What Jenna was telling her now was truly chilling. What if they came to her house? What if they threatened her children? How far would they go to find out the truth about Bruce Craven?
The only thing that was preventing Charlotte from imploding was the single consolation that she could take from her two hours with Jenna: for whatever reason, the men had not come to visit her and Will. Maybe their information was wrong. Perhaps they didn’t know about her link to Bruce.
Her phone sounded. She expected it to be Nigel Davies again, but it was the school, one of the telephone numbers Charlotte dreaded seeing. To her horror, it was Mr Hyland, the man who’d instructed her to stay away from the school premises if she was unable to behave like the other parents.
‘Mrs Grayson? It’s Mr Hyland from school. I need to speak to you about Olli and Lucia. Are you able to come over?’
Her heart began pounding violently in her chest, as if it were about to break out.
‘I’m on a train just outside Lancaster at the moment. I won’t be home for some time, I’m afraid. My husband is also tied up at work today. Are you able to tell me about it now? Neither of them are hurt, are they?’
She walked along the train carriage, seeking the relative privacy of the linking corridors. It was unlikely to be good news. She could sense Mr Hyland’s apprehension, even at the end of a poor-quality mobile phone line.
‘I’m afraid we’ve had to take the serious action of suspending Lucia from school for one week. She started a fight in the canteen at the end of lunchtime and threw her tray of food at another student…’
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Was the other student hurt? What on earth came over her?’
‘We had to move her into isolation while she calmed down, Mrs Grayson. It’s taken us all afternoon just to be able to speak to her.’
‘Did anybody get hurt? Who did she throw the tray at?’
‘That’s just it, Mrs Grayson. Your daughter threw the tray at your son.’
Chapter Twelve
Nigel Davies was waiting for Charlotte as the train pulled into Morecambe station. She’d used the journey as a guilt trip, allowing her more than an hour to have a debate with herself about which was her greatest priority. Her daughter, who had experienced a meltdown at school? Her son, who had been on the receiving end of Lucia’s attack? Or the visit to Harvey Turnbull’s widow, which might give some clues to the terrible events involving a group of people who had met in her guest house?
In the end, Nigel Davies got her attention. Despite the embarrassing events at the school, and even though she wanted to tear a strip off Lucia for her appalling attitude of late, the security of the whole family was more important than anything else.
Unfortunately, Will didn’t see it like that. Charlotte had had to abandon a Facebook chat conversation with him after it had got heated, with Will misinterpreting what she was saying. She needed him onside, so she rang instead, desperate to bring him up to date on the latest developments in the town and Jenna’s news in particular.
‘You’re spending more time running around with Nigel Davies than attending to the guest house or your own children,’ he complained.
‘My shift’s already being covered by Isla and George. You know they always help out when I visit Jenna, in case the trains are held up. And as for Lucia, she’s almost an adult. I shouldn’t have to come rushing back home because she can’t control her temper with her brother. Besides, we need a good sit down and a proper chat with Lucia; there’s obviously something going on at school.’
‘Yes, but she’s been suspended for a week. Doesn’t that give you cause for concern?’ Will asked.
The phone signal was perfect, for a change. Charlotte would have been grateful if the train had passed through a tunnel and cut him off unexpectedly.
‘Of course it does; it’s an embarrassment, another humiliation in front of Mr Hyland. But for all we know, the school could be the source of whatever is going on. Maybe it’s for the best that she’s away from classes for a week. It’ll give us a proper chance for a chat. And as for rushing home, I suspect an evening alone in her bedroom thinking it over will do her the world of good. Besides, I need to talk to you about Barry McMillan. I can’t do it here, but I need you to trust me, Will. I’ll be back home as soon as I’ve met up with Lara Turnbull. It’s important.’
The best Charlotte could achieve was acquiescence. She’d have to settle for that; he wouldn’t stretch to endorsing her actions. As she ended the call, she realised that the issue of Barry McMillan was starting to become a full-time preoccupation, along with the threats Jenna was receiving.
