Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  He may not know who was holding the phone but he knew who was behind the payment.

  He lit both rings on the gas burner, put the kettle on one, the frying pan on the other: bacon sandwich and a mug of tea.

  ‘Doris’ was in a car park high up on the North Yorkshire Moors giving Ed a view of Whitby Abbey and the North Sea.

  His had been the only vehicle there last night and this morning the only noise was coming from herring gulls. The amount of them flying in raucous circles was a warning of a big storm on the way. At least that’s what Sam had once told him, that gulls responded to changes in air pressure they could detect.

  He turned on his personal phone, scrolled through the site of the Seaton Post. Nothing new about him.

  There’ll be plenty in tomorrow’s edition.

  He put the phone on the table and looked through the drizzle at the abbey.

  Sixty grand, Sam thought as she sat behind her desk, hands covering her face.

  Who wanted Harry Pullman dead?

  Was it the Skinners?

  Had he got to the Skinners first?

  She felt like she was going around in circles. She stood up and paced.

  Harry Pullman’s down to give evidence; Luke and Matt Skinner need to stop him; they pay Paul to find out where he is.

  That would work…

  Pullman finds out Paul is selling him out to the Skinners; uses Tara to lure him to her house; sets up Zac Williams to come across like a wannabe mass killer with the cuttings all over his wall.

  Still holding up…

  Bill Redwood killed because of his connection to Harry Pullman; Scott Green a ‘get in first’ victim because he’s a Skinner associate; Swan and Marshall taken out to tidy up the loose ends. No evidence against Harry Pullman. Neat and tidy. Only person left to clean up…Tara Paxman.

  Why does it all feel too tidy?

  Questions were bouncing around Sam’s head like balls in a bingo caller’s wheel.

  Was Tara telling the truth?

  Could somebody else be preparing a takeover?

  Could Tara be involved with them?

  Was Harry Pullman set up? Does he even have it in him to plan this?

  If Paul was tipping Harry Pullman’s location, how did Harry find out it was Paul?

  Did Harry know of Paul from his days working for the Skinners, the time before Luke and Mark planned to leave him for dead in the North Sea?

  How long has Paul been bent?

  Was he bent?

  Or in the end, was Zac Williams just an angry maniac and the conspiracy theories all bull?

  Sam returned to her desk; the questions endless.

  Accept nothing, Believe nothing, Challenge everything.

  Sam’s ABC, a mantra that had always served her well.

  She sat down, turned on her computer, glanced at her inbox. Seventy-seven emails. Scanning the list there was nothing regarding this investigation.

  She resisted the urge to hit the delete button, sending details of this meeting, that meeting into cyberspace, and looked out of the window.

  ‘Coffee, boss?’ It was Shane Walton.

  ‘Cheers. I’ll come through soon. Just got to sort a couple of things out first.’

  ‘No bother.’

  Shane walked out but was back in minutes. He placed a mug on her desk.

  Sam nodded her thanks, sipped the coffee, and stared at the screen: crime strategy meeting, management meeting, this working party, that steering group. The list of notifications became a fuzzy blur.

  Too busy for this shit...

  She hit delete.

  Lester Stephenson picked up the two silver-framed photographs from the high mantlepiece above the wood-burning stove.

  Two boys, two girls. His grandchildren. Three on one photograph, the eldest, a girl pictured alone, was his favourite: not because she was the eldest, but because he’d missed so much of her growing years.

  He put the photograph back, whispered ‘families,’ shook his head and smiled.

  ‘All set for today?’

  Penelope walked into the sitting room; shaven head from sessions of chemotherapy, clothes now four sizes too big.

  ‘Yes love.

  ‘Your bag’s packed. Dinner suit’s back from the cleaners, apron’s ironed.’

  ‘You sure I’m okay to stay over? I can go without a drink you know.’

  His wife dropped onto the leather armchair with the remote tilt control, the walk from the bedroom turning her frail legs to jelly.

  She took a couple of shallow breaths. ‘I know sweetheart, but you get away and enjoy yourself. You need a break from me. Go and see your pals.’

  Lester Stephenson was convinced the police had bugged his house.

  Penelope looked at the photograph on the occasional table next to her chair, picked it up, raised it close to her eyes: her younger self, high on the back of black horse, caught mid-flight, blonde ponytail horizontal, taking a fence in the showjumping ring.

  She rubbed her eyes at the memory, a time when her whole life stretched out in front of her, a time before her race was almost run. Now according to the medical staff, at best she was two months from the finishing line.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Lester asked. The text alert sounded on his phone.

  ‘Just some water and could you pass the TV remote please.’

  Stephenson handed it to her, returned to the kitchen, and read the text.

  Party sorted. Big welcoming committee. Weather over here mild. See you and your partner in crime very soon.

  He returned to the sitting room, kissed his sleeping wife’s forehead, and re-read the text.

  How long had he known him now? Must be over forty years.

  He tapped the photos icon on his phone, chuckled at the suntanned image of the sender… bald in summer top and shorts, the flowing perm, flowery shirts and wide-lapel pinstripe suits consigned to history.

