Dead Feint

by Grant Atherton

  Interrupting Lowe, I said, “Something here doesn’t add up.”

  He put down his pen. “Go on. I’m all ears.”

  “I just went back through the forensics report. We originally presumed the victim was killed indoors and then moved. Right?”

  “Because of the carpet fibres, yes. But that’s all it was. A presumption. And given what we now know about Candy’s movements, it seems unlikely. And forensics didn’t find anything at the Farrow residence.”

  “But it was a reasonable presumption to make. Those carpet fibres are much more suggestive of an indoor location. The body was covered in them.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t make it proof positive. It’s more reasonable to presume something happened to her on the way to the station.”

  “Look, Candy was supposed to be travelling to London by train to visit a friend, right? But John Farrow tells us here in his statement that she was vague about exactly where she was going and who she was visiting.”

  Lowe swivelled his chair toward me and folded his arms. “Where are you going with this?”

  “According to the report, she never made it to the station.” I tapped the file. “The only CCTV in the area is on the platform itself, and there was no sign of her. And she never bought a ticket.”

  “That just means someone got to her while she was still in the car park.”

  “So why no witnesses? We’re talking here about a wide open public space overlooked on three sides by houses. And yet nobody’s come forward despite all the publicity. Surely, if anything amiss had happened there, someone would have seen it?”

  Lowe swivelled back and forth in his chair as he considered this. “So what do you think happened?”

  “I think she may have been lying. That she never intended to go to London. I think she may have been meeting someone here she didn’t want John Farrow to know about.”

  He stopped swivelling. “What are you suggesting? She was having an affair? Playing away from home?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? But it has to be a possibility. There could be any number of reasons. I’m just saying we shouldn’t presume she was telling the truth about that trip.”

  “That doesn’t explain the other murders. And don’t forget, Jenna was attacked by two assailants.”

  “Agreed. All I’m saying is we may need to dig deeper. Not take anything we’ve learned so far at face value. It’s easy to make assumptions.”

  Before either of us could pursue this line of thought, we were interrupted by Nathan’s return. “They’re just bringing Farrow through to the interview room,” he said.

  Something about the way he spoke caught my attention. He spoke sharply, and there was still a tenseness in his voice.

  “Everything okay?” I said. I couldn’t believe he was still fretting about my refusal to move out of Woodside Cottage.

  Jaw clenched, he stared at me without speaking, his mouth compressed in a tight line.

  He was still annoyed.

  He turned away. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

  Lowe reached towards the monitor on his desk and switched it on.

  I shot Nathan a last guarded look before turning my attention to the screen. Whatever argument was in the offing would have to wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Like Marcus Farrow’s previous interview, this was more of the same; a bitter tirade against the unjustness of his situation, how he was just a victim of circumstance. The three of us, Nathan, Lowe and I, sat around the monitor and watched him shuffle in his chair and whine at Miles Barber’s every attempt to elicit information from him. Even Barber, an experienced interviewer, was losing his cool.

  Faced with another of Farrow’s rants about the dire consequences the police would face for their continued harassment of innocent people, Barber finally lost it and slammed his fist down on the table. “If you’d been more forthcoming in the first place, you wouldn’t be in this position now.”

  Farrow flinched and choked on his words.

  Taking advantage of the sudden silence, Barber leaned towards Farrow, his expression set hard, and said, “Perhaps this would be a good time to spell out the consequences of wasting police time.”

  Deflated, Farrow slumped in his chair. “Have you any idea what this has done to me? I’m ruined.”

  “May I suggest that your current problems result from your own actions, not ours.” Barber reigned in his temper and in a more even voice said, “Now, let’s get back to the purpose of this interview, shall we? You can start by telling me about your relationship with Jenna Lawson.”

  “What’s to tell?” Farrow’s tone was petulant. “We were having an affair. You already know that.”

  “And how long had it been going on?”

  “About a year. But it was over. She finished it weeks ago.”

  “Is that what the row was about?”

  Farrow squirmed and tugged at each of his shirt cuffs in turn. “I didn’t want it getting out about us. This new guy she was seeing. Candy’s brother. She knew he didn’t like me. If he found out, he could have caused trouble.”

  “And so you threatened her?”

  Gripping the edge of the table, Farrow pushed himself upright. “I did no such thing. I may have been a bit forceful, but no more than that.”

  Barber glanced down at his notes. “You seem to have a reputation for threatening women. Candy Bayliss for example; a violent argument, a threatening text message.”

  “She found out about my affair and threatened to tell my wife. She was a real bitch.”

  “Two women you had violent arguments with. And both of them murdered. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “And that’s all it is. You’re not going to pin them on me.”

  Barber ran an eye down his notes again. “We have it on record that your father was about to disinherit you and throw you out of the family home. And he only relented to protect your wife’s interests.” He looked up again and stared Farrow in the eyes. “If your affair had caused a split with your wife, your father may well have changed his mind, wouldn’t he? With dire consequences for you.”

