Bold Lies

by Bold Lies (retail) (epub)

  ‘Wow, that’s clean, isn’t it?’ she said, studying the wound. Kelly nodded. She scrolled through the photographs. Ted was thorough and had taken close-ups of everything he’d flagged for analysis. They looked at fingernails, nostrils, skin colour, teeth, lip contour, and eye fluid. Then they came to one of his whole face.

  ‘What do you think?’ Kelly asked. ‘Maybe he hadn’t left when the burglars came after all. I’d bet my life that we’re looking at George Murphy.’

  Chapter 8

  Tilly Knight called George’s number again. It was well and truly dead. It wasn’t uncommon for a man of his age to let his mobile phone run out of juice; her dad did it all the time. But she was frustrated. When she got wind of a new story, it wasn’t only her professional interest that was piqued, it was also her livelihood. A freelance journalist’s income was random at the best of times, and she never knew how long she’d have to wait in between jobs until her next cheque. She’d registered as self-employed rather than as a limited company because she didn’t earn enough.

  She tutted angrily and ended the call, then grabbed her sweater and left the flat to go to the corner shop for cigarettes. She had dreams of making a splash in cutting-edge investigative journalism. She envisaged awards, accolades, and documentary-makers begging her to sell her stories to them for million-pound productions snapped up by the big TV networks. At this rate, she’d remain a nobody, shopping at Lidl, wearing the same pair of trainers she’d had for three years and shaving her legs instead of waxing. It wasn’t just about the money, although she did wonder if she’d forever live in a rented two-bedroom flat in Leyton. She was thirty years old, and she had no idea what tomorrow would bring. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; she should have a husband and a couple of kids in a semi-detached house in Hampstead by now, but that life hadn’t come knocking.

  The shop was a mere five-minute walk, as was the Tube station, which was why she’d chosen the flat. The traffic was incessant. It felt sometimes like she lived in the middle of a movie set and she was an extra; the frame went round on a loop of buses, cabs, four-by-fours, commuter shares and police vehicles choking the A12 artery into London, with an action hero about to pop up from behind a red bus, chasing a villain, frustrated by the thick jam of obstacles in his way. Leyton was like that, a concrete suburb dissected by an A road, and it saw its fair share of gun and knife crime. But Tilly kept herself to herself.

  She was well known to the shop proprietor, and he reached for her brand of cigarettes automatically. She picked up some milk and a chocolate bar, paid and left.

  Before George had gone off the radar, he’d given her a few nuggets of information, and it was her intention to pursue those today. She had nothing else in the pipeline for the time being. A women’s magazine had commissioned a piece on the spate of stabbings in the city, but they’d put a tragic spin on it from the point of view of one mother in particular who’d lost her son. It wasn’t a broadsheet, but it paid some bills.

  George had given her an outline of why he wanted to speak to her, as well as his home and work addresses and some concerns he had about the impact his research might have. It could be an interesting piece, but without George, it was dead in the water before she even got her pen out. It might well be a merry dance, but when she’d spoken to him, he hadn’t sounded deceitful in the slightest. He’d come across as genuine, ethical and a little bit scared. To Tilly, investigative journalism at its best revealed some kind of cover-up by the big boys, and an effort to silence the minions. George Murphy believed that he’d been, if not threatened, at least nudged to stop what he was doing.

  The other thing that endeared him to her was that when she’d asked him how he’d found her, he’d replied that he liked one of her articles on Irish abortion legislation. It had touched her. She’d written three articles on the subject and each one had been published online only. When she asked George how he’d come across them, he’d said that he had once been involved in research into the morning-after pill, and it was a subject that he followed closely. The guy knew his stuff. It made sense when she later found out that he worked for Ravensword.

  She walked back to her flat, smoking a cigarette. The nicotine entered her bloodstream and she calmed a little. It was a filthy habit and she wished she could stop, but every time she tried, her craving for the tobacco hit took over and she caved. She sucked hard to finish the damn thing before she reached her flat. She rarely smoked indoors, as per her tenancy agreement, but her bedroom had a tiny balcony for just that purpose, and she used an old catering-size tomato tin as her ashtray. It must have contained hundreds, if not thousands of butts.

  The thought of what she’d put into her lungs was quickly dismissed as she went out onto the balcony and lit another. She sat on the single metal chair and looked at her notes. The sun was high in the sky and the summer promised to be a belter. The noise of the streets below, ever present in her life, buzzed and beeped. She was used to the racket. She’d chosen a second-floor flat to at least be a little farther away from the traffic, but the fumes and dust from the road still drifted upwards, and some days it was too much to have a window open. Today, though, was fairly pleasant.

  She stubbed out the second cigarette and stood up to stretch. She needed a shower before she began to chase the few leads that she’d been given by George. Her first stop would be the library, where she could dig out old copies of medical journals relating to Ravensword’s research. She also wanted to check a few newspaper articles, especially to do with what George had told her about the death of his daughter, fifteen years ago. It was what had got him into his independent pursuit of a ground-breaking cure for her condition. Medical science had tried to save her, but the problem was that they were limited in their outlook.

