The Perfect Lie, page 3
Belinda and Roger were inseparable. They were the perfect parents, the perfect couple and the perfect business partnership. Their dedication to themselves, to each other and to the firm was the foundation for everything. They’d only retired six months earlier, staying on as shareholders but handing the day-to-day running of the business on to Brendan.
They’d had plans for round-the-world cruises, golf club memberships, holiday homes — you name it, they were going to do it. Belinda’s diagnosis came nine days after their retirement party.
Renal cancer.
At first, they thought they’d caught it. Belinda was the sort of woman who kept an eye on her body and her health. It was still in the fairly early stages, they said. Early stage two.
They decided on surgery to remove the kidney, but by then it had started to build more aggressively. The last scan before surgery showed it had spread. Far from being an early stage two, we were now looking at full-blown stage four cancer. A terminal diagnosis.
The radiotherapy was brutal, but it gave the family some extra time with her. A few more months watching this bold, powerful matriarch wither into a shrivelled little old lady.
They never did go on their round-the-world cruise.
Brendan had been unsure about taking on the responsibility of running the business when his parents first mentioned retirement. He didn’t tell them that, though.
Brendan’s always been the sort of man who’s happy with his lot in life. He had his house, his marriage, his kids, his job and that was all fine. The changing of the guard meant he had to step up to the plate. Order had been disrupted.
We chatted about what a great opportunity it might be. We could build on the foundations his parents had worked so hard to put in place, and potentially even take the business in a new direction. Once I’d suggested that, taking over the reins and keeping the company on its existing path seemed like the safer option. I think that’s what convinced Brendan to accept his parents’ offer.
Thank god Belinda isn’t around to witness all this. I imagine her marching into the police station, demanding to see the Chief Constable.
If it had been any other situation, the first person I would call is Roger. He’d know exactly what to do in this situation. He’d know which solicitor to use, what to say, what to do. He was the calm, level head. The voice of experience.
But he’s gone. Dead. Murdered. And the police think I killed him.
The heaving sobs start to come before I’ve even realised. I lie down on my blue plastic mattress, bring my knees up to my chest and let it all out.
9
Earlier that morning, 8.40am.
‘Harry, come on. We’ll be late if you don’t hurry up.’
It’s a familiar sound on a Saturday morning in this house. Brendan’s always firm but fair with the boys. He rarely raises his voice to them, and when he does they know they must have done something seriously wrong.
Most of the time, just that extra touch of sharpness lets them know it’s their last chance, and they do as they’re told. I wish they did that with me.
‘Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast?’ I ask him, as he wraps his arms around me.
‘I’m sure. I’ll grab something while we’re out.’
It’s the same exchange we have every week, but I’d feel dreadful if I didn’t ask. I know he’s a big boy and can either make his own breakfast or go to a café, but that’s not the point. It’s just another part of our routine.
‘Back the same sort of time as usual?’ I ask.
‘I imagine so. No cup matches this week, so should all end on time.’
For the last three weeks running, at least one of the boys has been involved in a cup match that’s gone to extra time and penalties, adding the best part of an hour onto the day’s activities. No-one ever told me that having kids meant weekends would suddenly become busier than weekdays. I always used to find it funny when people said they went to work to relax. Now I know exactly what they mean.
‘Much planned for the day?’ Brendan asks me, pouring himself a glass of juice.
‘Nope.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’ll try and take the slow route back, give you an extra few minutes. I was thinking maybe we could get a takeaway in tonight. For when the boys are in bed.’
I nod. ‘That’d be nice.’
It’s the same routine as every week, but it feels comforting, familiar. I think I’d be more worried if Brendan did have breakfast, or moaned at me for resting, or didn’t suggest getting a takeaway. It’s the little dance we do every week, and it’s what makes our weekends what they are. I’m certainly not complaining.
Jacob comes bounding into the room, pleased as punch that he’s totally ready to go, while Harry’s still upstairs in his pyjamas.
‘Jacob, boots,’ Brendan says, picking him up and depositing him back out on the mat in the hallway. ‘No muddy studs inside the house, you’ll wreck the carpets.’
I head upstairs to fetch Harry. He’s starting to get to that age where sometimes a different style of parenting works.
‘Hey,’ I say, as I walk into his room and see him lying back on his bed, playing a game on his 3DS. ‘Come on. You’ve got to get ready for football.’
‘I don’t feel well,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘How so?’
‘Dunno. Just don’t feel well.’
I had a feeling this might happen. Brendan didn’t make a big thing of it, but he told me last week that Harry’d been given a yellow card in last week’s match. Harry had thought that was really unfair — and it probably was — so he started arguing with the referee. Not wanting Harry to get sent off, the coach had substituted him and brought another boy on. To Harry, that just cemented in his mind that no-one had his back. So much for a team game, as far as he was concerned.
