Married Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  * * *

  PC Solomon had decided to take action. Scrabbling up the flimsy planks of the gate, he had managed to get a toehold for his size thirteen boot on the narrow lock mechanism. Things started to go downhill when he swung his left leg over, catching his thigh on a protruding nail — ripping a hole in his trousers and gouging his flesh in the process. But now he was, at least, no longer alone. First off, he’d found Nina Silvero. Landing hard on the block-paved patio, his trouser leg flapping, he’d walked over to the kitchen window and peered in. It was what the DIY stores would describe as a farmhouse kitchen, pretty big, with ornate pine cupboards, and a matching table and chairs in the middle. Among other things on the table, he could see a bottle of wine and a single glass, but there was no sign of . . .

  It was then that he glanced down to the floor and saw a foot sticking out from behind one of the chairs. Wearing a fluffy beige slipper, it was attached to a leg — Nina Silvero’s leg, it seemed reasonable to assume. And it was lying very still. Taking off his jacket, Solomon wound it around his fist for protection and moved towards the door.

  * * *

  At midnight Lucy started as her mobile trilled on the nightstand beside her.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey,’ she had to stifle a sob of relief.

  This time the background noise was chatter and tinny music. Will was in a bar or a club, female voices close by. ‘I tried the landline,’ he said, ‘couldn’t get through.’

  ‘I unplugged it. I had another call.’ She couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice.

  Will’s voice remained level. ‘Okay. What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s the point, it’s just that horrible noise.’ She wanted him to say that he would drive home right now and take care of her, but it wasn’t Will’s style.

  ‘Come on, honey. It’s probably just kids, fooling around.’ He wasn’t taking her seriously. Momentarily she wondered if he even believed her.

  ‘Perhaps I should go to the police.’ The idea came to her suddenly.

  ‘And tell them what? That you’ve had a couple of crazy phone calls?’

  ‘It’s more than a couple,’ she reminded him. ‘And someone’s following me.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  Was she? ‘Well, I can’t be absolutely certain, but—’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?’ said Will. ‘What can the police do, anyway? I mean you haven’t actually seen anyone following you, have you? You’re tired, sweetheart. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  ‘Yes.’ And how would you know? A woman, or perhaps a girl, giggled very close to him. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘In some bar.’ He was vague. ‘We’re having a bite before we get back to the hotel. It was a terrific gig tonight. Listen, you try to get some sleep, huh, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Safe journey.’

  ‘Sure. ’night, babe.’

  The woman’s voice cut in even before he’d switched off his phone. Lucy didn’t like to speculate about who that might have been. And she could have been mistaken, but she was almost sure she’d heard the woman say, ‘kiss me, baby.’ Maybe she hadn’t been talking to Will. There were others there — there had to be. But now a different kind of unease began to nibble at Lucy.

  Normally after a gig, Will went straight back to his hotel. Socialising with the band was a recent phenomenon. She glanced down at the white-gold ring on her finger. It had been there for eight months now. Was the novelty wearing off already? Before they were married Lucy had been convinced that Will would quickly get bored with her and find someone else more glamourous. But surely not now — would he? What was happening to her? The last couple of weeks she had begun to doubt everything, even her own sanity.

  Lying back on the bed she recommenced her auditory vigil. Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, she heard the whirring thrum of the milkman’s float and the clink of milk bottles. Only then did she feel safe enough to allow herself to drop off to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Mariner couldn’t remember how he’d got into this mess, but he knew for sure that he had to get out. Running across a muddy field in the half light, the gunman was gaining on him, but his feet kept sinking into the soft and boggy ground, hampering his progress. In his panic to get away he slipped, stumbled and fell. When he tried to get up again his foot was stuck, sucked under by thick mud. His pursuer was getting closer. With a gargantuan effort Mariner yanked his foot free. There was a loud squeal followed by a thump, and he woke up to morning brightness in an unfamiliar room and an oversized tabby blinking accusingly up at him from the floor, its back aggressively arched. There was a gurgling from behind him, like water going down a plughole, and Mariner turned to see the gentle rise and fall of a lumpy outline beneath the duvet. A blonde bob fanned out on the pillow. Stephanie — was that her name? He couldn’t even be sure of that.

  He looked at his watch, the only thing he was still wearing. The time was nearly a quarter to eight. Simultaneously he remembered where he was, on the wrong side of the city, yesterday’s clothes and no shaving kit or toothbrush, with a nine o’clock appointment at Lloyd House. Scrambling out of bed Mariner gathered his clothes and pulled them on. Stephanie didn’t even stir. Should he be a gent and make her a drink before he left? He decided not to. She was dead to the world, so it would be a waste of time he didn’t have. Ripping a page out of his pocketbook he began scribbling an apologetic note. He paused, pen poised; leave a number or don’t leave a number? With only a split second to choose the latter, he left the note by the bed and hurried down the stairs and into his car, no doubt breaking every code of etiquette as he went.

