Everyone Lies

by D. , Garrett, A.

  ‘Nick? It’s Kate.’

  The sound of her voice blew through him like a blast of air off the North Sea. His heart thudded and he felt the tug of the past like a dangerous undercurrent.

  ‘Simms,’ she added, as if he didn’t know her voice as well as he knew his own. ‘Can we talk?’

  You got the wrong number, he wanted to tell her. You made a mistake. Instead, he heard himself say, ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Four years.’ The inevitable pause, awkward, painful to them both.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Are you still in London?’

  ‘Greater Manchester Police. The Met was a bit of a dead end for me, after the Crime Faculty.’

  ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for that.’

  ‘I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.’

  He felt something shift in his chest. A burden he’d been carrying around for five years.

  She started to speak, but he talked over her.

  ‘Look, Kate, I’m in a lecture room, and I’m kind of in the way. Can I call you back?’

  ‘No. Nick, listen to me, don’t hang up.’

  He heard a sharp edge of desperation in her voice, and couldn’t harden himself enough to close the phone. So he bundled his belongings together and stood in the corridor with his laptop at his feet among the surge of incoming students, while Kate Simms explained.

  The police authority’s six-monthly crime review had turned up an excess of overdoses, and she had been assigned to look into it as part of their public protection remit.

  ‘As jobs go, it was routine, low level, something simple and undemanding for my first try-out.’

  First try-out? When he worked with Kate Simms at the National Crime Faculty, she was a young Detective Sergeant with a career path carved out of pure gold. Her placement there should have put her on accelerated promotion from Detective Sergeant to Detective Chief Inspector within a couple of years.

  ‘Kate,’ he said, ‘it’s been five years since the Crime Faculty.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me – they kept me on the naughty step for four of them.’

  He imagined her, a half-smile on her face, reaching for cynical from the top shelf of cop attitude. He felt a thud of guilt.

  ‘It was a straightforward paper review,’ Simms said. ‘A box-ticking exercise. I was expected to read through the coroner’s verdicts, report that it was just a bit of a spike in the numbers of deaths, nothing to worry about – it happens occasionally.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘I hardly had time to divvy up the paperwork before we had another death. Except this one’s got media potential and suddenly the top brass are asking for updates and demanding to be kept in the loop.’

  ‘Define “media potential”,’ Fennimore said.

  ‘You’ve heard of Stacey?’

  ‘Stacey who?’

  ‘Not Stacey – StayC, with a capital C.’

  ‘Not ringing any bells,’ he said.

  ‘She reached the quarter-finals of Stars! Got kicked out when she was caught in one of the toilet cubicles at the venue snorting cocaine. A week later, she’s found dead in her mother’s back bedroom, a hypodermic stuck in her arm. Heroin. She was written up as a suspected overdose, but the pathologist wasn’t convinced – she wasn’t a regular user. I’d already been in touch about the excess cases so he knew I’d be interested. He expedited the toxicology, suspended the post-mortem, and called me.’

  ‘And?’ The question was out before he could bite it back.

  ‘The tox results show lowish levels of heroin, and some methylecgonine, as well.’

  ‘The methylecgonine just indicates she’s a cocaine user, which you knew already – it’s not necessarily suspicious.’

  ‘That’s exactly what the NPIA Forensic Specialist Advisor said.’ When Fennimore worked with the police, the National Crime Faculty had advised police on forensic matters, but since 2007, technology and support services had come under the National Policing Improvement Agency.

  ‘You should listen to your FSA,’ he said.

  ‘I would, but the numbers are weird, Nick. We’ve got a sudden surge in ODs in the last six to eight months, most of them female. Why?’

  Mostly female – now that is interesting. He almost allowed himself to be drawn into speculating why that might be, but he pushed away the questions that began to crowd in, the possible threads of hypotheses he could see spinning into the distance, and said, ‘Let it go, Kate; addicts die all the time. Follow the FSA’s advice, do the review, write up your report and move on.’ It was brutal, but he’d made himself a promise, and he wasn’t about to go back on that, even for Simms.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing you say that. I don’t think you even believe it yourself.’

