Lie in Wait: A dark and gripping crime thriller

by GJ Minett

  He leans back and rests the back of his head on the bonnet for a moment. Owen meanwhile is shell shocked. He stands there open-mouthed, trying to take it all in. He’s wondering what to do next but all he can think of is Abi. What’s she going to think?

  ‘You can’t do this,’ he protests. ‘I’ll t-tell the police what really happened.’

  ‘Yeah, well g-g-good l-luck with that,’ Callum mimics. ‘He’s lying, Officer. I didn’t hit him. He smashed his own car up and then he hit himself in the face with a b-baseball b-bat. I just stood there and watched. Fuck, that hurts,’ he adds, dabbing gently at his eye once more.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ says Owen, and he can feel the exasperation building inside him. No way can Callum be allowed to get away with this unchallenged.

  ‘Says who? It’s all going to come down to my word against yours. Which of us is going to sound more convincing, d’you think? A successful, articulate entrepreneur – fuck me, there’s a word for you. How long would it take you to say that? A successful businessman with no reason to lie or a bumbling idiot who can’t string three words together without st-st-st-stuttering? You want my advice, you’d do well to start getting the kinks in your version ironed out. You reckon anyone’s going to believe your explanation for being here? If we knock on Mr and Mrs Dooberry’s door or whatever their name is and ask if you’ve called in to see them this evening, are they going to back you up on that? I don’t think so. Far as I can see, the only reason you could possibly be way out here is to set up an opportunity to beat the shit out of me. You think anyone’s going to think differently by the time I’ve finished, you’ve got another think coming. Oh, Jesus,’ he groans, turning his head away in disgust. ‘You’re not going to start crying, are you?’

  And he is. He can feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It’s all too much for him to take in. He knows Callum’s right. He’s never been very good at explaining himself. No one will believe him. He feels helpless and can feel the rocking on its way. Any minute now he’ll start swaying to and fro. Another excuse for Callum to laugh at him.

  So what are you going to do about it? asks Willie, who’s appeared out of nowhere. Willie, who always seems to leave him to go through all the painful preliminaries and then steps in at the last minute to take all the credit.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Yes, you do.

  He’s looking at the bat which is still on the ground next to Callum.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ says Owen.

  ‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’ asks Callum, struggling to stand up.

  Yes, you can. He asked you to hit him, remember? It was his idea.

  Owen watches as Callum reaches down to pick up the bat. He knows he can’t let him do that. Steps in and slams his foot down on it, trapping Callum’s fingers underneath, causing him to yelp. It’s an odd sound, high-pitched. Almost girlish.

  So, says Willie. You heard the man.

  *

  Next thing he knows, it’s starting to rain. It’s not heavy just yet, but the first fat drops are starting to fall on his upturned face and he can sense much more is on the way. He listened to the weather forecast this morning and they said there would be heavy rain later, maybe even a storm or two.

  Willie’s starting to get anxious.

  What if someone down there decides to go for a walk to Pagham Harbour?

  ‘It’s raining, Willie.’

  People don’t walk in the rain? What if someone in one of those three houses is planning to go into Chichester for the evening? Anyone comes along here before you’ve cleared up, what are you going to do? Whack them too?

  He’s made a list of things Owen needs to do. And quickly. Willie’s good with lists – nothing written down but he never seems to forget anything.

  Number 1: get him off the road and into his car.

  Easy. He drags Callum round to the passenger side, opens the back door and throws him onto the seat. There’s a crack as his head hits the door going in and one arm flops down to the floor in what looks like a reflex motion but Owen’s not concerned. He knows he doesn’t need to worry about Callum ever again. One look at his face and you can tell. He’s gone. He slams the door shut and it springs back open because his foot’s in the way. He reaches in and bends Callum’s knee so that there’s room for his leg inside, then slams the door again.

  Number 2: get the car off the road and put it where it can’t be seen.

  Owen remembers the field where he hid the pickup. That would do nicely but his truck is in the way. So instead he climbs into the driver’s seat of Callum’s sports car, turns the key which is still in the ignition, and promptly stalls it the moment he tries to reverse. The clutch is fierce, very different from his pickup’s.

  He tries again and backs up the road as quickly as he can, the car leaping in fits and starts as if suffering from a mechanical equivalent of Tourette’s. He’s careful not to misjudge things and slide off into a ditch. That would be a problem. He’s aware of the risk of some other vehicle coming this way but there’s no panic there. Instead there’s an odd sense of purpose, an inner calm he doesn’t remember feeling before. No point in fretting over things that lie beyond his control. And anyway, Willie knows what he’s doing.

  Eventually, he finds a field that is just about perfect. Open entrance, high hedges and a section that’s almost cordoned off by bales of hay and odd bits of machinery. He drives the car in and makes a token effort at obscuring it with a few branches that are lying around, although he knows he doesn’t have long enough to do a decent job. He needs to see to the next item on the list.

  Number 3: get out of those clothes.

