No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “On the 10th December. Do you know something, Mr Fisher?”

  “A lot of people disappeared about that time. Henry Potter and his wife dropped out of sight. They never reopened the business and I never saw or heard from them again.”

  She shuffles into the hall. “I don’t remember them,”

  “Maybe you have some records.”

  “We supplied hundreds of businesses over the years. What’s so special about this business?”

  “I think your husband made the anonymous complaint that led to me closing the café.”

  She shakes her head. “He would never bite the hand that feeds him.”

  “Does the name Leila King mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “How about Peter Stone?”

  She lets out a frustrated sigh. “What do you want, Mr Fisher?”

  “I want to find out what happened to your husband, Mrs Wright.”

  “You think I don’t?”

  For a short while the only sound comes from the ticking of a grandfather clock.

  “I made the anonymous complaint about the Rosy Lee,” Connie says. “I thought if you closed it down, it would stop him visiting Gladys Potter. I was wrong.”

  “How do you know he was seeing Mrs Potter?”

  “She told me,” Connie replies. “That’s why I reported the place.”

  She walks into the kitchen and slams the door behind her, leaving me with more questions than when I entered the bungalow.

  Freya gives me a helpless shrug.

  “Were you around when Malcolm left?” I ask. “Did you see the guys from the casino?”

  She shakes her head. “Jonathan told me his old man was playing around. When he took over some of the deliveries, one or two women seemed upset.”

  I close my notebook. “Malcolm Wright could be shacked up with another woman somewhere.”

  “Do you want a look at Jonathan’s Facebook page? He calls himself Foxy Jon,” Freya says, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  Foxy Jon uses a debonair cartoon fox in an evening suit as his image. It sits in front of a photo of Caesar’s Palace at night. There are no personal details, no mutual friends. Most of his sporadic posts are standard scenic shots of America and videos of cute dogs and cats. We soon scroll through to the last birthday and Christmas messages he left.

  “Anything else you want to tell me about Jonathan?” I ask once we’re outside.

  “You want to know why I married him, don’t you?”

  I say nothing, waiting for her to tell me.

  “We messed around together for months. He was fun, exciting, daring, living for the moment. I was usually drunk, desperate and head over heels in love with him. I didn’t care when he disappeared for days, playing cards. When he won, he took me out shopping, bought me new clothes, jewellery, champagne.”

  “And when he lost?”

  “He blamed everything and everyone, as if the world was against him. He took money from my purse, withdrew cash on my credit cards. He spent a fortune on scratch cards, always certain he would win. Nothing ever shook that belief.”

  She unlocks the door to her van. “I could never stay angry with him for more than a few hours. He’d give me this little boy lost look and make love to me. I owed him everything,” she says, reacting to my look of disbelief. “He rescued me from an abusive relationship. I was lost too,” she says, looking into my eyes. “Like you.”

  “I’m not lost.”

  She pats her chest. “I feel it in here,”

  “Are you sure it’s not your bra playing up?”

  Without warning, she wraps her arms around my neck. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Her soft lips press against mine, urgent, demanding, sweeping aside my resistance. I hold her close, enjoying the familiar tingle of anticipation, the desire building inside me, pushing away all reason.

  “Shit, that was good,” she says, her breath hot on my face.

  I’m not sure Connie shares the sentiment, judging by the look of disgust she gives me as she watches through the window.

  She’s right. This is hardly professional, is it?

  I turn my head as Freya tries to kiss me again. “We need to talk,” I say.

  “Later,” she says, her eyes intense and determined. “There’s a hotel only ten minutes from here.”

  “What about your husband, Rick?”

  She stops. She steps back, her arms falling to her sides. “I told you, I’ve divorced the jerk. Do you want to check the paperwork?”

  “Does that mean you’re not living with him?”

  She shoots back. “Who told you that – your girlfriend?”

  “You said he let himself into your flat.”

  “Weeks ago, yeah.”

  “Has he left? Have you thrown him out?”

  She stares at me, shaking her head as if I’ve let her down, not the other way. “Follow me,” she says, leading me to the back of her van.

  She wrenches open the doors to reveal three suitcases, standing to attention between two canvas holdalls that have seen better days. Further back, a couple of boxes, filled with books, CDs and DVDs, are visible beneath an array of shopping bags, filled with clothes, dog coats and leads and some squeaky toys.

  “Molly’s already with Dad,” she says, a bitter edge to her voice. “I’m on my way to join them. I posted the keys to my flat through the managing agent’s letterbox before I came here. That’s why I was late.”

  “You’ve thrown Rick out?”

  “When he returns from his card game, which could be today, tomorrow or next week, he’ll discover his key no longer fits the lock. And,” she says, slamming first one door, then the next, “you can tell your girlfriend she’s a lousy copper. I spotted her straight away when she followed me home on Friday.”

  “She wanted you to notice her. She wants to make you nervous.”

  “She can’t compete with you on that score.”

  “Why do I make you nervous?”

  Freya smiles. “Nice nervous. Anticipating what I want to do to you nervous.”

  The prospect makes me nervous. It’s not anticipation though.

