MARRIED LIES
A gripping detective mystery full of twists and turns
DI Tom Mariner Book 5
CHRIS COLLETT
Revised Edition 2018
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
FIRST PUBLISHED BY PIATKUS 2009 AS “STALKED BY SHADOWS”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Chris Collett
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
DI MARINER SERIES
FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
CHARACTER LIST
With love and thanks to Val Bache, Ingrid Smith, Jill Wakefield, and all the friends who have been unfailingly supportive over the years. You know who you are!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is the fifth mystery featuring Tom Mariner. It is set in the late 2000s, when social media was in its infancy and mobile phone technology less sophisticated than it is today.
Chapter One
PC Ralph Solomon was facing a dilemma. Ten minutes ago he’d picked up a call to go to the home of one Nina Silvero, to check that there was nothing amiss. Apparently a friend of Mrs Silvero, who was aged sixty-one and a widow, had contacted the station, concerned that Nina had not turned up for an appointment that afternoon. Since then, said friend had been ringing Mrs Silvero’s house continually and been unable to raise anyone. Finally she had contacted the police. There were, as far as Solomon could see, any number of reasons why Mrs Silvero had not kept that appointment — not least the desire to avoid a woman who was clearly a busy body. Now, in the early evening, after nightfall and in a blustery breeze, Solomon happened to be in the area. He had been asked to go and check over the house, and that was what he was doing. The March winds came in gusts, rattling the street lights and rustling the emerging leaves on the horse chestnut tree in the corner of Mrs Silvero’s front garden — all of which reminded Solomon of The Munsters. It was a much nicer house, of course: a smart detached one with a mature garden. Solomon had grown up on a council estate not two miles away, where his parents still lived, the only Afro-Caribbean family in their road, and this was the kind of house his mum had aspired to.
As he walked up the drive towards the pool of light cast from the hall, he could see a promising glare to the side of the house that he guessed was from the kitchen. Solomon’s substantial stomach rumbled loudly and he optimistically envisaged a short and apologetic conversation with Mrs Silvero, during which she would confirm his theory about the neurotic friend, and he’d be on his way very soon, back to the station for some R&R, a thick bacon sandwich and a mug of strong coffee. After a weekend off it would be nice if his first night back on duty was an uneventful one.
Solomon rang the doorbell and was rewarded by a prolonged and satisfying peal of bells inside the house. But after several minutes there was still no movement behind the frosted glass. It didn’t mean anything, of course. The old dear could have gone out anyway, just not with her over-anxious friend. Crouching down, Solomon could see nothing through the spring-flap letterbox except a long and empty hallway, with its perfectly centred carpet runner, though he thought he spied the corners of a couple of letters immediately below him on the mat. Similarly, viewed through the front windows, the lounge — though only partially illuminated by residual light from the hallway — looked perfectly normal. Furniture and ornaments were all intact and in their place. Solomon walked round to the side of the house, coming to a seven-foot wooden side gate that blocked access to the back garden. It was, of course, bolted from the inside; and this was his dilemma.
Solomon had scraped through his medical a couple of months ago and was neither slim nor athletic. Should he take the undisturbed nature of the house as proof that all was well with Nina Silvero, or should he try and heave his considerable bulk over the wooden gate?
* * *
Lucy Jarrett looked away from the computer screen, picked up her pen and scored a line through the last item on the post-it note stuck in her diary. It was after six and she’d completed every item on the list of things she had intended to do this afternoon. Not bad for a Monday. Clicking the mouse, she logged off and shut down the computer. She should have been satisfied with such a productive day. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of occasions when she had previously cleared her in-tray, and those harked back years, to the time when she was newly qualified. But instead of satisfaction, all she felt was the bubble of anxiety that rose in her stomach like indigestion, because now the only remaining option was to go home.
The sole person left in the office was the contract cleaner, an efficient woman of eastern European origin who spoke little English, except to say hello and goodnight. And now Lucy must go out into the dark alone. The feeling was disconcerting. For once in her life, she, a grown, mature woman, who had always been so absolutely in control, was afraid. And afraid of what exactly? A feeling — no more, no less. She shrugged her coat on and, calling out goodbye to the cleaner, went down the stairs. The lobby was empty. On impulse she took out her mobile and speed-dialled Will. She had no idea what he’d be up to but—
‘Hey, babe.’
He made her smile instantly. A few months shy of his fortieth birthday and he still insisted on talking like a fifteen-year-old. Occupational hazard, she supposed. Even he had to admit that his was the kind of job that rendered him the eternal teenager. ‘Hi. What are you doing?’ she asked. In the background she could hear the thrum of an acoustic guitar over the random clatter of drums.
‘Setting up,’ said Will. ‘We go on pretty soon.’ It was a couple of hours by her reckoning but he was telling her this was a bad time. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ Just needed to hear your voice. ‘I’m just leaving work.’
‘It’s late.’
