Buried Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘He abused you?’ Mariner guessed.

  She blinked, and for an instant the shotgun slipped in her grasp, but she quickly recovered. ‘He started on me when I was about five,’ she said. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how child abuse is so rife, so commonplace these days that we are almost inured to it. The idea of it ceases to be shocking. I remember the occasion, of course, in vivid detail, though not exactly how old I was at the time. Mum was a nurse and did shift work, so it was easy for him. He took such special care of me when she was on nights. And he was such a pleasant, likeable man that no one ever suspected a thing. Even I didn’t at first. For such a long time I thought that all little girls shared those special secrets with their daddies. By the time I was old enough to have figured out how wrong it was, I was too ashamed to do anything about it. And as he reminded me on frequent occasions, by then I was making a choice. I’d been colluding with him for years.’

  ‘Did your mother know what was going on?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I prefer to think that she didn’t; it’s easier that way, although I still feel angry at her.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her?’

  ‘The first person I ever told was a total stranger. Theo.’

  ‘A stranger?’

  ‘I was about to kill myself, but Theo found me and stopped me. It was a complete fluke. He was delivering leaflets to the houses in our street. Our letterbox used to stick sometimes and he had to push it open. He saw me trying to tie one of Dad’s climbing ropes to the banister. He broke down the door and I ended up telling him everything. The fact that he was a stranger made it easier.’

  ‘So the baby wasn’t his?’

  She laughed, a bitter, staccato laugh. ‘How could it have been? Theo and I never had sex. Ours was a chaste relationship. He hadn’t fathered my baby.’ It didn’t take much for Mariner to work out who had. ‘Theo rescued me. He brought me here, to Caranwy. He’d planned to come here anyway, so he brought me with him. Theo was a romantic; he was certain that fate had intervened, that we would live here happily ever after.’

  ‘But Theo is dead,’ Mariner pointed out.

  ‘The shame of what happened to me is unbearable sometimes and I’ve always been petrified that one day my father would find me and it would start all over again. Theo said he was going to end it once and for all. I didn’t know what he meant. He wrote to my father anonymously, hinting that I wanted reconciliation. When Joe Hennessey turned up in the village we knew Jonny had taken the bait and was scouting the way ahead. Theo told me he was going to meet my father, to tell him what he knew and threaten him with exposure if he didn’t stay away for good. Then I realized he was planning something more final.’ Tears began to stream down her cheeks.

  ‘He was going to kill your father.’

  ‘When Theo didn’t come back that morning I knew something terrible must have happened.’

  Mariner couldn’t believe how naive their plan had been. ‘But when you found out Theo was dead, why didn’t you tell the police?’

  ‘Because we didn’t know for sure what had happened. Willow and Elena said it would be better to wait. They didn’t want me to have to tell my story if it was all for nothing.’

  ‘Elena?’

  ‘She’s been such a good friend since I came here; a better mother than mine ever was.’

  A noise at the top of the steps made them both look up, to see one of Shapasnikov’s sharp-suited henchmen descending the staircase and holding a handgun out in front of him. Sighing, Amber lowered the shotgun. ‘Dmitri, thank God. My arms were about to drop off.’

  ‘You know each other?’ Mariner wasn’t sure why that should be such a surprise.

  ‘Of course. You don’t think Willow, Theo and I could have run this place on our own, do you?’

  ‘Shapasnikov’s behind it?’

  ‘No,’ said Amber, affronted. ‘It’s our project. After the vegetables failed, Willow was dismantling the infra-red lamps and it occurred to him that they could have another purpose. It started small, genuinely our own personal supply, and grew from there. Once it began to take over we had the problem of distribution. Cannabis isn’t the kind of thing we could openly sell at the markets. But then Nikolai moved into the Hall. Willow knew about his nightclubs and how they operated, so there it was, our distribution network.’

  ‘So Shapasnikov contributes his manual labour and takes a cut,’ said Mariner, seeing how it all worked.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Amber. ‘We couldn’t manage without him, especially in situations like this one.’

