What Lies Beneath (Rutland crime series Book 1)

by Adam Croft

  ‘Your mum said you weren’t home.’

  Hannah made a noise like the brakes on a bus. ‘She’s full of shit. She wanted me out of the way when you guys came over, because she thought I might say “the wrong thing”.’

  ‘I don’t think there is a wrong thing or a right thing to say. The only thing we want is the truth.’

  Hannah cocked her head and waved a finger. ‘I know, right? That’s what I said to her, but she wasn’t having it. She likes to be seen as this perfect little housewife, the dedicated churchgoer who can’t do any wrong. It’s all bullshit.’

  ‘How so?’

  Hannah dropped onto the bed in a seated position, bouncing a couple of times as the mattress fought back. ‘She’s been hanging out with this rugby guy a lot lately. He used to be a pro, apparently. Like, back in the seventeenth century or something. Mum says they’re just friends, but she doesn’t know a thing about rugby. They’re clearly banging.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘And what makes you say that?’

  ‘I know these things. You should see the way they look at each other. It’s gross. Shame, too. I’d totally go there.’

  ‘What, with the rugby guy?’

  ‘Patrick,’ Hannah said, as if she’d already told Caroline his name and she was being rude by not using it. ‘And yeah, totally. For an old guy he’s pretty hot. He’s, like, all muscles and stuff. Super yum.’

  Caroline nodded slowly, the cogs turning in her brain as she tried to figure out the odd family dynamic. ‘And when you say old…’

  ‘Oh, he’s like mid-forties, probably? Younger than Dad, but still proper old. Your sort of age. Not, like, grandad age but still plenty of juice left in the tank.’

  ‘I see. You like older men, do you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time. They tend to be more… appreciative.’

  ‘Do you have a photo of Patrick?’ Caroline asked, keen to keep the conversation clean and professional.

  ‘Well, yeah. Just Google the guy.’ Hannah stood up and walked over to her desk, before tapping a couple of keys on her laptop to wake it up. She logged in, pulled up a browser tab and typed Patrick Walsh into Google Images. ‘There you go. Fit or what?’

  Caroline had to admit he wasn’t bad at all, but refrained from saying so. She took her mobile phone from her pocket and snapped a couple of pictures of the screen.

  ‘Urgh. Old people are so dumb. You don’t need to do that. Just Google him on your phone and download the images.’

  ‘Well it’s done now,’ Caroline replied, smiling. As she went to put her phone back in her pocket, it began to vibrate. Sara Henshaw’s name was on the screen. ‘One sec,’ she mouthed to Hannah, stepping out of the room. ‘Sara?’

  ‘Thought you might like to know, one of the councillors called me back. Barbara Tallis, her name is. She’s free tomorrow morning and happy to meet for a chat.’

  Caroline smiled. She had a feeling that could be very useful indeed.

  11

  ‘Who’d he play for?’ Caroline asked as they walked into town the next morning to meet Councillor Barbara Tallis.

  ‘Leicester Tigers, apparently,’ Dexter replied, reading off his phone. ‘Local lad, played his whole career there. Even got a few games for Ireland.’

  ‘Ooh, properly local then.’

  ‘His parents are Irish. You know what it’s like with international sport. If you order a takeaway once a week they let you play for China.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Dexter said, grimacing at his phone. ‘Can’t see any mention of a wife here, but I’ll keep looking.’

  Before long, the looming spire of the Church of All Saints was behind them and the marketplace opened in front.

  The Lord Nelson was a traditional characterful pub tucked away in the corner of the marketplace, with the original building dating back to the 1500s. They ordered two coffees at the bar, then made their way through the labyrinthine corridors and up the stairs.

  ‘Christ, this place is like a maze,’ Caroline said, trying not to spill her coffee.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been here before,’ Dexter replied, already knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘I’m not really a pub person.’

  ‘It’s not just a pub. It’s the heart of the community. Then again, I don’t suppose that appeals either, does it?’ he said, checking one of the upstairs lounge rooms and finding it empty.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re not community-minded and you don’t have a heart. Ah! You must be Councillor Tallis. DS Antoine. Lovely to meet you.’

  Caroline knew he’d timed his barb perfectly and would spend the rest of the meeting with a smug grin on his face, knowing all she wanted to do was put him right.

  Even if the Lord Nelson had been heaving with people, Barbara Tallis would have been the clear favourite in a Spot The Councillor competition. And from the way she spoke, it seemed she had a number of years’ of experience in local politics under her belt.

  ‘Terrible news about Roger,’ she said, getting to the point. ‘The way he died, I mean.’

  ‘Were you close?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure anyone was ever close to Roger. He was a… tricky character, let’s say.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Look, local politics is always swimming with rumours and people making assumptions, but I guess that’s the nature of the game. There were a few people — and I’m naming no names — who got the impression that Roger only came onto the council when it suited him, rather than because he wanted to do something for the local community.’

  ‘With the greatest of respect,’ Caroline said, ‘you may well have to name names. This is a murder investigation.’