  ‘Police business isn’t my business any more, Kate. I’ve been there, and we both have the scars to prove it.’ He sounded bitter, and that made him angry. ‘I work defence now. That way, the only place I have anything to do with cops is in the courtroom.’

  The anger hardened his voice more than he’d intended, and she said quietly, ‘Does that include me, Nick? Is that why you changed your mobile number and moved to Aberdeen, for God’s sake – so you didn’t have to have anything to do with cops – like me?’

  ‘Kate, you know I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Hey, you’re the one who says the facts don’t lie.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘You work defence now? Very noble. Except it isn’t, is it? It’s just a way to get even with the police. I was given this case because it doesn’t matter if I screw up – how about that – two hundred miles and five whole years away from the Met, and they still don’t trust me. But if I screw this one up, who cares – because “addicts die all the time”. Right, Nick?’

  The silence that followed felt like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion.

  ‘Sorry …’ Her voice sounded a little shaky. ‘I’ve been bottling that up for a long time.’

  He took a breath, but she spoke before he could find the right words.

  ‘I don’t regret what I did. But it cost me, Nick. In ways you could never imagine.’

  She was right, he couldn’t imagine. His career had burgeoned, while hers had withered. And how had he thanked her? By shutting her out, dropping out of her life, burying his guilt at what he’d done. But guilt had a way of sneaking around his defences, finding an unbolted door, an open window.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Who’s the NPIA Forensic Specialist? Maybe I could give them a call, talk through a few ideas.’

  ‘Just look at the reports, give me an opinion. You don’t even have to come down here – I’ll send them to you.’

  ‘Why so cagey?’ He wished he could see her face.

  ‘Look,’ she insisted, ‘I’m just asking you to read through the evidence, give me an opinion – that’s what you do, isn’t it? I mean as a forensic consultant?’

  ‘Ye-es, but I don’t usually work behind the backs of fellow professionals.’

  She didn’t reply, and for a moment the line seemed to hum with silence. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I get it. You think my reputation will taint your investigation.’

  She laughed. ‘Why the hell d’you think I’m in Manchester? I had to distance myself from the Faculty, and Bramshill – and you.’

  He couldn’t argue with that; it was his actions – his single-minded obsession that he had to be right – that had wrecked her chances. And that didn’t exactly make him feel like a hero.

  ‘Let’s say I did your review,’ he said, still reluctant. ‘You know I would want all the scene details, and if these were handled as routine ODs, there wouldn’t be very much. I bet nobody would have thought it worth the effort of taking scene photos – and who knows what tox was done—’

  ‘Stop,’ she said. ‘I will get you everything we have. In fact, anything anyone has. I know what you need to work, Nick – we did the job together for long enough.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.
It wasn’t that he underestimated her,he just needed all the details. ‘I’d probably make a few suggestions: tests, tox, cytology …’ He realized with a shock that he was seriously considering this as a project.

  ‘Uh—’ She seemed to struggle for the right words. ‘The thing is, I’d be going against FSA’s advice on this. I was hoping you could give me your assessment and even do some of the tests under the radar.’

  ‘What are you not telling me, Kate?’

  ‘I told you, StayC’s death has fired imaginations – the ACC is taking a personal interest.’

  ‘So tell him you’re using your initiative – he might even be impressed.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ She almost spat the words.

  The Kate Simms he knew never carried that kind of resentment around with her. Budgets were tight – even at his self-imposed distance from the police, he knew that – but what kind of ACC would want to stamp on thorough investigative work? His mind flew back to the Crime Faculty and, suddenly, he thought he knew.

  ‘Kate, who is the ACC?’

  She took a breath, let it go, took another. ‘Stuart Gifford.’

  For a moment, the steady tug of the past became a tidal wave: anger, terror, grief, so strong that he almost lost his footing.

  ‘Nick? Are you okay?’

