Lie in Wait: A dark and gripping crime thriller

by GJ Minett

  ‘I’m in the middle of making a cake and haven’t even started thinking about dinner.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m so sorry to have troubled you –’

  Abi didn’t hear the rest. She ended the call and returned the handset to the coffee table in the lounge, determined not to answer if it rang again. Anyone else trying to get in touch with her could wait until she’d finished working on the cake.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  When she came to look back on it later, she was never quite able to pin down just what it was that made her think again. A touch of guilt maybe at having been so brusque? And somewhere deep in her subconscious, her thought processes must have been hard at work, teasing here, linking there, knit one, purl one until a pattern emerged almost before she’d realised what was happening. She couldn’t identify any single stitch though and swear, hand on heart, that this was her Eureka moment, her blinding epiphany. But synapses must have started crackling or whatever it was synapses did and some remote corner of her brain started juggling with a few random pieces and tossed them around until somehow, magically, they all fell into place because it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes later that she found herself picking out the number from the call log and ringing the woman from Estelle Roberts.

  18

  MONDAY, 8TH DECEMBER

  OWEN

  He grabs hold of the large sack with two hands and tries to lift it. No chance. If he’s not careful he’ll do himself some damage. Instead, he drags it over to the door of the shed, manoeuvres it over the raised threshold, down two steps and onto the lawn where he leaves it next to a number of packing crates that he’d hauled there and emptied earlier.

  He tips the contents of the sack out onto the grass and works his way through them, item by item, adding them to the three existing piles. One will go straight to the tip or to a bonfire, another will go back into the shed once he’s finished. The third pile – the items about which he’s undecided – will go into a corner of the garage and stay there until the Aldertons get back from their winter break in Lanzarote. They have a holiday home there, use it as their base every year from early October until just before Easter. They like to pop back for a week or so over Christmas so that they can see their children and grandchildren over the festive period, but otherwise they won’t be around for six months.

  For the past three winters they’ve left him a key to the garden shed and paid him a retainer to keep the garden tidy and do a number of odd jobs around the outside of the property while they’re away – the occasional tree that needs to come down or bush that needs to be taken out. Suits him just fine. He’s his own boss, can decide when he wants to go round there, making it dovetail with all the other jobs he has at any one time.

  These, as it happens, are few and far between at the moment. Wrong time of year. Not a lot of money around at the moment for some of his customers. And others still seem a bit wary after the interest the police showed in him during the autumn. Things would be easier from the financial point of view if the project at Abi’s had amounted to anything but the less said about that the better. So he’s glad of the work, happy to deal with the relatively unchallenging and mindless task of clearing the shed to create more space for the summer.

  One of the first items he takes out of the sack is the baseball bat. The shed has been the perfect hiding place; somewhere no one would think of looking. Every time he comes here he can’t resist taking it out and having a look at it – does so now, holding it up to the grey morning light. There’s not a mark on it, which is hardly surprising; he’s scrubbed it so many times, smoothed over a few rough edges, working particularly hard on the bottom half of the bat where telltale signs might have lingered and then swamped it in oil so he’s pretty sure nothing can be picked up by forensics. Better safe than sorry.

  Willie has been on at him ever since they got back that night. He keeps whining about how the KC ought to count as well. Throw that into the mix and you get eighty-three which any fool will tell you is a prime number. Owen doesn’t listen though. He’s the expert when it comes to this sort of thing. It’s not a number plate – the letters don’t count.

  He’s been keeping it in the sack along with any number of items the Aldertons have accumulated over the years: a collection of utensils for the barbecue, a multi-coloured boules set, a couple of footballs and a miniature cricket bat for when the grandchildren come to visit, several tent pegs and a mallet (though he hasn’t come across any sign of a tent so far). The baseball bat doesn’t look remotely out of place in there and the beauty of it is that unless they decide to pop back for Christmas he won’t need to find somewhere else to keep it for four months. Plenty of time to decide what to do with it then.

  Gripping the bat tightly, he stands with feet wide apart and takes a few practice swings. It stirs fragments of memory into life, more instinctive than visual. There’s an awareness rather than an actual picture. He feels as if he’s been liberated or vindicated somehow as he swipes at fresh air, the momentum almost hurling him off his feet. He has no real recollection of those few moments in Honer Lane – there’s just the before and the after and he doesn’t really trust what he thinks he remembers in between. Impossible to separate what actually happened from what has been stitched together by a febrile imagination. But he knows how good this bat makes him feel and that’s all that matters. It’s a lucky omen. How could it be anything else?

  His mobile pings in his pocket to tell him he has a message. He doesn’t want to be sidetracked because the forecast is for heavy rain around midday and if it comes a little earlier he could find himself with all the shed contents still out in the open. So he ignores the text for now, wipes his prints off the bat handle and buries it deep in the sack before continuing to sift through the other contents, sorting them into the appropriate piles.

