Death and Deception

by B. A. Steadman

  ‘Just one more question, sir,’ said Dan. ‘I just need to know where you went for a drink last night and then I’ll leave you alone. I appreciate your co-operation and I’m sure you want to help our enquiry into this dreadful crime.’

  Dan relaxed back into the sofa and dunked a biscuit into his coffee, throwing the soggy mass into his mouth before it fell. Abrams sank back down onto the sofa. Dan watched emotions flicker across Abrams’ face as he tried to decide what to say.

  ‘I didn’t say I went to a pub, I went home and had a drink there,’ Abrams offered.

  Dan nodded. ‘Right, I see. Anyone see you coming home? Talk to anyone on the way? Anyone at home I could check with?’ Dan waited, but got the same nail-chewing lack of response.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just tell me where you were?’ He could see the muscles twitch in Abrams’ face as his brain churned, trawling for a suitable answer. He felt a small lurch in his stomach that this might be the murderer sitting right in front of him.

  ‘Don’t worry sir,’ he said finally, fed up of waiting for Abrams to spit out an alibi, ‘we all forget things in the heat of the moment. Just jot down your contact details on my pad for me and I’ll be on my way. Here’s my card so you can ring me if you remember anything useful.’

  Abrams took the pen and wrote down the details. His hand shook, but Dan couldn’t work out if that was because he had something to hide or because he needed a drink.

  Abrams avoided shaking Dan’s hand and scuttled back into the studio.

  Chas Lloyd came out. She raised an eyebrow at Dan. ‘Do you want to tell me what that was all about?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen him looking that worried since his ex-wife’s lawyer came round.’

  Dan took a few moments to explain about the girl’s death and where she had been found. Chas was both shocked and sympathetic and wanted to talk more, but Dan needed to get her back to talking about her boss. There had been something there when she said he was ‘OK’ to work for.

  ‘Would you say that Mr Abrams was capable of hurting a young girl, Chas?’

  ‘What? And killing her and dumping her body?’ She laughed a quick, chopped off snort. ‘I don’t think so, Inspector. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not above trying to get his end away with any female who enters his pathetic little world, but you can sort him out with a sharp tongue and swift left hook. All these ex-rock stars are the same, huge egos. Hit 'em where it hurts, criticise 'em, they crumple. To be honest, though, I don’t really know. How can you be sure of what anyone would do if the circumstances were right?’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t think Jed’s capable of actually killing someone. He’s a bit of a plonker, really.’ She peered up at him and twinkled a smile.

  Dan smiled back. ‘Thanks, Chas, you’ve been really helpful.’ He pulled a card from his wallet and gave it to her. ‘Call me if you think of anything else that may be relevant.’

  ‘I will. Bye, then. Oh…’

  Dan turned back.

  ‘Are your eyes grey or purple?’ she grinned at him.

  Dan gave her a level look and headed for the stairs.

  ‘Just asking,’ she called after him.

  Chapter 7

  Date: Monday 24th April Time:13:27 Claire Quick, Miles Westlake’s home

  Although the students had been sent home, the Head had negotiated that staff could work in the main building for the rest of that day, as long as they didn’t go near the field. After lunch, Claire Quick checked on the last of the tutor group waiting to be interviewed and realised that Jamie wasn’t coming back to school that day. When she checked the signing-out book she saw that Miles Westlake had signed out sick at 1.13 p.m., and that Jamie had indeed just disappeared. His name was not in the book.

  Claire asked Marcia Penrose to contact Jamie’s mum to explain what had happened and arrange for him to give his interview.

  Then she tried to raise Miles on her mobile. She was worried about him. He’d looked terrible in the staff briefing that morning, and he was never the most robust of people. It was one of the reasons they had split up, that he was too soft, with all his emotions on the outside. She’d been delighted when he fell for her old friend Sophie, and they seemed happy together.

  There was no answer on his mobile. She considered ringing Sophie, Miles’s wife, but thought better of it. Miles would need to tell Sophie what had happened to Carly in his own way. She had to think hard to remember that last time they’d all been out together as friends. Claire had been seeing the trainee doctor - a relationship doomed to failure under the weight of his working hours - and they’d all gone for a curry and a drink in Exeter. She realised it had been back before Emily was born. Months ago. Some friend she was.

