Tell Me A Lie (The Dan Forrester series)

by CJ Carver

  I want to save you from having to bury them. Can’t you see? I’m doing it to protect you.

  He stood in her mind as clear as day. Broad and as powerful as an ox, his KGB uniform perfectly pressed, his jackboots highly polished. He was glaring at her through eyes the colour of wet peat.

  No, Papa, she said. You’re wrong. He’s strong. You just can’t see it. Give him a chance. Please.

  Irina, he is a weakling. Her father spread his hands as though appealing to her would change her mind. He is pathetic. Even the dogs laugh at him. He will sire nothing but weaklings.

  Dmitry was anything but a weakling. He had strength of character her father could only dream about. Instead of bullying, he helped others. Instead of using intimidation and oppression he used encouragement and respect. He was slender and beautiful and as resilient as a flute reed. He smelled of warm bread and clean hair. It was the smell of freedom, the promise of a life without violence.

  She couldn’t live without him.

  She raised her chin, refusing to quail. I love him. I want to marry him.

  Her father laughed, a genuine belly laugh that had her skin springing with sweat. The last time he’d laughed like that he’d been dragging her mother around the dining room by her hair, pulling out great chunks of it. The next day, when she’d tried to help Mama comb her hair over the raw bald spots, they still showed through, the size of soup spoons and weeping blood.

  I forbid you to see him.

  She held herself very still. I’m seventeen. I can see who I like.

  Not unless I say so. His eyes hardened.

  Stomach churning, she looked at the four men who stood with her father. Three were low-level soldiers whose names she didn’t know. Military haircuts and lean, hard faces. They were fighters and killers, brutal henchmen who would gut a child if her father commanded them.

  The fourth man spoke.

  Your father’s right. Dmitry isn’t right for you. He’s as wet as a piece of piss.

  Yesikov stood seven inches taller than Papa, and where her father was sturdy with a good layer of fat, Yesikov’s frame was tall and angular. Twenty-six years old with sleek blond hair and piercing blue eyes, wide shoulders, a strong jawline, he had women fluttering after him in droves. But his good looks were deceptive. He had no charm, no kindness in his soul, just layers of cunning and depths of cruelty that terrified her. She’d been eleven when he’d shown her the scar across his kidneys where he’d been knifed. When he told her he’d trussed his attacker from the ceiling in return, slicing out his kidneys with a filleting knife and forcing him to eat them while he died – she’d had to run from the room to vomit. Yesikov had laughed, thinking her a great joke. He was a heartless butcher, a brutal creature, and her father’s favourite pet.

  Her father spoke quietly. I’ve heard Dmitry is bélaya kost.

  White bone. Blue blood. An aristocrat.

  You heard wrong, she lied. Her fear rose. Dmitry was indeed related to the royal family, but you wouldn’t know it. He had no airs or graces, didn’t expect to eat off silverware or demand wine with every meal.

  Stop lying, her father snapped. How can he not be a tsarist shit with Prince Vladimir and Princess Sofia Kasofsky as parents? I’ve seen the photographs of their palace, dripping with jewels and droves of servants. Tsarist scum, the lot of them, sucking the life out of good, honest hard-working people.

  Stop it, Papa! she cried. You know things aren’t like that any more! They’re just like us! Dmitry’s father works for Gosplan and his mother cleans the local government offices. They work as hard as the next man!

  I bet he’s an agitator for the old elite. His gaze turned crafty.

  Of course not! Her voice reverberated with the truth. Dmitry was a schoolteacher and had no intention of campaigning for a cause that he knew would bring his parents and his school’s children into danger.

  Are you sure?

  I’m sure. Desperately she looked between the men. Who had been spying on her? Who had told her father?

  I’m disappointed in you. Her father lit a cigarette, throwing the match on to the floor. One of his henchmen scurried to pick it up. Of all the men, you choose an autocrat. It’s unbelievable. What have I done to deserve this? One son’s an alcoholic, the other runs away to the West. My eldest daughter threatens to defect. I can’t allow them into the house any more! Ach. He made a sound of disgust. My children are a plague on me.