  He’s not sure about this but feels he has to trust Willie’s instincts. There’s this smear of blood down the front of his T-shirt where he’d tried to ease Callum’s fall. He can’t afford to have anyone see him looking like that. His work overalls are in the truck. He quickly unlaces his boots and takes them off so that he can slip out of his jeans. Then he takes off the T-shirt as well and steps into the overalls. Willie’s insisting he hide the clothes for now. One of the compost bags in the back. He clambers up and pours some of the contents out of one of the bags. Then he puts the jeans and the T-shirt in and scoops enough compost back in to hide them. He feels more than a little miffed about this. He doesn’t mind so much about the jeans but the T-shirt is one of his favourites. It has a picture of Bognor Pier on the front and on the back it says: My mum went on holiday to Bognor and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. He bought it a couple of years ago at a car-boot sale at Fontwell. It’s a joke – still makes him smile even now every time he puts it on. But Willie insists, so into the bag it goes. Then he opens another one and does the same with the baseball bat. Can’t leave that lying around. Later, Willie explains, he can get rid of the bat and the clothes. Make a bonfire out of them. Now all that matters is the next item.

  Number 4: get out of here.

  His watch tells him that it’s still only 8.32. Hard to believe so much can have happened in such a short space of time but it has and he’s been lucky so far. No one has gone for a walk. No one has decided to go out for the evening. But all the good work of the past few minutes will count for nothing if he does anything to draw attention to himself. The light’s fading all the time, especially now the rain clouds are directly overhead. He wouldn’t normally put his sidelights on just yet, but he does now, just in case some passing police car might take exception. He drives at five miles an hour below the speed limit, anxious not to give any of the locals a reason to take note of his vehicle. He couldn’t drive more carefully if he tried. And when the road broadens out into a two-way street at last, he turns to Willie and smiles. They should be safe now. Still plenty to do but they should be OK.

  Number 5: drive to Cineworld.

  He needs to pick up his ticket and watch the film. Willie doesn’t see why anyone should ask him where he was this evening, but there’s no harm in providing himself with a nice alibi just in cas
e. It’s too late for the KFC now but he’ll make up for it with the popcorn. Go large instead of the usual medium. He feels a little self-conscious in his overalls, wonders if it might look a bit odd. But all he needs to do is get his ticket from the machine and he’ll be inside in the dark in no time. No one will be able to see him there.

  He decides he’s going to enjoy the film. He could do with something to take his mind off things.

  It’s a late finish and despite the popcorn he’s ready for a proper meal by the time he comes out into an absolute downpour. KFC shut a few minutes ago so he picks up a takeaway from Masala Gate and heads for home, windscreen wipers barely making an impression on the wall of water sliding down his screen. He makes a detour to the Southern Cross industrial estate and burns the clothes in a large oil drum at the back of a garage, using petrol to encourage it along a little as the rain sluices down. He waits till he’s sure the job is done, then leaves the final bits of rag to burn themselves out.

  At home, he warms the meal through in the microwave, munching on a complimentary poppadom as he does so. Then he takes the food into the conservatory and eats it on a tray on his lap, thinking about two minor acts of rebellion that he’s committed this evening. Ones that he’s secretly quite pleased about but which have not pleased Willie one bit. He’s moaned about them all the way home. Says Owen’s an idiot for even thinking about it but then again Willie doesn’t know everything. He was really helpful this evening, so much so that Owen doesn’t know what he’d have done without him. But even though he’s always been a quick thinker, he’s not as clever as he believes he is. Not by a long chalk.

  Owen’s given way on most things, including burning his favourite T-shirt but he’s drawn the line at the other two. Willie can whinge as much as he likes about how dangerous it is to keep them but he’s not going to change his mind on this. He’s keeping them.

  The bat will need attention. He’ll have to scrub it clean, maybe even plane it down a little to make sure there are no traces anywhere on it. There are a few indentations here and there but there would be – it’s a baseball bat. It’s bound to have taken a few knocks over the years. But he’ll get to work on it, clean it, smooth it out, rub it over and over again with linseed oil until it’s guaranteed one hundred per cent safe. And even then he’ll find somewhere to keep it, somewhere that can’t rebound on him. Because you never know. You hear such amazing things about what they can do with forensics nowadays. He’ll find a way to make sure they can’t possibly tie it to him.

  But what he’s not going to do is burn it. He’s known that from the moment he caught a glimpse of the logo, stencilled in blue just below the handle. There’s a large capital K with a smaller capital C looped onto its downstroke. And under that is the number 69. KC 69. He’s googled it and discovered the KC stands for Kansas City. It’s a Major League baseball team and the number refers to the year they were formed and allowed to join the American League.

  Six, nine, sixty-nine: all multiples of three. Safe.

  How can Willie think he’s going to burn that?

  Not going to happen.

  And then there’s the package he found on the front seat of Callum’s car when he was ditching it. Willie’s really unhappy about this. Says it’s going to come back to bite him sometime but that’s just panic on his part. He always gets like that if he feels his position with Owen is threatened in any way. But the moment he opened it and saw the necklace inside, he knew what to do with it. He just knew.

