Bold Lies

by Bold Lies (retail) (epub)

  The note came up on the screen. Bitch. It was brutally jarring. The female officers visibly shifted in their seats.

  ‘It implies an affair with Mike Hudson, but this is vociferously denied by next of kin. It’s a touchy subject. Sometimes nobody knows that a sexual liaison is in full swing.’ There was a pause, and Kelly felt herself blush again.

  ‘The garage. We know it was rented by George. Why? Forensics have been through it and reported traces of chemicals not designed for anything other than a controlled environment. There was also residue of faeces of an animal not native to the UK. Namely the cyno monkey.’

  Baffled glances travelled around the room and a photograph of a monkey came up on the board. The caption underneath read: Cynomolgus monkey, native to south-east Asia. Commonly known as the crab-eating macaque.

  ‘They were running a lab?’ An officer correctly deduced where Matt was leading them. He nodded.

  ‘I want to know why. Perhaps they found something lucrative, and Skarparis has run off to sell it to the Russians, killing his colleagues for good measure?’

  ‘But why steal an antique rowing boat, and why travel to the Lake District in the first place? Why not wait until George returned home?’ Kelly asked. She couldn’t help herself. Matt had drawn them all in, and she was taken back to years ago, when she’d found it as awe-inspiring as Emma did now.

  ‘A lab coordinator at Ravensword said she had a call from Skarparis yesterday morning enquiring about his colleagues. She said he sounded stressed. We’re checking the company’s CCTV and I think we go with releasing his photograph to the press. He’s Cypriot, isn’t he? Monitor the airports.’

  ‘Who found the bodies of Emily Wilson and Mike Hudson?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘A dog. The garage doors were ajar and it was attracted by the smell. When the owner went to look, he saw them.’

  ‘I used to live near there. There’s CCTV all over the place.’

  ‘Correct. It’s being checked. As is ANPR for both George’s road movements before he went up north, and Skarparis’s. We’re looking at the routes between all the victims’ residences and the available routes to Ravensword and the garage over the last six months.’

  ‘That’s a huge undertaking.’ Kelly appreciated the scale of such a task. It could take months. Matt nodded, as if to say: What did you expect? An irrational thought entered her head, and she stared back at him: was he hoping that she’d be in London for more than a week?

  Four photographs of cars flashed up above them. Identical models to those owned by the lab colleagues. All of them were what Kelly termed grey leads: bog-standard, dull-coloured makes that were probably among hundreds of thousands of identical vehicles produced in the same year. Skarparis owned a black three-door Vauxhall Corsa. George drove a slightly more notable VW Touran in navy blue, while Emily had a silver Nissan Micra. Mike owned the most interesting set of wheels: he drove a new Seat Tarraco, but it looked like all other showy four-by-fours out there, and was dark grey. Kelly knew that some poor sod would spend the next few weeks trawling through ANPR footage looking for standard-coloured, non-descript cars. They all had to do it when they cut their teeth, but it could be mind-numbingly boring.

  ‘DI Porter agrees that we’re looking for a group for the murder of George Murphy, due to the scale of the burglary. A double murder is not usually carried out by a single perp, so we’re applying that to the garage too. Speaking to Alexandros Skarparis is of utmost importance, because he ties them all together. It’s perfectly plausible that he’s terrified and in hiding. He hasn’t been to his home address since Monday.’

  An officer came into the room and handed Matt a piece of paper. He read it, folded it and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at Kelly.

  ‘Alexandros Skarparis boarded a flight to his native Cyprus yesterday evening. We’ll have to get the Home Office involved.’

  Chapter 15

  Tilly was enjoying her drive north, and the comfort of knowing that her bank account was not a source of constant worry for the first time in three years. It was like a weight lifting off her shoulders. She turned the radio up full blast and tapped on the steering wheel, but every few minutes her body reminded her where she was headed to, and why, and her stomach tightened, making her nauseous. She’d set off early, wanting to miss the build-up of traffic around Birmingham.

