by Gwyn GB
'Nope. Sorry. He was an accountant. Maybe it was mistaken identity or something.'
She knew he was lying.
'Did David give you any indication as to why he wanted to meet you?'
Terry shrugged and shook his head.
'I assumed he wanted to make an investment.'
'Make an investment? Didn't you think it unusual that he wanted to meet in a busy shopping street and not in your office, or just send an email?'
Terry shrugged again. 'Sometimes my clients are touchy about things, you know, don't want to be somewhere they think could be bugged.'
'Why's that?'
'They're private people.'
'Did David Lyle ever mention any of your clients in particular, or invest in any shares as a result of information he was party to and which he shouldn't have acted on?'
Terry feigned mild shock.
'I don't know what you mean. I get fed lots of privileged information from my clients, just the same as tipsters at a horse race. I don't question where people got that information from, that's up to them. I don't do anything illegal. David Lyle asked me to buy and sell shares and I did. He won some and lost some just the same as anyone does.'
He was getting more confident now, the shock of suddenly being jumped by police officers had worn off. She heard it in his answers and she saw it on his face. He'd stopped panicking and now she could feel his eyes on her. He wasn't looking at her as the captor, he was looking at her as though she was his prey. If they'd invented chips which could project his thoughts onto a screen, then Claire would bet she’d see herself undressed. She was used to far worse, he wouldn't intimidate her, but she decided to twist the screw.
'So just how good was David Lyle at picking the right shares?'
'Pretty good, he was a clever man.'
'A million pound good?'
Terry gave a tiny raise of an eyebrow.
'Perhaps he was well paid. I didn't keep a tally on his profits.'
'You do realise that we have reason to believe David Lyle's killer could be planning another murder. That if David was killed because of something he knew, you could potentially be in danger?'
Terry shifted on his buttocks slightly, but the confidence won through.
'As I said. I've done nothing illegal and I've got nothing to be afraid of DI Falle.'
Claire took a break from her chat with Terry Morgan and let one of her local colleagues talk to him. The Joint Financial Crimes unit were sniffing around too, nothing directly related yet, they assured her, but she wondered if there was something bigger that they're holding back on. Something or someone who could explain why murder was necessary. Perhaps David spotted something in Terry's accounts which put him on to someone who was trading illegally. She would have to tell Bob, see if he could put on some pressure for them to reveal a bit more about their investigation.
Her brain felt like it was throbbing. She'd still not dealt with what she thought she saw earlier. Could Rachel be in Jersey or has she got so obsessed that she's starting to see her wherever she goes? Right now Claire thought the latter might be the most likely, but she had already decided she was going to ask to access the CCTV from earlier. She would say it was to double check there was no one else there to meet David Lyle - getting a birds eye view of a scene sometimes shows up elements you just can't see on the ground. In her head though, she was also hoping she might just be able to make out the registration plate of the car she thought she saw Rachel driving. If she did that, she could call up the hire company and find out who it was they'd signed it out to.
It was pretty obvious to them all that Terry Morgan was holding back. He proved himself to be a pretty cool customer and clearly one who liked to think of himself as being a little anti-establishment, but the tell-tale signs were there of someone not quite telling all they knew. They couldn't hold him, he'd not done anything illegal that they were aware of, but when they suggested he could be in danger, that whoever killed David could be coming after him, he refused to even consider the notion. It was either conceited ignorance or informed knowledge. Either way, Terry Morgan walked out of Jersey police headquarters brushing off all the precautionary advice they gave him. Perhaps he knew they were going to keep an eye on him, or perhaps he was convinced he'd be fine because he knew exactly why David Lyle was killed.
After he'd gone, Claire and the team met to discuss the no-show of the killer. It was obvious he could have been waiting and watching, just like they had, but didn't have any intention of striking today. Or maybe Terry was mixed up in it all. In some ways, Claire felt like they were no further along than they had been that morning, but at least they had another link in the chain. Terry Morgan was put on surveillance, a team were to watch him 24/7, for his safety, and to see what he did next.
Claire called Bob to fill him in on the day. She'd write up a full report before she went home, but he appreciated a quick catch-up. She missed out the part where she thought she saw Rachel. That really was doing her head in. She'd tried closing her eyes, squeezing them shut and attempting to bring back the image of the woman she'd seen. Was it her? The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it became. Why would Rachel be in Jersey, how would she have got here without them finding out? By the time she headed home, Claire had convinced herself that what she needed was a decent holiday and to forget about Rachel Hill. It clearly had got to her more than she'd realised.
Bob was glad to hear they'd worked out who David Lyle was meeting and asked her to keep him updated on the continuing investigation into Terry and David's business together.
'Best hunch is it could be a mutual client, or we can't rule out the notion that the note was a red herring, that Terry isn't an innocent in all of this.'
Claire agreed, but she also felt positive about what they could discover over the next couple of days. They'd had to let Terry go home for now, but she was sure they'd have him back in within 48 hours and they'd have some tougher questions for him.
