by Marion Todd
Lies to Tell
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Friday, 15 May
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Saturday, 16 May
Chapter 8
Sunday, 17 May
Chapter 9
Monday, 18 May
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Tuesday, 19 May
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Wednesday, 20 May
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Thursday, 21 May
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Friday, 22 May
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Saturday, 23 May
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Sunday, 24 May
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements
Detective Clare Mackay
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For Ally, Euan and Alicia who, between them, moved house three times during the writing of this book.
Thanks for that!
Friday, 15 May
Chapter 1
Wish you were here!
DI Clare Mackay stood in front of the kitchen window in Daisy Cottage reading the gaily coloured postcard in her hand. Outside in the garden a group of noisy hedge sparrows were cheeping while three starlings were clearing every scrap of food off the bird table. With only a month to midsummer the sun was high in the sky already, warming the Caithness flagstones below the kitchen window, but Clare saw none of it. She stared at the postcard. Wish you were here. What the fuck did that mean? She turned it over in her hand again and scrutinised the picture on the front. Where was Provincetown anyway? Somewhere the buildings were painted with bright, cartoonish figures, obviously. She read on.
Spending the day here with friends from the university. Such a fun town.
Fancy coming out for a holiday? You’d love it!
It was signed simply with
G xxxx
‘Damn you, Geoffrey Dark,’ she said, tugging open the fridge and taking out a punnet of grapes. She put these down beside a bowl of granola and picked up her phone. She tapped Provincetown into Google and clicked on the Wikipedia link.
‘Cape Cod,’ she told Benjy, the English bull terrier sitting at her feet, awaiting his breakfast.
He wagged his tail in response and Clare took the hint, lifting a bag of dried dog food from the foot of the larder and filling his bowl. Benjy fell on the food and Clare returned to her perusal of Provincetown. As she read, her phone dinged and a message flashed across the screen. DCI Alastair Gibson. She clicked immediately to read it.
Pick you up from station car park at 8:30 a.m.
Al
Clare stared at the message. Had she forgotten something? Some arrangement they had made? The DCI wasn’t her biggest fan – was there something wrong? A complaint, maybe. She tapped a reply.
Sorry, sir. Team meeting in St Andrews at 9.
Can we reschedule?
She watched the screen, seeing that he was typing again. And then it arrived.
I’ve cancelled your meeting. See you at 8:30.
A
He’d cancelled her meeting? What the hell was going on?
She tapped back,
Something wrong? Am I for the high jump?
The reply came almost immediately.
Nothing like that.
A
Clare stared at the screen. Clearly he wasn’t inviting more questions. If it wasn’t a disciplinary matter, what was so important that he had taken it upon himself to cancel her team meeting? She glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. She whistled to Benjy, picking up his lead from a hook on the wall. ‘Come on, you,’ she said. ‘Quick walk.’
She opened the kitchen door and stepped out into her garden, pulling the door closed behind her. The sparrows, panicked by her sudden appearance, flew across the garden while the three starlings simply hopped onto the fence, observing her progress down the path. As she walked, Clare avoided looking at the borders either side of the flagstones. It was a typical cottage garden, plants spilling over each other either side of the path. Roses, lavender, lupins and heathers were bursting into bloom and the scent from an early flowering honeysuckle was attracting bees. The path meandered down the garden, past a shed painted in a soft green, towards a wooden infill gate, the timbers silvered with time. As Clare walked, Benjy running ahead of her, she picked her way over the thorny shoots of brambles, encroaching on the flagstones. She really needed to spend some time out here, before the garden got out of hand. The problem was she knew nothing about gardening. She vaguely recalled seeing some garden tools hanging on hooks in the shed when she had moved in, but she hadn’t taken the matter any further than that. Benjy was at the gate now, waiting patiently, and Clare quickened her pace. Perhaps she could find a gardener, she thought, lifting the latch on the gate and pulling it open.
She stepped out onto a track that led through the woods behind Daisy Cottage. Benjy shot off to snuffle in the undergrowth while Clare strolled along, enjoying the warmth of the sun where it shone through the trees. After ten minutes she whistled and Benjy came running back to her.
‘Short walk today,’ she told him. ‘The DCI’s after me.’
The little dog trotted obediently behind her and she opened the gate for him, picking her steps carefully over the brambles, back to the kitchen door.
She decided against her usual work suit, reaching further back into the wardrobe to find a new jacket and trousers she had bought in the spring sales but not yet worn. She had an uneasy feeling about that message from the DCI. What was so important that he had taken it upon himself to cancel her meeting? They had worked together just once, almost a year ago now. She couldn’t easily forget that time when a hit-and-run driver had been picking off seemingly random victims, and DCI Gibson had been brought in to oversee the investigation. He had doubted her competency from the outset, but she had won him round and they had parted – well, not exactly friends – but colleagues with mutual respect. Clare hoped fervently she was not going to have to win him round, all over again.
