Everyone Lies

by D. , Garrett, A.

  A man pointed to a side road diagonally opposite.

  He dodged into the roar of rush-hour traffic. Someone exclaimed, a car blared its horn, a woman screamed. A bus bore down on him, its air brakes hissing and juddering. He leapt out of its path, and ran on.

  Fifteen yards down the road he saw a motorcycle courier’s bike parked outside a restaurant, keys in the ignition. He swung his leg over the seat and turned the key.

  He heard a yell, then lights seemed to explode in his head and he was on the ground, staring at an empty bottle of Yanjing beer, spinning on the tarmac. The biker’s engine roared and was gone.

  Fennimore groaned and rolled onto his back; freezing ice-melt flooded down his neck, and the shock brought him fully conscious.

  He struggled to his feet. His knee and ankle hurt and, looking down, he saw that his trousers were torn and he was bleeding. He hobbled to the next junction; the road ahead seemed impossibly long – he’d never make it in time. Then, miraculously, a taxi appeared from his left. He flagged it down, but it swerved around him and carried on going. He dragged himself fifty yards, seventy-five yards further, heading towards the rumble of traffic, onto another busy thoroughfare. He had no clue where he was, no clue which way to go. Two more black cabs swept past, refusing to stop. Then he remembered the wad of notes Joe had handed him the day before – his share of their winnings. He pulled the lot out, fanned it and waved it at the next taxi. It passed him.

  He looked for the next, heard a squeal of brakes behind him, a grind of gears and the whine of an engine, then the taxicab was next to him at the kerb.

  ‘Where to, chief?’ the driver said.

  Kate Simms followed directions through parts of the city she’d never seen – Lowry territory: vacant houses and disused warehouses and, as the light faded towards dusk, the occasional figures in the landscape took on a flat monochrome, like Lowry’s matchstick men. She took a couple of wrong turnings pretending confusion, and kept her speed below thirty all the way, trying to give Fennimore a few more minutes to reach Becky.

  She ended up at the edge of a large vacant lot once occupied by an old mill, judging by the scale of it. She drove around two sides of it, over uneven tarmac, then onto a narrower cobbled lane at a right angle to the tarmac road. It might once have been an alley, running between back-to-back housing for mill workers, but now it was a blank space, hemmed in on either side by tall spiked railings. The snow had melted in patches, creating oily black puddles, and in places the stone sets showed through. The lane doglegged left and ended abruptly at a brick wall. Tangled bone-white stems of wild buddleia and elder at the fence line boxed her in on either side.

  ‘What now?’ she said.

  ‘Turn off your lights, get out of the car. And keep the line open.’

  She waited five minutes; it was almost dark. She saw the car headlights first, rising and dipping on the uneven surface of the mill road. Then she heard its tyres swishing through the slush. As it negotiated the dogleg in the lane, she was caught in the full glare of its headlights.

  She recognized the LED halos as BMW headlamps, a darker centre and bright outer rim, like the eyes of an animal, a predator. A spasm of alarm shot through her: he wasn’t slowing down. She cast right and left, hoping to find a gap in the railings, knowing there were none. She dodged to the side of her car and the BMW stopped a foot short of her own bumper.

  Standing to one side, out of the glare, she could read the registration clearly, and she knew before he stepped out of the car that Tanford was in the driving seat.

  ‘Dynamic brake control on this model,’ he said, patting the roof of the car like it was a pet. ‘Fantastic.’

  The unreasoning terror Kate had felt since she’d received the image of Becky was replaced by a cold rage. The shaking stopped and calm settled on her.

  ‘No questions, Kate?’ he said, a look of rueful amusement on his face.

  She took him in from his polished black loafers to his glossy black hair. ‘I’ve got all the answers I need,’ she said. ‘This is the car that picked up Marta outside Livebait restaurant on the night she was murdered. You took Marta to her place of execution, you tortured and raped and murdered her and you framed George Howard.’

  He smiled. ‘You were always good on the details, Kate, just not very good at working out which were relevant. None of this matters any more – you’re here, and you’re about to hand your entire case over to me all neatly wrapped in plastic. ’

  ‘I know you have attacked other women,’ she went on, willing him to confess, just so she could hear it that one time. ‘I think you murdered Candice Watson.’