  Long silence during which her father looked at Yesikov, then at her.

  Why don’t you marry Lazar here? He’s one of us. He’s intelligent. He’s strong, a real man. He’s perfect.

  If you like pigs. She spoke without thinking.

  Her father burst out laughing. Lazar, what do you make of that?

  Lazar Yesikov held her gaze for long seconds. I think she doesn’t know me well enough.

  His eyes were hooded and there was an emptiness there, a blank glassy look she’d seen too many times. It was the look he gave before he hurt people.

  Perhaps you should both get to know one another better. Her father gave a low chuckle.

  Yesikov blinked, and the look vanished.

  The silence held until her father turned and walked for the door.

  She hadn’t run straight to Dmitry and his parents to warn them, because she knew she’d be followed. She’d been forced to wait until an opportunity presented itself where she could slip away unseen. In the meantime, she pretended to be absorbed in preparing the house for yet another party, this one for Joseph Stalin’s birthday. Everything had to be perfect, and although she presented a calm exterior, untroubled and carefree, her little brother sensed something was up. Timur was seven years younger than her and the age gap meant she found him mostly an annoyance, playing tricks and hiding things, and now he became almost unbearable, springing from behind doors shouting, ‘Salka!’ Surprise! and scaring her every time.

  She knew he was only trying to gain her attention but she found his constant demands to play exhausting. Until the day came when she said goodbye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘for being such a mean sister.’

  ‘You’ve been horrible lately,’ he said, lower lip stuck out. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you.’

  She pulled him to her and hugged him tight. For once, he didn’t struggle but hugged her back. She rested her face against his hair – thick and dark like his father’s – and breathed in his scent.

  ‘If you ever want to surprise me again,’ she told him, ‘you mustn’t hesitate. Because although I shout at you sometimes, deep down I love it when you surprise me. I’ve just been distracted recently. A bit stressed over the party. I love you, Timur. Don’t forget it.’

  She’d left her father’s house without a backward glance. She didn’t know where she was going, what the future might have in store for her. All she knew was that she was going to run away with Dmitry. It didn’t matter where. They just had to get away and start a new life, where nobody knew them or their pasts.

  Now Irene Cavendish breathed in cold air that tasted of snow. She was glad her father was dead. But instead of suffering a deadly fate for his cruelty and violence he’d been pensioned off with an apartment in Moscow and a dacha in the countryside, dying of heart disease in 1965. Some people thought of him as a hero for helping Stalin bring industrialisation to Russia – cities and streets were named after him – but Irene would spit on his grave if she could.

  The young police officer was still talking to the traffic warden. Could she trust Lucy Davies with her family’s secrets? Would the police officer keep them safe? She gave an inward shudder. Intellectually she knew the British police were far less corruptible than their Russian counterparts but she would rather lie down and let wolves devour her than share a word with them. She’d have to face things on her own. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ll be two minutes. I’m not in anyone’s way and –’

  ‘D
on’t tell me.’ The warden put a finger against his mouth in a parody of thought. ‘You expect special dispensation because you’re a police officer.’

  ‘No way!’ she objected but it was true. She’d hoped he’d give her at least ten minutes before slapping a ticket on her windscreen.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He stood back with his arms crossed, foot tapping and making it obvious he wanted her to climb into her car and drive away while he waited. Officious little bastard, she thought furiously. She only needed five minutes to wind up the interview with Irene Cavendish and now she had to spend God knew how long searching for a sodding parking space before she could return.

  Without another word she jumped into her car and drove up the hill, turned left. Miles of nothing but narrow cobbled lanes lined with double yellows and pretty houses in cream and white. No room to park a bicycle let alone a car. She had to double-back to Castlegate Street and finally, right at the top of the hill, opposite a church, she found a grass parking area for fifty-plus vehicles, empty aside from a lone Fiesta. PRIVATE. She ignored the sign. She was only going to be a second – all she wanted to do was give Irene her business card – besides which the place was hardly going to fill up in the ten minutes she’d be gone. Lucy jogged back down the hill.