  She slung her laptop bag over her shoulder and headed for the staffroom. She would call round to see Miles after school.

  Claire parked outside the Victorian terrace. Although it was gone five o’clock, and time for people to be arriving home, it was quiet at this end of the street. Miles’s car was parked outside, but the curtains were pulled roughly across, and she was surprised to see how dilapidated the place looked. She supposed having a baby changed your priorities. She banged on the door but no one answered.

  Claire bent down and put her mouth to the letterbox. ‘Miles,’ she yelled. ‘It’s Claire. Can I come in? I just want to see how you are. I won’t stay long, promise.’ She could hear music coming from the living room, like heavy metal played low, and what sounded like an argument, again low but furious in tone. Both noises stopped abruptly. She tried again:

  ‘Miles, please, I just want to make sure you’re OK. Is Sophie there? Can I speak to her?’ A germ of unease ate at her stomach.

  She stood back as she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Miles opened the door but leant against the door-frame, blocking her path into the house. Claire’s uneasy feeling grew.

  ‘Aren’t you going to let me in, Miles? I only want to talk to you.’

  With reluctance he backed off and opened the door wide enough for Claire to follow him down the hall and into the kitchen. Soft music was playing in the sitting room again, but the door was closed.

  ‘Claire,’ Miles began, but he stopped when he saw the expression on her face.

  ‘Look at the state of this place!’ she cried, horrified at the mess in the kitchen. It looked like he had spent weeks living on takeaways, and she was amazed at the quantity of bottles and cans left on every surface, and the sink piled high with dirty dishes.

  ‘Where’s Sophie, Miles? Where’s Emily?’

  Westlake didn’t answer. He collapsed against the sink and sobbed, shoulders heaving. Claire let him carry on for a few minutes, trying to take in the chaos in the once pristine kitchen. Then she opened every drawer until she found a clean tea towel and passed it to him.

  ‘You’d better dry your eyes and tell me what’s happening. Shall we go and sit down in the other room?’

  The look of alarm on his face alerted her that there was something wrong. She turned, strode down to the sitting room and pushed open the door. Jamie May was sitting there, smoking what looked like a joint and drinking beer from a can.

  Jamie shot to his feet when he saw his English teacher. He dropped the joint into the can and sputtered, ‘Miss, what are you doing here?’

  Claire stared at him. Things were not making sense. She struggled to keep her shock under control. If pushed, she would have agreed that she screeched her next point.

  ‘What am I doing here? I don’t have to answer to you, Jamie May! But I definitely want to know what you’re doing in a teacher’s house, drinking beer and smoking weed. I’ve been worried sick about you all day. Your mum’s probably been on to the Police saying you haven’t gone home by now. Everyone will be looking for you. Carly’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Anything could have happened to you.’

  Her voice cracked as she released some of the distress she had been holding onto since early that morning.


  Jamie shifted on his feet and thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, threatening to bring them down. She could see tears forming at the sides of his eyes, but he rubbed them away on his sleeve.

  ‘I just came to see Sir, to see how he is,’ he tried, but the look on Claire’s face stopped him.

  ‘And he just happened to have drugs and beer in the house so you could have a little party? How convenient.’ Sarcasm was probably not going to get her very far but she was so angry, and it was easier to be angry with a kid she taught, than to confront the colleague who was now pushing at the door behind her and trying to get into the room. She couldn’t begin to understand what had been going on here, but it felt bad, very bad.

  ‘Claire,’ Miles shouted through the door, ‘let me in. I can explain.’

  Jamie backed away to the chair by the window and turned off the music. He sat hunching his shoulders in a parody of a naughty child expecting a slap round the head. Claire moved over to stand with her back to the fireplace. She could not have explained why, but it felt better to be facing out into the room from a position where nobody else could spring any more surprises on her. Miles came in. He slumped onto the sofa looking up at her with what she could only describe as the expression of a beaten dog, ever hopeful of mercy but ever anticipating further pain.

