The Lying Kind: A totally gripping crime thriller

by Alison James

  ‘No problem: I’ll be there in three minutes.’

  ‘Make it two.’

  And he was: a cheerful young Turkish man wearing a padded coat over a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘I’ll need to check the records on the computer; give me a sec.’

  Rachel shifted from foot to foot while he switched on the lights and waited for the system to boot up.

  ‘Everything okay, guv?’ shouted Jim from the cab. She gave him a thumbs-up.

  ‘Harper… Harper. No, we ain’t got no unit reserved to Harper.’

  ‘Or Hutchins?’

  He searched again, whistling as he flicked slowly through the spreadsheet. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to hurry.’ Rachel couldn’t help snapping. She glanced out at the front car park but there was still only Jim there. ‘I’ve reason to believe there could be a child in one of your storage units.’

  The man’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Well there’s definitely no Hutchins, sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent, look.’ He swivelled the screen to show her.

  Rachel could feel sweat running down her back, despite the chill in the office. Brickall had landed on this place, but how many other businesses with the capability to store a suitcase could there be within a five-mile radius of the airport? Dozens? Hundreds? This was a child-sized needle in a metropolitan haystack. Lola Jade had been drugged and imprisoned for over eighteen hours now: time and oxygen could already have run out.

  ‘How about Brown?’ she asked.

  ‘Got a couple of Browns, but they’ve all been here long-term. House contents and that.’

  Her heart racing, Rachel performed a mental scan of everything she knew about Michelle. Then it came to her: something that had been on the divorce paperwork. Her maiden name: Kenny.

  ‘Try Kenny.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a Kenny. Opened the account yesterday. Wanted one of our smallest units.’

  ‘Get the key.’

  They ran down the aisle between numbered steel-fronted units until they reached Unit 148. A few feet away, Rachel heard vehicles skidding to a halt on the gravel, footsteps running.

  And there it was. The second purple suitcase.

  She tipped it onto its side, trembling as she fumbled for the zip. Two officers in tactical gear appeared in the doorway, and she heard another, familiar voice shouting into a phone for an ambulance.

  Curled up in a foetal position, wearing unicorn pyjamas, her skin a sickly purplish grey, was the missing child.

  ‘Oh Lola,’ whispered Rachel. She brushed tears from her eyes and stroked the short, damp hair, blonde roots starting to show through the brown dye.

  Brickall darted forward and pushed Rachel aside, pressing two fingers against the child’s neck. On her ear lobes there were faint dot-like scars where her ear piercings were starting to heal over.

  ‘Have you got a pulse?’ asked one of the officers.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Brickall lifted the girl from the base of the suitcase, laid her on the floor and started chest compressions.

  Somewhere outside, there was the insistent whine of an ambulance siren; more footsteps.

  Rachel reached for Lola Jade’s wrist, aware that she was holding her own breath. And there it was, the faintest thread.

  ‘She’s alive. Just.’

  Thirty-Eight

  ‘So – what are your plans for Christmas? Doing anything nice?’

  Rachel and Brickall were sitting in a transport café a few yards from West Middlesex University Hospital. Her second hospital of the day, Rachel thought. It would have been the third if she’d gone with Rajavi to the maternity unit. Except, technically, it wasn’t the same day. It was now 4 a.m. of the next day, 21 December. She could barely keep her eyes open.

  ‘I’m going to my gran’s,’ said Brickall.

  ‘Your gran? I thought she was dead.’

  He shook his head. ‘That was my mum’s mum. This is Dad’s mum, Nana Brickall. She’s not dead, she’s in Worthing. Which pretty much amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘What do you think will happen to Lola Jade now?’

  ‘You mean if she survives?’

  ‘The doctors seemed fairly confident.’

  Brickall shrugged. ‘Her dad’s in the clink and her mum’s headed that way. For a long time.’

  ‘And her aunt and uncle are likely to go down for assisting an offender.’ Rachel sighed, and took a gulp of her tea. It was stewed, but hot at least. Brickall had ordered sausage, egg and tomato with two rounds of toast.

