The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller
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Hopper reached for the photograph and returned it to the file. ‘Apart from your fingerprints, there was no blood or trace evidence on it.’
‘As my client said, it was merely a glancing blow.’ The solicitor spoke as if attempting to justify her need to be there.
‘Indeed,’ Hopper said. Opening the file again, she removed a second sheet and slid it across the table. ‘You might find this a little distressing. It’s a copy of the X-ray of Mr Carter’s head.’ She reached forward and placed a finger on one section. ‘He sustained a compressed skull fracture of his frontal bone here.’ Her finger tapped the paper. ‘It was caused by a blunt-force trauma such as being hit by a smooth, heavy glass paperweight.’
My breath caught as I eyed the concave indent on the skull X-ray. ‘B-b-but, he walked away.’ I looked up, fear filling my eyes and pressing my lips together. ‘I swear to you, he walked away!’
‘It appears that with this type of brain injury the repercussions may take a few minutes to be obvious. Mr Carter may have been able to walk away, exit your home, chat to someone else. But then the brain injury that was sustained made itself felt, causing him to keel over.’
My hands crept over my mouth as the reality of that one moment of meltdown dawned on me. I’d killed someone. I’d killed Toby. The three words ricocheted painfully inside my skull. But when I said them aloud, ‘I killed him,’ the real horror sank in.
Hopper pulled the X-ray back. ‘It’s not as clear-cut as that, I’m afraid, but it looks as if this blow certainly led to his death.’
‘Perhaps you could explain, detective.’ The solicitor spoke sharply. ‘Either my client killed Mr Carter or not. It seems to me it should be simple.’
‘You would think,’ Hopper said, picking up the file. ‘But sometimes things are never as simple as they look.’ She got to her feet, Collins following like a reflection. ‘We’ve a few things to sort out. We’ll be back. For the moment, sit tight.’
When they’d gone, I dropped the hands from my mouth and released the howl I’d been holding back. I was unsurprised when my solicitor drew away as if disgusted by this as she hadn’t been by hearing that her client was a murderer.
58
Gwen
The lights in the custody suite never went completely out. They dimmed for a few hours, when Gwen supposed some might manage to sleep, before being restored to their glaring brightness at seven. It didn’t matter to her; she hadn’t managed to sleep at all.
She lay on the thin mattress with an arm over her eyes and barely stirred even when the hatch on the door was slid back and forward at regular intervals during the night. She could have told them she wasn’t a suicide risk; she’d come through too much over the years to leave now.
That she might lose all she had worked for was something she might have to come to terms with. Her gallery… some of the artists she’d supported over the years might stand by her but others would take inordinate delight in what they would no doubt see as the great Gwen Marsham being brought down to size. Their size, their level. The reputation she’d built up with hard work and tough decisions, the respect that work had earned. They’d be lost. Those who said there was no such thing as bad publicity didn’t move in the same circles she did.
A tray was brought into her at eight. There was no choice: too-strong, barely warm tea; rubbery toast covered with a luminous yellow spread that neither looked nor tasted like butter and a bowl of cheap-brand cornflakes. None of it was appetising but Gwen ate everything and drank the tea. She’d been a fool, now was the time to be sensible.
At ten, she was led into the same interview room she’d been in the day before. Her solicitor, Heather Fitt, was already there looking elegant and sophisticated in a jacket Gwen recognised as Armani. She was conscious of her own grubbiness, the faint stink of body odour from her silk shirt, the creases in her skirt and jacket.
Heather got to her feet and came around the table to greet her, enveloping her in a hug that Gwen drew comfort from as she inhaled the cloud of scent that had accompanied the embrace. Coco, one of her favourites.
‘You keeping it together?’
‘Just about,’ Gwen said and with a final hug, pulled away and sat. ‘What happens today?’
‘We have to wait and see what more information the detectives have and whether they’re prepared as yet to go to the Crown prosecutor. If so, we should know what charges you’re likely to face.’
