Sea of Lies

by Rachel McLean

  She sat up. “What do you know about Bill?”

  “Just that he’s in the village hall. Jess locked him in there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why would Jess do that?”

  “Buys her time, I guess. Your dad’s mad at her.”

  “My dad’s mad at everyone.” She paused. “Sam, tell me about your family.”

  “What about them?”

  “Anything. The ordinary stuff. What irritates you about them. What you love about them.”

  He chuckled. “Zack’s a nightmare since he got together with Jess.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. While they were out looking for you.”

  “I thought she was with Clyde? Well, sort of.”

  “Nah. He fancies her, but she just laughs it off. Her and Zack are the real deal.”

  “Good for them.”

  “That’s alright for you to say. Try having a brother who’s going out with the steward.”

  She laughed. “You’re pleased for him though, right?”

  “Course.”

  She paused, listening to the sea beyond the headland. It was calm tonight, beating the drumroll of the waves. “What’s it like, having brothers and sisters?”

  “Difficult to say. I’ve never known any different. What’s it like being an only child?”

  “I’ve never known any different either. But sometimes I’d love a brother, to stand up to my dad. Or a sister, to share things with.”

  “Ain’t as easy as that. Most of the time, they hate you.”

  “Yeah.” She heard a door open and close somewhere. She stood up. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t hear it?’

  “Hear what?”

  “Someone’s around. They could be listening.”

  “We’re just chatting about our siblings.”

  “Sam, d’you think Zack might be able to talk Jess into letting us into the village hall?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I want to talk to Bill.”

  Sam’s voice dropped. “Why?”

  “I just need to ask him some questions is all. Can you help me?”

  “Alright,” said Sam. “But you won’t need to ask Jess.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Zack’s got a key.”

  She almost cheered. “Brilliant!”

  “He might not let us have it though.”

  “You can ask him though, can’t you. Please?’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  A woman sat alone at the table in the centre of the room, her loose skin and makeup-smudged eyes not flattered by the fluorescent light. She stood up as Martin entered.

  He took the proffered hand and shook it limply. She was a woman of around fifty, with a tight-fitting blue suit and grey roots showing under her yellow-blonde hair. She looked tired, and eager to be done with this meeting.

  “Evening, Mr…” she opened a file on the desk, stooping over it and placing a hand on her back. She looked up. “Mr Walker. My name’s Judith Ramsay. I’m your solicitor.”

  “I don’t have a solicitor.”

  “I’ve been appointed. Duty solicitor.” She sat down, muttering for my sins. Martin wondered if he was supposed to hear.

  She gestured at the seat opposite her. “Sit down.”

  Martin did as he was told. The seat was hard and cold but better than the bench in his cell.

  “So,” she said. She sat back, her eyes brightening. “It’s not often I get a murder.”

  He frowned at her. He wasn’t some sideshow, entertainment to brighten up her dull job. He shrugged. “They’ve got it wrong.”

  She huffed out a laugh. “If I had a pound for everyone who said that.”

  “I mean it. I don’t even know who Jacob Cripps and Zahir Ali are.”

  She coughed and opened her file again. She looked up at the policewoman, who was still standing behind Martin. “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

  Martin heard the door close behind him.

  “Maybe this will jog your memory,” Judith said. She pulled some photographs from her file and slid them in front of Martin.

  The first one depicted a young Asian man. He was lying on a rutted tarmac surface in a skewed position. His eyes were closed and his skin pale. His clothes were covered in blood.

  Martin felt his throat tighten. He pulled the other photo out from beneath the first. It depicted a white man, also young, with a shaved head. He was lying on his front, a pool of blood at his side.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. Was this what Robert’s men had done to those two boys?

  He hadn’t actually seen the boys, not properly. They’d jumped him from behind, and they were wearing hoodies. But this had to be them.

  His solicitor withdrew the photos and placed them back in the file. She took out a typed sheet and held it up to her face, squinting.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Don’t carry my glasses in the evenings. I was out for a curry with my husband.”

  She didn’t sound resentful of being dragged away from her night out; despite the bags under her eyes and the dullness of her skin, she sounded excited, intrigued.

  This was a game to her.

  “I know who they are,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. They attacked me. After the floods, when I was heading north. They beat me up and took my stuff.”

  “When exactly was this?”

  “I can’t be sure exactly. But it was February. March maybe.”

  “That tallies. What sort of stuff?”

  He shrugged. “A rucksack. Food, and a tent I’d managed to—” he licked his lips. “I’d managed to steal. From a camping shop. Abandoned.”

  He twisted his hands in his lap. He was being accused of murder, but still wanted to account for stealing a tent from an abandoned store.

  “They beat you up?”

  “Yes. Left me for dead.”

  “So how did you do this?”

  “I didn’t.”

  She leaned back so far he thought her chair would tip. Her forehead caught the light as she did so, reflecting yellow off her skin. “The police think you did. They have your fingerprints on a knife that was found next to them.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Mmm.”

