The Perfect Lie, page 10
Greg’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘You know I haven’t.’
‘Maybe we should take a trip back there at some point. It might be good for you to see the old place again. Help you come to terms with things. Maybe exorcise some of those demons.’
Greg stood up quickly, throwing the coffee table over in the process. For a moment Amy thought he was about to attack Lewis, but he walked straight past him.
‘I’m going to my room,’ he said, walking down the short corridor towards his bedroom.
Lewis raised his eyebrows, took a deep breath and looked at Amy. ‘See? That’s the sort of person we’re dealing with here.’
Amy looked back at him and said nothing. All she had were her thoughts, thoughts that Lewis had no idea how misguided yet accurate his words were.
30
Sunday 5 August, 10.15am.
I’ve always wondered how defence solicitors can sleep at night. The vast majority of their clients must be as guilty as sin. And they must know it, deep down. But they still have to go out and defend those people and do all they can to keep them out of prison. How do they manage to reconcile that?
But now I know there must be more people like me, people who’ve been wrongly arrested for something they didn’t do, or who’ve been set up for a crime they didn’t commit.
I don’t know if Brian believes me. I don’t think I’d believe me if I was in his shoes. Everything is so one-sided. I’ve got nothing. Everything has been stacked against me and I can’t see a way out.
I’m almost resigned to the fact. I feel a strange sort of acceptance, knowing that I’m going to be charged with murder. Accepting that there’s not a jury in the land that wouldn’t be convinced by the weight of evidence against me. I’m not about to give up fighting, but I know there’s no way I can win.
I wondered if perhaps this might be some elaborate setup, perhaps as part of one of those TV programmes. But that possibility disappeared the moment I spoke to Brendan. He’s a dreadful actor, and there’s no way what I heard in his voice was anything but genuine.
This is real. It’s too real. And there’s no way I can escape from it.
I’m taken from my cell and back into the side room to speak with Brian.
‘I think it’s time we talk through the next steps,’ Brian says. ‘We need to be frank and realistic about what happens from here. The police will call the CPS and they’ll outline what’s happened, the evidence they have against you and will request that they authorise a murder charge. Personally, I expect that’ll be granted.’
‘But it might not be?’ I ask.
Brian cocks his head slightly and flicks his eyebrows upwards. ‘It might not be. You’re right. We never know how these things will go, and I’ve seen some pretty cut-and-dried cases go the opposite way to what one might expect, but it’s rare.’
‘But there’s a chance?’
‘There’s always a chance. But if the CPS think the evidence is strong enough to go to court, and in my opinion I think it is, then they’ll authorise a charge.’
‘And if they don’t? I’ll be free?’
‘Potentially, yes. Although you can be re-arrested and charged if further evidence comes to light in the future. And the family would have the right to request a review and petition the decision under the Victims' Right to Review scheme.’
I look at him, open-mouthed. ‘My family.’
‘Roger’s family,’ Brian says.
‘It’s the same thing.’
‘I know. And that’s what makes this case so delicately balanced. The CPS will take all of that into account, but their remit is to act in the public interest — not in that of the victims, the accused or the police. They’re a wholly independent body.’
‘How can they be if I don’t get to put my side of things to them?’ I ask. ‘If it’s only the police who can present their evidence to the CPS, how can the CPS be independent?’
‘Because they’re looking at the prosecution case. You’re innocent until proven guilty, particularly in the eyes of the CPS. If the police can convince them they have enough evidence to go to court, they’ll do so. If they don’t, you remain innocent. You don’t have to prove your innocence at this stage. They have to prove your guilt.’
Before I realise what’s happening, my face is on the table and I’m howling and wailing like a baby. It all comes flooding out of me, the anger, the hurt, the sheer injustice. Sadness at Roger’s death, panic at the situation I’m in, exasperation at not being able to change a thing about it.
Brian does his best to comfort me, but it’s not much use. There’s something in his eyes, something which I think might mean he believes me, if only a bit.
‘I’m so lost, Brian.’
‘I know. But somebody killed Roger. And if it wasn’t you, it was someone who wanted to make it look like you. Why would someone do that?’
‘Because they wanted to ruin me,’ I say, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
‘It’s someone who had access to the house. That leaves you and Brendan. Brendan was at the football, and CCTV shows you heading towards and leaving the scene. As does an independent witness. And as for motive…’
‘It wasn’t me, Brian,’ I say. ‘Believe me, no-one can see how bad this looks more than I can. None of it makes any sense. How can someone see me there, and how can I appear on CCTV if I wasn’t there?’
Brian raises his eyebrows slightly. ‘Witnesses can be unreliable. Especially elderly ones. CCTV, like any technology, can be doctored. False timestamps, maybe? But the footage was from independent town council cameras, which doesn’t help us much. And both pieces of evidence combined together? Not great. Especially with everything else. Amy, if you’ve been set up for this, someone has planned it well. And I mean extraordinarily well. This is months of planning, if not years — especially if the whole invoice fraud thing was part of it.’