  He shook his head and sighed. ‘Open the boot,’ he said.

  She did as she was told and he took a folded sheet from the inside pocket of his overcoat. She recognized it as a copy of the receipt she’d signed at the university.

  ‘Just how many of you are in on this?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘There are some things you don’t know, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll admit I don’t know how much help you had from the Henry brothers.’

  He ignored her, holding each of the bags under the boot light in turn, checking the contents against the list before placing them one by one on the ground next to him.

  ‘But I know you’re recycling drugs to them,’ she said.

  In answer, he held out his hand and she gave him the last of the improvised evidence bags: Marta’s diary and memory stick. ‘Do you have even a shred of proof, Katie?’ He smiled.

  ‘You broke into Marta’s flat, Tanno – you can’t destroy that evidence.’

  ‘You won’t find any DNA or trace evidence from me in Marta’s flat, because I was never there.’

  ‘No, because like the coward you are, you sent Mark Renwick to do your dirty work. But men like you don’t stop,’ she said. ‘That’s what’ll get you in the end.’

  He caught her arm, spun her around and slammed her head against the Mondeo. Dazed, she flailed with her hands, but couldn’t find purchase. He had her by the scruff of the neck. A second later, he adjusted his grip and, two-handed, he dragged her coat back over her shoulders. She heard the seams tear; her arms were pinned. He slammed her forward against the car.

  As she fought for breath, she felt his right arm snake around her neck, felt the scratch of his overcoat sleeve against her face. He had her in a chokehold. She kicked backward, connected with bone, heard him grunt in pain. He squeezed, flexing his forearm against his biceps and her legs lost feeling, she felt herself falling. He eased off and he slipped his free hand over her breasts and stomach, squeezing, probing, hurting – his breath hot on her skin. She grunted in disgust, tried to fight him, but she couldn’t move. His hand travelled lower, groping her crotch.

  She must have blacked out for a second – suddenly she was on her knees in the oily snowmelt, choking, coughing, sucking air into her lungs. He grabbed a handful of hair and forced her head up. Her phone was in his hand. He grinned and there was such violence and madness in that smile that she was paralyzed with terror.

  ‘That you, mate?’ he said into the phone. He listened to the answer. ‘You’ll have to excuse us for a bit,’ he said, ruffling Kate’s hair. ‘I’ll call you back – me and the lady need some private time.’

  Fennimore handed the cab driver two twenties and said, ‘The same again if you wait for me, take me where I need to go next.’

  The cabbie grinned. ‘Fetch us a latte, I’ll let you off the tip.’

  Fennimore walked into a pleasant fug of hot coffee grounds and warm food. He knew Becky immediately; she had her mother’s dark hair and eyes. She was drinking a smoothie at a window table with two friends.

  The goon was unmistakable – a man with a huge head and no neck. He wore a ski hat and a leather jacket; a Bluetooth receiver was jammed in one ear. He was sitting a couple of tables away from the three girls, incongruous and ill at ease, like a wrestler in a ballet chorus.

  Fennimore limped over and Beck
y looked up, her face blank for a second, then she stared at him in horror. ‘Uncle Fenn. What happened to you?’

  He made a weak attempt at a grin. ‘Slipped on the ice, had an encounter with a lamppost.’

  Her friends giggled nervously.

  The man’s chair scraped back and he stood, his leather jacket creaked as he folded his arms, and Fennimore had a slightly queasy notion that he’d chosen leather for its durability and convenient wipe-clean properties.

  ‘Your mum asked me to pick you up,’ he said.

  The man took another step, barging a chair out of the way. It squealed against the vinyl floor tiles. His skin was the colour of raw meat and now he was closer, Fennimore could see that he had a bar code tattooed just under his left ear.

  ‘You’ve got blood on your face,’ Becky said, glancing uneasily towards the big man.

  ‘Yeah, Uncle Fenn,’ the thug said, crowding closer. ‘You got blood.’

