Bold Lies

by Bold Lies (retail) (epub)

  There was only one late arrival to their table, excepting the late smokers, and he was a singularly distinguished addition to the dinner; his family had owned this chunk of Berkeley Square for centuries. He was stopped several times on his way to the table, to shake outstretched hands and exchange pleasantries. Philip watched him lavish attention on certain guests and remembered what his grandfather had said about him. Alan Montague-Roland had declared that no poof would ever get their hands on his fortune, and the young man had been forced to promise that he was cured of his evil lust. Even then, the empire had been put in trust. Philip himself didn’t much care which side a man batted for; he just wanted a job done and done well.

  The noise died down as the diners looked forward to their first course. Wine was poured and several tables asked for more bottles before the food had even appeared. The last-minute smokers entered the room and took their seats. As part of the refurbishment, every reception room had been furnished with an adjoining sheltered area – in this case a balcony – where guests and members could smoke, happily oblivious of the ban. The aim was to make the spaces like extensions of the building itself. Awnings, heaters and planted walls all helped to keep the smokers happy.

  The new arrival finally reached their table and greeted Philip, Christopher and the Colonel with enthusiasm. ‘That will be my chair then,’ he laughed. He took his seat happily, fussed over by a waiter, who poured his wine. He made a point of thanking the man, slipping something into his pocket.

  ‘Good to see you made it, Sebastian,’ said Philip.

  Chapter 22

  Tilly tried to act composed as she got up off the ground. It was only her second day in the area, and she’d wandered down to the marina where the body of George Murphy had been found. But so far she’d only managed to trip over a buoy rope and land on a canoe. The man coming towards her to help had his wetsuit rolled down to his waist, exposing his chest, and she couldn’t help but admire his taut and chiselled torso. Her eyes went to his face, which was kind and handsome, in an outdoor, worn sort of way. He was much older than she was, but the hardness of his body and the way his wet hair fell about his face caused such a flutter inside her that she blushed. She felt like a fawning teenager.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He held out his hand to help her and she took it. His skin was warm.

  ‘I think I’ll live, though the embarrassment might kill me.’

  ‘You on holiday? That’s not a local accent.’ He let go of her hand once she was on her feet and put his hands on his hips. His voice was soft and the accent not too thick. He looked at her with confident assurance and it made her feel that she’d like to spend time with him. Her eyes wandered to his chest again.

  ‘Yes. I’ve just come up for a couple of days from London.’

  ‘No one comes from London for a couple of days! Stay longer. It’s going to be perfect this weekend.’

  ‘It is beautiful. I’ve just been walking round the lake.’ She was lying; this was her first stop.

  ‘You rise early. Do you sail?’

  ‘No! God, I wouldn’t have the first clue.’

  ‘So are you lost? This is a boatyard.’ He laughed, and she watched him.

  ‘I thought I might start small and rent a kayak or something. That’s easy, isn’t it? I got your details from the Keswick Launch.’

  He glanced over his shoulder, then back to her. ‘The paddle boards are more fun if you don’t mind getting wet.’

  ‘Can you show me?’

  ‘They do instruction in the shop, but we’re not busy yet, so why not? Come on, let’s get you into a wetsuit. Have you got a costume under there?’ He eyed her clothes. She returned his glance with a puzzled look and he smiled again. ‘No lakes in London, eh?’

  He walked towards the shop and went into a shed to the side of the entrance, speaking over his shoulder.

  ‘You came at the right time; it’s going to get busy later.’

  She really wanted to find out where The Lady of the Lake was kept, but this was a good start. She followed him inside.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Tilly, pleased to meet you, I think. Do you work here?’

  ‘I own the business. I’m Graeme, pleased to meet you too.’ He smiled and took her hand again. This would do very nicely, she thought. It was a local boat owner who’d found the body, according to the woman at the ice cream parlour. This guy must know all the boat owners around here.

  ‘I think this will fit; you’re slim and in good shape. You should be fine. You can change in there.’ He pointed to a curtained changing room.

  ‘What do I wear underneath?’

  ‘I’ll go and get you a costume, on the house. I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  He returned with a Speedo swimsuit and she changed behind the curtain. She saw him admiring her when she re-emerged. This afternoon’s research might turn out to be a real perk of the job.

  As they made their way to the water, people said hello to Graeme, and Tilly worked out that he was a popular fixture here. He brought a buoyancy aid and put it on her, fastening it tight. He had to lean around her and put his arms round her waist. He smelled clean. He didn’t wear one himself and she guessed he’d been on the water all his life. After that, he went to collect two paddle boards from a rack, carrying both of them with ease, and put them into the water next to where she was standing.

  ‘Graeme!’ They looked round. Graeme waved. A teenager ran towards him and gabbled something about one of the wood sheds. Graeme gave him instructions and told him he was taking a student out for an hour or so. The kid ran off and Graeme returned his attention to his new pupil. He gave her a step-by-step account of what they were going to do, then waded into the water, which was flat and peaceful. Tilly reckoned it couldn’t be that hard to master.

  ‘It’s easier to kneel at first, and then, when we get past the river mouth over there, we’ll try and stand, OK?’