  As Mariner nosed his car into the traffic oozing onto the Aston Expressway and heading for Birmingham city centre, a creeping sense of shame came over him. Although it wasn’t exactly the first time, this wasn’t something he made a habit of, and now the guilt had kicked in; guilt for taking what was on offer without making much effort with the pleasantries, guilt for sneaking out afterwards without even saying goodbye or thanks, and for feeling relieved to have done it, thus avoiding the usual pointless small talk. He couldn’t imagine that he and Stephanie would have had anything much to discuss over tea and toast. Their only genuine shared interest twelve hours ago had been a mutual and, on Mariner’s part, fairly urgent desire to get laid.

  After a day-long meeting in the north of the city, she’d waited on him in the pub restaurant where he’d had dinner, and her easy smile had been an antidote to the tedium of the day. He must have been giving off signals because she’d flirted outrageously with him and he’d played along, not sure how far it would go, until she’d told him she finished at half-ten, if he could wait that long. Knowing that Millie was staying with Kat overnight, the temptation had been too great and so he had waited, nursing a coke in the bar. She was all over him in the car, before suggesting they go back to her place. On the three-mile drive her hand stayed in his lap, and she’d taken him straight up to the bedroom of her neat semi. Once there she’d slowed the pace. It had been good. Just thinking about it tugged pleasantly at his groin.

  And finally, even after all this time, Mariner was plagued by the dual and entirely irrational guilt brought on by perceived disloyalty and infidelity. These last two were groundless, deep down he knew that, but somehow it was masochistically comforting to continue believing in their existence. He allowed his thoughts to wander as far as what Anna might be doing now. Waking up in bed beside her new partner, she may even be getting a little early morning action of her own, he thought, miserably, and the dull ache that had for so many weeks been resident just under his diaphragm, returned. Last night’s diversion was exactly like the previous time — great while it lasted but afterwards it felt like shit.

  * * *

  Letting himself back into his canal-side home, Mariner was greeted by the warm smell of frying bacon. Kat was in the kitc
hen, prodding at the pan on the cooker. ‘Hello,’ she greeted him brightly, with not a hint of reproach. Had she put two and two together? ‘You like some breakfast?’

  ‘No time,’ Mariner called from half-way up the stairs, wanting to avoid that conversation until he was ready for it. ‘I’ll get something at the station.’

  Ten minutes later he was back down again, showered and changed, and Kat was at the table poised to tuck into a full English. It made Mariner feel slightly queasy. It was a mystery how she got away with it, although at twenty she did, of course, have age on her side. She’d been staying with him for six months now and had succumbed to all the worst of the British junk food habits. Her diet must be far removed from the one she’d been used to in her native Albania, yet she remained as skinny as a rake. ‘You have a good meeting yesterday?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, it was the usual dross,’ Mariner said.

  ‘It finish late.’ She was all innocent observation. ‘You find a woman?’ She could be disarmingly direct.

  Mariner’s face flamed. ‘It wasn’t . . .’ Like that? But that’s exactly how it was. He gave up.

  ‘Is a good thing,’ she said brightly. ‘You should meet a nice woman.’ When Mariner didn’t respond her hand shot guiltily to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. Is not my business.’

  ‘It’s all right. I know what you meant. Where’s Millie?’ Mariner thought his DC, who had quickly also become Kat’s friend and chaperone, would have appeared by now, but perhaps she’d already left for work.

  Kat shrugged. ‘She can’t come. I think her family . . .’ she trailed off vaguely.

  ‘So you were here on your own all night?’ Mariner was mortified.

  ‘Is okay. I watch TV and go to bed.’ No big deal, she was saying.

  Mariner studied her expression for the brave face she must be faking, but to his slight disappointment she looked genuinely unfazed. ‘I’ll get home early tonight,’ he said. ‘Get in a couple of films.’

  She shrugged again. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right.’ Now Mariner was the one disconcerted. Kat had come a long way from the terrified young woman he’d first encountered cowering in a filthy room during a raid on a brothel.

  Mariner had been well aware of the raised eyebrows when he’d offered to accommodate her, and he knew that the common consensus was that sharing his house with the attractive twenty-year-old would only lead to one inevitable conclusion, especially since he and Anna had so recently split up. He’d only meant it to be a temporary arrangement — a few days at most, and with DC Millie Khatoon in close attendance. But as the days had stretched to weeks, Millie had succumbed to family demands, and the station gossips had been proven wrong. One day Kat might feel strong enough to make contact with her true parents back home in Albania, but until then, it seemed to Mariner that morally the only role open to him was to protect her.

  * * *

  Waking after the couple of hours of fitful dozing that these days passed as sleep, her eyes sticky and her head muzzy, Lucy had come to a decision. She couldn’t go on like this; she had to take back control and do something about it. The pounding water of the shower cleared her head and strengthened her resolve. Now was the time to do it. If she waited until Will came back he’d dissuade her. Walking back into the bedroom, she glanced at the photo on her bedside table, the classic wedding picture, the happy couple arm-in-arm. She was glad she’d held out for formal dress. It had made the day all the more special and Will hadn’t put up much resistance. He looked so stunningly handsome in his morning suit that it brought a lump to her throat; his dark skin, that Cherokee blood that he was so fond of talking about, off-set by the pale grey of the suit.

