Way beyond a lie, p.34
Way Beyond A Lie, page 34
He stopped in a layby to review progress. Including Mock House, there were now 22. Had the owners of the Devizes property been home yesterday, he would only have to tick off a couple more and he’d be halfway through his quest to find, or perhaps not to find, his missing wife. He found it strangely unsettling to be annoyed at a vacant pile of bricks and mortar, and a family he’d never clapped eyes on. But that was how Ross was feeling right now.
He briefly considered lunch but instead, had a bacon roll and a mug of black tea at a roadside café that had been constructed with no small amount of ingenuity from the shells of two single-decker buses welded together, end to end. The seats were bone-hard however, so he didn’t linger, deciding to press on to Stour Row, a village just a few miles south of Shaftesbury. No matter how much he dawdled, he would be there in way less than an hour so he pulled out and accelerated south along the A350.
He’d no sooner started moving when his phone rang. He glanced at the display: Mel Cooper. There was a lay-by fast approaching and he braked to turn in, forgetting to indicate. The angry blast of a horn startled him as a black BMW roared past, straddling the white line.
‘Mel? Hi, sorry, just pulling in.’ He parked next to an overflowing waste bin. Thoughtlessly discarded polystyrene containers and cardboard coffee cups littered the ground. ‘Okay, that’s me stopped.’
‘Where are you, Ross? Is it convenient to talk?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m just out and about, you know?’ He had a mental image of the DS smiling on the other end of the line.
‘I’ve spoken to Cheshire Constabulary this morning about your Mrs Hutchinson. It sounds to me like they weren’t sure of their ground. Certainly they didn’t have enough evidence to charge her, so she was released. They were acting on a tip-off, apparently. So I was wondering, does this have anything to do with your “friend”?’
‘What?’ Mel had caught him cold again. ‘No, I don’t think so. Why would it?’
‘No reason. Just asking.’ He didn’t reply to that, figuring silence was his best option for now. She carried on. ‘Anyway, things became a bit more interesting after that. Yesterday morning, Thursday, Mr Hutchinson phoned in to ask if they had his wife in custody again, and when they said no, why do you ask, he told them she’d disappeared. According to him, when he woke up on Wednesday morning, she wasn’t there and she hasn’t come back yet. Interesting, eh?’
‘It certainly is.’ Wife suspected of defrauding husband. Disappears. Husband mystified. All too familiar. ‘Had she taken any of his money?’
‘It doesn’t look like it. Although it sounds very similar to your case we can’t see any definite connections just yet. Mrs Hutchinson being guilty of any crime, or suspected crime, is all supposition just now, and from talking to my Cheshire colleagues, a bit more time will need to pass before they treat her disappearance as anything more than a domestic.’ She chuckled. ‘Apparently because the husband was a total tosser, according to them. Anyway, where did you say you were just now, Ross?’
It was the timing of her question that nearly caught him out this time. ‘I’m just away for a few days. But listen, thanks for letting me know. I’ll need to go now, I’m badly parked here. Bye.’
Ross could never be rude enough simply to end the call so he waited long enough to hear Mel’s responding ‘Bye’ coming back. He sat and let things rumble around before texting Oliver.
Hi. Just been told Mrs H released without charge Tues. Disappeared from home early Wed am. Guilty as sin! R.
He might have stopped in the lay-by for a while longer but an articulated lorry pulled in behind him, lurching a couple of times as the driver tried to manoeuvre the elongated vehicle into the tight space Ross had left. The driver gave a polite toot which basically meant: Oi, you. Shift forward a bit. Rather than do that, he set off again, flashing his hazards at the lorry driver, who blipped his headlights in thanks.
As he drove along, he wondered what he would face at this next house. Google Street View couldn’t give him an advance preview this time.
Thirty-three minutes later, he had his answer.
‘Aw, shit.’
And he really did mean that.
Chapter Sixty-Four
‘He’s up to something,’ said Mel.
Andrew swivelled round to face her. ‘Who?’
