No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “There’s so much I can’t tell you,” I say, gazing into Freya’s lovely eyes. “The only way I can be with you is to give up my investigation and I can’t do that. Later, when we find out who killed who, maybe you’ll understand why I have to keep going to uncover the truth.”

  A solitary tear runs down her cheek.

  “I knew Jonathan would come between us. That first morning in my salon, when I thought you were the one for me ... No,” she says, putting a finger to my lips, “let me finish. There’s someone special for each and every one of us. Most people never find that person. I’ve tried to find mine on three occasions, but when our eyes met, I knew.”

  She kisses me so softly, so tenderly, I don’t want to let her go. When the kiss ends, she gives me an encouraging smile. “If it is Jonathan, I want you to find his killer.”

  She pulls on her jacket, picks up her phone and pauses to straighten the crumpled duvet, smiling as she runs her hand over the fabric. She takes a pillow and holds it to her face, sniffing its fragrance.

  “Peter Stone came back a few days later. He brought a bottle of champagne, said he could make things easier for me. Though I quite fancied him, I refused, ready to put up a fight.”

  She smiles to herself. “He was fine about it. He asked me why I’d married a loser like Jonathan. Did I know he’d run off with one of the bar staff, leaving me to deal with his shit? She was older than him, less attractive than me and married, yet they’d been having an affair for months. He didn’t tell me her name and I didn’t ask,” Freya says, opening the door. “She didn’t show up for work the day Jonathan vanished.”

  “Thank you,” I say, wondering how many more people went missing during November ten years ago.

  “When you’ve solved the case, come and find me.”

  She hurries out of the door and down the corridor, her footsteps fading when she reaches the stairwell.

  I slump down on the bed. The duvet feels warm, imprinted with our scent. The fragrance of her perfume lingers on the pillow the way she remains in my thoughts. Did she mean what she said about everyone having someone special? I want to believe her, but it sounds like something out of romantic fiction.

  Yet I can’t deny the effect she had on me when I first saw her.

  She didn’t hate me when I chose the investigation over her either.

  I head over to the window, wondering if I’ve made a stupid mistake.

  Freya rushes across the car park, head bent against the wind and torrential rain. Soaked and bedraggled, she wrestles with the door of her van. Then she looks up at me and blows a kiss.

  I’m across the room in a few strides. I yank open the door and hurtle down the corridor, taking the stairs two at a time before barging through the doors and out of reception. I almost crash into the bucket filled with sand and cigarette stubs, blinded by the wind and rain.

  I run to the spot where Freya’s van stood a minute ago. I scan the car park.

  That’s when I spot Ashley, drinking a Starbucks coffee in her Audi, parked out of sight of the bedroom window.

  Thirty-Eight

  With the heaters on full blast to dry off my sodden clothes, I drive to Georgina’s country house, situated off a single track road that runs from Alciston village to the South Downs near Firle Beacon. While the rain has stopped, the gloom remains, pressing down on the damp trees and flattened grass on the verges. I take it slow, dodging the torrents of surface water that stream across the narrow road and gush along the verges, pulling into the drive around five thirty. The brick built house, sandwiched between two stately chimneys, reminds me of crazy days when Georgina and I thrashed about on cushions in one of the vast Inglenook fireplaces, Burning Love by Elvis blasting out of the hi fi.

  Over twenty years have elapsed since my last visit. In that time, the clipped yew hedges that bounded and shaped the ornamental gardens have grown wild. Devoid of shape and topiary, the bushes spill over the lawns and suffocate the herbaceous borders. A few tall yellow flowers thrust through to reach the sun, but it’s a chaotic mess. Weeds and grass inch across the gravel drive, which sprawls along the front of the house like it was washed in on the tide.

  I swing around the stone statue, now denuded and green with algae, and stop next to my father’s black Mercedes. It’s parked next to Georgina’s white, but older Mercedes convertible. My Ford Fusion looks like it belongs to the cleaner. Georgina once employed a discreet housekeeper cum personal assistant to run the place. He was always there during my visits, though I never saw or heard him.