‘It was,’ I say, noting how he looks at me. ‘I had nothing to do with any of it. I swear.’
‘Then there’s no escaping the fact that the most likely suspect is your husband.’
I shake my head. ‘No, no. It wasn’t Brendan. I know it wasn’t.’
‘People can surprise,’ Brian says. ‘People like this are very rarely suspected before they’re actually uncovered. They manage to live two lives, almost.’
‘No, I know my husband. And he was at the football, with the boys. In the other car.’
Brian smiles, but it’s not a pleasant smile. It’s almost condescending. ‘Amy, if someone’s been able to make it look like you were in places you weren’t, it’s entirely possible they made it look like they were in places they weren’t.’
I shake my head. ‘But why? He’s got no reason to want to do that. Why the hell would he want to frame me? I’m his wife.’
‘Maybe he was the root of the invoice fraud. He’s the managing director, isn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, but…’
‘So it’s quite possible he was responsible. Maybe he felt the net closing in, knew it was going to come back to him. Saw the finger of suspicion pointing at you and decided to act out of self-preservation.’
‘He wouldn’t do that,’ I repeat.
‘You’d be amazed what people are capable of in order to defend themselves or their reputation.’
I consider this for a moment. ‘But Roger only sent the text on Friday afternoon. The meeting was Saturday morning. You said this would have taken months or years of planning.’
‘Yes, but it’s possible he had a contingency plan ready in the back of his mind in case he was caught. It might have just been a case of putting it into action at the right time.’
I shake my head again. ‘No. No, it doesn’t feel right. He wouldn’t do that to me. Brendan’s an honourable man. He once drove off from a petrol station without paying and he was absolutely mortified. When he realised, he went back down there the next day and brought all the staff wine and flowers to apologise. There’s no way he’s been stealing money from the company. He didn’t need to. It was doing well.’
‘No gambling habits, addictions, anything like that?’
‘No! Jesus Christ, just go and meet him, will you? You’ll see within about thirty seconds this is all ludicrous.’
Brian sighs. ‘If not him, it has to be someone else. Is there anyone else who might fit the bill? Someone who has such a dreadful vendetta against you that they’d go to this amount of effort to have you sent down for a murder you didn’t commit?’
I shake my head before even thinking. ‘No, of course not. I mean…’ A jolt of something surges through my chest. It almost feels like a light, a ray of hope. ‘Well, there’s one possibility but I don’t think—’
The sound of the door opening quickly eradicates that hope, as do the words that come out of Jane McKenna’s mouth.
‘Hi, Amy. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve spoken with the Crown Prosecution Service. They’ve recommended that we formally charge you with the murder of Roger Walker.’
31
Friday, 4.25pm.
He pulled up a hundred yards or so down the lane from the house, knowing he was out of view of any neighbours. Not that there were many around here.
It thrilled him to be walking this route again, knowing it was time to put the next phase of his plan into action. She couldn’t have set it up for him any better. The house was practically in the middle of nowhere, and the tall hedges that bordered the property and its front garden made his life one hell of a lot easier.
As he approached the property, he reached into the shrubbery and pulled out the phone, a small handful of dirt coming with it. He didn’t mind. He didn’t want to break his stride.
He carried on a few steps further, to the edge of the copse that bordered the front of her property. This way he was hidden from sight, yet still on the boundary.
He tapped the screen to bring it to life, then slid his finger across to unlock the phone.
One text message. Perfect.
He opened it and read it.
Hi Amy. Just wondered if you could pop over tomorrow morning for an hour or so. Wanted to go through some work stuff with you.
He tapped the bottom of the screen to bring up the keyboard, then typed out his reply.
Yes, no problem. Will be there for 9.
He hit the blue arrow to send the message, and watched as the word Delivered appeared next to it on the screen. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction, knowing the message had reached its recipient. And no-one would be any the wiser.
It was too late now. There was no going back. The trail had been laid, and he had only two more things he needed to do. These were the big ones, though, and they had to wait until tomorrow. Time was of the essence. It was vital, in fact. Any deviation from the plan could bring it all crashing down.
The phone showed 65% battery. He took the portable charger out of his pocket and plugged it into the phone, before retracing his steps back past the house.
As he reached the shrubbery again, he used his jacket sleeve to wipe the device clear of prints, then placed the phone and portable charger back in its hiding place, and swiftly covered it with leaves and dirt.
He couldn’t believe his luck. This was all going perfectly to plan. He knew he had to keep a calm and level head, though. He couldn’t afford to get too far ahead of himself.
Up until now there’d been no real risk. Not anything which would be catastrophic if he’d been caught. But the next stage would change all of that. The next step was a big one. The big one.
He’d planned it all out in his head. He was confident. There could be any number of unknown variables that might come into play, but his methodology would cover most of them. It wouldn’t matter too much if he was seen. Might help, even.
Anyone else might feel guilty or apprehensive, but not him. All he felt was an enormous sense of excitement. It was something he hadn’t felt since Christmas Eve as a child, the pure thrill of knowing that when he woke up it would be Christmas Day. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, either.
