Lie in Wait: A dark and gripping crime thriller

by GJ Minett

  In the driveway was a dusty red Mitsubishi pickup, Hall Gardening Services and two phone numbers emblazoned on the side. He remembered Abi mentioning that she and Callum were getting someone in to turn their garden into something more presentable. More extravagance, he’d thought at the time. The garden had always looked OK to him. He wondered how much the decision owed to this mania nowadays for outdoing everyone else. Bigger, faster, flashier – anything, as long as it screamed out how much it had cost.

  He could hear a chainsaw droning away in the back garden, so rather than ring the doorbell he walked down the path and in through the side gate, which he noticed had been given a fresh coat of paint and no longer creaked like something out of a Hammer horror movie. At the far end of the garden, driving a wedge into one of the birch trees which had always robbed the garden of much of its sunlight, was a tall, powerfully built man wearing a logger’s helmet and earmuffs which presumably did their job effectively because there was no response at first when Phil called out. When he eventually caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye, he stopped what he was doing and pushed up the protective visor to get a better look. No smile. No attempt at a greeting. Something wary, mistrustful in his expression.

  ‘Abi here?’ asked Phil. He put her present and card on the metal shoe scraper just outside the back door and watched as the gardener removed his heavy gloves. Slow, deliberate movements. Big boy this. Phil’s first instinct was to wonder if he’d ever boxed. The protective glasses he’d been wearing beneath the visor were peeled off and a flash of recognition carried him back to the small courtyard at the side of the chapel – a long line of well-wishers filing past, offering meaningless words of comfort, and then suddenly there’s this odd-looking lad, head and shoulders above everyone else, built like a brick shithouse and obviously uncomfortable in a suit, who shuffled past with his head down. A quick handshake, a few mumbled words and he was gone.

  ‘I’m her father-in-law,’ he explained.

  ‘I know. We’ve m-met.’

  ‘Is she in?’ asked Phil.

  ‘In Ch-Chichester.’

  He’d shown no interest in moving from where he was, so Phil picked his way through several branches which had already hit the deck and were piled up in the centre of the lawn. ‘Phil,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Phil Green.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the offer was reciprocated. When it was, Phil was impressed by the strength of the grip.

  ‘Owen.’

  He picked up the name, added it to the logo on the side of the truck and made the connection. A picture swam into focus, a dimly lit front room with a three-bar electric heater offering no more than a vague glow. A timid dumpling of a boy and his wheezing, overprotective mother. A vague sense of discomfort on his part because he hadn’t really wanted to be there but Sally would have gone round and sorted it out herself if he hadn’t and she wasn’t always at her most rational when it came to defending Callum. And the kid had lied after all. He looked more closely now at the fully grown man standing opposite him and tried to find the boy within. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘You were at the funeral,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were one of Callum’s friends at school, right?’

  ‘I was Abi’s f-f-friend.’

  The stammer, maybe. That was the only real indication – that plus the little dig at Callum implicit in his last remark. He looked at the branches strewn across the lawn and the chainsaw propped up against the birch tree.

  ‘Well, you certainly seem to have done all right for yourself. Your own business and all.’ He looked around him. ‘Got your work cut out here though.’

  Hall looked at him for a moment, then turned his back.

  ‘You c-came to our house,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You c-came to our house. C-called me a liar.’

  He put the helmet and safety goggles back on and picked up the gloves. Phil did his best not to take offence at the tone of voice. Some people, you have to make allowances for their lack of social skills. And besides, what he’d said was true. It was exactly what he had done.

  ‘That was a long time ago, son,’ he said, flicking one of the loose branches back into the pile with his foot. ‘A lot’s happened since then.’

  ‘I wasn’t lying.’

  ‘Fair enough. I didn’t come here for an argument, OK?’

  ‘I wasn’t lying.’ He was facing Phil now, no more than three feet away. Everything in his posture oozed hostility and resentment.

  ‘You really want to talk about this?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Your son was a b-bully.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, he was. But, as I recall, the reason I came to see you that night was because you’d accused him of something he hadn’t done.’

  ‘He was a b-bully. He used to p-pick on me every day.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry about that. But that time it couldn’t have been him because he was in a detention with another teacher.’

  ‘How many times did you c-come round to our house and apologise for what he was doing?’

  ‘Listen, Owen –’

  ‘Not once. You didn’t come round once. And the one time I g-got it wrong, you c-couldn’t get there quick enough. You upset my mother.’

  Phil held his hands up in apology.

  ‘That’s not what I intended. Look, let’s just calm down a bit, shall we? I just came round to see Abi and drop off her birthday present. Any idea when she’ll be back?’

  His eyes narrowed as Hall suddenly started rocking back and forth, arms straight down by his sides and eyes screwed tight shut behind the goggles.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. It looked for all the world as if he was about to have some sort of seizure. Hall mumbled something – it sounded like ‘Please don’t swear’, although that didn’t make a great deal of sense. Then his eyes sprang open and he reached down and picked up an adjustable spanner from a tool box which was on the ground next to him.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Phil, taking an involuntary step back, raising both hands, as a defensive measure this time.