  Sometimes I wondered if her husband was home, reading in his study.

  I stroll across to the large porch with its pointed roof, smothered by honeysuckle that murmurs with bees, foraging once more. The oak door, complete with brass knocker, wouldn’t look amiss on a castle. I resist the temptation to shatter the silence and press the bell instead, hoping my father read the text telling him I was on my way.

  My jacket and trousers have dried a little, but not much.

  Georgina, dressed in a pale blue sports top and matching leggings, opens the door. She looks at my bedraggled appearance and smiles. “Would you like me to help you out of those?”

  “Like you used to?”

  Her tanned feet, with toenails painted to match her leggings, pad across the parquet flooring as she leads me through the reception hall, complete with grandfather clock, sideboard, landscape paintings on the walls, and a hat stand, erect beside the door to the cloakroom.

  Like many of these old houses, it has high ceilings, oak panelling and wooden floors, polished to a shine. They’re grand and stately with their wide staircases, often sweeping down from a gallery on the first floor. The windows are large, like the drapes, the furniture’s old and grand, a mixture of mahogany, oak and intricate carved legs. Antiques reveal the wealth of the owners. The richest and most influential have portraits of themselves and their ancestors, often on horses.

  “Didn’t we do it on the stairs?” She points to the half landing where we performed to Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven. A portrait of her husband looked down on us. It’s gone now.

  “Do you remember doing it in a wheelbarrow in the greenhouse?”

  “Belinda Carlisle, Heaven is a Place on Earth.” She laughs and places a playful hand on my arm. “Miles isn’t fond of anything outdoors unless it’s a swimming pool or one of those ghastly hot tubs. Are you stopping for tea? It’s only sandwiches, but I can make more.”

  I nod, realising I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

  Memories and tunes bombard as I follow her through a reception room. The faded walls and chipped coving to the ceiling betray the same decay as the faded drapes and patches of mould in the corners of the windows.

  “Remember the chaise longue?” she asks, gesturing to where it used to sit below the window.

  “I don’t remember a chaise longue.”

  “Oops, must have been someone else.”

  Georgina enhanced my knowledge and understanding of furniture, décor, gardening and music. She also taught me humility by screwing most of my fellow hunt saboteurs.

  My father’s sitting in the orangery, reading the Sunday Times, a bottle of Budweiser on the table in front of him. He rises from the wicker sofa to greet me, asking me if I want anything to drink.

  “You were about to make coffee.” Georgina’s smile stops well short of her eyes. I suspect she has no intention of playing housewife for any longer than necessary. “You prefer yours neutered, don’t you, Kent?”

  I remove the cushion and sit opposite my father, taking a moment to look at the garden, which stretches out in a jumble of bushes and flowers to the woodland at the bottom. Somewhere in the mess of foliage lies a large pond, which was a magnet for frogs, toads, newts and Georgina’s loopy Labrador, Warhol.

  “Needs clearing,” my father says, jamming the folded newspaper down the side of the sofa. “You can’t see anything out there.”

  “Especially the pond.”

  He
screws his eyes as he searches for it. “What pond?”

  “The one that must be attracting the lacewings and dragonflies,” I reply, recovering from my slip.

  “I should take more interest in nature,” he says, checking his phone. “Gina wants me to embrace the rural way of life.”

  She probably means cleaners, gardeners, a chef and a chauffeur.

  “I’ve only been here a day, but it feels like I belong here. You must come over for the day. Gina will give you the guided tour. Some of the bedrooms are fantastic.”

  The bedrooms I never saw. Maybe we couldn’t think of any appropriate songs.

  “Do you mind if we talk about a certain body?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “No need to whisper, Kent. I’ve nothing to hide from Gina. Four weeks ago she was walking on a sandy beach, wondering what she had left to look forward to. Now look at her,” he says, rising as she enters with a tray, bearing two mugs, a cream jug and one for milk. “She’s got the looks and energy of a woman half her age.”

