The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Read online

  ‘My name’s Scott.’

  My hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. The name Scott always gives me a jolt – especially today – but it’s an irrational reaction.

  ‘Okay, Scott, you’re on. Sixty seconds to tell us why we should listen to your story in detail next Monday. And…go!’

  ‘My story is about a beautiful girl – I called her Spike.’ I hear myself gasp. Scott is talking quickly and the drill is making it even harder to hear. There is something familiar about his voice, but there has to be more than one Scott with a Welsh accent, surely? But Spike…What a weird coincidence.

  ‘Spike wasn’t her real name, by the way,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you her real name if I’m chosen, but I loved her. She was everything to me. Sadly we did some stuff we shouldn’t have, and everything went horribly wrong. It nearly killed us, one way or another. It was fourteen years ago today – one year after we met – that we made the devastating decision that changed our lives – well, mine anyway. If you’re listening, Spike, I know you won’t have forgotten.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My eyes sting and I lift a hand to brush away hot tears. I want to reach out and switch the radio off – I don’t want to listen to any more. My hand hovers over the button, but I can’t do it.

  ‘It was a terrible time, and Spike decided that – for me, at least – it was all over. Next Monday is another important day – the day that I always think of as “the end”. And that’s when I’ll tell our story.’

  I swallow hard, my throat tight. It can’t be my Scott. I know that. But the dates! Surely this is our story?

  The man calling himself Scott seems to have ground to a halt, and the presenter chips in. ‘You like to keep us in suspense, don’t you, Scott? Tell me, when did you last see each other?’

  At that moment I pull level with the drill, and its clattering deafens me. The radio is on full blast, but I can’t catch what he says, and by the time I am past the roadworks, the moment has gone. Only the presenter can be heard, telling his listeners there is one more pitch before they must make up their minds who to choose.

  ‘I think young Scott has got us all intrigued, though. Who is Spike? And what did the two of them do that tore them apart? The mind boggles, folks. Don’t forget to vote, and if my guess is right we’ll all be tuning in next Monday to find out what happened to end Scott and Spike’s wonderful relationship, and discover what was so special about this day fourteen years ago.’

  The rest of the journey passes in a blur. My eyes have glazed over and I am barely functioning. My hands are shaking, and I grasp the steering wheel as tightly as I can, forcing myself to concentrate on the road, to cut the ridiculous thoughts out of my head. It’s not Scott.

  But the date, the accent and the names.

  A Welsh boy called Scott had nicknamed me Spike many years ago, after I had my hair cut painfully short to try to look cool – a word that was bandied about all the time back then.

  I might manage to convince myself that there are many men called Scott, and that Spike isn’t such an imaginative nickname, but I can’t ignore the dates. No one other than Scott would know the significance of today. It’s a day I’ve been dreading, as I do every year.

  I realise I have arrived at school without consciously knowing how I got here. I drive through the entrance to the car park of the old red-brick building which looked so shabby when I first arrived, and I take no pleasure in the colourful garden that an enthusiastic group of children and staff have created. I see nothing, blind to all but the memories. My head is swimming.

  The radio is still playing, but I haven’t been listening. Until now.

  ‘Text us with the word “Scott” if you want to learn what happened to Scott and Spike fourteen years ago in Nebraska.’

  I hear myself gasp. That must have been what he was saying as I passed the drill. It all happened in Nebraska.

  I gulp back a sob.

  Fourteen years ago today I was with Scott in Nebraska, and it was the worst day of my life. No one knows that except Scott, but it can’t be him on the radio because Scott has been dead for fourteen years. And I killed him.

  3

  ‘Becky!’ DCI Tom Douglas shouted as he walked through the major incident team’s office.

  Becky Robinson was standing over by a whiteboard, talking to DS Keith Sims. She turned at the urgency in Tom’s voice. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Come on – time we got you back in action,’ he said as he drew close.

