Eleven liars, p.9
Eleven Liars, page 9
part #2 of Ben Harper Series
The early-morning roads through west London are quiet. Along the Lower Haddley Road, when I’m held at a red light, I reach for my phone and send a quick message to Dani.
Hope you were able to get some sleep
I pause before adding:
Thinking of you.
The light turns green, and I drop my phone back down onto the passenger seat. I pass a milkman out delivering for Milk & More and as I do I glance across at my phone. I can see Dani has read my message.
She still hasn’t replied when I turn into the hospital car park, where I’m able to find a spot directly in front of the main building. A watery sun is beginning to rise as I cross from my car towards the front entrance. Approaching the main building, I hear a voice I instantly recognise.
‘I’m not pushing you any further. What kind of fool do you take me for?’
‘Maddy, don’t be like that.’
‘I’ve told you not to call me Maddy.’
I stand on the opposite side of the road and watch as Madeline and her father leave the hospital. She pushes his wheelchair to the side of the exit before walking on alone.
‘You can’t just leave me here,’ calls Sam.
‘You are perfectly capable of walking across the road,’ she shouts back, continuing towards me.
‘Can’t you just push me inside the bus shelter?’
Madeline turns to face her father. ‘The nurse said hospital procedures dictate that you are wheeled out of the front of building and that’s exactly what I’ve done.’
‘But not to be abandoned before we’ve even passed the tobacconist.’
‘It’s a newsagent,’ replies Madeline, raising her voice again. ‘They don’t sell cigarettes.’
‘You’ll wake all the other patients, shouting like that.’
‘You’re not a patient!’
Sam starts slowly edging forward, pushing the wheels of his chair with his hands. He gains momentum and starts to roll towards the road.
‘For Christ’s sake, Sam.’ Madeline grabs hold of the chair before manoeuvring her father over the crossing.
‘You’re looking better than I expected,’ I say to him, as they approach.
‘Chronic heartburn,’ replies Madeline. ‘Up until nearly two o’clock this morning with his racing buddies. Eating and drinking all night. Whisky and cheese at one and then he’s surprised when he thinks he’s having a heart attack.’
Sam reaches up and touches his daughter on her hand. ‘I don’t like the look of those clouds. You couldn’t push me under the bus shelter, could you? As long as I can keep dry, I’m happy to wait for the next bus.’
‘No need for the bus,’ Madeline snaps. ‘My car can drop you.’
Sam smiles at his daughter. ‘Only if you’re sure.’
‘Ben, I’m calling my car, you can ride into the office with me.’
‘Mine’s parked right there,’ I say. ‘Why don’t the three of us grab a coffee and then I can drop Sam home?’
‘A little breakfast would be nice,’ says Sam. ‘Something just to settle my stomach.’
‘Don’t push me,’ says Madeline. She walks towards the car park and then turns. ‘Are you two coming?’
Sam smiles at me, gets to his feet and together we follow. I click open the car doors.
‘Maddy, why don’t you go ahead and jump in the back?’ says Sam.
Madeline turns to him. Her eyes flare as if she were dealing with a young journalist’s inaccurate reporting, but she says nothing.
Driving into Richmond, Madeline’s eyes remain firmly fixed on her phone. I turn to Sam. ‘Glad you’re feeling okay.’
‘Strong as an ox,’ replies Sam. ‘That’s what the doctor said.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t,’ says Madeline, always listening.
‘Let’s stop at Rich Café, by the bridge,’ says Sam. ‘They know me there. I’ll be able to get us a table.’ In the rear-view mirror, I see Madeline roll her eyes. Sam turns to his daughter. ‘And they do the best full English in Richmond.’
‘Don’t think I’m going to stop you. If you want to keep killing yourself it’s no skin off my nose.’ I turn off before Richmond Bridge and park at the back of the block of flats where Sam has a top-floor apartment. ‘Perhaps you might even manage to walk the two minutes home after breakfast,’ says Madeline, stepping out of the car.
The dawn clouds are clearing and with the sun shining on the river, we risk an outdoor table. We order coffees and when they arrive, Sam adds milk to his Americano.
