Home for Truths: The stand-out domestic suspense thriller for 2020

by Alan Agnew

  I think back to how coy she was when we spoke, and suggesting a meeting face to face, outside of the children’s home. I am meeting her tomorrow, but this cannot wait. I call Camwell lodge and ask to speak with Marie urgently. My heart sinks when the lady on the phone tells me she has left for the day and she is off tomorrow. I have to think fast.

  ‘Can you give me her home number? I know she is off tomorrow; I am meeting her for coffee, but now I can’t make it, and I do not have her number to let her know.’

  ‘I will pass the message on that you wish to cancel your meeting.’

  ‘No, wait. Can you please just contact her and tell her to call me urgently, and if for any reason you can’t speak to her, I will meet her as planned tomorrow, it is important that I do.’

  ‘So you can now meet her tomorrow.’

  The lady on the phone sounds confused, I think she got the message, I just hope I have not scared Marie off meeting me, though I could not fault her, I did seem very desperate.

  I redial Donald’s number, straight to voicemail. I have to think of Donald as an ally now, someone who can unlock the truth. Stay in control. But this is purely based on his denial, his denial while lying at my feet in his house. He was desperate. As quick as my faith rises, doubts set in as I think back to the contents of his suitcase. If he can hide his sexuality and lifestyle for so long, he can lie to my face, especially as I was in his home having just set fire to his shed. He would have been terrified.

  I bury my head in my hands, regret for being so naïve. If I cannot ask him again directly, I can ask someone who knows him well. I feel myself getting desperate, throwing caution to the wind, I google DI Peter Mayne and pump my fist to find him listed here in Baysworth. I need to speak with him, and it needs to be face to face so I can look him in the eye and find the truth about the police investigation into the school. I put on a smart shirt to increase the chances of him opening the door to a stranger and jump in the car.

  When I researched DI Mayne before there were pictures of him and attributing quotes on various investigations around the school abuse scandal, I thought he looked quite old back then. I pray he is still alive and of a sound mind.

  I pull up at a big detached house directly opposite the Wagon & Horses pub on the outskirts of Baysworth. It is a small neighbourhood with a well-kept green, permanent bunting on the village hall, duck pond, and posters advertising a dog show. It is a picture-perfect English hamlet, full of retired city folk and those on a generous police pension.

  The doorbell chimes only once, the sound of a gong. A man my age, but bigger build and smartly dressed opens the door and greets me with apprehension.

  ‘Hi, I am sorry to disturb you, I am looking to speak with Peter Mayne, and this was the address listed,’ I say keeping eye contact.

  ‘That’s me.’

  It is not worth calling his bluff or playing games, so I am direct, ‘I think Peter is a little older, a retired DI at Baysworth?’

  ‘Oh sorry, Peter is my father, Peter Mayne Senior, I am his son. My father resides at the retirement home in Tolworth, about ten miles away. What do you want with him?’

  I freeze for a second, wrapping my brain for a feasible explanation of why a stranger might want to talk to a retired Policeman. I can think of only one thing we have in common.

  ‘We have a mutual acquaintance, Donald Lloyd. I am his neighbour and just wanted to let Peter know about an incident last night, which resulted in Donald being taken to hospital. I am letting all of his Mason brothers know.’

  ‘Ah a fellow Mason. Well rather than call door to door, you should pop in at the Lodge tonight, Monday night is club night or whatever they call it, chances are my dad will be there if his hip is not playing up again.’

  ‘Yes, great thank you. I couldn’t get a response from the Lodge earlier so thought I would call round Donald’s old address book.’

  Back in my car, the relief of him being alive floods me, but I’m terrified of the realisation that if I want answers, I need to visit the Masonic Lodge.

  The Masonic Lodge is an intimidating property in the centre of town but tucked away from the high street and surrounded by a brick wall perimeter. It has a classical façade and slate roof reflecting the adjacent streetlights. Five windows stare down at me, asymmetrically positioned, three on the left and two on the right of a big black door. A sixth, tall, round-headed window sits directly above the door, separated by the black masonic symbol of a square and compasses standing out against the white roughcast walls.

