Little Black Lies

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘Callum Murray, your close friend, Catrin Quinn, has been arrested this morning. Do you have any comment to make?’

  I step to one side, she bounces in front of me. Her make-up is caked thick on her face. It might work on camera; in real life it looks grotesque. ‘Are you still telling people it was coincidence you and she found Archie West on the hillside two nights ago?’

  I sidestep around her again, treading on the cameraman’s toe in the process. ‘Watch it, mate,’ he mutters.

  ‘What happened? Did he assault you?’ Apricot lady turns her attention from me and I stride ahead. She bolts round in front of me again. ‘Do you have any comment to make about the child’s body you found on Tuesday night?’

  Luckily I’m at the door. There is a constable on door duty. Apricot tries to follow me. Constable Bouncer holds her back.

  ‘All right, Neil.’ I nod to the sergeant on the desk. ‘Is Catrin here?’

  A silent nod tells me she is. Behind us, the Apricot gang are arguing that they have as much right to enter the police station as anyone else. Bouncer is holding firm.

  ‘Can I see her?’

  Neil blinks and squares up to me. ‘She’s being interviewed.’

  ‘Does she have a solicitor?’

  His eyes fall to the counter. He’s not sure.

  ‘Has she been charged?’

  Blank stare.

  ‘When can I see her?’

  He looks over at the door. ‘Come back later.’

  Someone behind the Apricot gang wants to come in. Constable Bouncer is torn. His hesitation costs him ground and there is a sudden flood of newcomers into the reception area. Sergeant Neil is distracted. Bouncer is flustered. Former Second Lieutenant Murray is a canny bastard. I back away and slip quietly into the inner corridor.

  I’m not going far, just to the office on the right where Skye has her desk. She looks up.

  ‘Neil let me through,’ I tell her. ‘It’s chaos out there.’

  She nods, pulls a face. ‘I’ll say.’

  I cross to her desk, pull over a chair and sit down. ‘Skye, tell me what’s happening with Catrin.’

  She blushes and fiddles with a button on her shirt, as usual finding it difficult to make eye contact. People have told me that Skye has a crush on me and I’ve suspected the same thing myself. I’ve never acted on it, even if she is the only woman on the islands I could snog without getting a sore neck. To me, Skye is an overgrown kid. But if she does have a soft spot, I’m going to exploit it to the full now.

  I lean forward. ‘Catrin and I go back a long way, Skye. All a long time ago, but I probably know her better than anyone. I can help.’

  Skye is young enough and keen enough to want to chase any lead. ‘Do you want to make a statement?’

  ‘Of course.’ I’m sure I can think of something if I have to. ‘Preferably to you. But first, I need to know what’s going on. Has Catrin been arrested?’

  She nods, unhappily. ‘If you ask me, it was a bit premature. I’d have just brought her in for questioning. But coming right on the back of Archie West’s abduction, and with all the press attention, I guess the Chief Superintendent didn’t want to take any chances.’

  ‘Has she been charged?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What are the facts, Skye? What have you got?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I really shouldn’t.’ Then she gets up, strides to the door and shuts it. ‘What the hell,’ she says. ‘I’m sure it’s all over Stanley anyway. When did anything ever stay quiet here?’

  I wait. I probably look patient but I know my time is running out.

  ‘Catrin was seen driving up the hill towards the Grimwood house yesterday shortly before four o’clock,’ she tells me.

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Someone who works at the boatyard. Ten minutes later, he saw her again, only this time going the other way, towards the harbour.’

  I wait, give Skye time.

  ‘She stopped outside the house. Rachel Grimwood was at her bedroom window. She saw Catrin get out of the car and she saw her carrying Peter.’

  ‘The kid could have got out into the road. Of course Catrin stopped for him.’

  ‘She was seen – Catrin I’m talking about now – getting on board her boat with a very large bag or bundle.’ Skye really isn’t enjoying passing on the bad news. ‘Something she was struggling to carry.’

  ‘What does she say it was?’

  Skye shakes her head. More knowledge than she has.

