Lies to Tell

by Marion Todd

  The sight of her car, shiny and sleek, brought a smile back to her face. Clare clicked the remote control and the doors unlocked with a reassuring clunk. She eased the car out of its space and headed back to Daisy Cottage and her dog Benjy.

  * * *

  She was welcomed by Benjy who brought her the remains of a yellow duster she had left on a bookcase. She held it out for him to see and he responded with furious wagging of his tail. ‘Honestly, Benjy,’ she said, throwing the duster in the bin.

  She wandered into the kitchen, leafing through the mail to see if there was anything of interest, but it was mostly bills. There was an estimate from a joiner for some odd jobs she needed done around the cottage with a Post-it attached stating he was booked up for the next couple of months and to give him a call if she wanted him to put it in the diary. She ran through the list of jobs on the estimate and concluded only a couple of them were urgent. The hinges on her garden gate were threatening to pull away from the post and there was that gap in the sitting room floorboards that the wind whistled through on cold nights. A nursery rhyme from her childhood days came back to her:

  For the want of a nail…

  She decided it would be better to try and find someone else to do these jobs before they ended up as major repairs.

  The usual scribbled note from her neighbour Moira confirmed Benjy had enjoyed his walk and that she’d be round at the same time tomorrow.

  ‘What would we do without Moira?’ Clare asked Benjy who was chasing his tail round and round the sitting room. She put the letters down on the kitchen table and her eye fell once more on the postcard from Geoffrey. Suddenly, she was outstandingly tired. She stepped out of her shoes, kicking them across the floor and opened the fridge. A cottage pie from M&S stood alone on the shelf and Clare made a mental note to get some shopping in over the weekend. She pierced the film with a fork and set the microwave to high. Then she took a bottle of red from the wine rack and uncorked it, pouring herself a large glass. As she waited for the pie to heat she tapped a quick message to Wendy. The reply came back just as the microwave pinged. Clare opened the oven door and the aroma of the pie began to fill the kitchen. She checked her phone and saw that all was well. Wendy had left Tamsin watching TV, safely locked in for the night. Clare spooned the pie out onto a plate and, carrying plate and glass to the dining table, she sat down to eat. From eighty miles away she could sense her mother’s disapproval at her microwave meal. But then her mother hadn’t been career-minded, staying at home to look after Clare and her sister while her father had gone out to work. Always a home-cooked meal on the table. Six o’clock every evening.

  ‘Ach well,’ she said to Benjy, who was lying contentedly on the fireside rug, chewing a rubber bone. He wagged his tail at the sound of her voice but carried on attacking the bone.

  The pie eaten, Clare poured herself another glass of red and moved to her desk to power up her laptop. She opened her emails to see if there had been a message from Geoffrey but there was nothing. She had a vague idea he might be on a spring break but maybe she was wrong. She clicked to open Facebook. No notifications. She moved to Geoffrey’s profile and saw there were six new photos. The first two were of a tall granite tower and he had added a caption indicating it was The Pilgrim Monument. She flicked quickly past these, onto the next few photos – Geoffrey smiling in a faded blue T-shirt and shorts, Geoffrey with a group of friends, Geoffrey sipping from a beer bottle. His smile was so broad and familiar that her heart lurched at the sight of him. If only she had accepted the invitation to go to Boston. She might be in these photos, alongside him in a sundress, sipping beer with the Atlantic Ocean for a backdrop. She zoomed in and scrutinised the group in the photos. Males and females. Arms around each other. She studied the woman who was next to him. She and Geoffrey were standing quite close. They were bunched up for the photo but she couldn’t see their arms. Were they tucked round each other’s waists? Clare reached for her wine glass and took a slug. Had Geoffrey – who she thought she loved and who she had thought loved her – replaced her with a younger, blonder model with teeth like a toothpaste advert? She found she had a lump in her throat and she took another drink from her glass. Tears were pricking her eyes now and she clicked back to her own profile. The laptop pinged and a red number one appeared at the top of the screen. She had a friend request. She clicked to see who it was and it took a moment to register.