  “But it was six years ago.”

  “Seems like they had it on file. But it’s only now that they’ve caught up with you.”

  He nodded. Ruth would have given them his name.

  “Is there a Ruth Dyer being held here?”

  Her eyes darted up from the pad she’d been writing on. “Who?”

  “Ruth Dyer. She’s from the refugee village just south of here.”

  “I’ve got no idea. Why?”

  “She’s been arrested for killing the man who did this.”

  “Sorry?”

  Martin sniffed. “His name’s – was – Robert Cope. He was the leader of a group of men I was part of. They took me in after those kids attacked me. They retaliated.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Ruth Dyer?”

  “They abducted her, and some other women. A few days ago. Ruth was arrested for killing him.”

  “Whoah. You’ve been busy up here.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Look, Martin, I’m not sure about your story or about this Robert Cope, but the police have got a pretty good case against you. How did your fingerprints get on that knife?”

  “It was my knife.”

  “Your knife?”

  “Yes. I took it with me when I left home. I used a boat, an inflatable dinghy. I lived with my parents in Norfolk. It was pretty bad there.”

  “But you’re telling me that someone else used it to kill the men. Despite it being yours.”

  “It might have the killer’s prints on it too.”

  “Robert Cope’s.”

  “No.”

  She lifted
her head to the ceiling, stretching her neck. She sighed. “You’re making no sense, Martin. It’s late. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Robert found me, unconscious. After they’d beaten me. He and his men had captured the boys that did it. Then they killed them, and asked me to join their group.”

  “They killed them. Exactly who did it?”

  He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He’d been woozy, delirious. It had happened out of his sight. He could remember their screams, though. “One of Robert’s men. Maybe two. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That won’t be good enough. Not in court.”

  “But—”

  She stood up. “Look, Martin. It’s late, and my husband’s waiting for me. You say it was this Robert bloke, or his cronies, that killed the boys. But you don’t know which one and you’ve got no evidence. And there’s the prints.”

  Martin swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “I’ll talk to the CPS. But I doubt that it’ll wash. Your best bet will be to plead guilty. Then I can get you a lower sentence.”

  She offered her hand again. Martin took it, his chest sinking. He’d planned on taking responsibility for Robert’s death. At least that was something he’d done. But this… this was the last thing he’d expected.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Dawn stared at Ted as the door closed behind their daughter, feeling her stomach flutter. She’d never commanded him before, never told him what to do.

  It felt good, and dreadful at the same time.

  She clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip, waiting for him to start shouting. She wasn’t sure which transgression he’d be most angry about; the police or the defiance.

  “Stop that,” he snapped.

  “Sorry?”

  “Biting your lip like that. It’s ugly. Makes your lips swollen.”

  She released her lip and held her mouth as still as she could. It felt sore.

  She stood by the door, watching him. He stared back at her, his nostrils flaring. She looked towards the kitchen. Could she put the table between them? Would that help?

  He strode towards her. She shrank back but he didn’t touch her. Instead he yanked his coat from the hook, sending Sarah’s tumbling to the floor. She frowned; Sarah would be cold out there.

  “I’m going to find Bill,” he said.

  “You’re doing what?”

  He pushed his face into hers. “You heard me. He’s leaving. Tonight. I don’t care what it takes.”

  “That might not be such a good idea.”

  “I’m sorry?” His tone was sarcastic.

  “Maybe he knows something. About Robert Cope’s death. About them taking Sarah. About what Martin really did. If he leaves here, you’ll never know.”

  He pushed a hard breath out through gritted teeth. “Don’t you get it, woman?”

  She shrank back, waiting for him to raise his hand.

  “I don’t care what he really did,” he breathed into her face. “It’s irrelevant. He took our daughter. He raped her.”

  Dawn opened her eyes. “She told you that?”

  “It’s what men like him do.”

  “How would you know?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you remember how I protected you on the road? Kept you and her safe? Those men, the ones who pretended to be her friends. The ones you so enjoyed sharing food with. I caught them slashing her tent with a knife. Grabbing her skirt. I stopped them.”

  “They were going to rape her?”

  “Yes, they were going to rape her. But they didn’t.”

  She felt hollow. How old had Sarah been then: twelve, thirteen?

  She shivered. It was too much.

  “Did you kill them?” she asked.

  “Worse.”

  “What’s worse than that?”

  He grinned. “I sliced their dicks off with their own knife.”

  She felt faint. “Oh, sweet Jesus.” She crossed herself.

  “Yes. I imagine he was watching.”

  She slapped him. “Don’t talk about the Lord like that!” She pulled back, horrified. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  He rubbed his chin, where she had caught him. The slap had been a clumsy one, and only glanced off him. He looked pleased about it, vindicated.

