Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘You were beaten?’

  ‘Several times a week with whatever was to hand, to make us better servants of the Lord.’

  ‘Weren’t you angry?’ said Coleman.

  ‘Anger wouldn’t have changed anything. It would have made it worse. I survived. The experience has certainly helped me to appreciate the life I have now, so perhaps my father would say it was justified, all part of His plan for me.’ As he spoke McCrae raised his eyes skywards. Despite everything, he had kept his faith.

  ‘We could use any photographs of Kenneth that you can show us,’ Coleman said.

  ‘I’ve only the one, and it’s hardly recent.’ Resting the fork against the fence, McCrae led them back into the house, removing his boots on the mat outside and washing his hands in the kitchen along the way. Coleman and Knox trailed him into the lounge. They remained standing as he went to the drawer of an old-fashioned oak sideboard, rifling through papers until he came up with a curled monochrome snapshot of two young boys, the taller one, lighter haired, staring expressionless into the camera. It would be no help at all. ‘I can’t even remember who took it,’ McCrae said. ‘We didn’t have a camera. We weren’t that sort of family.’

  ‘Which regiment did Kenneth join in the army?’ Coleman asked.

  ‘The Guards.’

  ‘And when would that have been?’

  ‘He joined at sixteen, as soon as he could get away from here. It would have been — what, sometime in ’78, ‘79.’

  ‘Have you any idea where he is now?’

  ‘I heard he came back here for a while after he left the army. He’d married a German girl, and brought her back here to a caravan on Loch Cree. He was working in the security business. Then much later someone told me his marriage had broken down and his wife had gone back home. Like I said, we’ve never been close.’

  Showing them out McCrae said, ‘Our parents were cruel people and we didn’t have an easy childhood. It should have brought Kenny and me closer together, but it didn’t.’

  Regimental HQ and archives for the Scots Guards were back in London at Wellington Barracks. Knox and Coleman retraced their steps to Wicktown police station, where they met Andy Tyrell.

  ‘Can I use your phone?’ Coleman asked.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  * * *

  Having verified Coleman’s identity, the archivist at the barracks agreed to fax through details of McCrae’s army record, including a more up-to-date photograph. He also gave them details of McCrae’s then commanding officer along with his telephone number.

  ‘Ever seen him before?’ Coleman handed the picture to Knox. Knox hadn’t.

  Captain Ron Allgood (retired) remembered McCrae as a good soldier: ‘An excellent marksman and good at undercover work. He had a great practical aptitude and was disciplined. He could put up with more hardship than most.’

  ‘He’d had the experience,’ Knox murmured, under his breath.

  ‘Where would he have served?’ Coleman asked.

  ‘All over. We did regular tours in Northern Ireland, Germany and of course we’re the Queen’s ceremonial regiment.’

  ‘So he’d know London well.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘I don’t recall a specific reason,’ said Allgood. ‘A lot left after Tumbledown.’

  ‘So he was in the Falklands.’

  ‘Of course. McCrae could have made a career of the army, but he got out after eight years. He’d served his time. Possibly in the end he was frustrated that promotion didn’t come soon enough.’

  ‘And why didn’t it?’ asked Coleman.

  ‘There was a question mark over his literacy and numeracy skills. But to be brutally frank, the men didn’t much like him either, so he wasn’t what you’d call leadership material. He was a loner and I think his colleagues found it hard to completely trust him. Outwardly he could be very charming, but he had an unholy temper, and there was something unpredictable about him, verging on the schizophrenic, although he passed all his psych tests. There were never any explicit disciplinary issues but I always had the impression that he didn’t like taking orders. And he had a big chip on his shoulder about the fact that he was adopted. He was convinced that it put him at a disadvantage.’

  So Kenneth McCrae was finding more reasons to be angry with the world.