  ‘Sophie has left me,’ Miles said.

  ‘What? What do you mean, left you? When did she leave? Why? And why didn’t you tell anyone?’

  ‘Six weeks ago.’ He shrugged scrawny shoulders. ‘We haven’t been getting along too well since the baby came, and she just wanted time to herself, so she’s at her mum’s with Emily.’

  Claire stared at him, eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘And it’s only taken you six weeks on your own to totally destroy the house? I don’t think so.’ Claire could feel her hands forming into fists. What had he done to make Sophie leave, and how did it tie in with Carly and Jamie? She suddenly felt scared. Scared for her friend and scared about what Miles might have done.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but you better tell me the truth, Miles, or I’m going to the Police.’

  Jamie launched himself off the chair towards Claire. ‘No Police! No Police!’

  Frightened, she put her hands up to protect her face, but he stopped moving as quickly as he had started, dropped his arms and ran from the room. Seconds later she heard the front door bang. She turned in confusion to Miles.

  ‘What the hell is going on? You’d better tell me.’

  Miles sat numb, staring at the carpet.

  ‘Party,’ he said, ‘on Saturday night. Haven’t cleaned up yet.’

  ‘Right, so who came to this party, then? I don’t recall anyone from school mentioning it.’

  ‘Not school friends; other friends. I have got other friends, you know.’ He was rallying a bit, but not enough. She was convinced she knew exactly who these other “friends” were, and it was making her feel sick.

  ‘Was this party for kids from school, Miles? For Carly?’

  He looked up at her again, beseeching, but she stared back, a coldness gripping her heart. The bloody idiot had ruined his marriage and it looked like he had done the same for his career.

  ‘You may as well tell me the rest, I’ve guessed most of it already.’

  He coughed out the words, ‘It was Carly’s idea. She persuaded me to hold a party here as a celebration for the recording session. It was just for the band and their mates. It just got a bit out of hand and I wasn’t up to cleaning up on Sunday. Hangover.’

  ‘So, you had a bunch of sixteen-year-olds in your house on Saturday night for a party, and the next day one of them is killed? Bloody hell, Miles, no wonder you’re in a state.’ She sank down next to him on the sofa, the adrenaline leaving her body had made her muscles weak and her knees wobbled. More questions crowded into her head.

  ‘What did DCI Gould have to say about all this? Why aren’t you a suspect? Why aren’t you already in custody, or giving evidence, or whatever it is?’

  Westlake’s eyes shifted from hers.

  ‘You didn’t tell him, did you? Jesus.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t take in what’s happening.’ She clasped both hands to her mouth but she couldn’t stop the words, ‘Why didn’t you tell him, Miles?’

  Miles rocked his head from side to side and backed away from her into the corner of the sofa. ‘He doesn’t have to know, does he, Claire? It won’t have been any of her friends and it certainly wasn’t me that killed her.’ He paused, ‘I... I loved her.’

  Claire recoiled to the other end of the sofa, sickened. But still she had to ask. ‘She was a child…’ She tried to get him to look at her, tugged at his arm, but he pulled away. ‘Please tell me nothing actually happened between you and her, Miles. Tell me that?’

  His eyes filled up again and he didn’t answer.

  ‘You are unbelievable,’ Claire said, anger giving her voice a rare, thick vitriol. ‘I don’t know who you are anymore, but you are a monster, Miles Westlake, a monster.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, and looked past her as he heard the sitting room door softly open behind her.

  But Claire couldn’t answer. Jamie lurched in and smashed her hard across the back of her head with an empty vodka bottle. The bottle fell to the ground. He looked at Westlake, his gaunt, red-eyed face a reflection of the teacher’s.

  Miles bent down to catch Claire as she slid from the sofa. The shock made his voice shrill, ‘What the hell have you done, Jamie?’

  On the sofa, Claire’s eyelids fluttered as she struggled to remain conscious. The back of her skull hurt like hell, and the pain was intense, like someone had stuck a needle in her head.