  Becky had been on maternity leave, and despite how hard she was finding it to leave her baby, she was excited at the thought of a new case. Knowing Tom would fill her in en route to wherever they were going, she grabbed her bag and followed him out into the sunshine.

  ‘It’s too bloody hot for September,’ Tom said, opening his car door. ‘It’s like an oven in here.’

  ‘The last case I was on with you it was freezing – snow several feet thick, if I remember correctly – so I can cope with it being hot for a change.’

  Tom put the car into gear and reversed out of his parking spot. ‘How’s Buster?’

  Becky smiled. Her baby was called George, but her partner Mark had referred to him as Buster during the last months of her pregnancy and it had stuck. ‘He’s doing great. Chubby little thing. You’ll have to call round and see him again. Bring Lucy.’

  Tom’s daughter, Lucy, loved babies and she had always got on well with Becky. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’

  ‘So, where are we off to?’

  ‘Not far – central Manchester. Body of a male found in a car in a multi-storey. The car park’s been sealed off, but that’s going to cause havoc and general grumbling unless we can get it sorted quickly.’

  Realistically it could take hours for the crime scene to be thoroughly examined, so those vehicles already in the car park were destined to stay there for the time being, and those waiting to come in would be turned away until further notice.

  Becky groaned. ‘We’ll have people moaning that we’re stopping them from going about their lives when some poor bugger’s lying dead only metres away. They seem to think we do it on purpose just to make their lives more difficult.’

  Tom grinned. It was true that the general public seemed to be divided into those who accepted that occasionally things happen that cause some inconvenience, while others sought someone to blame for any disruption. And it was usually the police who were held responsible.

  ‘Fortunately for us,’ he said, ‘some hapless uniform will have to deal with all that crap. We, on the other hand, will have to get up close to our victim, and I don’t have the first clue what state he’s in. It’s your first body for some time, Becky – are you feeling okay about it or are you more squeamish since giving birth?’

  Becky snorted. ‘Less so, if anything. Although I’ve become a lot more safety conscious. Wait until the next time I drive. No more hanging on to your grab handle when I go round the corner. I’m the antithesis of recklessness these days.’

  Tom gave her a glance that said he didn’t believe a word of it. He often teased Becky about his first experience in a car with her – in central London – saying he had no idea how they had managed to get from A to B without causing a major incident.

  But the light-hearted chat came to an end as they arrived at the multi-storey. Tom’s face was serious as he spoke. ‘Well, here we are. Let’s go and see what we’ve got. You ready?’

  She nodded and threw open the car door.

  As Tom and Becky made their way up the stairwell towards Level 5 of the car park, their footsteps echoed off the bare walls. There was a smell of hot concrete mixed with overcooked vegetables, probably coming from the staff canteen of the adjoining offices. Becky wrinkled her nose. Lifting one end of the extra-long, brightly coloured silk scarf that she was wearing to – in her words – hide her still-podgy baby belly, she rather theatrically covered the lower half of her face.

  ‘We can’t expect car parks to be places of gre
at beauty, but when you chuck in a bit of stewed cabbage it all gets a bit much.’

  Tom smiled and pushed open a door leading to a poorly lit expanse of car park. It was eerily silent. No cars were coming or going up and down the ramps, and there was no one to be seen.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Becky asked, her voice sounding unnaturally loud.

  ‘We have to walk up the ramp to the next half-level. I understand the car’s at the far end.’

  They turned up a short slope and looked to the right where three arc lights illuminated the gloom. Crime-scene technicians were busying themselves around one of the cars, and Tom was relieved to see the reassuringly large figure of Jumoke Osoba, or Jumbo as he was more commonly known, standing with his hands on his hips, overseeing their efforts.

  The focus of attention was a dark grey Mercedes S-Class saloon, and as they drew closer Tom registered that the car looked new, although it was impossible to tell due to the personalised number plate – CEJ79. Jumbo turned towards them, and his characteristic wide white smile lit up his black face.