  Coleman faxed through the photograph to Granville Lane with instructions that it should be released to the press immediately in the hope that somebody, somewhere would recognise it. But he was well aware of how long all this was taking, when time was a commodity in short supply. It was now more than forty-eight hours since Mariner was last seen. A picture meant that they could put out a TV appeal for both Mariner and McCrae, but even so, things weren’t looking brilliant for Tom.

  Next Coleman had Tyrell drive them up to the caravan Clive McCrae had mentioned. It’s location was bleak, the van parked on a shingle strip and concealed by woodland alongside the oily waters of Loch Cree. Green streaks of lichen stained the white panelling and helped the van to blend into the landscape. Looking in through the soiled window revealed no sign of habitation. The door was fixed with a rusting, heavy-duty padlock and moss was sprouting around the rubber seal. It hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  They were cutting it fine for the flight back, so thanking Tyrell, Coleman and Knox headed back to the airport. In his haste Knox took a wrong turning, driving several miles before realising his mistake. Consulting the map they were making their way back to the main road when Coleman, in the passenger seat, shouted ‘Stop!’ and Knox screeched to a halt in front of a splintered wooden sign. They’d found Keepers Lodge.

  ‘You sure we’ve got time for this, boss?’ Knox asked.

  ‘We’ll make time,’ said Coleman.

  The building itself lay at the end of a half-mile track, making Knox wish they’d hired a four-wheel-drive instead of a saloon. When the track became impassable, fifty yards short, he killed the engine and they got out to have a closer look on foot. The dwelling was derelict, as Tyrell had said, with four ground-floor rooms beneath a rotting roof, mottled with gaping holes. A door in the main living area opened onto stone steps that took them down into a dingy cellar. No electricity, bathroom or running water, just a stone sink in the kitchen, a galvanised metal bath hanging up and a stand-pipe in the yard. A broad wooden bench with holes cut in it ran along one side of a foul-smelling outhouse — and this had clearly served as the toilet. Rusty animal traps lay lethally around.

  ‘What a slum,’ said Knox. ‘They lived here in the sixties and seventies, but this is what you’d expect in a developing country.’

  The place had a cold, unwelcoming feel to it and they didn’t stay long.

  * * *

  ‘This is hopeless,’ said Coleman. He was knocking back complimentary peanuts on the flight back to Birmingham, while Knox sat rigid beside him. ‘McCrae could be anywhere and we still don’t even know who we’re looking for.’

  ‘We’ve got the photo,’ Knox said, forcing his thoughts away from the plummeting, exploding plane. ‘The DI had a feeling that someone was after him. Someone must have seen McCrae.’

  ‘If he hasn’t radically changed his appearance,’ Coleman said. ‘His CO said that McCrae was good at undercover work. He’ll have had good training. He’s someone who stays in the shadows. And he could have just gone to ground. If he’s already taken care of Tom—’ Coleman broke off, with a light humourless laugh. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how we always use such soft euphemistic phrases? If he has and Tom’s . . . well . . . then McCrae could just drop out of sight and we’ll never find him.’

  ‘But I still don’t get it,’ Knox said, jerked by a spasm of fear as the plane juddered through a patch of turbulence. ‘Why Mariner?’

  ‘McCrae must see Tom as a rival. They’re both the illegitimate sons of a Ryland. Clive told us how much Kenneth resented him — that hatred has simply been transferred to Tom.
If Tom is right about McCrae, he murdered his birth mother in cold blood. And I’d lay odds that Angus McCrae’s death wasn’t an accident, either. We’re not dealing with a rational individual here. Clive McCrae spoke about his brother’s bitterness and anger. Who else is left as a target for that rage? And if Mariner has already figured out what we now know, he poses a direct threat to McCrae. It’s not looking good.’

  * * *

  From Birmingham Airport, Coleman returned to Granville Lane to co-ordinate the search while Knox went straight to see Anna, who was looking grey and drawn.

  ‘I’ve been throwing up,’ she admitted. But Knox could say nothing to reassure her. He showed her the photograph. ‘Have you seen this man hanging around at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has Tom talked about meeting anyone new recently? He might not even know who it is.’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone, apart from all his new friends; Flynn, Baxter, whatever their names are.’

