Shed No Tears

by Caz Frear

  He says nothing, filling the silence with sharp little breaths, steadily growing faster.

  “Because Debbie didn’t know why,” I go on. “She had no idea why you’d be there. Seemed quite shocked, actually, according to PC Thakkar. Needed an extra sugar in her tea. Said you hadn’t set foot in a church since you got married thirteen years ago, and she’d had to nag you into that. You’d have preferred the local registry office. But you put your foot down about Maisie and Rhys being baptized, didn’t you?”

  Parnell chimes in. “You’re a science man. A loud-and-proud atheist. You’ve got a blog—Godless in Gedling. I’m more of an agnostic, myself, but I gave it a read. It’s very good. Atheism Is a Non-Prophet Organization—very witty.”

  Our tones might be blithe but the message is clear: We know you. We’ve drunk your tea, we’ve met your wife, we know your kids’ names. We’re all over your life.

  So no bullshit.

  “Look, I didn’t know her, OK? I didn’t know Holly fucking Kemp.” The words sputter from him, a confetti of anger bursting above our heads. “I knew her as Megan. Sweet, fragile, unassuming Megan. We met in 2011 . . .”

  Parnell interrupts, which is good as I’m momentarily dumbstruck. “For the tape, Dale. Are you saying you met Holly Kemp in 2011 and she was calling herself Megan?”

  “Megan Moore. It used to be our joke that I always wanted ‘more’ of Megan. But she was so shy, so afraid to let you in.” He looks down. “Of course, that was all part of the act. That’s what she wanted me to think.”

  “Right, stop, stop, stop,” I say, waving my hands. “The beginning, Dale. And the truth. One more lie and we’ll charge you.”

  I’ve no idea what with, but he’s remarkably easy to intimidate and I’m not looking that gift horse in the mouth.

  He leans forward onto the table, shoulders hunched, eyes on his clasped hands. “We met on a night out in Nottingham. Two thousand and eleven, August, I think. I was at a god-awful stag party. It was at one of those fancy places where you go to be seen, full of footballers and glamour models, £200 bottles of vodka. Anyway, the bar really wasn’t my scene. Megan, or Holly . . . can I call her Megan?”

  We nod in sync. If it keeps him talking he can call her the Queen of Bloody Sheba.

  “Megan looked like a glamour model, and it’s weird because I don’t usually go for that type, but there was something about her. A real warmth. We started chatting at the bar about how long it was taking to get served and then we didn’t stop talking all night. We weren’t even flirting, really. It was just like we had to know everything about each other, hungry for every little detail. Favorite films, books, foods. First kiss. First pet. Best holiday. Worst joke. I felt like I learned more about her in three hours than I knew about Debbie after nine years.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Anyway, there was a late-night café across the road and she said why didn’t we go there, it’d be quieter. I didn’t even tell anyone I was leaving, but we stayed in that café for hours. I told her all about my consultancy. I suppose I was bragging about how well it was doing, but she never seemed impressed, as such, just fascinated. She was fascinated in me. In every word I said.”

  “Pay them compliments, boost their confidence, make every one of them feel like stardust.”

  Advice once shared with me by a £3,000-a-night hooker.

  “So did you sleep with her that night?” I ask.

  “No. I walked her back to her hotel. But then we met up the next day and well . . .” He gets lost somewhere for a moment. “It was like being given the keys to paradise.”

  “Did she charge you?” I ask, dropping the keys down the toilet.

  “No, of course not!”

  Parnell speaks levelly. “It’s been suggested that Holly Kemp might have been working as an escort.”

  Peters looks winded. “No, no, no. It was never like that. We fell in love, or at least I thought we did. We saw each other every week for the next few months, sometimes twice a week if we could make it work. She never seemed interested in money, that’s why I was so trusting . . .”

  “So were you going to leave your wife?” I ask. “Your children? How old were they then, by the way?”

  It’s not even slightly relevant but he deserves to squirm.