‘Any more on the body under the church?’ he asks.
‘It was the community centre,’ I reply, knowing Sam is already fully aware of almost every aspect of the story. In the week since the fire, he’s called me daily, chasing the inside scoop. When I tell him the murdered body is the wife of a decorated police officer, and somebody he knew well, he realises the story will become a national one. And so does Madeline.
She quickly looks up from her phone. ‘Don’t tell him anything more,’ she says. ‘He’ll steal our story.’
‘Maddy, as if my little local rag could compete with your behemoth,’ replies Sam.
Raising my eyebrows, I turn to Madeline and she smiles. ‘Okay, we’ll share. But if you try and get the jump on us, I’ll …’ She points her finger at her father, ‘I’ll … tell Mum!’
We all laugh. ‘How is your dear mother?’ asks Sam.
‘Glad to be nowhere near you. Somewhere in the south of France the last time I heard.’
‘A long distance from us all – what a relief. Now,’ says Sam, clapping his hands, ‘who killed Angela Cash?’ I see his eyes light up in the same way as Madeline’s do when she scents a story. ‘Buried under the floorboards for more than twenty years.’ Sam narrows his eyes. ‘The original story was she was killed in a house fire?’
‘Forensics show her body was never anywhere near any fire, not until last Thursday night.’
‘Bludgeoned to death by her detective chief inspector husband?’ asks Madeline. ‘Just what the Met Police commissioner needs right now.’
I nod.
Our waiter returns to take our breakfast order.
‘Full English for me and another Americano,’ says Sam, before anyone else can get a word in.
Madeline clicks off her phone and places it face down on the table. ‘He’ll have scrambled eggs, a slice of smoked salmon, granary toast – very lightly buttered – and skimmed milk with his coffee.’
The waiter looks at Sam, uncertain.
‘She’s in charge.’
‘And I’ll have the same,’ says Madeline.
‘Make that three,’ I add.
‘The police think Jack Cash is their man,’ I say, as the waiter steps away.
‘You’re not certain?’ asks Madeline.
‘Too soon to say.’
‘Why go through the masquerade of appearing to bury your wife in St Stephen’s cemetery unless you’re the one who killed her?’ asks Sam, before answering his own question. ‘I’ll tell you why. At some point he’d have to explain where Angela was, so why not have a funeral that ties everything up nicely with a ribbon on top.’
‘If that’s the case, who’s buried in her grave?’
‘Perhaps nobody,’ says Madeline.
‘Somebody was definitely killed in the fire,’ I reply.
Sam nods. ‘I remember it. Christmas Day night, a real tragedy.’
‘Jack Cash must have known who he was burying,’ says Madeline.
‘Unless he knew who had killed her and couldn’t say,’ replies Sam.
‘Blackmail?’
‘A lot of cops get caught up on the wrong side of the line.’
The waiter returns with our breakfast. Sam eyes his food with suspicion when it’s placed in front of him.
Madeline looks at her father. ‘Don’t say anything.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ replies Sam, squirting brown sauce across his plate. ‘It all looks very tasty,’ he continues, forking his eggs.
‘What else do we know?’ asks Madeline.
‘I spoke with Emily Withers yesterday—’
‘The vicar’s wife?’ says Madeline, interrupting. ‘I met her years ago, not long after Nick’s murder. I was researching an article about the impact on the local community and asked her for an interview. She invited me to meet with her at the vicarage but gave me virtually nothing. She was more interested in what she could learn from me about her fellow parishioners.’
‘And what did she learn?’ asks Sam.
‘From me? Not to waste my time,’ replies Madeline, smiling at her father.
‘She was a little more forthcoming yesterday,’ I say. ‘She gave me the impression she was very happy to point me in the direction of the firm who originally built the community centre.’
‘Who was that? asks Madeline.
‘A local firm based in East Haddley, owned by a woman named Betty Baxter. I thought I’d try and get in touch with her, fix up a meet and see if she can tell me anything about the construction.’
