Lies to Tell

by Marion Todd

  Lily’s brow furrowed. ‘Actually, he seemed a bit upset. I thought maybe he’d had a fight with someone. You know – maybe someone he was seeing.’ She began examining her nails. ‘Suppose it didn’t help me laying into him about the coffee.’

  ‘Did he say anything that made you think he’d had a fight with someone?’ Chris asked.

  Lily turned to Chris. ‘Not really. But he’s quite sensitive, Marek. If someone had given him the brush-off or even been a bit sharp with him, he’d have felt it, you know?’

  ‘Did you ever meet another student called Johannes Muller?’ Clare asked.

  They watched Lily carefully.

  ‘Oh yes. That’s Marek’s friend. I think they know each other from school. They’re both Swiss, you see. I mean, I don’t see him that often. Our lectures are at different times. But he’s nice, Johannes. They both are. Very polite. Nice manners, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Could Johannes be Marek’s boyfriend?’ Clare asked, being careful not to use the past tense.

  Lily frowned, then said, ‘No, I don’t think so. They’re together a lot but not in that way.’

  ‘Okay, thanks Lily.’ Clare rose. ‘Could you show us Marek’s room please?’

  The girl frowned. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. I mean…’

  Clare cut across her. ‘Lily, we have reason to believe Marek may be in some danger so…’

  ‘Danger? What danger?’ Lily’s hand went instinctively to her throat. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘That’s what we don’t know. So the more we can find out about him the better.’

  Lily rose from her seat and led them back out to the hall and opened another door. ‘This is Marek’s room.’

  Chris thanked Lily and they entered the room, closing the door behind them. The curtains were drawn and Clare moved to the window to pull them open. ‘South-facing,’ she said, as sunlight filled the room. She looked round. It was far tidier than the sitting room. ‘Okay, gloves on. I’ll start with the desk. You take the bed.’

  Chris sighed. ‘Why do I always have to do the bed? Why don’t I do the desk and you do the smelly bit?’

  ‘Because I’m the DI and you’re the DS. Now get those covers off.’

  They had barely started when Clare’s phone went. Neil Grant.

  ‘Hi, Neil. What you got for me?’

  ‘Definitely murder, Clare, but I’m guessing that’s not much of a surprise.’

  ‘No,’ Clare admitted. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Asphyxiation. He was strangled, Clare. Not much evidence of a struggle. There’s a contusion to the back of his head where I believe he was pushed hard against a stone wall. Bruising to the face, a cut above his eye. I think he was assaulted which would have made him woozy. Then a ligature was wound round his neck and pulled.’

  Clare thought back to the body, dumped just off the drive that led to Craigtoun Park and, despite her years in the Force, she shivered, picturing Johannes’s last moments. Then she gathered her wits. ‘Type of ligature, Neil?’

  ‘Rope. Most likely polypropylene. There’s a pretty good imprint round his neck. If you pressed me, I’d say around eight or nine millimetres.’

  Clare scribbled this down then asked, ‘How long had he been there?’

  ‘Hmm. That’s trickier, Clare. He certainly didn’t die there. Now I can’t tell you when he was brought to the park but, in terms of when he died, rigor had subsided and there was some bloating.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘I’d say somewhere between four and six days, judging by the temperatures we’ve been having.’

  Clare counted back. ‘Could he have died on Friday?’

  ‘Definitely not. Thursday at a push but more likely Wednesday.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve done tox tests?’

  ‘Clare! You know better than to ask that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Takes weeks. I just wondered if there was anything that might suggest he was a user.’

  ‘There wasn’t so much as a lager shandy in his stomach so he hadn’t been drinking. And, if it helps, he was in excellent health so if he was a drug user I’d say he wasn’t a serious addict. Certainly no track marks. And that’s all I’m saying until the tox results are back.’

  Clare thanked Neil and ended the call. She turned to Chris and began to relay the conversation then she saw that he was holding out a black and yellow Scarpa mountaineering boot. She peered inside the boot, taking in the its contents.

