‘But why does it even matter?’ Charlotte asked. Not for the first time that day, she was exasperated by Nigel’s slow release of information.
‘I spoke to DCI Summers today,’ he continued. ‘She’s asked me not to report it yet, but there are some suspicious circumstances surrounding Barry McMillan’s death. They’ve already ascertained that there were no financial problems in his life, and his marriage doesn’t appear to have been showing any cracks; his widow was distraught by all accounts. But his phone is still missing, and they’ve managed to see from his records that a call was placed to it just after his author event last night. It was an anonymous call, just after eleven o’clock.
‘I saw him take it,’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘I was watching him through the window at the Midland Hotel. I told the police he had his phone then. That was the last time I noticed it. I don’t know what happened after that. How come the police shared all that with you?’
‘It seems DCI Summers likes to keep the information flowing. She was very grateful that I told her about the cutting being posted through the letterbox, so she asked me to stay in close touch. I think she feels the same as me; there’s more to this than meets the eye; we just can’t put our finger on it yet.’
Charlotte contemplated keeping the second cutting to herself. She wasn’t sure how to process the new information about Rex Emery. No wonder the guest house had taken a long time to sell, tarnished with a historical kidnapping story. The agent hadn’t thought to mention that to her and Will when they bought it; but the incident was over a decade ago, so why would they?
She opted to follow DCI Summers’ lead and told Nigel everything. It was like a red rag to a bull. He could barely contain his excitement. He all but dismissed her there and then, eager to make some calls and see what he could unearth from his contacts.
Charlotte left the newspaper office intrigued but uncertain; as far as she could tell, Barry McMillan’s death was tragic, untimely and unexpected. But then, wasn’t every suicide? She stopped off at her favourite coffee shop on the sea front. It always made her think of Jenna. She’d be seeing her the next day. It was the least she could do for her former friend. She’d come to see her as a victim, in spite of the terrible things she and her boyfriend had done to her daughter. She felt guilty too, that Jenna’s life had turned out so badly. At least visiting times at the prison were later in the day, so she didn’t have to catch the early train. She hated seeing somebody she knew in that horrible place, but she was lucky: at the end of visiting time, she could walk through the gates, but Jenna couldn’t.
She’d been furious with her old friend at the time, but the collusion between her, Will and George meant that they were bound together forever, drawn into the same sordid mess of deceptions.
And now here was somebody coming out of the blue to look for Bruce Craven. They’d have to stay sharp and keep their stories straight, or they’d all be joining Jenna in prison.
Isla had clocked on early that afternoon, giving Charlotte an opportunity to talk to her. She was busying herself in the kitchen when Charlotte got back.
‘Hi Isla, everything okay? Our first check-in is between five and six o’clock. We’re quiet tonight, unless any new bookings have come in.’
‘I decided I’d come in early and make a start, after all the fuss last night. I thought you’d probably have fallen behind, after all the disturbances. The police have been. They’re finished with the room. They left some details of specialist cleaners who can sort it out before you get any more guests in there. I’ve left the note by the reception desk.’
‘Did you know Rex Emery?’ Charlotte asked. She couldn’t wait any longer. She just wanted to cut to the chase.
It was only momentary, but she saw Isla flinch, and the potato she was peeling rolled out of her hand and onto the kitchen floor. She recovered herself quickly.
‘Silly me, I’m sure I’m getting arthritis. Rex Emery, did you say? The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it. Why do you ask?’
Charlotte watched as Isla picked up the potato, threw it into the bin, then began to peel a new one, turning her back as she spoke.
‘Well, apparently, he used to own this guest house. And from our previous conversations, you must have known him; you would have been working for him in 2006.’
Chapter Six
Charlotte listened while Isla tried to explain away her apparent lapse in memory.
‘I’d been experiencing some personal difficulties at the time and had spent some time away from the guest house. I was in a bit of state back then. Yes, I did work with Rex, I’m getting forgetful in my old age.’