‘I will go to prison?’
The solicitor sighed. ‘You concealed the death of a man and assisted in preventing that man’s lawful burial. But on the plus side, you run a successful business, are an upstanding member of the community, and apart from a minor drugs misdemeanour, you’ve never been in trouble before so…’ Fitt see-sawed her hand. ‘It also depends on what Barbara Sanderson says, and whether she supports your story. You were obviously in shock having seen Mr Carter collapse the way he did, so I could argue you were vulnerable to being led astray.’
‘I did want to ring the police.’
‘It’s a shame you didn’t.’ Fitt shook her head. ‘I’ll do my best for you, of course, but this might be a messy one.’
The door opened and focused both women on the arrival of the detectives.
‘Morning,’ DI Hopper said, slipping onto a chair opposite, DS Collins taking the one beside her.
Gwen, deprived by circumstances of her usual Tom Ford lipstick, found herself curiously fascinated by Collins’ red painted lips.
‘Gwen… Gwen?’
Only when Fitt reached to grip her shoulder did Gwen realise they were all staring at her with concern.
‘Are you all right?’ The hand squeezed gently.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep last night.’ She saw Hopper look to the solicitor for guidance and sat up straighter. ‘I’m fine, can we get on with this.’
‘We can wait until later if that would be easier for you?’
‘No!’ Gwen lifted a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. No, please, I would really like to get on with this. Please.’
‘Okay.’ Hopper tapped the file she held on the top of the table. ‘We’ve had some reports back and have discovered more about what happened the night Toby Carter died.’
‘Right.’
‘Ms Marsham, can you run us through what happened after Mr Carter collapsed?’
‘Is this absolutely necessary?’ the solicitor said. ‘My client has already told you what occurred. That’s not going to change.’
‘If this weren’t important, Ms Fitt, believe me I wouldn’t be wasting your time… or ours.’
Gwen put her hand on the solicitor’s arm. ‘I don’t mind going over it again.’
‘Fine,’ Fitt said. ‘I think, though, that we could do with something to drink.’
‘No problem, we can get whatever you like.’ Hopper looked at Collins and jerked a thumb towards the door. ‘DS Collins will do the honours.’
Five minutes later the small room was filled with the aroma of bitter coffee. Gwen wrapped her fingers around the disposable cup and described the night Toby Carter had died. ‘His fall was so dramatic, I thought he was kidding around at first. I waited for him to start laughing… to pull her down on top of him and fornicate in that damp, dark passage… to start laughing,’ she repeated, trying to swallow that other thought. ‘It was only when I bent over him that I realised something wasn’t right. I think I must have shaken him but he didn’t respond. I was hunkered down beside him when Misty… Babs… appeared.’
Gwen glanced towards her solicitor, remembering what she’d said earlier. This was an opportunity for damage limitation. ‘His collapse had been so unexpected, that I was shocked and panicking. Babs took control. I remember saying we should ring the police but she persuaded me it was a bad idea. She bent down and tried to find his pulse.’
Hopper held a hand up to stop her. ‘You’re sure about that?’
Gwen frowned. ‘Yes… yes, I’m absolutely certain. I remem
ber she pushed up his sleeve to find his pulse, then when she couldn’t find it–’ Gwen brushed her fingers down her neck. ‘–she felt here, but she said she couldn’t find one. That he was d-dead.’ She could still remember the horror she’d felt at that moment. ‘It was awful. I wanted to ring the police but she said it would be better to bury him there.’
‘Why?’ Hopper asked. ‘I know I’ve asked this before but I’m struggling to understand why you couldn’t have rung the police?’
Gwen shook her head slowly. ‘It all happened so quickly. Babs went on about how bad it would look for me to have been in that passage with him, the seedy spin the press would put on it. She said it would take a few days for the post-mortem to show he’d died of natural causes and until then I’d be under suspicion. The more she talked, the more convinced I became that burying him in the garden was a good idea. And don’t forget,’ she reminded them, ‘I thought it was her garden. That he’d stay hidden forever.’
