disgusting. Shoved his cock in my face. You can guess the rest.’

  Bev nodded, said nothing. She’d spoken to too many victims of sexual abuse over the years. If a victim wanted to talk, they would.

  ‘That was the start. Every time they went drinking my mother would pass out and he’d come upstairs. Not kidding Bev, got to the stage where I was convinced he was spiking her drinks.’

  Bev was taken by Tara’s strength of character, throwing out a one-liner in the middle of all that horror.

  ‘He must have been putting something in her drinks because my mother could drink the skinny twat under the table.’

  Bev bit her lip to stop herself laughing.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Still there. Full-blown alcoholic now, like my mother. The pair of them were made for each other.’

  A pile of wet leaves in the gutter, pushed there by nature or man, flew upwards as Tara kicked them.

  ‘I told my mother once,’ she said quietly. ‘Got accused of being…what did she call me…a vindictive cow.’

  Tara rubbed at her eyes again. This time tears ran down her cheeks.

  ‘She fucking told him and guess what? He just did it more. Said at least he knew now she’d never believe me.’

  Bev bit her lip again, this time to stop herself saying something inappropriate. Tara’s mother had hung an ‘open for business sign’ around her own daughter’s neck.

  Experience had taught Bev that the unforced reveal was over, for now at least.

  The easy option would be to ask Tara if she wanted to make a historical child abuse complaint but now was not the right time. Bev needed to build up trust, become a confidante, not dive in like some overzealous authority figure.

  ‘You still see them?’

  ‘God no,’ Tara’s tone all ‘are you mad’. ‘Got out when I was sixteen and never went back. What mother stands by and lets her daughter…’

  Another pile of leaves, another kick.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Bev nodded, said nothing.

  ‘He used to tell his mates how I had no stretch marks, no fat, was nice and firm. I’d hear him when he started to bring them back. Mother out of it on couch. Him renting me out.’

  Bev shook her head but it wasn’t an evil she was hearing for the first time. Some children, some women, had dreadful lives, suffered experiences people would never believe, never know was happening almost under their noses.

  ‘As soon as I could, I got a flat. Even went to university, but that was shit.’

  ‘You didn’t stick it then?’

  ‘No. I remembered he’d give me a fiver if one of his friends had sex with me. You just switch off, don’t let them kiss you. After a while it’s no big deal. Made it easy when I got involved with the Skinners and Harry. Got more than a fiver then. Fucking way more.’

  Tara laughed out loud, Bev gutted by the empty sound.

  What you’ve had to go through.

  When they reached Glenridding Tara stopped to admire the boats bobbing on their moorings.

  ‘I’d like to learn to sail.’

  ‘Ask Sam,’ Bev said. ‘She sails big yachts.’

  ‘Really? Wow! I’m suddenly impressed.’

  They stared out across Ullswater, grey and vast and ancient.

  ‘Where do you learn?’ Tara said.

  ‘No good asking me. I’ve got no idea. You need to ask Sam.’

  ‘Will you get me away then? You know, to start again somewhere new.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help you.’

  They walked in silence, Bev reflecting how this young, intelligent woman never had a chance. Until now.

  ‘Can you just leave me here,’ Tara said. ‘While you’re sorting things out, can I just stay here?’

  Up ahead, a man in a lime green windbreaker strolled into the village store; a couple, boots mud-splattered and leading an exhausted-looking dog, trudged towards wherever they were going. The thickening mist seemed to suck the light from the heavy sky.

  You must be mad

  ‘I’ll have a word with Sam but don’t get your hopes up,’ Bev said. ‘I’m telling you she’d want some massive assurances. Like no getting pissed for starters.’

  They turned right onto the driveway leading to the Inn on the Lake, a hotel with manicured lawns and gardens running down to the water.

  ‘Sam’s stayed here,’ Bev said. ‘Said it was beautiful.’

  ‘She was right.’

  ‘Before you ask, no you can’t stay here.’