  ‘Whatever makes you happy,’ he had said. That was a phrase she hadn’t heard much lately.

  * * *

  By nine forty-five on Tuesday morning, Mariner was buttoning his shirt for the third time that day, this time in the clinical conditions of a consulting room, at the close of his annual routine medical; height, weight, blood pressure and the usual questions about diet and lifestyle which Mariner could, as always, answer truthfully with impunity. He’d just about made it on time.

  ‘Getting much exercise?’ Saunders asked.

  Mariner side-stepped the obvious. ‘Let me think . . . last Sunday I climbed the Wrekin, the week before that I walked fifteen miles of the north Worcestershire Way, and the week before that: the Malverns, end to end.’ It had taken courage, that last one, standing at British Camp and looking out south-west towards the Black Mountains, knowing she was out there somewhere. But he’d made himself do it; all part of the healing process.

  ‘That sounds a bit excessive to me,’ commented Saunders. ‘You running away from something?’

  ‘I didn’t know you specialised in psychology too.’

  ‘It’s an obvious question.’

  Mariner remembered his dream. ‘No, I’m not running away.’ Staying away, perhaps. After what Kat had been through the last thing Mariner wanted to do was parade his own relationships in front of her, which is why, he told himself, until last night he hadn’t really had one.

  ‘And how’s the love life?’ Saunders asked, with uncanny timing.

  Mariner felt heat rise from his throat. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ grinned Saunders. ‘But it gives me and the wife something to talk about over dinner. You’d be amazed at how many people happily spill everything.’

  ‘So what’s the verdict?’ Mariner asked, fully dressed.

  ‘Bastards like you give the police a bad name. You’re obscenely fit and healthy; at six-one and eleven and a half stone your BMI is a bit on the low side if anything. How many of us would love to be able to say that?’ Saunders himself was a squat ex-rugby player, who, since giving up the sport, had developed a significant paunch. ‘You’re eating properly?’

  Mariner shrugged at the question. ‘I eat when I need to eat.’ Food wasn’t something that interested him greatly and he could never understand the excitement it generated.

  ‘God, you’re not even losing your hair,’ Saunders said irritably, running a hand over his own thinning pate. ‘Well, you might want to consider upping your alcohol units or dipping into recreational drugs now and then,’ Saunders said. ‘Oh, and get yourself a woman. Seriously, married men live longer.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.’

  The eye test was a different matter. Stephanie had been right in her assessment and Mariner needed glasses — for reading, anyway.

  ‘Your age,’ the optician told him. ‘Most people in their late forties succumb in the end.’ Mariner took the prescription to the nearest of the force-approved opticians where the choice of frames was overwhelming.

  ‘You could bring your wife in?’ suggested the dispensing optician, presenting him with yet another set practically identical to the previous three he’d tried. In the end Mariner settled on a mid-range pair. Lightweight and flexible, they seemed to him to look okay.

  ‘They’ll be ready in about a week,’ he was told.

  * * *

  For the city centre Mariner had parked his car next to the Mailbox, and his route back from the optician’s took him through the busy shopping streets, down Corporation Street and across New Street. Despite the current economic crisis, people still seemed to have enough money to spend and he had to dodge the shoppers on the pavements. Suddenly among the bobbing heads in front of him, a familiar vision captured his attention; close cropped reddish-brown hair, a slight figure with a spring in her step. Mariner launched himself forward through the crowd and grasped her arm, a little more enthusiastically than he’d intended. ‘Anna?’

  The woman spun round, alarm on her pale face, her features giving away immediately that the hair colour wasn’t natural for her age. Mariner backed off as if he’d suddenly realised that she was carrying a contagious disease. ‘I’m sorry. My mistake,’ he stuttered. ‘I thought you were . . .’ Now he felt foolish, and it wasn’t the
first time in the last few weeks that he’d made that same error of judgement. How many was it now? He should keep a tally. Just as well he’d had his eyes tested. Mariner was aware that he was spending more time than was healthy wondering what Anna might be doing, but he couldn’t help himself. It was all very well for Saunders, advising him to get himself a woman; he’d had one until recently but had let her go.

  Driving south out of the city towards Granville Lane, the traffic all seemed to be going the other way, the roads pretty clear until he hit the usual bottle-neck at Selly Oak. As he sat idling he became aware of an intermittent buzzing in the background, like a bluebottle trapped behind a window. Suddenly he realised that it must be his personal mobile. Since Anna had left, he’d hardly used it. Everyone else called him on his work phone, so the sound was alien. Checking that the traffic ahead was stationary, Mariner applied the handbrake and fished the phone out of his jacket pocket. He had a missed call and a text, both from the same number. The only other person who had this number was Kat, for emergencies, though since her first uncertain weeks she’d never used it. So what could have happened in the short time since he’d seen her this morning? But the text wasn’t from Kat.

  Thanx 4 a gr8 nite, it read, look 4ward to next time, S xxx.