Lie in Wait: A dark and gripping crime thriller

by GJ Minett

  ‘I used to play a lot when I was younger and was quite good, even though I say so myself. So I thought I’d get back into it fairly easily, but I’m afraid the passing years and vanity make fools of us all. One of the first matches I had to play was in a handicap tournament – you know the sort of thing. I had the misfortune, or good fortune, as it turned out in the long run, to be drawn against your boy in the first round and he wiped the floor with me, even though he was giving me God knows how many points. A bit of a wake-up call, I’m afraid.’

  He took a sip from his glass and waggled it as if to check whether Phil had changed his mind about the drink. He shook his head and waited for Cunningham to continue.

  ‘Anyway, most of the players in Premier – they hate playing people like me. Waste of their time, you see. They see us off without even raising a sweat. Can’t wait to get off the court. Your boy though – he was different. Considerate, I suppose you’d say. I knew he was prolonging rallies to give himself a better workout but he didn’t do it in any condescending way. And when he complimented me on any good shots I played, there was nothing patronising about it. He seemed to take pleasure in encouraging me. Then, once the game was over, instead of leaving skid marks in his haste to get off the court, he offered to buy me a drink and we spent half an hour or so talking in the bar. I was . . . I was impressed, I’ll admit it. You don’t often find such respect in young people today.’

  ‘He was playing you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I know my son,’ said Phil, happy to latch on to an excuse to be hurtful, to prick the balloon of self-satisfied smugness that Cunningham wore like full body armour. ‘If Callum was sniffing around you for any length of time, then respect had very little to do with it. You can bet your life he was using you.’

  There was a pause while Cunningham made great show of processing this. Then he surprised Phil by chuckling to himself.

  ‘Well, yes. You may be right, of course,’ he said. ‘What’s that phrase they all use these days? The accumulation of marginal gains? I don’t suppose Callum was averse to any benefits that might come his way from being associated with me, however loosely. I suppose it’s possible – likely even – that he saw me as a means to an end, someone to smooth his way a little by introducing him to a number of useful business acquaintances. He wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t kept an eye open for any opportunities that might present themselves.’

  ‘And these useful business acquaintances? Who would they be?’

  Cunningham pointed his fork at him.

  ‘Ah, now . . . no disrespect, Mr Green, but much as I’d like to satisfy your curiosity, there are levels of discretion and professional courtesy to consider here. When I enter into any business arrangement, I demand total confidentiality and my colleagues expect no less from me. Not to put too fine a point on it, I’m not sure it’s really any of your concern.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘No. I’m happy to sit and chat with you about your son and fill in a few gaps for you where I can, but there are limits. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

  Phil folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. Then, having decided on how he wanted to play this and just how far he ought to go, he sat forward again, resting both elbows on the table.

  ‘Understand?’ he said, reaching out for the carafe of water and pouring some into a spare wine glass. ‘Let me tell you what I understand, OK? I understand that my son was doing quite nicely thank you very much, making a reputation for himself and bringing in more money in a week than I ever earned in a single year back in the day. Then he meets up with you and starts getting daft ideas above his station, mixing with people he should have had enough sense to stay well clear of and within two years he’s lying in a field with his head smashed in and you’re sitting there with your polite speeches and your refined manners, offering tea and sympathy and inviting me to imagine this is all one big coincidence . . . that it has nothing to do with the circles you move in. That’s what I understand. And I know all this talk about professional ethics and this cloak of respectability you like to wrap around yourself are just so much window dressing, so let’s get real here, shall we? I’ll ask you again: who are these business acquaintances you’re talking about and, more specifically, which of them might have taken exception to whatever Callum was up to?’

  If he’d been hoping that Cunningham might be thrown off balance by the change of tone, the lack of response would have been seriously disappointing. Because, far from being taken aback, he simply dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, pushed his plate away from him as if tired of playing with its contents, then looked Phil straight in the eye.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, clearing his throat and reaching again for his glass. ‘I’ve tried to make allowances for your appalling personal circumstances but that doesn’t appear to be getting us anywhere. So let me try a different tack.’

  He took another sip, then nodded away to his right.

  ‘You see the lad at the end of the bar who is making a poor fist of emptying the bowl of peanuts without anyone noticing? And the younger one a little further along who is trying, with very little prospect of success, to curry favour with the young lady behind the bar? Well, I’d really rather not put it to the test but I think you’ll find that if I so much as raise my voice, they’ll be over here like a shot and this conversation will be at an end. You’ll be asked very politely to leave.’

  Phil promised himself he wouldn’t look but couldn’t resist it. The peanut grabber was clearly no stranger to the gym. Judging by the way his sleeves seemed to be straining to contain his biceps, he spent a lot of time pressing weights. The would-be Romeo was smaller, wiry, but Phil had seen his sort before. It was easy to underestimate people like him but usually you only made that mistake once.

  The younger one chose that moment to nod at Phil as if aware of exactly what they were discussing.