  As she approached Irene’s house, she saw a couple standing on the front porch. They were talking to Irene. Although it appeared to be a friendly conversation – neighbours or relatives dropping by to offer condolences perhaps – Lucy could tell something was wrong. Where the couple were standing, relaxed and apparently at peace with the world, Irene was so tightly strung that Lucy reckoned if she plucked her with a finger she would twang. She increased her pace and at the same time, Irene looked across at her. Her face went suddenly slack with relief.

  The couple turned to follow Irene’s gaze. A good-looking pair in their thirties, the man with a broad face and cleft chin, the woman small and chic with large hazel eyes. He wore a dark tailored woollen coat over trousers and shoes, the woman a rich camel jacket with a fur collar and a pair of sexy high-heeled oxfords with a glossy finish. Their eyes travelled slowly over her uniform with studied indifference.

  Lucy trotted up the steps. Without saying anything the couple moved from the porch and made to walk past her, heading for the street.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lucy said. She put up a hand, expecting them to stop. But they didn’t. They brushed past her and kept walking.

  She turned and walked after them. ‘I’d like a word, please.’

  The couple ignored her.

  ‘I’m investigating a serious case regarding Mrs Cavendish’s family.’

  No response.

  Lucy walked faster in an effort to get past them but each time she tried they walked faster too. It was like some kind of farce and if she wasn’t so wary of them she might have expressed her annoyance. When they beeped open their car – parked in the same space she’d used, sadly the Officious Little Bastard was nowhere to be seen to help delay them – she stood in front of the vehicle and crossed her arms in order to make herself look larger and more official.

  ‘Did you know Polina Calder?’ she asked. ‘Irene Cavendish’s daughter?’ She was looking for a response. She got nothing.

  The man opened the passenger door and shut it once the woman was inside. As he walked to the driver’s side, Lucy said, ‘Did you know Polina was murdered?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘From your behaviour, I’m thinking you have something to hide. And when I find out who you are I will come after you and next time, you will have no choice but to answer my questions.’

  Without even a glance in her direction the man climbed into the car, started the engine, put the car into gear and drove around her.

  She watched them go, frustration biting. No time to run up the hill and get her car and follow them. They’d be long gone by the time she returned. Pulling out her pen, she made a note of their number plate in her pocket book.

  She returned to Irene but this time she wasn’t invited inside.

  ‘Who were they?’ Lucy said.

  For a moment, Lucy thought the woman wasn’t going to answer but then she said, ‘They say they are friends of Polina’s. I’ve never see them before.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  If they were Polina’s friends, Lucy thought, surely they would have introduced themselves? Stopped to talk to a police officer? And why had Irene been so tense?

  ‘They came to say sorry she is dead.’ Irene’s tone was flat. She had regained her composure and held Lucy’s gaze as though daring her to accuse her of lying.

  ‘Do they live locally?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘I know nothing of these people.’ Her contemptuous tone had returned. ‘Nothing.’

  They’d looked pretty sophisticated and gave Lucy the impression they could be as at home rubbing shoulders with the millionaire farmers of Yorkshire as city traders in London. Aside from the car, which was a plain no-nonsense Ford Mondeo. From their clothes she would have expected at least a Mercedes or BMW.

  ‘You were relieved to see me,’ Lucy remarked.

  Irene’s gaze turned cold. ‘You have more questions? Or are you going now?’

  A stiff cold breeze lifted Lucy’s hair from the nape of her neck but she didn’t move, didn’t shiver. She looked straight at the older woman. ‘Irene.’ Her tone was sombre. ‘Do you want us to find who killed your daughter and your grandchildren?’

  A flare of astonishment. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then help us. This means you tell us who Zama is, and who those people were.’