‘Ross McKinlay. I’ve just spoken to him on the phone.’
‘What about?’
‘Somehow, he’s found out that a woman in Cheshire was taken in by the local plod on suspicion of perpetrating a similar fraud to his missing wife. But they had no evidence so she was released. I’ve just told him that she’s disappeared. Done a runner, it looks like.’
‘How did he know about her?’
‘The clue, Detective Constable Young, was in my use of the word “somehow”. So I don’t fucking know, do I?’
‘And will you be trying to find out?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Andrew turned back to his PC. ‘Well. What an unbelievably interesting conversation. So glad I was here for that.’
Her gaze darted quickly over her desk. Both the stapler and the paperweight were too heavy, the keyboard and the mouse were attached to her PC, and the box of tissues was too light. She settled for a plastic tub of screen wipes but missed him by at least two feet.
‘Bugger!’
Andrew was quite relaxed. She’d never hit him yet.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Oliver hadn’t ever professed his database to be one hundred per cent accurate, and Ross’s experiences so far had demonstrated there were a few couples who didn’t match Leona’s algorithm. According to the list, the next address was home to Roger Perryman and his wife, Pam. Ross hoped he’d be able to prove conclusively, and preferably within minutes, that the pair had been happily married for years, with grandchildren and everything. Alas, when he eventually found Burrell Farm, northeast of Stour Row on a winding country lane, his hopes suffered an immediate dent.
The traditional stone-built farmhouse was in a total pig of a location, high up on a rise and set back where the terrain levelled off. From the road, he could see only the tops of the ground floor windows, and wasn’t able to determine if there were any cars in front of the house. The driveway was no more than a steep, rough track that exited to the road directly at a sharp bend.
He’d already driven past the entrance once. Coming back from the opposite direction he bumped the car up onto the grass verge in an attempt to gain some sort of view, any view really, of the house. But even during the few minutes he sat there, two tractors had squeezed past pulling trailers piled high with bales of plastic-encased hay. The harvest was in full swing, and the second driver’s animated gesticulations made it abundantly clear he had to move. He took one last look at the track up to the house. He was confident the Audi would make short work of it.
He drove for well over a mile before he was able to park in the overgrown entrance to a field, next to a heavily rusted metal gate. He took some time out to consider his options.
There’s no way to keep watch on this house. Bugger! I’ll just have to drive up to the front door and wing it. Thinking about it, maybe this one’s too difficult for one person. Should I wait for Martin to arrive? Pause to consider. Then: Come on, Ross, stop being such a bloody wimp. He won’t be here until tomorrow. And after all, this is your problem, not his.
What if I just log this one as nobody home? Who would ever know?
But Ross rejected the idea immediately because he would know, and that was enough for him. Resigned, he drove back to the farm track and eased the car up the slope.
Standing on the weathered sandstone doorstep of the farmhouse, he began to feel faintly ridiculous as, even to him, the market research pretence was wearing thin. He and Martin had run it several times but this would be the first time he would try it without his friend there for moral support. Or, closer to the truth, to take the lead.
iPad in hand, Ross rang the brass bell push and heard a traditional brrrrriiinnnng from somewhere inside.
The door was opened by an extremely tall, cheerful looking man. He looked like he was well into his sixties but that could have been down to the way he was dressed. Brown cardigan with leather elbow patches, pale-coloured checked work-shirt that looked as though it had come straight from Gardeners’ Weekly, ancient baggy corduroy trousers and battered slippers. All that was missing was the pipe and newspaper. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled, obviously waiting for his visitor to explain why he’d turned up at their door.
Ross launched straight into his spiel, surprising himself by how smooth he sounded. Clearly some of Martin’s confidence had transferred across to him. By osmosis, he supposed. Roger Perryman, still smiling, waited politely for Ross to finish his introduction. ‘I’m not really up on that sort of stuff but my wife is. She uses her laptop all the time. Needs to keep in contact with her family back in Thailand, you see. Just hang on there a minute and I’ll give her a shout.’ He turned away then stopped himself. ‘Sorry, forgot my manners. Would you like to come in?’