  ‘Morning, Tom. Good to have you back, Becky.’

  Becky gave him an answering grin as she and Tom slipped on protective suits.

  ‘What have we got, Jumbo?’ Tom asked, approaching the car.

  ‘Male victim, somewhere in his thirties at a guess. It seems pretty obvious how he died, although the Home Office pathologist will have to confirm it, of course. Take a look.’

  The first thing Tom noticed was that the driver’s window was down. Given the heat, this wasn’t surprising. He reached out a gloved hand to touch the bonnet. It was cold. It seemed likely then that the victim had been here a while, or at least the car had. The parking ticket should give them an accurate answer to that. Had the driver left his window open after taking his ticket from the machine when he arrived, or had he lowered it to talk to someone? Had he known his killer? Was he arriving, or was he about to leave? Tom mentally sorted the puzzle pieces and considered how they might slot together.

  All the car’s doors were closed, and Jumbo moved his considerable bulk out of the way to let Tom peer in through the window. The car next to the Mercedes was parked extremely close on the driver’s side. It was a tight squeeze.

  Tom gazed at a man’s face, swollen and dotted with ruptured capillaries. His eyes were wide open, the whites bulging and red with blood, staring at nothing.

  As Jumbo had said, there seemed little doubt how the man had died. A nylon cable tie was still around his neck. It had been pulled tight – impossible to shift – and had cut into the skin of his throat. He had been strangled – garrotted – from behind.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Jumbo.

  ‘Cable tie, doubled up so it was long enough to go around both the neck and the headrest. At a guess it was already prepared, the end threaded through. He would just have had to slip it over the head and pull. A job of seconds.’

  ‘Do we know who the victim is?’ Tom asked.

  ‘We think so. The car is registered to Cameron Edmunds – or Cameron Edmunds Junior, as I gather he’s better known. He doesn’t have any identification on him and the mobile phone we found on the seat is locked. So until we can get at the SIM, that’s no help.’

  The name at least explained the registration plate, and Tom assumed the number was the year of his birth, although even in this state he looked younger.

  ‘Jumbo, you might want to look at this.’ One of the crime-scene team was kneeling between the two cars, examining the blue Ford Focus parked next to the Mercedes.

  Tom and Jumbo crouched down next to the technician and looked where he was pointing. There was a deep dint in the door of the Focus, flecked with what looked like flakes of dark paint. They turned towards the Mercedes and Jumbo gently pulled open the rear door, lining up the marks.

  ‘Someone either got in or out of the back of the car in quite a rush, wouldn’t you say?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Or both.’

  Becky strode across to the two men.

  ‘Boss, I’ve been speaking to PC Khatri – he was the first responder. The person who called it in said he’d just parked his car on the far side of this level and decided to walk over to take a closer look at the Merc – his dream car, apparently. Thinking it was empty, he sneaked a peek inside. He’s downstairs in the parking attendant’s office being given a cup of tea for the shock. Shall I go and have a word with him?’

  ‘Yes, in a moment. We’ll also need to get what we can on Cameron Edmunds – get to his family before any word of this gets out. But before you do that, take a look at the scene and tell me what you see.’

  Tom and Jumbo stepped away from the car to give Becky space, silently watching her.

  She peered closely at the dead man’s bloated face, conscious that this was someone’s husband, father or son. The desire to win justice for the people who had lost him would drive her to seek answers so the killer could be caught. It was what made the job so rewarding, and it felt good to be back.

  ‘The engine is cold so the car’s been here a while, but there’s no sign of rigor mortis yet, so he’s not been dead long. That suggests he had returned to his car and was about to leave. So why would he open his window? Surely he’d have switched on the air con?’ Becky looked around, turning full circle. ‘What about CCTV?’

  Jumbo pulled a face.

  ‘Is there none at all?’ Becky asked with a sinking feeling. It would have made life so much easier.