  ‘Now, since civil is apparently off the table and we’ve decided plain speaking is the order of the day, allow me to tell you this much. I mentioned a while ago that I have no children of my own. If I did, however, I’d like to think that I would know my son a little better than you appear to have known yours, Mr Green. Callum, I’m sorry to say, was an opportunistic chancer always on the lookout for an opening. He was charming, yes. Charismatic? Certainly. Excellent company. Able to adapt effortlessly to any social gathering in which he found himself. A real social animal, you might say. But he was also an unprincipled, self-serving parvenu who dazzled and bewitched people and thought nothing of sucking them dry for as long as it took him to identify the next rung on the ladder. You say he was doing well before he met me but I suspect you don’t know the half of it. He had his fingers in so many pies, I doubt even he was able to keep track of everything he was into. If an opportunity arose, he went for it, irrespective of any advice I might choose to give him or any independent risk assessment – because risk is what attracted him to it in the first place. He couldn’t help himself. Now –’

  He broke off to smile at another diner as he passed, then turned back to face Phil.

  ‘You have suffered a dreadful loss and are at liberty to pick out any version of reality you choose to believe, but whichever one you hug to your chest in search of consolation, I would urge you not to let it blind you to one very important fact. And that is that your son carried around in him more than just the seeds of his own destruction, and needed no help whatsoever from me or any of my business colleagues in sealing his own fate. He was flying too near to the sun, an accident waiting to happen.’

  He raised one hand in the air and in true Pavlovian fashion his two minders pushed off from the bar and started to make their way over to him.

  ‘Now,’ he continued, eyes still locked onto Phil’s, ‘I think we’ve covered just about everything. I’m sorry for your loss and wish I could help but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. And this conversation is at an end. Mick a
nd TJ will see you out.’

  The two minders placed themselves either side of Phil, who made a point of ignoring them. Instead of getting to his feet, he reached across and poured more water into his glass before draining it in one go. Then he placed the empty vessel with exaggerated care next to Cunningham’s.

  ‘This conversation may be on hold for now,’ he corrected him, ‘but I promise you this much – it’s far from over. You want to know one thing I picked up in all those years in the life? People like you, you very rarely do anything. You’re not the sort to get your own hands dirty. But you know how to keep your ear to the ground. It’s like you’re tuned into this jungle telegraph out there and nothing gets past you because you can’t afford to allow that to happen. You always know what’s going on. Whatever happened to my boy, whether you were involved or not, you’ll know something. Don’t waste your breath trying to persuade me otherwise. And I’ll promise you this much: I’m going to keep turning up at the most awkward moments possible and making a bloody nuisance of myself till you get the message. Any chance I get to embarrass you in public, I’m going to be grabbing it with both hands. Now you need to ask yourself how long you can afford to let something like that persist . . . Mr Cunningham.’

  He got to his feet and measured himself against the bigger of the two minders.

  ‘And I can see myself out,’ he said.

  13

  NOW: WEDNESDAY, 8TH OCTOBER

  OWEN

  At least he has his truck now. The older detective, the nicer of the two, thanks him, says they’ve finished with it. They’ve managed to get a lot of fingerprints. No big surprise there. He’s had it for years and can’t remember the last time he gave the inside a good clean; and the previous owner used to ferry casual workers from the collection point in town out to local farms during the fruit-picking season. Must be hundreds of prints by now. They haven’t had results back yet but if they come up with a match they’ll be sure to let him know.

  This Detective Holloway is all right, he thinks. He’s never found it easy to relax when the police are around, probably because of his experience all those years ago with Callum’s father, but at least this man’s heart seems to be in the right place. He’s what his mother used to call ‘a gentleman’. You get the feeling he’s being straight with you. If he asks a question it’s because he wants to know the answer. He’s not doing it just to have his own suspicions confirmed, unlike the younger one. He’s different. Much more aggressive. If he asks a question it’s because he’s looking to trip you up. Hasn’t smiled once or made any effort to be friendly. Makes it obvious he doesn’t believe Owen’s version of what happened with ‘Julie’ and that’s a problem – because it just happens to be the truth. And if he can’t even recognise the truth when he hears it, he can’t be much of a detective, can he?

  Owen’s glad he has his truck back because Malkie phoned earlier. He’ll be on his way through Chichester sometime this morning with a couple of machines for him: an Al-Ko 520BR Premium and an Allett Classic 14L. Malkie’s a long-haul HGV driver who delivers gardening supplies to DIY stores all over the country – Europe too, even as far as Poland. He also does a number of deals on the side, picking up mowers that have been thrown out and replaced for no better reason than that they’ve developed a mechanical problem. Such a waste of money – these two machines would cost around £500 brand new and he knows he can buy them from Malkie for as little as £40 each, then sell them off as reconditioned models for five times that amount on his website. Malkie will moan about how he’s being ripped off but it pays for a late breakfast at Arun Valley and an evening meal and a drink on the way back and he’ll still have plenty left over. It’s not like he’s losing out at all. He picks them up for nothing and besides – what else is he going to do with dead lawnmowers?

  Malkie says he’ll be in the car park of the Arun Valley Shopping Centre around eleven. They usually meet there, mainly because manoeuvring his big lorry around Pagham is a pain. Owen never minds the fifteen-minute drive. It’ll be more than worth the effort. If he gets the two machines onto the website as soon as he’s home, they’ll be gone by the morning. People know what a good job he can do with old mowers.