  Al Gibson.

  She had a friend request from her DCI. DCI Alastair Gibson who, that very morning, had told her he was in the throes of a divorce. If anything, Clare was amazed he even had Facebook. He was far more your LinkedIn type of guy. Her hand hovered over the Accept button then she hesitated and topped up her wine. Rather than accept him, she navigated to his profile but he had chosen maximum privacy and she couldn’t see much at all.

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ and she clicked to accept his request. Carrying the laptop over to the sofa, she placed her wine on a nearby table and settled down to browse his profile. Benjy jumped up to join her on the sofa but she was too focused on Facebook to scold him. She was surprised to see how sporty Al Gibson was. There were photos of him in a rugby scrum, standing in a wet suit on the edge of a loch, crossing the finish line at the Loch Ness Marathon. And there were family photos too. An elderly couple Clare presumed were his parents and another man and woman, so like him they had to be his brother and sister. Clare had only a vague recollection of Alison Gibson but it looked as if all photos of them as a couple were missing. She moved to his Friends List and searched for Alison. No results. It obviously hadn’t been an amicable split if he’d rubbed her completely out of his life.

  The laptop pinged again and Clare saw she had a private message. It was him.

  Hope you’re okay after today. Bit challenging. ☺

  She pondered this. In all the years she’d known the DCI he’d been – well – standoffish; a bit superior. But then, after those hit-and-run murders last year when he’d been the Senior Investigating Officer, he’d softened a bit towards her. But she’d still thought it stopped short at mutual respect. A professional working relationship. And now here he was sending her private Facebook messages. It was all a bit odd. She mulled over her response, finally typing:

  Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Got it all sorted in the end. X

  Dammit! She’d automatically hit the X, sending him a kiss. The way she ended messages with her sister and close friends. Was she better ignoring it? No, she couldn’t. He’d read her message now and was typing back. Quickly she began typing:

  Oops sorry – hit the X by mistake. Meant to send a smiley face.

  And to emphasise this, she sent a smiley face after the message. He had stopped typing now and had read her second message. There was a pause for a minute and then he too sent back a smiley face. Clare wondered what he had been typing when she had said the X was a mistake. Hopefully not an X in return. She logged off quickly hoping he would see she was offline and she shut the laptop down for the night.

  ‘Better get to bed before we do anything else wrong,’ she said to Benjy and she opened the back door to let him out for a last pee.

  Saturday, 16 May

  Chapter 8

  Clare had forgotten to turn off her alarm on Friday night and it sounded as usual at half past six on Saturday morning. She reached for it, groggy from the wine and finally succeeded in switching it off. She squinted at her phone to make sure it was Saturday then scrolled to see if she had any messages. None.

  She put her phone back on the bedside table and buried her head under the duvet again. But the May sunshine was peeping through the curtains and lighting up the room. She had deliberately chosen this room for her bedroom because it would catch the morning sun but now, a month from midsummer and desperate for a longer sleep, she was regretting this decision. In the end she gave in and by just after seven she was sitting at her kitchen table in an old tracksuit munching on toast and butter. She flicked idly through her phone, checking on the news, the weeke
nd weather, and then she opened her emails. She scanned past the usual junk messages and her heart rose. There was an email from Geoffrey. The subject was

  Hey You.

  ‘Hey to you too,’ she said to the email. She fetched her laptop from the sofa where she’d left it last night and powered it up to read the email more easily. The message took a minute or two to open and, when it did, Clare saw it was full of photos, similar to the ones he’d shared on Facebook.

  It was a lengthy message, chatting about work, his classes, how different the students were to the Scottish ones, his trip to Provincetown – Did you get my postcard? What about those buildings? Aren’t they fab?! – and his friends there. His new friends in Boston. Names Clare didn’t know and, frankly, didn’t want to know. They were all too bloody smiley and tanned. Clare’s suntan from last year’s holiday in France had long since faded. But this lot were straight out of a holiday brochure. She read on:

  Term’s almost over here. Not sure of my plans – a few options to consider. But I’d like to fit in some travel.