Charlotte considered Isla to be as sharp as a tack when it came to her mental faculties. She resolved to find out more, uncomfortable about doubting Isla but convinced that something about her account of events didn’t quite work.
It wasn’t that long since she’d left the newspaper office, but Nigel Davies phoned her soon after, excited and keen to call round.
‘The girl who was abducted and held in your guest house lives locally, in the West End. I’ve got to go up there and speak to her. Do you want to come?’
Charlotte hesitated a moment. These events were bringing the police back into the orbit of their family; one wrong move, a single misstep, and the truth about what they’d done might come into the open. But she felt the same compulsion as Nigel, wanting to stay ahead of events. The kids and Will hadn’t landed back home yet, and a trip to the West End wouldn’t take more than half an hour, she reckoned.
‘Are you all right holding the fort?’ she asked Isla.
‘Yes, no problem, I’m on top of everything here. Go on, do whatever you have to do.’
Had Charlotte been a little less forgiving, she would have been inclined to think that Isla was pleased to be rid of her.
‘Can you pick me up?’ Charlotte asked Nigel.
‘I’m walking to the car park now. Be with you in five,’ he replied, ending the call.
Charlotte was eager to share the news with Will, but if they struck gold with this visit, she’d have an even better story to tell him when they were all back home again. They’d have to tread carefully and coordinate their information. If the police started sniffing around the guest house in connection with the Barry McMillan suicide, the heat would be turned up on them.
It took Nigel no time to get to the guest house. Charlotte was looking out for him from the lounge window.
‘That was fast,’ she said, climbing into the passenger seat. ‘How did you find that information?’
‘The reporter who worked the case still lives locally. He’s retired now, but he was happy to chat on the phone. He says there were a lot of unanswered questions. As far as he’s concerned, it’s an open case. The police thought differently.
Nigel turned the car at the Town Hall and drove back along the promenade, towards the West End. They were heading for bedsit Morecambe, the most startling indication of the town’s struggles for survival. There, once-grand Victorian houses had been carved up into units, now housing the unemployed and low-waged. In days gone by this would have been a part of Morecambe’s crowning glory. Now, it had become a source of income for investors and landlords who could pack tenants in where once families had thrived.
Nigel pulled up down a side street, checking that they were free to park without the risk of getting a ticket.
‘We’re about to do some door-stepping,’ Nigel said as he reached back to take his notebook and pen from the back seat. ‘Sometimes it can get a bit tense, so be prepared. She may not want to speak to us, so hang back a bit. I’ve developed a thick skin over the years; I’ll take the hit if she’s rude.’
They got out of the car and Charlotte surveyed the street. The houses would have made ideal guest houses in the days before EasyJet and the like made foreign travel more accessible. Now there were rusting bicycles chained to corroding gates, wheelie bins with large, white numerals painted on their sides and recycling bins packed to th
e brim with empty lager cans and beer bottles. Residents sat smoking on the front steps, banished from their residences by health and safety regulations, transferring the waves of cigarette and vaping smoke to the street instead.
‘Which one?’ Charlotte asked, turning to Nigel.
‘Number 35, just on the other side of the road,’ he replied.
They crossed the road and walked up the four steps to the front door. The houses on this street were three storeys high, though many landlords had done loft conversions. To the right-hand side of the door was a cluster of doorbells and a speaker. Most of the cards bearing flat numbers were weathered and grubby, the ink smudged by the damp.
‘She’s in Flat 3. Her name is Piper Lawrence,’ Nigel said as he searched for the relevant button. Piper’s was clearly written, as if she was keen to ensure that visitors found the right place when they called. Nigel pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no reply. He tried again. Nothing.
There was the sound of heavy stomping then the door opened and a man rushed out. Nigel stepped into the hallway before the door closed again.
As they went inside, Charlotte’s foot clipped a large pile of abandoned post and leaflets, missives to long-gone residents who would never read their contents.