  Five minutes later he’s interrupted again by his mobile – a call this time. He takes it out of his pocket to check who’s ringing and his heart gives a little leap when he sees the name before he comes to his senses. Funny how these things work. He can tell himself as often as he likes that she let him down and that he doesn’t want anything more to do with her, but his instincts betray him every time. He has no idea why she’s ringing now – doesn’t want to know. After all she’s put him through recently, Abi Green – she still calls herself that even now, after everything she’s found out about Callum – Abi Green can wait.

  As if.

  Two minutes later he picks her number from his list of favourites and rings it. She answers almost immediately. Thanks him for calling her back, says she wasn’t sure he would. Dead right, he thinks. She doesn’t know how close he came to ignoring her.

  He listens as she explains. Says she wouldn’t blame him if he refused to have anything to do with her after the way she behaved before but she really needs to talk with him about something. If he’ll just give her a chance to explain . . .

  Two minutes ago there was nothing she could have said that would have made him want to give her the time of day. He hasn’t forgiven her and won’t. He’s not about to forget the way she reacted to finding out he’d been in her bedroom. The way she treated him the following morning was unforgivable. He turned up for work as usual, ready to apologise because, OK, he knew he’d overstepped the mark. He could accept that much. Knew women could be funny about their rooms, about what they saw as an invasion of their privacy. Wouldn’t have bothered him one bit if the shoe had been on the other foot but he’d brought it on himself so he was ready to say sorry and move on.

  Instead, she pulled the rug out from under him. Called him into the kitchen and made him sit at the table like a naughty schoolboy. She was cold as ice – told him she’d spent a lot of time the previous evening thinking through what he’d done, and she didn’t feel she could trust him anymore. She was worried about the way he’d been behaving recently: first the expensive necklace, now the intrusion into her privacy. She felt he was misjudging the nature of their frie
ndship and making assumptions with which she wasn’t entirely comfortable. She’d talked about it with Callum’s father of all people, as if it was any of his business, and come to the conclusion it would be better if they shelved the garden project for the foreseeable future. She might feel differently a few months on but she didn’t feel comfortable having him there right now. She needed time on her own to come to terms with everything that had happened in the past couple of weeks.

  It had taken him a few moments to realise what she was saying. That all those hours he’d spent, drawing up different plans to make sure there was at least one that would meet her needs, were all for nothing. That what she was actually telling him was that he wasn’t going to be working on her garden at all. When the message got through, he’d gone from upset to desperate and then angry in a matter of minutes. He knows he said one or two things he probably shouldn’t have, including a snippy remark about whether her new boyfriend was going to be asked to stay away as well so she could have this space she needed, but it’s not like that influenced her decision in any way. She’d already made up her mind – so much so that when he rang later that evening and again the following day to beg her to reconsider and promise that he wouldn’t ever go into her room again, she’d put the phone down on him.

  It’s been almost three months now and he’s had a long time to make up his mind as to how he feels about the whole business. And if anyone had told him, when he answered the phone just now, that he would allow her to talk him round, he’d have insisted they were wrong. But even though he’s using all the right words and saying he doesn’t think there’s anything she can say that he wants to hear, he’s aware that his heart is thudding violently, insisting on the right to be heard. And even as he tells her he’s busy now and ends the call suddenly, as if desperate to quit while he’s still ahead, there’s a substantial part of him that’s yelling at him to take it back. Call her. Tell her he’s sorry for being so unkind. He didn’t mean it. You can’t wipe out all those years just like that. Somehow the past just won’t let go.

  So when a text comes through a few minutes later – ‘Sorry. Understand and don’t blame you. Deserve nothing less. Your friend, Abi’ – he rings back almost immediately, fingers struggling to hit the right keys. And he tries to conjure some sort of moral victory from the fact that he’s told her he’s busy right now and won’t be able to see her till this evening at the earliest, but he’s not fooling himself for one minute. He just hopes he’s fooling her.

  So, 6.30 at the Lion in Pagham.

  He wonders what that’s all about.

  PHIL

  Decorations, he told himself. Seventeen days to Christmas and he still hadn’t fetched the boxes out of the attic: one long, thin one containing the artificial tree, two more compact ones containing various baubles and lights and traditional decorations that he and Sally accumulated over the years.

  He knew exactly where they were – just off to the right, tucked away in a recess formed by the lagged pipes and the support beams, out of harm’s way. Decorating the lounge each year used to be something of a family tradition. Sally used to prepare mulled wine and mince pies; he and Callum, when he was still young and enthusiastic about such things, used to fetch everything down from the attic and get the tree set up. Then they decorated it as a family, he and Sally smiling complicitly as they pretended not to notice each time Callum sneaked one of the chocolate figures away from view.

  That first Christmas after Sally died – 2012 – he decided not to get the boxes down from the attic. They stayed where they were all through the festive period. Maybe if Callum had come to visit more often and shown some sort of enthusiasm for keeping the tradition going it might have been different, but Callum was Callum. So Phil had sat there in an undecorated lounge, thinking he would be better off in an ascetic, joyless room than one awash with colour and lights. He hadn’t made the same mistake last year and wouldn’t again, irrespective of what had happened so recently. He would definitely be decorating the room this year . . . as soon as he felt up to it.