  ‘And the land dispute?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Shapasnikov’s historian really did turn up some contestable paperwork. But, in truth, no one could care less about who owns Plackett’s Wood.’

  ‘Behaving like arch rivals with an outward display of animosity was a good cover for the operation,’ said Mariner.

  ‘We’ve got quite good at subterfuge,’ Amber admitted. ‘And now Dmitri will be able to make you disappear.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a magician too, is he?’ said Mariner.

  ‘Not exactly, but we still have the lime pit, left over from when this farm was hit by foot and mouth. Perhaps your friends won’t find you after all.’ She turned to Dmitri. ‘We should get this over with, before Willow gets back.’

  Dmitri started down the stairs past Amber. If Mariner was going to get out of this he needed to do it now. Backing away slowly to begin with, he chose his moment, then suddenly ducked down behind one of the long trestle tables of trailing plants. Dmitri fired a deafening shot, but it was a split-second too late, allowing Mariner to scramble along the ground, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the gunman.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Amber called out, her voice echoing around the chamber. ‘You won’t be able to get out of here.’

  Rationally Mariner knew she was right. With Amber standing guard at the only escape route, it was just a matter of time before Dmitri caught up with him. But his survival instinct wouldn’t let him give up just yet. In the unbearable heat, Mariner could feel his shirt sticking to him like a second skin. Crouching uncomfortably, he strained to maintain his concentration, though he was beginning to feel faint and light-headed, the blood roaring in his ears. He stuck his fingers in to try and clear them, and the roaring temporarily stopped. The roaring wasn’t in his head, after all — it was in the cellar and getting louder. The floor trembled and, from somewhere deep at the back of the cellar, came a gust of blissfully cool air followed by a foaming, solid wall of water that blasted into the main chamber. Mariner caught a last glimpse of Amber part way up the staircase, and then there was a bang. The electricity shorted out and everything went black, and Mariner was hit by a slab of icy water so powerful that it slammed him against the wall, before dragging him back into the swirling maelstrom. Submerged in choking blackness and pummelled on all sides by rocks and debris, Mariner thrashed his arms in a blind panic. For what seemed like an eternity he was churned around in a muddy, freezing washing machine. Some years ago his life had almost ended in an underground tomb, and now it seemed that it was about to happen for real.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kicking against the powerful current, Mariner realized abruptly that the rush of water was slowing down and he was able to force himself upwards. Surfacing, he choked out a mouthful of gritty water and simultaneously cracked his head on the solid rock of the cellar ceiling. He’d found an air lock, the surface of the water only inches from the ceiling. In the pitch darkness Mariner could feel the water swirling and settling, lapping over his chin. Flotsam and jetsam bobbed by and he cried out as what felt like felt human hair fluttered across his face, before he realized it was only plant matter. With the immediate danger over, cold was starting to numb his limbs, and he had to work his arms hard to prevent the weight of the water in his clothes from dragging him under. Somehow, working in short bursts, he managed to discard his heavy fleece and shirt, and at once his buoyancy increased. By turni
ng his head to one side and banging it along the ceiling of the cellar, he could manage to gulp in enough air to sustain himself — but for how long?

  His first thought was to try to swim back to the cellar entrance, but he had no idea which direction that might be. He began to propel himself blindly in what he thought must be the right direction, but suddenly the ceiling that he was pressing against disappeared, and he felt cool air moving around his head. The cave had opened out. Working his arms and legs to stay afloat, he strained his ears to listen; running water was trickling in from somewhere to his right. Turning his head towards it, Mariner struck out in that direction, encouraged by the faintest movement of air, before he came up against a solid wall. Reaching out his hands, he felt an opening in the rock directly above his face that sloped away from him upwards at an angle. Wedging his numbed fingers into a crack in the surface, he heaved himself upward and his head struck solid stone. For a few seconds, dazed, he managed to cling, shivering, to the ledge he had found, conscious that at any time another deluge could wash him back down to the cellar or worse.