  The woman’s expression closed as hard and fast as Adrian Calder’s had in the interview room when she’d asked him about Zama.

  ‘Look.’ Lucy tried to be reasonable. ‘If you withhold what could be vital information, the killers may never be caught, and whose fault will it be?’ She let a silence fall but Irene looked unmoved. Lucy sighed. Brought out her business card. ‘If you want to speak to me, here’s my mobile number. Call any time.’

  Irene pocketed it and, without another word, took a step back and closed the door in Lucy’s face.

  As she walked back up the hill, icy wind biting her neck and wrists, Lucy rang Mac and filled him in.

  ‘I’ll run the number plate,’ he told her. ‘Look, when we’ve solved this case, I think we should go out and celebrate. Shall we pencil in next Saturday?’

  She couldn’t help but admire his optimism. ‘You really think we’ll have it wrapped by then?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ He sounded remarkably cheerful. ‘Let’s have dinner. I’ve found a great little pub near Rosedale. They do a great roast pheasant, lots of roast potatoes and gravy.’

  ‘Are you talking about those beautiful birds I see on the moors, with long tails and pretty little ear tufts?’

  ‘Is that a yes?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  Phone back in her pocket, she strode for her car, arriving just in time to catch the Officious Little Bastard putting a ticket under her wiper.

  ‘It’s private,’ he told her smugly. ‘And open to the public only when the Pay and Display signs are –’

  She didn’t waste time listening to him but snatched the ticket free, jumped into the car and took off, twin spots of fury burning on her cheeks. Another thirty quid wasted. She had to start parking legally or she’d never be able to pay her rent.

  Lucy drove back to the station. Being Sunday, traffic was almost non-existent and the journey time practically halved. Bliss. As she walked into reception, she saw a man talking to the desk sergeant. Early thirties, sun-bleached hair, a couple of days’ stubble, silver earring in one ear, brown leather necklace, a couple of ethnic bracelets on his right wrist. A rucksack hung from one shoulder. She walked past. She assumed he was an undercover cop but paused when he said, ‘I’m here to meet Justin Tripp. Adrian Calder’s lawyer. He said he’d be here around three.’

  Lucy t
urned around.

  ‘You can wait for him over there.’ The duty sergeant gestured at the row of plastic chairs sitting below a variety of posters exhorting how to defeat alcohol and domestic violence.

  ‘No problem,’ said the man.

  Lucy watched him take a seat. His demeanour was calm. The rucksack lay neatly beside his feet. She was surprised when he didn’t immediately bring out a phone and begin checking his messages but sat quietly without moving. He looked as though he might be meditating.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he said.

  His eyes clicked to her. Murky green. Strangely luminous.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She was momentarily wrong-footed.

  ‘You’ve been staring. I thought it might be that we’ve met somewhere before.’ His gaze was open and affable. ‘I’m an ex-cop, so it’s possible.’

  ‘You don’t look like one,’ she remarked.

  ‘What do I look like?’

  ‘A surfer.’

  ‘Good observation.’

  She held his eyes. Strong jawline, lean body. He was bad-boy good-looking. Not someone she’d forget in a hurry.

  She stepped closer, expecting him to rise to meet her, but again he surprised her by remaining seated, lifting his face to maintain eye contact. ‘Tell me, do you know Adrian Calder?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve seen him on the news.’

  The door banged to one side, letting in an icy blast but neither of them looked round.

  ‘Who are you?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Nicholas Blain. Why, who are you?’

  Her name was stitched on her epaulettes but she didn’t mention it. ‘I’m one of the investigating officers on the Calder case.’

  Interest sparked. ‘I see.’ But he still didn’t rise.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know Mr Calder?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve seen him on the news.’

  He’d sidestepped her question and she was going to ask him why he’d come to the police station to see Justin Tripp – it seemed an odd place to meet a lawyer, especially at the weekend – but the door gave another bang and a voice said, ‘Lucy.’