  Maybe go north from Boston. Fancy joining me?

  You must be due some leave and you’d love it here.

  Think about it, Clare. I’d love to show you round.

  Better get to bed. Late night at a harbour bar. Love to Benjy,

  G XXXXX

  Love to Benjy? Was he having a laugh? What about love to her? Clare bit into her toast and chewed on. She thought back to the DCI’s question yesterday:

  Are you still together?

  ‘I’m damned if I know,’ she said to Benjy. And she rose to clear away her breakfast dishes.

  * * *

  Later, having washed up and showered, she made a list:

  Benjy – walk

  Food shopping

  Phone joiner

  Phone Jude

  Find a gardener

  And then she remembered Tamsin. She picked up her phone and tapped a message.

  Sleep well?

  The reply came a few minutes later.

  Not really. But I’ll get used to it.

  Not surprising, Clare thought. She tapped back.

  Wendy should be with you soon.

  Tamsin sent back an OK in reply. Clare decided not to respond. It was her weekend, after all, and if Steve Robins was to be believed, there were plenty of cops keeping an eye on the Market Street flat.

  She whistled to Benjy and, picking up his lead, opened the back door. He came trotting out after her and she stood for a minute, enjoying the morning sun. It was going to be warm and she thought again of Tamsin, stuck in that flat on this lovely May morning. She surveyed her garden. It had been well laid out at one time, with deep borders down either side and fences behind. Smaller borders spilled onto a path of the same Caithness flagstones that sat beneath the kitchen window. There was a long strip of grass that had been well-tended when Clare had first viewed Daisy Cottage but now she could see that, while she had cut it the previous week, she’d forgotten to trim the edges and they had grown long and untidy.

  The previous occupants had left some terracotta pots, a variety of shapes and sizes, weathered with age. But looking at them now she saw they were choked with chickweed. She reached down and pulled at a clump and it came away in her hand, sprinkling earth at her feet. Her brown bin where she put garden waste was full now with grass clippings and she fired the clump of weeds over the fence into the woods beyond. She remembered the polystyrene trays of plants for sale at the garden centre where she and the DCI had eaten lunch the previous day. They would have added a splash of colour to the pots. But she didn’t want to think about that lunch – about their meeting with Gayle Crichton. Gayle and the unsettling prospect of what her investigations might uncover.

  She looked back at the borders. The weeds were taking over at an alarming rate and she determined to find a gardener before it got any worse. The DCI had offered to help but she wasn’t sure about that. She had felt a bit uncomfortable on Friday, listening to him talking about his divorce. Maybe best to keep him at arm’s length, until things had settled down. ‘Maybe Moira will know someone,’ she said to Benjy. He wagged his tail at the mention of Moira. Moira meant walks in the woods and Benjy liked that.

  ‘Well you’re stuck with me today,’ she told him and, locking the back door, she headed down the path and out through the gate at the end. Benjy scampered off to explore the wood and Clare strolled on behind, the fresh air helping to clear her head. The wood was alive with birdsong and there were patches of bluebells and cowslips attracting honey bees. It was a perfect morning for a walk. She came to a tree stump and sat on the edge for a minute while Benjy snuffled in the undergrowth. She took out her phone and opened Facebook. There were a few notifications but nothing that interested her. With one eye on Benjy, she navigated her way to Al Gibson’s page and saw that he was doing a parkrun that morning. Probably one of the Edinburgh runs, she thought, wondering which would be the closest to his house in the Grange. She had done a few of the Glasgow parkruns when she worked there but never Edinburgh.

  She returned to her perusal of his page.

  Hoping for a PB, he had commented.