He’d been waiting far too long for this moment. He was owed it. The credit line had run out, and there was no way he was going to go another day without the enormous debt being repaid.
Tomorrow was Christmas Day. Tomorrow was the day Roger Walker died.
32
Saturday 4 August, 8.46am.
He had to be especially careful this time. If he was seen, it was entirely possible he might draw more than a quick glance.
He’d been careful, though, not to overdo it. Sure, the jeans were tight and the shoes were undeniably feminine, but he didn’t want to push his luck too far.
All he had to do was hope he didn’t bump into anybody. It wasn’t likely, but he still had to be vigilant.
He thanked his lucky stars she lived on a quiet lane. If this had been a busy road, or if she’d had lots of neighbours, it would have been impossible.
He parked the car a little further down the lane than usual. It would be too risky to park nearby now.
Getting out of the car, he let the hair fall in front of his face, obscuring it slightly from anyone who might see him. Then he locked the car and walked calmly and confidently up the lane toward her house.
As he reached the house, he felt the sun beating down on him. Everything was falling into place just perfectly. So many times, over so many emails, he’d asked her what her plans were for that weekend. And so many times she’d told him the same thing. Saturday morning was her time. She’d either be in the bath or in the garden, weather permitting.
And it looked very much like the weather was permitting.
He glanced momentarily at the car on the driveway. The familiar-looking Ford Fiesta, registration FO17 UTA, in Blazer Blue. He smiled to himself. Not a bad little car, but far too noisy for him. Handled like a bag of shit, too.
With no further ado, he put his hand into the conifers and pulled out the mobile phone. The charging pack had emptied itself, but the phone was showing a full 100% battery. That’d keep it going for long enough, he was sure.
He pocketed the phone and charging pack, then made his way back down the lane towards his car.
He couldn’t help but grin when he saw it. It was, he thought, the most ingenious part of his plan. His masterstroke. Two hundred and fifteen pounds a month’s worth of masterstroke.
But it was perfect. A Ford Fiesta, Blazer Blue, registration FO17 UTA.
Oh yes. It was all coming together nicely now.
33
Saturday 4 August, 9.13am.
He parked the car down the lane again, then removed the wig and the brassiere. They would have already done their job, if they’d been needed.
There were two things he needed to do now, but one was far more important than the other.
He took her mobile phone out of his satchel, wrapped it in the piece of cloth and gave it a rub to make sure there were definitely no fingerprints on it.
He got out of the car and walked the rest of the way up the lane to her house. When he got there, he peered over the privet hedge, which gave a slight view of some of the garden. The weather was nice, and the parasol was up. That was a good sign. He pulled the polythene bag with the hammer inside out of his satchel. Grabbing hold of the hammer’s handle through the bag, he opened it, pulled it back over the metal and launched the hammer over the bushes and into the woodland, keeping hold of the bag.
He peered in through the window of the living room, as well as through the frosted glass of the front door. He couldn’t see any signs of life, so he decided to take the plunge.
He took the key from his pocket and gently, carefully, silently unlocked the door and opened it, before pushing it to behind him.
He quickly went into the downstairs toilet, and went to put the phone behind the radiator. It was too thin, would slide down and hit the floor.
He bunched the cloth up on one side of the phone, making it thicker, then tried again. Perfect. Time to leave.
He’d only just got the front door open again when he heard noises from inside the house. It sounded like another door closing. The back door. He stepped outside and pulled the door closed as silently as he could, holding it there. He stayed ducked behind the brickwork, holding the door closed, as he heard her go into the downstairs toilet.
Shit. Shit. This wouldn’t do. She couldn’t be finding the phone now. That would not play into his hands.
A few seconds later, he heard the sound of the toilet flushing and the toilet door closing again. He peered through the frosted glass and saw her figure walking away, back towards the back of the house and the garden.
He gave it thirty seconds or so, then took the key back out of his pocket and silently locked the door.
He walked back to his car with a sense of urgency, but without wanting to look as though he was running. He didn’t want to stand out in anyone’s memory or give somebody cause for concern.
When he got back to the car, knowing he was out of sight of any houses, he yanked the front and back number plates off the car. They took a bit of effort to get off, but he managed it.
He popped open the boot and put them in, taking out the two original number plates, ready with new sticky tabs on the back. He peeled off the backing on each of them, then stuck them back in their original places. The car was no longer FO17 UTA.
His involvement was complete. He’d done everything he needed to do. Now all he had to do was wait.
This was going to be the fun bit.
34
Sunday 5 August, 10.30am.
‘What happens next?’ I ask Brian, once the tears have stopped flowing and I’ve managed to regain enough control to speak.
‘You’ll stay here until tomorrow morning, when you’ll be taken to the magistrates’ court. With a murder charge, that’s just a formality. Magistrates can’t deal with murder charges, so it’ll just be a case of giving your name and address and the case will be referred to the Crown Court. You won’t even have to enter a plea at this stage, because the magistrate will automatically refer it to the Crown Court. The likelihood is you’ll then be placed on remand until the Crown Court trial.’