  He couldn’t answer that, so he said, ‘What the hell possessed you? Didn’t you know he’d moved to Greater Manchester Police?’

  ‘He followed me here – he was still climbing the greasy pole at the Met until a month ago. And, just so you know, Gifford is also the current chair of ACPO’s Homicide Working Group.’ The Association of Chief Police Officers coordinated and developed policing strategy. ‘He could argue it’s his duty to take a close look at the investigation.’

  He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease a throbbing pain that was building behind his eyes. ‘Ever feel cursed, Kate?’

  ‘You’re asking me?’

  One of his students greeted him as she passed, but Fennimore barely noticed.

  Simms exhaled into the phone. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  He cleared his throat and loosened his tie, tried hard to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘If anyone’s earned the right, it’s you.’

  ‘I didn’t call you to argue, Nick,’ she said. ‘And I swear, if I had any other option …’ Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat before she went on: ‘But my lowprofile easy-start investigation is turning into something much more complicated, and Gifford is sitting on the sidelines, just aching for me to mess this up.’

  ‘What happened was my fault, not yours.’

  ‘I’m nobody’s puppet, Nick. I made choices – of my own free will.’

  ‘But I’m not police; Gifford can’t touch me, so he hounds you instead, is that it?’

  ‘Honestly?’ She sighed. ‘Gifford thinks I should have been kicked out for what I did.’

  ‘Jesus, Kate—’

  ‘I told you, I don’t regret it,’ she interrupted. ‘But I had to go back into uniform to make Inspector, Nick, and I’ve had my fill of neighbourhood policing: D&Ds and TWOCs and ASBOs, and endless bloody partnership meetings. I’m a detective. I want to make it as a detective. I’m asking for your help.’

  In five years, she hadn’t asked for anything from him. He knew how hard it must be for her to ask now. He would not make her ask again.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Names, dates, the Crime Pattern Analysis Unit’s report, a few of the tox results. They’re spread over several coroners, so I’m waiting on some.’

  ‘The pathologist who’s dealing with StayC’s death sounds friendly,’ he said. ‘See if you can get any more detail from him. He can send attachments by email, or if he only has hard copy, I can take faxes – I’ll text you my office fax number.’

  ‘Okay, you’ll have everything I’ve got within the hour. When will you—?’

  ‘Tonight. It’ll be late though.’

  ‘Fine. No problem. You can reach me on my mobile anytime. Anytime.’ After an awkward silence, she said, ‘Well, I’d better …’

  ‘Kate, don’t hang up.’ If he didn’t say it now, he never would: ‘How’s the family?’ The family, like he couldn’t remember their names. Like it had slipped his mind that Becky, Simms’s daughter, and his had been inseparable. Well done, Fennimore. No, really – nice touch.

  2

  Marta is preparing for a client. She’s wearing a short red wrap-over dress, stockings, heels. She is sinuous, graceful, holds herself like a dancer. She tells her customers that she trained for the ballet, but she grew too tall; her dancing career was over by the time she reached fifteen. None of it is true, but they like the story. She has practised how to walk and turn, and tilt her head in the expressive way ballet dancers do. She wears her ice-blonde hair short, feathered lightly at the temples and cut straight along the delicate line of her jaw.

  The room is clean, painted in dark red and cream, L-shaped, with a shower cubicle around the corner in the foot of the ‘L’; soft, fluffy towels are stacked in purposebuilt shelves to the left of the shower; cream and red, to match the decor. Erotic pictures and mirrors are framed in gold; the lights can be dimmed, and usually are. A massage table stands off-centre of the room. A double bed is placed opposite a forty-inch plasma screen; access to twenty-three adult TV channels and a range of DVDs is included in the price. This is the deluxe suite: Rob is a special client.

  Sol Henry escorts him in personally, slaps him on the back and says, ‘Marta – just like you asked. She’s come in special for you.’

  Rob looks her over, as he’s if deciding what he wants to do to her. He’s a big man – broad as well as tall. Big men are often the sweetest – careful in case their clumsy hands should hurt or bruise. But Rob is not so careful. He’s one of those big men who like to demonstrate their power.