By the time she headed home, Claire was well and truly exhausted - that kind of tiredness where any sharp noise jars your nerves or makes you jump. The mental and emotional drain from earlier had caught up on her. She didn't see her parents often, and she knew they'd be waiting up and expecting her to chat to them. Guilt that she wasn't around would make sure she did it, but it was going to be tough to overcome the tiredness which threatened to swamp her. She just hoped her dad didn't kick off on one of his self-obsessed rants. It was getting harder to hold her tongue, and it was only the fear of upsetting her mother which kept her in check.
16
Young Claire, aged 11, 1996, Jersey
Somewhere, somehow, the Falles found the strength to carry on without Christopher. Nothing was ever the same, even polo mints brought back bad memories. Her dad went to work and when he wasn't there, he sat in the armchair staring at the TV. He stopped sailing, he stopped helping out with the Under 15s rugby and he stopped playing golf. He basically stopped living and instead merely existed.
Claire had no respite. Christopher was missing from home and he was missing from school. She caught the bus alone and she came home alone. She had the playroom all to herself and she had her parents all to herself.
Her mother cried a lot. She cried at the Live Aid pop concert in London, she cried when she and her friend, Janice went to watch The Colour Purple at the cinema and she cried silently each time she was surprised to find something belonging to Christopher that hadn't been put away. One of his old Matchbox cars, shoved right down the back cushion of the sofa, undiscovered for years until one of her obsessive cleaning sprints found it. Or a paper aeroplane, full of his neat blue inked school handwriting, lodged behind the washing machine.
Around six months after Christopher's death, the dynamic at school shifted. Claire was no longer the fat sister of a playground heart throb. She'd lost weight and lost her brother. It had been a difficult couple of terms. For the first few days the other kids just stared at her. Some of them were mature and
said they were sorry to hear about him getting killed. For others, she was a zoological specimen – a study of grief and trauma. She survived it and found that without her brother's protective presence, she got tougher. Now when Sharon Saunders and her cronies gave her any trouble, she stood up to them.
It had taken one fight to draw the line in the sand. Sharon had been calling her names all day, petty, silly names like 'Miss blobby' and 'lardy arse'. She'd been getting more and more riled up by it, but embarrassment had kept her temper under control. It was when Sharon brought Christopher into the equation that the balance shifted.
'Shame you didn't die and not your brother,' Sharon spat at her.
Claire took that one on the chin. After all, it was what she guessed most people were thinking anyway.
'He probably threw himself in front of the car on purpose,' she then added, smirking at Claire.
She wasn't sure if it was the smirk, what she said, or the goading faces of her gang, but something snapped. Claire launched at Sharon. She grabbed her hair first and tugged really hard.
Sharon screamed and started hitting out at her. The two of them were all arms, scratching at each other. Legs kicking.
'You are a bitch,' Claire screamed at Sharon, knocking her legs out from underneath her and pushing her to the ground. The girl fell to the floor heavily. Her gang formed a circle around them and others, hearing the commotion, joined in.
'Hit her Sharon,' Sarah Doublet shouted.
Sharon tried, but Claire had the benefit of years of rage and months of grief. She dominated the fight, spinning the girl onto her face and holding her hair, pushing her into the mud.
'Say you're sorry. Take it back.' She shouted at Sharon.
There was a weak, 'no', but as her nose was pressed harder into the dirt and her scalp screamed with the pain of her hair being held, Sharon's bully bravado waned.
'Say you're sorry,' Claire repeated, teeth grinding together in anger. She had her knee in the middle of Sharon's back and pushed down harder. She wished she could scrub the horrible girl into the dust to make her disappear.
'Sorry,' Sharon sobbed finally, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.'
The victory poured cold water onto Claire's anger and she suddenly felt tired and emotional. As she stood back up, one of the teachers, alerted by the shouting gang, broke the ring around the fighting girls and waded in. Claire looked down at Sharon, she was bloodied and dirty. Her lip cut. There were grazes on her face and her arms and her hair was matted where she'd nearly ripped it from her scalp. Claire checked herself over quickly, there was barely a mark on her. Perhaps a scratch or two on her face, because she vaguely remembered Sharon's nails connecting and her right cheek stinging. She felt elated, she'd more than won that fight. She'd smashed it. Unfortunately, the teacher didn't see it quite like that, of course.
As Claire was led away, she held her head up high and looked straight at Sharon's gang. They glared back at her. Sharon was helped up by another teacher and she was forced to limp, head hanging, in Claire's wake. Sharon went for the sympathy vote, ouching and crying in front of the teachers. Claire was silent, her lips thin and tightly sealed.
This was how her parents found her. They both came in, summoned by the Headmaster, and as luck would have it - Claire's dad had finished his shift. She didn't dare look them in the eye as they came into the corridor outside the Headmaster's office.
'Are you alright love?' her mum asked her, rubbing her arm.
Claire nodded, but didn't look at either of them.
'Perhaps Claire would like to tell us in her own words why she attacked Sharon Saunders.' the Headmaster commanded rather than asked. 'Sharon has had to be taken home. She has bruising and cuts to her face, arms and legs.
'Attacked is presuming guilt on our daughter's part, perhaps it was self-defence,' Claire's father said.
