The Lying Kind: A totally gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  Rachel took a mouthful of wine. ‘Which are?’

  ‘The presence of petechial haemorrhaging just below the eyes. Tiny rash-like red dots, from burst blood vessels. And internally, there was bloodstained frothy fluid in the back of the throat and oedema to the lungs. These are strong indicators of smothering, both when it happens by accident and when it’s the result of a deliberate act.’

  ‘So you can’t be sure it wasn’t accidental?’

  There was the slightest pause at the other end of the line. ‘Here’s the thing: homicidal smothering is very difficult to detect in a small infant. Accidental smothering by bedclothes is usually the culprit in infants under four and a half to five months, at which point they become strong enough to roll themselves over. Before that, they can end up with their faces covered if they change position. And this child – Oliver – was less than four months. So the petechiae and fluid in the lungs are not in themselves proof of foul play. To know what happened in this case, I think you have to refer back to the police report.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A child can be smothered if the weight of the bedclothes is above them, over their nose and mouth, or if they’re face down with their face buried in a pillow, mattress or even a soft toy. But this was July. I checked the weather for that day in 2008, and sure enough there was a heatwave in the South East. The temperature that morning would already have been around twenty-five degrees. The police report describes Oliver as having been put to sleep on his back in a sleeveless onesie, with just a light woven cotton blanket covering his legs. Yes, potentially he could have wriggled sufficiently to get the blanket tangled round his face. But the mother’s testimony is of being able to see his face when she came into the room, because at first she claims she thought he was still sleeping.’

  ‘Which is inconsistent with accidental smothering…’

  ‘… because his nose and mouth were free of obstruction. Precisely.’ There was a voice in the background, and Stuart said, ‘Listen I have to go. I hope that was helpful though.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘Very. Thank you.’ She hung up and sank back in her chair. If Stuart was right, then Michelle smothered her own baby. It bore out Gavin’s story about only wanting a girl. That still didn’t mean she could, or would, do the same to her daughter. But was this what Gavin Harper wanted them to think when he’d instructed her to ask about their son: that his ex-wife was a killer? Was he just doing it in order to deflect attention away from himself? Rachel felt as though her mind was being flipped repeatedly through one hundred and eighty degrees and back again.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the dissonant squawk of the intercom.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Brickall.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been all day?’ she said to him as he came in carrying a pizza box and a bottle of wine. Then she saw his expression.

  ‘Fucking bitch had already done it,’ he said, pulling off his overcoat and flinging himself uninvited onto the sofa.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Amber. I went to see Patten first thing, as per your advice. To – you know – fess up. Get him on side. Only Amber had already spoken to him. Made a formal complaint about my conduct.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ At a loss to offer comfort, Rachel cut a slice of pizza and put it on a plate for him, finding a bottle of chilli sauce in the cupboard and handing that to him too, along with a glass of wine.

  ‘She’s basically really embellished the story, made me look like a full-on psycho rather than just, you know…’

  ‘An opportunist? A Jack-the-lad?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘Well look.’ Rachel sat down next to him and gave his shoulder a tentative squeeze. ‘So you happened to bump into her near where she lived. That could just be chance.’

  ‘They’ll cross-check my PNC log-in though, and see I looked up her address. And I took her mobile number from the Bogdhani case file.’

  Brickall hung his head. She’d never seen him so wretched, and with good reason. Breaching data protection rules and accessing personal data for non-policing purposes was not only a sackable offence, in some cases it led to prosecution and could mean up to six years in prison.

  ‘Look, Mark…’

  He gave her a rueful grin. ‘I know things are down the shitter when you call me Mark.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Patten. See if I can get him to go easy on you.’

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ said Brickall morosely. ‘Not you: her. Amber Crowley.’ He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and lit one.

  ‘You don’t smoke.’

  ‘I do now.’

  Rachel went into the kitchen and fetched a saucer to act as an ashtray, placing it silently in front of him. She didn’t know what else to do.

  * * *

  Brickall stayed until nearly 2 a.m., and when Rachel finally woke on Saturday morning she decided that instead of exercise, what she needed most was strong coffee and the weekend papers. Until, that was, she saw one of the headlines in her local newsagent.

  LOLA JADE COPS IN MURDER PROBE.

  There beneath the headline was a blurry photo of herself and Leila Rajavi on the steps of Carly Wethers’ house, as a white-suited SOCO knelt beside them examining the front door.

  ‘Shit!’

  Rachel grabbed the offending tabloid, along with her usual paper, flung down the money and ran back to her flat. Twenty minutes later she managed to get through to the publication’s on-duty lawyer and, by raising her voice and threatening sanctions against the editor, persuaded him to have that page pulled from later editions. A Pyrrhic victory: the damage had already been done.

  * * *

  Sure enough, first thing on Monday morning, she was summoned to Patten’s office to listen to him huffing and blustering about Saturday’s press leak.

  ‘Put a call through to the PCC and let them know in no uncertain terms that I want to speak to them. Then tell your team at Surrey Police to put out a denial that there’s any link between this woman’s death and Lola Jade Harper. Take control of the story, as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Rachel sighed and looked down at her feet, knowing only too well what was coming next. ‘And send Mark Brickall in, will you. Straight away.’