  “Look, if anything, being with Debbie over those few months felt like cheating on Megan. Debbie and I hadn’t been great for a long time. She was consumed with the children. I was consumed with the business. We were hardly talking, sleeping in separate rooms. The usual story.”

  The usual cliché.

  It was a dark and stormy night, and the insecure man pushing forty left the mother of his kids and chief washer of his pants for the perky twenty-two-year-old who hung off his every word in her Agent Provocateur underwear.

  “So yes,” confirms Parnell.

  “I would have left Debbie, yes, but it wasn’t that simple.” He sits back, planting his legs wide, a belligerent stance he fails to carry off. “Megan was with someone too, you see. All she’d say is that it was complicated. She couldn’t just leave. It was obvious she was terrified, though—terrified to leave him, terrified of him finding out about me. That’s why we could never spend time in London. She said he had spies all over. So she’d come up this way or we’d book into hotels across the Home Counties—she loved The Grove, Foxhills, Cliveden.”

  “She never seemed interested in money.” The absolute mug.

  “And you settled for that explanation?” Parnell leans in, tilting his bulk forward, settling in for the man-to-man. “Because, Dale—and I’ll say straight up that this is all double dutch to me, I’m no expert in extramarital affairs and I don’t intend to become one—but hypothetically speaking, if I’ve met a young lady and I’m splashing the cash in five-star hotels and telling her that I’m fully prepared to abandon my wife and two young kids, then I’m going to want a little bit more than ‘it’s complicated’ when I ask her to show the same commitment.”

  “Of course I pushed her,” Peters insists. “But I didn’t want to end up pushing her away. I told her I had a fair idea what was going on—that she was stuck in a controlling relationship, being intimidated, being abused. I told her that I’d protect her, keep her safe, and do you know what she did? She burst out laughing. Not proper laughter, though—hyper, hysterical. She said I had no idea what I was talking about. She said I could never protect her from him.”

  Spencer Shaw? Really? I mean, I know he’s clearly a shoo-in for the lead role of Scumbag Boyfriend, but Holly’s friends just didn’t seem all that rattled by him. Josh’s first words on the subject were, “He knows I’d lay him clean out.”

  Peters is still going. “And then the name Simon Fellows changed everything.”

  It rings a bell for me but hits Parnell square in the nose.

  “Yeah, him.” Peters revels in Parnell’s reaction. “I didn’t know who he was at first. I didn’t know a lot about hardened gangsters, strangely enough. But when I googled him, it didn’t take me long to get the gist.”

  “For the tape,” says Parnell, “you’re saying Holly Kemp—the woman you knew as Megan Moore—told you she was in a relationship with a man called Simon Fellows.”

  “An abusive relationship, yes. She said she wished she’d never got involved with him, but she was only eighteen when they met and she was bowled over by the attention, by the lifestyle: first-class flights everywhere, private club memberships, designer clothes.” And the points go to Josh for his roundly mocked sugar daddy. “She was his trophy and he owned her and she knew he’d kill her if she tried to leave him. He’d threatened it often enough.”

  “So you finished it?” I say, more a statement than a question. There’s nothing quite like the words “hardened gangster” to send most men scurrying back to the safe drudgery of their marriage.

  “No, but Megan tried to. She said she’d been wrong to risk my safety, but that she couldn’t bear to give me up. Every time she tried to walk away, she’d tell herself just one more ni
ght, just one more memory.” He makes a direct plea to Parnell. “Do you know how intoxicating it is to have a beautiful young woman tell you that?” Parnell’s unmoved. Peters looks at the floor, defeated. “Of course, she was just pulling my strings. She knew exactly how intoxicating it was. It made me hell-bent on keeping her, made me go along with her plan.”

  Peters is on autopilot now, words spilling out unfiltered.