It was the first time Claire had heard her father defend her.
The Headmaster wavered, but continued to wait for Claire's answer.
Claire's mouth and throat were dry, she tried to speak, but her voice came out quiet and almost inaudible.
'Speak up,' the Headmaster barked. 'This is serious young lady.'
She saw that as a challenge. She had been right to attack Sharon, she was a bully. This was nothing more than she had deserved.
'She's a bully. Today she said she wished I had died instead of my brother and that Christopher threw himself in front of the car on purpose.' Claire looked at the Headmaster defiantly. 'I'm not sorry, she deserved it.'
The Headmaster's face tightened as though the skin was being pulled to allow his eyebrows to frown angrily at her.
'You do not start fights in my playground.'
'I didn't start it,' Claire answered back, her mouth was as grim as his face and her eyes burnt with anger. 'I told you, she has been calling me names and pushing me around for months. She shouldn't say that about my brother.'
'Your tone is not acceptable...' replied the Headmaster, but he was cut short.
'Our daughter lost her brother just six months ago, an accident that she witnessed. She has been put through a lot of emotional strain and I don't think that this is helping matters.' It was Claire's mother who spoke now.
For a few moments there was silence as the grown-ups sized each other up.
'Claire, why don't you go back out into the corridor while we discuss this,' the Headmaster said to her.
She couldn't wait to get out of the room and didn't need to be told twice. Outside, she could hear the murmur of their voices and eventually the door opened. Claire's dad turned and shook the headmaster's hand, but her mother just went straight to her and put her arm protectively around her shoulders.
'Come on, let's go home,' she said to her.
Claire wondered what sort of reaction she was going to get from her parents when they got outside of the school. Her biggest fear was her dad, she'd never been in a fight in her life and the way he'd been since Christopher died, there was no telling how he might react.
They walked to the car silently. School was still in full swing. Claire wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching her walk across the playground to the car park.
As her dad shut the car door, he looked in the rear view mirror at Claire.
'Well done for sticking up for yourself and Christopher,' he said, his voice thick with emotion.
It floored her. She had no reply. When they got home she was allowed to watch TV and eat ice cream all afternoon. When she went into school the next day, none of Sharon's gang said a word to her. Sharon took a couple of days off school, but the incident was never mentioned again. Claire had gained the respect of her classmates, but most importantly for her, she'd gained her dad's respect. It didn't last long, but she would remember that moment always.
17
Claire, 7th November 2017, Jersey
Claire's parents lived in a semi-detached house on an older private estate. That meant they had a big front garden with an attached garage, as well as a reasonably sized back garden. The house was in St Brelade, a short distance from the Red Houses cross roads where a new Waitrose dominated the older, smaller, M & S on the other side.
You're never far from the sea in Jersey, but they were particularly spoilt for choice with a twenty minute walk to the tourist beach of St Brelade's bay, or equidistance from the pretty port of St Aubin and the long sweep of sandy beach that is St Ouen. If they had a dog, they would have no trouble taking it for scenic walks.
Her parents were in the sitting room waiting to watch the ten o'clock news when she got home. If someone had walked into this room off the street, they would say it belonged to an older couple. Cream walls, old fashioned furniture and floral curtains with pelmets. Whenever she pictured them in her head while in London, this was exactly how she saw them. Her dad, feet up on a stool, in possession of the TV remote, a cup of tea at his side and his slippered feet stretched out in front of him. Her mother was on her chair, a recliner, her slippered feet dangled ove
r the end. She'd have something on her lap, knitting, a magazine, or maybe the newspaper crossword. They'd be sitting watching the TV, no conversation between them. Two individuals in one room.
Tonight, Claire's mum was eager to see her, fussing over her like a five-year-old Princess. Would she like a cup of tea? Something to eat? Has she had a busy day? Did she want a nightcap?
'Sorry I'm late,' she started, but her parents - both used to a policeman's working hours - waved her excuses away.
'So how did it go?' her dad asked.
Claire had obviously not told them about the case, but they knew today was the big day, the reason why she'd come over.
'Good thanks,' she replied.
'How is it working in that lovely new police station?' her mum smiled eagerly at Claire.
She knew the motive behind the question, but was glad to move away from talking about the case.
'It's nice, got everything you need for modern policing. You can still smell the new carpets in the stairwells and there's even a view. The top floor - where the management are - is all windows. A lot better than the drab 1960s building we work in.'
'Wouldn't you like to work there all the time then? Her mother tried, not wanting to miss this opportunity.
Claire smiled at her.
'So, have you arrested the killer?' her dad chimed in again.
'Not yet, but we are getting there.'
Her father nodded sagely.
'What would you like for dinner tomorrow?' her mum asked them both.
'I don't mind whatever you fancy, you choose.' her dad replied.
'I fancy a nice steak, what about you Claire?'
'Well I'm not sure I'll be home mum.'
'I don't really want steak, too heavy.' Her dad chipped in, 'I had steak yesterday for lunch.'
'How about a curry then, or chilli con carne?' her mum asked him.
He shook his head again.
'We could have chicken kievs with baked potatoes, I like those.’