  ‘Right!’

  They waded out as far as Tilly’s waist and he helped her onto the board. She knelt up carefully, and after a few minutes of feeling wobbly and out of control managed to take her first strokes. It involved a lot of hands-on instruction from Graeme, but his touch quickly felt normal.

  ‘Brilliant! Keep that up and follow me.’ He got onto his own board and paddled briskly towards lots of little boats moored up on the water. Tilly found her rhythm and tried to concentrate without staring too much at the scenery, which was breath-taking. On one side a serenely sloping mountainside bore down upon them; ahead, probably five miles away, a disappearing valley sat under cloud, and to the other side was a great untouched forest. She couldn’t quite remember seeing anything so perfect: the weather, the water, and the peace and tranquillity.

  Graeme paddled towards her.

  ‘Do you want to try and stand?’

  ‘Of course!’

  He held her board and told her to be bold and do it one leg at a time, steadying herself in between. She accomplished it the first time and watched as Graeme effortlessly stood up too. He showed her how to go forward and turn, and she was able to negotiate her board around the moored boats and closer to the middle of the lake. He took her around a tiny island, where she thought they might stop, but he continued paddling towards a beach.

  As they drew closer, it was quite obvious that the beach was private: there were signs erected, and the shingle was deserted, but Graeme carried on confidently towards it. Tilly’s curiosity made her follow.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s private land, but it’s also my new job. Come on, I’ll show you. You’re a natural at this! You shouldn’t live in a city.’

  Graeme got off his board and showed her that he was waist deep, so Tilly did the same. They pulled their boards to the beach and dragged them ashore. She was surprisingly breathless from the exertion and she made a mental note to try to get back in shape.

  ‘What is it? Your new job?’ she asked.

  ‘This is the larges
t surviving private estate on Derwent Water, and I’ve been put in charge of the refurbishment. It’s going to be an amazing project: a huge leisure complex for high-end visitors.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘Some rich family from London, of course. The Montague-Rolands. My guess is they won’t spend too much time here, though; it’s purely a business venture.’

  Butterflies tickled her tummy as she realised where she was. She also noticed the police tape.

  ‘What’s that here for?’

  ‘Ah, we had a nasty incident here at the weekend, but don’t let it put you off, it’s totally out of character for the area.’

  ‘I did hear something about a man dying in a boat?’

  ‘That’s where he was found. Apparently this is where he actually died.’ He pointed up at the house.

  ‘I heard he was murdered.’

  ‘Yeah, he was. I found him.’

  Tilly stared at him. ‘Really? Oh my God! That’s awful!’ The joy in her voice emanated from the pure stroke of luck; luckily, it also made her horror seem more genuine.

  ‘I’ve had better days.’ He turned his back on her and Tilly realised she would have to tread carefully. This was where George had stayed; where he’d called her from. She hadn’t read anywhere that he’d been killed in this house, and she wondered how Graeme knew so much.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. Do you want to talk about it? You seem to know a lot about what happened. I’m guessing this sort of thing is very rare here. In London it’s a different story.’

  ‘Sure. I didn’t know the guy. I found him in one of our beautiful refurbished launches; he was slumped over with a massive hole in his skull. But he was staying here – old family friend apparently. People talk, and I also know the detective in charge.’

  Tilly shivered. A faint, disturbing thought passed over her head like a shadow: she was on a deserted beach with a guy she didn’t know, right next to a crime scene, and she had no idea why she’d been so stupid. Then Graeme smiled at her and she knew exactly what had led to her poor judgement. But it didn’t change the fact that what she’d thought might be a bit of fun had turned out to be intense and potentially dangerous.

  ‘Is it public knowledge how he died?’ She needed to keep him distracted.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I shouldn’t really be telling you, I guess, but the guy is dead after all. You’re right, this sort of thing just doesn’t happen round here. It was a burglary and they panicked. That boatshed was completely emptied of antiques and kit totalling half a million quid.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, misunderstanding her.

  ‘No, the house.’ He followed her gaze and nodded realisation.

  ‘That’s what most people say. The owner wants guests to arrive from the water for exactly this type of effect; you’ve just tested it out for me.’

  Tilly gawped at the grandeur and majesty of the house. It was hidden perfectly, and only when you’d begun to walk away from the beach was a full view possible.

  ‘We’ll build a car park at Portinscale, or the marina, and ferry guests across privately.’

  Graeme climbed some wooden steps and Tilly followed him, her worries forgotten.

  ‘The owner has returned to London; would you like to see inside?’

  ‘I’m soaking wet!’

  ‘There’s a cloakroom next to the kitchen, and anyway, downstairs is all slate and wood flooring. I’ll make us a hot drink.’

  The cold water, fresh from the fells, had lowered Tilly’s temperature considerably, and she shivered.

  ‘Come on, you’re getting cold.’ Graeme took her arm and led her up the steps and around the back of the stunning property. He opened a door and stood back to let her in.

  Tilly frowned. ‘Why isn’t the place locked up?’

  He laughed. ‘We don’t lock doors as a rule here. Of course, we will when it’s up and running.’

  ‘Do you think he disturbed them then? The burglars?’