  There was a capital H and a small x written on the wrapping paper and, even though he doesn’t know what her name is, Owen is sure he knows who it was meant for. But that’s not going to happen. She’s not going to get her hands on it. Callum was married. If he was going to buy expensive presents for anyone, it should have been Abi, not this other woman. And it’s Abi who’s going to get it. Her birthday’s coming up soon, just over a fortnight away. He’ll make it a present from him to her, something that will show her how important she is to him. How pleased he is they’re back together after all these years.

  He wasn’t the one who bought it of course, which makes it a bit of a lie, but he won’t let that worry him. He remembers how difficult he used to find it to tell lies when he was young but he’s learned over the years that sometimes it’s OK. Sometimes it’s the right thing to do. That day all those years ago taught him as much. He remembers his mother holding on tight to him, whispering to him over and over again: ‘You weren’t in the tree house. You were in the kitchen with me. We were practising your reading. Where were you?’ All the time while they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Then all the way to the hospital. She made him say it till he was word perfect.

  So he knows it’s OK to lie sometimes. Even to Abi.

  And he might as well get used to it.

  He’s going to have to do it a lot more before this blows over.

  PART THREE

  17

  FRIDAY, 5TH DECEMBER

  DANNY

  This fatherhood malarkey is like one long party, he thought to himself as he rearranged a few items on the shelves while Yvonne opened up. He didn’t remember it being quite like this when Kayla was born. He certainly didn’t have people whooping as he came in through the door and pressing small presents for the baby on him before he’d even removed his anorak and cycle helmet. Then again, he reminded himself, he’d been relatively new to the shop back then. They all knew him better now, viewed him as a friend almost. And he decided he liked it – this sense of mutual support, corporate wellbeing.

  It was funny the way things turned out sometimes. He’d always seen himself as one of the worker ants: do the job nine to five and do it well by all means, but it was very much an ‘us-and-them’ situation as far as he was concerned. Once you pulled your cycle helmet on and headed off home you left the place well and truly behind you. Never thought about responsibility. Never wanted it.

  Lately though, and especially since the arrival of Jamie Carragher Locke just a few days earlier, he’d caught himself feeling differently about things once or twice. Nothing major – just taking an interest in the way Yvonne operated, watching closely to see how she managed to chivvy people along and get them to do things without ever getting their backs up. He’d started to wonder whether he might be able to do something along those lines, and put himself up for promotion one day. The staff liked and respected him, and he was good with customers. Was it that ridiculous an idea?

  He’d mentioned it to Evie and she was all for it, suggesting he ought to have a word with Yvonne about management courses. Not so long ago he’d have laughed at her but last night he’d lain awake for ages, looking at it from all angles and thinking she might be right. Maybe he was ready for something like this. And the money would certainly come in handy. He decided he’d try to grab a word with Yvonne when no one else was listening. He didn’t see what harm it could do.

  There was no chance early on in the day. The first customers came in a bit of a rush as usual – a handful of individuals there for a specific reason rather than the casual browsers who replaced them after the first few frantic minutes. Then, just as the initial onslaught was starting to die down a little, they were joined by a small, dapper man who strode into the shop and then looked around uncertainly as if searching for someone in particular. Filled with this new sense of purpose, Danny walked over and asked if he could be of assistance.

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ said the customer. ‘I was hoping to speak to the manager.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s serving at the moment, sir,’ he said, nodding in Yvonne’s direction. ‘Can I help at all?’

  ‘Oliver Dodd,’ said the man, resting his briefcase on one of the display cabinets and taking a card from his jacket pocket. ‘I’m here to carry out the audit.’

  ABI

  Nearly four months on and still the calls for Callum kept coming.

  Just before five o’clock, Abi was in the kitchen, getting ready to lift the sugar paste to cover the cak
e drum, which was a delicate operation at the best of times. When the home phone rang in the lounge, she did her best to ignore it. She told herself she could always check the missed call later at a more convenient moment, but this next stage would need all her concentration and she didn’t want the distraction of wondering who had been trying to get in touch. So with a sigh she stepped back from the work surface and walked through to the lounge. It was an unfamiliar number, another cold caller more likely than not.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, doing her best to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  ‘Oh, good afternoon. I’m sorry to trouble you. Would that be Mrs Green?’ A woman’s voice. Polite. Professional.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name is Yvonne Wood. I’m calling from Estelle Roberts.’

  ‘From where?’ She went back into the kitchen and tucked the handset under her ear as she rummaged around in one of the unit drawers.

  ‘Estelle Roberts. In Arun Valley. We’re conducting a customer-satisfaction survey and wondered if you could just help us out. Is this a convenient time?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Abi, stepping back over to the work surface to check the sugar paste once more.

  ‘I promise it will be very quick. It’s just that as a company we’re re-evaluating our refund policy and we’d really appreciate feedback from our customers. It was actually Mr Green I wanted to speak with. I don’t suppose he’s there at the moment, is he?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid he’s not.’

  ‘Only he bought a necklace from us a few months ago and –’

  ‘My husband is dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He died back in August.’

  ‘Oh . . . Mrs Green.’

  ‘So if you’ll excuse me –’

  ‘Of course. I quite understand. I had no idea.’