Brendan had spoken to him on the way back, saying the coach did have his back, and that’s why he substituted him — to make sure he didn’t get suspended for future games — but Harry wasn’t having any of it. As far as he was concerned, there’d been a major injustice in showing him the yellow card in the first place, and no-one had stepped in to rectify it.
That’s just one of the things I love about Harry — how principled he is. Everything has to be fair.
‘Bit of fresh air might help,’ I say.
‘It won’t.’
‘It might. It’ll definitely help more than lying on your bed all day. Who are you playing today?’
‘Fairfields.’
‘Are they any good?’
‘No, they’re rubbish.’
‘Well there you go, then. It’ll be a nice easy run out for you. Might even bag yourself a couple of goals. Besides which,’ I say, snuggling up beside him, ‘I have it on good authority that Dad’s going to take you out to that new American diner afterwards.’
Harry looks up at me. ‘Really?’
‘Uh-huh. Don’t tell him I told you, though.’
‘Well, alright,’ he says, switching off the 3DS and changing into his football kit.
I head back downstairs, to find Jacob still standing on the front doormat, bag in one hand, football under the other arm, ready and raring to go.
I try to suppress a chuckle as I walk through to the kitchen, where Brendan’s gone to fetch his own shoes.
‘Harry’s on his way down,’ I say. ‘Oh, and you’re going to Fat Tony’s for lunch after the football.’
‘What? Since when?’
‘Since Harry needed bribing to even leave the house today. It’s fine — I’ll have a late lunch and we’ll just get the takeaway for a bit later.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
I’m not going to lie. The chance to get an extra hour to myself, on top of the time they’ll already be out, is absolute bliss. I’m certainly not about to turn down that sort of opportunity.
A minute or so later, Harry comes down the stairs, in his full kit, ready to go. With a bit of shuffling and scuffling by the front door, it’s finally open and they head out into the sunshine for their morning of fun, while I take a deep breath, hear the door close and let it back out again.
I allow myself a small smile, then I head into the kitchen to grab my book and make myself a cup of tea.
10
Earlier that morning, 9.01am.
Eric Black had polished off the last of the cornflakes and was considering whether to pop out into the garden to do some light pruning.
The weather was due to be good, and it’d been a fair few days since he’d last been out there.
His reverie was stolen, though, by the sounds coming from next door. The first one sounded like a cross between a roar and a scream.
Although his eyesight hadn’t been the best for a few years, there was no faulting his hearing. Besides which, the walls in these houses weren’t exactly soundproof.
He shuffled closer to the wall to get a better angle, and heard what sounded like a pained moan, punctuated by grunts and rhythmic banging. It didn’t sound right. Not at all.
He wondered about going round to check everything was okay. This was a Neighbourhood Watch area, and Eric took his responsibilities on that front very seriously indeed.
He marched as quickly as he could through the hallway and up the stairs to his spare bedroom, where he’d have the best view of Roger’s driveway. Along with Roger’s own car, he could see another one parked beside it, a little closer to the house. He vaguely recognised it, but he wasn’t sure where from. It would come to him eventually, he was sure.
Just as he was about to go back downstairs and listen at the wall again, he saw movement outside, then the sound of Roger’s front door closing.
Yes. That’s where he recognised the car from. It belonged to Roger’s daughter-in-law — the woman who was now climbing into the driver’s seat.
He watched as she fumbled to start the engine, before flooring the accelerator, spraying the front of Roger’s house with gravel as she roared off down the road.
That certainly wasn’t normal. She’d always seemed like such a nice, calm girl.
He went back downstairs as quickly as he could, and opened the front door. He made his way across to Roger’s house and rang the doorbell. He gave it a few seconds, but there were no signs of movement, so he gave five strong raps on the door. Another thirty seconds, and nothing.
Eric headed back inside his house and picked the phone up from the hall table.
He looked at the laminated card that he’d placed next to the phone a few months earlier — a collection of numbers he might need to call. The fraud number for his bank, who to call if he smells gas, the number of his local Neighbourhood Watch coordinator. It also had the well-known 999 emergency number and the newfangled non-emergency number, 101.
Was this an emergency? He didn’t know. It’d be a terrible inconvenience to drag the police out here if there was nothing wrong.
He decided to play it safe and call 101.
After a couple of seconds, he was greeted by an automated voice, introducing the 101 non-emergency number. He was asked if he’d like to be connected to his local police force.
‘Yes,’ he said, feeling both daft at talking to a robot and annoyed that yet another perfectly good job had been taken over by an algorithm.
The phone rang for a few seconds, then a man answered and introduced himself.
‘Uh, it’s my next-door neighbour,’ Eric said. ‘His name is Roger.’
‘Alright. And has there been some sort of incident?’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
‘Is Roger in some sort of danger?’ the man asked.
‘I don’t know. I think so. I think he’s just been attacked.’
‘Okay, was this at his house?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s his address?’
‘Uh, Missingham Drive. Number 42. No. Sorry. 44.’
’44 Missingham Drive?’