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary happened?’ Anna pulled a face, as they both instantly thought of St Martin’s. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’

  ‘Tom has rented out the rooms at the cottage,’ she said suddenly. ‘You know, the ones that you and Jenny had.’

  In a different age, thought Knox. ‘Who’s his lodger?’

  ‘A guy called Bill Dyson.’

  ‘When did he move in?’

  ‘Just before Christmas,’ said Anna. ‘But according to Tom, he’s never there.’

  Knox reined in a buzz of anticipation. ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much. He’s from up north somewhere, and he sells burglar alarms.’

  He was working in security, Clive McCrae had said. Knox had assumed as a security guard, but shit, it could be him. ‘You’ve never met him?’ Knox asked.

  ‘No, but the letting agent has.’

  As it was, they didn’t have to find Roy Shipley to show him the photograph. He’d already seen the appeal on the local news and had contacted Granville Lane. ‘The man you’re looking for with Mr Mariner is the one who’s renting rooms in his house.’

  ‘Kenneth McCrae?’

  ‘He doesn’t call himself that now,’ said Shipley. ‘I know him as Bill Dyson, and his hair is longer than in your picture, but it’s him all right.’

  ‘Could you come in to the station?’

  When he arrived Shipley was shown up to Coleman’s office, where Knox waited impatiently.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Shipley said. ‘Dyson gave me references, showed me pictures of his family—’

  ‘He made it up,’ Coleman said, simply. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about him?’

  ‘His car. He drives an Audi estate, silver grey, and he runs a burglar alarm business called Apex Security. I have his card.’ Shipley produced the business card from his wallet. ‘I rang the number before I came here, just to make sure. Mr McCrae didn’t own the business, he was a sales rep. some years ago. And according to them, not even a particularly good one.’ Shipley looked defeated, his confidence in the truth shattered.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shipley,’ Coleman said, reassuringly. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  They were just in time to get out an appeal for the silver Audi on the local early evening news, and meanwhile Knox took a small team back to Mariner’s house, the last place they could be certain that he’d been.

  ‘We’ve found some spatters of blood,’ a SOCO showed him the dark brown stains on the step by the front door.

  ‘He’d cut his hand,’ Knox said, at the same time knowing that the cut was healing well.

  Other forensics officers were going over every inch of the house, every nook and cranny brightly lit with arc lamps and Knox had to step around them. Aside from them, the place looked perfectly normal. The post had been picked up and arranged on the hall table. Breaking into the second-floor flat they’d found it empty, the only thing Dyson had left were drawings and a couple of books about the canal. ‘It’s as if he’s never been here,’ said Knox, but he arranged for SOCO to sweep it anyway.

  * * *

  The drum beats were going in Mariner’s head again, the death knell. He’d no idea how much time had passed since Dyson had been here. His body had been still for so long that it hurt to move at all, though occasionally he was seized by attacks of uncontrollable shaking. He had a raging thirst, his mouth so dry that now and then he had to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t see her, but at one point he was convinced that Anna was there beside him, telling him how stupid he’d been, as if he needed that pointing out. But how could she be there? He’d been off the radar so much lately that no one would miss him for days. And now he was going to die of exposure, starvation or both before anyone even knew he was missing. And he hadn’t a clue where he was. He had no idea for how long he’d initially been unconscious, how far Dyson had brought him, or if he was even still in the UK. He could already be in Cyprus, except that it seemed too cold. Did they have a winter in Cyprus? He thought of warm beaches and sunshine and was overcome by a sudden drowsiness . . .

  * * *

  The call came in shortly after the news item, a sighting of Dyson’s car parked only streets away from Mariner’s home. Coleman took the call from a resident living nearby. ‘Is it still there?’ he asked.

  ‘I can see it from where I’m standing, under the street light,’ the man told him.

  ‘You’re sure it’s the same vehicle?’