  As I approach the door, I read a small royal blue plaque notifying that here once stood the Baysworth Theatre, constructed in 1887. I press the button, and the door opens immediately. An older gentleman stands before me, cropped white hair, glasses and clean-shaven. He is formally dressed, black suit, black tie, crisp white shirt, polished black shoes and wearing a small pin on his jacket, royal blue and gold colour. A sash of colour from his apron, fastened around his abdomen, sporting the same royal blue and gold velvet with the edges trimmed to give a circular line, with brass buttons scattered to look like stars against a night sky. His eyes scan my unease, and his raised eyebrows give way to wrinkles reaching to his hairline.

  ‘Good evening, I was hoping to speak with one of your colleagues, Peter Mayne. I have just spoken with his son, who suggested I can find him here, it is rather urgent.’ I say with false confidence, and purposely vague.

  ‘Of course, please come in, we have finished our formalities for the evening and are enjoying tea and cake.’

  The gentleman shows me into a narrow room that runs the length of the building with old wooden tables and chairs are laid out. A swarm of men are filtering out of the double doors connecting the main hall. They are of the same profile with an identical uniform to the gentleman that greeted me who is now accompanying me to a table in the darkened corner. He stops short and addresses the table, ‘Peter, this gentleman was looking to talk with you.’

  I appear from behind my host and hold out my hand to a much older man in a wheelchair with thinning hair, his wrinkles and folds in his skin so pronounced I do not recognise him from the pictures of years ago. I hold his hand rather than shake it, his rough skin so cold and bony.

  ‘I don’t have too many visitors, do I know you?’

  ‘We have not met before, but we have a mutual acquaintance, Donald Lloyd, and I was hoping you could help me with something important.’

  He innocently smiles and gives a nod of acceptance to my host who turns to leave. ‘I will certainly try young man, but I have not been able to help anyone in twenty years.’

  ‘I used to live in Baysworth but left when I was 14 to live with my mum, while my dad remained here until his passing last month. I was going through his paperwork when I found some old newspaper headlines about the local school facing a police investigation for sexual abuse by teachers.’ Peter screws up his face, in deep thought rather than rejection. ‘It was just over thirty years ago, you were the Detective Inspector on the case,’ I offer, trying to help him pinpoint the time in his career. I pause again, not wanting to give too much away about my motivations for fear of distorting his response.

  ‘I do remember, and I remember our friend Donald being at the centre of it all,’ Peter replied.

  My heart races and I curse myself for being so gullible. I slowly sit down next to Peter, bracing myself for what I want to hear, leaning forward.

  ‘Can you tell me about his involvement?’

  Peter scratches the back of his neck hard. All his focus suddenly on his itch. ‘Peter, what was his involvement?’

  ‘Well nothing really, some crank caller getting the press all hysterical about sexual abuse at Baysworth secondary school. We charged him for wasting Police time you know,’ Peter said in a very matter of fact way.

  ‘But you said Donald was at the centre of it?’ I ask again, hoping for some more colour.

  ‘Oh yes Donald, well the crank had a personal vendetta against Donald and made the ser
ious allegations about him. Next day the crank confessed everything, said he was too drunk to think straight at the time but sobered up and confessed to making it all up.’

  ‘Are you sure there was nothing else to it, I do know it was a long time ago.’ I probe again, speaking slower, trying to draw him out.

  Peter smiles back, ‘Oh quite sure, I remember because they ordered me to cut my holiday short, I was in the South of France and was told about that a big serious investigation that was to start, no further details, no mention of the school. Barbara and I packed up the car and drove ten hours home thinking what it could be, a tinge of excitement if I am honest, only for everything to be sorted by the time we set foot back in Blighty.’

  My shoulders drop, and I think back to the newspaper article wanting to test the credentials of his non-story. ‘But, I thought you were the investigating officer?’

