Tell Me A Lie (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  ‘Tango, tango, one-seven, all units . . .’

  Her radio crackled the words. The divisional control room. Not wanting Sharon earwigging, Lucy moved away.

  ‘. . . attend a shooting at Barwick House near Kirlevington.’

  Lucy’s pulse rose, her breathing went tight. Excitement and apprehension. She never felt more alive than when on a blue light.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the distance, Jessie Calder heard the distant wail of a police siren. The wind had to be coming from the north-west because normally they couldn’t hear anything but the sounds of the countryside out here. Just the chirp of a robin, a sheep’s bleat.

  She raised her face to the weak winter sun. The smell of wet leaves, the creak of leather, the soft squelch of Templar’s hooves. This was what it was all about. No school. Just getting up when she wanted, riding where she wanted and coming home when she wanted. She was looking forward to sinking into the armchair by the Aga with a mug of hot apple juice and a slice of chocolate butter cake that she and Mum had made yesterday.

  Suddenly, the distinctive boom! of a shotgun echoed through the air. She felt the horse’s muscles bunch beneath her, his head jerking up, ears pricked forward like twin arrows. His feet started to dance, clattering on the tarmac.

  ‘Hey, easy boy.’

  She soothed him gently and at the same time she heard another boom! She’d thought Dad had gone to a meeting this morning, but obviously he’d changed his mind. What was he up to? Shooting rats, probably. He was paranoid about rats. They peed constantly, ate the tack, ate anything. The feed might be in sealed bins but they still weed on the hay they fed to the horses. He’d bought a Jack Russell puppy last year in the hope it would keep the rats down but Lulu was more interested in foraging for titbits in the kitchen than doing anything useful in the stable yard. He might as well have bought a feather duster for all the use she’d been.

  Boom!

  Definitely rats, she decided.

  You couldn’t see the stables from here, they were around the back of the manor house, adorned with winter flowering jasmine and flower tubs. Her mother loved gardening almost as much as she loved painting but the estate grounds were too much for one person to look after and Dad employed a full-time gardener as well as a part-time horticulturist.

  I like gardens very much, he’d said, but I’d rather spend my weekends doing something I enjoy.

  Like shooting, Jessie thought, be it pheasants, partridge, or in this case, rats.

  Crack!

  The second after the rifle shot – a distinctly different sound from the gruff roar of the shotgun – a dog started screaming. All the hairs stood upright on her body. Templar tautened, throwing up his head, suddenly fearful.

  Another shot and the screaming stopped.

  Oh my God, she thought. What’s happened? Who got hurt?

  Crack, crack!

  Panic began to rise. Had Dad missed a rat and hit Buzz, their Labrador, by accident? Why was he using the rifle? Sensing her alarm, Templar bunched into a sidling trot and she quickly gathered the reins and kicked him forward.

  Silence fell. All she could hear was Templar’s hooves clattering, the metal click of his bit, the sound of her own breathing. Mouth dry, Jessie pushed the horse on.

  She didn’t ride straight into the yard. She’d been brought up around guns and knew to exercise caution when people were shooting. At the side of the house she hurried Templar to one of the apple trees. Slipping from the saddle she hitched his reins over a branch. She was grateful that he stood quietly and gave him a swift pat. Her legs felt wobbly but she forced herself to run for the stable yard.

  She paused before stepping into view, not wanting to be mistaken for a rat and shot.

  ‘Dad?’ she called out. ‘It’s me. Where are you?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Dad?’

  She peered around the corner of the barn. She saw the flagstone paving, the hanging baskets, the fresh green and white paintwork, the horsebox parked at the far end alongside the Land Rover, Mum’s Golf, what appeared to be two dogs sleeping.

  Then she saw the blood.

  Great pools of it spreading from beneath Lulu’s supine form.

  Jessie sprinted to the Jack Russell, a scream lodged in her throat. No, no no no no no! She skidded to her knees and reached out a hand, wary in case Lulu was wounded – she didn’t want to get bitten – but in the next second she realised there was no need to be cautious. Half of Lulu’s head had been blown away.