  Tilly was easily carried away into a rabbit hole of unidentified depths when researching something that stoked her interest. Part of what she loved about her job was that she was forever learning about new subjects, and this was no different. That was why she’d agreed to speak to George again. The case had led her into a labyrinthine world of illness and cure, and what might motivate the acceptance of one drug over another. She’d made a list of specific things to investigate, as she always did, otherwise she’d find herself spending a whole day chasing something to a minute level that wasn’t perhaps needed just now. And there was a lot to cover. George had said that he could supply her with everything she needed, and that was why he’d given her his address.

  ‘Why do you trust me?’ she’d asked him. It was quite clear that he trusted very few people, and she was puzzled as to why he’d share so much in their first conversation.

  ‘You have a kind face,’ was all he’d said. The reply had sent all sorts of alarm bells ringing in Tilly’s head. Firstly, how did he know what she looked like? That was easy: it must be her photograph at the bottom of her articles. Secondly, who had a kind face any more? That one stumped her.

  ‘And you remind me of my daughter.’

  At that point, Tilly had nearly hung up. But she was curious. As always, her inquisitive nature led her on, regardless of the danger she might become embroiled in. The need to seek answers was like a drug; it filled her every waking moment when she was pursuing a story. And she wouldn’t give up until she had what she wanted.

  ‘I can pay you well,’ he said.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds if it’s published.’

  It really was a no-brainer. Images of her hitting the headlines, discussing the case on BBC Breakfast and penning a book flooded her mind. It was that big, George told her.

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘I think they’re on to me.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  Which was another reason why Tilly felt uneasy. She’d seen too many people disappear in the midst of ongoing controversies to not take him seriously. She knew, and she thought George did too, that it was easier to get rid of someone – essentially to rub the
m out – than it was to get a new store card. She’d seen it before. It was something she’d never discussed, and she’d never personally investigated, but she knew without any doubt that it went on, every day, every year, even though no one could prove it. The thought of penetrating a world where that happened was too thrilling an offer for her to resist.

  If George was uncontactable, then she had to consider that, given his story, something alarming might have happened to him. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out that he’d been researching investigative journalists and possibly blowing the whistle. Tilly might already have an expiry date on her head. She tried his number again, and this time it didn’t even give a signal. It simply went silent, as if the phone was no longer in service.

  Before she left for the library, Tilly did something that she hadn’t done in a long time. She wrote to her mother. She figured that a letter was the safest way. She knew she was being melodramatic, but she managed to pen something satisfactory in the end. It was informative enough to give a clue to where she might be found if she went missing, but protected her family from knowing too much.

  After her shower, she smoked another cigarette on her balcony and tied her hair up above her head. Her friends told her that her skin was still so taut and clear because she had no kids waking her up in the middle of the night like they did, sucking the life out of them and ageing them like automatons in a baby factory. It was true: she didn’t look thirty. She applied a little make-up and checked her outfit in the mirror: jeans, T-shirt and a short summer jacket. It wasn’t showy, fashionable or particularly alluring, and that was the point. Miss Ordinary. She put the envelope for her mother in her bag and left the flat.

  Chapter 9

  Kelly was in the middle of eating a sandwich when Ted called with news about the identity of Mr Launch. His dental records had revealed a match to fifty-nine-year-old George Murphy of Wanstead, London E11.

  ‘Thought so,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ Ted sounded disappointed that somebody had beaten him to the information, and Kelly appreciated his keenness. She explained about the burglary at Allerdale House, and how she’d recognised the man from his photograph on the Ravensword website.

  ‘Oh dear, I suppose you’ll have to go to London then?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. We’ll see.’ The thought of returning to her old constabulary filled her with anxiety. It wasn’t something that could be explained, and it wasn’t tangible, in as much that it wasn’t justified, but the thought of seeing former colleagues and meeting acquaintances she’d rather forget was unsettling. The problem was that the man had been murdered on her patch, and so somebody would have to go, and she couldn’t imagine sending anyone else. It was protocol in such circumstances for the SIO to lead or at least support an investigation into the man’s life before they could establish the circumstances surrounding his death.

  But first they had to visit Allerdale House.

  ‘So, are you thinking burglary goes wrong? That this man disturbed them? It certainly was a nice little pile of valuables that was taken,’ Ted said.

  ‘The best part of half a million, I reckon.’

  He whistled. ‘Unusual for here. Why do you think he was moved?’

  ‘To clean up forensically. Crime scenes are much more helpful to the police than dump scenes. It’s quite clever really, and indicates further that we’re dealing with professionals rather than just a bungled burglary. Could you establish time of death?’

  ‘Definitely some time on Sunday night.’

  They hung up. Now that Kelly had final proof of George’s ID, they could proceed with haste. She wanted to know the relationship between the dead man and the owner of Allerdale House, and why he was here in the Lakes, so far away from home. An annual fishing trip sounded too convenient. DC Hide’s investigation into the robbery had already established that there was no sign of forced entry to the main house and nothing was missing, but the doors were unlocked.