  He heard his mobile ringing and almost didn’t bother to answer it. At the last minute he checked to see who it was and changed his mind.

  ‘Hello, you.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Anna. ‘How’s the invalid?’

  ‘Not great, but thanks for asking.’

  ‘You don’t sound so bad.’

  ‘So how bad should I sound?’

  ‘Dunno. I was expecting a cough. Blocked nose, maybe.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ he said, his voice sounding an octave lower than usual. ‘But last night my temperature was 101 if that makes you feel any better, and my throat feels like someone’s taken a sheet of sandpaper to it.’

  ‘Hmm . . . ironic really. Is that the word I mean?’ she asked. ‘Only I seem to remember this great big security officer on patrol just a few days ago, looking down his unblocked nose at all those lesser mortals who’d gone down with the flu bug and grumbling about how in the old days it was regarded as some sort of stain on your character if you ever missed a day’s work through illness. Something about how half the people who hadn’t turned up that week were probably in Chichester doing their Christmas shopping. How crowded was it, by the way? You get everything you need?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I slept in all morning,’ he said, reaching for a tissue and dabbing at the corner of his eye which had developed an irritating leak in the past hour or so. ‘Forced myself to come down and have a bowl of soup for lunch, then promptly dozed off again in front of the fire. Would probably have slept through till tonight if Andy Holloway hadn’t rung.’

  ‘What did he want?’ she asked, sounding a little more serious now.

  ‘Nothing urgent. Just a quick update.’

  ‘He’s not pulling the plug, then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So it’s still on?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So what does that mean exactly? Is it all official?’

  ‘Dunno. Didn’t ask. I promised I’d keep him in the picture and that’s what I’ve done. The rest is for him to sort out.’

  ‘But he didn’t warn you off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. That’s good.’

  ‘So how’s your day going?’ he asked, keen to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, and he heard footsteps echoing off a hard surface. ‘Just making sure Big Ears can’t hear me,’ she explained. ‘My day? Yeah, well yours sounds pretty good from where I’m standing. I’m more than ready to swap, I tell you. You know who they’ve paired me with?’

  ‘Not Gonzo?’

  ‘Who else? You’ve heard the latest, I suppose? About you and I?’

  ‘You and me.’

  ‘What I said. Apparently the Keystone Cops upstairs have decided you and me are in a relationship.’

  ‘You mean we’re not?’

  ‘Screwing like rabbits, it seems. Have been for months. Gonzo decided it was up to him to do the decent thing and let me know.’

  ‘So you’re not a lesbian anymore, then?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Wonder what they think is worse, you being gay or throwing yourself at someone old enough to be your father.’

  ‘I know. You’d have to be one of those people in the war to work out what goes on in their heads.’

  ‘Soldiers?’

  ‘No. The ones who had to break all the codes and things. You know.’

  ‘The Bletchley Circle.’

  ‘Ha ha. Very good. You think I don’t know that’s a Tube station? Codebreakers. That’s the word. Different planet. Anyway, you make damned sure you’re back tomorrow whatever you do cos if I have to spend another day patrolling with him, one of us isn’t going to make it through to the end of the shift.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Dose yourself up. Loads of Lemsips and paracetamol and stuff.’

  ‘Lemsip is paracetamol.’

  ‘I know that.
But after a couple of Lemsips I can’t stand the taste anymore.’ She paused. ‘Anything you want me to bring round to you? Soothers? Olbas oil? Some sort of cough medicine? I could drop it off on the way home.’

  He laughed.

  ‘How is Rose Green on the way home exactly?’

  ‘It is if I go via your place. You want any or not?’

  He thanked her but assured her he was well stocked up with everything he needed.

  ‘So was that why you rang?’ he asked. ‘To make sure I was OK?’

  ‘Pretty much. Got another bit of news for you though. If you’re interested.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Nearly forgot, what with all your whinging. You remember my first MMA fight that got cancelled?’

  ‘Sittingbourne.’

  ‘Right. Well, they’ve rearranged it. Only this time it’s going to be here. Heard this afternoon. Our guys’ve already booked the Jenese Arts Centre in Linden Road, just up from where I live. You know it?’

  He did. Baz had booked the same place for a couple of boxing promotions before now. Compact space, good atmosphere. Not much room for a big audience but he wasn’t sure how big a crowd an MMA promotion would draw anyway. The acoustics were good though – those who did turn up would be sure to make plenty of noise.

  ‘So when is it?’

  ‘Sunday afternoon. Two till five.’

  ‘You know who you’re fighting?’

  ‘No. Why? Are you thinking of coming along?’

  ‘Might do.’

  ‘You want to see me get my nose rearranged, right?’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, seizing the opening before his safety valve had a chance to kick in, ‘I was wondering if you’d fancy a meal afterwards?’

  ‘A meal?’ The pause was just long enough for him to wonder if there was a way of taking it back. ‘You mean . . . as in a meal meal? In a restaurant?’

  ‘If you think you’ll be up to it. I’ll bring some plasters and a sling with me.’

  He found himself wrapping the tassels on the blanket around his fingers while he waited for her reply.