  Lester Stephenson liked to plan everything but had left the flight plan and refuelling scheduling in the hands of someone who had the expertise: the pilot.

  The aviator had spent his time in prison preparing for the Private Pilot Licence theory exams and completed the required flying hours on his release.

  All Lester knew was that from the first airstrip he would fly to the south of England, then across the Channel into France and from there, Spain and a waiting car.

  Whatever checks the police had at ports and airports wouldn’t affect him. He’d be enjoying paella and a cold Cruzcampo before Chief Inspector Parker knew he had even gone.

  He looked at the photo on his phone again.

  Marty Irons. Ex-detective constable. King of the timeshare. Time served for corruption.

  It would be quite some reunion.

  Chapter 47

  Ed had changed into hiking boots, woollen hat and waterproofs and was walking towards a small field where an orange windsock was kinked at a 45-degree angle.

  Overhead a light aircraft was coming in to land.

  He pushed open the five-bar gate and walked towards the wooden building. One man was on the decking, sat on a white plastic chair at a white plastic table reading ‘Pilot’ magazine.

  The other tables and chairs had a layer of water on them from the recent downpour, glistening now in the low November sun.

  Ed stopped and watched the wheels of the Piper Cherokee come into contact with the ground.

  ‘Any chance I can use your loo?’

  The man put his magazine on the table and looked at Ed, bushy ginger eyebrows trying to meet the tight wiry curls of his hair. He stood up, ex-military written all over him, black shoes gleaming.

  ‘Feel free young man. You walked far?’

  No accent, clipped tones. Officer type, Ed thought. Probably retired RAF pilot. He smiled at the ‘young man’ reference.

  ‘Not too far. About five miles.’

  ‘A gentle stroll,’ the man grinned. ‘Straight through there on the right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

/>   Ed walked into the building, saw the mic and some sort of log next to it on a small wooden table. Eyebrows had his back to him, nose back in the magazine that looked like a post card in his huge hands.

  The log was open. An entry in fountain pen referenced the landing of the plane outside. A Cessna 152. The old boy outside was obviously duty officer, or whatever they called it.

  He glanced down the list of incoming aircraft for the last few days, found what he was looking for, and walked past a long, dark, banqueting table to the toilet.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, back on the decking.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Ed walked away grateful to Brian Banks, back towards the gate, back towards ‘Doris’ in a horseshoe lay-by three hundred metres away, hidden from the road by trees.

  Now all he had to do was drive.

  Maybe he did have time to do Sam a favour.

  Bev put her bag in the boot, glanced at her watch and turned to face Tara.

  ‘Don’t stray from the plan. Have a walk out this afternoon, pop into the Inn on the Lake if you want. Don’t drink too much.’

  Tara looked at the ground, scratched her ear. ‘I won’t. I’ll be fine. Stop worrying.’

  ‘I’ll see you later. Have a good day.’

  They hugged.

  Bev drove out of the car park towards Pooley Bridge and the A66. Two hours from home. Back by 1pm.

  Tara walked back into the White Lion, thoughts on three things – sandwich, stroll and SIM card.

  She bought a sandwich in the shop, went back to her room, and got on her hands and knees to fish out the phone she had hidden under the wardrobe.

  She had got lucky. Bev hadn’t searched her.

  Tara sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone, debating whether to turn it on.

  She wanted to make a call, talk to someone who wasn’t police, but she was worried The Man would have been trying to get in touch, wanting to know where she was, what was happening.

  She rolled the phone in her hand, alternatively staring at the front and back.

  The phone had the SIM card ending in the number 257.

  When she finally powered it up the mobile pinged five times. Five messages, all from a number ending in 683. The Man’s phone.

  She didn’t open them.

  She had always been good with numbers. Maybe it ran in the family.

  She made one call then went outside, the smell of wet grass and clean, clear air filling her nose.

  What a place to live

  Lester Stephenson glanced at the case on the front seat, smiled at the thought of an unofficial Masonic reunion in the sunshine. Marty Irons and the other two detectives convicted of corruption had all been members of the same Lodge as Lester.

  Their downfall had sparked a private outcry among their fellow Masons but hadn’t stopped other police officers being allowed to join.

  The Masons, though, didn’t recognise police ranks. Junior officers often held higher positions within the organisation than their force seniors.

  Some well-promoted officers had found it hard to handle.

  Lester pulled into the outside lane and laughed out loud when he remembered a new member, a uniform superintendent, being outraged he had to wait on a detective constable at a Lodge dinner.

  ‘I’m not here to serve mashed potato to him,’ he’d said. Lester still remembered the indignation on the superintendent’s face.

  He was given a simple choice: conform or leave.

  He served the mash and bit his lip when the recipient told him: ‘Don’t be stingy now.’

  The detective constable had retold the story for months, a fly-fisherman reliving his best catch, the truth coated in ever-increasing layers of embellishment.

  Ed Whelan always did tell a good tale.

  Julie Trescothick walked into Sam’s office.

  ‘Sorry Julie, but can you make it quick? I’ve got to leave for a meeting soon.’

