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The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers

Page 25

by Rachel Abbott


  Tom flipped over the pages until he found the one he wanted.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘“S. Roberts”. And Edmunds called him Scott. He is, or was, one of Cameron Edmunds’ clients – which gives us motive. His name’s crossed out in the ledger, though, because according to Cameron Edmunds, Scott Roberts is dead.’

  ‘Looks like he got it wrong, then,’ Becky said. ‘Maybe Roberts wanted Edmunds to think he was dead if he owed him money. I can’t say I’d blame him. Anyway, dead or alive, he gave an address in north Wales, and we’re getting it checked out right now.’

  59

  Tom told Becky and Keith that he would join them in the incident room in a few minutes. First he wanted to get his thoughts together. The memory of last night and Kate’s revelation was difficult to put to the back of his mind.

  ‘Does Lucy know?’ he’d asked.

  ‘No. I want some time with her before I tell her.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘I have an operation on Monday. It’s stage two in one of my kidneys, so it’s not great. But it could be worse.’ Kate had given a short bark of laughter. ‘It could be stage four, and at least I have a spare kidney.’

  Tom had said nothing. He wanted to go and put his arms round her, to offer some comfort, but she didn’t look as if she would welcome that.

  ‘My plan was to tell you on Sunday and then suggest you pick Lucy up from school on Monday, take her back to your place and tell her for me.’

  Had the news not been so awful he would have been irritated with Kate for leaving him to tell their daughter, knowing that more than anything Lucy would want to be with her mum and talk to her, hug her. But he could understand that it might be difficult to say the words.

  ‘I think the best thing for Lucy would be to hear it from both of us, now, together. Even though I’m not her favourite person at the moment, I’m sure she isn’t happy keeping me at arm’s length. We can explain it all and tell her how we’re going to make sure she’s looked after.’

  Kate hadn’t wanted to agree, but in the end had seen that it would be for the best. She and Lucy could have some time together, and Lucy would move back in with Tom next week while Kate was in hospital – with the air cleared.

  It had been so difficult to break the news. Kate wasn’t able to say a word, just sitting mutely at the table with tears in her eyes, so it was left to Tom. But at least they were all in the room together. Lucy was devastated, of course, but Tom talked positively about the future, about the amazing care Kate would get and the success rates now being achieved with cancer treatment. He felt it was what Lucy needed, but it left all of them feeling wrung out with emotion, and now he had to somehow push it to the back of his mind and focus on this double murder. Finally they had something concrete to work with, and he had a feeling that the solution was within touching distance.

  With a deep breath, he pushed himself out of his chair.

  ‘Keith,’ he called as he walked into the incident room, ‘get on to Cameron Edmunds and find out why he thinks Scott Roberts is dead. Also, get someone to check if there’s a record of his death and see if the address he gave the seller matches the record of his driving licence, please.’

  Tom walked over to the board and scanned the evidence they had collated up to now. It all seemed to have started with the moneylending fifteen years ago. Despite Cameron’s protestations to the contrary, Tom knew they were going to find enough evidence from his so-called friends to prove he was nothing better than a loan shark. He had to admit, though, that they could have spent days interviewing every person in his ledger and still failed to find their killer. Thank goodness Lynsey had such a sharp eye.

  ‘Sir,’ a young detective seconded to the team called to Tom. ‘There’s no registration of the death of a Scott Roberts that we can find in the timescale.’

  Was Becky right? Had the man faked his own death to avoid repaying his debt? Whatever the truth was, they had to work on the assumption that Scott was alive until the moment a death certificate was in front of their eyes.

  Tom could hear Keith speaking on the phone, his voice raised, and guessed he was talking to Cameron, a man it seemed no one in the world liked – except maybe Jagger, who was now dead.

  Keith slammed the phone down and marched across to Tom and Becky. ‘Irritating prick.’