  ‘Suspended from duty, pending an enquiry,’ he said glumly as he came back to his desk to clear out his things. ‘It’s with full pay, at least,’

  ‘You’ll still be able to buy me a Christmas present then.’ Rachel gave him a playful thump on the arm, determined to try and keep things light, even though she was inwardly horrified at the prospect of losing her sidekick. ‘How about the Christmas party? Are you going to come?’

  The MCIS Christmas party was taking place that night: traditionally a rowdy affair, with a sit-down festive dinner followed by drinking, dancing and ill-advised fraternising at a local club.

  Brickall shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’m feeling exactly festive.’

  ‘Oh go on! It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking daft: work parties are never fun.’

  But he showed up that evening, and Nigel Patten raised an eyebrow then turned a blind eye. The whole department – civilian support staff and analysts, uniformed officers and detectives – made themselves look foolish in paper hats while they ate dry turkey breast with lumpy gravy and khaki sprouts, then a core group went on to Shapes nightclub, in a basement near Smithfield Market.

  Brickall cheered up, especially when he saw Patten take to the floor and execute a strange blend of skipping steps and flailing arms to Kool & the Gang’s ‘Celebration’.

  ‘Patten’s reached peak dad-dancing,’ he observed.

  ‘Well, he is a dad, so I suppose it fits.’

  Rachel hovered on the sidelines, nursing a shot of tequila and watching, until an assistant crime analyst called Tim Marshall dragged her onto the dance floor. He was very drunk, and determined to wind his arms round her waist, despite her attempts
to keep some space between them. She sent ‘Help me!’ looks to Brickall, but he ignored her, grinning to himself.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Patten leaving the dance floor and huddling in the corner to take a call on his mobile, the index finger of his left hand stuck in his ear. When he had hung up, he scanned the room until he located Rachel. He beckoned to her to follow him out into the foyer that housed the cloakroom, where the noise level was marginally lower.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rachel mouthed to Tim, grateful for the chance to escape.

  ‘That was Nick Furnish in Intelligence,’ Patten announced.

  A wave of relief washed over Rachel: she had been afraid that the news was something to do with Mark Brickall.

  ‘Apparently there’s been a potential development in relation to the hunt for Lola Jade Harper.’

  Twenty-Three

  Over twenty years of policing, Rachel had learned to be sceptical about ‘developments’ and ‘breakthroughs’ in a case. So often they turned out to be a bid for attention or an attempt by an investigator to push a particular agenda.

  At the 8 a.m. briefing, she had managed her expectations accordingly. She was also grateful that the call to Patten had come in while she was still only on her second drink of the night. Otherwise she would have been nursing a headache, and not just the feeling of missing her right arm. Now Brickall was no longer on the Lola Jade case, she was painfully aware of his absence.

  ‘So,’ said Nick Furnish, a portly man in his fifties, whose ginger hair had all but gone. His shiny pink pate gleamed under the harsh lighting in the Tinworth Street meeting room. ‘Sussex Police received a report of a child being snatched yesterday afternoon, about fifteen miles from Eastwell, just over the border from Surrey, in Chilbourne. The MisPer is Chloe Atwell, aged eight. She was playing with a friend in the park, and they both had their bikes with them. The friend – Emily Taybridge, who’s ten – told police that it was getting dark, and they were just about to head home when two men appeared and grabbed Chloe, bundling her into the back of a white Transit van that was parked at the entrance to the park. She wasn’t able to give a detailed description, but one of the men was of slight build and wearing a hoody; the other was larger with a tattoo on his neck.’

  Furnish wiped his head with his handkerchief, and nodded at Giles Denton to take over.

  ‘Clearly there are some significant similarities with the disappearance of Lola Jade Harper. The location, the girl’s age, the white van and the description of one of the men: short and of slight stature. A white Transit van was picked up by ANPR leaving the Chilbourne area shortly after Chloe was taken. The same number plate was recognised in the queue for the Portsmouth to Le Havre ferry a couple of hours later. Unfortunately, by the time Emily had been interviewed and her statement checked, that vehicle had already boarded the ferry and unloaded on the other side without us having a chance to notify the relevant border authorities. But…’ Giles Denton gave a smile that betrayed more confidence than he could possibly be feeling, ‘a yellow notice has been published by Interpol’s central bureau, and there’s every chance the vehicle will be located.’

  If only the same could be said of little Chloe, thought Rachel.

  Gilly Durante, an officer from the Slavery and Human Trafficking unit, said a few words, then Patten cleared his throat. ‘We’ll hold another debrief as soon as appropriate, and there’ll be a press briefing later this morning. They are bound to speculate about a link, but you know the protocol: at this point we say we can’t confirm one. In light of some recent press stories about Lola Jade, we need to keep a tight grip on this. As much as is possible where the media are concerned. DI Prince…’ he glanced sideways at Rachel, ‘you’re still investigative support officer to Surrey Police, and I’ll leave it to you and your colleagues there to share information with Sussex.’ He addressed Giles Denton. ‘Will you make sure that Sussex do the same and share any relevant intel with Surrey? We need cross-force cooperation to establish if the two cases are in fact linked.’