‘Good trip?’ Nigel asked as she stepped down from the train. ‘I’m parked across the road in the free parking.’
It struck Jenna that she wasn’t confiding in anyone fully. Nigel, Will, Jenna, George and Isla had all had conversations with her about recent events, yet she hadn’t given any one of them the full picture. Not even Will. She resolved to tell him everything when she got home. After all, it was concealing the details of the past that had brought events to a head last time.
Charlotte changed the subject to a more interesting one.
‘Any more information about Fred Walker?’ she asked Nigel.
‘What a news story. The newspaper staff are on overtime, putting together the front page. DCI Summers is holding a press conference about his death at the Winter Gardens tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up if you want to come?’
Charlotte could hear Will’s voice in her head. Lucia wouldn’t be in school the next day. She ought to make her presence felt.
‘What time is it on?’ she asked.
‘Eleven o’clock,’ he replied. ‘They’re expecting TV, radio and possibly even national newspapers. Walker was on the Times Rich List. Barry McMillan wasn’t far from it. DCI Summers is reluctant to link the deaths publicly, but the press has done it already, so she’s probably lost control of the story. That’s probably why she’s holding the press conference, in an attempt to wrestle it back from the media.’
Charlotte had already decided to attend the press conference. Will would be at work by then and would never know that she’d gone. Lucia would still be in bed by the time she got back anyway, since she didn’t have to get up for a school day. Her newly made resolution about honesty had fallen at the first hurdle. Charlotte was confident that it was justified, to protect her family, even if not telling Will sat uncomfortably with her conscience.
Within ten minutes they were parked up at the Midland Hotel, sipping their coffees in the dining section while awaiting the arrival of Lara Turnbull. Charlotte surveyed the area, thinking back to Barry McMillan’s presentation earlier in the week. They’d been using this same room for his author event, facing out towards the sea, with spectacular views and a prime location.
She pictured him just outside the dining area, on the terrace, taking the phone call. Who was it from? Was that the call that had set in motion the events leading to his death? She wondered if the police had located his phone yet. That would throw more light on the issue, surely?
‘Nigel Davies? I’m Lara Turnbull.’
A grey-haired but well-groomed woman, probably in her sixties, was standing by their coffee table. She wore severe glasses and her voice was strong and assured. She dressed conventionally, just like a lady who sat on committees and was heavily involved in her local community.
Nigel stood up to shake her hand. She was the kind of woman that required a firm handshake, nothing of the wet fish variety. He pulled out a chair for her and introduced Charlotte.
Lara Turnbull was straight to business, not even waiting for her order of Earl Grey tea to arrive before she started.
‘I take it you’re here because of what happened to Fred Walker this morning?’
Nigel was taken aback by her directness but recovered swiftly.
‘Yes, we believe that the death of your husband may be linked to Fred Walker.’
‘Well, it’s about time too. My h
usband’s inquest was nothing more than a cover-up, Mr Davies. Do you know how he died?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Nigel.
‘There was nothing wrong with my husband on the day he died. I know that people always say that about suicide cases, but Harvey was made of sterner stuff. We met in the military as teenagers. He joined the police in civilian life. Believe me, he was not the type to kill himself.’
Charlotte looked at her. Right or wrong, she was convinced about what she was saying.
‘He was decapitated by the wheels on the roller coaster at Adventure Kingdom, did you know that?’
Nigel nodded, and Charlotte wondered how Lara Turnbull was able to carry on, having known such violent tragedy in her life.
‘Did you know that he was secured to the wooden sleepers by a length of rope?’ she added.
‘No, we didn’t,’ Nigel replied, looking at Charlotte.
‘The inquest found that he’d secured himself, probably so he didn’t turn back at the last moment and move his head before the roller coaster train came along the track. It happened instantly, Mr Davies; it took his head clean off. I wasn’t allowed to view him in his coffin before we buried him; the undertaker said it would be too upsetting.’