  Tom surprised himself by wanting to laugh. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He was difficult, that’s all. I won’t bore you with the details. He’s a smug bastard, and frankly I can’t see what he has to be smug about. All he knows is that Scott Roberts died many years ago. He can’t remember exactly when, as we’ve had the audacity to take his ledger, and he doesn’t know how he died either.’

  ‘Well, it looks as if he’s wrong. I quite enjoy the thought of someone getting one over on Edmunds.’

  Another young detective handed a slip of paper to Keith, who looked at it and said, ‘Dead or alive, his driving licence is apparently registered to the address Mrs Matthews gave us, although the photocard is out of date.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about that, sadly. Becky, you said the local force are on their way to pay him a visit so Keith, let’s make sure they know what they’re dealing with.’

  Keith nodded and marched back to his desk.

  ‘I’ll be back in my office when you have an update.’

  Tom heard Becky’s voice behind him. ‘What are you doing here?’ He glanced over his shoulder. A tired but wired Lynsey had just walked back into the office.

  ‘Sorry, but I couldn’t sleep. Too much in my head.’

  Tom knew exactly how she felt.

  60

  As luck would have it, for the first time this week the traffic seems to be in my favour, and I realise I am going to arrive at Scott’s parents’ house way too early. With only ten miles left to go I spot a roadside café and pull in. I can’t stay in the car – every muscle in my body is twitching – so I get out and pace backwards and forwards, up and down, my umbrella only just managing to defy the wind.

  I glance at my watch every thirty seconds, but no amount of pacing reduces the tension that is building, layer upon layer, and I decide a cup of coffee might make me feel better. I push open the door to the café and am greeted by the welcoming smell of bacon and toast, but the thought of food makes me want to heave.

  As the time for me to leave draws near, I feel torn. Half of me wants to stay, huddled in the warm comfort of the café, while the other half is eager to get on with it – get it done. I drag myself to my feet and head out into the wind and rain.

  The nausea remains with me, and the back of my tongue feels swollen, filling my mouth. My stomach is churning, turning over and over, but I have to do this. Whatever Scott is trying to do to me and my family, it has to stop. I’m taking the biggest gamble of my life, but this is one hand I have to win.

  The world has turned darker. The clouds press down, crushing me, dirty water splashing onto my windscreen from the tyres of every lorry that I crawl behind on the narrow lanes that lead to my destination, until finally I find myself at the bottom of the street leading to Scott’s family home, remembering the house with the FOR SALE board that the woman in the shop pointed out to me.

  I’m still a few minutes early. I don’t pull up directly in front of the door – I don’t want him to know I’m here, so I park halfway along the street and watch, hoping to see him go in or come out. But nothing happens. I leave it another ten minutes, well past the agreed time, but he doesn’t arrive.

  He must already be inside.

  I pull a tissue from my bag and wipe my sticky hands, my top lip and the hollow above my chin. I need to appear confident and in control, so I search for a lipstick and try to keep my hands steady as I apply it.

  The rain has stopped, but the sky is the threatening purple-black of ripe plums, the clouds rolling and jostling each other. There are lights on in the neighbouring houses, even though it’s mid-morning. But not in the Roberts’ house. That re
mains in darkness.

  Delaying the inevitable isn’t going to help, so finally I unbuckle my seat belt and open the car door. The house is a mid-terrace, rendered in grey pebbledash with bay windows at the front. It is uphill from where I’ve parked and my breathing is fast and shallow, so I steady myself on a gatepost before walking up the path. The place looks run-down, with green paint peeling from the door and weeds sprouting from cracks in the path. The windows stand empty, behind them a black void.

  Straightening my back, I lift my hand and knock firmly on the door. As my fist meets the wood for the second time, the door moves, nudging inwards by an inch. I give it a gentle push. It opens a few inches more. I take a step forward and push the door bit by bit until it is half open.

  ‘Hello?’ I call, annoyed by the tentative sound of my voice. ‘Hello?’ I shout again with more authority.

  There is no answer. I push the door fully open and call once more. Still nothing. My voice echoes, and the house has an empty feel to it. I peer into the dark hall and reach for the light switch, but when I press it nothing happens. I look up to see there is no bulb in the fitting.