  ‘Yep. That’s exactly what I think. Poor bloke.’

  ‘Why did they go to the trouble of moving him to the boatyard if he was dead?’

  ‘I suppose they could have panicked and tried to throw the police off the trail. He was completely naked; I guess that takes away a lot of the evidence, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Have you been offered counselling?’

  ‘I don’t need any of that!’

  ‘What about what you saw?’

  ‘I’m used to it. I was in the army, I know a gunshot wound when I see one.’

  ‘It was a gunshot wound?’ Tilly tried to contain her excitement.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Bloody place is turning into the OK Corral.’ He closed the door behind them and showed her into a large room with towels, slippers and ponchos freely available.

  ‘This will all be smartened up. Guests will be able to grab some walking kit or wet-weather kit and go off for a morning hike, coming back to hot chocolate or a cheeky whisky.’

  ‘Are you a designer?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘No, but I know all the tradespeople round here. Someone from London could get ripped off if he talks to the wrong people.’

  ‘It’s a massive project.’

  Once Tilly had dried her hair and wrapped herself in a robe, Graeme took her to a large kitchen and put an old iron kettle on the Aga. He opened a few cupboards and found two mugs.

  ‘Tea?’

  Tilly nodded. Their damp neoprene pumps made prints on the stone floor.

  It was a welcome comfort to sip the steaming liquid. Graeme took her into the hallway and she gazed around her in wonder. It was extraordinary; she felt as though she was inside a museum.

  ‘Wow,’ was all she could say.

  ‘I know, it’s pretty impressive, isn’t it? Come and look at the view out here.’

  She followed him and stared out of the largest single pane of glass she thought she’d ever seen. Derwent Water stretched out in front of them, and beyond the treeline there were mountains and woodland. The image made her feel at peace. George must have loved it here. She lowered her gaze and felt an overwhelming sense of tragedy, but also niggling unease. A gunshot wound. Burglars who carried guns were not usually after a load of sailing kit.

  ‘If the doors are all left unlocked, why wasn’t the house burgled? There’s stuff in here worth millions: look at that painting, it’s a Cézanne and I bet it’s an original.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘French post-impressionist.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?’

  ‘Do you think he was alone up here? The victim, I mean.’

  ‘I saw a few workmen in the garden.’

  ‘What? Did you tell the police?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Why? They could have been the burglars!’

  Graeme ran his hands through his hair. ‘You’re right. I’d forgotten all about it. I’d just found the body and this place wasn’t even mentioned.’

  ‘Because they moved him; that was the whole idea, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You’re right. Between you and me, the officer assigned the case knows her stuff. I teach her how to sail. She’s amazing, and she’ll get whoever did it and find out why.’

  ‘I’m sure she will. What’s her name?’

  Chapter 23

  Kelly had left a note under Emma’s door last night, telling her she’d popped out to meet a friend. It was true. Kind of. But now she felt guilty. It was an anxiety that crept up beneath her ribs and made her feel unsure of herself. All she needed was a strong coffee and a croissant and she’d be all right, she thought.

  Memories of the previous evening flooded back and she stopped to wince several times on her way around the room, gathering clothes and finding what she needed for today. She remembered coming back to the hotel, but the timing was hazy. She’d known it was late, and that Matt thought himself in with a chance of getting her into bed, but she’d st
ill had the wherewithal to make it distinctly clear that that wasn’t on the cards. Not last night. Not ever.

  She tutted loudly and shook her head, hoping in vain to clear it. What had started as a drink between colleagues had ended with Matt being rejected, and from past experience, he didn’t take that well. She wondered how it might change the mood in the office and tutted again: she’d been stupid to accept dinner in the first place. It made her miss Johnny even more.

  The last thing she needed was a hangover; long days in the massive office block in Hendon were bad enough without feeling lacklustre and sapped of energy before she even got there. She searched her bag and found paracetamol and ibuprofen and downed two of each with water. A shower would wake her up, she told herself.

  By the time she’d finished and dressed, slapping on more make-up than usual, she felt semi-human. She’d said she’d knock for Emma, but her junior was already standing outside in the corridor waiting for her.

  ‘Morning, Emma! Did you enjoy yesterday?’

  ‘Guv, it was amazing!’

  ‘Good, that’s why I chose you. Where did you go?’

  Emma recounted the details of her investigation the previous day, enthusing about the technology and her temporary colleagues. She reminded Kelly of herself twenty years ago.

  They walked to the lift and Emma pressed the button. Kelly felt nauseous. All she had to do was get through the day and drink plenty of water, then she could fall into bed later and sleep the sleep of the dead. Unless something kept them working into the night.

  ‘Why did you leave London, guv?’ Emma blushed. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, it’s none of my business.’

  People talked, Kelly knew, and rumours flew around; probably about some poor decision-making. She looked at Emma and smiled as the lift doors opened.

  ‘Not at all.’ They strode out of the main entrance and towards the waiting car that Kelly had forgotten to cancel so they could walk. They’d follow the same pattern as yesterday and stop at the Starbucks to grab some sustenance. ‘It’s intense. I learned a lot, and it was time for a change. I missed home.’