‘Oh, no. Thanks very much.’ Ross hadn’t expected the invitation.
‘Okay. Two seconds.’ Roger walked back through the vestibule door, which he’d left half open behind him. ‘Pam! Someone at the door for you.’ He smiled one more time at Ross then disappeared into a den to the left of the front door. Ross was left looking down a long, wide hallway. Easily thirty or forty feet from front to back, and wide enough for a small truck. Must be some size of a house. It’s really deceptive from the front. The hall appeared quite gloomy, partly because the afternoon sunlight was so bright at the front of the house but also because there was very little natural light from any of the several doors leading onto the hall. Only two of these were open, directly opposite one another, about three-quarters of the way along. As his gaze flitted idly up and down the passage, a female figure appeared from a room on the left. She walked across the hall from one open door to the other. She glanced out at him, turned her head back then stopped abruptly, right in the middle of the hall. Her body appeared to freeze, as if a tremendous amount of willpower was required to prevent her looking back at him again. After a pause of at least a couple of seconds, she continued across the hall. She never stopped looking straight ahead and disappeared into the room opposite. Ross would have heard the door closing had he not gasped audibly.
He felt like a Sumo wrestler had lifted him by his ribcage, and squeezed him like a toothpaste tube down to its last centimetre. His temperature seemed to rocket, bringing perspiration instantly to his forehead, blurring his vision. He stuck a hand in the direction of the doorframe in an attempt to support himself, missed, and only succeeded in scraping his wrist along the sharp edge of the wood. In trying to correct his position, his grip on the iPad relaxed, sending it crashing to the terracotta tile floor.
Roger came rushing back out of the den. ‘My goodness! What’s happened?’ He took one look at Ross’s face, and reached out to him. ‘Are you okay?’ Ross turned, tried to speak but nothing came out. Roger placed a hand underneath Ross’s forearm. ‘Pam! Quickly!’
A tiny Asian woman appeared in front of Ross as if Scotty had beamed her up. She was incredibly delicate with amazing almond eyes set aside an upturned nose. She looked like a pixie. ‘You okay? Sir, you okay?’ In a voice belying her stature, she bellowed, ‘Rosa, Rosa. Bring drink water! Quick!’ The woman who had crossed the hall a few seconds earlier came back out of the room and turned away from them, through a different door. But Ross didn’t see her. He was too busy trying to deflect Pam. ‘You have water. Feel better.’
‘No. No thank you. I need to go now. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He plucked the iPad from Roger’s grasp, wincing in dismay as several shiny plastic slivers tinkled onto the floor.
‘Nonsense!’ Roger glared down the hall. ‘Rosa! Where’s that bloody drink?’ At that, the woman came out of the kitchen and walked towards them, a bright shaft of sunlight illuminating her from the rear. Ross’s vision hadn’t yet cleared and he began to wonder if he was having a heart attack or a stroke. As she reached him, she stretched her arm out and handed him a tall glass of water. For the first time he was able to see her clearly.
Oh, thank the Lord. You’re not Carla. Jesus! What a bloody fright. The constriction round his upper body immediately eased off and his temperature retreated to something approaching normal. He accepted the glass in both hands and managed to take a small drink without slurping it down his chin. He sneaked one more look at Rosa to reassure himself she wasn’t his missing wife. He offered her a smile as weak as baby tea, and muttered a grateful thank you. He would find out later she was Filipino. With a jerk of her head, Pam dismissed her. She swished quickly away with her head down.