‘What’s new?’ She heard a yell in the background to which Will responded, turning away from the phone. ‘You should go. I’ll talk to you later,’ she said.
‘Sure. It’s all happening here. I’ll call you.’
‘When? What time?’ Lucy knew as soon as she’d asked him that it was a mistake.
‘I don’t know.’ His voice had hardened, almost imperceptibly. ‘Does it matter?’
Yes, she wanted to say, it does. ‘Of course not. Have a good—’ b
ut he’d already, abruptly, ended the call and now she’d run out of delaying tactics. Pocketing the phone, she took a deep calming breath. Pull yourself together, woman. In ten minutes’ time you’ll be home and tonight it may not even happen. She used to be irritated by media commentators who made Birmingham sound like the knife and gun-crime capital of Britain, but now, after dark, even for her, the city took on a menacing feel.
Cautiously, Lucy emerged from the building and quickly crossed the almost empty floodlit car park, occasionally thrown off course by the gusts of wind that swept across the open space. The few remaining vehicles all seemed empty and there were none that she recognised. But then the park was also used by shoppers heading for the high street and customers of the nearby Chinese takeaway and cash point. She couldn’t ever remember seeing the same car twice. Her own car was in the middle of the compound parked under a light and, fumbling for her car keys, Lucy felt suddenly exposed. She’d been so busy on the phone she hadn’t thought to have them ready. The heat of panic began to well inside her. At last she got the door open, threw herself inside and slammed the door shut, locking it again immediately. Her hand trembled as she sought out the ignition, eventually finding it and revving too hard as the engine started. Pausing at the entrance to the car park, her rear-view mirror showed nothing behind her. Now, which route to take home — the shortest or the best-lit way? Would it make any difference? She took a deep and calming breath. She’d play it safe tonight and stick to the main roads.
Pulling out, Lucy drove into the side street and up to the traffic lights at the junction with the main road, glancing behind her as she pulled to a halt for the red light. A car quickly fell into line behind her and Lucy tried to make out the driver, male or female. She couldn’t be sure. A horn blared, making her jump; the lights had changed. Signalling left, she turned onto the dual carriageway, the car behind her keeping close, but then this was a major thoroughfare — the main Bristol Road heading south out of the city. And, as she accelerated away from the lights, it almost immediately pulled out and overtook her. Going down the hill, the road behind her remained clear, but she could see the trees along the verges rolling and swaying in the wind as she passed. She kept steadily to the speed limit and a couple of cars passed her on the outside, brake lights flaring as they hit the speed camera zone. Lucy began to relax. Then, approaching the footbridge, headlights homed in on her again, hugging her tail unnecessarily closely. As she signalled and left the main road, heading towards her estate, the car behind did likewise; the same pattern as before. Glancing in her mirror, Lucy could just distinguish the outline of a single occupant. Her mouth went dry and her heart rate picked up. Only headlights, but they were too close, crowding her, urging her on, faster than she wanted to travel along the narrow, winding lane — the beams dazzling in her mirrors and nowhere to pull over to let him pass. Fear propelled her faster and faster, until finally, turning into the estate, Lucy risked another glance in the mirror. The road was completely empty. Relief made her feel light-headed. It was going to be all right. And by the time she pulled into her driveway, she wondered, not for the first time, if the entire episode had been fabricated by her imagination.
Looking across as she got out of her car, Lucy could see the silhouetted figure of her neighbour at number sixteen, hunched as always over his computer. She waved to him but rather than respond he appeared to continue staring into space, and she realised that he probably couldn’t see her at this distance, beyond the half-open slatted blinds. Nonetheless it was a comfort to see another familiar presence so close to her and there was more of a bounce in her step as she walked up to the house. Then a clatter from somewhere behind startled her, and she hastily jabbed her key into the lock. Pushing her way in through the front door and stepping over the ever increasing pile of junk mail that greeted her every evening, Lucy slammed the door behind her and switched on the lights, exhaling with relief. The house was all in order, everything right with the world. The phone rang. Will, calling to check that she’d got home all right and to apologise for being short with her. She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
For a few seconds Lucy was mesmerized by the long and raspy exhalation, followed by further laboured breathing — in, out, in, out — before the line went dead. Wrenching the phone line from its socket in the wall, she sank, dizzy and queasy, onto the stairs, her confidence crumbling like dry sand.
* * *
‘Table fourteen, salmon and lamb!’
Stephanie Rieger dumped down the dirty plates with a crash, her plan for a five-minute break from beating her relentless route back and forth from the kitchen temporarily thwarted by Chef’s efficiency.
‘Come on Steph, love, they’re getting cold!’
‘I’ve only got one pair of hands,’ she snapped back, picking up the fresh plates nonetheless and reversing out through the swing doors and into the restaurant. She was run ragged, mainly because her mean bastard of a boss refused to employ anyone else during the week. Switching on a smile she placed the dishes in front of the customers at table fourteen — and that was when she saw the new punter at table eight. She noticed him at first because he appeared to be dining alone and because he was holding the menu almost at arm’s length. ‘You should get your eyes tested,’ she smiled as she walked past.