  ‘I noted the registration the first time I saw it, in case I was going to have to report it as abandoned, but then it went. A couple of days later it came back again, and it’s here now.’

  * * *

  Knox met Jack Coleman and a couple of uniformed officers at the address the caller had given. It was within walking distance of Mariner’s house. ‘Meaning that there were times when Dyson could have been around without anyone knowing,’ Coleman said. ‘Stalking Mariner from here would be a piece of cake, and Mariner himself would have been entirely ignorant.’

  Breaking into the car they found a folder in the glove compartment and examination under the beam of the powerful torch revealed printouts of an Earls Court hotel, a couple of mobile numbers — for Mariner and Anna — and an invitation to Jack Coleman’s retirement party. There was a wodge of newspaper cuttings about the Rylands and the press photo of Mariner emerging from the bombing, along with features from previous years, covering some of Mariner’s most significant arrests and convictions. It was the information McCrae had used to find Mariner in the first place.

  ‘But where the hell is McCrae now?’ Knox demanded, looking around him as if the man might suddenly emerge from the shadows.

  ‘He must have another vehicle, or he’s hired something,’ Coleman surmised.

  ‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’

  ‘Maybe that doesn’t matter, because he’s long gone by now. And he has no idea that we’re onto him. Get uniform to take his photograph around local car hire firms. Call in people from home if necessary.’

  ‘And what about Mariner?’ said Knox.

  It was the question they’d both been avoiding. If McCrae had made his escape, he’d be unlikely to have encumbered himself with a prisoner.

  ‘He needs Mariner silenced,’ said Coleman, calmly. ‘He has no reason to keep him alive.’

  ‘But if he’s not in the house, or here in the car, where is he?’

  ‘We know that Mariner came back to the house yesterday afternoon. If McCrae was lying in wait, where would be the easiest place to dispose of a body in the immediate vicinity?’ Like clockwork they both turned in the direction of the canal. ‘We need to get some divers down here. And make sure Anna stays away. She mustn’t know.’

  * * *

  Tony Knox was becoming a liability, Coleman realised. It was close to midnight and they were both on the freezing canal-side under a dome of floodlights, watching and waiting as the small team of divers began their gruesome task. Periodically Knox leaned over, ye
lling orders, even though he wasn’t in charge. Only a matter of time before he either fell into the icy water, or got punched in the face by an exasperated diver.

  Coleman walked over to him. ‘Why don’t you go inside and check on forensics. Phone the labs and see if they’ve come up with anything. You’re not helping here.’

  For a moment Coleman thought Knox was going to put up a fight, but after a moment’s hesitation the sergeant did as instructed.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Inside Mariner’s house Knox used his mobile to put a call through to the labs. He tried the vehicle workshop first, but it was too soon for any fingerprints.

  ‘We’ve found something of interest though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two hairs from some sort of rough-coated dog.’

  Eleanor Ryland had had a dog, Fliss Fitzgibbon had said so, which would mean that McCrae might have been to see Eleanor Ryland, too. What were the chances that he had murdered her as well? That they were pursuing such a ruthless killer did nothing to reassure Knox. He ended the call and then tried the central lab who had taken numerous samples from the house. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing conclusive,’ was the frustrating reply. ‘But we found something odd. I took some residue from a footprint on the rug in the hall. You can probably see it if you look.’ Knox went back to the hall. Sure enough, there was a faded print on the beige runner, halfway along. ‘It’s exiting the house,’ Knox observed. Coleman appeared, giving a brief shake of the head to indicate that nothing had been found yet, and waiting while Knox finished the call.

  ‘Yes, strange in itself,’ the SOCO was saying. ‘And what I assumed to be soil, turns out to be coal dust.’

  ‘There’s a wood-burner in the living room,’ Knox said.

  ‘That’s my point. It burns wood, not coal. May be nothing, of course, but I just found it puzzling.’ He rang off and Knox relayed the conversation to Coleman.

  ‘Coal dust?’ he said. ‘So where the hell would that have come from?’