  ‘It’s not his funeral,’ Hall said, his voice almost a drawn-out groan.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I don’t have to say nice things about him. I can say WHAT I LIKE!’

  ‘Owen. I think you’d better put that down now, OK?’ Phil was aware of a touch of apprehension for the first time. Ten, fifteen years ago this wouldn’t have produced in him much more than a burst of adrenaline. He’d faced this sort of situation plenty of times at work and had never worried about the outcome. The instincts from his days in the ring were still there even now – without even thinking about it, he’d already calculated the arc in which the spanner would be swung, knew if he stepped inside and threw a straight left followed by a right hook somewhere in the groin area, Hall would collapse like a sack of potatoes, big as he was. But he wasn’t sure instinct was enough. He knew he could handle himself better than most people his age but he was fifty-four. Much as he’d have liked to take the spanner from this kid and put him on his back, he was out of condition, his reflexes probably shot to pieces. There had to be better ways of dealing with the situation. He took another couple of steps back. Damn, he was big.

  ‘I want you to g-go.’

  ‘OK, look . . . I’m going. No problem.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘That’s fine by me, son. Let’s just put the spanner down, shall we?’

  ‘I’m not your son.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he agreed, taking another couple of steps towards the gate. To his relief Hall had stayed where he was and made no attempt to follow.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I upset you, OK?’ he said. ‘That’s not why I came here. I just wanted to call round, give Abi her birthday present and go. I’ll leave it here, shall I?’ He pointed to the package and card on the metal shoe scraper just outside the door. Hall still hadn’t moved, the spanner
still clenched in his fist. ‘You tell her it’s there, right?’

  He turned and walked away, keeping an eye on Hall’s reflection in the conservatory window – just in case. He watched him drop the spanner and pull on his gloves as if nothing had happened.

  The chainsaw started revving up again even before he’d reached his car.

  And he was the other side of Fishbourne before he remembered the ladder and pub lunch.

  ABI

  Phil’s car was almost upon her before she realised who it was, travelling in the opposite direction. Instinctively she flashed her lights but he was already past her, much to the confusion of the three drivers behind him who all wondered why the pretty blonde in the flash car was trying to get their attention. She guessed that he’d probably been over to see her and tried not to feel guilty over her reasons for having missed him. It was just a latte. What was so wrong about having a coffee in town with a friend? Then again, she’d told Owen when they crossed in the driveway earlier that she had shopping to do in Chichester, so who was she kidding?

  She let herself in, walked through to the conservatory where she opened a window to let Owen know she was home, put the kettle on and asked would he like a drink? He told her a glass of water would be fine. She noticed the package and card on the doorstep and he confirmed it was Phil who’d left them there before turning straight back to his work. She got the impression he was annoyed about something and wondered if she’d offended him by setting off for Chichester the moment he arrived or whether he’d brought the mood with him. He’d always been such a strange bundle of neuroses; even given their shared history, she still found it hard to identify predictable patterns in his behaviour.

  She went to the back door and brought Phil’s presents inside. Then she ran the cold tap and held a glass under it before filling another with lemonade and lime for herself, throwing in a couple of ice cubes for good measure. Her mobile beeped at her and she checked the text, smiling to herself when she saw who’d sent it. She tapped out a quick reply – Zizzi’s would be just fine by her. She loved Italian and had been denied it more often than not because Callum had always preferred more traditional English cuisine. This would be a real treat, even though she felt obliged to remind herself of the need for a little perspective. It was just a birthday treat. Nothing more.

  She called Owen in rather than taking the drinks out into the garden, which looked like a bomb had hit it. She sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and opened Phil’s card. It was a picture of a girl in a broad-brimmed sunhat and flowery dress, sitting on a sun-drenched beach somewhere exotic. There was no printed message inside. Instead, he’d written:

  Happy 27th Birthday

  And underneath it:

  Still our daughter . . . always.

  Phil.

  Our. She blinked rapidly – Phil was such a sweet, sweet man. She was saddened by the thought of him driving all the way out to see her and then heading back to that house, which had been empty enough for him for the past two years and must seem even emptier now. The uneasiness kicked in again and she wondered whether she ought just to come clean about everything. She wasn’t sure how much he’d worked out for himself about the way things had been with Callum in recent months. For a man who was pretty perceptive in any other context, he’d always had a bit of a blind spot where his son was concerned, possibly influenced by Sally, who’d worshipped the ground her boy walked on. She wondered whether it would be better to fill in a few gaps now or leave him with any illusions he still preferred to cherish. He would have to know sometime – and it would surely be better coming from her.

