The Dead Tell Lies: an absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by J. F. Kirwan

  But he had to find some kind of lead, no matter how flimsy, and too bad if Boris would try to use it to do him damage, to gain revenge.

  ‘Lucian painted people the way they are,’ Greg said. ‘The way they should be seen. Unflattering, objective, without any prejudice or preconception.’

  Boris waved his hand dismissively. The boyish charm and slightly camp affectation returned. ‘An old argument, one they never resolved, so why should we? Don’t you want to take a look?’

  He didn’t. But he had to play the game a little longer. He went to the pad and lifted the cover. It was finished. There was no denying Boris his talent.

  In the centre, a man – Greg, more or less – was disappearing through a door into blackness. Top right and left were two godlike figures. One was The Painter, the other… Greg wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognise him. Especially since in true Baconian style the face had imploded and was hideous. Yet there must have been an actual face to begin with, and again, as with Bacon, it would have been one of Boris’s acquaintances. No, more than that. What had Bacon quipped once to Lucian? Who can I tear to pieces if not my friends?

  ‘It’s from one of Bacon’s triptychs,’ Greg said. ‘He painted his lover who had committed suicide, making his final journey into whatever comes next.’

  Boris did a slow handclap. ‘You really did do your homework, my boy.’

  Greg turned to face him. ‘I’m not your lover,’ he said, flatly. ‘Who is the other man?’

  ‘That is the question, isn’t it?’ Boris walked to the door and knocked three times. The door opened, the burly guard holding up a flat palm, his other hand on the hilt of a Taser. Boris moved back inside the room.

  Boris circled the table as Greg came around it the other way. Circling, Greg thought, that’s what we’ve been doing here.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Boris said as Greg reached the door, pointing to the sketch.

  Greg took a last glance, and left.

  ‘Do come again,’ Boris said, as the door closed. ‘There’s always a room for you here, Greg, if ever you need one.’

  ‘You all right, sir?’ the guard said, locking the door.

  Greg nodded. He walked halfway down the corridor, past the room of The Divine, past The Reaper’s room, the room that had been The Surgeon’s… He turned a corner. Only then did he lean against the wall, taking deep breaths, waiting for the rising nausea to dissipate. Boris had gotten to him after all. That last parting shot was Greg’s worst fear, that he’d lose his mind and end up in this place.

  As he straightened up and set off again, he saw Finch waiting at the far end of the corridor with Collins. Finch gave him a wary look, Collins a cynically knowing one.

  He walked up to Collins. ‘Tell me there’s no way he can get out of here.’

  Collins bristled. ‘Of course there isn’t.’

  ‘He knows something,’ he said, stealing a glance at Finch, who was staring down the corridor behind Greg.

  Collins brooded. ‘I’ll talk to the superintendent again; rotate new guards into this wing.’

  Greg nodded. ‘I need to see the visitor list for the past year,’ he said to Collins.

  ‘Here you go,’ Finch said, handing him a sheet of paper.

  ‘Is he involved?’ Collins asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some air.’ He walked between them and headed for the gate at the far end, trying his best not to break into a run.

  Only when Reedmoor was in the rear-view mirror did he start to relax and process. Boris – The Painter, he thought, resurrecting a latex-thin but essential barrier – had known The Dreamer was dead. How? And the third person in the painting, disguised and intentionally unrecognisable, but still… The Painter had known him. He’d known the real killer. None of this was remotely actionable, of course. He’d recorded the entire conversation but didn’t need to replay it. The Painter had been very careful with what he’d said. Donaldson would want to hear it, but it would serve no judicial purpose, not even enough to trigger a new round of questions, let alone an interrogation.

  It was down to him to find out who this new killer was.

  Before he struck again.

