Sea of Lies

by Rachel McLean

  “Do you want me to go?” asked Sam.

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  She reached forward and grabbed the rear wheel of the bike, which was closest to her. Gently, she pulled it towards her. She inched it to her slowly, until the handlebars were in her grasp.

  There was no sign of her being spotted, no sign of the window being opened.

  She turned to Sam. “Wish me luck.”

  He grinned. “Good luck. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Thanks.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. He smelt of bread mixed with lavender and damp wood. “I appreciate your help.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what friends are for.”

  She gave him a shrug in return, not meeting his eye.

  She pulled the bike onto the path next to the house and swung herself into the saddle. The map was still where she’d left it in the bag tucked underneath.

  “Can you pass me the map in the saddle bag?”

  He rooted in the bag and brought out the map. Filey was only a couple of miles away; she’d do this in no time.

  “Thanks.” She folded the map and gave it to him to put back in its place.

  She gave him a final smile and pushed off, clearing the front of the house. She glanced to her side to check if her mother had re-emerged; she hadn’t. She let herself breathe again, aware that she had to focus on the bike now. She might be stopped on her way to the main road, challenged.

  She considered. There was a field to the side of the village, leading to an old pathway. It snaked to the main road. It went in the wrong direction, but it would be safer than the public route of the Parade.

  She turned into the side road leading to the beach, then pulled the bike onto the grass. It was a mountain bike so it coped with limited jolting and clattering.

  She couldn’t go fast; she had no experience with this sort of terrain. She’d had a bike back at home – at what had been home, once – but that had only been used on the road. Still, this couldn’t be too hard.

  “Sarah!”

  She slammed on the brakes and scraped to a halt, almost skidding sideways. She turned to see her mother behind her, at the edge of the field.

  “What are you doing?”

  She stared back at Dawn. What could she tell her? What would she believe?

  “Come back!”

  She gritted her teeth. There wasn’t time.

  “Sorry, Mum!” she called. She turned the bike away and pushed off.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  “What the hell was that about?” Judith stormed into the interview room, shoving the policeman out of her way. He frowned after her and closed the door, leaving them alone.

  Martin stood up, kneading his fists on the table. “I met Robert and the others on the eighteenth of February. I know that because I was in a supermarket two days before, and the—”

  “A supermarket?” She threw herself into the chair opposite him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He sat down, trying to calm himself. “Look. They say I killed those men on the first of March. But it was February when it happened.”

  “You told me the dates tallied.”

  “I hadn’t thought it through.” He ran through their first meeting in his mind. “And you didn’t tell me the exact date, anyway.”

  “They still have your prints on the knife.”

  “I know. I can’t explain that. But I’m telling the truth. If Cripps and Ali died in March, then they weren’t the boys I was thinking of. I have no idea who they were.”

  “We just have your word for it.”

  “Wait.” He stood up again, legs banging into the table. “Robert said something about losing two of their men. Kicking them out. I heard talk of it being rough. Maybe they killed them?”

  “Was this in March?”

  He slumped into the chair. “February. The day after I met them.”

  “So it doesn’t help us.”

  “No.”

  “Alright. I’ll talk to the CPS. We’ll need to get your court appearance put back. But you didn’t exactly do yourself any favours in there.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise to me. It’s not me who’s looking at a jail sentence.”

  The door opened and Martin looked up. Judith turned in her chair. “Please, just a few more minutes. I have the right to meet my client in—”

  Standing in the doorway was the detective who’d arrested Martin. Detective Sergeant Bryce. There were two uniformed officers behind him. No sign of his colleague.

  “I said—” Judith began.

  DS Bryce put a hand up. “That will have to wait. This concerns another case.”

  “Well, in that case you need to talk to me first.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Judith stood up. DS Bryce approached Martin. He gave him a wary look.

  Martin looked back at him, his legs shaking. Had they found out who’d really killed those men?

  “DS Bryce cleared his throat. “Martin Walker, I’m arresting you for the murder of Robert Cope.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Dawn watched Sarah recede into the distance, wishing she was young enough and fit enough to chase her. Sarah hated her now; she’d tried to imprison her in her room and prevent her from talking to Bill.

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she should let the girl find out the truth for herself.

  She turned to see Sam running towards her.

  “Sam! What’s going on?”

  Sam stopped running. “Hello, Mrs Evans.”

  “Don’t hello me, Samuel. Did you and Sarah take that bicycle?”

  His face was blank. “No.”

  She approached him. “Then how come I just saw her riding it across the Meadows?”

  He paled. “I don’t know, Mrs Evans.”

  She resisted an urge to cuff him. “Don’t lie to me.”

  He plunged his hands into the pockets of his fleece. It was grey, a rip in the shoulder. “She went to talk to the police.”

  “She did what?”

  “She wanted to tell them the truth.”