‘Yes, sorry. I live at number 42.’
‘Okay. And is his attacker still there?’
‘No. She left just now.’
‘Was this on foot? Could she still be in the area?’
Eric began to feel himself panic. ‘No, in her car. She drove away.’
‘Okay. Can you describe her car to me?’
‘Uh, yes. Blue. Uh, small. Small-ish.’
‘Do you know the make and model?’
‘No. No, sorry. I don’t know cars very well.’
‘That’s fine. What was it that made you think your neighbour was attacked?’
‘I heard noises. It sounded like he was in pain. And someone was grunting and banging. Then I came and looked out of the window and she ran out of the house and sped off in her car. Then I knocked at the door and there was no answer.’
‘Okay. We’ll send officers to take a look. Did you see the attacker going into the property?’
‘Uh, no. No, I didn’t.’
‘So you didn’t see how many went in?’
‘No,’ Eric said, now starting to see what the call handler was getting at.
‘Okay. I’d ask you not to try to enter the property, then. Stay in your own house until the police arrive. It’s possible someone could still be in there.’
Eric gulped. He hadn’t thought of it like that. This just wasn’t the sort of thing that happened on Missingham Drive.
11
Earlier that morning, 9.30am.
There tended to be a bit of a pattern to these calls. There was an unbelievably high number of domestic disputes — either someone calling the police because his neighbour had parked across his drive or trimmed his hedge without permission, or a wife calling the police on her husband because he’d hidden the remote control and wouldn’t tell her where it was.
Before Stuart Houghton joined the police, he’d read these stories in newspapers and assumed they must be fairly rare occurrences — something that happened in one police force once every few months. He was wrong. Most days, he’d spend his time wondering why the hell half the people he went out to see had even called the police.
His favourite had to be the guy who flagged them down on the high street because he’d just been to get a takeaway kebab and they’d put fried onions on it, even though he specifically asked them not to. The guy was livid, and thought flagging down a police car was perfectly justified.
And that was the rub of it. It wasn’t about what any reasonable person thought was a crime — it was what the aggrieved person judged was a crime. As far as they were concerned, the police were there for them and that was the end of that.
Oftentimes, it’d be a case of having to explain calmly that this was a civil dispute and that the police only got involved in criminal matters; or that no, it wasn’t technically illegal to hide the remote control because you’re not too keen on Emmerdale.
What was vital, though, was that the public didn’t lose faith in the police and choose not to call them when they really needed them — when a crime actually had been committed.
All he knew about the call they were on their way to now was that a man had called in to say he heard a commotion next door and was subsequently unable to get a response when checking the neighbour was okay. There was no evidence of any injury or crime having been committed, but it was always best to check.
It could have been a regular, everyday argument and the guy could’ve just gone out in the garden or popped into the shower afterwards, and that’s why he didn’t answer the door. Maybe he didn’t like his neighbour and was deliberately avoiding speaking to him. There was a multitude of possibilities — all of which Stuart had seen a hundred times before.
This call, though, had been graded as immediate response, meaning they had a target attendance time of fifteen minutes. They weren’t too far off that target — there wasn’t anything else they could have done, having been on the blues-and-twos from the moment they received the call.
His colleague, Julie Hutchinson, pulled up outside 44 Missingham Drive and switched off the engine. She was a good twenty years or so older than him, and had been in the job since he was at primary school — something she liked to remind him of regularly. He wondered why she’d never gone for promotion or moved into a more specialised policing job. It certainly wasn’t due to her work ethic or eye for detail. She was one of the finest officers he’d ever worked with.
They were barely halfway up the driveway before the front door to number 42 opened, and an older man came out in his slippers.
‘What sort of time do you call this?’ he asked.
That was a pretty common reaction. Most members of the public didn’t understand that all calls were graded, and that they could only send officers to a scene if there were officers available. When there were usually a maximum of six officers to cover an area around thirty miles wide, it was unlikely you’d have someone rocking up within five minutes — unless you were very lucky. Stuart could have bet his bottom dollar that, come the next election, this guy would blindly vote for the same government that had slashed staff numbers and decimated the policing budget to the point where the country was on the verge of civil anarchy.
‘We were the closest unit and we came as quickly as we possibly could, sir,’ Julie replied, trying to be as polite as possible to the small little Welsh man who stood in front of her. ‘Can you tell us what’s happened, please?’
‘Well, I can’t get any answer at the door.’
‘Your neighbour’s door?’
‘Yes. I was in my kitchen, having just finished my breakfast. I was wondering whether or not to go outside and do some weeding, when I heard this almighty noise from next door.’
‘What sort of noise?’
‘A sort of banging, I suppose. Grunting. I can’t really describe it, but it just didn’t sound right to me. I wondered if maybe he was having some work done, so I popped upstairs and looked out of the spare bedroom window in case there was a tradesman’s van. And I saw the woman coming out of the house, get into her car and speed off down the road.’
