I wish he would stop looking to me for support. Each time he does, I feel the young detective’s gaze on my face.
I have to respond, or they’ll think we’ve been hibernating for the last few days. ‘Isn’t he the guy who everyone thought had been killed in Manchester?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Of course!’ Dominic rubs the side of his head. ‘I knew I’d heard the name. But it wasn’t him, was it?’
The inspector shakes her head. ‘No. But as far as you know, you have never met or had any dealings with either of these two men?’
It’s Dominic’s turn to shake his head. ‘No. Unless either of them have children at the school where I used to teach, I can’t think of any connection.’
‘Thank you for that.’ She pushes herself to the edge of the sofa, as if she is about to stand up. ‘Just so we have everything, would you mind telling me, Mr Franklyn, where you were yesterday evening?’
Before Dominic can answer, the younger officer who hasn’t spoken until now says, ‘And you, Mrs Franklyn?’
The inspector barely blinks but I can see she is surprised at the question. I’m not. Her colleague must have recognised me. I am about to start on some lengthy explanation when Dominic speaks again.
‘We were both in all evening. We’ve rather belatedly got ourselves hooked on Game of Thrones, so when the children are in bed we tend to gorge ourselves on chocolate and bloody battles. Last night was a three-episode marathon.’
Inspector Robinson looks at Dom, her eyes blank, and then glances at me. I give her a small, almost guilty smile – as if we are too old for such self-indulgence.
She stands up and nods at us both. ‘Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.’
I almost want her to stay, because while she is here I can’t ask Dominic the questions that are burning me up. Why did he lie? Until today I would have said that Dominic never, ever lies. His personal code forbids it. But he said he stayed in all last night, and he lied to the police about where I was. Why would he do that?
45
Becky had originally thought Tom’s suggestion that they interview victims of similar assaults was a bit of a long shot, but decided to do the first couple of interviews with Lynsey to form a judgement. Tom may have been on the right track, though, because there was definitely something in the air in the Franklyns’ sitting room.
‘What did you make of that?’ she asked Lynsey, pulling the car over to the side of the road just around the corner from the house.
‘Something didn’t ring true.’
‘I know, but we can’t find any link between Dominic Franklyn and Cameron Edmunds.’
‘It wasn’t him I was worried about,’ Lynsey said.
Becky looked at her colleague. ‘I wondered why you asked where his wife was.’
‘I can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but there was a woman at the apartment building last night. She was called Saskia something. I can’t remember her surname but I have a note of it. She’s nothing like Anna Franklyn in many ways, but there’s something similar about the way she holds her head when she’s listening. And those eyes of hers are quite unusual.’
Becky twisted further in her seat and stared at Lynsey’s slightly anxious face. ‘Go for it, Lynsey. Let’s have your theory. As Tom has told you before, it doesn’t matter how daft it seems.’
Lynsey nodded. ‘A woman came into reception. Blonde, glamorous, walked with a real swagger. Nothing like the Anna Franklyn we just met. She wore heavy make-up but somehow managed not to look tarty. She looked foreign, and when I heard her name was Saskia I assumed Russian, in spite of her surname – Peterson, I’ve just remembered. It stuck with me because of how she behaved.’
Lynsey paused as if getting her thoughts together, and Becky didn’t prompt her.
‘We asked for some identification, and I thought there was something in her eyes that hinted at alarm. She didn’t open her bag to try to find proof of who she was, and then the concierge arrived and she left without showing us anything at all. She seemed relieved. A bit later she came back down. The make-up had gone and she was dressed casually. Said she was going out for something to eat, even though it was very late. That was the face that looked like Anna Franklyn, although still with blonde hair.’
‘Did she ask what was going on?’
‘No, although we later learned she had been down to the car park. The officer there kept a note of everyone who came so they could let people know when they could get their cars. When we did a debrief later, I referred to her as the blonde lady and he said I was wrong. She had dark hair. But she was definitely blonde when I saw her – both times.’
Becky thought for a moment. ‘No cars have been allowed in or out of the car park yet, so her car must still be there. Let’s check it out.’ Becky reached for her radio.
As she expected, every car had been checked against the block’s list of registration numbers, and it seemed they had done a thorough job.
‘The parking spot assigned to Apartment 624 is close to the lift,’ she was told. ‘However, the car parked there last night belongs to the owner of 437. He said the spot is nearly always empty – only used once or twice a week – so sometimes he nabs it.’
Becky frowned. If you live in an apartment block, why would your car only be there one or two nights a week?
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘So then we checked to see if we could find the car registered to 624 anywhere else in the car park, and we did. It was at the far end, well away from the lift.’
‘Can we run a PNC check, please, on the registered keeper?’
‘Sure,’ the officer said, sounding slightly surprised given that the car registration had been matched to the owner of an apartment.
It didn’t take long. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s interesting. The apartment to which the car is linked is in the name of Saskia Peterson, but the car’s registered keeper is—’
‘Anna Franklyn,’ Becky said, smiling her congratulations at Lynsey.