  ‘Is that it? She drove past the house, picked the kid up out of the road and carried a bag on to her boat?’ I lean forward, reach out as though to touch Skye’s hand, then pretend to think better of it. ‘Skye, this is dangerous. While your people are focusing on Catrin, they’re not looking for Peter. Have you seen the circus outside? No one is looking for Peter.’

  I stand up and cross to the window, turning back when I reach it. ‘The weather’s taken a turn for the worse. Peter will have it a lot tougher than Archie did. A small kid won’t survive in the open for long in these conditions.’

  Her face crumples, and I feel sorry for her, but there’s more at stake than Skye’s feelings. She makes a sudden movement that doesn’t seem designed to go anywhere or achieve anything and knocks a pencil holder off her desk. It clatters to the floor.

  ‘There’s a storm forecast for this evening,’ I tell her, which isn’t true that I’m aware of.

  ‘The army are ready to start searching.’ She crouches down to retrieve the pencils. I’m pretty certain she bangs her head on the side of the desk but she bites her lip and doesn’t complain. ‘But the Chief Superintendent told them to hold off until we’ve had chance to interview the prime— to talk to Catrin.’

  ‘He’s a fool.’

  ‘There’s also a team of divers searching the bay where her boat was anchored last night.’

  I cross back to her desk and find the last pencil for her. As I hand it over, I take her hand. It feels large and warm in mine, so different to Catrin’s tiny, always cold hand. ‘Skye, I need two things. I need to talk to Catrin and I need you to get that search going as soon as possible. There’ll be another lair somewhere. An old hut, a food store, an outbuilding.’ I let her go and lean back on my heels. ‘Look, it’s obvious that whoever took Peter also took Archie and we already know Archie was taken by a man.’

  In my pocket, I still have the spreadsheet I showed Catrin on Tuesday night but there’s no need to get it out now. I emailed it to Skye months ago.

  ‘Forty-one men between the ages of sixteen and seventy-five were at both the West Falkland Sports Day and the Midwinter Swim. A handful of those will not have alibis for when Archie and Peter went missing. Good old-fashioned police work will find the man who’s taking the kids, Skye. You can find him yourself; this morning, if you put your mind to it.’

  She rubs her hand as she gets to her feet. ‘Actually, Archie is pretty confused about what happened. He’s also talking about a woman.’

  ‘What?’

  Skye takes a step closer to the door. In the corridor an alarm runs the length of both walls. She only has to touch it and my time is up.

  ‘The latest thinking is that Archie was taken by a man and a woman working together.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ I say. Not at the notion of Archie having two abductors, but at the entirely new idea I can see running through Skye’s head. If Catrin, in her new role as child abductor, had an accomplice…?

  ‘Catrin has no alibi for the time Archie went missing,’ says Skye. ‘She was working at home, all afternoon, by herself.’

  ‘Yeah, so was I,’ I say, which probably isn’t the wisest response in the world, given the turn this conversation seems to be taking. ‘So were half the people on the islands.’

  ‘There was a toy on her boat. Rachel recognized it as being Peter’s. I’m sorry, Callum, but it doesn’t look good.’

  I feel massive relief at being confronted with a piece of evidence I can
blow out of the water. ‘What sort of a toy? A rabbit, by any chance? Looking a bit worse for wear? It isn’t Peter’s. Catrin and I found it the other night on the Endeavour. Her own son had one exactly like it.’

  ‘Yes, Rachel told us that. We think maybe seeing Peter with a toy she recognized was the last straw for Catrin.’

  ‘Catrin wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  Skye raises her eyebrows. Fair point.

  ‘And there were hairs on her sweater. Fine, short, blond ones. Definitely not hers. Not yours either. They’ll have to be sent away, obviously, but—’

  ‘They were probably Queenie’s. She carries that dog around like a baby. Stopford’s going to spend a fortune having dog hairs tested. Where is Queenie, by the way?’

  ‘In the pound. I think she bit someone.’

  ‘Good.’ I step to the door and pull it open. ‘Can I at least see the dog?’