  ‘Get it bagged and let’s see what else Marek Schmidt’s been hiding.’

  Chapter 14

  It was seven o’clock by the time Clare returned to the station. She had sent a message to Moira, her neighbour, who had replied, saying she would feed Benjy and take him out for another walk. The bundle of ten and twenty-pound notes Chris had found stuffed in Marek’s mountaineering boot were well-used and there would probably be too many fingerprints for the lab to analyse quickly enough.

  ‘Even if they find a print from someone already on the system,’ Chris said, ‘it proves nothing. Think how many notes pass through our own hands.’

  Clare had agreed but told Chris to count the notes with gloves on. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Just over a thousand pounds,’ he said, a few minutes later, placing the notes carefully back in the evidence bag.

  Clare had requested sight of both Marek and Johannes’s bank and credit card statements while a clearly frightened Lily Keillor had given a statement, denying any knowledge of the money.

  Back in her office now, Clare picked up the mouse to bring her computer to life then stopped when there was a tap at the door.

  Before she could call out it opened and Jim appeared. ‘Clare—’ he began.

  ‘Jim! You should have gone home hours ago. You’ve been on duty since early morning. You know I don’t have the overtime budget for this.’

  He looked wounded. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be paid,’ he snapped back.

  Clare stared at him. In the year or so she’d been working at St Andrews there hadn’t been so much as a cross word between them. Jim was the most placid and reliable of all her staff. ‘Oh Jim, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Of course you weren’t.’

  He stiffened. ‘I was waiting to have a word. But I can see it’s not a good time.’ He made to leave, his hand on the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Clare said, rising from her seat. ‘Please, Jim – I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ She pulled a chair out from the wall. ‘Sit down for a minute.’

  He hesitated then he moved and sat down, his back still ramrod straight.

  Clare pulled her own chair round the desk and sat next to him. ‘Jim – I am sorry. You’re the last person I should have a go at. To be honest, I don’t know what I’d do without you here. You keep it all together. So – please – let’s have that word. What’s on your mind?’

  Jim looked down at the floor for a minute as though wrestling with what to say. Then he found his voice. ‘I’m wondering if it’s time I should be retiring, Clare. Time I packed it in.’

  Clare’s eyes widened and her thoughts went immediately to Jim’s wife who had suffered a debilitating stroke the previous summer. ‘Oh Jim. What’s brought this on? It’s not Mary, is it? I thought she was doing a bit better now.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘Mary’s fine, thanks, Clare. Her sister comes round most days when I’m at work and she goes to this group organised by the physio. A bit of exercise and a lot of cake, from what I can see.’

  Clare smiled. ‘That sounds quite positive. So – if it’s not Mary…’

  He hesitated, opened his mouth to speak but seemed to be struggling for the right words.

  Clare waited. Better to let him say it in his own time.

  Finally, he said, ‘It’s me, Clare. I don’t think I’m as sharp as I used to be.’

  ‘Rubbish! Jim, you know everything there is to know about this town. You’re the best sergeant I’ve ever worked with.’

  ‘You’re very k
ind, Clare, but—’

  ‘What is it, Jim? What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Well, it’s that young lad – the one who came to report his friend missing.’ He shook his head. ‘I let him go, Clare. I knew there was something funny about him and I let him go. I should have put him in an interview room and talked to him properly. But I was busy – it had been a busy morning – and when he said he needed to go to the gents, well it was a relief, to be honest. I thought, while he was away, I could maybe deal with someone else in the queue. So I pointed him in the direction of the toilets – and then he never came back. Now you’ve found his friend murdered. Maybe he’s in danger too, Clare. And I could have kept him here. Found out a bit more about him. And now, well, if something happens to him—’

  Clare put a hand on her sergeant’s arm. ‘Jim, you couldn’t have stopped him. It’s a free country. If he chose to walk into the station then walk back out again, there’s nothing you, or I, or anyone could have done to stop him.’