A broad grin breaks over Sam’s face. ‘If you can get Betty Baxter to talk, she’ll tell you a hell of a lot more than that.’ He pushes his salmon to one side and squashes his eggs between two slices of buttered toast, then seizes his makeshift sandwich from his plate and gets to his feet. ‘Maddy, leave some cash on the table,’ he says. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
CHAPTER 24
‘Are you sure it’s in there?’ asks Madeline, as Sam rummages through a stack of upturned plant pots. He’s searching for the key to unlock his garage door.
‘Of course, I am,’ he snaps back. ‘I always leave it here.’
‘Perhaps last time you didn’t. Or it has been taken; I can’t imagine it’s the most secure place in the world.’ We are standing beside a row of sixteen single garages, one belonging to each of the flats in Sam’s small riverside apartment block. Weeds make their way up through the tarmac driveway and greying white paint is slowly peeling from the doors. Madeline casts her eyes around and looks at her watch. ‘Sam, surely all your old editions have been digitised. That would be so much quicker. Ben, can you do something?’
‘Possibly,’ I reply, knowing we do have online access to past editions of the Richmond Times.
‘We’re here now,’ says Sam. ‘Better to access the actual archive.’ He strains to lift a pot housing a half-dead fir tree. ‘Ben, can you see under there?’ I quickly crouch down and grab the garage key.
‘Told you it was here,’ says Sam, taking the key from me and opening garage number three.
‘I thought you were flat nine?’ asks Madeline, as her dad pushes the key into the lock.
‘I am,’ he replies. ‘I rent this garage from Mrs Wasnesky in exchange for me buying her dinner and two bottles of wine at the Cricketers twice a month.’
Madeline turns to me and raises her eyebrows. ‘Sounds like a good deal all round,’ she says.
‘I’m in,’ says Sam, twisting the handle. He lifts the door from the bottom, its rusty hinges squeaking as it rolls back.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ says Madeline.
Together, the three of us stand in front of a wall of fading newspapers.
‘Every edition since October 1973.’
‘They’re a bloody fire hazard. One spark and you’ll take down the whole block.’
‘The one thing I will give your mother credit for is she always said you’d make a great health and safety officer.’
Madeline grimaces at her father before he squeezes between two stacks of newspapers and disappears inside the garage.
‘I don’t think we’ll find anything here, Ben,’ she says, again looking at her watch, ‘but a policeman’s wife beaten to death, an unknown body buried in St Stephen’s churchyard … This could be a great story.’
‘I want to find the truth for Dani’s sake.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ replies Madeline.
I smile. ‘Perhaps I can find a great story along the way.’ I try not to think what I’ll do if Jack Cash does turn out to be guilty; how Dani will feel about me if I ever publish a story about her father’s murderous past.
‘I might put in a call to the Met commissioner,’ says Madeline. ‘I’m sure she’d love to give us a quote.’
‘I bet she would.’
‘I’m pretty certain she hates me already, so it’s not like I’d be burning any bridges. Why don’t you take a few days to dig around? We can always push back the podcast recording.’ Madeline draws out her phone and checks the time. ‘Right, I need to be back in the office for a meeting at eleven. You couldn’t make sure he gets back inside, could you?’
‘Leave him with me,’ I reply. ‘I’ll delve a little further into his memory if I can.’
‘That’s a dangerous place to go.’
Moments later, Sam re-emerges from his archive, triumphantly holding a brown-edged newspaper in each hand. ‘My filing system is better than anything you will find online. It’s all in here,’ he says to Madeline, tapping the side of his head as he does.
‘I’m sure it is,’ she replies. ‘That’s my car,’ she continues, looking towards the road. ‘Promise me you’ll behave yourself. I’ll call you tonight.’
‘Love you, too,’ calls Sam and Madeline turns to blow him a kiss as she walks off. We watch her car pull away.
‘Give me two more minutes, Ben,’ Sam says, before disappearing out of sight. ‘There are a couple more editions I need to find,’ he shouts from deep inside his archive.
While Sam ferrets around Mrs Wasnesky’s garage, I stand on the driveway and flick on my phone. I hope to see a message back from Dani but there is nothing. I start to message her again, wanting to know how she is holding up, but halfway through my message I stop, and delete what I’ve written.