  Becky’s anxious look told him she knew they were in danger. Fennimore dabbed at his lip and his finger came away bloody. ‘That was one angry lamppost.’ He eyed the goon surreptitiously. What the hell am I doing? I can’t take on this human meat mountain.

  But he could get in the way. He put his back to the man and took Becky’s hand. ‘My lady, your carriage awaits.’

  Becky’s eyes widened, and she blushed, but then he saw recognition in her face and she played along. ‘Lead on, sir.’

  But when he turned, the thug was blocking their way.

  Fennimore sidestepped right, and the man moved with them. He moved left, and once more, the thug stepped in their path. Then he opened his jacket just enough to show Fennimore the Glock stuck in the waistband of his trousers.

  Fennimore broke out in a cold sweat; there were twenty or more people in the place, and a goon with a gun was threatening to start shooting. Becky’s hand tightened in his.

  ‘Now sit the fuck down,’ the man said.

  Becky’s friends exchanged a frightened glance; a mother at the next table quietly picked up her coat and shopping bags and led her child out of the coffee bar.

  As if by some kind of ESP, the manager turned around from the grill at the service counter and peered across the café. ‘Everything all right over there?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Fennimore said, his heart racing. He put Becky on the far side of the table, but he remained standing. ‘Can we get a couple of coffees over here?’ He pointed to the torn leg of his trousers and smiled apologetically. ‘Ice-related injury.’

  The man scowled. ‘Stop pissing about.’

  ‘A tall mocha for me,’ Fennimore said. He leaned back a bit to get a good look at the thug. ‘I’m guessing you’re a no-nonsense Americano man? An Americano for the man with the interesting bar-code tatt under his left ear,’ he said, not waiting for an answer.

  The thug’s eyes bulged.

  ‘Better make that a decaf.’

  The man stepped up and squeezed his arm till it lost all feeling. ‘Go ahead,’ he hissed. ‘Keep taking the piss – I’ll fucking burst you like a pimple.’

  ‘You do know the police keep a database of criminals with distinctive tattoos? Good as a bar code.’ Fennimore tapped the side of his own neck, under his left ear. ‘In your case, literally.’

  The thug shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘How many people do you see?’ Fennimore whispered. He saw confusion on the man’s face. ‘Let me put that another way – how many witnesses do you see?’

  Bar Code’s leather creaked as he surveyed the room; he seemed to be counting in his head.

  ‘What were your instructions? Follow her, separate her from her friends?’ He looked around, lowered his voice even further. ‘I’m fairly certain your boss would not want you to get into a hostage situation.’

  The man sucked his teeth and stared into Fennimore’s eyes, and it was only thinking about Simms on her own with the dark gathering around her that gave him the strength to hold that cold, dead stare.

  At last, the goon let go of Fennimore’s arm and fiddled with his headset with fat, nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Bit of a situation, Boss,’ he said, keeping his eyes on Fennimore the whole time. A pause, then: ‘Fennimore … At the café.’

  He listened, nodded, smiling, which Fennimore did not take as a good sign.

  ‘So,’ Tanford said, ‘tell me, Kate – why haven’t you mentioned the body you dug up in Hull?’ He gave Kate Simms’s hair a tug and bent to look into her face. ‘Oh, yeah, I know about that.’ He put his mouth to her ear and she shuddered involuntarily. ‘Are you holding out on me, Kate?’ he whispered.

  He drew back and she stared dully at him.

  ‘Oh.’ He tilted his head and made a little moue of sympathy. ‘Are you hoping that even if you don’t make it, your pet nerd will find some way to find me out? How noble.’ He shook his head. ‘How pathetic.’

  He lifted her up one-handed by the collar of her coat. The seams gave with a sharp rip, freeing her arms. He straightened her collar in a gentlemanly gesture, smiling into her face, and all she saw was rage.

  Bar-Code Man leaned in close, his breath reeking of coffee and cigarettes. ‘You’re right, Professor – too many witnesses. You and her – outside.’

  Oh, shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Bar-Code was supposed to speak to his boss and then clear out. On his own. Fennimore looked at the faces of Becky’s friends, he took in the other people: teens and mothers and shoppers relaxing, unaware of the danger they were in, and he looked at Becky, her eyes wide with fear.

