The Truth About Murder Read online

  There had been a change even in the short time I’d known him, I thought, watching him go. When I first got transferred here, Denny seemed to be a permanent fixture, the first one at his desk in the morning and usually the last to leave at night. Not anymore. These last few weeks, there was every indication that retirement couldn’t come soon enough for him. I’d known from the start that I’d never to step into Booth’s shoes. He and Denny had worked together for years. But I hadn’t expected to be quite so comprehensively left out in the cold. Still, only a couple more weeks and hopefully I’d be able to make a fresh start with a new partner.

  It wasn’t until after Denny had gone that I realised I’d forgotten to ask him about Stefan Greaves’ clothes. I briefly considered getting him on his mobile, but that would probably irritate him even more, so it would have to wait another day. The last thing I did before leaving was to phone the neighbourhood security division of the council — the team who now had responsibility for the remaining CCTV cameras in the town, though I held out little hope. Since the demise of the New Labour obsession with surveillance, most of the cameras had fallen into disrepair or been decommissioned. Sure enough, on Meridian Crescent, the war with vandalism had been waged and lost. I would have to depend on Davey and hope that his security cameras were operational.

  I took a tablet from the store and drove home past Davey’s, but he had a shop full. Tax on the poor in action, people were queuing up to buy their midweek lottery tickets, doubtlessly attracted by the poster in the window declaring that no fewer than three customers who’d bought tickets there had enjoyed substantial wins. There was no point stopping there now.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I still wish you’d come and stay with us for a few days,’ Laura said. Hers was one of the faces that had floated before me in my days of semi-consciousness, but now here she was, in the flesh, packing up the few belongings I’d accumulated during my hospital stay.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, perched on the edge of the bed, wrestling my way into a shirt, trying to ignore the fact that my hands were shaking more than usual. I’d been X-rayed, scanned, poked and prodded, and so far as anyone could tell, there was no reason to keep me in hospital any longer. With resources stretched as they were, they couldn’t wait to get rid of me so that someone else could have the bed.

  The idea of being looked after by Laura for a few days was, in truth, an attractive one. But at the risk of sounding chippy, I didn’t know if I could stay in such close proximity to the kind of cosy domesticity that was becoming ever more elusive with every passing year. ‘Anyway, you’re supposed to be taking it easy,’ I reminded her, adjusting the cuff.

  An abrupt laugh exploded from her. ‘Adding you to the family won’t make much difference. Besides, I’m only about fourteen weeks. There’s a long way to go.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I looked up at her. ‘Really, I’ll be fine.’ I picked up the coat she’d brought. ‘What happened to my clothes, the ones I was wearing on Friday?’ I asked, thinking of my leather jacket. I’d had it for years and was very attached to it. ‘I suppose the police took them?’

  Laura looked surprised. ‘No, one of the nurses gave them to me the first time I visited. She didn’t know what else to do with them, so most of your stuff is somewhere in our wash. I sent your jacket to the cleaners,’ Laura went on. ‘They couldn’t be sure of restoring it to mint condition, but they said they’d give it a go.’ Having finished what she was doing, Laura stood, arms folded, patiently watching me but knowing better than to offer any help. ‘If you change your mind about staying with us, we’re only a phone call away.’

  ‘I know.’ I decided not to mention the conversation I’d had with the doctor who’d brought the discharge medication earlier that afternoon.

  ‘Some painkillers until the bruising subsides, and what do you take for the seizures?’ he’d asked.

  ‘I don’t have seizures,’ I told him, confidently. In that regard, I was one of the lucky ones.

  ‘You had one on Saturday night. Didn’t anyone tell you?’ He glanced up from my notes.

  Fuck. ‘No.’

  Picking up the chart at the foot of the bed, he flicked through the pages to show me. ‘Recorded as a grand mal.’ He glanced up. ‘You’re sure you haven’t had them before?’

  I nodded emphatically.