  15

  Greg was in the grounds of Sandhurst, the UK’s military training ground for officers, the equivalent of America’s West Point. Finch had driven straight there from Reedmoor. Greg wasn’t sure why. She’d been gone fifteen minutes, vanished inside one of the military buildings. He didn’t mind. He’d grown up in nearby Farnborough, and hadn’t been to Sandhurst since a child, as during the past few decades it had been largely off-limits to the public. He squatted down beside one of the lakes, watching two swans amidst the rowdier Canadian geese. He recalled feeding the swans as a young boy. He’d run out of bread and held out his finger. The swan bit him, of course, and Greg shrieked, more in shock than pain, as they don’t have teeth and no blood appeared. His father laughed until Greg’s mother scolded him, whereupon he sat Greg on his knee till he calmed down, then walked him to the wooden tuck shop to get more bread to feed them again, to make sure he didn’t become afraid of the great royal birds.

  For old time’s sake, Greg held out his pinkie towards the swans, then retracted it, suddenly aware that Finch had returned and was staring at him. Earlier, when walking into the premises, after passing through the high security entrance where she’d flashed an ID he didn’t recognise, he’d noticed a seasoned officer give her a respectful salute, which she’d acknowledged with a small nod. There was more to Finch than met the eye. He’d have to ask Donaldson.

  ‘Why are we here?’ he asked.

  ‘You said you needed some air,’ she replied. She stood away from him, gazing across the grounds. Aside from bird calls and the wind rustling the trees, the breeze occasionally picked up distant sounds of men being shouted at by a drill-sergeant. Some things never change.

  ‘And what about you?’ he said.

  Her eyes landed on him, hawk-like, before they softened to their normal giving-nothing-away, you-can-think-what-you-like serenity. He wondered if it was a show, or if she really didn’t give a damn about what anyone else thought.

  ‘Did you go through the visitor list from Reedmoor?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. The names meant nothing to me. We can check them out back at the station.’

  There was a gunshot, not too close but still very loud. The swans took flight as it echoed around the grounds. A large-bore rifle, from what he could tell. It had made him start, but he’d been watching Finch at the time. She hadn’t even flinched. He upgraded his future question to Donaldson.

  Where had Finch been stationed in the military?

  ‘There was a name missing from the list,’ she said.

  Greg stood. ‘Why would Collins…’ Never mind. ‘Who?’

  She walked up to him. ‘Rickard.’

  He’d asked her why they were there. She’d just answered. Somewhere safe, because this could get tricky back at the Yard.

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Once a month during the past six months. Possibly before then as well.’

  ‘Who did he visit?’

  She dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper with half a dozen names handwritten on it, carefully printed without joining the letters, the way a child might write. At least it was legible, unlike his own. Rickard had visited The Reaper once, but not The Painter. The other names he didn’t recognise.

  ‘They could all be for legitimate reasons,’ he said. ‘Even if he’s not on our case, he still practises criminal psychiatry.’

  ‘Then why hide it?’

  Greg shrugged. ‘You should ask him.’ He handed back the scrap of paper.

  ‘I want you there.’

  ‘Why? It’s going to be a bit difficult – technically he’s my boss.’

  ‘I want you there.’

  There was something she wasn’t telling him. He let it go. Besides, he was now more than a little intrigued as to
why Rickard had been visiting Reedmoor. ‘Okay, we do this together.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go,’ she said, heading back to the car park.

  As he trailed behind her, he noticed two officers talking. One of them nodded in Finch’s direction and said something to the other as they watched her pass by. Greg upgraded his question for Donaldson yet again.

  Why did she leave the military?

  Donaldson was out somewhere with Matthews. Greg and Finch were in Rickard’s anteroom. The secretary was busying herself to bursting point.

  ‘You said–’ Finch began.

  ‘I know what I said,’ the girl replied, reddening. ‘It’s what he said. I’m sure he’ll be out any moment–’

  Rickard’s office doors swished open. Of the three of them, Rickard, in designer threads, looked the best dressed and the least happy. His office had a plush, wide desk, bookshelves stuffed with psychiatry texts and journals, and two large paintings: Custer’s Last Stand, and the Battle of Trafalgar. The first time he’d been in the office Greg had asked him why those paintings, since in both cases the hero died. Rickard had loftily replied that heroes like that never ran; they fought to the end.