  At Lancaster University, the radio went dead and she couldn’t get any reception – not even a farming channel – so she switched on her Bluetooth. The sky, so dark and grim in the Midlands, shone bright blue, and in the distance she could see the peaks of mountains. Beyond the turning for Kendal, the landscape changed dramatically and she couldn’t help looking to her left every other minute to stare at the dark mountains. They were way in the distance, but she could tell that the scale of them up close would be incredible.

  She’d ventured north only twice before: once to Leeds to visit the university when she was choosing her course, and on another occasion to Liverpool on a kind of music pilgrimage when she was a student. Two things stood out from both trips: the cold and the rain. She remembered the people as charming but curious about her accent, and she found it ludicrous that they assumed she was posh. She’d gone to a local co-ed in north Hertfordshire, then on to Bristol University. She was what she considered normal.

  She’d booked a B&B online in Portinscale, near Keswick. The town looked quaint on the internet photos. All the houses were built of slate, and stunning views of the mountains could be had everywhere. It felt rather indulgent to be acting so extravagantly, but then she realised that if George was advancing such a generous sum so early on, the topic was serious: enough to die for. She might never see the rest of the agreed fee, but for now her interest was piqued. She also realised that the transfer, given how long it took for such transactions to process, was likely to be the last George ever made. Police profiling of murder victims was thorough and detailed, but also slow, so she knew they’d examine George’s bank accounts at some point, but she guessed she had a week or so to stay one step ahead. It wasn’t that she was worried about acquiring the money illegally or unfairly – she had everything recorded, including his offer of fifty thousand pounds on publication – it was more that she wanted to find out more about George before they did. And before whoever killed him found out who he’d been talking to.

  She followed the navigation instructions and pulled off the motorway at Junction 40. As she drove closer to the mountains, she gawped more and concentrated less. She’d had no idea that the Lake District was quite so extraordinary. The fells were literally just there, behind the houses and hotels. At the B&B, she parked in a space on the driveway and got out. She could see a lake, but she didn’t know which one it was. It was framed with fells and forest either side and she was instantly drawn to it. Her task for the evening was to orientate herself and get to know the area where George had stayed and died, but she decided to take a walk to the lake as soon as she’d checked in.

  The woman at the reception desk was friendly and interested in her southern accent.

  ‘First time?’

  Tilly nodded, beaming. The woman had red cheeks and bright eyes and told her where and when breakfast was served. Her voice was reminiscent of Coronation Street, though much gentler. She gave Tilly advice on how to get to the lake, where was good to eat and the location of the nearest shop. She also showed her to her room. It was clean and overlooked the lake.

  ‘Which lake is that?’

  The woman smiled patiently. ‘It’s Derwent Water.’

  ‘Derwent Lake? It’s beautiful.’

  ‘No, it’s called Derwent Water. There’s only one that’s called a lake and that’s Bassenthwaite; the others are all meres, tarns or waters.’

  ‘Right, thank you! I’ll remember that. Derwent Water.’

  ‘Enjoy your stay. I lock the office at ten; after that, there’s an emergency number to call on the door. I only live three doors down, so I’m always here.’

&nbs
p; Once the woman had left, Tilly went to her car to get her bags. She dumped them in her room, then decided to explore rather than unpack properly. She followed the directions given to her, and within a matter of minutes she found herself at the edge of the lake, on a pebbly shingle beach, watching the water lap the shore. There was no one else about and she looked both ways, uncertain of which way to go. She decided to follow the shore back towards a town that she presumed was Keswick, which she saw not far in the distance. A wooden steamer crowded with people was pulling away from a jetty. A pathway left the shoreline and skirted around a campsite, leading to a park. Soon the way was fairly crowded with people, and she figured she must be in Keswick itself.