‘Okay, what happened then?’
Gwen went through the rest, stumbling now and then. ‘Then I saw Babs bent over him. She was checking to make sure there was no pulse.’
Hopper held a hand up. ‘She checked his pulse again?’
‘Yes, she said she wanted to make sure she’d been right.’
‘And did she check the pulse at his neck this time?’
Gwen tilted her head, trying to remember. ‘N-no, I think she only tried his wrist the second time. She seemed satisfied that he was dead, though, and together we half-lifted, half-dragged him across the garden to the raised flower bed.’
‘And you both rolled him in.’
‘Not exactly. We both lifted him up. The raised bed is probably three feet high so it wasn’t easy. We managed to get him onto the flat edging stones. It was Babs who pushed him from that. It was then that I remembered the bags so I told her to wait and ran to get them. When I got back, she’d already covered his face and chest with soil. I put the bags in by his legs and squashed them down. Babs was standing on the edge, she pushed them down with her feet, then finished filling it in.’
‘Okay,’ Hopper said slowly. She played with the edges of the file on the table. ‘We’ve had some reports back.’
Gwen sat forward, alert. ‘The post-mortem. Do you know what made him collapse? Was it a heart attack?’
‘No, it wasn’t. It was a head injury.’ Hopper sucked in her lower lip. ‘He had sustained a blow to his head a short time before.’
‘A head injury?’ Gwen looked from one detective to the other, then back to her solicitor as she tried to make sense of this information. Toby died from a head injury.
59
Babs
Babs spent a restless night in the custody suite. Her head ached with the conflicting thoughts that banged noisily around the inside of her skull. The breakfast they brought her made her heave – she took a sip of the coffee, spat it out and pushed the tray away.
Her belongings were returned to her before she was brought back to the interview room mid-morning. She grabbed her coat, slipped it on and belted it tightly. The tweed cap was still in the pocket, her fingers closed around it bringing an instant feeling of calm.
She was brought to the same interview room, surprised to find the legal aid solicitor already waiting when she entered. ‘Morning.’
‘Good morning. You don’t look too well. A bad night?’
Babs shrugged and sat in the chair beside her. ‘It’s not the Ritz, that’s for sure.’ She looked around, her nose twitching. ‘It stinks in here.’
The chairs were fixed to the floor. Unable to move, the solicitor leaned away from Babs as far as she could. ‘I think it’s coming from that coat.’
Babs ran her hands over the Burberry raincoat. It had been Toby’s. One of three he had, she didn’t think he’d missed it. She’d worn it almost daily since he’d left, wearing it and the tweed flat cap on her jaunts to Hanwell to spy on Misty.
Maybe it did smell a little, she didn’t care.
It was another fifteen minutes before the two detectives who’d interviewed her the previous day came into the room and took the seats opposite. The older detective looked tired, the younger with perhaps even more make-up than the day before, her lips a garish red.
Babs, aware of the dark tramline down the parting of her dyed blonde hair was sorry, despite the heat, that she’d not put on the flat cap. Like a lot of things, it was too late.
‘Right,’ DI Hopper said when formalities were completed. ‘As you’re aware, Ms Sanderson, we’ve placed you at the crime scene and your fingerprints are on the spade that was used to dig the bed where Toby Carter’s body was buried.’
It was the solicitor who replied. ‘My client admits that she dug out the raised flower bed after she was begged to do so by Gwen Marsham.’
‘Dug out the bed, rolled Mr Carter’s body into it and put the soil back on top to bury him.’ Hopper looked at Babs. ‘Is that correct?’