  Tara stuck her tongue out.

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  They walked to the sparkling glass doors, into reception and through to the bar, the ambience all luxury, the staff all models of discretion.

  ‘Grab that table. I’ll order the drinks.’

  Tara dropped into the fabric tub chair in the bow window and looked across the lake while Bev spoke with the barman.

  ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’ Tara said, when Bev joined her.

  ‘If you like that sort of thing,’ Bev said, sitting down opposite.

  A small yacht sailed past, powered by its white main sail.

  ‘So, Sam Parker could sail one of them?’

  ‘She sails them bigger than that,’ Bev told her. ‘Used to live on them for a couple of weeks in the holidays.’

  ‘Wow.’

  A white-shirted arm carrying a small, circular tray appeared inbetween them.

  ‘Ladies.’

  The young, short-haired barman placed their drinks on the wooden circular table: two large gin and tonics.

  ‘He’s fit,’ Tara stage whispered as the barman walked away.

  ‘You behave yourself young lady. You’re here for safety not fun.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  Bev stood and walked towards the foyer as her mobile signalled a call, the screen telling her it was Sam.

  ‘Hi Sam.’

  She made sure this time Tara was too far away to hear.

  ‘Yeah we’re at the Inn on the Lake. She needed a break bless her. So did I.’

  Bev brought Sam up to speed before returning to the table.

  ‘Sam’s hoping to get across here soon. And if you behave yourself, she might let you stay.’

  ‘When do you go back?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Tomorrow lunchtime probably. We can possibly leave you here tomorrow night, move you Wednesday.’

  ‘I’m not being funny but thanks, I mean it.’

  She sipped the Hendricks with the slice of cucumber.

  ‘I love it here and where’s better to hide? Nobody will find me here. Who would think to look?’

  Chapter 41

  The campervan rolled along the farm track a Roman would have been proud of, curiosity causing the grazing sheep to look in Ed’s direction.

  Three hundred metres of arrow-straight, black Tarmac led to the only house for miles. An electric vehicle may get to the house unannounced, an air-cooled VW would not.

  Hugh Campbell walked out of the old grey coloured farmhouse and planted one red corduroy leg on the ranch- style fencing.

  ‘Ed Whelan as I live and breathe,’ Campbell said, as Ed got out of the van. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Was just passing and thought I’d pop in.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Pull the other one.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Ed was walking towards him. ‘I’ve been down to Whitby. Thought I’d come across the moors, then thought, I know, I’ll call in on Hugh.’

  ‘Best come in then, not that I believe a word of it.’

  Unlike Hu
gh, Ed had to duck under the doorway lintel. Houses over two hundred years old were built for a smaller generation.

  Ed followed Campbell into the farmhouse kitchen: black slab floor, black Aga, large pine table.

  ‘I hear you’ve been suspended.’

  ‘News travels fast,’ Ed said, pulling a wooden chair out from the table. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

  ‘Tell me, what brings a disgraced detective to my door?’ Campbell flicked on the kettle, leaned against the bench.

  ‘Lester Stephenson,’ Ed said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I was wondering what your long-term accountant was doing at the scene of a mass shooting.’

  ‘Lester? Mass shooting? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Campbell spooned instant coffee into two mugs, one white, one green, and added boiling water.

  ‘Things aren’t as clear cut with that shooting as they first appeared,’ Ed said.

  Campbell carried the mugs to the table, sat down opposite Ed. ‘And you’re bothered because of what exactly?’

  ‘Just because I’m suspended doesn’t mean I don’t think. I knew immediately it was your man Lester as soon as I saw the photograph. Sam Parker doesn’t, but she’ll find out.’

  ‘He paid for a shag. So what?’

  Ed raised the mug to his lips, stared over the brim at Campbell.

  ‘I never said who he went to see.’

  ‘Bully for you. The street’s been all over the tele. I know Tara lives there. Lester’s met her before. Obviously fancied a dabble.’