Sam soon re-emerges and closes the garage door. After he pushes the key beneath a different plant pot to the one he insisted he always kept it under, we cross towards the back entrance of his building. An older woman is dropping a bag into one of the green recycling bins.
‘Still on for lunch tomorrow, Sam?’
‘Absolutely, Connie,’ he replies. ‘Usual time?’
‘Lovely. I’ll meet you out front.’
Sam and I step inside, and he presses for the lift.
‘Mrs Wasnesky?’ I ask.
Sam smiles. ‘Mrs Wasnesky gets dinner. Mrs Shields gets lunch. Always important to have friendly relations with your neighbours.’ As we ride the lift to the top floor, he turns to me. ‘I read your articles on your mum’s death. The story is so tragic, but it was great journalism.’
‘Thanks, Sam,’ I reply, praise from your first boss somehow always carrying more weight. My eyes drift towards the floor before the doors open in front of us.
Sam touches my arm. ‘You’re wasted on Madeline’s little website,’ he says, leading the way down the corridor towards his apartment.
‘We topped thirty-three million users last week.’
‘Users,’ he mutters derisively, before opening the door to his home.
The stench of stale alcohol, burnt tobacco and overly ripe Stilton fills the room. ‘Bloody hell, Sam,’ I say. ‘You really did have a good night.’
‘If you don’t mind opening the door to let a bit of air in,’ he says, gesturing in the direction of the balcony.
I do as instructed, stepping past the dining-room table, which is still covered in playing cards and poker chips.
‘We left in a bit of a rush,’ he says, picking up the remains of a wheel of cheese, its middle scooped out.
I slide back the patio door and a breeze blows up from the river. I walk around the room collecting half-drunk glasses of port, while Sam sweeps the poker chips into a banker’s case and gathers up the playing cards.
‘Grab a seat, Ben,’ he says, when the table is clear, and as I do he lays out four faded editions of the Richmond Times, each of them more than twenty years old.
NOT GUILTY! is the headline splashed across the 24 June edition, published just six months before the fire at Jack Cash’s home.
Beneath the headline is a photograph of a middle-aged woman standing outside Richmond Crown Court, her arms held triumphantly aloft, a grin stretching from ear to ear.
‘That’s Betty Baxter, more than two decades ago,’ says Sam.
Behind her on the steps of the building is a small but chaotic crowd, seemingly made up of well-wishers and journalists.
‘She was pretty well known?’
‘Everybody knew Betty, she was a real local character,’ he replies. ‘She and her sister inherited a fairly insignificant little business from her father and Betty turned it into a household name across Haddley and Richmond. Most people knew Baxter’s DIY Warehouse and, if not, Baxter’s Builders Merchants. She placed two half-page ads in the paper every week, accompanied by a photo of herself. Nobody beats Betty on price; Betty’s best for building; Betty’s best for bargains; Betty’s best for bathrooms.’
‘I get the idea,’ I say.
Sam smiles. ‘She was the face of that business, a real local success story, or so it seemed. But then the rumours started. I heard them long before most people had a clue about any of it.’ He points to the newspaper in front of me. ‘None of this came as a huge surprise.’
I read the opening paragraphs of Sam’s report:
After a two-week trial, local businesswoman Betty Baxter and her sister Charlie were yesterday acquitted of all charges in relation to their alleged conspiracy to supply Class A drugs.
The Crown Prosecution had argued large quantities of heroin and cocaine were smuggled into the country hidden inside floor insulation, wallpaper products and breathing aspirator masks, all destined for the Baxter family business. Haddley police maintained Ms Baxter, 48, who manages the business, had masterminded the scheme.
Standing outside Richmond Crown Court, Ms Baxter told reporters: ‘After months of furtive surveillance, Jack Cash and the Haddley police force launched a raid upon my family home and business premises. Regardless of the fact they failed to find one single shred of evidence, they still insisted on pursuing a baseless and vendetta-driven prosecution. They are the ones who must be held to account, although right now all I want to do is go home and hug my young son, Bertie.’