She ended the call and sat back in her seat. Anna Franklyn certainly wasn’t at home last night, so why had her husband lied? Anna Franklyn was a small, slight woman. It was hard to imagine she had been directly involved in the murder, but maybe she knew who was.
Before she had the chance to voice those thoughts to Lynsey, her mobile rang. It was Tom.
‘Becky, we have an update. We got it wrong last night. Our victim’s prints are on file; he got six months for ABH ten years ago. This isn’t Roger Jagger’s doing, though. Our victim is Roger Jagger.’
46
The police left ten minutes ago, but I still haven’t had a chance to talk to Dominic. Holly heard the front door close and came bounding downstairs.
‘Bailey’s asleep, so I can’t read him a story. When are we going to school? Is that a taxi outside? Is that for us?’
Dominic seems happy to keep her in the room with us, and I know why, but for once I’m going to have to send her away.
‘Holls, can you go to your room, sweetheart? I need to talk to Daddy. The taxi can wait.’
‘Why have I got to go? Is it a secret? I thought we weren’t allowed secrets in our family.’
My poor Holly. If only she knew that my life is one big secret.
‘It’s not a secret, sweetheart, but it’s about a problem I have at work and so it’s not my secret. It’s someone else’s that I can’t share.’
She looks totally bemused, as well she might. But she’s a good girl and with an exaggerated sigh she leaves the room. That’s another lie told in this house today.
I walk over to the door and close it, leaning my back against it. Arms folded, I look at Dominic, who raises his eyebrows as if to say, ‘What’s all the fuss about?’
‘Why did you lie, Dom?’ I can’t think of a way to wrap this up nicely. ‘You never lie.’
He nods slowly. ‘That’s true. I don’t.’ He doesn’t say any more for a few moments but picks at a non-existent
loose thread on his jeans. ‘I lied for you, of course.’
I can feel my brow furrowing as I look at the man I thought I knew so well.
‘Why, though? Does it matter if I was out?’
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t think you would want them coming to school to ask questions. The first whiff of scandal – even if totally unfounded – and the trustees will have you out. You know that.’
‘But they weren’t interested in me; they were interested in you – or rather any connection you might have to those men they mentioned.’
‘Look, on the spur of the moment it just seemed to make sense to say we were both here.’
‘But you weren’t, were you?’
I am appalled at the tone of accusation in my voice and move across the room to sit next to him, but he jumps up and turns to face me, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
‘What do you mean? Of course I was here. Where else would I be? I’m always here.’
‘Bailey came downstairs, and Della was asleep on the sofa. I presumed you’d gone out.’
Dominic scowls at me. ‘Did you? Well you presumed wrong. Della called round to see how Holly’s doing since her accident, and I asked her if she’d like a drink. She’s lonely, Anna – which you might notice if you were ever here – and she does a lot for the kids. I gave her a large gin and we watched a bit of telly together. Then she dozed off – apparently she does that every night. So I went into the kitchen to make her a hot drink. That was presumably when Bailey came downstairs. Della likes cocoa last thing. Did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. If I’d told the police she was here, they would have interviewed her and she would have panicked. Go and ask her, if you don’t believe me.’
I feel ashamed of my suspicions. He’s right about Della – she’s always there for us – and he was trying to protect me, as he always does.
At that moment I feel a strong urge to tell him everything, but the waiting taxi driver beeps his horn. It’s not the right time. I don’t know if it ever will be.
I have never felt so isolated, as if I’m marooned on a sandbank and the sea is approaching from all sides, the wind whipping the surface into angry peaks of white foam, ready to engulf me.
‘I’m going to be late,’ I say. ‘The taxi has been waiting ages. I’ll get Holly.’
I know I should apologise to Dom. He deserves so much better, but the air around me seems charged with stress. He must be able to feel the sparks, just as I can feel the fabric of this family tearing apart.
47
Becky hadn’t been totally surprised by Tom’s news about Roger Jagger, but it was now even more urgent that they find Cameron Edmunds. Although it was tempting to head back to the incident room straight away, she wanted to follow up on Anna Franklyn first. When someone lied to the police, there had to be a reason.
She was about to turn the car round and go back to the Franklyns’ home when the taxi that had been waiting at the end of the drive raced past, a woman and child in the back.
‘She’s taking the daughter to school. I’m guessing she’ll carry on to work after that, given that she’s not got her car. Let’s see where she works, Lynsey.’
‘I’ll google her first, see if anything comes up. It might save time.’
Becky heard the clicking as Lynsey typed into her phone.
‘She’s a head teacher. She’s been in the press quite a lot because she’s turned the school around from underperforming to good. It’s definitely her. There’s a picture.’
‘We’ll go to her school and talk to her there, or ask her to come in for questioning,’ Becky said. ‘Let’s find out what she’s hiding.’