  ‘Well, it was just the one,’ he confirmed. ‘You don’t seem to have had any more, which means it might have been a one-off, resulting from the head trauma. They gave you a drubbing, didn’t they?’

  I assumed the question was rhetorical.

  ‘You’re going to need to be careful for a few days,’ he went on. ‘Is there someone you can stay with who can keep an eye on you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d told him. Technically it was true. I was simply choosing not to take advantage of that fact. He wasn’t to know that.

  ‘Good.’

  Something else had been bugging me, but I wasn’t sure whether to raise it. The doctor looked up and caught my eye. ‘Yes?’

  ‘When I was being attacked,’ I began, unsure of how to proceed. ‘Just before I passed out, I saw this kind of bright light in front of my eyes, a sort of way off, along a tunnel. I felt drawn towards it, as if it was inevitable, as if . . .’ I stopped, feeling foolish.

  ‘As if you were crossing to the other side?’ He gave a wry smile.

  Hearing it out loud it did sound ridiculous, but that’s what I’d meant. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ the doctor said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘It was a brutal attack. They nearly killed you, and I’m pretty sure that was their intention.’

  I snorted. ‘All for a few hundred quid.’

  ‘Maybe they just got carried away. There isn’t any evidence from the test results to indicate that your heart stopped beating, but it may have come close. Your body might have started to shut down. What you describe isn’t new. Other patients have reported similar sensations, sometimes after tricky operations.’ He smiled. ‘Count yourself lucky, Mr Greaves, you’ve had a narrow escape. I’ll see you back in a few days to make sure that everything’s healing as it should. Do you need anything to help you sleep?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  And with that, he shook my hand and left.

  * * *

  Laura had thought of everything, including some much-needed cash — ‘Oh yes, and something to put it in.’ She dug into her handbag and retrieved a tiny, pink, bejewelled purse. ‘Grace insisted that I offer you this. Or on the other hand, there’s this, an old one of Simon’s.’ She matched the purse with a battered black wallet.

  ‘Tell Grace I’m very touched by her offer.’ I smiled, taking the wallet. ‘Will she cope with the rejection?’

  ‘She’ll have forgotten all about it by now,’ Laura said. ‘Oh, and I’ve cancelled your credit cards too, so you’ll need to arrange replacements.’

  ‘What would I do without you?’ I said, with feeling. On our way out, we stopped by the nurses’ station to say goodbye and to thank Freckle-face.

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  ‘Be seeing you,’ I said, noticing now that her name was Claire.

  ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ she said, with a grin. ‘I’m leaving next month for Australia.’

  ‘Their gain is our loss.’ In a strange way, I felt genuinely saddened by the news.

  ‘In the meantime, anything you need, you know where we are.’

  * * *

  The rain was lashing down as Laura stopped off at the supermarket on the way home, and I was glad of the trolley to lean on, disappointed at how unsteady and unnerved I felt. The outside world seemed louder and brasher than it had been four days ago. And was it my imagination, or was the stare-count particularly high today? Automatically I checked my flies, but of course they were safely zipped. Other people’s curiosity was one of those things I had learned to live with but had never quite got used to. As youngsters, Laura and I had measured reactions on what we called
the ‘Gobsmack scale’. My mother always regarded it as something to be proud of, reminding me that celebrities attract the same kind of interest. ‘Just imagine you’re a famous film or sports star,’ she would say, while we both ignored the obvious ironies therein. ‘Now you know how they feel.’ When my resilience is intact it’s easy to deflect the unwanted attention, often with what I consider to be my most disarming smile, which tends to scare the shit out of people.

  But today was different. I felt unusually self-conscious and awkward. In the checkout queue, as I wrangled Simon’s wallet out of my inside jacket pocket and painstakingly plucked out a couple of banknotes, one middle-aged woman kept up an unblinking vigil throughout the whole manoeuvre, until eventually Laura asked, ‘Something we can help you with?’. The woman was forced to look away but did so without a shred of shame.