  A high-pitched ringing started in her ears.

  She looked over at Buzz. His muzzle was frothy with spittle and blood. His eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He’d been shot in the stomach, but not with a shotgun. The rifle. It must have been Buzz who’d screamed.

  ‘Dad?’

  Jessie looked around wildly.

  ‘DAD!’ she screamed.

  Jessie’s mind dissolved into ribbons of sheer-white hysteria. Where was Mum? And what about Felix, Sofia and little Tasha? Galvanised, she leaped to her feet and bolted for the house. Pelted through the Italian sunken garden that separated the house from the stable yard, to the back door.

  She gave a muffled yelp when she saw another form lying unmoving half-in, half-out of the doorway. Head lolling, blood clotting. Apricot, their elderly marmalade cat.

  Jessie moaned. Stumbled to a stop.

  She was trembling from head to toe.

  Nothing made any sense. Who would shoot the dogs and poor old Apricot?

  No. No.

  Bewildered, frightened, Jessie stepped to the back door. Peered through the boot room and into the kitchen. The room looked unreal, the proportions odd and suddenly too large, the wall lights eerily over-bright as she took in the figure slumped face down on the rug in front of the massive open fireplace.

  Her mother.

  Her legs were spreadeagled, one arm flung wide, her hand clutching her mobile phone. Her other arm clutched a bundle of clothing partly beneath her, maybe some washing, but then Jessie’s heart clenched and she saw it was little Tasha.

  Stabs of panic pierced her. And through her fear Jessie knew they were, like the animals, dead.

  Then she heard footsteps on slate. Strong and steady. Coming from the scullery.

  A man’s voice. ‘Jessie?’

  ‘Dad?’ Relief made her feel dizzy.

  ‘Where are you?’

  The timbre of his voice was odd, raspy, as though he had a cold.

  ‘K-kitchen.’

  There was a movement at the scullery door but when Jessie dragged her gaze there it wasn’t to see her father. The man might be wearing her father’s clothes – moleskin trousers scuffed at the bottom, check shirt cuffs pushed above his elbows, same heavy tweed jacket – but it wasn’t Dad. His expression was blank. His eyes were dead. Like a fish’s.

  He held the rifle in his hands. It was pointed at her waist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She saw the muscles in his hands flex and she knew he was going to shoot her. Like he’d shot Buzz and Lulu, Apricot, Mum and Tasha.

  Unthinking, acting on nothing but instinct, Jessie spun around and ran.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Faster!’ urged Lucy.

  ‘I’m trying!’ protested Howard.

  They’d peeled off the A66 and on to the Yarm Road to find the traffic had thickened. Cars and vans hauled themselves to the side of the road at the sound of the siren, all except some twit in a Toyota Yaris who slowed to a crawl, dithering.

  ‘Get out of the way you dozy . . .’ Howard braked heavily, trying to second-guess the flustered driver. ‘Pull over, you idiot. To the left, not into the middle of the fucking street . . .’

  One of Stockton’s oldest PCs at fifty-one, Howard was normally steady and even-tempered. He only swore under duress.

  ‘Christ on a bike . . .’

  Finally the Yaris stopped and waved them past.

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ He sw
ung round the car, his voice sarcastic. ‘It’s not like we’re in a fucking hurry or anything.’

  They sped down Yarm High Street. Lucy kept quiet, not wanting to distract him. Too many things going on: traffic lights, crossings, delivery vans, pedestrians, kids, dogs.

  Out of Yarm, screeching left on to Green Lane then immediately right, plunging on to a muddy country lane she’d never seen before. It made her realise she rarely set foot outside the centre of Stockton. This was a different world with hedgerows and rivers, sodden fields and stretches of woodland. What was it with a shooting out here? Had some country toff gone nuts? Or was it a couple of farmers having an argument? Her mind spun red and yellow. What about gang warfare? A hit of some sort? Control had said a girl had called emergency. Perhaps a teenager had gone off the deep end.