  The hall is dreary, its flowery wallpaper peeling in places. It must have been there for years. A dark-red patterned carpet runs the length of the hall and up the stairs, and there is a stale, unused smell to the house, as if food has been left to rot. It hasn’t been completely cleared of furniture, but I’m sure no one is living here. There’s a hall stand with coats still hanging on it, a couple of umbrellas in the rack and, bizarrely, an old cricket bat. It reminds me of how Scott moaned when we were in Nebraska about missing his cricket. Maybe it is his.

  The door to my left is closed but I take a step towards it. The muddy brown paint is cracked and flaking and I turn the tarnished brass knob. It’s locked.

  The hall bends slightly to the left beside the stairs, and I find myself walking on tiptoe for no reason that I can explain, because I’m sure no one is here. The presence of another person would change the way the air moves, or lighten the stench of decay. I glance nervously at the staircase. Am I wrong? Is he hiding up there?

  The further I move away from the open front door, the darker it gets. As I inch my way around the slight bend, I can just make out another door. This one is standing slightly ajar, and I call out again: ‘Hello?’ I’m not expecting a reply, and I don’t get one.

  Using my foot, I gently push the door open. Although there is a window, a thick curtain obliterates most of the light from outside, and all I can make out is what seems to be a lighter patch of wall ahead of me. There appears to be something pinned there. I reach out for the light switch, but again, nothing happens. I step into the room and walk cautiously towards the far wall.

  Suddenly the room is flooded with light.

  Swivelling towards the source, I’m almost blinded. I raise my arm to shield my eyes from the harsh glare of three spotlights on stands. I must have triggered a sensor as I walked into the room. Spikes of fear dance on every inch of my skin. Is there someone lurking behind the lights? But nothing moves, and as my eyes adjust I make out shadows, but none in human form. There’s nothing there other than some pieces of furniture pushed back against the wall.

  I want to run – to get as far from here as I can. I feel exposed, certain this whole set-up has been designed to scare me. And it’s working. I can hear my own breathing – short sharp gasps – and I try to slow it down as I turn back to see what the lights are illuminating. The wall is covered with papers, photos, a map. This is intended for me, and I take a tentative step forward.

  I stare at the pictures and immediately I recognise Scott – the Scott that I met fifteen years ago and last saw less than a year later. Next to that photo is one from just after we met, of me with spiky hair. I remember Scott taking it. Next to that is another one from when my hair was a little longer. He uploaded them onto my computer, but I have never looked at them since. There is a more recent photo of me too, one I recognise from Facebook, and I am shocked to see there’s also one of me as Saskia in my blonde wig, leaving the apartment in Manchester. I have no idea who took that. Someone knows everything about me – knows all the secrets I thought I had guarded well. There is a photo of Cameron too, and even one of Jagger, unaware of the camera as he walks out of a bar.

  Beneath the photos are documents. The first is a sponsorship form that I remember creating, headed with an image of someone leaping from a plane. Then there’s a poster for a raffle, offering a holiday in Crete, with minor prizes of pizzas, cinema tickets, book tokens, supermarket vouchers. It’s all there. The history of my schemes and deceptions with Scott, and I feel an all-too-familiar stab of remorse.

  I’m working my way along the wall, wondering what this is supposed to tell me, when I hear a footstep behind me. I want to look round, but I can’t. I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel. Will I still know him?

  Then I hear a shout, a voice, a Welsh accent. ‘Hello? Where are you?’

  I don’t answer. I turn towards the door, the lights in my eyes making it difficult to see. Into the doorway steps a man. I can just make out the thick, dark curly hair that I loved to run my fingers through.

  ‘Scott,’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘My God. It really is you.’

  61

  Tom had intended to stay in his office and use the time productively, but they were getting close to finding this killer and he was struggling to focus on anything else. So within half an hour he was back in the incident room.