  ‘What?’ he said, catching Rachel’s incredulous look. ‘Rescuing damsels in distress in the middle of the night gives a man an appetite.’

  She swatted the side of his arm. ‘Don’t you dare, you sexist wanker!’

  He grinned, shoving buttered toast into his mouth.

  ‘Seriously, though, thank you. I’m not sure I could have done this without you.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’d have got there in the end.’

  ‘But probably too late.’

  ‘Just don’t tell anyone, okay? If it gets back to Patten that I helped you while I’m suspended, it’s not going to do me any good at all. In fact, quite the opposite. Conducting enquiries on a case when you’re officially removed from duty is another potential bloody disciplinary.’

  ‘My lips are sealed. I never saw you.’

  Brickall offered her a triangle of toast and she took it, suddenly starving.

  ‘So, which of your many suitors – or stalkers – are you spending the Christmas break with?’

  ‘None of them,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘And I couldn’t be happier about it.’

  ‘So a jolly family Christmas chez Prince in Purley?’

  ‘Chez Reynolds actually.’ She sighed. ‘Mum and I are going to my sister’s house.’

  Brickall raised his mug of tea in a toast, waiting for Rachel to do the same with hers. ‘Merry fucking Christmas to us.’

  * * *

  Christmas at Lindsay and Gordon Reynolds’ house was all about perfection.

  At least that was how Lindsay saw it. To Rachel, it was all about fussing. Every year her sister wrote a long list entitled ‘Christmas: To Do’ and pinned it to the fridge. This was an excessively long schedule of details to fret over and get annoyed about if they weren’t exactly as ordained when the list was written. At 3 p.m. on Christmas Eve, mince pies were served while they listened to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King’s College, Cambridge. Woe betide you if you didn’t actually feel like eating a mince pie at that time. Such subversion would send Lindsay off into a spiral of fury.

  A ham with Cumberland sauce was served on the evening of Christmas Eve, followed by fruit salad, and at 11 p.m., once six stockings had been hung in the proper formation, and correctly labelled, a party set out to the local church in Oxted for midnight mass. Rachel usually swerved this part, having not a religious bone in her body.

  News bulletins were to be watched at 6 and 10 p.m. without fail, and this year they were dominated by the story of Lola Jade’s rescue. The same piece of footage, of Michelle Harper being arrested at Sydney airport, was played over and over again. Michelle glared at the camera, looking furious rather than cowed, before an Australian police officer raised his arm to shield her face from the flashbulbs. Journalists camped out in Eastwell, outside Willow Way and in front of West Middlesex University Hospital, speculating endlessly about what was being called ‘the sensational twist in a story that’s gripped the nation’.

  On Christmas morning, it was compulsory to gather on Lindsay and Gordon’s bed at 8.30 a.m. to open their stockings, with carols playing on the radio. Then Tom and Laura – Rachel’s nephew and niece – were tasked with collecting, smoothing and folding all the discarded wrapping paper, and making orderly piles of everyone’s presents.

  After breakfast – smoked salmon and scrambled egg, whether you
fancied it or not – there was veg prep and table-setting, which involved lining up knives, silverware, mats and crackers at regimented right angles. Then, once the Labrador had been walked, ‘bubbly and nibbles’ was served in the living room, with the adults watching the two children solemnly opening some of their presents. The turkey was carved at two on the dot, accompanied by the wearing of paper crowns, and underdone kale the texture of wet tarpaulin. Even sprouts would have been preferable. Rachel laid into the claret, checking her watch frequently to see if another half-hour had crawled by.

  Then after force-feeding of Christmas cake and chocolates and a compulsory game of Trivial Pursuit, Lindsay pounced on the TV remote. ‘What time’s the news on? Isn’t it normally early on Christmas Day?’

  She switched it on. Another reporter earning double time on an outside broadcast, this time with the all-too-familiar backdrop of Eastwell police station.