Charlotte and Nigel sat in silence, not knowing how to continue the conversation. Lara Turnbull carried on.
‘When we moved to Morecambe, we lived in a small, terraced house. As my husband worked his way up the ranks, we managed to move to a semi-detached house. It was our pride and joy, and we thought we were made for life. Then Harvey got into some kind of business with these men.’
Lara Turnbull reached into her formidable handbag and took out a black-and-white photograph. Charlotte and Nigel looked at each other in surprise as they both realised what she was showing them. It was the five men, pictured around the circular table in the guest house. But it was a slightly different shot, not the one that Nigel had been sent as a newspaper cutting.
‘Where did you get this image?’ Nigel asked.
‘The newspaper photographer sent it to Harvey as a favour. It was one of the photographs which didn’t make it into the paper. You can see that somebody’s arm is getting in the way on the left-hand side. But Harvey wanted a record of that night. He said it marked a special moment for us.’
‘You were about to say something about where you were living?’ Charlotte reminded her. She was fascinated by the photograph. As an original print, it was sharp and extremely clear. She couldn’t imagine the guest house looking like that.
‘Soon after this picture was taken, Harvey and I moved to my present house at Hest Bank. It’s a very nice house, with remarkable views and located in a very well-to-do area.’
‘Hest Bank is a lovely area,’ Charlotte said.
‘Indeed, it is, Ms Grayson. Have you ever looked at the police salary scales? A DCI earns a good salary, but not an exceptional one. The way we were living was more akin to how a Chief Constable would live. I wasn’t working then—our children were at school—and Harvey would insist it was all due to clever investments and our previous houses growing in equity.’
‘It sounds like you were very fortunate, Mrs Turnbull.’
Charlotte was struggling to see what the problem was. She wished some of her own financial affairs had worked out so well.
‘That’s just it, Ms Grayson. After Harvey died, I found out that all of our investments had come to nothing in the financial crash in the eighties. Yet somehow, perfectly legally, we had managed to buy our very substantial house in cash; there was no mortgage on it, so we were living for free.’
‘Do you think this is connected with your husband’s death?’ Nigel asked. Charlotte thought they worked well as a team, alternating the questions and keeping her talking.
‘I have no doubt about it whatsoever, Mr Davies. I believe my husband was involved in something serious at a very high level. Whatever it was, he was well-rewarded for the part he played in it. Something must have turned sour. If he did kill himself, then it was connected with whatever he was involved in. But I do not believe his death was a suicide. I think he was killed because of what he knew. That’s why these men are dying now. They were all involved in it. I’m absolutely certain. And I think that before we’re done the last two men in that photograph will be dead too.’
Chapter Thirteen
Olli had a cut on his forehead where a can of coke had struck him as it flew through the air, propelled by an angry swipe from Lucia in the school canteen. Charlotte had hoped the reckoning with their daughter could be postponed until the following day, but Will had other plans.
The conversation with Lara Turnbull had been productive, if terrifying.
‘I have to tell DCI Summers about this,’ Nigel said after Lara left them. ‘I can’t believe she let us get the photograph scanned in the hotel office. That was good of them. I took a photo of it and texted it to her. They have to make sure those two remaining men have decent protection. They must be next in line.’
‘But Barry McMillan committed suicide,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘He wasn’t killed. If you believe the coroner, Harvey Turnbull did the same. Maybe they just got in over their heads.’
‘If it wasn’t for Fred Walker dying the way he did, I’d agree with you. But being strangled in a theatre box? That’s a horrific way to die. It was done to make an example of him.’
‘Maybe,’ Charlotte replied, thinking it through. ‘I wish walls could talk. Imagine the tales our guest house could tell.’
