Let Me Lie(100)

‘Sarge, there are tons of Mark Hemmings on Voters. Do we have a middle name?’

While James rooted through the pile of post abandoned on the kitchen table, in the hope of finding at least an initial, Murray brought up Google.

It was, he thought, the online equivalent of good old-fashioned policing, the sort that didn’t rely on police intelligence systems, or databases, or data protection waivers. It was the equivalent of knocking on doors, asking real people what they knew.

He searched for ‘Mark Hemmings, Putney’ and got too many hits to be useful. He closed his eyes for a moment; remembered what he knew about Anna’s partner. Then he allowed himself a slow smile. Mark Hemmings hadn’t only lived in a flat in Putney; he had worked there.

‘Flat 702, Putney Bridge Tower, SW15 2JX.’ Murray spun the phone across the table to James, the listing of accredited counsellors open at: Mark Hemmings, Dip.ST, DipSTTS, MA (Psych), UKCP (Accredited), MBACP.

‘Nicely played.’

Murray listened as James passed the address to control room. As soon as the call was finished, Sussex would pass the information to the Metropolitan Police, who would whir into action; the CAD Room despatching officers left, right and centre. Silent approach … All officers to hold at the RV point. Firearms officers waiting for threat assessments, authorisations. An ambulance en route. Negotiators on stand-by. Scores of people, all working towards the same aim.

All hoping to get there in time.

‘That’s that, then,’ James said. He put down his mobile. ‘I hate these cross-border jobs. We do the legwork and MetPol get the collar.’ He gave a rueful shrug. ‘Frustrating, you know?’

Murray knew. Only he realised that, right now, he didn’t feel frustrated. He didn’t want to be there for the collar, for the body count, for the tea and medals.

He wanted to go home.

He cared what happened to Anna and Ella – of course he did – but he had finally understood what he should have realised a long time ago. Crimes weren’t solved by a single detective: they were solved by a team. Murray had been a good detective, but he wasn’t indispensable. No one was.

‘Murray.’ James was hesitant. ‘It was my team who dealt with the Johnson suicides originally. It was me who signed off the coroner’s files.’

‘We all miss things, James. Caroline did a proper job – it was practically watertight.’ Caroline. Murray’s brain wouldn’t switch off. How had Caroline got Tom’s body into the septic tank on her own?

‘I was newly promoted. Wanted to get stuck in to GBHs, sexual assaults, you know? Real crimes. I was too quick to get things off my desk.’

Murray remembered his own early days on CID. He remembered the buzz when a ‘good’ job came in; the collective groans when stretched resources were tied up with investigations going nowhere. If he’d been in James’s shoes, who was to say he wouldn’t have done the same thing?

He let the younger man off the hook with a light touch on his arm, his mind still on Caroline. ‘It doesn’t get much more real than this.’

Who had helped Caroline dispose of the body?

‘I’m going to take the team back to the office. You’re welcome to join us – wait for an update?’

‘Thanks, but I’m going to head home. See in the New Year with Sarah.’ Murray looked out into the garden, where the tent had been zipped closed and a uniformed officer stood sentry, a thick black scarf wound around his neck.

‘Don’t blame you. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear from the Met.’

They stood up. On the wall, next to Murray, was a corkboard, and he looked idly at its contents as he waited for James to gather his paperwork. A pregnancy scan had pride of place in the centre. A wristband from some festival or other dangled from a pin on the frame, a relic from Anna’s life before the baby. There was a wedding invitation – evening reception only – and a thank-you note from Bryony for the lovely flowers – filled two vases!

And at the bottom, on the right-hand side, was a flyer.

That was it.

The final piece of the puzzle.

It wasn’t euphoria Murray felt. Just relief – that his previously sharp memory hadn’t failed him. He had finally remembered what he had seen on Diane Brent-Taylor’s noticeboard. And – more importantly – he knew exactly what it meant.

‘One last thing,’ he said to James, as the two men walked towards their respective cars. He wondered, as he said it, if he might subconsciously want to hang on to the information – to check it out himself and claim the credit when everything fell into place – but he found that he didn’t. In fact, he was glad to let it go.

‘Yes?’

‘I know who helped Caroline Johnson get rid of the body.’





SIXTY-FOUR


ANNA


There’s a noise from the landing. The quiet ‘ping’ of the lift as it announces its arrival. I look at Mum, but her eyes are fixed on the door.

‘Who is it?’ I whisper, but she doesn’t answer.

Could it be the police?

Mark would have called them as soon as we left Eastbourne; they know we’re here. And now that they’ve found Dad’s body, they must know what she did – they must realise who I’m with … I pin my hopes on Mark and Murray, on them adding two and two and making four.