  I’m not sure how she’ll react if Jonathan Wright turns out to be the body at Sunshine View. Will she think I used her to identify him? Then there’s my father, the man who forced her to sell her house to pay off Jonathan’s gambling debts.

  How’s she going to react to Birchill?

  And Ashley makes us both feel nervous.

  “You haven’t asked me what I want to do to you,” Freya says.

  “I thought you said you didn’t sleep with a man on a first date.”

  “I’ve no intention of sleeping” she says. “And that’s not what I said.”

  Ten minutes later, as we pull into the car park for the Boship Travelodge, north of Hailsham, I remember what she said.

  She only slept with three men on a first date ... and married each one.

  Thirty-Six

  We run up the stairs to the first floor room. The moment the door closes, she pins me against it, pressing her lips to mine, tearing at my clothes. It takes a crunch of noses, followed by peals of laughter, to make us slow down and explore each other without needing first aid.

  Freya leads me on a slow journey of exploration and surprise beyond anything I’ve experienced before. At times, she seems to read my mind, knowing instinctively what I want. When she doesn’t, she asks me what I like, adding her own flourishes to leave me breathless. I do my best to reciprocate, teasing her, getting her to show me what she likes, until we become lost to everything but each other.

  Now, as she slumps over me, her head nestled against mine, her cheeks as hot as her breath, I know I’ve found someone special. I tell myself to remain calm and rational. After all, what do I know about this gentle but passionate woman with her careless honesty and nervous energy? She’s no stranger to marriage, or divorce. Yet lying with my arms around her, I know all I need to know – and I’m not
talking about the cute dimple under her left breast or the small birthmark at the base of her spine.

  I’m happy to lie here, losing myself in thoughts of her. She has other ideas.

  “I could eat a horse,” she says, raising her head. She looks down at me through tangled hair. “First, I need to ring Dad, let him know I’ll be late.”

  “Very late,” I say, running my finger down her spine.

  “You can take a shower. A cold one.”

  She kisses me as I head to the bathroom. Then her father picks up the phone. While she tells him she’s not sure when she’ll be back, I kiss her neck and shoulders.

  “I’m with Kent Fisher,” she says, shooing me away. “Yes, the environmental health officer from Downland. Of course I know what I’m doing. I’ve had enough practice.” She rolls her eyes as he talks. “Well, maybe I’ve got it right this time. Yes, it’s a bit sudden. I’m always careful,” she says as I close the bathroom door. “Love you, Dad.”

  When I pass the mirror, I can’t help noticing the huge grin that connects my ears. Under the shower, the water invigorates me, washing away my doubts. If we talk and discuss the details, there’s no reason why Jonathan Wright or Miles Birchill should come between Freya and me.

  If Jonathan is the victim, Ashley will focus on the gambling debts, gathering more circumstantial evidence against my father. With her sights set on the Major Crimes Team, she might even forget about me.

  If the body isn’t Jonathan Wright, then who could it be?

  Before I can consider this, Freya slides back the curtain and steps in beside me.

  ***

  “She’s in the car park.” Freya tightens the towel she’s wrapped around her and steps back from the window. “That’s her car, isn’t it?”

  I peer through the rain that’s lashing the window and bouncing off the tarmac “That’s her Audi,” I say, watching Ashley eat a pastry she purchased at Greggs or the petrol station opposite. “I’ll have a word with her.”

  Freya pulls me close. “Ignore her. We have the room till the morning. Let her wait while we order pizza and watch TV, unless you have something better in mind.”

  Though Freya sounds calm and confident, she keeps sneaking glances out of the window while she dries her hair. “She must know what we’re doing. Why doesn’t she move on?”

  I take my phone out into the corridor. “What’s your game, Ashley? Why are you following us?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You’re parked a couple of spaces from Freya’s van.”

  “I didn’t realise you were with her. I thought she was with her husband, Rick. I told you he’s an associate of Miles Birchill, didn’t I?”

  “She’s with me so please back off.”

  “I’m on surveillance, Kent. You may have no qualms about sleeping with the enemy, but she’s a person of interest in a murder enquiry.”

  “You think Rick Preston’s involved in murder?”

  “Sounds like you have other ideas, Kent. Why don’t you give the poor woman a break? There’s a spare sausage roll we can share while you bring me up to speed.”

  “Go home, Ashley. We’re going to be here all night.”

  She smirks. “I like a modest man. Still, you’ll have plenty of time to ask her about her husband. But can you believe what she tells you after the lies she’s told you?”

  She chuckles and ends the call. By the time I’m back in the room, she’s leaving the car park. “Thank you,” Freya says, wrapping her arms around me. “I could get used to you looking after me. What did you say?”

  I slide my arms around her waist. “I told her there’s only one woman for me.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “In the absence of Gwyneth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman, I guess it’s you.”

  “You mean they didn’t like the idea of a night in a Travelodge?”

  “No, they said they couldn’t compete with you.”

  After a long, slow kiss, she tugs at my polo shirt.

  “Let’s grab something to eat. I’ll also need to ring Frances to make sure everything’s okay at home.”