  ‘Me? Oh no, I was on leave, as I said, I did not even know about the case until it was all over. In those days they always referenced the DI as leading the case when in reality it would have been a couple of Police Constables doing the donkey work.’

  I feel like I owe him an explanation for my interest. ‘Thank you, Mr Mayne, I read the paper and put two and two together, you see my brother was a pupil at the school and knew Donald Lloyd, we were his neighbours.’

  Peter winces, ‘Neighbour eh,’ calculating something in his head, how to articulate something, it was his turn for a deep breath. ‘It was the neighbour who was arrested for the crank call. Meaning it was your father that made these allegations, all because of some personal vendetta. He was very apologetic afterwards, but he caused a big commotion at the time I can tell you.’

  I give a nod of understanding, signalling no further questions, the shame is written all over my face, the disappointment already eating me inside. Peter gives me a sympathetic look, searching for something to say as I stand to leave. ‘I do hope Donald is OK, heard he had a fall after tackling a fire at his house, the poor bugger is in hospital.’

  I bow my head and thank Peter for his time, walking away weaving through the gathering of grey hair, taking nothing else in as I leave and return to my car.

  Donald’s house is lit up with his usual array of lamps, but I know they are timed only for show. I stand by my kettle watching it boil, playing back the conversation at the Lodge. I think about the vendetta my dad had and what could have driven it.

  I need a distraction and check my emails. I notice amongst the Bitcoin opportunities, cash jackpots and B&Q reward points update, I have two emails from ACRO Criminal Records Office. I open up the first which starts with’ Dear Mr Lloyd’, it goes on to thank me for my inquiry and that I do not have any records stored on the Police National Computer or any convictions or formal cautions against my name. I open the second addressed to my dad. Typed out in big font are details of two formal cautions against his name reading; 11th December 1990 Caution against Mr Jenkins, 6 Hatch End, Baysworth. Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986 for ‘using threatening (or abusive) words or behaviour.’ The second entry reads 24th July 1989 against Mr Jenkins, 6 Hatch End, Baysworth. Section 5 of the Criminal Law Act for ‘causing wasteful employment of the police by knowingly making to any person a false report showing that a criminal offence has been committed.’

  Two offences, serious in their own right, but it was still some relief to know it was nothing more serious, and not linked to the photographs that I found earlier.

  I check my Facebook and read a message from Vicky saying how nice it was to meet up on Sunday and hoping I get some clarity or closure soon about Jimmy. Appreciating bell ringing might not be my thing, she also invites me to dinner on Thursday night. My smile quickly fades and my eyes drawn to a post from Caroline telling her thousands of friends that she is feeling shaken with an accompanying emoji. The bus she was travelling home from work crashed into a taxi and everybody was thrown to the ground. She only posted an hour ago but already has 89 likes and 34 comments. I start to write something but then delete it, we are still legally married, and I can do better than sending an emoji. I dial her number.

  She answers on the first ring. ‘Hey Caroline, just checking you were ok after the accident?’

  ‘OMG, what are you stalking me now? You joined Facebook to stalk me,’ she said, only half-joking.

  ‘I’ve always been on Facebook, remember I poked you when I first signed up, and just recently I have been using it again to track down Jimmy’s old school mates, but seriously are you OK?’

  There is silence, her attention elsewhere, but then suddenly tunes back in, ‘Oh yeah, fine thanks. It was nothing really, so how is it going playing Colombo down there?’

  I used to love this about Caroline; she would lighten even the most serious of conversation, not in a condescending way but in a personal way, knowing my love of Colombo and my anxiety. I tell her everything about last night at Donald’s and the shame I felt, I tell her about finding the photographs of my dad with some young children, needing her sympathy, wanting her attention.

  ‘I cannot imagine what you are thinking right now Phil, but I can imagine how you will react, please remember you can respond without reacting.’ I know what she means as I have heard it from her before. I want to please her, so I tell her about tracking down and talking to DI Peter Mayne to get the truth and seeking help, although that was a minimal fabrication, the assistance was not required.