  “She said the only way we could be together would be to leave the country. Get as far away from him as possible. We talked about it for weeks, whether it was feasible, whether we were mad. And eventually we decided yes, it was and yes, we were—madly in love, that is. Australia seemed the best option. Obviously the distance was the main thing, but I had contacts in Perth and I was fairly sure I could get work there. But I couldn’t just up and leave. I had loose ends to sort out—my business, my marriage, my kids. Megan was getting edgy, though. It was unbearable.”

  Loose ends. Two innocent children. Here’s hoping one day Debbie Peters wises up and relegates this mealymouthed shite to a sad, lonely life with only his atheist God to call on.

  “When was this?” asks Parnell.

  “Early January, 2012. We’d spent two weeks apart over Christmas. I knew it would be the last one I’d spend in the family unit, so I’d gone all out making it special for the children.” Just when I thought I couldn’t hate him more. “But she’d had a terrible time with him in London. He’d thrown her against a wall on Christmas night because she hadn’t been ecstatic enough about some underwear he’d bought her. Then he’d kicked her in the stomach on New Year’s Day because she’d supposedly been flirting with someone the night before. She was in a state. I could hardly say no.”

  “No to what?” I ask.

  “She asked me for £10,000. Enough so she could buy a ticket to Perth, get us a rental flat, basically live for a few months until I’d sorted things here and could join her.” The punch line is stamped on his face. “Of course, I never saw or heard from her again. Well, not until she was all over the news a couple of months later. Holly Kemp. The Roommate’s fourth victim. I couldn’t take it in. All her lies. The way she’d died. Everything.”

  “Hold on,” I say, confused. “After she vanished, weren’t you worried that Fellows had harmed her? Why did you immediately think you’d been conned?”

  “I just knew.” He taps his chest. “I knew in here. After she asked for the money, I said it might be tricky explaining away all that cash in one go, but that if she gave me her bank details, I’d drip-feed it in. But she was adamant. She wanted £10,000 in cash. She turned a bit . . . well, horrible, I suppose. Said that maybe she should call Debbie, if she was the one holding the purse strings.”

  I shrug. “So? You were going to leave Debbie anyway.”

  “I didn’t want her finding out like that. I’m not a complete bastard.”

  “And even after she threatened you like that, you still wanted to be with her?”

  “I chose not to see it as a threat. I convinced myself it was a sign of how desperate she was.” He brings his palms up. “Look, I’m an idiot, I know. I realized that myself when she stopped answering my calls, then her phone stopped connecting altogether. But you have to understand, she had me under her spell. I was mesmerized.”

  Or pussy blind, a less starry-eyed take.

  “And after you saw Holly—the woman you knew as Megan—on the news, you didn’t think to contact the police?”

  “God, no! Why on earth would I? It had nothing to do with what happened to her, and I had my family to think of.”

  The same family he’d been prepared to leave fifteen thousand miles behind.

  “About ‘what happened to her.’” Parnell’s voice is low and calm, a sure sign he’s sharpening his claws. “You mentioned at the start that you’ve been following the news, which means you must be aware that we’re looking into what happened to Holly again.” Peters looks wary. “This means looking at anyone in Holly’s life who a had a reason to harm her, or b did anything suspicious around the time of her disappearance.” Parnell sits back, circling his thumbs. “Now, you have to agree, Dale, you certainly fit a.”

  “What possible reason could I have had?”

  I shouldn’t, but I laugh. “Well, I can think of ten thousand good reasons, Dale. You must have been livid when you realized your dream woman and your money were gone. Ten thousand pounds—that’s a lot of Steiff bears.”

  “Of course I was angry, but I could never have harmed her.”

  “Even after she stole from you? And, by the way, I’m pretty sure she spent it in the Burj Al Arab with her boyfriend. Not Simon Fellows, by the way. Another boyfriend.”

  He brings a hand down on the table. “I would never have hurt her. I loved her. And what’s even more pathetic is that I probably still do—Megan. I know she wasn’t real, but she felt real to me for four months, and nothing will ever live up to that again. Do you know how wretched that feels? To realize the love of your life was a complete construct?”