She stepped into the trousers and zipped them up. Turning to check her profile in the mirror she admired the cut. She couldn’t normally afford to buy from Jigsaw but she was glad now that, whatever awaited her, she would be well-dressed to receive it.
Her phoned dinged again. Chris, this time. Her DS.
You in hot water? DCI’s cancelled the meeting.
Wot’s that about?
What indeed. She tapped back:
No idea.
Text me if anything comes up.
Chris replied with a thumbs-up and she tucked her phone into her workbag. Benjy was stretched out beneath the kitchen window, basking in the sun that was now filling the room. She ruffled his head, picked up her water bottle and headed out to the car.
Chapter 2
Clare pulled into the station car park at twenty past eight and b
acked into her usual space. There were a few cars already parked in front of the low, red-brick building but no sign of the DCI’s sleek Jaguar. A gaggle of schoolkids wandered languidly past, eyes glued to their phones. Clare took out her own phone to check work emails for any clue as to what was going on. Nothing. A sharp toot made her look up and she saw to her surprise that the DCI had arrived in what she thought was an older Ford Focus. Clare grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of her car. As she clicked the remote control to lock it, she smiled. It was two weeks old already and she still wasn’t used to having it. She ran her hand along the bonnet then turned and climbed into the Focus.
‘Morning, Al,’ she said to the DCI. ‘Where’s the Jag today?’
The DCI clearly had the same ideas as Clare, dressed to impress in a fine dark grey suit. The jacket hung from a hook behind his seat, the Giorgio Armani label visible. His tie was knotted tightly at the neck and his shirt cuffs were held by a pair of plain silver cufflinks. He pulled out of the car park and into Pipelands Road, avoiding another group of schoolkids, stravaiging across the road. ‘Erm, bit of a tale there.’
Clare wasn’t sure whether to pursue it. Instead, she said, ‘So, not that I don’t appreciate you picking me up this morning, but what’s so urgent that you cancelled my meeting?’
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘You’ll see when we get there.’
She stared at him. ‘Get where?’
He hesitated. ‘Clare – if you don’t mind, let’s just wait till we arrive. Everything will be explained then.’
She continued staring but he wouldn’t be drawn. A couple of red-gowned students started to cross the road in front of the car, apparently unconcerned about the morning traffic.
‘Take your time, why don’t you?’ he muttered, adding, ‘What’s with the red gowns anyway?’
‘Tradition, I think,’ Clare said.
They drove on past the historic West Port, a seventeenth-century sandstone gate with semi-octagonal towers, and joined City Road. At North Street he turned left, heading out of town, past the iconic Old Course Hotel and the world-famous golf course.
As they neared the sign for Balgove Steak Barn, the DCI said, ‘Ever eaten there?’
Clare looked up the drive that curved round to the barn. ‘Yeah. It’s pretty good, actually. Quite literally a barn though. Can be cold at night. But they have heaters and blankets.’
‘Not fine dining then?’
‘Oh, the food is excellent. But it’s not a dressy place, if that’s what you mean.’
They lapsed into silence, the tree-lined golf links giving way to lush farmland with a view across to the Angus hills in the distance. After a few awkward minutes Clare said, ‘What’s wrong with your car? Surely the Jaguar garage have better courtesy cars than this?’
DCI Gibson cleared his throat. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘this is my new car.’
Clare gaped. ‘This?’
‘It’s a good little runner. Economical too and a decent boot.’
Clare racked her brains. Had she had missed something? Al Gibson was definitely not the Ford Focus type of guy. He was more your designer suit and Jaguar sort, courtesy of his DCI’s salary. She looked round the interior of the car. It was nice enough. The kind of car her parents would drive. But it was a basic model. None of the finer touches she recalled from the last time she was in his Jaguar. ‘It’s erm, it’s – nice. Yeah, nice car.’
He threw her a grateful smile which puzzled her even more. This car – and the designer suit jacket hanging in the back. It didn’t add up.
They were nearing the roundabout at Guardbridge and Clare wondered if he would head north to Dundee. Bell Street in Dundee was one of the larger stations in the area. Perhaps they were going to a meeting there. But he carried on, heading west towards Cupar.
‘Still not going to tell me where we’re going?’ Clare asked.
‘As I say, you’ll see when we’re there.’
Clare decided if she couldn’t draw him on their destination she’d have a go at the Ford Focus. ‘So, the car – you trading down to save the planet?’
There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Not exactly.’ He seemed to be struggling for the right words.
Clare waited and then he spoke again.
‘Alison and I…’
She saw his face flush and she waited for him to speak – to order his thoughts.
He ran a finger round his collar, as if to loosen it. ‘We’ve, erm, decided to separate.’
Clare could have kicked herself for not recognising the signs. With the shifts and long hours working on major incidents, it wasn’t unheard of for police marriages to founder. ‘Oh God, Al. I’m so sorry. I really am. I wouldn’t have mentioned the car if I’d realised.’