  He’s a bit early. No sign of Malkie’s lorry just yet, so he takes a parking space near the entrance and gets out of the truck to stretch his legs for a bit. The car park’s huge but it’s pretty full all the same, more so the closer you get to the main entrance. No wonder the centre of Bognor is on its last legs – everybody’s out here. Unless you want Poundland, discount stores, betting shops, amusement arcades and Polish delicatessens, there’s no point in going into town anymore. This place has pretty much everything.

  It’s not just shoppers who come here either. Ahead of him a group of seven or eight young people are sitting around the edge of the large fountain. Some of them have got their shoes off and their feet in the water, even though there’s been a bit more of a chill in the air the last couple of days. Most of them are listening to music on headphones or playing games on their mobile phones. They’re all wearing dark clothing and he knows they are called Goths. He saw a programme about them once and thinks they’re very strange, even if they don’t seem to be doing anybody any harm. They appear to be quite happy in a gloomy sort of way.

  A couple of members of the security staff make their way across the car park and start talking to them. It looks as if they’re being asked to move on, although it all seems light-hearted enough. And then he recognises one of the guards – it’s Callum Green’s dad. And that shakes him up a bit. He has to look twice to make sure it’s actually him. Owen’s always pictured him as a policeman because that’s what he used to be. Even when he turned up in Abi’s garden that time, he still thought of him as PC Green. He knows he’s older now and you can’t stay a policeman for ever, but it’s never occurred to him to wonder what they do afterwards, when the work gets too dangerous. Now he knows. Typical that he chose to move on to something that means he can still throw his weight around. Telling people what to do seems to be all he’s good at. Especially when they’re not really doing anything wrong in the first place.

  He’s so busy watching Callum’s dad that he hasn’t really looked at his partner. And there’s no reason why he should be interested until she turns her head so that she’s side-on, and then he notices something familiar about her which makes him look again. He assumes it’s just that he’s seen her here before but there’s a little voice inside nagging away at him, telling him that’s not it. He watches as she does some stretching exercises while Callum’s dad talks to the Goths. She’s resting one foot on the edge of the fountain and straightening her leg before easing into a squat to stretch out the hamstring. Then she does the same with the other leg and he can tell she knows what she’s doing. Looks like an athlete.

  And the connection is made. Glasses are added. Hair is altered drastically. And now the fizzing inside his head is like the fifth of November: sparks are flying everywhere and his pulse is way above its normal resting rate because he knows her. Knows exactly where he’s seen her before.

  14

  EARLIER: SUNDAY, 21ST SEPTEMBER

  PHIL

  He was halfway through shaving before he realised that he’d set his alarm in error. He wasn’t due in today – one of his days off before the rota threw him back into the twilight world. He thought about going back to bed for a couple of hours but wasn’t sure he could square it with his conscience. If he was ever going to pay more than lip service to the notion of getting back into some sort of shape, he needed to meet his reluctance head on and go for a run. There was nothing to stop him other than bone idleness. No injuries. No pressing calls on his time. And it didn’t need to be anything too ambitious to begin with. Fifteen minutes today, maybe. Twenty tomorrow. He’d build up gradually as the weeks wore on. Feel the benefit of it later. And it would give Anna something to tease him about next time they were on patrol.

  So he bit the bullet, went back into the bedr
oom and changed into shorts and a sweatshirt, rescuing his trainers from the confines of his kitbag, where they’d been lying unused for too long. He headed towards the kitchen, then decided to leave breakfast till he got back. The thought of bringing it all back up halfway round the block didn’t appeal at all.

  It was still dark in the lounge as he walked through. He was just reaching out to open the curtains when he caught sight of the figure sitting in his armchair.

  ‘Jesus!’

  His trainers fell from his grasp, bounced off the edge of the settee and onto the floor. At the same time the lounge door slammed shut behind him and the overhead lights were switched on. He swung round, blinking at two other shapes that had materialised out of nowhere, one now barring the door, the other leaning against the shelf above the fireplace, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles.

  ‘Possibly best if we leave the curtains for now,’ said Cunningham, flicking through the TV magazine that he’d picked up from the coffee table. ‘A little privacy’s always a good thing, don’t you think?’

  Phil took a deep breath, trying to bring his heart rate back under some sort of control.

  ‘What the hell is this, Cunningham? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Very nice, by the way,’ said Cunningham. ‘The curtains. Very . . . Laura Ashley. I hear the 1970s are making a comeback.’

  ‘Get the hell out of my house!’ Phil barked. ‘How did you get in here, anyway?’

  Cunningham replaced the magazine carefully, adjusting it so that it sat squarely with the edge of the table.

  ‘Ah yes. Well, the less said about that the better. I had to ask young TJ to bring a bit of his magic to bear on your back door and I’m afraid he had a bit of an off day. It appears he may have damaged the lock itself. But please don’t concern yourself – I’ll be on the phone to a locksmith as soon as we leave. Any damage will be put right before you know it.’