Tom knew they needed to find some answers soon. Two young men, both mid-thirties, both murdered in car parks. They had found nothing to suggest that Derek Brent had enemies, and Tom was more convinced than ever that Cameron Edmunds had been the intended target of that first killing, especially as Roger Jagger was now dead. Who next? Was this the start of a serial killing spree, or had these two men – who by all accounts had been close associates for over fifteen years – been specifically targeted? If Dawn Edmunds was right, Cameron had all the hallmarks of a modern-day gangster – no obvious source of wealth other than the money from his father and some relatively low directors’ fees, and a life that he wasn’t prepared to share with his wife, which seemed to involve causing injury to others. There could be little doubt he was involved in some form of criminal activity, so was there a vigilante out there, intent on eliminating the criminals of Manchester? Or was this more personal?
‘Where are we up to with finding an address for Roger Jagger, Keith?’ Tom asked.
‘As we already discovered, there’s nothing current on file. We did a thorough check when we were trying to locate him in regard to Cameron Edmunds.’
All Tom wanted to know was what they had now – not what they hadn’t had yesterday.
‘The good news is that we found a car that appears to have been abandoned close to the car park where Jagger was found. It was left on double yellows down a little-used alley, so it was only reported at the crack of dawn when a lorry couldn’t get through to make a delivery. The registered keeper of the vehicle is a Robert Jackson, and initially we thought this might be Jagger’s killer, but we pulled up the photo from Jackson’s driving licence and, hey presto, up popped a picture of Roger Jagger. And an address. Obviously given his record, a fake identity might have proved useful – kept the same initials, though.’
‘So what are we waiting for? Keith, you’re with me. Let’s see if anyone’s home at Mr Jagger’s house. How far?’
Keith looked slightly flustered. He was generally confined to the office because his manner didn’t help with interrogation, but as Jagger was well and truly dead, Tom thought this was a good opportunity to let the sergeant smell some fresh air.
‘Right. Erm, I haven’t actually fed the coordinates into a map, sir. But I would say we’re looking at forty minutes? It’s a couple of miles away from the Edmunds’ house.’
‘Okay, you can check the finer details as we drive.’
‘I’ll just straighten my desk and I’ll be right there.’
‘Stuff your desk, Keith. It can wait. Come on. Let’s go.’
48
My journey to school is proving to be a nightmare. To start with I kept asking the driver if he could go faster, find another route, anything to get me there quicker. But he became more and more irritated, and I’m sure he’s now driving deliberately slow, so I’ve stopped asking and phoned Jennie.
‘Sorry, Jen, I’m running a bit behind. My car was blocked in at the gym last night, and I ordered a taxi this morning but it was late.’ I ignore the cold stare of the taxi driver in the rear-view mirror. He slows down even more. But I can’t admit the police were at my house.
When we finally arrive I am tempted not to tip the driver, but my bad mood is not entirely his fault so I tell him to keep the change. He doesn’t seem impressed.
I rush in through the main doors. The children are all in their classrooms, which reinforces my guilt at how badly I’ve been doing my job this week. I’m usually here at least an hour before the first child arrives.
As I close my office door behind me, I gaze around, remembering the weeks after I took over here, the fun Jen and I had reorganising it into a friendlier place, and I have to wonder if this time next week I will still be here – if I will still have a job at the school that I have grown to love. I don’t know what truths will be exposed – either by the police or through the dreaded radio programme, which is getting forever closer. Whatever Scott says on the radio, there is one thing that I hope and pray he never reveals. If my marriage isn’t over before Monday after I admit to Dominic the extent of my deception and explain why we must sell the house, I know for certain there is one secret that would never be forgiven.
I’ve barely had time to sit down before Jennie pushes open the door. ‘There are two women to see you, Anna.’
&nb
sp; I stand up, about to ask who they are and whether they have an appointment when the truth hits me. I know who this will be. For a second I feel dizzy and have to grasp the edge of my desk.
‘Are you okay?’ Jennie asks, and I wonder for a moment if she thinks I was lying yesterday and if I really am ill.
‘Fine. Sorry – not much sleep.’
She stares at me for a moment too long. ‘Your visitors are from the police,’ she says, bending to pick up a pile of papers from my desk.
I nod as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Thanks, Jen. I wonder which of our lovely children they want to talk to me about. I hope nothing terrible has happened.’
‘It’s not about a child. They said it was a personal issue.’
But then I knew that. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she turns to leave the room.
‘Mrs Franklyn, thank you for seeing us.’
Becky looked at the face of the woman in front of her, who must have realised something was wrong if they had followed her to work to talk to her, but Anna’s expression was pleasant, unruffled. Becky found that disconcerting.
‘Have a seat, Inspector.’ Anna nodded at the other detective to show she was included in the invitation. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘No, we’re good, thank you. I’m not sure if I introduced my colleague to you – Detective Constable Maltby – but you may recognise her.’
Anna turned her head slightly to look at Lynsey, a slightly confused smile on her face.
‘I’m not sure I do. Should I?’
‘I think so. You met last night.’
Anna must have known the game was up, but she managed to maintain the puzzled look.
‘Okay, Mrs Franklyn, it would be great if you could stop playing games. Can you tell me where your car is right now, please? It may be worth you knowing – before you dream up some elaborate story – that we know exactly where it is, so perhaps you could just confirm it.’
The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Page 20