  Dexter tried to settle the uneasy atmosphere. ‘How did he keep getting voted back onto the council if he was that unpopular?’

  ‘Oh, good Lord, that’s not difficult. We have enough trouble trying to get people to stand as it is. Most wards and council seats are won unopposed, without us even getting so far as holding a vote. On the odd occasions people actually did stand against Roger, he always had just enough friends to be able to sneak back in. Anyone can get on the council by putting their name down, essentially. We’ve got vacancies at the moment, if either of you are interested.’

  ‘I live in Leicester, unfortunately,’ Dexter said, trying to remain diplomatic.

  ‘And I follow Groucho Marx’s philosophy of not joining any club that’d have me as a member,’ Caroline added, her attempt at humour not quite hitting its mark.

  ‘Yes, well, it’s more of a civic responsibility than a “club”, and I must say that sort of attitude is what breeds low levels of engagement in the first place.’

  ‘Can you give me any examples of times when Roger’s time on the council might have been linked with vested interests?’ Dexter asked, trying to return to matters of business once again.

  ‘Oh, I could give you a list as long as my arm. But it was mostly to do with planning. Roger was in construction, see? He had a lot of connections in that industry, and there was always talk of him greasing the wheels to push things through. There are measures in place to make sure that doesn’t happen, of course. Any new councillor has to declare interests, and usually those will stop them from sitting on specific committees. Roger never sat on the planning committee, for example, but he still had great influence. Some of the other councillors had particular projects or ideas they wanted to put through other committees, and Roger would — rumour has it — take on their causes in exchange for a… let’s say slightly more laissez-faire attitude to the occasional planning application.’

  ‘Vote swapping?’

  ‘Influence swapping, perhaps. He never directly approached me with anything like that, but then again he knew I wouldn’t stand for it. I’m on the council for the right reasons, I can tell you that. Besides which, it wasn’t just a case of exchanging a few votes.’

 
‘Oh?’ Caroline asked, her interest piqued.

  ‘I never saw anything. Not directly. Again, this is just rumour and hearsay, and there’s plenty of that on local councils. But there were occasional mentions of brown envelopes being passed beneath tables.’

  ‘You mean Roger Clifton bribed other councillors to pass planning applications?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to cast aspersions or make accusations. All I can tell you is what I’ve been told. And no, those people didn’t accept the money. They wouldn’t have told me if they had, but I think we can safely assume there must have been others who did accept it and who’ve stayed quiet. He had his friends on the council, there was no doubt about that, but for the most part he wasn’t particularly well-liked by the members and was always seen as a bit of a wide-boy.’

  ‘Is that normal around here?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, it’s a rural area. Small. Everyone knows each other. I came from London, and the corruption on the councils there was bad enough. I imagine in a place like this there’s a fair bit of behind-the-scenes discussion and decisions reached before meetings even take place, no?’

  Barbara Tallis didn’t need to say a word. Her face clearly conveyed the answer.

  ‘Well that went well,’ Dexter said as they got back into Caroline’s car a short while later.

  ‘I don’t know what it is with people round here,’ Caroline said, sighing as she put on her seatbelt. ‘She’s not the first person to get the hump with me recently. I mean, I know rural communities are backward, but I didn’t think they still did the whole “you’re not local” thing. Sometimes I reckon I’d feel more welcome in North Korea.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with not being local. You live in Oakham. Can’t get much more local than that.’

  ‘Not originally, though. I’m from London. I’m an outsider. Places like this aren’t ever going to accept people like me.’

  Dexter turned in his seat. ‘Okay. First of all, I’m not local either and I’ve never had any issues.’

  ‘You’re from Leicester, Dex. That’s local enough.’

  ‘Yeah, and have you seen the colour of my skin? If people round here were that “anti-local”, they’d have lynched me by now. Besides which, there’s no such thing as local. Hardly anyone in Rutland is “local”. It’s a proper melting pot of accents and backgrounds. People move here from all over the place. Anyone “local” tends to have moved out years ago for silly little things like, you know, actual jobs.’

  ‘Leaving only the retired folk to come here and treat it as God’s waiting room, complete with their disdain for anyone else wanting to make the same move they did, you mean?’

  Dexter turned away and looked out his window. ‘I’ve seen no evidence of that, and I’ve been working here a lot longer than you.’

  ‘All I can say is what I see.’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. Me too.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me,’ Caroline said.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the people round here. They’re fine. It’s just… It’s a different way of life. It’s friendlier.’

  ‘I’m friendly. I can do friendly.’

  ‘By London standards? Yeah, maybe. But friendly by London standards is not deliberately walking into people in the street, or gently closing the door on a stranger instead of slamming it in their face.’

  ‘Okay, now we’re in the realms of silliness, Dex.’

  ‘We’re not. We’re really not. I’m just being honest. I know these people. I know the area. And you’re just too… Londony. I know you don’t do it on purpose, and it’s not even necessarily a bad thing. It just doesn’t work round here. You come across as cold and standoffish. I know you’re not. I know it’s just where you’ve come from. But maybe it means you need to adapt a little for the area. You keep pointing out to everyone how different things are round here, and making sweeping assumptions about the way things are and the way they must be because it’s “that sort of place”. It sounds rude. Rutland’s a really bloody friendly place, if you actually allow yourself to integrate.’