  Groping his way around the opening he identified it as some kind of narrow tunnel, through which a strong draught blew. Inch by inch he dragged himself up the slippery rocks, his progress agonizingly slow, his deadened fingertips bruised and starting to bleed. The icy water combined now with the chill breeze, causing him to shake uncontrollably and, overwhelmed with exhaustion, it suddenly all felt like too much effort. Laying his head down on the cold stone, he closed his eyes for a moment. So much easier to just stay here . . .

  A splash of water in his ear made Mariner open his eyes, and he noticed then a subtle change in the light. He could now see the faintly defined shapes of the rocks around him and a clear contrast of black and grey. Lifting his head he saw high above him the tiniest sliver of daylight. It looked impossibly small. Energized nonetheless, Mariner stiffly resumed his crawl, breathing deeply to try and control the violent shivering. Bit by bit the tunnel began to widen until he found himself at the bottom of a sloping scree-covered cave. He scrambled on his hands and knees towards the chink of light, sliding on the loose boulders and knowing, after all this, that if the gap at the end was too narrow, he was finished. But as he got nearer, the area of light expanded, turning into an opening that was wide enough for him, bent double, to step through. The water continued to lap over the rim into the passageway but with profound relief Mariner scrambled out into the dazzling daylight, emerging at the foot of a rocky crag that rose up from the river. It was a pool very like the one he and Suzy had swum in.

  In any decent movie Mariner would have been greeted by a welcoming committee of armed bandits, guns trained in his direction, but in this case his escape was noticed only by a noisy mallard, indignant at being disturbed. He waded across to the far side of the pool to climb out of the icy water and onto the rocks, where he sat for a moment trying to summon up some energy. Bruised and battered, his body ached and he was frozen to the marrow. He wondered if Dmitri and Amber had survived. Although there was no way of knowing how long he had been in the cellar, or how long it had taken him to find his way out, he estimated that at most it could only have only been a matter of an hour or so, meaning that if they had escaped they couldn’t yet have got far. He was frozen and exhausted, and needed to do what he could to avoid setting off in the wrong direction. The valley closest to him must be the one adjacent to Caranwy. Mariner followed the course of the river in that direction, through the gorge, until it began to level out. The river emerged sooner than he could have hoped and he rounded a bend into a meadow, flooded by the high water — and there, ahead of him, were farm buildings.

  His clothes were sodden and filthy, and he could see the cuts and bruises on his bare arms. And so, fully aware of how bad he must be looking, Mariner approached the buildings with caution. As he got nearer, dogs started barking, then he became aware of human voices and next saw a small group of men standing in the farmyard, talking. As Mariner limped towards them they turned as one and stared. ‘There’s been an accident,’ was all he could manage before collapsing on to the ground. He felt himself being helped into the farmhouse. ‘I need to use a phone and then get back to the White Hart at Caranwy as soon as I can,’ he said, as soon as he could make himself coherent. Revived with brandy and swathed in blankets, Mariner dialled 999 and insisted he be put through to Ryan Griffith. He summed up what had happened as best he could. ‘You need to get over there. It’s a mess, but all the evidence you need is there. I don’t know what happened to Amber or Dmitri.’

  Mariner would have been content to wait for a taxi, but one of the farmers was heading home in the direction of Caranwy, and took him in his battered old Land Rover. The twenty-minute journey did little to soothe Mariner’s sore and aching limbs, and he felt obliged to offer the farmer, Jim, at least some manner of explanation. He kept it simple; he’d been down in the cellar with two others when it had flooded.

  ‘You had a lucky escape,’ observed Jim, with some understatement.

  DC Debra Farthing was waiting for Mariner at the Hart. ‘My God,’ she said, gaping at him. ‘You took a beating. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’

  Mariner shook his head, regretting it instantly. ‘It’s superficial,’ he said. ‘Mostly I just need to lie down.’