  ‘We’ve picked up the car on ANPR, sir,’ Keith said. ‘After leaving the central Manchester area on Wednesday night, Scott Roberts drove around Manchester and then disappeared. We’ve not been able to find a mobile registered to his name, so there’s not much else we can do to track him.’ He pulled up a map on his screen and pointed to a retail park. ‘We lost him here, but it would have been difficult for him to leave without us picking him up again. Which suggests he dumped his car.’

  ‘There’s a big DIY store there – a massive one,’ Becky said. ‘He could have swapped cars. What do you think?’

  Lynsey grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. ‘They’re bound to have CCTV. I’m on it.’

  ‘If you find it, Lynsey, don’t let it out of your sight until we can set up surveillance,’ Tom said as the young detective headed for the door.

  ‘We had a call back from the north Wales police,’ Becky said. ‘They arrived at the address on Roberts’ driving licence just before eight a.m., but the house was deserted. It’s up for sale. Apparently the son doesn’t live there either, and hasn’t for a while. They spoke to a neighbour who said the mother has been moved to a nursing home in Colwyn Bay. An officer is on his way there to see if they can supply an address for Scott.’

  Tom stared at Becky, who looked as disappointed as he felt. He flopped down into a chair in front of her desk. ‘I thought we had him.’

  ‘We’re a hell of a lot closer than we were yesterday, boss. At least we have a pretty good idea who we’re looking for, so it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Yes, but if he’s on a killing spree, he might well already have someone else in his sights.’

  It suddenly seemed to Tom as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel Becky’s concern and knew he had to summon up some mental energy from somewhere. He couldn’t let events in his personal life drag him down, and he had to be positive for the team. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself upright and turned to Becky with his best attempt at a smile.

  ‘My turn, I think.’ He picked up the mug from her desk and made his way towards the kitchen.

  They didn’t have to wait long for a response from north Wales. Tom had just put a cup of coffee in front of Becky when Keith told him an officer from West Conwy Coastal Police was on the phone and put the call on speaker.

  ‘The son hasn’t been to the hospice today, and they don’t have an address for him, just a phone number,’ he said. ‘But here�
��s the thing. According to them, the son goes by the name of Brad – short for Bradley. Not Scott.’

  Tom glanced at Keith and Becky, who both looked as bemused as he felt.

  ‘Apparently Mrs Roberts always calls him Scott – that’s the name of her son who died and the only name she seems to recognise.’

  Thanking the officer and leaving Keith to get details of Bradley Roberts’ mobile, Tom turned to Becky.

  ‘So was Cameron right? If for some inexplicable reason Scott’s death was never registered, his driving licence will still appear to be valid, but I’m not ruling him out yet. Could this be Bradley passing himself off as his brother? Let’s get what intelligence we can on him too.’

  ‘The owner did tell Keith that the guy who bought it had a Welsh accent, although as evidence goes it’s hardly compelling.’ Becky shrugged.

  Tom grabbed a photocopy of the index page of the ledger from Keith’s desk and ran his finger down the list of names.

  ‘There’s no other Roberts on here, just Scott, so if it is Bradley – and let’s face it, that’s a massive if – why would he want to kill Cameron and Jagger?’

  ‘Maybe Scott’s alive and they’re in it together. Or perhaps Bradley found out about the loan and the debt. If his mother thinks he’s Scott she might have revealed old secrets, and now he’s taking revenge on behalf of his brother. Or possibly Cameron found out the house was being sold and tried to get Bradley to pay off Scott’s debt. I don’t know. A bunch of theories, but based on nothing much right now.’ She shrugged again.

  Tom was about to ask Keith to start an investigation into Bradley when he realised the sergeant was still on the phone to the police in Wales. ‘Anna Franklyn,’ Keith said. ‘Yep, got that, thanks.’

  Becky’s mouth dropped open, and Tom looked at her as Keith ended the call. ‘What?’

  ‘Keith, what was that about Anna Franklyn?’ Becky called.

  ‘According to the visitors’ register, a woman called Anna Franklyn called to see Mrs Roberts earlier in the week.’

 

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