  Entering the front of my building, we had to walk past the spot where just a few nights previously, I’d lain helpless on the ground while a group of thugs kicked the living crap out of me. Even though the memories were hazy, I was surprised at how powerfully it unsettled me, and hurried past as quickly as possible. I opened my mouth to tell Laura about what I thought I had experienced, but stopped before any sound came out. Even with that endorsement from the doctor, I knew with absolute certainty that Laura would find the idea of my ‘crossing over’ to the other side hilarious, attributing it to some kind of mental breakdown. And the whole episode was humiliating enough as it was.

  Laura helped me unpack the shopping and put it away, then she made a cup of tea. ‘Do you want me to make you something to eat?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ It came out more irritably than I’d intended, because the truth was, I didn’t want her to go.

  She gave me a measured look. ‘Well, I’d best go and get Grace from the outlaws.’

  I gave her a hug. ‘Thanks. I’m grateful, really I am.’

  ‘Well, what are mates for?’

  And that was the point, really. Having her take on the role of caring for me in this big sister kind of way just brought to the surface my deep disappointment — and let’s face it, resentment — that it was Simon she’d married and not me. Although in many ways Laura was like my twin sister, I’d long harboured the hope that it wouldn’t always be that way. We had been close for as long as I could remember, growing up next door to each other only a couple of miles from where I now lived, going to the same toddler groups and primary school. She knew me as well as I knew myself, accepting me for what I am. But then the compensation came through, and I was sent to a private school that would ‘better meet my needs’. We grew apart during those crucial teenage years and by the time we reconnected, Laura had already met Simon.

  Throughout our childhood she’d been a brilliant advocate and supporter, and for a long time it must have seemed like one-way traffic until finally I was able to be there in her hour, or rather weeks, of need. The tearful phone call came late one Friday night, her second term into university in London. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she’d sobbed. Initially, Simon, who was beginning to develop his reputation as a journalist, freaked out and it looked as if Laura would be abandoned. But then he came to his senses and fifteen years later here they both still were, back in Charnford, with as decent a marriage as I’ve seen anywhere, along with two ravishing daughters and another baby on the way.

  It felt weird being at home in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. I paced around the flat a couple of times, reacquainting myself with everything. What the hell was I going to do? I never usually smoked during the week, but my nerves were jangling and the stash of roll-ups was conveniently still lying there on the sofa where Keeley had left it. I hadn’t paid her for them yet, I realised. Taking one into the kitchen, I lit it by holding it shakily to the flame on the gas cooker. I needed it. It was the only thing that dissolved the tension in my muscles. Swimming helped too, but I realised that with the current state of my body, going to the public baths would be off the agenda for a while.

  Feeling more chilled, I switched on my laptop to check my messages. Naturally, Crusader was already waiting for my next move. I had a look at the board, made my move and messaged him back. The response was instant, as if he’d been waiting for me: What kept you? Afraid of what I might do?

  He always managed to sound vaguely menacing — if Crusader was a ‘he’, of course. I had no way of knowing. Occasionally, online opponents were inclined to chat, and we’d exchange a few personal details, but that wasn’t Crusader’s style. He preferred mystery. His next move was already planned, and he made it straight away, a move that was predictably unpredictable. Ordinarily I’d have tried to figure out what his overall strategy might be, but today I couldn’t concentrate. Standing over the chessboard, a sudden, vivid sensation had come back to me: the unpleasant smell that had, if I was right about it, brought me back from the brink of death. I should have been grateful, but even the memory of that rank odour almost made me gag. The smell, real or imagined, had re-entered my nostrils and I couldn’t clear it. It was further compounded by the overlay of eau d’hôpital, which meant that every time I inhaled, I was reminded of the attack. I was overcome with a sudden impulse to wash off every trace of it. Having only recently got dressed, the prospect of going through the whole rigmarole again was an exhausting one, but I knew that until I did, I wouldn’t settle. Getting the water as hot as I could bear, I ducked into the shower and scrubbed at the left side of my face until it was sore and my ear throbbing.