  As they left the meeting room, Rachel hurried past the others until she had caught up with him. ‘A word, sir…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Can I come and talk to you about Mark?’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be appropriate at this stage. Once the enquiry’s under way, perhaps, but that won’t be until the new year. You’re going to have to keep across his workload as well as your own – a big ask, I know – so you may need to take a back seat on the Harper case. For now, anyway.’

  Rachel responded with a bland smile. Back seat, my arse, she thought.

  * * *

  As Patten had predicted, it didn’t take long for the national press to get hold of the news and run with it. They loved a missing child story, especially if the child in question was cute and photogenic. And they loved to think that a crime was one of a series.

  DID LOLA KILLER TAKE CHLOE?

  LOLA JADE GANG STRIKES AGAIN.

  Underneath the inflammatory headlines was a smiley photo of Chloe Atwell, who had dark shiny hair and freckles, and was far more appealing than the glum Lola Jade. She would divert attention from Carly Wethers’ murder at least, Rachel thought, with the cynicism of more than a decade investigating serious crime.

  Leila Rajavi phoned her on Wednesday, soon after the Chloe story broke. ‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked Rachel. ‘Do you think the same people took Lola Jade?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Rachel cautiously. ‘Why, don’t you?’

  She heard a hissing sound, as though Rajavi was sucking her teeth. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t think so. Lola was targeted. Whoever took her knew she was in that house. With Chloe, it seems random: they drove past a playground and snatched a child because she happened to be there.’

  ‘Those men could have been following Lola prior to that night, though.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not saying it’s impossible.’ Rajavi sounded unconvinced.

  ‘Sussex are going to pass on any intelligence they get about the men in the van, so we may end up with more meat on that particular bone.’

  ‘Good, thanks… Anyway, I know it’s not your case, but since you were with me, I thought you might like to know we’ve had the pathology findings on Carly Wethers. Cyanosis, internal congestion and haemorrhaging consistent with deliberate suffocation. It would have taken several minutes, and required the application of some force.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Rachel. ‘Poor family. Is there an obvious suspect – an ex-partner or boyfriend?’

  ‘Ben’s father isn’t on the scene, lives in Ireland apparently. His alibi checks out. We’re talking to everyone else that we can, but she doesn’t seem to have had many friends or acquaintances. Not really in the inner circle of the mums’ mafia.’

  Rachel spent the next couple of hours fielding the inevitable press enquiries about Chloe Atwell and the possibility that the same person took Lola Jade. When she wasn’t on the phone, she was gazing miserably at Brickall’s empty desk, and ploughing through the sort of scut admin work that she usually delegated to him. She texted him.

  What are you doing, loser?

  He replied ten minutes later. Watching Eurosport: now fuck off and leave me in peace.

  After staring at her screen for twenty minutes without taking in a single word, Rachel could stand the ringing phone of her office phone no longer. She diverted her extension to Margaret, grabbed her kitbag from under her desk and headed to the gym. A bit of Howard was in order, she decided.

  * * *

  ‘How about a live opponent?’

  Rachel had been throwing punches at the bag for ten minutes, with Howard looking on. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat and her mascara was running, but she didn’t care. Hitting something felt good.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Howard, who was standing watching her.

  ‘You and me. Mano a mano.’

  He shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be a fair fight. I’m a lot heav
ier than you, and – no offence – a lot stronger.’

  ‘Oh go on…’ she wheedled. ‘Please. I want to know what it feels like.’

  ‘Where’s this aggression coming from? Still getting those calls?’

  ‘Not for a while… no, it’s work stuff. All uphill at the moment.’

  Howard relented enough to put on some gloves, but only on condition that he was purely playing defence. He’d fend off her jabs, but not return them. He stripped off his tracksuit top and stood there in singlet and shorts, his heavily muscled and tanned torso like a copper sculpture under the light. At that moment Rachel wanted to drag him back to her flat and into her bed, but she couldn’t; not after so recently banishing him to the friend zone. So instead she punched him. Hard.

  Howard stood with his gloves six inches from his face, parrying the blows with his wrists or the flat of his hands. They kept this up for fifteen minutes, until Rachel slumped forward, gloves on her thighs, panting.

  ‘Better?’ Howard enquired.

  ‘Much. The best alternative to therapy I know.’

  She straightened up again and pulled out her mouth guard, dripping strands of drool.

  ‘How about a drink once we’ve showered?’ Howard asked, with his disarming smile.

  ‘Remember what happened the last time I saw you after consuming alcohol?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Just as friends. I know my place.’

  ‘Another time, I’d love to. But officially I’m still at work, and I’ve got stuff to do.’

  As she left the gym and walked back towards Tinworth Street, her phone rang.

  No Caller ID.

  Enough was enough. She searched her web browser for her mobile network’s customer service number and phoned them then and there, in the freezing street. They had a procedure for tracking nuisance calls, a sympathetic female operator told her, but the process took two to three weeks. In the meantime, they suggested picking up the call and telling whoever was on the other end that they had been reported and that the mobile company always gave information about offenders to the police.