COVER THE LIES
Carla Vermaat
Carmichael
Publishers
Also by Carla Vermaat
Tregunna
What every body is saying
COVER THE LIES
Carla Vermaat
Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Carmichael Publishers, Cornwall
Copyright © Carla Vermaat 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
Cover Image © Carla Vermaat – Design by Varwig Design businesses, organizations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9933339-5-8
Typeset in Meridien by Cee-Design
Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International, Cornwall
Carmichael Publishers
For Mike
PROLOGUE
There it is again: a knock on the door. Urgent. Loud. Determined.
A sudden draught hits her bare ankles, and sends a shiver up her spine. She is standing in the hall, the outline of her body silhouetted against the dim light that filters down the staircase. Too scared to switch on the light, she’s trying hard to remember where she put her mobile phone. She wouldn’t feel so vulnerable if she could hold it in her hands, knowing she’d only have a few buttons to press for help. Did she leave it on the charger in the kitchen or is it still in the pocket of her jeans on the chair beside her bed?
Another knock. This time, it is definitely more urgent. Maybe also more desperate. Is it her neighbour, worried that her 17-year-old daughter hasn’t come home from a night out with friends? Or the man from across the street, looking for his cat? Worth a small fortune, the little spoiled-to-death animal escapes whenever the opportunity arises, especially when it’s getting dark. No, if it were someone she knew, they would have called her name by now, having seen that the light in her bedroom is still on. They’d know she’d be scared at this time of night to open the door.
Unless it’s … him. He wouldn’t call her name while knocking on her door; he’d be only too aware that she would definitely not open the door if she knew it was him. Not after everything he’d done to her.
Another knock, softer. Hesitant. Again, only this time it is accompanied by a voice. Soft. Muffled. Is someone saying, begging, ‘Please?’
She hesitates, her hand clutching the hem of the long T-shirt she’s been using to sleep in since he left. She gazes over her shoulder into the darkened room where she can just make out the black metal hands against the pale enamel face of the clock. It was past midnight when she went to bed. Now it is ten to one. She’s been reading a few pages of her book and she was just about to turn off the light when she heard it.
Again. A knock. A flat hand banging hard this time, which, she feels, adds to the sense of despair of her visitor.
Curiosity makes her move forward. She leans against the door, pressing her ear against the cool painted wood, trying to detect if she can hear something familiar in the voice. There it is again: ‘Please?’
There is a growing tension in the plea now which distresses her. She stretches her arm, and her trembling fingers reach for the security chain on the door, one of the aftermaths of HIM.
‘Please. Open the door. Please.’
The voice is muffled. She can’t even work out whether it’s male or female.
‘Wait. Just wait one sec.’ She has made up her mind. Someone needs help. Her help.
She turns and, taking the steps two at a time, runs up the stairs, to her bedroom and quickly pulls on her jeans, tapping the pockets: no mobile phone. She will make sure she has it in her hand before she opens the door, her fingers ready to make an emergency call. Just as a precaution. She dismisses putting on her bra. Instead she takes a loose, thick cardigan off the hanger and slips her arms in it.
Hesitating for a moment, standing still on the stairs, she can hear repeated knocking, not so loud as to alert the neighbours, but firm. Determined and desperate. And the voice again, now on the edge of crying. She goes down the stairs, her movements almost in slow motion. She’s bare-footed, but otherwise she’s dressed as though it’s a cold winter’s night. Her hair falls around her face as she fumbles with the key in the lock. She is certain now that her visitor is crying. Dispirited. Devoid of any hope.
Someone who needs her help.
It’s not kindness that makes her forget any precautions but curiosity that makes her undo the security chain rather than have it in place to peer through the gap first to make sure it is safe. Instead, she pulls open the door, and is instantly swept aside, her back hitting the wall, as someone crashes in as though catapulted towards her. Her breathing stops and her eyes widen in shock and instantly she is overwhelmed by regret.
‘Please. The cards. I need the cards.’
His face is a pale blur, but his dark eyes are glistening like ice. His solid frame steadies in front of her as he gazes at her with a steely stare. Then, with a shake of his head, he wipes his forehead with a hand that even trembles more than hers. She inhales, deeply, keeping the air in her lungs for a few seconds, and then she exhales, releasing the tension as she recognises the familiarity in those eyes, albeit red and brimming with tears.
A pulse throbs in her neck and she can hear her blood rushing in her ears.
‘The cards,’ he whispers.
‘Of course,’ she says, her voice higher in tone than normal. ‘Would you like to come through?’
She stifles a nervous laugh behind her hand and points to the unlit room beside her, reaching out for the light switch. When she turns to check if he is following her, the light falls across his face. His hands and forehead are streaked with something that can only be dried blood.