  He nodded and she stood. He put himself between the thug and Becky again, and in a second he felt the man’s paralyzing grip on his upper arm.

  The goon hissed in Fennimore’s ear: ‘Just so you know – I don’t mind shooting through you to get to her.’

  The cab driver was waiting. He did a double take when Fennimore crossed in front of him, heading towards the alley opposite. He opened his door and began to get out, but when he saw the ton of meat that was steering his cab fare, he got quietly back behind the wheel.

  Fennimore looked desperately for a way out. There was a shopping arcade at the end of the alley – if he timed it right, maybe he could shove Bar-Code Man off balance, tell Becky to run. He must have tensed, or the thug read his mind, because he said, ‘Try it, if you want. But a skinny geek like you? I wouldn’t fancy your chances. And you can’t outrun a bullet.’

  He tried a door, then the next, and the next; these were back entrances, shop delivery doors. On his fourth try, a door swung open. Fennimore balked. He felt a sickening pain in his shoulder. He sagged and a second later he and Becky were through the door and in a scuffed and dimly lit service corridor.

  The thug shoved Fennimore back hard. His head crunched against the wall and a thousand drums boomed in his ears. He pressed his hands to his skull and another spike of pain shafted through his shoulder.

  The man snatched hold of Becky’s wrist and she yelped. ‘Shut up,’ he snarled.

  Tears stood in Becky’s eyes, but she blinked them away and held still, sucking her cheeks in and frowning at the concrete floor.

  ‘What now?’ Fennimore asked.

  ‘We wait.’

  Wait for what? Fennimore wondered. The all-clear? Jesus, what’s to stop him shooting us anyway, leave us for the shop staff to find? He said, ‘Okay, but don’t forget – you were seen by a lot of people. Those people in the coffee shop – they will remember you.’

  Bar-Code pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit up one-handed, smoked it down to the filter. A minute or two later they heard a plink plink of footsteps, like stones falling into water, echoing off the walls. The thug crushed his cigarette under his heel and gave Fennimore a warning look. A woman rounded the corner. She froze, half turned as if she was deciding whether to run back the way she came.

  Bar-Code jerked his head for her to come on and she edged past, the man still holding Becky’s wrist in his massive paw.

  A blast
of cold air from the outer door, a quiet thunk as it swung closed. They waited. The thug rocked on his heels, whistling through his teeth. He stopped abruptly, tapped a button on his headset. ‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at Fennimore. ‘Yep.’

  He disconnected, dropped Becky’s wrist and reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband. Becky gasped and Fennimore braced himself. The man gestured for them to back up, and once more Fennimore eased Becky behind him.

  The man bent, keeping his eyes on them, and picked up the cigarette butt and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘Always clean up after yourself, eh, Professor?’ He backed away to the door and seconds later he was gone.

  46

  ‘Maturity is sensitivity to human suffering.’

  RABBI JULIUS GORDON

  Fennimore hustled Becky further down the corridor, moving fast away from the street exit. The man with the bar-code tattoo had most likely melted into the evening crowds, but Fennimore wasn’t about to take the risk of running straight into him in the unlit alley.

  Heads turned as they entered the shop through the wrong door, but staff were slow off the mark and they were out onto the main street before anyone thought to challenge them.

  He tried Simms’s mobile; it switched directly to voicemail. He hung up and tried again. Across the square, he saw the taxi, still waiting. He guided Becky to it, expecting Bar-Code to reappear any second.

  ‘Uncle Fenn, what did that man want?’ Becky demanded. ‘Why are you all messed up?’

  ‘Becky, it’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me!’ Now the threat was gone she was angry. Fennimore, however, felt like his body had turned to jelly below the waist. And now he couldn’t reach Kate.

  ‘I’m not patronizing you, Becky, it’s just – it’s best if your mother explains.’ He’d said it without thinking, but she jumped on it.

  ‘Mum? What would Mum know about it? What’s it got to do with Mum? Where is she? Is something wrong with her?’ Her eyes filled with tears and he cursed himself. ‘Uncle Fenn, where’s Mum?’ She was shaking, afraid all over again.