  Sol is shorter than his client, stocky, but he can move fast when he needs to. He shaves his head, because his hair grows in thick black curls, and he thinks that makes him look soft. He hands her a package. It’s about the size of a brick, wrapped in grey plastic and sealed with parcel tape. He does it right in front of Rob. They’ve lost a couple of big consignments, one way or another, since she joined the firm; Rob is helping with that. She only knows this because she listens at doorways and lingers when she takes coffee in to their meetings. Now this is an official message to her: Rob is on the team. She looks at Sol, keeping her face carefully blank, and the quick sparkle of humour in his eyes says, Yeah, life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?

  He places an envelope on the bed. ‘For you. Address is inside. By two o’clock, okay?’

  She checks her watch; she has somewhere else to be at two, but if Rob is quick she can wash up, drop off the package and still make it in time. ‘Yes, I can do that.’ Her accent is Eastern European, her voice warm, well modulated.

  He cocks an eyebrow. ‘What else you got to do, middle of the day?’

  She smiles. ‘If I told you, you might be shocked.’

  Sol laughs, looks to Rob for his reaction. ‘She’s worth her weight in gold, this one.’

  ‘You think? I reckon I could lift her with one hand.’ Rob looks into her eyes as he says this, sending her a message of his own.

  This time Sol doesn’t laugh; he looks at Marta. ‘All right?’

  She inclines her head, and Sol turns away. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but he lets it drop and turns back.

  Rob frowns. ‘Forget something, Sol?’

  The two men lock gazes, ignoring her.

  Sol touches his arm. ‘Be nice.’

  Rob’s smile is a second too late to seem genuine. He looks down at Sol’s hand on his arm, and up into Sol’s face again, but Sol does not move, and he does not look away. Rob has been warned, and it’s clear he doesn’t like to be warned. But he does smile, and pats Sol’s shoulder. ‘“Nice”? My middle name, Sol,’ he says with a chuckle.

  Sol leaves his hand where it
is for a moment longer, for just long enough, and Rob does not try to shake him off. His eyes dart left, and Sol nods, satisfied.

  Rob stares at the door as if he can see Sol Henry walking slowly down the corridor. After half a minute, he turns to Marta, a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  Marta keeps her face blank of expression. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve never seen Sol Henry so smitten.’

  She hefts the package Sol handed to her. ‘He values reliability,’ she says.

  ‘You ever curious?’

  ‘About what?’

  He jerks his chin. ‘About what kind of pestilence you’re carrying around the city in those neat packages.’

  ‘You have saying, I think? “Curiosity drowned the cat.”’

  ‘Killed the cat.’

  She shrugs. ‘Anyway, it died.’ She drops the block into her shoulder bag and reaches for the envelope on the bed. ‘This is what I am interested in.’ The envelope is stuffed with twenties.

  ‘Speaking of which …’ He fetches out his wallet, as he has done every session, and she waves away his offer of payment, as she has done every time.

  ‘It’s taken care of,’ she says. ‘On the house.’

  ‘How about a little extra?’

  She smiles a slow smile; they have danced this dance before. ‘Extra?’

  ‘A speciality.’

  She strokes the web of flesh between his thumb and index finger. ‘Rob, I am the speciality.’

  ‘Come on … Just a little game.’

  She smiles her refusal.

  ‘Okay, how about OWO for an extra twenty?’ He means oral without protection. Most of the girls do, at no extra charge. Marta does not.

  She holds up a small square condom packet between her first two fingers; the shiny bronze wrapper glints under the lights. ‘Your ticket for the ride, sir,’ she says, keeping her voice low and warm. ‘Real-Feel, ultralight.’

  He looks ready to argue and she says, ‘I’m afraid you must have valid ticket to enter.’

  A dark shadow seems to pass across his face. Rob is a man who is used to saying, ‘Do this,’ and it is done, a man who is not used to being told ‘no’.