  ‘Right,’ Caroline said, turning the car into the car park of the police station. ‘Well, that’s certainly put me in my place.’

  Dexter let out a huge sigh. ‘I wasn’t trying to put you in your place. I was trying to make you see that all this is just a clash of cultures. You can’t ask the entire county to change for you, but if you’re aware of how you come across to people, maybe you can tweak things and enjoy your time here a lot more. Look, a few of us are going for drinks after work again tonight. Why don’t you join us? I know it’s not your usual scene, but it might do you good. Call it integrating, if you like.’

  Caroline had been biting her lip for a while, and was in no mood to consider drinks and jollities. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘Maybe another time.’

  12

  Caroline awoke the next morning with a now-familiar roiling sensation in the pit of her stomach. The nausea came and went and could largely be managed, but sometimes the queasiness made its intentions quite clear. She opened the door of the ensuite bathroom, fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d felt this bad, but she’d been expecting it to return. She could almost set her clock by it — the constant reminder that things didn’t always go as planned.

  Ten minutes later, once the spell had passed, she got herself washed and dressed and made her way downstairs. Mark was waiting in the kitchen for her.

  ‘Boys, why don’t you nip through to the playroom for a bit? You can even watch some telly if you like. Special treat.’

  Caroline knew immediately that Mark wanted to have words with her. He’d never broken the no-TV-before-school rule before. She watched as Archie and Josh disappeared from the kitchen and headed down the hallway and into the playroom. It had been listed as the dining room on the floor plan when they’d looked at the house, but the large kitchen extension with space for its own ten-seater dining table meant the other room was always destined to be filled with toys and junk.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, looking at Mark.

  ‘Are you alright? I mean… is everything okay?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ she replied. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘I heard you being sick.’

  ‘Oh, that. I don’t know what that was. Probably something I ate yesterday. It was weird, but it’s passed now. I’ll keep an eye on it, but really, I wouldn’t worry.’

  ‘Caroline, it’s not the first time. I’ve heard you being sick a few times recently. In the mornings.’

  She didn’t want to lie to Mark by telling him he was mistaken. There was a difference between not telling someone something and actively lying to them. ‘It’s fine. Probably just stress or a tummy bug or something.’

  ‘It’s been happening a lot.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been stressed a lot. And eating shit at work. I’ll try and get some time booked off and cut down on the takeaways. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Are you pregnant?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. It’s all adding up now. The morning sickness. Not wanting to drink the wine. I saw your face when you sniffed it the other night. It was like you were sniffing vinegar. The wine was fine. It was lovely, in fact.’

  Caroline blinked and tried to push down the feelings that were now welling up from deep inside her. ‘Sorry, you think I’m pregnant because I didn’t like the same wine as you?’

  ‘Come on, Caroline. We haven’t exactly been careful, have we? It’s entirely possible, to say the least. Have you done a test?’

  ‘No. I haven’t. Because I don’t need to do a test, Mark. I’m not pregnant. I know I’m not pregnant. Is that good enough for you?’

  ‘Well, no. How can you possibly know without a test?’

  ‘Because I’m a woman, Mark. Women know thei
r bodies.’

  ‘What, and you know it’s perfectly normal to wake up and empty your guts down the toilet on a regular basis?’

  ‘If I’m stressed, anxious or not eating properly, yes. That’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘Or pregnant.’

  ‘I’m not pregnant, Mark.’

  ‘Do a test then. If you’re that sure, do a test.’

  Caroline gritted her teeth. ‘Do you realise how insulting that is? A woman knows her body, Mark. I’m not pregnant. If you want to do a test, you can shove it up your arse.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t think that’s quite how they work,’ he called out to the back of her head as she headed back up the stairs. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

  13

  One of Mark’s biggest virtues was that he knew when to give up. Caroline was thankful that he was usually pretty good at respecting her need for space, especially when he never seemed to need any himself.

  Shortly after the exchange with Mark, Dexter phoned her. He’d got to work early again, and had taken a message from the minister at Empingham Methodist Church, returning Caroline’s call and saying he’d be delighted to meet her. Dexter had barely disguised the disapproving tone in his voice as he’d relayed this to her, but that didn’t bother Caroline. There were too many coincidences to ignore, and she felt sure there must be a religious connection to the death of Roger Clifton — particularly since discovering his vocal atheism and his wife’s connection to the church.

  Dexter told her he’d walk out to the bypass so they could drive over together. When Caroline arrived, she saw her colleague had bought her a large takeaway coffee.

  ‘You didn’t need to do that, Dex.’

  ‘I know. It kept my hands warm while I was walking. And I know how grumpy you can be in the mornings. Don’t want you upsetting any more locals, do we?’

  The boyish grin on Dexter’s face made it impossible for Caroline to be angry at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, pulling back out onto the road.