Nigel and Charlotte had left the Midland Hotel soon after Lara Turnbull’s departure. Charlotte was worn out from her day, and Nigel was keen to get a good night’s sleep in anticipation of the next day’s press conference. He dropped her off on the road outside the guest house, promising to pick her up again the next day at ten-thirty.
By the time she’d checked that the guests in the lounge were happy and that all was well in the kitchen, Charlotte was eager for an early night. But as she arrived upstairs, she walked in on a court case that was already in progress. Will was sitting at the table, with Olli beside him sporting a sticking plaster on his head. Lucia was opposite them sitting with her arms crossed and a hostile look on her face.
‘Ah, your mum’s home, let’s see if she agrees with me.’
Charlotte wasn’t ready for a hijack. She was preoccupied with what Lara Turnbull had told them.
‘So, what do you think?’ Will asked.
‘I think I’d rather discuss this at another time,’ Charlotte replied, not in the mood for a family intervention.
‘I think we should discuss it now.’
Will was pushing his luck. If he carried on the way he was going, Lucia wouldn’t be the only one getting a row that night.
‘I’m just too tired to do this now, Will…’
‘Then when will we do it?’ Will said, more forcefully than usual. ‘You seem to be out with Nigel Davies most of the time. I think it’s important that we deal with this now.’
He’d made a reasonable point about her going off with Nigel. She probably owed him some response. Charlotte decided she’d better engage in the process.
‘What happened?’ she asked Lucia.
Her daughter’s body language suggested an answer wasn’t going to be forthcoming.
‘Olli? How about you start?’
‘It was something about nothing, really. I just wanted to talk to Lucia at school, away from home. We’re all worried about her—’
‘Get stuffed, Olli!’
‘Lucia!’ Will warned.
‘I’d seen her talking to some guy on the way in to school this morning. He had a purple Mohican and a tattoo all around his neck. You might say he stood out a bit…’
‘Why can’t you just keep your big mouth shut!’ Lucia screamed at him. She thumped the table, stormed out of the room and slammed her bedroom door behind her.
‘That went well,’ Charlotte said. ‘I told you to leave it until we’d chatted.’
Will w
as on her back immediately.
‘How many evenings this week have we been saying we need to talk to Lucia? A man died in this guest house at the beginning of the week, and we’re treating it like he just checked out as normal. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty goddamn tense about it. And this behaviour from Lucia is not normal. She’s been lying to us. She’s quit her job at the arcade, she’s out late at night and now this. Tell her, Olli.’
Olli looked at Will to make certain he’d got the go-ahead, then turned towards her, as if checking she would be receptive. Charlotte gave a small nod of encouragement.
‘This guy I saw her with, he was older than us, in his twenties or maybe even thirties. His Mohican was shaped like a lizard on his head, and the neck tattoo was some kind of dragon or snake or something. He was pierced heavily too. Let’s put it this way; he’s not a student at the school. Lucia was talking to him like he was a best friend.’
‘Does he work at the arcade?’ Charlotte asked. ‘He’s not the sort of person you could miss, by the sound of things.’
‘I’ve never seen him there,’ Olli replied. ‘Anyhow, I decided to ask her about it away from home, just to see what’s going on. I spotted her in the school cafeteria, all alone, so I asked if I could join her.’
‘Thanks for looking out for her, Olli,’ Will said.
‘I pulled up a chair and just talked nonsense to start with. You know, school stuff, music stuff, the usual crap. Then I mentioned casually that I’d seen her with this guy. I asked her who he was.’
‘What did she say?’ Charlotte asked.
‘She just started tearing into me,’ Olli continued. ‘Talk about being on a short fuse. She just exploded. She told me to butt out of her business and get back to Miss Pretty Pants. That’s what she calls Willow now. They used to be best buddies until a few weeks ago. I pushed her on it again, and that’s when she stood up, shouted that I was a fucking dickhead, threw her tray at me and ran out of the dining hall. You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody was looking at me. It was so embarrassing.’
Circle of Lies Page 7