  Chapter Nine

  On my way to work the next day, I called in at Davey’s supermarket, in the hope that things there would be a bit less fraught. Back where I came from, a business like this would have been owned and run by an Asian family. I understood that this one had been once but the Guptas had departed not long after a botched firebomb attack had highlighted their vulnerability, and Davey had taken it on. My calculation was sound — the shop was much quieter than last night, with just the odd customer calling in for fags or a newspaper on their way to work. Even so, I had to wait a few minutes until Davey was free. I showed him my identification.

  ‘Do you know about the assault that took place not far from here, on Meridian Crescent, last Friday night? It was a guy called Stefan Greaves, he’d just been in to use your cash machine.’

  ‘I heard about that. It was a terrible thing.’ Davey was all sympathy. ‘He often comes in here. He’s all right.’

  ‘Do you remember him coming in on Friday?’

  ‘Yes, he bought some milk.’

  ‘He said there were some kids hanging around outside your shop when he came in. Any idea who they might be?’

  He shook his head dubiously. ‘When it’s dark and I’m back here, you can’t really see much out there. There are often people around.’

  ‘They might have been into the shop too, though. Do you remember serving any customers immediately before Mr Greaves?’

  He was dismissive. ‘Friday’s always busy — people come in to pick up last-minute groceries for the weekend, or for their lottery tickets. It’s hard to remember from one day to the next exactly who’s been in.’ He seemed to be finding eye contact a challenge. But what he said wasn’t unreasonable. I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or he was simply worried about possible reprisals.

  ‘Was anyone else serving in the shop with you that night, at about ten?’

  ‘The missus was here earlier in the evening, but by that time it would have just been me.’

  ‘What about the cameras?’ I nodded towards the CCTV.

  He shook his head. ‘Stored on the hard drive. I wipe them every twenty-four hours. I didn’t hear about the attack until Sunday so by then it was too late.’

  I held up the tablet. ‘Would you look at some pictures for me, see if you recognise anyone?’

  Davey was hesitant. ‘I’m not sure I can help you. I told you I don’t really remember who else came in the shop on Friday.
The days all merge into one.’

  ‘I know, but just humour me, will you?’ I said. ‘You’d be surprised at how often a picture can just spark something. You may be the closest thing to a witness we’ve got.’ And even if he didn’t admit recognition, his reactions might be telling.

  ‘OK.’ He didn’t like it, but really, how could he refuse? He called a young woman through to the shop while we went behind the counter and into a room that smelled strongly of detergent. We sat on a sagging sofa, surrounded by stacks of toilet rolls and cardboard cartons of stock for the shop. I booted up the tablet and we began scrolling through pages of mug shots. I’d rounded up images of the local lowlifes aged between fifteen and thirty-five who weren’t currently serving time. It was a gruesome gallery. On page three we scored a hit of sorts. Although he said nothing, Davey’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly. Resisting the urge to pick up on it, I continued on. A couple of pages later, the same thing happened.

  This time I pounced. ‘Someone you know, Davey?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. He could just be a customer. Since the lottery wins, we’re very popular.’

  ‘Which one?’

  He indicated the young man in the bottom right hand corner, with cropped mousy hair, sharp features, and a tattoo to one side of his throat.

  ‘You think he was in the shop on Friday evening?’

  ‘He might have been. Like I said, it’s hard to remember.’

  I backtracked to page three. ‘You recognised someone here, too. Which one?’

  The man he indicated looked barely out of his teens, olive-skinned, his head shaved. ‘Have you ever seen these men together?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Any others with them?’

  This time just a shrug.

  I was getting desperate. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about them, what they were wearing, what they bought, anything?’

  ‘I don’t remember what they bought, it could have been crisps or something. I think they were quite boisterous, a lot of banter and that. I think they’re off the estate.’