Nigel scanned the numbers on the doors along the hall.
‘Weird numbering,’ he said. ‘She must be upstairs.’
The staircase was steep and high; at one time, it would have been impressive and commanding. Now it was fitted with a well-worn, brown carpet which had seen better days. The wooden rail was greasy from the hundreds of hands which had passed along, forgotten by the cleaners.
They made their way up the stairs until they reached Flat 3 on the second landing.
‘How many people are packed in here?’ Charlotte asked, not expecting an answer.
Without warning, the door to Flat 3 opened, and a man dashed out, ignoring Charlotte and Nigel as he passed them and ran down the stairs.
‘I’ll be reporting you to the agency!’ came a female voice from within the flat. She sounded tired and exasperated.
‘That’s our lady,’ Nigel said, heading towards the open door. Piper Lawrence walked onto the landing, dressed only in a light gown, her hair dishevelled. She looked at them in surprise.
‘We don’t have a booking, do we? Were you ringing the buzzer? You need to book through the agency.’
‘I’m Nigel Davies, from the local paper,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And this is my… er, colleague, Charlotte Grayson. Are you Piper Lawrence?’
Charlotte sensed Piper’s defences being raised.
‘If you haven’t come through the agency, I can’t help you,’ she said, moving towards her front door.
‘I own the guest house where you were held captive all those years ago,’ Charlotte said gently. ‘We’re just trying to find out what happened there. I didn’t know anything about it when we bought the place. We’re not here to cause any trouble; I just want to understand what happened there.’
Piper stopped for a moment, thinking it through.
‘If it wasn’t for your guest house, I wouldn’t be here doing what I’m doing now. Those bastards took my youth away from me. I’ll never forgive them for that!’
She darted into her flat, but Nigel moved fast to get to her before the door was slammed shut in their faces.
‘We only want to ask one or two questions, Piper. I’m not writing anything in the newspaper. It’s just that Rex Emery is due for release—if he’s not out of prison already—and we just wanted to investigate the background to the story. Can we come in?’
He fumbled in his pocket for a business card, found one in his wallet and passed it to her. As she reached out to take it, her gown fell open slightly; she was naked underneath it. Nigel looked away while she pulled it closed once again, seemingly without embarrassment.
‘Okay, just for five minutes, though. When the buzzer goes, we’re done.’
Charlotte and Nigel looked at each other, then stepped into the flat. It was a one-room arrangement with a double bed, settee, TV and kitchen all sharing the same space. The bathroom seemed to be separate, at least. Soft music was playing on a CD player, and the ill-fitting, gaudy curtains were drawn. The sheets on the bed were rumpled, and some lingerie had been discarded on the floor.
‘One moment,’ Piper said, disappearing into what Charlotte assumed was the bathroom.
‘Is she a prostitute?’ Charlotte whispered to Nigel.
‘More likely an escort,’ Nigel said, just as quietly. ‘She keeps referring to the agency.’
A few minutes later, Piper stepped out of the bathroom. She had discarded the robe and was wearing a one-piece black dress. Her hair had been combed, and she looked fresh and groomed.
‘Excuse me while I tidy up,’ she said, setting about the bed and straightening the sheets.
‘Can we just ask a couple of questions?’ Nigel asked. Charlotte let him take the lead, feeling a little out of her depth.
‘Shoot,’ Piper replied, removing the discarded lingerie from the floor and placing it in a linen basket.
‘What do you know about Rex Emery?’ Nigel asked.
‘Not a lot,’ she replied. ‘Only that he was innocent. He was stitched up good and proper, a fall guy. He didn’t deserve to spend that time in jail. But the police didn’t care. They just wanted to blame somebody and move on. It was a cover-up, but I’ve long since stopped worrying about it. It’s water under the bridge. They got away with it, the bastards, and people like me and Rex Emery just have to pick up the pieces.’