  ‘I had to do something,’ the boy replied. Through one eye, Claire saw violent spasms shake his body. ‘You were going to tell her about Carly. I told Carly we should never have come here, but everybody always did exactly what she wanted, even you. Oh yeah, I know what you did. You’re sick in the head and I’m gonna see you go down for this.’

  ‘Shut up, Jamie,’ Miles yelled, ‘just shut the fuck up. I can’t listen to you anymore. Look at what you’ve done, you stupid little shit. You’ve hurt a teacher. How can we keep this quiet? Get out, get out now.’

  Jamie didn’t move from the doorway.

  ‘Not going anywhere, mate. Neither’s she and neither are you, if you know what’s good for you. Who d’you think the Police are gonna believe? Me, or a pervert?’

  ‘But we can’t just keep her here, you idiot.’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to do, then you can do what you like, and so can she.’ Jamie squared up to Westlake. ‘Just for tonight. That’s all. We’ll just keep her here for tonight, alright?’

  Westlake lifted Claire’s legs onto the cushions and pushed past Jamie to get out of the room, but Claire realised he was trapped in this hell he had created, and so was she.

  Her heart began to hammer. Had Jamie really hit her over the head? Why? She guessed she must have been getting close to what had happened at the weekend. Could these two have murdered Carly? And if they did, what did that mean for her? A few seconds later, she lost the battle to stay conscious and swam down into blackness.

  Chapter 8

  Date: Monday 24th April Time:17:09 DI Dan Hellier, Exeter Road Police Station

  Dan sat in the Major Incident Room adjoining the main office. He twirled a piece of paper in his hands. He had eaten a cold pasty and drunk a cup of stewed coffee at his desk while attempting to draw a Mind Map onto several large pieces of paper he had stuck together. Jotting down everything he knew, he was trying but failing to make useful connections. It was ridiculous. So early into the investigation, he only had a small amount of information. But he wanted to be able to say they had made some progress by the end of the first day. Performance anxiety, he thought.

  The day before, he had finally plucked up courage to ask Colin White, the Desk Sergeant, to check the recor
ds for Alison Hellier, AKA Annie Porter, A.k.a. Allie Smith. A.k.a. total nightmare. He had been able to push her back into the dark recesses while he’d been living in London, but now he felt obliged to find out how she was. He couldn’t cope with the mute expectation in his mother’s eyes, either. She assumed it was easy to find out anything he wanted to know. It was. He just didn’t want to do it. Colin had placed a folded sheet of paper on the desk an hour ago, and he hadn’t looked at it yet.

  He unfurled the sheet. A list of arrests, cautions, short sentences, and then, at the bottom, eighteen months for dealing. He checked the dates. She’d been inside for three months and hadn’t contacted Mum and Dad once. His lip curled in disgust. The temptation to throw the sheet away was huge. He knew that as soon as he told them where she was, they’d be off in the car to Bristol on another mercy mission that was doomed to failure. He couldn’t bear the defeated look in his Dad’s eyes as they set out to rescue her again. She was so fucking selfish that she’d take whatever they gave her as her right. She’d actually said to him once that she might as well have what was hers now than wait until after they were dead. Unbelievable. He tore the page into tiny shreds, threw it into his bin and stared across the office at his newly formed team.

  Known throughout the station as the Flowerpot Men, Sergeants Bill Larcombe and Mark ‘Ben’ Bennett were catching up with their notes and adding to the Incident board on the rear wall. As Crime Scene Manager, Bill had already begun to add crime scene photos to the wall and was organising the office into a viable working space. Ben was collating the evidence and would handle house-to-house interviews, phone calls and witnesses. They had given him a polite nod when Oliver had assigned them, but he knew they were Ian Gould’s men, through and through.

  So far, the whiteboard showed pictures of Carly Braithwaite taken at the crime scene and a map of the local area with her house and the school picked out in red. The Forensic team had passed on prints of the morning’s close scrutiny of the copse, but they were messy because of the state of the ground. It was hard to pick out any particular footprints. Even the bruising to the girl was faint on the photos.