  ‘I used to be good at it, Clare,’ Jim went on. ‘Persuading them to stay, sussing out when they were keeping something back. Working with them and getting them to trust me.’ He shook his head again. ‘I’m losing my touch.’

  Clare met his eye. ‘Jim, I won’t have you blaming yourself for this. Even if he had stayed to complete his report he’d have left eventually. And then he would probably have gone… well, wherever he has gone.’

  Jim inclined his head. ‘Maybe…’

  ‘Honestly, Jim, you haven’t done anything I wouldn’t have done myself. So please – let’s hear no more about retiring. Please?’

  He flushed and then he managed a smile. ‘Och, I’m not that good, Clare.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re rubbish really. But you do make a decent cup of tea! Now, for goodness sake get yourself home to Mary.’

  He rose and replaced his chair against the wall. ‘If you insist. And thanks, Clare.’ He turned to leave.

  Clare suddenly remembered Johannes’s body still hadn’t been identified. ‘Oh Jim – any luck with the lad’s parents?’

  He nodded. ‘Flying in tonight. They’re booked into a hotel in the town and I’ve said we’ll send a car over for them in the morning.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Jim.’

  He went out, closing the door, and Clare reached into her bag for the spicy chicken wrap she had picked up from Tesco on her way back from Kinnessburn Road. She took a bite from the wrap then, still chewing, went out into the main office. ‘I need someone to get over to Johannes Muller’s flat to go through his things,’ she said, looking round. ‘And we need a lock put on his bedroom door to keep the flatmates out.’

  Gillian and Robbie, back from their vigil at the park, indicated they would do that.

  ‘And look out for any stashes of money,’ she called after them. ‘Bag up anything remotely suspicious.’

  With the pair gone, Clare began making a list for the following morning. Johannes’s parents would have to be taken to the mortuary in Dundee to identify the body. Marek’s other flatmate, Paul Jessop, would have to be interviewed. Then there was the press office, hounding her for a statement, and someone needed to speak to Johannes’s flatmates. ‘Chris, can you get Gillian on the phone please? Ask her to tell Johannes Muller’s flatmates to be at home – let’s say about nine, tomorrow morning. I’d like to interview them.’

  Chris was in the process of shutting down his computer. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Then get off home,’ Clare said. ‘It’s been a long day. I’ll just update the night inspector then I’m off home myself. Back in at seven tomorrow, everyone.’

  They didn’t need to be told twice and the station emptied quickly. They were all tired and glad to be going home. Clare was tired too. She went back into her office and sat down at her desk for a few minutes, relishing the peace. Gayle had also left, back to her hotel, presumably. Clare wondered where she was staying. She hadn’t mentioned it. No doubt somewhere expensive like the Old Course. Nice work if you could get it.

  She tapped out an email to the night inspector then decided she could do no more. Out in the car park she smiled at the sight of the Merc. It was so lovely and she reminded herself this was one of the reasons she worked so hard. She climbed in and eased it out of the car park towards Daisy Cottage and the excitable Benjy.

  * * *

  In spite of his walk with Moira, Benjy was full of beans when she opened the door. He flung himself against her legs then ran round and round, making her progress to the kitchen hazardous.

  She was still full of spicy chicken wrap and, frankly, too tired to cook anything. Her eye fell on the almost-empty bottle of red on the kitchen table and she poured the dregs into a glass. She took this through to the sitting room and, replacing the rug Benjy had again kicked across the floor, she put the wine down and took up her laptop. She sank back into the sofa and immediately noticed the absence of her favourite red cushion, a house-warming gift from her sister, Jude. She looked round the room and saw it over by the window on another chair. Benjy and those cushions! Usually he left them scattered on the floor but this was a new trick. She stood to retrieve the cushion and held it out to him. ‘Leave it alone,’ she said, trying to sound stern. He wagged his tail in response and Clare resumed her seat on the sofa, tucking the cushion in at her back.