  She reached for the parcel, which looked and felt like a DVD attached to a book. Owen came in, washed his hands at the sink and sat opposite her as she opened it. She smiled ruefully as she realised what was inside. She already had the Winehouse book – she’d bought it last Christmas with money Phil had given her. As for the DVD, she could have downloaded that for free any time she liked. Even so, she was touched by the gesture. It was the thought that mattered. In the absence of her own, he was like a father to her. She hoped nothing she might have to tell him would ever change that.

  Owen was watching her over the rim of his glass. He seemed restless, his eyes skittering every which way, his foot tapping out an insistent beat on the tiled floor. Grumpy to excited in the space of five minutes.

  ‘I’ve got you a birthday present too,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded and started picking at his nails.

  ‘That’s really sweet of you,’ she said, as surprised as she was touched. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’

  ‘Thirteenth September. M-mine is thirteenth June. Nine months exactly.’

  ‘Multiple of three,’ she laughed.

  ‘Multiple of three.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t need to – really. I honestly wasn’t expecting anything.’

  He stood up. ‘I left it in the truck. I was going to give it to you tonight but I c-can get it now if you like.’

  ‘Tonight?’ she asked.

  He blushed, eyes fixed on the breakfast bar where his fingers were dancing to an arrhythmic beat all their own.

  ‘I was wondering if I you’d like to c-come round for d-dinner,’ he said hesitantly. ‘F-for your b-birthday.’

  ‘Oh, Owen –’

  ‘You’re p-probably b-b-busy, I ’spect,’ he said, and it was clear from his body language exactly how much it had cost him to ask in the first place. The likely need for retreat was firmly imprinted in every gesture.

  ‘No, really Owen. That’s such a lovely thought,’ she said, clutching at his sleeve. ‘Really it is. And I’d love to take you up on it, only –’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he said, hurriedly.

  ‘No, honestly. It’s just that I’ve already got something arranged for tonight. A friend from work – you know, the bookshop? We’re going out for a meal, otherwise I’d have loved to come round.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He nodded. ‘I just didn’t want you to have to spend your b-birthday on your own . . . you know.’

  ‘It’s such a kind thought. Thank you.’

  There was an awkward pause, during which she let go of his sleeve and thanked the Lord she hadn’t said something crass like, maybe another time. She was genuinely fond of Owen and hadn’t managed as yet to absolve herself entirely from blame for what he’d gone through at school but she had to admit that in emotional terms he was high maintenance – there was no escaping that. And, however cruel it might sound, she wasn’t sure she was up to spending a whole evening with him.

  ‘Do you still want me to g-give you the present though?’ he asked apprehensively.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, grasping a lifeline, and that appeared to galvanise him once more. He disappeared through the conservatory and out into the driveway, returning a minute or so later with a small package and a card which he placed carefully on the breakfast bar in front of her. She opened the Forever Friends card with the trademark picture of a bear on the front, this time blowing a dandelion clock. Inside he’d signed it simply, Owen. She made all the appropriate noises, told him how sweet it was and put it to one side.

  Then she lifted the package which felt like a long, thin box: some sort of confectionery, she told herself, like wafer-thin mints or chocolate toffees. Owen knew all about her sweet tooth. She shook it gently and held it up next to her face.

  ‘How many guesses do I get?’ she asked playfully.

  He shook his head. ‘Open it.’

  ‘Nice wrapping,’ she joked, trying to find a way through the multiple layers of Sellotape. It seemed disrespectful to dig a nail in and simply tear the wrapping apart so she picked away at it until eventually she managed to prise one of the pieces of tape loose and ease the paper back over the gift. His eyes, when she looked up, were gleaming like fireflies and her heart sank even before she saw the jeweller’s name engraved in italics.
Already she suspected this was going to need levels of diplomacy she feared were beyond her.

  She lowered the dark blue box to the breakfast bar, then slowly opened it to reveal a white-gold necklace curved into a wishbone shape in which a number of small diamonds were embedded. Mouth agape, she lifted it oh so gently from the box and held it out in front of her, where it picked up the sunlight flooding in through the kitchen window and sang to her like a cathedral choir. It was perfect – there were probably more imaginative words for it but they escaped her for the moment. Perfect would have to do. It reminded her of the sort of gift Callum had sprung on her from time to time, soon after the money had started pouring in. He’d come home from work with a smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye, put his arms around her waist and tell her to close her eyes. Then he’d produce something not unlike this necklace and look on with amusement as she shrieked and dashed off to the nearest mirror so that she could see what it looked like. The way it whispered seductively to her now as she held it up in front of her, she knew it was a case of back off right away or dig an even deeper hole for herself.

  ‘Owen,’ she said, lowering it carefully back into the box.

  ‘Try it on,’ he urged her.

  ‘Owen, I can’t. I’m really sorry. It’s a beautiful, beautiful present and I’m so touched. But I can’t possibly accept this.’

  ‘Here . . . let me help you,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to what she was saying until she reached out and closed the box with a snap that was sharper than she’d intended.