  “What truth?” She stepped towards him. He clearly wanted to back away but was too polite, or scared, to do so. “What truth, Sam?”

  “It wasn’t Martin who killed those boys. It was someone else.”

  “Someone else.” She felt her chest stiffen.

  A nod.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Exactly which someone else?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “One of Bill’s men. Robert’s men.”

  “Who told you this? No. Don’t tell me. It was Bill.”

  He didn’t argue.

  “Why would she believe him?” Dawn asked. “Why would she believe any of them?”

  “For what it’s worth, Mrs Evans, I believed him too.”

  She felt her shoulders slump. “Why, Sam? Why would you, of all people?”

  “Because she deserves to know the truth. She deserves to be happy.”

  “You can make her happy.”

  He licked his lips. “I don’t think I can.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. It was solid, damp. “You underestimate yourself.”

  He shrugged.

  He was looking over her shoulder. He stiffened, his face registering surprise.

  She turned. There was someone in the field, running in the direction Sarah had gone.

  “Stop him,” she told Sam.

  Sam nodded then started running. The man wasn’t expecting him so he caught up quickly. There were raised voices and waving arms, then the two men walked back to her.

  “Bill Peterson,” she said.

  “Afternoon.”

  “My husband’s got a lynch mob out after you.”

  His eyes widened. His face was heavily lined and he had a scar that snaked up from his wrist, disappearing under his heavy coat. He looked as if he’d seen pain, and loss. And death.

  “You killed those boys,”
she said. “Didn’t you?”

  “No. But I know who did.”

  “I told him to leave,” said Sam.

  Dawn looked between them. “Why?”

  Sam frowned. “We don’t want killers here.”

  “He can help Sarah.”

  Sam made an involuntary noise. Dawn twisted her face at Bill.

  “My daughter needs you.”

  “It wasn’t me that killed them. It was two of the lads.”

  “Why?”

  She felt herself shrink inside as Bill told her what had happened when they first came upon Martin. Such horror. She wanted to run home, to lock the doors and wait it out. That was what Ted would tell her to do.

  If Ted found her out here, meddling, there would be consequences.

  “You have to help her,” she said. “She’s gone off to the police, determined to protest Martin’s innocence.”

  “What about Robert Cope? He killed him,” said Bill.

  “What kind of man was Robert Cope?”

  “I think you know that.”

  “Not all of it.”

  “He had something deep in him, like a kernel of blackness. He enjoyed watching people suffer.” A pause. “Including Ruth.”

  Dawn blinked back her horror. Her little girl had been caught in the crossfire.

  “It sounds to me like Robert Cope was a man who deserved to die,” she said.

  “Possibly,” said Bill.

  “In which case Martin needs your help too.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Sarah passed a derelict supermarket as she rode into Filey. The petrol station forecourt next to it was overgrown and strewn with litter. The car park was crumbling into the ground.

  She remembered these places; vast spaces full of food, household objects and a million things no one really needed. Pot pourri. Luxury chocolates. Dog food in little silver pouches. Such a waste.

  She sped past it on her bike, trying to ignore the stench. It seemed that the local dogs used the place as a toilet; she could see a few of them now, chasing each other across the pitted tarmac.

  She reached the edge of the town and slowed. This felt alien to her. Streets lined with houses, most of which looked occupied. Would the inhabitants know who she was, where she had come from? Would they run out of their front doors and chase her away? She’d heard her parents talking about the times the locals had invaded the village. Most recently it was just two teenagers scaring some of their kids and waving a misspelled banner. But four years ago it had been genuinely scary, villagers locking themselves up at night and the council sending guards out to patrol the edge of the village.

  She hunched low on the bike, trying to be inconspicuous. She reached a traffic island and screeched to a halt. There was a sign, arrows pointing to the beach, the town centre, to Scarborough. But it had been torn from its moorings and lay on its side in the long grass at the centre of the roundabout.

  She looked behind her, trying to gauge how many bends she’d turned. She was pretty sure the sea was to her right and slightly ahead. The road in that direction was wider than the others, with the houses set further back.

  A car approached from behind and she pulled the bike off the road and behind a wall. The car crept past, its engine straining. It took the turning to the right. When it was out of sight she followed it.

  The road sloped downwards now, giving her encouragement. She freewheeled along, enjoying the feel of the wind on her face. She’d been cold when she set off – bitterly cold, so cold she thought her bare hands might disintegrate – but the exertion had warmed her up. Her chest felt full and light at the same time. She was going to find Martin. She was going to get him released. What happened after that – she’d deal with that when the time came.

  She reached another junction, traffic lights stopping her in her tracks. There was a sign to the civic centre, straight ahead. Maybe the police station would be there. She waited for the lights to change, despite there being no traffic other than herself on the road – it seemed her community wasn’t the only one without access to fuel. When the light turned green, she pushed off, taking it slow so she could scan the buildings either side.