  “Only half?” She tuts as she places the tray on the table. “You must come over with Ashley sometime. I’m sure she’d enjoy the local wildlife.”

  “Aren’t you joining us?” he asks her, looking disappointed.

  “Sandwiches don’t make themselves, darling.”

  “Let’s order a Chinese and save on the washing up.”

  “You want me to look like a bloated whale?”

  “That’s not going to happen with all the workouts you do. She has a gym at the back of the garage, Kent, complete with a sound system and big screen TV. I’ve suggested a hot tub to relax in after a good workout.”

  “Boys and bikinis,” Georgina says, padding back into the house.

  “You should see her in a bikini,” he says, watching her hips sway. “She looks even better without one.” He chuckles as he pours cream into one of the coffees. “Sorry, too much information. What do you want to ask me about?”

  “The Ace of Hearts,” I reply, taking the coffee. “Do you remember Jonathan Wright? He put up a Maserati as security on a loan.”

  My father thinks for a moment. “That must be seven, eight years ago.”

  “Try ten.”

  He whistles in disbelief. “I never met the man, but I think he liked the ladies.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Terry will know. He works in security. Ex-cop, doesn’t miss a thing. As for the Maserati, I’m pretty sure this guy Wright didn’t own it. As soon as we found out, I would have sent Syd to pay him a visit.”

  “You did, with another guy.”

  He takes a sip of coffee. “Is Jonathan Wright the body in the field?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Kent, I’m not naïve. A member of my casino defaults on a debt, gets a visit from Syd Collins and winds up in a grave on my land. DI Goodman will be rubbing her hands with glee when she finds out. Are you going to tell her?”

  “If it is Jonathan Wright I’ll have no choice.”

  “How did you work it out?”

  “Jonathan’s wife told me Syd and a sidekick visited her to recover the money after her husband legged it to Las Vegas.”

  “I thought you said he was the body.”

  “No, you assumed he was.”

  “Well, is he or isn’t he?”

  “Let’s say I don’t think he made it to Las Vegas.”

  “You think Syd topped him?” He laughs, spilling coffee into the saucer. “I know he had a short fuse but he was no killer.”

  “It’s not what I think that matters.”

  “Then don’t tell DI Goodman.”

  “And pervert the course of justice?”

  He picks up his phone and speaks to someone called Linda at the Ace of Hearts. “Can you check back about ten years? Guy called Jonathan Wright,” he says, spelling out the name. “I need to know if Syd and Peter went to see him or his wife. Can you check right now and ring me back.”

  “Who’s Peter?” I ask.

  “Peter Stone was an ex-marine, in charge of security and debt recovery. He had a win on the lottery and took off to Australia. He’d only been out there a couple of months when some drunken slob on a jet ski struck him while he was swimming. That was that.” My father sighs and shakes his head. “I hope he visited Wright before he went to Australia.”

  I want to tell him Stone did, but I don’t let on. “Why’s that?”

  “Syd was illiterate, remember? DI Goodman will know he had a short fuse and draw the wrong conclusions. Peter had class and imagination.”

  “Could they have killed Jonathan Wright without your knowledge?”

  He shakes his head. “No way.”

  Georgina walks in with a tray of sandwiches, cut into small triangles. I can see cheese, ham and what looks like cold turkey, smothered with lettuce and tomatoes between slices of granary bread. On a separate plate, a mound of crisps looks ready to tumble to the floor.

  “Is something wrong, darling?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” he says. “Those look good enough to eat.”

  If it’s a joke, it falls as flat at his effort to reassure her. Though he tries to keep the conversation upbeat as we devour the sandwiches, there’s a hollow ring to his words and manner, which I’m sure she notices.

  When his phone rings, he rises to his feet and steps outside through the French doors. He says little, nodding and sighing, his shoulders stiff and tense. When he ends the call, he turns to face us, looking pale and shaken.