  Clare wondered what his PB might be. He was taller than her. Bigger boned, too. Not built for distance but he wasn’t overweight either; and with all those photos of him in wetsuits and cycling gear, she thought he was probably quite fit. Maybe he was a fast runner. She stood up from the tree stump, whistled to Benjy and carried on round their usual circuit. It had been a while since she’d done a parkrun. But Craigtoun Park was just along the road. She checked her watch. Ten to eight. She had time. She quickened her pace and Benjy followed suit, running ahead of her.

  By eight fifteen she was back in the cottage. Benjy settled himself on the kitchen floor as usual to enjoy the morning sun while Clare hunted through drawers to find her parkrun barcodes. Eventually she unearthed them in the zip pocket of her running shorts.

  The St Andrews parkrun was popular and the car park was filling up when Clare arrived. The park, originally part of a large country estate, was a magnet for families, with its large stretches of grass, miniature railway, boating lake and play areas. It was popular with park runners too and a large group had already gathered round the start, some jogging on the spot, others chatting. There were serious runners among them, judging by their attire and the chunky Garmins round their wrists, while others were preparing to jog holding onto three-wheeled prams and dog leads. The sun was high in the sky now and there was little wind so Clare peeled off her hooded top and tied it round her waist. As she began stretching her legs she heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Hello, Clare.’

  She turned to see Diane Wallace, decked out in a fuchsia-pink vest top and navy shorts, her thick dark hair scraped up in a high ponytail. Diane, her good friend and colleague from the Tech Support office in Glenrothes. The same Diane that Gayle Crichton had warned Clare against speaking to about the security leak. Despite their friendship, Clare was momentarily flustered. ‘Oh, Diane!’ she said, wondering what else she could say.

  Diane grinned. ‘Bet you didn’t expect to see me here.’

  ‘Er, no. I mean I’ve not been for a few months…’ Clare said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not my usual, Clare. I tend to go to one nearer home. Lochore Meadows. But I fancied a change. I’ve heard it’s a good course here. Just the one short hill.’

  Clare’s mind was racing. Was it a coincidence? Diane turning up here the day after Tamsin Quinn was taken to a safe house in St Andrews, and two days before Gayle Crichton was due to start her investigations? Was there even more to it than Gayle had said? Could Diane be working for Gayle and Gayle’s warning not to speak to her a test of Clare’s discretion? Or was Diane, with her superior technical knowledge, actually part of the surveillance team guarding Tamsin?

  And then she gave herself a shake. She was getting carried away with the whole thing. She’d known Diane for years. Since her days at Maryhill Police Station in Glasgow when Diane
had been seconded there. But, if Diane wasn’t working with Gayle – wasn’t part of her investigation – how long would it be before she realised something was going on? She was so sharp. She would spot any unusual activity on the network straight away. Was it worth taking Diane into her confidence? And then she recalled Gayle’s warning: ‘I’ll have your warrant card.’

  As much as Clare knew that Diane was completely reliable, Gayle didn’t strike her as someone to mess with. She put these outlandish theories to the back of her mind and gave Diane a smile. ‘Yeah, it’s a good course. The hill’s not too bad. Three circuits and a bit tacked onto the end.’

  Diane smiled. ‘Sounds good.’

  Clare returned her smile. ‘I’ll have to come down your way one day. Try out the Lochore course.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  She racked her brains for something else to say. Something noncommittal. She wanted to avoid the subject of work but it was what they had in common and she decided it would seem odd not to mention it. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Busy as ever then?’

  ‘Clare, you’ve no idea. I’ve been a member of staff down for three months now. Apparently I’m getting someone on Monday but it’ll take weeks to clear the backlog. You know what it’s like – the jobs keep coming; and everything’s urgent.’

  She carried on chatting but Clare had stopped listening. Someone new starting on Monday. Was this Gayle Crichton’s doing? Was she putting a spy in Diane’s camp? Or was there some other reason the vacancy in Tech Support was suddenly filled, after months of Diane asking?