  ‘… and inevitably the question is being asked: why did it take so long for Surrey Police to find Lola Jade Harper when she was right under their noses?’

  The feed cut to a live shot of the outside of 16 Osborne Terrace, complete with police cordon, then an image of Lola’s sad face flashed up on the screen. It was taken from the studio portrait of her in her shiny princess dress. The police press office must have released it.

  ‘So, all of us are left wondering—’

  Rachel stood up and switched off the TV.

  Lindsay stared at her, aghast. No one but her ever had remote-control privileges.

  ‘Rae, we were watching that!’

  Rachel threw down the remote and stormed into the kitchen. She made a point of not discussing cases with her family, so none of them knew about her involvement in the search for Lola Jade.

  ‘Absolutely typical!’ She could hear Lindsay’s strident tones, getting louder, which meant she was heading for the kitchen. ‘She contributes nothing to the Christmas preparations – nothing whatsoever – then she shows up here and starts throwing her weight around, playing the big I am…’

  Sure enough, Lindsay strode into the kitchen. ‘Family means nothing to you, as we all know only too well.’ She loaded the words with meaning. ‘But for the rest of us, this is supposed to be a special time. Can’t you make just a bit of effort to fit in?’

  Rachel didn’t answer. She knew that whatever she said would just inflame her sister more.

  Lindsay opened her mouth for another rant, but before she could speak, Eileen Prince came into the kitchen clutching a glass of sherry in one hand and a holly-strewn paper napkin in the other.

  ‘You all right, love?’ She addressed her younger daughter.

  ‘Everyone always jumps to the defence of poor little Rachel. Never mind about me!’ Lindsay turned on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen.

  Rachel attempted a smile for her mother. ‘I’m okay. Just really, really tired.’

  Eileen gave her a shrewd look. ‘You’re upset about that little girl, aren’t you? She one of yours?’

  Rachel nodded again.

  ‘What you need is a nice mug of Horlicks, a custard cream and a night in your own bed.’ She patted Rachel’s behind. ‘Run upstairs and get your stuff. Gordon!’ Her mother stuck her head out into the hall. ‘Would you call me a taxi, dear?’

  Rachel came downstairs with her bags to find Lindsay standing in the hall, arms crossed, face like thunder. She was still wearing a bright green paper hat, which undermined her hauteur.

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Mum.’

  This was undoubtedly true. Eileen Prince never made a decision without Lindsay’s approval, and always did what she was told while under her eldest daughter’s roof.

  ‘Your sister needs to rest,’ said Eileen with uncharacteristic defiance. ‘She’s not the sort to ever mention it, but she’s been through a trauma.’

  Thirty-Nine

  It was there in her inbox, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to open it.

  Subject: Arrest and interview/Michelle Harper (video attached)

  Rachel had spent the remainder of Christmas Day and most of Boxing Day in her childhood home, cocooned in her mother’s familiar routine. They had been for a gentle amble round their local park, then come back and drunk Advocaat, reminiscing about how Rachel’s father – who had died fourteen years earlier from a heart attack – loved the syrupy yellow liqueur. Then, armed with foil parcels of sliced gammon and Dundee cake, she had driven back to Bermondsey, grateful to put everything to do with Christmas behind her. Not only was there too much buying of extraneous stuff: when it came down to it, festivities based on a virgin birth seemed far too much like believing in magic.

  Waiting for her amongst the heap of mail neglected for the past week had been a stiff hand-written envelope. At first glance she’d assumed it was one of those custom-made Christmas cards featuring a saccharine snap of the sender’s family. But the card inside was thick, ivory and engraved.

  Professor Stuart Ritchie & Ms Claire Amory

  request the pleasure of your company

  at a celebration of their marriage

  on 25th February 2017

  Stuart had attached a Post-it note that read: Rae, would love to see you here but understand if you don’t fancy it. Decree nisi just issued and absolute should be through end of January.