Babs glanced at her solicitor. There didn’t appear to be any help coming from that quarter. But it was her word against Gwen’s, wasn’t it? ‘She made me help her. I wanted to call the police but she said no, that the bad press would destroy her business.’ She sniffed. ‘She begged me, and stupidly I decided to help her.’
‘Help her,’ Hopper repeated. ‘Right, I see. Were you still in love with Toby Carter?’
Babs’ laugh sounded false even to her ears. ‘Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, he left me broke.’
‘Yes, you did tell us that but, you see, it’s a bit odd.’ Hopper smiled. ‘What were you doing at the house where he was living the night he died?’
Babs regretted skipping breakfast. Maybe if she’d eaten something, she’d be able to come up with a reasonable answer for being in Hanwell that night.
Hopper’s arms were resting on the desk in front of her, she leaned forward pushing them closer. ‘You’d been keeping an eye on him, hadn’t you?’
‘I…’ Babs couldn’t find the words and shook her head.
‘You’d been keeping an eye on him but you didn’t know he was leaving Misty Eastwood for another woman. You didn’t find that out until you met Gwen Marsham in the side passage of the house on Myrtle Road.’ Hopper’s voice softened. ‘It must have made you angry.’
‘Must it?’ Babs sneered. ‘You don’t know anything.’
Hopper pulled a photo from her file and pushed it across the desk. ‘Do you recognise this?’
The solicitor pulled the photo closer, then slid it sideways to Babs who picked it up and dropped it a second later. ‘It’s a watch.’
‘Toby Carter’s Rolex watch, inscribed with To Toby, love Babs. It must have cost a pretty penny.’ Hopper pulled the photo away. ‘Ms Marsham stated that you took Mr Carter’s pulse, his wrist and–’ Hopper patted the side of her neck. ‘–because you’ve medical training, you knew to check the carotid if you can’t get a radial pulse.’
Babs’ face tightened. ‘I never did. That Marsham woman told me he was dead and I took her word for it.’
Hopper turned to look at her colleague. ‘That’s not what Ms Marsham is saying, is it, DS Collins?’
‘Nope.’ The painted face looked at Babs with a raised eyebrow. ‘She says that you checked the radial and carotid pulse when you arrived and before you dragged his body over to bury it, you checked his radial pulse again.’
‘Rubbish. You can’t prove anything.’
‘Well, d’you know,’ Hopper said. ‘Sometimes we can prove the oddest things.’ She opened the file, pulled out a photo and sent it sliding across the table. ‘This is a fingerprint lifted off the bracelet of that expensive Rolex. Your fingerprint, Ms Sanderson, when you pushed the bracelet out of the way to take his pulse.’
The legal aid solicitor pulled the photo over, looked at it briefly before sliding it back. ‘Perhaps you could tell us the relevancy of this, detective. Whether or not my client took his pulse seems to be a moot point since the man was dead.’
‘Your client buried Toby Carter alive.’
60
Babs
Babs saw the satisfaction on the detectives’ faces. It looked like it was all over for her. She found she didn’t care.
‘You can still tell us your side of the story, Ms Sanderson,’ DI Hopper said.
‘My side of the story?’ Babs sat back and shoved her hands into the pockets of Toby’s Burberry. ‘I suppose I might as well.’
The night that Toby Carter died, Babs had been watching the house on Myrtle Road, as she often did since he’d left her. Sometimes she watched for hours. Over the weeks, she’d learned the gardens she could shelter in, the walls she could sit on, the places to hide. It was a quiet street, most of the residents were retired, people who rarely left their homes at night. No curtain-twitchers either, in all the weeks she’d stalked the street not one person had challenged her.
Now that she wasn’t working, she was free to visit any time of the day. Once, she’d even followed Misty to the local shops. Mostly, though, she preferred the quieter evenings. She’d go to her favourite vantage point, a gate pillar in a garden across the road from where Toby was living and lean against it. In the off-white Burberry with the tweed flat cap covering her blonde hair, she blended in with the weathered sandstone.