  Farrow stayed silent.

  Barber pressed Farrow some more. “Sounds to me like a good enough reason for murder.”

  Sputtering, Farrow said, “I was at home all day with my wife when Jenna was killed. She’ll confirm that.”

  “I wonder if she’ll be quite as willing to give you an alibi when she finds out about your affair?”

  The interview carried on in this vein for a while longer. Barber’s approach was a well-practised one; keep prodding away at your interviewee, goad him into losing his temper, and all too often he would slip up, blurt out something without stopping to think about it, and give himself away. Always presuming, of course, there was something to give away. In Farrow’s case, I still wasn’t convinced and was glad when Barber eventually brought the interview to a close.

  Nothing I had seen or heard persuaded me that Farrow was involved in either murder.

  Lowe didn’t share my opinion. During the post-interview briefing, he made it clear he still regarded Farrow as a prime suspect. “I just don’t buy it,” he said. “He has to be involved.”

  I tried to cut in, but he dismissed my interruption with a wave of the hand.

  “I know what you think, Mikey. But it’s too much of a coincidence; both women murdered after he threatened them.” He tapped his pen on the desk to stress his words.

  “And that’s all you have,” I said. “Coincidence.”

  Nathan was unusually silent, leaving Lowe and me to argue between ourselves. Lowe said, “For your sake, I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because if I’m wrong, and your theory is right, you’re the one who’s at risk. Maybe you should reconsider the Chief’s offer.”

  Nathan’s only response was to snort and rise to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting. To Lowe, he said, “Check on those alibis and keep me up to speed on
developments, will you?” At the door, he said, “In my office when you’re through, Mikey.” And he was gone.

  We waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded away, and Lowe said, “What’s eating the Chief?”

  “Looks like he’s still pissed at me for refusing to move out of Woodside Cottage.”

  Lowe shook his head, a look of sympathetic understanding on his face. “Well, you know what I think. But for the moment, I’m increasing surveillance on the cottage. That should help.”

  I was eager to get away and finish my argument with Nathan but needed to push home my point. “There is something you’re overlooking,” I said. “Jenna was attacked my two assailants. So the murders may be unrelated. Which means my well-being isn’t something that need concern you.”

  He didn’t seem convinced. “Until we have more information, we have no way of knowing if they were connected or not. I’m hoping forensics can help us there.”

  “So what now?”

  “We’ll check Farrow’s alibi of course. But we know from experience that Carol Farrow isn’t above lying on her husband’s behalf. If she’s the only one in a position to verify his whereabouts, we may not be able to rely on her word.”

  “As Miles pointed out, she may be less inclined to defend him when she hears about his affair.”

  “We can but hope.”

  We finished our discussion on that note and I said my goodbyes. “I’d best go see the Chief and get it over with. Wish me luck.”

  “I’ve a feeling you might need it,” he said as I closed the door behind me.

  Nathan was sat behind his desk, the same hard expression on his face.

  I dropped onto the couch and launched into a prepared defence before he had time to speak. “I don’t see any point in going over this again. I still say I’m better off where I am. It makes no—”

  He interrupted me. “Did you find my notebook?”

  The question came out of nowhere. It took a moment or two for it to sink in. And when it did, the blood drained from my face.

  “At the Gastronomica. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. I swallowed hard and gripped the arm of the couch.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was as if my mind had stopped working. All I could do was stare into his angry reddened face, unable to speak or move. I tried to gather my thoughts, struggling to find the right words, but finding none.

  “I thought… I wanted…”

  Unable to face him, I dropped my gaze. I tightened my grip on the arm of the couch, trying to stop the trembling in my hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I blurted out the words.

  “Not good enough.” He shouted out the words, sprang to his feet, and rounded his desk, coming towards me with his fists clenched. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it, Mikey. Not this time. This time, you’ve gone too far.”

  I cowered away from him. “Please don’t say that.”

  “What the hell do you expect me to say?” He was leaning over me, shouting into my face. “What did you do? Follow me? And just what did you expect to find?” He was raging, his anger barely in control.

  I raised an arm between us to ward him off. “I found your receipt. It was Stoke Newington. And I heard your call.”

  “Call?” He spat the word at me.

  “On the phone. About a new relationship. And complications. I thought—”

  “You thought it was Brandon. You thought I was cheating on you.”

  “I didn’t know what to think.” I scrambled away from him along the couch and rose to face him. “I was looking for answers.” It was time to fight back. “And don’t tell me there weren’t any to find. I’m not so stupid, I don’t know when something is wrong.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask?”

  “I did, remember? You just brushed it aside.”

  “And why do you suppose that was?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who keeps secrets.”

  We were both shouting now.