1
The woman’s eyes are the most extraordinary colour. Colours. One is blue, the other is brown. Her eye make-up, waterproof, matches them: from the top of her nose her eyelids are blue, gradually mixing with brown towards the sides. Thick black eyeliner and bright red lipstick are smudged across her face. White, bare shoulders. Under her chin, a small silver heart on a necklace is stuck in a strand of wet blonde hair.
She doesn’t blink when I enter the white plastic Scene of Crime tent and step on the small wooden jetty on the bank of the fishing lake. Having pulled on the obligatory white paper suit and blue shoe covers and dutifully signed the clipboard, I stand still in the opening for a moment, carefully taking in the situation. Behind me, a radio crackles. It belongs to the officer standing guard outside the tent, keeping a record of everyone entering and leaving the area that has been cordoned off with police tape. On the coast road, drivers slow down, hoping to catch a glimpse of what is going on. A police officer wearing a yellow fluorescent sleeveless jacket over his uniform is gesturing everyone to keep moving.
‘Hi Andy.'
A familiar figure turns as a gust of wet wind disturbs the quietness. David Jamieson nods, frowns and points. Obediently, I help myself to a pair of blue latex gloves.
‘You’re late.’
He closes his case and scratches his ear under the rim of h
is hat. Apparently, the pathologist is just about to leave, making room for the three figures in white, who are crowding into the limited area. One is kneeling on an aluminum tile and covering the wooden edge of the jetty with fingerprint powder and sticky tape, concentrating too much to notice me. The planks are grey and weathered, wet from overnight drizzle. His body language suggests he is not hopeful of finding anything useful. His colleague is taking still photos and then videos of the crime scene and everything else that might be worth to record. By the look of the red clothes shining beneath the thin white of her suit, I recognise the third person, Andrea Burke. She’s hunched down between her forensic bag and the corpse, briefly looking up and nodding at me by way of a greeting. She holds up a clear plastic bag, peers at its contents through her red-rimmed glasses, and scribbles something on a clipboard. The photographer swings his cameras around his neck and grins somewhat sheepishly, trying to remember my name. I can tell that he fails by the way he nods.
‘You're the SIO, Andy?’ Jamieson stamps his feet on the ground, trying to stay warm.
‘For now.’ I look away, hoping that he won’t enquire after my health.
‘Running errands again?’ He grins to take the edge off his sarcasm.
I shrug. ‘Maloney’s on his way.’
‘Sir?’ Burke interrupts, passing her clipboard to Jamieson for him to read her notes. After he scribbles something on it, he looks up at me again, this time avoiding my eyes. I know what he is thinking but with the presence of Andrea Burke in mind, I decide that it’s probably best to keep quiet. For now.
‘Couldn’t he get out of his warm bed?’ Andrea Burke looks up, grinning.
‘He was off yesterday.’
It was only a couple of months ago that DI Maloney gloated about having dinner at Rick Stein’s famous restaurant in Padstow to celebrate the wedding anniversary of his parents-in-law. Now the couple are in a bitter and rather nasty fight over their divorce, arguing endlessly about who is to blame, who will stay in the house, how to split their money, and, more importantly it seems, what to tell their relatives, friends and neighbours. After thirty-odd-years of marriage, they should know better. As Maloney’s wife is upset about it, and clearly desperate to seek reconciliation, he has driven her to Weymouth, where he was staying the night when the call came about the body in the lake. Which is why he forwarded the message, and the task, to me. I guessed he didn’t want DCI Guthrie to know about the intimate details of his family life and I promised I would fill him in as soon as he got back. In truth, I’m happy to pick up the crumbs of whatever Maloney drops.
My rank as detective inspector is only effective on paper. I have a reduced salary and an official status as part-time police officer on a so-called zero-hour contract. The money isn’t a huge problem; I still earn enough to keep me going but it is the underlying, much bigger issue that is concerning me. On a positive day, when I manage to see the brighter side of life, I tell myself that it is a good thing that I don’t have to fill in forms and spend hours in meetings about strategy and budgets. Because I don’t have any duties to fulfil in an official capacity, I am free to do the more routine police work which, I must admit, does make me wonder if a step down on the career ladder would make me feel my job was more worthwhile. I haven’t been a DI long enough to get comfortable in the role, but I do know that working with people suits me well.
‘Not much forensic evidence, I’m afraid,’ says Jamieson, locking his case with a dry click. ‘She’s been in the lake for a good few hours.’
I step aside and peer down past Burke who is half obscuring the body, and my eye catches a small mole on the left shoulder of the dead woman. ‘Isn’t she dressed?’
‘No. No clothes found either.’ Burke shakes her head, adding sarcastically, ‘I don't think she was going for a swim.’
She has a sense of humour that I don’t always understand and I suspect it works both ways.
‘Do we know who she is?’ I ask, skipping the questions with obvious answers and bend over to look at the victim’s face. She is staring at me with vacant eyes. Not blinking. I stare back and let the questions in her eyes settle inside me. I feel almost guilty that I can’t answer them yet.