He looked up. Not bad looking; clean cut and sharply dressed in a suit and tie. Salesman probably. No wedding ring, which didn’t mean he wasn’t married, of course — only that he didn’t choose to advertise the fact. In those few seconds she had him half-naked and making love to her. ‘Sorry?’ he was saying.
‘Get yourself some specs. Your arms aren’t going to grow any longer. I’ll come back in a sec and take your order.’ She gave him another smile.
* * *
Coming to her senses, Lucy lunged at the front door and, with shaking fingers, fumbled the chain into its runner, and shot on the top and bottom bolts, before hurrying through to the kitchen to check that the back door was secure. Satisfied that it was, she went from room to room drawing the curtains and blinds to keep out the night, making sure . . . making sure of what? That there was no bogey man hiding there? This was ridiculous. She switched on the radio, but immediately turned it off again. That was no good; she had to be alert to any sounds that shouldn’t be there.
Up in the master bedroom Lucy changed quickly out of her work clothes, throwing on jeans, T-shirt and a baggy jumper. Even as she did so, she kept one eye on the thick velvet curtains as if they might suddenly part to reveal her tormentor on the other side, some ghastly apparition, ogling in at her. Impossible, of course, but she was certain he was out there. How else could he know the exact moment when she’d walked in the door? So far he had kept his distance, but for how long? And what did he want? Lucy’s heart thumped and she was gripped by a wave of nausea. A couple of weeks ago she might have gone out for a run, but not anymore. She couldn’t risk going out again tonight.
No good calling Will either. The gig would be about to start — he’d never even hear his phone. Julie-Ann would be at aerobics — where Lucy herself would once have been — and Tamsin would be busy with the family. For a second Lucy considered Martin just across the road. She could ask him to come over for a drink; even just speaking to him would be a comfort. But that would be a mistake. He’d misunderstood her intentions once before — at least, that was what she told herself — so she couldn’t chance that happening again. Gazing helplessly around the big bedroom, she recalled the day she’d first looked round her home. On that sunny autumn afternoon it had seemed perfect. After four years in her cramped flat, the size of the house had seemed such a luxury; with ample room in here for the super-king-sized bed, and the separate dressing room and en-suite bathroom with a shower and a sunken bath. Now all the space frightened her, leaving her with a compulsion to squeeze herself into a corner of the room and hide. With hindsight it would have been so much better to have simply upgraded her apartment. There she would have been close to other people and able
to hear their voices and their movements, instead of feeling remote and stranded — and so very alone. It might have been different if Will had been here, but most of the time she had no husband here to protect her. The wind gusted, splattering rain against the window, underlining her isolation and shaking her from her trance-like state. She needed a distraction. With some trepidation she switched on her computer and went online. Tonight her email account was again flooded with spam. But these were not the usual penis-enlargement or African-prince messages. They were nasty and personal, including replies to a blog that she’d never posted. As fast as she could delete them, more appeared, taking their place, and in the end Lucy abandoned the machine in despair.
Down in the kitchen she made a sandwich, but within inches of her mouth the salty smell of the cheese made her gag and she had to drop it and run for the downstairs cloakroom, where she retched unproductively, finally leaning her head against the cool wall, feeling clammy and dry at the same time. Consigning the sandwich to the bin, she took a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge and went into the lounge, where she switched on the TV, muting the sound, and sat rigidly on the sofa, staring at the meaningless images, while her ears strained to catch the slightest unwanted noise. Gradually she began to relax. Then bang! Something slammed against the window and Lucy leaped out of her seat, crying out with fear. A tapping against the window continued while, wracked with indecision, she hovered by the curtains, daring herself to look and yet terrified of what she might see. Eventually she forced herself to lift aside the curtain and exhaled with relief. A sheet of hardboard, picked up and carried by the wind, lay flapping against the window. Shuddering, she peered into the blackness of the garden. Was he out there?
Tearing herself away from the window, Lucy returned to her sofa-bound vigil. The TV was playing a programme about enormously overweight people in the US being winched out of their homes. The next thing she knew it was after eleven and the water bottle was empty, and her head and neck aching from the tension. Climbing the stairs, she brushed her teeth, but felt too vulnerable to undress. Instead she lay on top of the bed fully clothed and in the foetal position, biting on a thumbnail, listening and waiting, her ears straining to catch the slightest sound; the occasional car going past, local teenagers coming home from an evening out, the volume of their footsteps and voices increasing before dying away with the distant slamming of doors. The wind howled around the house, bowling over a milk bottle with a clatter, and Lucy heard it roll away down the drive. She should go and retrieve it, but it would mean going outside, which was unthinkable.
Married Lies (Reissue) Page 1