  Kelly welcomed the distraction of a new case. Her mother’s house had finally been sold, and she didn’t know how she felt about it. It was a relief in some ways, but it had been her family home, where she’d grown up, and it was as if a piece of her would be forever gone when the cheque was cashed. Wendy hadn’t had a mortgage, or any debt, so Kelly’s half of the money would be in her account in around three week’s time. She was suddenly a wealthy woman. Her mind wandered back to the idea of an extravagant celebration for her and Johnny’s birthdays next year, and she knew that her mother would approve.

  She sighed and went to get Emma Hide from next door. Sebastian Montague-Roland was newly arrived from London and she wanted to meet him. His family had owned Allerdale for seven generations. The house had been built before the First World War with money from the British Empire. The first Montague-Roland was a Scot who pioneered a sand-proof locomotive engine in South Africa, invaluable to Cecil Rhodes’ mining kingdom. From there, he’d invested in shipping and the first jet engines, both lucrative trades after 1914. Clever deals and traditional Scottish frugality meant that by the depression of the thirties, the Montague-Rolands were able to ride the wave and emerge unscathed.

  It was an unusual coupling – a scientist from the East End and a man of Montague-Roland’s connections – and Kelly was ruling nothing out. There was money to be made in science, and she wondered how far Sebastian’s investments had taken him into that world. All they knew at the moment was that George Murphy had been a family friend, who’d loved fishing and escaping the city. It was a long way to come for clean air, unless he had other connections to Cumbria, perhaps. A search of his background told them nothing new. He was divorced and had no surviving children. His fifteen-year-old daughter had died tragically from complications arising from drug addiction fifteen years ago: about the time George had started to work for Ravensword. He’d left no will, and a sizeable pension, so there was money to be had from his death. But for whom? She wanted to visit Ravensword herself right away, but that would have to wait. A phone call had confirmed that George had an impeccable history at the pharmaceutical giant, and that he was well liked there.

  Allerdale House was remote, but they were still hoping for sightings of vehicles capable of removing the missing items. It would have taken more than one, as well as more than one pair of hands.

  It was a pleasant drive to Derwent Water. Emma drove while Kelly updated her iPad and stole glances at the countryside and the lake. It was a serene lake, but busier than Ullswater and more accessible. She’d seen more of it this year than ever, thanks to Graeme’s sailing lessons. Which reminded her, she needed to call him. She dialled his number and he answered quickly.

  ‘Hi, Graeme, how are you doing?’

  Emma remained quiet and listened to the conversation.

  ‘We have a name,’ Kelly told him. ‘George Murphy. He was staying at Allerdale House. I’m surprised no one saw him, he was there for a week.’

  Graeme agreed that it was strange that no one had spotted the visitor, but pointed out that the estate was large enough for someone to remain there undetected. Kelly thanked him and hung up.

  ‘That’s odd,’ she said out loud.

  Emma looked at her boss. ‘What, guv?’

  ‘The 999 call for the burglary came in pretty rapidly considering no one had spotted a man staying there for a week. Who made the original call, do we know?’

  ‘I don’t believe they gave a name, guv.’

  Emma turned off the main road and entered the single track that led to the car park for Cat Bells. The tiny peak was a favourite with families, and the route was busy already. Kelly could see the snaking line of bright jackets making its way up to the top: the best view of Derwent and beyond. It was a good training run for Johnny, because it had a path all the way up, it was usually clear, and it was a sharp ascent. She’d been up there a few times with him, and tourists had stared at them as if they were lunatics. They turned off again, down a private lane, and came to large wooden gates and a
slate sign reading: Allerdale House. Private.

  There was an intercom and Kelly rang it, introducing herself. Sebastian Montague-Roland was expecting them. The gates opened and Emma drove through slowly.

  ‘Christ, there’s some money around here, guv.’

  Most of the tourists visiting the National Park never saw this side of the Lakes and had no idea that a lot of the land was privately owned, dished out by nobles since the time of William the Conqueror and maintained by the mining of stone and valuable minerals until there was none left. Allerdale House was resplendent in its surety. The grey slate gave an austere feel, but the grandeur of the design itself said otherwise. Beams, gables and sloping roofs framed the vast house, surrounded by pretty gardens and thoughtful features. The place stank of money. Many of the notable houses in the Lakes had been sold to rich bankers from London, or royalty from the Middle East, but a few, like this one, had remained in the hands of the original owners. It must cost a fortune to maintain.

  They went to the main door, which was answered before they were able to knock. A man in his forties stood there, and they could see police uniforms behind him. He held out his hand.

  ‘Sebastian Montague-Roland. Come inside and join the Cumbria Constabulary party, Detective Porter.’ It was a peculiar welcome, given the severity of the circumstances.

  Montague-Roland was immaculately dressed and, like the house itself, finely styled and richly adorned. He wore an expensive watch and his skin was tanned. His hair was greying at the temples and his teeth were straight and white. Kelly peered at his shoes, which were clearly hand-made. He walked into the house and Kelly and Emma followed him, looking up at the grand rafters. Light shafted in from every angle; the architecture was nothing short of genius. The floors were of highly polished wood, with elaborate heavy rugs scattered around; Kelly thought them to be Persian. The decor was sparse because the walls were mostly exposed, but the furniture and upholstery were lavish.