  Her first thought had been that he didn’t hang around. A wedding a mere three weeks after his first marriage ended. But then he’d waited so many years for this divorce, why delay getting on with the rest of his life?

  In the same pile of post, she’d found an official manila envelope containing the decree nisi rubber-stamped by Central London County Court. It had been shuffled to the bottom of the pile like an ace in a card trick, and left with the unopened Christmas cards and bills on her desk.

  First thing this morning, itching to get back to work, she had gone for a long run, then come straight to the office without changing. The place was largely empty, but it still felt like a return to the real world. The combination of the holiday shut-down and her boycott of the news had left her feeling strangely disconnected. The only person she had heard from was Howard Davison.

  Looks like I’ll soon be single. See you in the gym soon? x

  It would be fun to box with him, if nothing else. And perhaps now there could be something else too. Her reply was brief, but left no room for doubt.

  Just try and stop me.

  Now her finger hovered again over the email from Sydney.

  But first, she decided, she should speak to DC Coles. Lola Jade was the most important person in this, not Michelle.

  ‘Have you heard?’ he asked, without preamble.

  Her stomach lurched. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, so no.’

  ‘Lisa Urquhart died. Apparently, despite the attempt to save her in theatre, she went into multiple organ failure and died the next day.’

  ‘Christ.’ Rachel covered her face with her hand briefly, steeling herself to ask. ‘But Lola’s okay?’

  ‘She’s fine. Discharged from hospital after a couple of days, and social services have found a great foster placement for her.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ She exhaled the breath she’d been holding without realising.

  ‘We’re just getting ready to make a press statement. We’ll combine the news about Lisa with the release about Lola being found safe. Obviously it was best to hold off saying anything until we were sure Lola was going to make it and social services had found somewhere suitable for her to go.’

  ‘We’ve done extremely well to keep the story out of the media this time,’ said Rachel. ‘Maybe the tabloid editors have finally got the message.’

  Coles made a snorting sound. ‘Doubt it. But the Christmas shutdown was definitely in our favour on that front.’

  ‘Anyway, I phoned to thank you for your help in finding Lola Jade,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m going to speak to your chief constable about a commendation.’

  She could almost hear him blushing down t
he line. ‘I just did my job, ma’am.’

  ‘Well… good work, Coles. And give my best to DS Rajavi.’

  She procrastinated a few minutes longer, first fetching coffee then checking the Interpol databases, all the while trying not to look at Brickall’s empty desk. Then, with a deep breath, she clicked on the footage she had been sent.

  The first file was from Sydney airport CCTV. A confident, almost relaxed Michelle strode up to the passport desk, huge sunglasses on her head and make-up freshly touched up. The border official asked her to wait to one side of the desk, and Michelle barely even had a chance to turn and take in the sight of two armed policemen before they had grabbed her and handcuffed her. There was no sound on the tape, but it was clear from the snarling, contorted face that she was screaming at them. As one of them grabbed her under the elbow to drag her away, she turned her face towards him, puckered her lips and spat directly into his face.

  Oh Michelle, thought Rachel as she watched it. You stupid woman. You have no idea what’s coming.

  The next file was the recording of her initial arrest interview, this time with audio. The bluff Aussie Interpol officer introduced himself as Pat Farrelly.

  ‘So, Ms Harper, can we start by clearing up why you’re travelling on a false passport? I believe Lauren Marie Hutchins is not your real name?’

  Michelle completely ignored this. ‘You’ve got absolutely no right to arrest me. None whatsoever.’ She turned to the female lawyer who had been appointed to represent her, as though expecting to be backed up.

  ‘And who is Jasmine Gabrielle Hutchins?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Okay, then how about a child called Harry Brown?’

  Michelle gave her best stony stare, flicking her hair over her shoulders.

  ‘Jasmine Hutchins is your daughter Lola Jade, isn’t she? The child you claimed was missing. She was with you all along, only you were passing her off as a little boy.’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘But you did report your daughter, Lola Jade Harper, missing to the police in the UK?’