  She was now at the jetty that she’d seen the boat leave from, and she watched as children fed ducks, people hired rowing boats and families bought ice creams. She remembered that it was half-term week for schools. She fancied an ice cream herself and queued with the others. As she waited, she looked across the lake to see where the steamer had gone, but she couldn’t spot it. There were plenty of people in boats and kayaks and on paddle boards, and she suddenly understood how shocking the events of earlier in the week must have been for such a small community. The place was idyllic.

  ‘Lovely day!’ a woman in front of her commented in a local accent. That was another thing she’d forgotten about the north: people talked to one another.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she replied. The woman was elderly but appeared sprightly. ‘Do you live around here?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘I do, I’ve been here all my life.’

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ Tilly said, and she meant it. ‘Although did I read in the newspaper that there was a man killed near here this week?’

  The woman became animated, leaning in and covering her mouth with her hand as she launched into a detailed description of what Tilly had read in the newspaper. By the time it was their turn to order, Tilly knew exactly where George been found, by whom, and what the locals were saying. She also knew where he had been staying, and that the man who owned the place, Allerdale House, was an outsider who was arrogant and reclusive. She had a photographic memory and she logged every detail as the woman talked.

  ‘Let me get these,’ she insisted.

  ‘Well, that’s kind of you, miss.’ The woman smiled broadly and Tilly paid.

  ‘Is there a public toilet here?’ she asked. The woman gave her directions, and it was a neat ending to their conversation. As Tilly walked away, she wrote notes on her phone and googled Derwent Marina. She looked up and orientated herself, calculating that she could probably walk there in five minutes.

  Chapter 16

  ‘DC Hide, I’ve allocated you to DS Compton and you’ll spend the rest of the day with him.’ An officer stepped forward and shook hands with Emma. Emma glanced at Kelly, who nodded reassurance. This was what she’d come for, and she was about to see the coal face. It was invaluable experience. Emma’s grin was wide. Matt barked out jobs for his remaining officers, who left the room promptly. He and Kelly were left alone.

  He got off the bench and approached her. She held her breath. Her heart rate elevated and she could feel her skin flushing. She regretted the decision she’d made to come to London. She could have sent Kate Umshaw, who’d have chewed Matt up and spat him out.

  He walked straight past her and closed the door. Her nerves settled and she sat down.

  ‘You look really well, Kelly. I wanted to talk last night, but, you know.’ He swept his hand around the incident room, indicating that this wasn’t the place to discuss their messy break-up.

  ‘I am really well, Matt. Let’s not dwell on the past. I’m here for a reason.’

  ‘I just wanted to say sorry,’ he persevered.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ She kept her back to the glass wall, so any onlookers couldn’t lip-read. She glared at him but kept quiet. She couldn’t have this argument now; they had work to do.

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Stop. Forget this or I’ll walk now. If I have to work with you, everything has to be straight. No lingering conversations about the past. No after-work drinks.’

  ‘No hotel rooms?’

  ‘Fuck off. I’m seeing someone.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Matt. We’re adults.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve got work to do. Stop being an arsehole.’

  ‘God, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Give me a job, or I’m out of here in a patrol car taking statements from Emily Wilson’s cleaner.’

  ‘You’re beautiful.’

  Before she could retaliate, he’d walked away and switched on several screens and radio frequencies.

  ‘Live action this morning, from Ravensword mainly. We can keep an eye on all other inquiries as they happen. Do you have this rig up north?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘You still say that a lot.’

  ‘With good reason.’

  The radio crackled. ‘Patrol car 247, boss. Approaching Ravensword. Will report further when inside building.’

  Kelly wished she did indeed have this rig. She chastised herself. Actually, nothing beat meeting suspects face to face, and if she had to drive the length of the Lake District, then all the better.

  Simultaneously officers checked in from all over the city, giving updates and sending images for their SIO to collate. Not that he had much to do, because it all happened automatically, but it meant that a human being was watching events unfold as one big picture, and, more importantly, making the decisions that a computer could not.