  ‘In Harry Pullman’s house?’

  ‘Harry’s a landlord. Entitled to rent his property out to whoever he wants.’

  Ed drank some coffee.

  ‘But let’s say somebody thought it might be an opportunity to set Harry up. Lead Sam Parker to think Harry was responsible for the shootings.’

  It was Campbell’s turn to look over the rim of the mug. He blew across the liquid.

  ‘I thought the lad who your lot…’ Campbell stopped, a barrister before the jury, pausing for effect. ‘Your ex-lot I should say. I thought the lad your lot shot was the gunman.’

  ‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.’

  ‘This is all fascinating stuff, but I’m not sure where I come in.’

  Campbell sipped the coffee.

  ‘The Skinners have gone. Anybody fancying a take-over is only really left with Harry Pullman as an obstacle,’ Ed said.

  ‘I’m retired,’ Campbell let his lips form a faint smile. ‘Successful businessman enjoying the fruits of his labour. If Harry Pullman still wants to be in the game at his age, that’s a matter for him.’

  ‘But your sons aren’t retired,’ Ed watched Campbell’s jaw tighten. ‘Maybe they fancy a bit of action.’

  Campbell put his mug on the table, shook his head.

  ‘What is it you want Ed?’

  ‘Lester may have gone to get his leg over, or maybe he was going to check on proceedings.’

  ‘You always did tell a good tale, but that imagination will be the death of you one day.’

  Ed pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, leaned towards Campbell.

  ‘You threatening me Hugh?’

  Campbell didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m warning you. Don’t threaten me Hugh. Ever.’

  Ed backed away from the table.

  ‘Well I’ll be off then. Sorry to have wasted your time. Obviously, the fact that Tara’s been whisked away into protective custody doesn’t concern you.’

  Campbell’s face stayed poker straight.

  Ed walked to the kitchen door, stopped and spun on his heels.

  ‘But of course, if you or your sons are involved, and it’s been an exercise in double patsies, Tara Paxman would know it,’ Ed said. ‘Her place was used to slip into the shooting site. See you later.’

  Ed walked outside. Campbell caught up with him by Doris.

  ‘What is it you really want Whelan? You were never one for social calls, not unless there was something in it for you.’

  ‘What I want is out,’ Ed opened the driver’s door. ‘I’ve had enough. Time I put me feet up somewhere warm. You ever been to Kefalonia? Greek island. Gorgeous.

  ‘Right, but I still don’t understand why you’re here.’

  ‘Simple,’ Ed said, sliding behind the retro Banjo steering wheel. ‘If Tara can’t drop you in it you’ve got nothing to worry about, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘If she can, you’re in the shit.’

  Ed turned the ignition. When the air-cooled engine sprang into life, a herring gull flapped off a wheely bin, a piece of steak pie in its yellow beak.

  ‘If she can turn Harry Pullman, Sam Parker will have no problem turning Tara,’ Ed went on. ‘And Tara might have all sorts of interesting things to tell the police.’

  Ed closed the door, wound down the driver’s window, and watched Campbell.

  In truth, he wasn’t sure Tara Paxman would be easily persuaded to turn informer but he was pleased to see the tension in Campbell’s eyes.

  He selected reverse.

  ‘Where is she then?’ Campbell tried to make it casual.

  Ed put the gear stick back into neutral, raised his backside and produced a piece of paper from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Call the number on there when you’ve deposited eleven thousand into that account.’

  Campbell laughed. ‘Eleven grand?!’

  ‘Makes no odds to me if you or your sons rot in jail,’ Ed smiled. ‘Eleven grand, then I’ll tell you where she is.’

  Campbell came closer to the window, the violence in his past bubbling back to the present.

  ‘I always knew your mates were bent bastards, but I could never decide about you,’ his mouth twisted. ‘Until now. So do me a favour and fuck off, the smell of police corruption is upsetting my sheep.’