Andrea Burke lifts the sheet covering the rest of the body, pointing, and I see a clean thin cut where a sharp knife slit the neck. Or perhaps I should say a sharp object, as it is an unofficial, preliminary observation. Rules are strict nowadays. Even the slightest slip of the tongue can send a good lawyer into action and have the case dismissed by the court before you know it.
‘No identification, unfortunately.’ Andrea Burk eventually replies. She’s not looking at me, but there is a tiny little smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.
’Where are her clothes?’
‘We haven’t found them yet.’ She pauses briefly. ‘But we have a handbag.’
‘Don’t hold your breath though, Andy.’ Jamieson cuts off any ideas I might have that this will be an easy case.
‘Exactly.’ Burke shakes her head with vigour. A strand of ruby red hair pops out of her protective suit. ‘There is only money in the handbag, I’m afraid. Fifty pounds in bank notes and some loose change.’ She lets her words hang in the air with a sense of expectation.
‘What? No ID? Bank cards? What about keys?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Anything else?’ I ask, trying not to show my disappointment.
‘Time of death ... about 24 and 30 hours ago.’ Smiling sheepishly, the pathologist casts me a sideways glance. ‘If that helps? Cause of death … well, I can’t disclose anything before I’ve done the official post-mortem, but at first glance … the cut in her neck.’
'She didn't drown?'
'I will have to check that, but I don't think so.'
‘What else have you found? Are there any signs of other physical injuries?’
‘Sorry Andy, it’s too early for that. I’m afraid I can only answer that question later.’
I turn towards the exit of the tent. A gust of cold damp air hits me in the face as the officer outside opens it politely. I smile but his face remains stoic. To make a point, perhaps, he slaps his arms against the cold, looking like a young bird that hasn't yet got the confidence to fly away.
His radio crackles and I watch him listening to someone called Billy who is reporting that no one in the only building that has a view over the lake has seen or heard anything suspicious. Helpfully, he points in the direction of a group of farm buildings nestled on the slope of the southern facing hill, where the sun is briefly reflected in a small bay window on the first floor. A ring of smoke comes out of one of the chimneys and a murder of crows sits on the rooftop, watching a buzzard circling over an area of gorse and hawthorn, scrutinising every centimetre with its sharp eyes.
Thanking the officer, I walk back to my car and, as I pull out, I make a mental note to check the statements of the residents as soon as they’re brought in. I look around. The area is a black hole in the CCTV systems. A perfect location for criminal activities.
2
Josh Warren was unfortunate enough to have found the body. Clearly, he now regrets having called the police, wishing that he’d walked away, pretending not to have seen or heard anything. I know how he feels, but I'll have to treat him as a suspect. It won’t be the first time that a murderer is so confident and arrogant that he calls the police himself.
‘Mr Warren?’
I look at him through the half-opened window on the passenger side of a patrol car. He is lurking on the back seat, clutching a plastic bag as if it holds the crown jewels. He is in his early thirties with a round face and fine blond hair that is already thinning on the top of his head.
‘Yes. Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I called my boss but I thought I would be at work within an hour.’ His voice is tinny, his eyes wide, the memory of the dead woman still etched on his retina.
In the driver’s seat, a uniformed officer is sitting behind the wheel with a mobile phone
in his hand. His colleague is outside, walking across the parking area with his hands folded on his back as though he’s looking for a lost coin. The area is cordoned off with blue and white police tape hooked around metal poles that have been hammered into the ground by the officers who were the first to arrive at the crime scene.
‘They’re sending more men.’ The driver stifles a yawn and shoves his mobile phone in the breast pocket of his fluorescent jacket.
‘Do you know the nearest place to get a coffee?’
The officer shrugs, automatically patting his chest, as, for a single moment, he believes he has somehow lost his phone. ‘Up that hill. There’s a pub at the top. Not sure if it will be open, though.’
I gesture towards Warren. He hasn’t moved. Hope has flares up in his eyes, replacing an unfounded fear that he might end up in a police cell. Sadly, some people are like that in response to the power of the law, feeling guilty of anything, while they’re completely innocent.
‘The Swan Inn is further up the road.’ He breaks off to take deep breaths. ‘I know them. They’ll open up for me if Ray is there. He’s the manager.’
‘Let’s go there then, shall we?’ I motion with my head and open the door. He nods with a shiver at a sudden gust of cold wind. The temperature must be somewhere around five degrees, but the wind makes it feel like it is below zero. The tips of my ears are almost freezing.
‘Sir, we are supposed to take Mr Warren to the station for his statement.’ The officer behind the wheel frowns, talking to me through the smallest possible opening of his window. ‘We’re waiting for our colleagues and then we’ll go.’
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 1