  They were barely half a mile away when they met a massive green tractor taking up most of the road. No room for their vehicle to pass. The tractor was towing a huge piece of kit in matching green – Lucy had no idea what it was – and the driver waved frantically, indicating it would be faster if they reversed to let him past.

  ‘For fuck’s sake . . .’

  Howard slammed the car into reverse but despite their best efforts, it still took them a good minute to manoeuvre past.

  Lucy resisted the urge to scream with frustration.

  A lot could happen in a minute.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jessie sprinted through the back door and swung immediately right, legs pumping, driving for the corner of the house.

  Crack!

  A chip of stone struck her cheek but she didn’t feel it sting or realise she was bleeding. She had to get away. She had to hide.

  A childhood memory surfaced and she switched direction, running between the camellias and bamboo and diving through the garden door to come out on the west side of the drive. Ten paces and she was burrowing into an old childhood hidey-hole deep in an ancient rhododendron bush, leaves and branches wet and pouring rainwater as she moved them aside. She’d hidden there with Felix on countless occasions when they were little. The path they’d made through the boughs all those years had gone and she had to force her way through, crouching low and clawing her way deeper. The taste of earth was in her mouth, fresh wet air in her lungs. Finally she paused, huddling low, foliage brushing her cheeks and hands.

  She tried to quieten her ragged gasps. I must keep absolutely still, she told herself. For as long as it takes. Until the police arrive and tell me it’s safe to come out.

  Through the leaves she could just make out the ghostly white of the fence edging the drive, but little else. Templar was just around the corner but she couldn’t risk running for him. She’d be too exposed.

  She started to tremble. Tears began to rise.

  Do not cry, she commanded herself. You might make a sound that will give you away.

  The faint rumble of an engine reached her.

  She stiffened, listening, unsure where it was coming from. The stables? The front drive?

  And then she heard a small sound behind her. Unable to see what it was, she began to shuffle away from the sound, terror like a rope around her neck and making it difficult to breathe. Had she left tracks on the grass? Footprints?

  The sound came again.

  She swallowed a scream and willed herself to keep still. She blocked out everything – the sound of a blackbird chattering, rooks cawing – and concentrated on what was behind her. Then she heard the tiniest of clicks. A minute metallic click she knew all too well. The sound of a safety catch being released.

  It was right behind her.

  Jessie bolted through the foliage. Head down, arms and legs driving for the other side, waiting for the bullet in her thighs, her back, her spine, and the next instant she was bursting into clear air, her legs pumping, propelling her across the drive for the orchard. Crack!

  The sound of the rifle firing. It sounded so close!

  She increased her pace, amazed she hadn’t been hit, pelting for Templar, grabbing his reins from the branch and flipping them over his head, swinging him away from the yard and the rear drive. The five-bar gate was shut and although Templar was a fair jumper, if they botched it or he refused, they’d be trapped.

  The horse was jerking his head, snorting and rolling his eyes at her urgency but he didn’t back away – good boy – and he let her half leap, half scramble into the saddle. The instant she was astride she dug her boots into his ribs.

  ‘Go, boy, GO!’ she yelled.

  She was ready for him to jibe, kick up a fuss as he usually did when she asked for a fast start, but it was as though he’d been waiting for this command all his life. His ears flashed forward. His shoulders rose and his great hindquarters bunched beneath her. He took off like a rocket.

  He charged down the drive with Jessie lying low over his neck, willing him to go faster with every inch of her body. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes focused on nothing but the rifle, the barrel pointed right at her.

  Jessie reined Templar violently left. He responded immediately. She then reined him violently to the right.

  Crack!

  She heard the rooks exploding from the trees ahead, cawing frenziedly – he hasn’t hit me, he hasn’t hit me – and she hunkered even lower. Trees flashed past. Her senses were filled with nothing but the sound of Templar’s metal shoes pounding against tarmac, the slap and creak of leather, threads of mane stinging her eyes. Templar’s hot breathing.

  Crack!

  The sound of a bullet whizzed past her, like the snap of a bullwhip. They had to get off the drive.