  19

  In the time it takes Queenie to eat what I’d planned for dinner, shit in my garden and leave dog hairs all over my bed, I’ve managed to hack my way into the police computer system. To be fair, it was harder than some I’ve encountered. Of course, it will be wasted effort if nothing relating to Catrin’s arrest or subsequent interview has been transcribed yet.

  I start with Stopford’s private email account and find a request issued first thing this morning to the military up at Mount Pleasant to conduct a dive search of the bay where Catrin was anchored overnight. In the response, I learn that the search is to begin mid morning and hopefully conclude by mid afternoon. They also offer to get tidal experts predicting where something dumped overboard at Port Fitzroy is most likely to drift, in the event of nothing being found immediately.

  I find another email to the forensic science laboratory used by the Metropolitan Police in London informing them that clothing taken from a suspect in a child abduction case will be flown over in two days’ time. A third is following up the request for detective assistance from the Met. Yet another is exploring the possibility of a forensic pathologist being flown to the islands to re-examine the body of little Jimmy Brown. Stopford is covering his back. An internal memo instructs all police personnel that a search of the land around the Grimwood home will not go ahead for the time being. As evidence suggests that Peter was driven away from his home, Stopford sees little point in investing valuable man-hours on a search that is likely to prove fruitless.

  Twat.

  I dig a bit deeper and find the transcript of the interview carried out with Catrin this morning. It was conducted by Detective Sergeant Josh Savidge, son of the headmaster of the local school. Savidge Junior is the most senior detective presence on the islands. He’s accompanied by Detective Constable Liz Wilkins. Catrin has chosen not to have a solicitor present.

  I skim through the opening formalities, the reminder to Catrin that she is allowed legal representation, and her declining it again.

  Savidge: What time did you leave your office yesterday afternoon, Mrs Quinn?

  Catrin: I wasn’t particularly conscious of the time, I’m afraid. Mid afternoon.

  Savidge: Your colleagues tell us it was coming up to four o’clock, not long after the photograph of you on the front cover of the Daily Mirror arrived by fax. And just as the eclipse began.

  Catrin: That sounds about right.

  Savidge: So, just before four o’clock then?

  (Short pause.)

  Savidge: For the benefit of the tape, Mrs Quinn, can you answer the question verbally?

  Catrin: Yes, I imagine it was around four o’clock when I left.

  Savidge: Alone?

  Catrin: My dog was with me. Where is she, by the way?

  Savidge: Why did you leave then?

  Catrin: Have you seen the photograph of me that millions of people all over the world are looking at?

  Savidge: Answer the question, please, Mrs Quinn.

  Catrin: I was upset. I wanted some time on my own.

  Savidge: Where were you planning to go?

  Catrin: Home.

  Savidge: Which way did you head?

  Catrin: I went up the Airport Road, the easterly arm.

  Savidge: That’s not the most direct route, is it?

  (Short pause.)

  Wilkins: Mrs Quinn?

  Catrin: No, it’s not. But sometimes I drive that way.

  Wilkins: Why?

  Catrin: There are very few roads on the Falklands. Sometimes I just get bored.

  I stop reading and lean back in my chair. No sound from upstairs, not even the gentle rumble of canine snoring. Back to the transcript where, not surprisingly, Savidge hasn’t accepted a desire for variety as the reason Catrin drove along that particular road yesterday. He’s pushing her. She doesn’t want to answer. He persists. She gives in first.

  Catrin: That road takes me past Rachel Grimwood’s house. I used to spend a lot of time there, when I was younger, when my sons were alive. I suppose it reminds me of when I was happy.

  (Indistinct murmuring.)

  Savidge: Mrs Quinn, we spoke to Christopher Grimwood yesterday, the eldest child. Nice lad. Just turned twelve.

  Catrin: Christopher is my godson. I know who he is.

  Savidge: Yes, exactly. When did you last spend any time with him?

  Catrin: I’m sorry, you want to know when I last saw Christopher?

  Savidge: Yes. When did you last, I don’t know, have a meal with him? Go for a walk with him? Sit and watch a television programme together?

  Catrin: I haven’t spent time with any member of that family in three years.

  Savidge: Three years? And yet he’s your godson?