  What I am to Aiden.

  A bolt of sadness tears through me, as physical as a drop in blood pressure.

  “Can you tell us about your Saab, please?” This was supposed to be Parnell’s sledgehammer, but I need it to push the bad thoughts out of my head. “I’m talking about the convertible you owned in 2012, registration BD11 NCF.” Peters couldn’t look more perplexed. I may as well have asked about a pet rabbit he once owned, for all he sees the relevance. “It was scrapped in March of that year. Can you tell us why?”

  He looks at Parnell. Maybe for an explanation. Maybe it’s a caveman thing: man must talk to man about cars. “I had an accident. The damage was bad and it wasn’t worth the repairs, especially as I’d been thinking of getting a new car anyway.”

  “Must have been a bad accident,” I say. “Were you injured?”

  “No.”

  “But you reported it to your insurer?”

  “Well, no.” He starts to fidget. “There was no one else involved and as I was at fault, I didn’t see the point.”

  “Ever been to Caxton?” asks Parnell, deliberately changing direction, causing more confusion.

  “Where?”

  “Caxton, Cambridgeshire. Where Holly’s remains were found.” Peters blanches at “remains.” “You see, I’ve been looking at the map, Dale, and I thought it was interesting that if you were to drive from London, where Holly lived, to Gedling, where you live, you’d almost pass through Caxton. It’s just mile or two off the A1. Don’t you find that interesting?”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you asking me about my car and somewhere I’ve never heard of, let alone been?”

  “Point b,” I remind him. “We’re looking at anyone who acted suspiciously around the time of Holly’s disappearance. Scrapping a car less than two weeks later is suspicious.”

  “Look, it was the week after the news about Meg— Holly, I mean, and obviously I was a wreck. I’d been drinking and I crashed into a ditch on a quiet road not far from home. The car was a write-off and I could hardly admit I’d been drunk driving. I called my brother-in-law and we got the car out and he towed me home. I took it to the scrapyard a few days later.”

  “Convenient.”

  It’s taken nearly an hour but finally, Peters hardens—his tone, his face, his fists—although I’m not too worried about the last one. I’m fairly sure Parnell could take him down with one punch. Hell, there’s an outside chance I could.

  “It’s not ‘convenient,’ it’s the truth.” He jabs a finger at me. ‘But you aren’t interested in the truth. You’re only interested in twisting people’s words, their intentions. I pity you, to be honest. It must be wearing to only see the bad in people.”

  “Only seeing the good didn’t work out so well for you, did it, Dale? It might be wearing being an old cynic, but I’d have seen through ‘Megan Moore’ quicker than you can say ‘ten thousand pounds in cash, please.’”

  And I would have too.

/>   It takes a liar to know a liar.

  15

  “Well, a bullet to the head is definitely Simon Fellows’ style.”

  Steele’s on her feet behind her desk, positively fizzing at our update.

  “Allegedly,” warns Parnell, popping her cork back in.

  “Sorry, how very rude of me.” She gives a contrite bow. “He’s alleged to have been linked to six shootings that we know of. Better?”

  “Less slanderous.”

  I’m going to have to take their word for it as what I know of Simon Fellows equates to a photo in a tabloid newspaper. A boorish, angry stare, his hand striking out toward the camera. A borderline-litigious byline suggesting that while he was arriving in court to support a nephew charged with a slew of drug offenses, it should be him in the dock and they should throw away the key. A vague recollection that he’d threatened to sue.

  He didn’t sue, and his nephew didn’t get sentenced either. His uncle’s expensive, double-barreled barrister made sure of that.

  “Well, for what it’s worth,” I say, “even though I haven’t a clue where Holly was blurring the lines between fact and fiction with all this ‘Megan’ business, it’s the first lead that makes any sense.” Steele pulls a face, urging me on. “If he’s into guns then it explains the cause of death, and it also backs up a few things Holly’s friends said—that she might have had a sugar daddy, that she was scared of someone, jumpy.”