He replaced his hand on the steering wheel and glanced at her then away again. ‘It’s fine, Clare. We’re sorting things out. The Jag – she was fond of it. And I’m trying to hang onto my pension.’
Clare racked her brains for something to say. Until today, her relationship with DCI Gibson had been strictly professional. He had kept himself aloof from Clare and her team and she was disconcerted by this rare glimpse into his personal life. She had been to his house, of course. His twice-yearly treat for the troops. Mulled wine at Christmas and a barbeque in the summer. She could never quite make up her mind if it was for the benefit of the cops or if he just wanted to show off his house. It was an elegant Victorian property in the leafy Grange district of Edinburgh and he had the wife to match. Alison Gibson with her thick hair and well-cut clothes was every bit the DCI’s wife. Probably fancied herself as a superintendent’s wife, come to that. Clare pondered what might have gone wrong between them. One of them playing away? The DCI didn’t seem the type but you never could tell. Clare wasn’t sure about Alison. Finally, she said, ‘It can’t be easy. You’ve been together a while now.’
‘Almost twenty years. It’s our twentieth wedding anniversary next month.’ He flicked another glance at Clare. ‘Won’t happen now, of course.’
Clare shifted in her seat, feeling for the knob to adjust the angle, more for something to do than anything else. She’d never had this kind of conversation with the DCI and wasn’t sure how much she should ask – if anything. He saved her the trouble.
‘The house will have to go, of course. Neither of us can afford to buy the other out.’
Clare didn’t know what to say. The house was so lovely. No expense spared. Full of richly patterned curtains, thick carpets and – oh –that kitchen! She remembered Alison saying they’d had it custom-made by a kitchen designer in Edinburgh’s Stockbridge. ‘Oh Al,’ she said, at last. ‘Your lovely house.’
He shrugged, slowing down as they reached the village of Dairsie. ‘It’s only a house, Clare. Bricks and mortar.’
Clare reckoned things must have been pretty bad to evoke this reaction. If it had been her house, she’d have wept buckets over it. ‘Can’t have been easy, though,’ she said.
‘Suppose.’
‘Is it on the market?’
‘Sold.’
Clare was shocked. Normally the gossipmongers would have had this news all round the Force. But she hadn’t heard a peep. ‘So soon?’ she said.
‘It’s a good house. Lots of interest and we got way over the asking price which helps with finding somewhere else.’
‘I suppose that’s something. When do you move?’
‘End of next month.’
‘Must be a wrench.’
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘It was an awful thought at first. We’d put so much work into it, Clare. Made it just the way we wanted it. But then Alison moved out and took half the furniture with her. It didn’t really feel like home after that.’ He checked over his shoulder then pulled out to pass a tractor. ‘I’ll be glad to leave.’
So Alison Gibson had moved out. Clare wondered if she had gone to be with someone else. The DCI hadn’t mentioned her having a new partner. For his wife to move out of her lovely house, sh
e must have had a pretty good reason.
‘Where will you go?’ she asked.
He smiled at her. ‘Aberdour.’
‘Aber-where?’
‘It’s a lovely wee village. North edge of the Forth.’
Clare was surprised. ‘Not Edinburgh?’
‘No. I reckoned I was better getting out of the city. Clean break, you know?’
Clare nodded. ‘I suppose. Means you have to cross that bridge every day though. You’re back in Edinburgh now, aren’t you?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Erm, actually not for much longer.’
‘You’re not leaving the Force?’
‘Pfft. I wish. Can’t afford that now. But I have asked to be based in Fife. Once I move house, you know?’
‘Oh!’ The exclamation was out before Clare could stop herself. ‘I mean…’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said smiling for the first time that morning. ‘I won’t tread on your toes, Clare. You’ve no room for me anyway.’
‘So – where?’
‘Dunfermline, probably. It’s a good-sized station. I’m sure they’ll find me a broom cupboard somewhere in the building.’
Clare thought it more likely some poor inspector would be shifted to the broom cupboard to make room for the DCI. But she said nothing. They were approaching Melville Lodges Roundabout now. She wondered which way he would go. South to Edinburgh, probably. But why? Where was it they were going? She searched her memory, trying to recall if there were any strategic meetings planned. Perhaps it was counter-terrorism. But if so…
He cut across her thoughts, evidently deciding a change of subject was in order. ‘Are you following the Phil Quinn trial?’
‘The firearms haul? Yeah, I caught the news last night. Seems to be going okay…’ She glanced at him and saw his lips thin. It was a moment or two before he spoke.
‘There’s such a lot riding on it, Clare.’ He swallowed then went on. ‘Months of work.’
Clare watched him. She couldn’t recall ever seeing the DCI look so anxious about a case. So uncertain. ‘But you have all the weapons – that warehouse.’