  Catrin: Josh, you know perfectly well what happened three years ago. You know why I don’t see Rachel or her family.

  Savidge: Yes. And we were very sorry to hear of your loss back then.

  (Short pause.)

  Catrin: Are you waiting for me to say thank you?

  Savidge: I’m waiting for you to tell me why, given that you no longer want to associate with the Grimwood family – for understandable reasons, by the way, but given that, why you drive unnecessarily past their house. Why you spend so much time parked outside it in the dark.

  Catrin: Who says I do?

  Savidge: Christopher. He’s seen you. His bedroom window overlooks the road and he says he’s seen you more than once, parked outside at night-time. He’d made a note of your car registration, so there really isn’t any doubt it was you he’d seen.

  Catrin: I’m sorry to hear that. I wouldn’t have wanted to frighten Christopher.

  Savidge: So you admit you park outside the Grimwood house in the dark, on a regular basis?

  Catrin: Yes, I suppose I do.

  Savidge: How often?

  Catrin: I’m not sure I can answer that. I don’t keep a record.

  Savidge: Once a day? Once a week?

  Catrin: Less often. A couple of times a month.

  Savidge: Always at night?

  Catrin: I drive past at other times. I only park at night. When I think no one will see me.

  Savidge: Why?

  Catrin: I’ve told you. I have memories of that house.

  Savidge: Parking outside it at night strikes me as being the action of a pretty disturbed mind.

  (Short pause.)

  Wilkins: Mrs Quinn?

  Catrin: Sorry, was that a question?

  I get up to stretch my legs. To anyone who knows her well, Catrin is just being Catrin. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly and Savidge isn’t the sharpest knife in the box. Unfortunately, I don’t have to be in the room to know she isn’t winning any friends. They might not be able to prove she did it, but while their attention is on her, they’re not looking for Peter.

  The irony does not escape me. I have been banging on for months that there is a killer here and nobody has been paying the slightest bit of attention to me. Now, finally, they’re coming round to my way of thinking and they’ve decided it’s Catrin.

  I go back to my desk.

 
; Savidge: Tell us about what happened yesterday. When you drove past the Grimwood house again. Only in broad daylight this time.

  Catrin: I drove up the hill. I turned the last corner before the house and saw Peter in the road.

  I can practically see the increased interest in the room. Savidge and Wilkins exchanging glances. Both sitting up a little taller in their seats.

  Wilkins: Peter was in the road?

  Catrin: Yes, right in my tracks.

  Wilkins: What did you do?

  Catrin: I pulled over. Switched my engine off. Got out, went over to him, picked him up, put him on the other side of the garden gate, made sure it was locked and he couldn’t get out again. Then I turned my car round and drove back down the hill.

  Wilkins: Why didn’t you knock on the door? Hand him over to his mum, make sure he was OK?

  Catrin: I knew he was OK. A small kid can’t get out of that garden if the gate’s closed.

  Wilkins: Most people would want to talk to his mum, don’t you think? Let her know what happened. Especially given how dark it was.

  Catrin: I’m not most people. I’m the mother who lost her children because of that woman’s recklessness. I never talk to Rachel.

  Savidge: You really hate her, don’t you?

  Don’t answer that, Catrin. Please don’t answer that.

  Catrin: I hate her more than I’d ever have believed it possible to hate someone.

  For a while I can’t read on. I get up, go upstairs and cuddle Queenie. I make coffee and stare out at the hills.

  Catrin doesn’t care. Even in the transcript that’s obvious. She has nothing left to lose. She doesn’t care if people think she killed the kid. She’s already the woman capable of slaughtering nearly two hundred whales and, as she’s perfectly well aware, in many people’s heads, that’s far worse than killing one child.

  Determined to see it through, I go back and skim through the rest. I read about Savidge asking about the blond hairs on her sweater and Catrin explaining, with thinly disguised impatience, that if they are Peter’s they transferred when she picked him up and carried him back to his garden. I read about him asking what large bundle she was carrying out to her boat, and her explaining that it was bedding from the main cabin that had got wet the day before.