  Ed reversed slowly, stuck his head out of the window.

  ‘You want to know where she is, call that number after the money’s deposited. But better hurry Hugh. She won’t be where she is forever and once she moves, I won’t be able to find her.’

  Ed did a three-point turn and drove off.

  Maybe he was closer to life in Kefalonia than he thought.

  Chapter 42

  Sam Parker drove to the sea and walked along the pier. She relied on Ed more than she cared to admit. He would have a view on the money – £60,000 when the counting was done – stashed in the shoebox. What was Paul Adams mixed up in that warranted that kind of cash?

  Sam leaned against the railings and looked out across the flat North Sea, an off-shore wind on her back.

  She popped a Marlboro Gold into her mouth, ducked her head and cupped her hands around the lighter. She lit up on the fourth attempt.

  She had stayed at Paul’s house until the CSIs arrived. She had them photograph the laundry basket, the shoe box with the lid on, the money in the shoe box, the money laid out on the table.

  Three of them counted the money in front of Erica.

  Each elastic band was tied around twenty notes; £1000 bundles. There were 60 bundles.

  £60,000 bought a lot of information.

  If Paul was the target then Tara’s ‘cuckoo’ was responsible. But what had Paul done? Had he found out where Harry Pullman was hiding? How did he come by that knowledge? And was Harry Pullman really capable of pulling off such an elaborate revenge hit?

  Bloody hell, Ed. Where are you when I need you?

  She fiddled with the sleek iPhone in her coat pocket and took the battered Nokia out of her trouser pocket. The Nokia had become temperamental in its old age, three presses per button for texts, but the battery lasted days before it needed a recharge.

  She called the only number stored in its memory.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said.

  ‘So you haven’t forgotten about me then.’

  Sam ignored the jibe.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Can’t stop laughin
g. You?’

  ‘Surviving. Christ Ed there’s so much going on and I’ve got nobody to bounce ideas off.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Sam told him about Paul Adams and the money.

  ‘What was he selling that was so valuable and how the hell didn’t we know?’ Sam said. ‘But listen I haven’t rung to talk about work. I just wanted to see how you were getting on.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ed answered. ‘Don’t worry about me. Listen, I’m sorry I jumped down your throat.’

  Sam was distracted by a tractor towing a coble on the beach below, a boat she recognised, its faded blue and white paint worse than she recalled.

  The elderly driver looked up, raised his arm, and doffed his Breton cap.

  She waved back. The memory of the search and rescue mission was brighter than the coble’s paintwork, and the old man had been so eager to help. If she knew where he lived, she would buy him a new cap for Christmas; the one he was wearing looked more ancient than him.

  ‘You still there Sam?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry Ed…forget about apologising. Just look after yourself. Keep your head down.’

  ‘So the £60,000…’ Ed said.

  Sam was still watching the tractor and coble, surprised at how easily the man jumped from the driver’s seat like someone half his age.

  ‘Sam?’ Ed said.

  ‘Sorry. What?’

  ‘The money.’

  ‘Yeah, the £60,000,’ Sam said, suddenly regretting calling Ed.

  Were her calls being monitored? Did they know about this phone?

  ‘Listen Ed, I better fly,’ Sam told him. ‘Shedloads on. I just wanted to check in. You sure you’ll be okay?’

  ‘No other choice,’ Ed said. ‘You get cracking. Speaking of okay, how’s Tara?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Bet Bev is spitting feathers she’s missing some fun and games with her toy boy.’

  Sam waved at the old man as he put out to sea.

  ‘She’ll be home tomorrow.’

  Josh Appleton burst into his boss’s office, words faster and more excited than a child on Christmas morning.

  ‘Sam Parker’s just rang Ed Whelan.’

  Chris Priest looked up from his computer. ‘What did she say?’

  Appleton, mouth wide open, was suddenly the kid who hoped for a racing bike and got a plastic scooter.