  Several pods were working on Ravensword. One focused on George’s lab and his work, another on the board of directors. A third was looking at ongoing research projects, currently involving the House of Lords, and yet another was investigating the neurocellular lab. Other pods were studying CCTV and recordings made by the switchboard.

  Kelly tapped her foot. She was unaccustomed to the inertia. She wanted to be on the ground with them, asking questions, looking into people’s eyes, making split-second decisions and evaluating on the move.

  ‘Fidgety?’ Matt asked rhetorically.

  She got up and walked around the room. ‘I need to get out and do something, Matt. I can’t stay tucked away in here just waiting for stuff to happen.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and find out where Alexandros Skarparis’s family home is? And phone the Home Office to see if we can get him flown back. I know a girl who works in visas.’

  ‘I bet you do.’ She left the room and logged on to her computer, where she entered Skarparis’s name, flight number, work permit details and address. It didn’t take long to find out that his mother lived in Larnaca, and there was a phone number. She dialled it.’

  ‘Yassou!’

  Kelly heard a cacophony of noise and chaos. ‘Alexandros, parakalo?’

  The woman hung up. So, he’d gone home for sure. Next she got in touch with the Home Office Border Force and explained her predicament. After forty-five minutes, she was finally put through to somebody who told her that to request a foreign witness to return to the UK, there first had to be a letter from the Crown Prosecution Service confirming the need for that person to be in the country, and the charges. They were more than willing to give advice on a particular case, but authority from a chief commander was required. She wandered back to the incident room.

  ‘Do we really think Alexandros is a suspect? I mean, an authentic one.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the guy, do you? Regardless of what initial inquiries make of him – and I know he’s got no previous – he has to be investigated. Anyone who runs raises questions.’

  Kelly nodded. ‘Who’s your chief commander? We need his permission to request Alexandros back.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Look, this was sent from one of our teams at Ravensword.’ Kelly glanced at the screen. ‘It’s the staff car park on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘Is that Alexandros’s Corsa?’

 
; ‘Same.’

  ‘Can we identify him as the driver?’

  ‘Wait!’ Matt chided her. ‘Impatient as always.’ Kelly didn’t like the way he acted as though he was her best pal, intimately knowledgeable of all her little habits. But he did. And he had been.

  ‘There he is!’ she said. ‘So he parked up at 9.29 a.m. and made a phone call. Then he left. Zoom in,’ she said. ‘He looks pretty downcast.’

  ‘Let’s check the ANPR from Ravensword to his address,’ Matt said.

  They got four more hits, proving that Alexandros Skarparis had left the car park, without clocking on, and then driven in the direction of Wanstead before seeming to take known routes back to central London an hour later.

  ‘Can we get in touch with the team at George’s house and check the witness statements for any sighting of a Greek Cypriot man?’

  Matt nodded. They were aligned and it felt non-aggressive. Kelly was relieved. The thing she’d most dreaded when she’d found out the identity of the SIO was that they would come to loggerheads over minor details. They still had the same thought processes after all these years, and she didn’t need to explain her motivators and theories. He’d already thought of them.

  Matt contacted the relevant team and had an officer trawl through the statements. Meanwhile, they were able to track the Corsa across east London to Bethnal Green. Footage from Bethnal Green Tube station caught Alexandros accessing the Central Line. They’d figured he must have caught the Tube to Heathrow and it was confirmed by one of the ticket office cameras. It had taken them almost an hour, but they now had his last movements in the UK, and the times added up. A further hit came in from the Highways Agency: Skarparis’s Vauxhall Corsa had been clamped outside Kentucky Fried Chicken in Bethnal Green Road.

  A witness statement from one of George’s neighbours also had a sighting of a dark-skinned man in George’s garden on Tuesday. The same neighbour also said that a white van had parked outside around the same time. Nosy neighbours could be the best friend of the police sometimes. Three men got out of the van and entered the garden, but the dark-skinned man hid in the shed, which was why the occurrence had stuck in the neighbour’s brain.