  Julie nodded as she began to speak: ‘The sticky substance on the hands of the rabbit suit Zac Williams was wearing is a match for the sticky substance on the rifle barrel and butt. The scientist will write up her report about chemical compounds and the like, but it’s a definite match.’

  Sam leaned back into her chair and digested the information. Had the gun really been glued to Zac Williams’ hands?

  ‘The second rabbit suit has gunshot residue all over it,’ Julie was saying now.

  ‘The DNA results from it are back. DNA deposits all over the inside. Two profiles, consistent with both sets of DNA having worn the suit.’

  Julie subconsciously paused, a conjurer building to the big reveal.

  ‘One profile is Harry Pullman’s.’

  Sam exhaled, her mind racing.

  Zac Williams has been set up.

  ‘The other one?’ she asked Julie.

  ‘I did what you said. Got into Tara’s house. Smashed through the loft hatch. Took controlled hair samples from her hairbrush in the bathroom for DNA comparison.’

  ‘And,’ Sam said, standing up, her excitement mounting.

  ‘Waiting to hear from the lab.’

  Chapter 48

  He hadn’t been too keen at the time but now Ed Whelan was delighted Sam had sent him for two days ‘Open Source’ training.

  There was so much information available on the Internet; you just needed to know where to look.

  People were fools, Ed told himself after he’d interrogated various search engines. Social media sites spewed back out as much information as the user had put in. The search options were endless, joining the so-called dots of any conundrum possible.

  Ed’s latest searches had led him to the driveway of a well-presented semi-detached bungalow in Northallerton, a market town at the northern tip of North Yorkshire.

  He knocked at the door, glanced at the spotless silver VW Caddy parked close to the single garage. The neat garden and metal ramp gave access to a side door Ed presumed led into the kitchen.

  ‘Mrs Lee?’ he said, when the door opened, keeping the surprise from his voice.

  He had expected a gaunt, disheveled alcoholic, not a healthy woman in skinny, ripped jeans and tight cashmere sweater.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi. I’m Detective Sergeant Whelan. I’m involved in the investigation into the shootings at Seaton St George. You may have seen it on the news.’

  ‘Oh my God. Is Tara okay?’

  ‘She’s fine. May I come in?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  Valerie Lee didn’t ask for any identification.

  Ed stepped over the threshold, thankful that police dramas no longer had every detective wearing a suit.

  ‘How can I help?’ Valerie said, leading Ed through the wooden-floored hallway into the large orangery off the lounge. ‘Please take a seat.’

  Ed sat on the red tartan, rattan weave armchair, put one elbow on the cane arm, and crossed his legs.

  ‘Tara was living next door to the shooter,’ he said.

  ‘How awful. But you said she’s okay?’

  She sat down on the chair opposite.

  ‘She’s fine. Obviously, it was all a shock to her. She’s being looked after by a specially trained detective.’

  ‘Dreadful. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

  Ed guessed she was in her late forties, but she could have passed for someone much younger. Her skin had a glow that suggested Valerie Lee hadn’t skipped on her daily care regime for decades. Her teeth, Ed noticed, were beautiful.

  Whatever else she may be, Valerie Lee was no raddled alcoholic.

  ‘Mrs Lee -’

  ‘Please call me Val.’

  ‘Val,’ Ed said, staring into piercing blue eyes. ‘As a matter of routine, we have to check out the backgrounds of those people in and around the scene of a tragedy such as this.’

  ‘I thought the police shot the gunman?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I cannot comment on that.’

  Val Lee nodded
.

  ‘I’m trying to establish what type of person Tara is.’

  Val leaned forward, put her hands on her knees.

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  She put her face in her hands, shook her head before continuing.

  ‘Tara was difficult. Rebellious. Went off the rails as a teenager.’

  She wafted thin fingers in front of her face.

  Ed spotted the film of water over her eyes.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘take your time.’

  ‘As a young girl she was fine. Never knew her father and never asked. I’ve never seen him since I told him I was pregnant. Well not in the flesh. Seen him on TV, in newspapers.’

  Ed looked at her. He could imagine a young teenager and an unwanted pregnancy, but a woman who must have been in her twenties at the time? Did that still happen?

  Val smiled.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said.

  That I’m a sexist pig expecting women to take all the responsibility for birth control. I didn’t mean to come across like that.

  ‘Frank was my first proper boyfriend. He was married, a few years older than me. I was still living at home. Classic combination of sheltered upbringing and puritan parents.’

  Ed nodded. ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘I know and to be honest I’ve no idea why I’m telling you. Maybe because it’s some years since I’ve spoken about Tara, never mind seen her.’

  Val sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her you know.’

  Ed nodded. He couldn’t contemplate not seeing his own daughter. Was that why he’d stayed with Sue all these years? Put up with all the shit?

  ‘But Frank Worthington?’ Val continued. ‘I can’t remember the last time he came into my head.’

  Ed nodded again, said nothing. Did anybody’s life ever run smooth?

  Like Sam he followed the first rule of interviewing: don’t interrupt their flow, let them fill the silences.

  ‘Tara left on her sixteenth birthday. Never heard a word from her since, but I knew she was living in the Seaton St George area. A neighbour bumped into her once.’