Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

I don’t answer.

  “It was an accident! I lashed out, lost my temper. I didn’t mean to hit him. He slipped and . . .” Tears trace the outline of her face and drop onto her jumper. She looks wretched, and despite myself—despite everything she’s done—I feel myself weakening. I believe her when she says it was never meant to be like this. Who would want this to happen?

  “So, tell the police that. Be honest. That’s all you can do.” I keep my voice calm, but at the mention of the police her eyes widen in alarm and she resumes her pacing, even faster and more frantic than before. She pulls open the sliding door to the balcony and a gust of icy air rushes in. There are cheers from somewhere on the street—seven floors below us—and music competes from every direction. My heart pounds, my hands suddenly clammy and hot despite the open door. “Mum, come back inside.”

  She walks out to the balcony.

  “Mum—give me Ella.” Trying to keep my voice calm.

  The outside space is small—designed more for cigarettes than for barbecues—protected by a toughened glass surround.

  My mother crosses the balcony. She looks down and I don’t even know what I cry out, only that it leaves my mouth and makes no impact, because Mum’s staring down at the street with horror on her face. Ella’s tight in her arms, but so close to the edge, so close . . .

  “Give Ella to me, Mum.” I move slowly, one step at a time. Grandmother’s footsteps. “You don’t want to hurt her. She’s just a baby.”

  She turns around. Her voice is so faint it’s a struggle to hear her against the noise of the city below us. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Gently, I take Ella from her, resisting the urge to snatch her and run, to barricade myself in another room. Mum doesn’t resist, and I hold my breath as I reach out one hand. She must know this has to stop.

  “Now give me the gun.”

  It’s as if I break a spell. Her eyes snap to mine, as though she’s just remembered I’m there. Her grip tightens and she pulls away, but my hand is already around her wrist and, although I’m seized by terror, I can’t let it go. I push her arm away from me—away from us—toward the night sky, but she’s trying to turn back toward the apartment and we’re both using every ounce of strength we have. We tussle like children over a toy, neither letting go; neither brave enough to do more in case it—

  It doesn’t sound like a gun.

  It sounds like a bomb. Like a building collapsing. Like an explosion.

  The glass surround shatters. An echo to the gunshot, to the fizz of fireworks overhead.

  I let go first. Step back from the edge of the balcony, where there’s nothing now between safety and the night sky. My ears are ringing as if I’m in a bell tower, and above the ringing Ella is screaming, and I know it must hurt her because it’s hurting me, too.

  My mother and I stare at each other, eyes wide in mutual terror of what just happened. What could have happened. She looks at the gun in her hand, holding it flat in her palm, as though she doesn’t want to touch it.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

  “Put down the gun.”

  She walks inside. Puts the gun on the coffee table and paces the flat. She’s muttering something, her face twisted and her hands on her head, fingers grabbing at her hair.

  I look down from the balcony, Ella held safely away from the edge. Where are the people? Where are the police cars, the ambulances, the crowds running to see where the gunshot came from? There is nothing. No one looking up. No one running. Revelers on their way from one bar to another. A man in an overcoat, talking on the phone. He walks around the shattered pieces of glass. Drunks, litter, broken glass—just more unwanted fallout from New Year’s Eve.

  I shout, “Help!”

  We are on the seventh floor. The air is filled with snatches of music as doors open and close, a continual thump of bass from somewhere a few streets away, fireworks from partygoers too impatient to wait for midnight.

  “Up here!”

  There’s a couple on the sidewalk below. I glance back at my mother, then lean over as far as I dare and shout again. She looks up; he does, too. He raises one arm—what looks like a full pint glass in his hand. And the tinny cheer that drifts up to me tells me my shouting is pointless.

  I’m about to turn away, when I see it.

  Parked on the street, oblivious to the double yellows, is a black Mitsubishi Shogun.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-THREE

  MURRAY

  Murray and DS Kennedy had decamped to the kitchen of Oak View, where an unofficial incident room had been established.

  “Check the voters’ register for Mark Hemmings.” James was standing up, issuing directives to a young DC, who was furiously scribbling them down, ready to relay them to control room. His phone rang and he took the call, listening intently, then covering the microphone as he updated the detective sergeant.

  “Anna Johnson’s car pinged automatic number plate recognition cameras twice leaving Eastbourne. There are several cameras on the A27, but they didn’t trigger any of them.” Murray’s heart sank—had Caroline taken Anna and the baby somewhere else entirely? The DC was still talking. “They picked up the car again in London—the last ping was just after half ten on the South Circular.”

  James looked at Murray. “Anything from Hemmings’s phone?”

  “Still ringing out. I’ll keep trying.”

  “I’ve asked for cell site on Anna’s phone.”

  Murray pressed redial. Nothing. He had already left a message, but if Mark had switched his phone to silent for the drive, it could be another hour before he responded. In the meantime, who knew what Caroline had planned?

  “Sarge, there are tons of people named Mark Hemmings on voters. Do we have a middle name?”

  While James rooted through the pile of post abandoned on the kitchen table, in the hope of finding at least an initial, Murray brought up Google.