  She pulled the laptop onto her knee and clicked to open Facebook. Glancing at her news feed she saw that Geoffrey was eating swordfish in a harbour cafe. She read the caption:

  Fish with friends

  ‘Well, bully for you, Geoff,’ she muttered, clicking on the search box and starting to type Alastair Gibson’s name. There were no new updates since his parkrun on Saturday and she felt an odd sense of disappointment. She had enjoyed a peep into her DCI’s private life, seeing another side to someone who, hitherto, had been no more than her boss. She was about to click on his photos when suddenly there was a ping. A private message from him. She felt her face redden. He couldn’t possibly know she was browsing his profile, could he? Surely the message was just coincidence. Was she turning into a stalker, for goodness sake? Her finger hovered over the message but she didn’t immediately click to open it. Best not seem too keen, she decided. And then she gave herself a shake. She was acting like a teenager, for God’s sake. She drained the contents of her glass and clicked to read the message.

  Quite a day. Hope you got home all right.

  Clare sent a reply saying she was just home and, yes, it had been quite a day. She saw that he had read the message then she watched as the tell-tale dots indicated he was typing a reply.

  Glass of red?

  She typed back:

  Of course!

  Seconds later he replied with a wine glass emoticon. She stared at the screen for a few more minutes then the green dot beside his name disappeared. She sat back on the sofa, wondering how he was spending his evening. Was he likewise perched on his sofa, tapping away at his laptop, perhaps sending private messages to other colleagues? Did he even still have a sofa or had Alison taken that with her?

  She clicked to close Facebook and felt vaguely unsettled. She began browsing the BBC News website and saw that the Phil Quinn trial had heard evidence about the cache of weapons recovered. Suddenly she felt uneasy and she wondered if Tamsin was still safe and sound in her Market Street flat. She thought about texting Wendy then decided she would leave it. If there was a problem she’d hear about it soon enough.

  Her eye fell on the empty glass and she considered opening another bottle. But she was tired now and had an early start in the morning. She closed the laptop and rose from the sofa, carrying her glass into the kitchen. Then she opened the back door for Benjy to have a last pee in the garden. As he wandered back towards the house he stopped suddenly and his ears went back. His gaze was focused towards a neglected flower bed beside the fence that bordered the woods, and he gave a low growl. Clare looked across but it was dusk now and she could see nothing. Perhaps it was rabbits or some other snuffling creature
beginning its night-time activities. Either way, she didn’t want him taking off into the night. She gave a sharp whistle and he trotted obediently back into the house, settling down in his basket. She ruffled him behind the ears then turned out the lights and climbed the stairs to bed.

  Tuesday, 19 May

  Chapter 15

  They gathered in the briefing room just after half past seven. The room, usually home to a handful of cops at one time, was busy with plain-clothes and uniformed officers occupying every available chair, some perched on the corners of desks. The blinds had been closed against the morning sun and, early as it was, the mercury was climbing. At the front of the room, on the whiteboard, Clare had pinned a photo of Johannes Muller. He was dark-haired with a swarthy complexion and he stared back at them, his blue eyes unsmiling.

  ‘Johannes Muller,’ Clare said, indicating the photo. ‘Twenty-one years of age, a native of Lucerne in Switzerland. Student at the university here, studying…’ She broke off.

  ‘Physics,’ put in Jim.

  Clare nodded her thanks. She was relieved there seemed to be no sign of the self-doubt Jim had displayed the previous evening. She turned back to the photo. ‘Cause of death was asphyxiation, probably with a rope. He’d been knocked about a bit then strangled. The pathologist and SOCO both think he was killed elsewhere, possibly somewhere in the town, but that’s a guess, to be honest. After death he was transported, somehow, to Craigtoun Park and his body dumped a few hundred yards inside the park gates. It’s a long drive, lined with trees and bushes, so plenty of opportunity to dump a body without being observed.’

  Sara raised a hand. ‘Nothing from the lodge house, boss.’

  ‘Okay, thanks Sara.’

  Gillian asked, ‘Do we know when he was killed?’

  ‘Not exactly. Probably the middle of last week, say between Tuesday and Thursday. But they can’t be more precise than that. So I need you all to go through any reports of a disturbance last week.’