  “See?” he said. “We’re all the same. Violent animals, when we need to be. Me, you. Martin. He’ll have raped her, I’m sure of it. And if I can find him, I’ll kill him.”

  “She’d have told me if—”

  “You think that, do you? Had a lot of heart-to-hearts with her lately?”

  “No.”

  “She hates you just as much as she hates me. Trying to force Sam on her. Ridiculous.”

  “He’s what she needs.”

  He pulled back. “What she needs is her family! What she needs is her mother to stop meddling where she doesn’t belong!”

  She said nothing, but stared at him, feeling numb. She shouldn’t have sent Sarah out there, without her mother to protect her.

  “Did you hit her again?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  He stared at her. He blinked. “Stop snivelling,” Ted snapped. “I’m going to sort this once and for all.”

  “Ted, please—”

  “Don’t beg, woman. It’s disgusting. You stay here. Send her to her room when she gets back. I’m going to break in the village hall and give that Bill bloke what for.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Sarah wasn’t used to being out at night. The shadows shifted every time the clouds moved, and it was as if there were living things here, things that only appeared once the human beings were safely in bed.

  “What’s that?” she whispered, grabbing Sam’s arm.

  “Ow. Just a fox or something. We’re not the only things that call this home, you know.”

  She nodded as if to signal that she was reassured, but kept hold of his arm anyway.

  They reached Sam’s home. It was a squat semi-detached house, on the corner of the Parade. He turned to her.

  “You wait out here. I’ll get the keys.”

  She felt her eyes widen. “No. I’m coming with you.”

  “I can sneak in and get them. If you’re with me, they’ll want to know why.”

  “Can’t I hide somewhere, in the house?”

  “Stay here. I promise I’ll be quick.”

  She clenched her teeth and pulled her arms around her. It was freezing out here, the kind of damp cold that permeated the skin. She wished she’d taken a coat.

  He threw her an encouraging smile then eased the front door open with the assurance of someone who regularly let himself in unnoticed. She wondered what hours he worked, and whether everyone would be asleep when he came home from the gangs with his brother.

  She approached the house to watch him but the curtains were drawn. Instead she shifted from foot to foot, blowing on her hands as quietly as she could.

  When he re-emerged, he was patting his pocket.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I was only gone a minute. You OK?”

  “I’m fine. Come on then.”

  They made their way towards the village hall, keeping to the shadow of the buildings along the Parade. When they reached the open space that had once been a traffic island, they darted across, hunched low.

  The dark was like a blanket, a thick layer surrounding them and smothering the village in quiet. She heard scurrying in the bushes next to the road and stiffened, then forced herself to relax. Probably mice. Her cat Snowy had caught enough of them.

  At the village hall, they hunched against the door, peering through the glass. It was black inside, no way of telling if Bill was in there. If he could see them, he wasn’t showing it.

  “Should we knock first?” asked Sam.

  “Best to, I think.”

  She tapped gently on the door. There were noises from within, the sound of someone moving aroun
d. Bill’s face appeared at the window, soft with sleep.

  “What do you want?”

  “Sorry,” said Sarah. “Can we come in?”

  “They locked me in.”

  “We’ve got a key.”

  “Then I haven’t got much choice, have I?”

  Sarah stifled an urge to apologise. She stood to one side as Sam unlocked the door and replaced the key in his inside pocket. She wondered how long it would be before Zack found it missing, and how much trouble Sam would be in.

  They slipped inside and pulled the door closed. It was black in here, the only light the faint glow coming in at the front window. This had been a restaurant once, or a coffee shop, Sarah wasn’t sure. Tables and chairs were piled in the corner; no longer used for serving coffee, they were put into service at village meetings.

  “You got home OK then,” Bill whispered.

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Did they punish you?”

  She didn’t want to talk about it. “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “I got the boat working. Thought I should bring it back.”

  “It would have been useful to you.”

  “I know that. But I felt bad, alright?” He coughed. “Wishing I hadn’t bothered now.”

  “Why didn’t you just dump it on the beach?”

  “Because I’ve got no way of getting back to the farm now. Other than walking forty-odd miles. And I thought maybe I could live here.”

  “Here?”

  “Fat chance, pal,” said Sam. “After everything you’ve done.”

  “I know.” Bill looked at Sarah. “But things have changed now, with Robert dead.”

  Sarah turned to Sam. “Bill helped me. Us. He helped me get the boat working, so I could come home.”

  “But you came back on a bike, your mum told me.”

  “Long story.”

  She turned to Bill. “I need your help again. I want to know why Martin was arrested.”

  Bill dragged a hand through his stubble. “I thought you knew.”

  “Yes. But who are Jacob Cripps and Zahir Ali?”

  A shadow drifted across the back wall of the hall. They all shuffled to one side, afraid of being illuminated.

  “What the—?” exclaimed Sam. A car passed outside, its headlights by far the brightest thing in the village.

  “It’s the police,” Sarah said. She felt her heart quicken. “It has to be.”