  It was, he thought, the online equivalent of good old-fashioned policing, the sort that didn’t rely on police intelligence systems, or databases, or data protection waivers. It was the equivalent of knocking on doors, asking real people what they knew.

  He searched for “Mark Hemmings, Putney” and got too many hits to be useful. He closed his eyes for a moment; remembered what he knew about Anna’s partner. Then he allowed himself a slow smile. Mark Hemmings hadn’t only lived in a flat in Putney; he had worked there.

  “Flat 702, Putney Bridge Tower, SW15 2JX.” Murray spun the phone across the table to James, the listing of accredited counselors open at: Mark Hemmings, Dip.ST., DipSTTS, MA (Psych), UKCP (Accredited), MBACP.

  “Nicely played.”

  Murray listened as James passed the address to control room. As soon as the call was finished, Sussex would pass the information to the Metropolitan Police, who would whir into action; the CAD Room dispatching officers left, right, and center. Silent approach . . . All officers to hold at the RV point. Firearms officers waiting for threat assessments, authorizations. An ambulance en route. Negotiators on standby. Scores of people, all working toward the same aim.

  All hoping to get there in time.

  “That’s that, then,” James said. He put down his mobile. “I hate these cross-border jobs. We do the legwork and MetPol get the collar.” He gave a rueful shrug. “Frustrating, you know?”

  Murray knew. Only, he realized that, right now, he didn’t feel frustrated. He didn’t want to be there for the collar, for the body count, for the tea and medals.

  He wanted to go home.

  He cared what happened to Anna and Ella—of course he did—but he had finally understood what he should have realized a long time ago. Crimes weren’t solved by a single detective: they were solved by a team. Murray had been a good detective, but he wasn’t indispensable. No one was.

  “Murray.” James was hesitant. “I
t was my team who dealt with the Johnson suicides originally. It was me who signed off the coroner’s files.”

  “We all miss things, James. Caroline did a proper job—it was practically watertight.” Caroline. Murray’s brain wouldn’t switch off. How had Caroline got Tom’s body into the septic tank on her own?

  “I was newly promoted. Wanted to get stuck into GBHs, sexual assaults, you know? Real crimes. I was too quick to get things off my desk.”

  Murray remembered his own early days on CID. He remembered the buzz when a “good” job came in; the collective groans when stretched resources were tied up with investigations going nowhere. If he’d been in James’s shoes, who was to say he wouldn’t have done the same thing?

  He let the younger man off the hook with a light touch on his arm, his mind still on Caroline. “It doesn’t get much more real than this.”

  Who had helped Caroline dispose of the body?

  “I’m going to take the team back to the office. You’re welcome to join us—wait for an update?”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to head home. See in the New Year with Sarah.” Murray looked out into the garden, where the tent had been zipped closed and a uniformed officer stood sentry, a thick black scarf wound around his neck.

  “Don’t blame you. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear from the Met.”

  They stood up. On the wall, next to Murray, was a corkboard, and he looked idly at its contents as he waited for James to gather his paperwork. A pregnancy scan had pride of place in the center. A wristband from some festival or other dangled from a pin on the frame, a relic from Anna’s life before the baby. There was a wedding invitation—evening reception only—and a thank-you note from Bryony for the lovely flowers—filled two vases!

  And at the bottom, on the right-hand side, was a flyer.

  That was it.

  The final piece of the puzzle.

  It wasn’t euphoria Murray felt. Just relief—that his previously sharp memory hadn’t failed him. He had finally remembered what he had seen on Diane Brent-Taylor’s bulletin board. And—more important—he knew exactly what it meant.

  “One last thing,” he said to James, as the two men walked toward their respective cars. He wondered, as he said it, if he might subconsciously want to hang on to the information—to check it out himself and claim the credit when everything fell into place—but he found that he didn’t. In fact, he was glad to let it go.

  “Yes?”

  “I know who helped Caroline Johnson get rid of the body.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-FOUR

  ANNA

  There’s a noise from the landing. The quiet ping of the lift as it announces its arrival. I look at Mum, but her eyes are fixed on the door.

  “Who is it?” I whisper, but she doesn’t answer.

  Could it be the police?

  Mark would have called them as soon as we left Eastbourne; they know we’re here. And now that they’ve found Dad’s body, they must know what she did—they must realize whom I’m with . . . I pin my hopes on Mark and Murray, on them adding two and two and making four.

  “Open the door. I know you’re in here.”

  The rush of relief makes me so heady I almost laugh. Not the police, but the next best thing.

  Mum doesn’t move, but I do. I’ve been stupid. The driver of the black Mitsubishi Shogun wasn’t chasing us, but was trying to make Mum stop. I run to the door and yank it open, because suddenly we’re two against one and I feel invincible.

  “Thank God you’re here.”

  I’m braced for attack from behind, not in front. It catches me square in the chest and forces me backward, and I just manage to hold Ella aloft as I trip and land on the floor. I let out a moan. My head is trying to catch up with what my eyes are telling me is happening.