  ‘Ok good, good to at least speak to the police even if it was a policeman who retired 15 years ago. We chat for a few more minutes about the case, and I say goodbye. I can hear the hesitation creeping into her voice and then her deep breath.

  ‘Look, Phil, there is no good time ever to have this chat but, the thing is, Harry and I are moving to the States, and I wanted you to know before reading something on Facebook.’ Caroline pauses with an audible sigh of relief, waiting for me to respond. Too shocked to form any words I merely mutter the same goodbye as before and end the call.

  Chapter Twenty-Three – 14 days after

  I am OK with it. She’s moved on. Moved on pretty fucking quick and now moving on to the other side of the world, but I am OK with it. I had some wobbles last night after our call, and between the first and second bottle of wine I wrote some text messages I now regret, and I unfriended her then requested her friendship again on Facebook. In a way, I feel the relief it has happened because now I don’t have to worry about when it was going to happen. Our separation is permanent.

  The alcohol caused me to pass out, but the call made me restless.

  When I woke in the middle of the night, my mind instantly went to her, and in a trippy state flirting between wakefulness and sleep, dreaming and rigid consciousness, I replayed our relationship.

  My mates and I were having our usual Saturday night banter in the Rose & Crown in Chichester; football and rating the girls from work. We belonged there in the dim light, sticky carpet and warm ale. Caroline stood out, radiating in a white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt half-tucked into stonewash jeans and blue converse boots. She sat opposite another girl at the corner table on low padded bar stools. Between them the tiny flicker of a flame casting dancing shadows on the scuffed walls like a magical carousel. Her fashionable round glasses providing the perfect frame for her piercing blue eyes fighting for attention against the reflecting glow of the candle. Her creamy smooth skin glowed through the cloud of smoke and dust bubbles, and I was encapsulated.

  I wanted her to notice me. My mates continued like nothing was new, nothing was different like the most beautiful girl in the world was not sitting on the next table. Her golden honey-coloured hair swept behind her ears and tickling her neck.

  I became very self-aware. The conversation on our table deteriorated to toilet discussions resulting from the previous night’s curry. My cheeks burned with each stolen glance in her direction, catching a smile flashing across her face showing brilliant white teeth that dominated her faintly curved lips. I had worked myself up to a frenzy, and I felt unc
omfortable. I was distracted, on edge, knowing the moment she would leave I would instantly regret not talking to her, it would stay with me as I slept, and it would be the first thought when waking. The only way I could relax and enjoy my Saturday night was to dismiss any possibility whatsoever of talking to her.

  And then suddenly I was sitting at her table, being held prisoner by her intelligence and serenity. We talked, or I spoke, for what seemed like hours, the crowd around us a blur. Caroline was back in Chichester for a family birthday before returning to University in Manchester. She was studying Public Finance by accident after not getting sufficient grades for an Economics degree but had already emotionally committed to moving to Manchester. She ignored my joke about the cost of repairing potholes but did drop into conversation that she was single without me asking.

  We went out every night that week until it was time to board her National Express bus back up north. She had a fantastic carefree attitude, an innocence that gave her freedom, but vulnerability too, I wanted to look after her.

  Over the coming months we spoke a lot on the phone and met up sporadically, as the time and money equation was not complimenting my modest wage and, if I am honest, I did not enjoy her student culture. Despite all being from different parts of the country, her friends spoke with the same student accent at a higher than required volume. They also had a view on everything, and their opinion was black or white, but the real world is not like that, sometimes you have to operate in shades of grey. In the early days, I used to debate with them, but it grew tedious and pointless.

  Caroline and I had fun when just the two of us, we were right for each other. I was her reality check, a link back to her old world or even the real world, to which she would soon have to return, and she really forced me to have fun, which I always did with her. By the time she graduated we had been seeing each other for almost two years, and although much of that time was long distance, it felt right.