  “There’s a record of Peter and Syd visiting Freya Wright. Is she the wife?”

  I nod.

  “We have a bank receipt to say she settled the debt in full a few months later.” His grip on the phone tightens. “Only there’s no record of Jonathan Wright being a member. There’s nothing at all about him on the database, though we’ve had to tidy it up to comply with new rules. Linda remembers the guy because he was shagging Gill Kaine, who worked in accounts. She left without handing in her notice. When we tried to contact her, she’d given a false name and address. Her records have gone too.”

  He sits beside Georgina on the sofa and sighs. “I’m screwed.”

  “Nonsense,” she says, glancing at me for support. “Find out who deleted the records.”

  “That’s the problem. It appears I deleted them ten years ago.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Back at Meadow Farm, in fresh clothes, I settle on the bed to review what my father told me. I’ve never seen him so shaken or uncertain. It looks like the killer’s set him up with the help of someone who works for the casino – the fictitious Gill Kaine.

  That’s as far as I get. Freya soon jumps into my thoughts, distracting me, making me doubt my resolve, urging me to ring her and to hell with the consequences.

  “The timing’s wrong,” I tell Columbo, who’s now awake and staring at me. He shuffles up for some attention. “I wish I could stop thinking about her.”

  He barks as if it’s good to think about her.

  “It’s not good,” I say, ruffling his fur. “You know I’m useless once I let my emotions out of the box. Look what happened with Gemma. I made a complete mess of that.”

  He tilts his head from side to side as I talk, making me wonder if he understands, even though I know he can’t. These are the silly thoughts I have when my emotions get the better of me. Georgina taught me self-control, the art of pleasure without commitment, passion without pain.

  It still hurt when she dumped me though.

  My thoughts return to the Ace of Hearts. Though no expert on computers, I know from an internal case at Downland how you can use another person’s username and password to access their files and records. At the casino, the power to delete records rested with Miles Birchill, his Head of Admin, Linda, and the Head of Security, which used to be Peter Stone.

  “He could have deleted Jonathan Wright’s records before he left for Australia,” I tell Columbo, who’s eyes are slowly closing. “But w
hy do it six weeks before you leave and risk being discovered? Why not wait till the day before you go?”

  That leaves Gill Kaine, who works in accounts. She would be good with computers. She could also access personal data, allowing her to hack into the system and hijack Miles Birchill’s account.

  Could she have made adjustments to Jonathan’s account, reducing the amount he owed or removing it in full? If they were defrauding the casino, that would be grounds enough to kill them, wouldn’t it?

  “Except we only have one body,” I say, thinking aloud once more.

  Columbo opens one eye, decides there’s nothing of interest and closes it again.

  That leaves one other possibility. My father was adamant he hadn’t deleted the records relating to Jonathan Wright and Gill Kaine. My father claimed someone must have hacked into his account. Yet he and his heads of department purged and tidied up records at the end of each year.

  I shake my head, certain the deletions were no accident.

  What if my father’s playing a game of double bluff as Ashley believes?

  ***

  Ashley rings my office early on Monday morning, coming through the switchboard in preference to my mobile.

  “Did you enjoy your weekend?” she asks, combining smug with annoyed.

  “Exhausting,” I reply, just smug. “How was your weekend?”

  “Busy. You won’t believe what happened at the Boship Travelodge. Meet me there at midday.”

  She ends the call, leaving me to wonder what happened. I have no idea, but I’m sure it won’t be good.

  Before I can think about it, Kelly calls me into Danni’s office.

  “You look tired,” she says, as fresh and bubbly as usual. “Anything to do with a certain dog groomer?”

  She closes the door behind us and wafts her hand in front of her nose to disperse the cloying smell of lavender. “It’s supposed to repel flies and wasps,” she says, walking over to the window to open it. She remains there, looking down at the street below, her shoulders tense, her fingers toying with the cord that operates the vertical blinds.