  Greg decided to profile Rickard, because maybe he knew something he didn’t know was relevant. Besides, he needed the practice. His job wasn’t like the proverbial riding a bicycle, never forgotten. It was a blade that dulled quickly if you didn’t sharpen it. He let Finch do the talking, and focused on exactly what Rickard said, what he didn’t say, and his non-verbal behaviour.

  After some pleasantries, Rickard went pre-emptive. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve been visiting Reedmoor, not that it’s any of your business.’

  Greg left the opening for Finch, since it definitely was her business, but she said nothing, presumably according Rickard more rope.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’ve been doing research, for a book actually.’

  A book? Greg recalled Donaldson mentioning something about a book. It made sense. Rickard was approaching early retirement. Something to keep him in the game, then, on the A-list circuit where he liked to be, hobnobbing it with the upper echelons of London society. He was good at it, though, and he definitely helped funds flow in the right direction for the Yard.

  Rickard flashed a smile. Greg wondered if he’d been posing in the mirror for the shot to go on the back cover. He had an author’s face.

  ‘My publisher,’ he said, ‘wanted to ensure it was based on thorough research, to beat off the competition.’

  Greg wondered what competition he was talking about since scholarly books on serial killers were few and far between. Besides, Rickard had been in the business a while and regularly presented at international conferences. A book by him would sell.

  ‘Why did you suppress records of your visits?’ Finch asked, her tone more than a little aggressive.

  Greg kept his own questions to himself. How did Rickard know that Finch had found out? Which was in the queue right behind the other question for later that he had for Finch, which was how she had found out about Rickard’s visits.

  ‘Yes, well, the publisher requires a certain degree of, shall we say, deniability.’

  ‘So,’ Finch reiterated, ‘this publisher wants to be able to prove you’ve done the research, but also to be able to deny you’ve done it.’

  Rickard’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Well, if you put it like that–’

  ‘It’s how you just put it, Professor.’

  Greg neither liked nor disliked Rickard, but he had to admit he was vaguely enjoying seeing Rickard squirm. But then Finch suddenly, inexplicably upped the ante, and Greg heard the cold steel in her voice.

  ‘Where were you the night of Fergus’s murder, Professor Rickard?’

  The temperature in the room freefell. Rickard’s photo-shot image morphed into something harsher. Evidently, he’d picked up the ‘look’ from some of his patients. Greg and the other Shrinks Without Souls had often debated whether everyone had the killer instinct latent inside them. They’d decided yes, the key question being how deep you had to dig in order for it to see daylight. But serial killing was on a different level altogether. Very, very few people had it in them, thankfully.

  Greg asked himself the inevitable, unsavoury question. Could Rickard be a killer? He weighed up everything he knew about him. But in the end it came down to motivation, and callous disregard. Did someone like Rickard have it in him? He was always a little distant. But Greg’s instincts told him Rickard was simply not serial killer material. The man’s main crimes, if any, were arrogance and being a bit pompous, a case in point being this upcoming book. But something else emerged from his analysis of Rickard’s current non-verbal behaviour – his positioning, composure, eye contact, the whole shebang. Rickard didn’t like women. No, too generalised. And then he got it.

  Rickard didn’t like Finch.

  Greg looked at Finch. The feeling was clearly mutual. Had something happened between them, some bad blood?

  Rickard’s fist slammed down on his desk, so hard and loud that the secretary burst in, then beat a hasty retreat. Finch, as before in the lush grounds of Sandhurst when the rifle fired without warning, hadn’t flinched. Greg hadn’t either this time. Rickard’s hand must be smarting, though he wasn’t going to show it, instead playing a game of ‘stare’ with Finch, one he’d surely lose. Eventually he spoke, his words calm and level.

  He raised himself from his chair. ‘You have no right to ask me such a question!’