  ‘It’s one of the few remaining multi-storeys without, I’m afraid. But then I guess our killer knew that. There are cameras at the entrance and exit, but not on each floor,’ Jumbo said.

  ‘Bugger,’ Tom muttered.

  ‘Quite. There are several in the streets nearby, but it doesn’t help unless we know who we’re looking for.’

  Becky stood back from the car and stared at it. The victim was attacked from behind, so had the perpetrator been in the car already? She returned to the driver’s window and looked again at the dead man’s face.

  ‘Did either of you notice that the skin around his eyes and nose seems swollen, irritated? It could be anything – a cold, maybe, or an allergy. But I wonder if something was sprayed in his eyes to distract him, giving the killer time to jump in the back.’

  ‘What, pepper spray – or Mace, maybe? Well spotted,’ Tom said.

  ‘I’ll point it out to the pathologist,’ Jumbo said with a nod of approval.

  Becky wondered whether the window was already open, or did the victim wind it down to speak to his killer? Why would he do that? Did he know him? Maybe the killer had pretended to need help, or had signalled to the victim that there was something wrong with his car – a flat tyre, possibly – and he had lowered the window fully to take a look. Then the killer had sprayed something into his eyes, dived into the back of the car, whipped the cable tie over the victim’s head and garrotted him.

  Could it have been a random attack? A theft? There was no wallet, but his phone was still on the seat. Nothing about it seemed random to Becky, though. The spray and the cable tie suggested it was carefully planned.

  It felt like an execution.

  4

  Monday is usually my favourite day of the week. We always start the school day with assembly, and I love looking at all the bright, eager faces of the children sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of me. Most are still untouched by any of life’s harsh realities and they smile happily, their expressions glowing with innocence.

  Today, though, I have struggled to focus and the hours have dragged. I smiled my way through an important meeting with the trustees, and no one seemed to notice the vacant expression behind my eyes as the words spoken by the man on the radio continued to spin round and round in my head, with one thought forcing itself to the surface over and over again.

  If anyone finds out what Scott and I did, my life will fall apart.

  I remind myself that Scott is dead – I know he’s dead – and my fears are irrational. But my stomac
h is in knots.

  If it’s not Scott, does someone else know our story?

  Throughout the day, memories of my time with him have been haunting me, and in the end I can’t resist logging into the TOTGA Facebook group to see what people are saying. Inevitably Scott’s story is intriguing everyone, and there are all kinds of theories.

  ‘Do you think they killed someone?’

  ‘Perhaps they robbed a bank! Maybe they were like Bonnie and Clyde!’

  But no one knows. No one must ever know.

  At the end of a long day I find myself unwilling to go home. However much I love my job, I always look forward to seeing my children. I can imagine them now, probably at the kitchen table drawing with their daddy, who will have picked them up from school and given them a snack so we can all have a meal together when I’m home. But I want to hide here, where no one can read the fear in my eyes.

  It’s so much easier since Dom has been looking after the children. I can remember when Holly was born and we were both teaching. Every day was a rush, dropping her off with a child-minder, dashing back to pick her up, trying to find time to do the shopping, the washing, clean the house. Bailey came along four years ago, and then we moved into a house that was falling apart. I don’t know how we managed. Dom, a drama teacher at a secondary school, was involved in plays in the evenings and weekends as well as his classroom teaching, and I neither of us seemed to have a spare moment.

  And then came Dom’s ‘accident’. He doesn’t like to use the word ‘mugging’ because it reminds him of what really happened. He feels he should have done better than he did, but I don’t know why. There were three of them, and he did well to get away with only the damage to his leg, although it still troubles him sometimes.

  He was off work for six months while they broke and reset his bones to try to fix the leg, and in the end Dom admitted that he liked being at home with the children. As his inheritance had left us with no mortgage, he wondered if perhaps we could manage without his salary. I was happy to agree.