  Aiming the horse for the oak tree looming just ahead she pressured the reins, letting him know she wanted him to slow so they could swing down the bridle path. But Templar was enjoying his flat-out gallop and didn’t want to stop.

  Jessie leaned back and with all her strength, hauled the horse sideways, signalling to him to veer right. She was terrified they were going to overshoot the turning.

  Please don’t fire again, she prayed.

  At the last second, Templar got the message. He dropped his head, put his rump down and spun for the bridle path, and although the huge body beneath her was angling for the path in the biggest slalom a horse had ever attempted, as his hooves met the grass they began to slip. He was suddenly off-balance and uncoordinated and she thought, No! Please don’t fall!

  It was as though he’d heard her. His rear hooves dug into the earth, powering him forward, but as he regained his balance the rifle fired, crack!, and Jessie felt something punch her in her chest. She didn’t know what it was, she was urging Templar onward, and then another crack! and Templar gave a grunt as though he’d been winded and then the huge body beneath her began to buckle.

  The horse crashed to the ground with horrifying force. Jessie was flung sideways as he flailed wildly, trying to right himself, and she could feel his hooves lashing madly as she urged him to get up, please boy, and he was twisting, desperately kicking his hind legs when there was another crack! and everything turned white. Blinding white, as though she’d been dropped on to an ice-covered mountain in bright sunshine.

  She said something, she didn’t know what, whether it was Templar’s name or if she formed the single word, Daddy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Siren still blaring, praying there weren’t any more tractors in the vicinity or a herd of cows around the next corner, they flashed past a sign for Green Hall Farm.

  ‘Steady,’ she warned Howard. ‘It’s the next left.’

  And sure enough there it was – a huge wrought-iron ranch-style gate with the name Barwick House sculpted across the top. Lucy’s gaze went to the entry-phone pad to one side – would there be anyone to answer it? – but as Howard splashed the car forward the gate automatically swung open.

  He switched off the siren. Lucy pressed button six on her radio. Code six. Arrived at scene.

  An immaculate drive with manicured edges curved through water-logged grazing paddocks. Accordi
ng to the satnav the drive was half a mile long. The backdrop of moorland – they were a stone’s throw from North York Moors National Park – was fringed by woods of oak and beech, monochrome grey and brown in the dripping countryside.

  They were a third of the way down the drive when she spotted something large and dark humped on the ground. For a moment she thought it was one of those huge plastic-coated straw bales but as they neared she saw it was a horse. A girl lay next to it, motionless.

  The car was still moving when Lucy erupted outside. Tore across. She skidded to the girl’s side. The girl looked at her and she looked back.

  ‘She’s alive!’ she yelled at Howard. ‘Get the ambulance to hurry!’

  The girl’s puffa jacket was soaked in blood. Quickly Lucy unpopped the buttons. Pushed aside the girl’s sweater. Dear God, it was a mess.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked but the girl didn’t answer. ‘I’m Lucy. I’m going to find where you’re hurt and try and help you, OK?’

  Desperately she tried to find where the blood was coming from. She had to stop the bleeding or the girl would die. She could hear Howard talking to the ambulance. In the distance, more sirens but they were too far away, at least another minute. Faster, she urged them.

  Lucy found the wound, pulsing, gushing blood, and put the heel of her hand over it. Pressed down.

  The girl gave a shuddering cough.

  ‘The ambulance is coming,’ Lucy told her. ‘They’ll be here before you know it. They’re really fast. They’ll patch you up in no time.’

  Jessie gave a groan, a sound of agony so deep Lucy started to sweat.

  She forced herself to concentrate on stemming the flow of blood, which had, she realised to her horror, thickened and turned the colour of tar. Where was the fucking ambulance?

  Jessie gave a soft hiccup, then her breathing began to labour. Blood bubbled through her nostrils.

  ‘Daddy.’ It was a gasp more than a word. ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Hang in there . . .’

  The slender body gave a shudder. The girl’s eyes were on Lucy’s. They were deeply frightened.