  This is no rescue.

  Laura shuts the front door and bolts it. She’s wearing skinny black jeans with high heels and a shimmery top, dressed for a party she won’t be attending. Our New Year’s Eve party. Her hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders and her eyes smolder with glittery grays and greens. She ignores me, directing her anger at Mum, who is backing slowly away toward the balcony.

  “You double-crossing bitch.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I can still remember Laura’s face.

  She stood in the doorway, her features frozen in horror.

  “I rang the bell. The door was open, so . . .” She stared at your body. The blood was congealing. The ceiling lights were reflected in the sticky gloop on the floor—a halo of silver around your head. “What happened?”

  I’ve thought a lot about that moment. About what I said. Would things have been different if I’d explained to her it was an accident? That I’d lost my temper, lashed out? That drink made me do things I hadn’t planned to do?

  “I killed him.”

  The color drained from her face.

  I felt my muscles spasm and I realized I’d been in the same spot since I . . . since you fell. I straightened. Remembered I was still holding the neck of the bottle. I dropped it, and it fell with a thud. Rolling, not breaking. It made Laura jump.

  The sound jolted me into action. I picked up the phone but didn’t dial. My hand shook.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the police.” I wondered if being drunk made it better or worse. An aggravating factor to be under the influence, or mitigation that I didn’t know what I was doing?

  “You can’t call the police!” Laura crossed the kitchen and took the phone out of my hand. She glanced at you again and I saw her wince as she took in the seeping mess from behind your ear. “Caroline, you’ll be arrested! They’ll put you in prison.”

  I sank onto a chair, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. There was a strange smell in the kitchen, a metallic, sour odor of blood and sweat and death.

  “You could get life.”

  I imagined what it would be like to live my life in a prison cell. I thought of the documentaries I’d seen. I thought of Prison Break and Orange Is the New Black and wondered how close they were to the truth.

  I thought, too, of the help I might get.

  Because you were right, Tom—it was no way to live. I kidded myself that I didn’t have a problem, because I didn’t wake up shaking, or sit in a park with a can of Special Brew. But I shouted at you. I taunted you. I hit you. And now I’d killed you.

  I had a problem with alcohol. A big problem.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “Caroline, think about this. Think carefully. Once you make that call, there’s no going back. What’s happened is . . .” She shudders. “God, it’s awful, but you can’t undo it. Going to prison isn’t going to bring Tom back.”

  I looked at the series of photographs printed on canvas and hung above the Aga. You, me, and Anna, lying on our stomachs wearing blue jeans and white T-shirts. Laughing. Laura followed my gaze. She spoke quietly.

  “If you go to prison, Anna loses both of you.”

  I said nothing for a while. “So . . . what?” I felt myself sliding away from what was right, what was good. Did it matter? I had already committed a crime. “We can’t leave him here.”

  We.

  That was the moment. The moment we became a team.

  “No,” Laura said. Her jaw was set tight. “We can’t leave him here.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It took two of us to move the terra-cotta pot away from the manhole cover. You had put it there when we’d moved in, and I’d planted a bay tree we’d been given as a housewarming gift. The cover was ugly, and there was no need for access—the septic tank was a hangover from when the town boundary was half a mile to the west, and this cluster of houses a rural outlier.

  The key was a fat metal baton, abou
t three inches long. It had lived in the dresser drawer for as long as we lived at Oak View, but it slotted into the hole in the cover as neatly as the day it had been made.

  Inside, a narrow tunnel, like the entrance to a sloping well. The air was stale but not fetid, the contents of the tank long since dried up. I looked at Laura. We were sweating from the effort of dragging you out from the kitchen, and from the blind fear of what we were about to do. What we’d already done. If we stopped now, it would be too late. It would be obvious we had tried to hide your body. The damage had already been done.

  We put you in headfirst. I cried out as you slid halfway into the tunnel and stuck fast, as your belt caught on the metal surround. Laura pulled hard on your jeans, and you made a sound. An involuntary groan as air was forced from your lungs.

  I couldn’t watch. I turned away and heard the heavy drag as you traveled into the tank; a loud, dull clunk as you hit the bottom.

  Silence.

  I had stopped crying, but my heart ached with loss and guilt. If the police had arrived right then, I think I would have told them everything.

  Not Laura.

  “Now we need to clean up.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was Laura’s idea to fake the suicide.

  “If we report him missing, they’ll see you as a suspect. They always do.”

  She made me go over the plan again and again; then she left. I didn’t sleep. I sat in the kitchen, looking out the window at the garden I’d turned into a grave. I cried for you, and—yes—I cried for me, too.

  Laura drove to Brighton as soon as it was light, waited for the shops to open, and bought a mobile phone. An untraceable SIM card. She called the police; said she’d seen you go over the cliff edge.

  Every day I expected the police to come. Every day I jumped when the doorbell rang. I couldn’t sleep; couldn’t eat. Anna tried to tempt me with scrambled eggs, scraps of smoked salmon, tiny bowls of fruit salad, her eyes full of her own grief, even as she tried to lessen mine.