‘What happened in the guest house?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Why were you held there?’
Piper was now lighting a scented candle. She moved over towards the CD player and changed the music to something more old-fashioned.
‘They rented that room at the top of the building, the one with the attic room, and held me there, gagged and tied up. Rex Emery didn’t even know. He thought it was just a regular booking. I was there for five days. Two of them did some horrible things…’
She stopped. Charlotte didn’t want to push her, knowing they’d taken her back to a dark place, even though it was so long ago.
‘Who took you, Piper? And why? What did your parents do?’
‘Don’t mention my parents!’ she turned around, fire in her eyes. ‘I never even knew my dad and my mum… the stupid bitch just caved. She didn’t dare speak up. I was too young at the time and I couldn’t speak for myself. She did nothing to protect me. I never want to see her again.’
‘Who did this, Piper? If it wasn’t Rex Emery, who abducted you and did what they did?’
Charlotte spoke as gently as she could. She couldn’t believe this had happened in the guest house. The top rooms were now their family living space, and the attic that Piper referred to was Olli’s bedroom.
Piper turned and looked at both of them.
‘I’ll never say publicly who was responsible, because even now they’ll kill me if I do. They have people everywhere. I’d rather live like this, out of the way, than see those people again. They were horrible and violent, and it terrifies me just thinking about it. I can never say who it was, for fear of word getting back to them. Besides, I have no proof anyway. What good is the word of a cheap escort compared to theirs? But I hate every single one of them and the day they die a slow death from cancer will be the happiest day of my life.’
Chapter Seven
Nigel and Charlotte passed Piper’s next client on the stairs. He must have been over sixty and reeked of cigarette smoke. Piper had escorted them to the door the moment the buzzer sounded, the sound of Ella Fitzgerald playing in the flat as they left.
‘I feel terrible for her,’ Charlotte said. ‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’
‘I’m not sure what we could do,’ Nigel replied. ‘She’s obviously still scared of someone, but wouldn’t you be, if you’d been threatened?’
Charlotte thought about the dreams she still had
, where Bruce Craven had a knife to her daughter’s throat. She knew he was dead and couldn’t get to her from his concrete grave, yet he still had power over her.
‘I can’t believe all that happened in our home,’ she said, avoiding his question. ‘All those echoes from the past… I’m not sure I dare tell Olli what happened there. If it was Lucia’s room, she’d freak out.’
As they reached the bottom of the staircase, a tall, athletic woman came out of the first flat along the ground floor hallway. She hadn’t seen Charlotte and Nigel and made directly for the pile of post on the floor. She began to sift through it, then turned as she heard their footsteps. She smiled, but it was empty, more out of obligation than desire.
‘Do you know Piper Lawrence?’ Charlotte asked, surprising herself at being so forthright. ‘The lady in Flat 3. Is she all right?’
Piper was troubling Charlotte. She knew that prostitution was a thing, and she’d read about escort agencies, but she’d never put a real person next to the news story or magazine article. It had unsettled her. What made it better for Piper to see an endless procession of clients in her own home rather than getting a regular job? She couldn’t square it in her own mind.
‘Yes, she is a friend of mine,’ the lady replied. She had an eastern European accent. Charlotte guessed that she was Polish. ‘Is she okay? Why do you ask?’
‘We just met her, and I’m a little concerned about her,’ Nigel added. ‘I’m Nigel Davies from the local newspaper, by the way.’ He fumbled for a business card but was unable to find one. ‘Sorry, I gave my last card to Piper.’
‘I know your name. I see it in the newspaper. I read it to improve my English. My name is Agnieszka. Agnieszka Kowalski. Are you friends of Piper? I am worried about her too. She gets visits from a man with a horrible voice who is not a client of hers.’
For the first time, Charlotte noticed that Agnieszka was dressed unusually for that time of day. She wore high-heels and a tight dress. She looked like she was going somewhere.
Circle of Lies Page 4