  Freya reaches for her jacket. “When are you going to ask me about Jonathan?”

  I turn at the door. “Where did that come from?”

  “You came to my salon for information about Wright Choice Foods, not a trim for Columbo. Was Jonathan murdered and buried at that caravan site?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, not sure how much to tell her. “Maybe you should tell me more about his gambling debts. They seem to be at the heart of things.”

  She walks over to the window and peers out. “His gambling problems started with a Maserati.”

  “As in the Italian sports car?”

  “I put the idea in his head. He asked me if I could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

  “You asked for a Maserati.”

  “I couldn’t understand why he was interested in me. I had a degree in Psychology, but I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. Please, no Human League jokes,” she says. “He was drinking champagne with three young women when he noticed me. I knew he was interested, but he already had company. Ten minutes later, they left. He said I was more of a woman than the three of them put together.”

  “I thought you met through his parents’ business on the farm.”

  She settles on the bed. “I didn’t know he was their son till he turned up at the farm one day. We’d gone out on a couple of dates, but he had a habit of cancelling at the last minute. Nothing comes between a gambler and a chance to win.”

  Another woman might.

  “How did you go from there to a Maserati?” I ask.

  “He popped over one day and told me about his amazing run of good luck since he met me. He took me to a fancy hotel in London for a meal, champagne and all the trimmings. In the morning, he asked me if I could have anything in the world, what would it be.”

  “Why a Maserati?”

  “I couldn’t think of anything. Then I remembered how my first husband always dreamed of owning one.” She sighs, looking into space. “I thought no more about it until Jonathan arrived at my door a few weeks later in a red Maserati. We went out for the day and I never saw it again.”

  “He rented it for the day?”

  “I only found out the truth after he’d gone back to America.” She crosses her arms, gripping her shoulders. “The guys from the casino told me he used the car as security for a private loan with the casino. Once he got the loan, he stopped paying for the car and the dealer repossessed it. He couldn’t repay his debts, so he left me to sort them out.”

  Freya looks at me, blinking back tears. “He planned everything – right down to marrying me so I’d be liable for his debts. And I fell for it.”

  “You weren’t to know.”

  “Spare me the platitudes, Kent. I knew he played around, but he asked me to marry him – not some skinny bimbo with boobs bigger than her head. I screwed up,” she says with a helpless shrug, “but they didn’t have to treat me like a criminal.”

  “The guys from the casino?”

  “They thought I was part of the scam. The ugly one grabbed me by the hair and threatened to slash my face when I said I knew nothing about it. Luckily, his mate pulled him off. He said we could come to an understanding. Though he was rather dishy, I said I’d rather pay than have sex with either of them. For a moment, I thought the ugly one was going to rape me. His name was Syd Collins,” she says with a smile. “You investigated his murder last year. I read about it in the Tollingdon Tribune.”

  “Do you know his sidekick’s name?”

  “Peter Stone.”

  Thirty-Seven

  “Did he kill Jonathan? Did Peter Stone kill Jonathan?”

  Freya’s on her feet, in my face, demanding answers to questions I’m only starting to ask. Peter Stone’s a name on a menu that adds another link to my father, another piece of evidence that Ashley will use against him. />
  “I never said Jonathan was dead,” I say.

  “Don’t lie to me, Kent. I saw the look on your face, the shock in your eyes when I said Peter Stone. There,” she cries, becoming animated. “I saw it again. Don’t I have a right to know who killed my husband?”

  I should tell her I can’t reveal confidential information, but it won’t stop the questions. She’ll keep asking, wanting to know what I can tell her, prising snippets of information here and there that will only lead to more questions.

  Then she’ll confront Ashley, who will want to know how I found out about Peter Stone. She’ll assume Mike told me. If I tell her about Mike’s memoirs, she’ll have a go at him for being sloppy.

  I don’t blame Freya for wanting to know what happened, but until Jonathan’s positively identified, I can’t assume he was murdered. If he turns up, larger than life in Las Vegas, I’m going to look stupid. Worse than that, I’ll have caused Connie Wright untold grief for nothing.

  “Freya,” I say, taking her hands in mine, “I know nothing about Peter Stone. From what you showed me on Connie’s tablet, Jonathan’s in America.”

  She wrenches her hands free. “Don’t lie, Kent. Not now. Not after what we shared.” She swallows, struggling for words. “I told you about Jonathan, about how naïve and foolish I was, because I didn’t want him to come between us.” Her hand reaches out to stroke my cheek. “I want no secrets, Kent. I want you to show me that not all men are selfish bastards. I want you to trust me. Do you trust me, Kent?”

  How can trust compete with the confidentiality needed to successfully prosecute a killer and ensure the public has faith in the justice system? Even if I somehow scramble over this hurdle, sooner or later I’ll have to tell her Miles Birchill, the man who sent Collins and Stone to threaten her, is my father.

  I dread to think how she’ll react to that.

  Will she think I’m protecting my father? Will she think I used her?

  Once again, emotion’s getting in the way of evidence and facts. I have to choose between Freya and my investigation.

  I have to find out if my father’s a cold-blooded killer or another victim.