  ‘You need some food inside you too,’ fussed Josie Symonds.

  Farthing waited while Mariner showered and changed into dry clothes, then as he ate she took notes on what had happened at Abbey Farm. ‘DI Griffith is over there now?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘Yes, like you said, the cellar is still awash. There’s no sign of Dmitri or Amber, but we don’t know yet if that’s because they’ve drowned or bolted. They’re waiting for Willow to get back from the market so they can re-arrest him.’

  ‘What about Shapasnikov?’

  ‘Not there. We’ll bring him in for questioning, of course, but without Dmitri there’s nothing to link him directly with Abbey Farm so my guess is that he’ll deny any involvement.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  That evening Ryan Griffith came down to the White Hart. Mariner stood him a pint and the two men settled into one of the snugs. Mariner talked him through what had happened in the cellar.

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you to call for some support before you went in there?’ said Griffith mildly.

  ‘What would you have done?’ asked Mariner. Griffith’s slight dip of the head was answer enough. ‘So we know now who killed Theo Ashton,’ Mariner went on. ‘But we can’t say the same for Jeremy Bryce.’

  ‘Not yet, no,’ Griffith agreed. ‘But we have a powerful motive, along with a limited group of likely suspects.’

  ‘Is there any news on Amber or Dmitri?’

  ‘The water in the cellar subsided pretty quickly to a couple of feet deep. We’re dredging the rest, but a man’s body was recovered an hour or so ago.’

  ‘Suit and tie?’

  Griffith nodded. ‘We’re assuming Dmitri. But there’s no sign of Amber.’

  ‘She was halfway up the steps when it flooded. She could easily have got out.’

  ‘There’s a car missing from the farm,’ said Griffith. ‘We’ve put out an alert for it.’

  ‘Do you think she could have killed her father?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Griffith. ‘You spoke to her.’

  ‘There’s a lot of hatred there, just underneath the surface,’ Mariner said. ‘But to cut a man’s throat? I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘I think there are people around who would have been ready to help her,’ said Griffith, carefully.

  ‘Willow treats her like his daughter,’ Mariner agreed.

  ‘And she’s close to Elena Hughes.’

  Mariner stared at him. ‘You think Elena would . . .?’

  ‘Approaching it from a purely pragmatic perspective, aside from you, Elena was the one with the perfect opportunity. The post-mortem on Bryce found traces of a sedative in his bloodstream.�
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  ‘He had a cold,’ Mariner said. ‘Elena gave him some Night Nurse to help him sleep.’

  Griffith shook his head slowly. ‘Doc says it’s more than that.’

  ‘Maybe he was taking some other medication,’ Mariner frowned, ‘though I didn’t notice anything.’

  ‘It was in your bloodstream too,’ Griffith added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we took the sample of your blood for elimination purposes, the same sedative was found. Were you taking anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you drank something at the hostel that evening.’

  ‘Elena offered me a night cap.’ They both paused to let that sink in and Mariner thought back to the sluggishness and blinding headache he’d had the following day. Another random thought swam into his head. ‘The washing machine was running,’ he said. ‘When I went over to Elena’s kitchen after finding Bryce, she was doing a load of washing. Why would she have been doing it at that time in the morning?’

  ‘At the very least it’s likely that Elena aided and abetted a criminal offence, and I wouldn’t confidently rule her out from committing it. She’s pretty skilled with a butcher’s knife, and she doesn’t have a very high opinion of some men. Did she tell you much about her ex?’

  ‘Only that he was a git,’ said Mariner.

  ‘That’s an interesting way of putting it,’ Griffith said, with a humourless smile. ‘I got to know Elena when I first joined the police; we were called out to her place on a regular basis. Her old man was a psychopathic, manipulative control freak with anger management issues. Quite a respectable one, mind — good job, nice manners and all that — but underneath the veneer was an aggressive bully, who routinely took out his frustrations on his wife.’

  ‘Is that how she got into counselling?’