Roger gestured inside with one arm, and extended the other one to shepherd Ross into the den. ‘Won’t you come in? And please, sit down over here.’ It was the only seat. A rattan sofa with floral upholstery that sat about a foot off the floor. Ross had no idea how Roger found it even remotely comfortable but looking around at all the man-things, this was obviously his hideaway. An enormous Samsung television hung on the wall opposite, a stack of hi-fi separates occupied one corner, while dozens if not hundreds of CDs and vinyl albums fought to remain upright in a bookcase several degrees away from perpendicular. Newspapers, motoring magazines and other masculine periodicals littered the floor, and within arm’s reach of the sofa a packed beer fridge hummed noisily behind the door. Clearly, the kitchen was way too distant for Roger, especially when, in a reclined position, his bum would be significantly lower than his knees.
Pam returned with a pot of apple tea and a china plate piled high with sugar-frosted discs about the size of a £2 coin. She fussed over him, making sure he drank some tea and consumed at least half a dozen of these tiny home-baked biscuits. She asked him several times, ‘You okay now, sir? You recover, yes?’
Ross assured her he was indeed fully recovered and told her the tea and biscuits were absolutely delicious. He wasn’t kidding on that score. The intense sugar hit had been just the job. Roger insisted he sit for a while and they chatted sport, music and Brexit for a good part of the afternoon. Ross was thankful for the company, which he enjoyed immensely. He realised he’d been on his own for almost three days since leaving Edinburgh; receptionists, waiters and barmen aside. Not something he was used to or had even considered prior to setting out on his travels without Martin for company.
As the daylight began to fade he stood up to leave, politely declined Pam’s offer to stay for dinner and thanked both her and Roger profusely for looking after him so well. He hadn’t seen Rosa again. Just before he drove off down their bumpy track he had the presence of mind to take a couple of quick snaps of the friendly, hospitable yet unlikely pairing as they waved goodbye.
The time he’d spent with them had cheered him up but that state didn’t last for long. Ross had some hard thinking to do, and some major decisions to make before Martin flew south the following day to join forces with him again.
Not long after he turned onto the main road heading south, Ross stopped at one of those classic olde-worlde inns that litter the highways and byways of rural England. The Wheatsheaf dated back to 1820, if the sign above the door was to be believed. Ducking through the low doorway into a large room with roughcast ceilings and black, burnt-oak beams, he decided the sign probably told the truth. Everything about the pub declared, I’m nearly 200 years old, you know. He reached up and rapped his knuckles off one of the beams, just to satisfy himself.
He worked his way through the healthily busy lounge bar, past families eating dinner and other customers enjoying drinks and arrived at the bar.
‘You’ve no idea how many people do that,’ said the barman. ‘And I always ask them if they would be able to tell if the beams were genuine or fake. In fact, there’s a pub down the road called The Plough, believe it or not. It’s only about ten years old but when they built it, they made the first two beams in from the front door from real wood. All the rest are plastic or some other rubbish, and there’s not a solid wall in the place. They figured people would only test out the first or second beam, tops, and would be convinced the pub was the real deal. All the tourists, especially the Yanks, fall for it, and it gives the locals a good laugh.’ Ross wondered if the barman was winding him up. ‘It’s true, honest. But never mind all that, what can I get you?’
The drink-driving laws in England were not as severe as in Scotland, where even one pint of beer was liable to put him over the limit. But he’d been badly shaken by his encounter with Rosa and it had brought home to him just how lonely he was, even though it had only been three days since he left Edinburgh. He decided a pint would hit the spot, and thought he would have just one. Then he saw a sign behind the bar that changed his mind.
We have rooms upstairs. All en suite.
The atmosphere in the inn felt cosy, comfortable and welcoming. They served food, decent beer, and he wouldn’t need to drive any further today.
‘I’ll have a pint of Guinness, please. And I’d like to book a room for the night.’
Within minutes he had a room organised, booked in for dinner at 19:30 and was settled with his beer at a small table by the window. The weather had just broken down and squalls of rain were battering off the small thick panes of leaded glass which, even without the drips running down them, were fairly impenetrable. He could discern blurred headlights in the car park but that was about it. Sitting there with his beer, sheltered from the elements and with the promise of dinner to come, Ross was delighted with his impromptu decision. Not like me at all.