  Finch smiled demurely. ‘I merely wish to rule you out of the equation, Professor. You were visiting Reedmoor, and we have just interviewed Boris Skiner, who seemed to know The Dreamer is dead.’

  ‘I did not visit him. The records–’

  ‘Were suppressed.’

  Rickard stopped, gathered himself and sat back down. ‘Very well. If you must know, I was at a soirée. Thirty witnesses. I have transcripts of the personal interviews I conducted at Reedmoor. They are confidential, of course, but I can make them available for your perusal if you like.’

  Finch didn’t miss a beat. ‘Three witnesses’ names and phone numbers from the soirée should suffice. No need for the transcripts.’

  Greg reckoned he should tell Rickard’s secretary to advise whoever was next in line to see Rickard to reschedule.

  Rickard straightened his jacket and jabbed a finger towards Greg. ‘Why aren’t you focusing on him?’ he demanded of Finch.

  Displacement and projection. This interview was playing out like Psychology 101.

  ‘Why would we do that?’ Finch asked.

  Rickard’s lips tightened as he looked towards the window. ‘Can we talk in private?’

  ‘We are in private.’

  Greg was beginning to like Finch.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘He stays.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘That way I get to see how he reacts. Besides, whatever you tell me, I’ll tell him later. I believe in full transparency within the investigative team.’

  Greg’s respect for Finch gathered momentum.

  Rickard recovered his mojo. He picked up a sharpened pencil and stabbed the air with each argument, while Greg made mental notes.

  ‘First, he was the last person to see Fergus alive, and has no alibi. Second, he finds out his wife was having an affair, talks to this Raj person, who promptly disappears, after he conveniently loses his tracker.’

  Rickard was up to speed on everything, he’d give him that.

  ‘Third, he creates this idea The Dreamer is dead and that we have a new killer out there who has kept quiet for a whole year, which he and I know very well is not the way serial killers work.’

  Greg had to agree. That was what was puzzling him. He hoped Matthews had found something, namely a lead on The Dreamer’s corpse.

  Finch held up a hand. ‘Motive?’

  Rickard put the pencil down. ‘Really, this should not be said in front of him.’

  Finch
said nothing.

  Rickard gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said. He glanced at Greg. ‘Sorry, Adams, but this is my professional opinion, one I’ve already mentioned to Donaldson this morning.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ Finch said.

  Rickard folded his arms. ‘He is suffering from a schism.’

  Greg let out a short, incredulous laugh. ‘You can’t be serious?’

  Finch held up her hand again, this time to cut off Greg. ‘What do you mean, “a schism”?’

  Rickard picked up the pencil again. ‘Fourth, his home is somewhere between a shrine and an Evidence Room, all focusing on his dead wife.’

  ‘He has a rather watertight alibi for his wife’s murder–’

  ‘Exactly!’ Rickard said, hitting the table again with his other hand.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ Finch said, serene but ice cold. If she had kids, they’d be good as gold.

  Rickard shifted in his chair, went to stab the air again, then lowered the pencil. ‘Exactly,’ he repeated, but in a more subdued voice. ‘He feels unbearable guilt, as evidenced by my fifth point: he tried to blow his brains out with a loaded weapon just a few nights ago.’

  It was Greg’s turn to shift.

  Finch paused a beat. ‘So, by “schism”, you mean he has a split personality, one half a killer, the other half trying to track down the killer?’

  Greg had heard enough. He came out of profiling mode, because suddenly he was in the hot seat. ‘Schism is tabloid psychology, Rickard. You and I know the evidence for true split personalities is at best flimsy, and at worst plain wrong.’

  ‘There is new evidence, biochemical imbalances–’ Rickard drew circles in the air with his pencil.

  Greg shook his head. ‘There’s always new evidence, as in unproven, and unaccepted.’

  Rickard raised his voice a fraction. ‘Imbalances that occur infrequently, destabilising rational judgement for a few minutes.’