  She came to a row of shops. Half of them were boarded up or in darkness. Half of what was left looked like they’d been closed for the day. Only a small few had dim lights on; a grocer’s, a chip shop. The sea was approaching, in front of her down a steep hill. Maybe she’d gone too far.

  She screeched to a halt as she came to the civic centre, almost losing the bike on the dip. In front of her was a vast beach, wider and shallower than the one at the village. She wanted to freewheel down the hill and explore, to see what such an expanse of unspoilt sand looked like.

  But she had things to do. The sign for the civic centre also said Police. She leaned the bike against a wall. Thinking better of it, she pushed it towards the building and left it in front of a CCTV camera, making eye contact with the camera before leaving it. She had no idea if it would be working.

  She pulled in a deep breath. Her chest felt tight and her stomach loose. She scanned the windows; was Martin behind one of them, or would he be deep inside, with no access to light? What rooms were lit looked more like offices than cells. And they wouldn’t give prisoners a view of the street.

  She dug her fingernails into her palm, ignoring the fact that they were ice-cold. She pushed the door open and went inside, trying to look as confident as she could.

  She was in a generous hallway, with a potted plant in the corner and a few pictures of Filey on the walls. A woman sat at a long desk. She wore a green jumper and a pearl necklace that looked cheap. No uniform.

  “Can I help you?” The woman smiled at her. She looked as if she rarely if ever saw people walk in here off the street.

  “Yes.”

  Oh God. She should have prepared for this. She should have planned what she was going to say. She didn’t even know what they were holding Martin for now, and if he’d been charged. Should she have sought Ruth out, asked her about her own experience here? Or would that be too cruel?

  “OK. How can I help you?” the woman asked. Her smile was dropping.

  Sarah put a hand on the desk. It was trembling. “You’ve got someone I know here. His name’s Martin Walker.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not able to talk to you about who we may or may not have in custody.”

  Custody. It sounded nurturing and safe. It wasn’t.

  The woman squinted at Sarah. She had blonde hair that fell stiffly to her shoulders, like it hadn’t been washed in a while.

  “Sorry,” Sarah said. “I’ve got evidence. About Robert Cope’s death. And the others too, Zahir Ali and Jacob Cripps. I know Martin didn’t do it.”

  “And you are—”

  “I’m not his girlfriend.”

  “I just need your name.”

  “Oh.” Damn. Now they thought she was his girlfriend, and would expect her to lie for him. “My name’s Sarah Evans.”

  The woman opened a pad. “Sarah Evans. Can you give me your address please?”

  “Six Turnberry Drive.”

  The woman glanced up at her, surprised. It was rare people from their village came to Filey, let alone to the police station.

  “I was there,” Sarah continued. “When Robert Cope died. And I know who killed Zahir Ali and Jacob Cripps.”

  The women nodded. “You’ll need to talk to someone from CID.”

  “Can I see them now, please?”

  “Hold your horses. Wait there, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  There was a row of threadbare chairs behind Sarah. She turned and took the centre one, still unsure exactly what she could tell them.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  “Sarah Evans?”

  She stood up, smoothing her skirt. A man had emerged from a door to the back of the lobby. He was tall with dark hair that curled round his ears and a faded scar that ran up to his ear. He carried himself like someone who was used to stooping to get th
rough doors. She recognised him from the farm, but he would never have seen her before.

  “That’s me.”

  She looked out to where her bike was still leaning against a thick hedge. The sun had come out and was illuminating it: steal me. She wondered who its real owner was. Would the police be able to tell?

  “Come with me, please.”

  He led her through a blue door next to the one he’d come through. A woman came with him, the one who’d been with him at the farm. Sarah flashed her a greeting but the woman only frowned in return.

  The man motioned towards a chair, one of four around a bare wooden table. On it was a tape recorder and in the corner of the room, high up, was a camera. She tried not to stare at it, wondering if Martin had been brought here. If he’d sat in here with a lawyer, or if he hadn’t been given one.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant Bryce, and this is Detective Constable Paretska. Please take a seat.”

  She did as she was told. The chair was cold and hard and it hurt her back. Her bum was sore from the cycling.

  The two detectives sat opposite her. DS Bryce put his hands on the table and clasped them together.

  “I gather you’re here in relation to two murder cases we’ve been working on.”

  She swallowed the bile in her throat. “I was there when Robert Cope was murdered.”

  He frowned. “I was told you were too ill to talk to us.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your father is Ted Evans?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded but didn’t answer the question.

  “And what’s your connection to the other case?”

  “Jacob Cripps and Zahir Ali. I know who killed them.”

  He leaned back in his chair. He had a mole under his right eye, the other side from the scar. It throbbed ever so slightly. “Were you a witness to that as well?”

  “No. But I know who did it.”

  “Go on then.”

  “It was two men. Their names were Leroy and Mike.”

  “Leroy and Mike?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything more specific?”