  “Did you really need another reason to feed your insecurities? Another excuse to question my commitment?”

  His words hit me like a blow. I stepped back too shocked to respond. Insecurities?

  He shook his head, his mouth a tight grim line. “This isn’t working is it, Mikey? I feel like I’m walking on eggshells the whole time. Constantly having to reassure you. Any wonder I can’t talk to you?”

  Shaking with anger, I retorted, “And you thought you’d deal with that how? By lying to me?

  “I never lied to you.”

  “It amounts to the same thing. You think I can’t tell when you’re keeping something back? You think commitment only works one way?” I was on a roll, getting into my stride. “Just what was I supposed to think? Of course I thought it was Brandon. Who else was it-”

  He cut across me, voice raised. “He tried to kill himself.”

  I froze where I stood and the words died in my throat. We faced each other in silence and, for the first time, I realised how drawn he looked; the dark patches under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his skin.

  A clock on the wall behind the desk counted down the seconds, breaking the silence with each intrusive tick. Footsteps clattered across the floor above and, somewhere outside, a car door slammed.

  It took a few moments for the full impact of his words to sink in as I stared into his troubled face.

  “What happened?” The words came out barely above a whisper.

  “An overdose.”

  He stared at me a moment longer, face grim. And then his shoulders dropped, and he fell onto the couch, all the fight gone out of him.

  Of all the emotions, anger is the one that men are most familiar and the most comfortable with. It’s the one behind which we hide what we perceive to be our weaknesses. All those frailties and vulnerabilities that make us less than men. Anger appeals to us because it helps us keep control.

  But there are times our anger fails us, and we can no longer rely on it to protect us from the fear and pain and loss we try to hide.

  And then we must learn to let it go and deal with those feelings now exposed.

  I sank onto the couch at his side and wrapped an arm around him, holding his head in the crook of my neck with the other hand, and we sat like this in quiet surrender until the last vestiges of anger had drained away.

  He was shaking. “It all got out of hand while you were back in London. Texts and phone calls. And he came down a couple of times.”

  “He didn’t want to let you go?”

  I couldn’t quite connect what I’d heard with the image of the man I remembered; that carefree manner, the open trusting face and wide boyish grin. I remembered his excited chatter and the way he bounced around when he moved; energetic, and with a zest for life.

  “I only met him that once,” I said. “He seemed such a cheerful soul.”

  Nathan pulled away and sat upright. “You only saw that side of him. You never saw how needy he was, how demanding, how…” He faltered.

  “How insecure?”

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile.

  I returned his smile with one of my own. “You sure do know how to pick your men.”

  “None of this was about us, Mikey. I hope you know that. I was in a bad place.” He cupped the back of my head and pressed his forehead to mine. “And I’m sorry for that.” He leaned back. “It was so wrong.”

  “Hey, come on. Let’s get real here, shall we? It’s not like I’ve made it easy for you.”

  “I should have told you.”

  “And I should have trusted you. What I did was shameful. I knew that as soon as I did it. I would have given anything to undo it.”

  “You must have been worried sick to do such a thing.”

  “I thought… I never… I never really understood your…” I struggled to find the right word. “…your friendship with Brendon. I guess I never
wanted to. I hadn’t realised just how much you meant to him.”

  “I never promised him anything. After you and I… you know… after we went our separate ways, I didn’t want to get into anything heavy. I didn’t want another relationship.”

  There was a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing. It was so easy now to see how the consequences of that ill-considered decision to leave him behind all those years ago had damaged him as much as it had me. It had left him less than capable of committing to a stable relationship. And even after all this time, the fallout from that decision was still blighting our lives.

  I squeezed his arm. “I’m so sorry this had to happen.”

  He pulled a face. “We make our choices. And I guess we have to live with the consequences.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “The day of the London conference, his sister called me.” He pushed himself up from the couch, moved over to the window, and stared out into the bright clear day. “She was angry and held me responsible for what happened.”

  His usual proud erect posture was no longer evident. He seemed diminished, his shoulders slumped.

  This wasn’t the Nathan I knew. He was usually so confident, so sure of himself, it was easy to forget that he was susceptible to the same weaknesses and frailties that beset us all.

  “I hope you don’t blame yourself. It’s like you said, we all make our own choices. And that was his choice, not yours.”

  He turned to face me. “I have to take some responsibility. I should have seen the signs. Understood what was happening.”

  I didn’t know how to answer him.

  “I agreed to visit him after his discharge from hospital,” he continued. He screwed up his eyes and fell silent. When he spoke again, there was a tremor in his voice. “That wasn’t an easy meeting.”

  I held up a restraining hand to stop him going any further. I didn’t need the details. I could imagine how traumatic it must have been. For both of them.

  “His family are taking good care of him,” he said. “So I thought it best not to see him again. It would just complicate things.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”