Preview
One Dark Lie

by Clare Chase

CHAPTER ONE

When Quentin Patrick-John asked me to write about his sister, the offer came just at the right moment. Of course, there was more to the proposition than met the eye. A lot more.

Quentin seemed to sidle out of the shadows on King Street. I’d been up in the new flat I was renting there, above Claudio’s restaurant. It was tiny, and the smell of garlic and pizza dough started to drive me crazy hours before my proper dinnertime, but it was warm and mostly watertight.

Seven o’clock on an early December evening. Nate had been with me, lounging on my bed. We’d got together six months earlier, after confronting a homicidal maniac who’d blown up my house. Long story: suffice it to say, said maniac had been strongly inclined to blow me and Nate up too, which had proved to be a bonding experience. The moral is, if you get involved in a murder investigation, be prepared to take the rough with the smooth. Nate did warn me about this at the time, but I got curious.

Now the dust had settled we were taking things slowly: seeing each other often, but still keeping our own space.

Nate’s mobile rang, and I watched as he talked. He was wearing a soft, thickly woven charcoal grey shirt over jeans, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

He glanced in my direction, and for just a moment his blue eyes met mine. Then he got up, turned away and wandered to the other side of the room. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. ‘But I’ll need to call you about it later.’

I walked to the window overlooking the street, as though turning my back would give him more space. Pushing the curtain aside I felt the draft from the sash and pulled my hoodie more tightly round me. Outside, lamplight only emphasised the dark alley opposite. Someone leant against the wall there, and lit a cigarette. The scene was lonely, but the noise from the crowd downstairs was reassuring.

Frost coated everything in my line of sight. A spider’s web hung from the lamppost, looking as though it had been encrusted with sugar.

Behind me, I was conscious of Nate’s low voice. There’d been a lot of these sorts of calls lately; ones where he told the caller he’d have to speak to them later. To be fair, there was no privacy in my flat – the only door, apart from the entrance, was the one to the loo.

‘Okay,’ Nate was saying. ‘See you then.’ He cut the call and came over to me, turning me round to face him. I think it’s his eyes that do it. That blue gaze gets me every time. Thoughts of quizzing him still hovered, but his look pushed them to the edge of my brain until I couldn’t quite think what they were doing there.

‘Don’t tell me. You have to go.’

He gave me a crooked smile, and his unruly dark hair fell forward as he bent towards me. ‘Nearly right.’ He put one warm hand on my shoulder, and one on my waist, making me shiver. ‘I have to go, soon.’ And he drew me towards him. My last thought was that I ought to have pulled the curtains closed again.

But, of course, a little while later, he really did leave. Moments afterwards, I realised he’d forgotten his scarf. I grabbed it from the back of the chair, where it had become submerged under some of my outer layers, tugged on a pair of Converse and dashed down the stairs. After hurtling along the corridor that led to the street, I pulled back the front door. I slipped a little on the pavement in my haste to reach Nate before he found his car and drove off. In fact, I might have gone right over, if it hadn’t been for the well-dressed man in front of me, who brought me to a halt, standing there in his black wool overcoat and rust coloured scarf. I’m pretty tall and we were evenly matched; it was lucky I hadn’t knocked him flying. I took a step back but all the same, I could smell his cologne; a man who liked to advertise his expensive tastes. He looked familiar, but I was distracted, and shelved the task of trying to place him for a moment.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, automatically, whilst looking over his shoulder to try to see where Nate had parked. Too late. His ancient Volvo was way down the street, its indicator winking as he prepared to pull out.

‘No need to apologise.’

Something about his upper-class drawl jogged my memory. Nate had introduced us once, when we’d bumped into him in a bar in town. He hadn’t provided many details though; an ex-client was all he’d said. The atmosphere had been rather strained, as far as I could recall, but I’d never found out why.

The man glanced over his shoulder for a second, following my gaze. ‘I was hoping to catch you after our friend Mr Bastable had left, as a matter of fact.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds ominous.’ I was
still trying to remember his name; something double barrelled?

He gave me a fox-like smile. ‘He wasn’t too keen on me talking to you, I must say.’

I shivered in my indoor clothes, and folded my arms across my chest. ‘That might mean I’m not keen on the idea either.’

‘I had a feeling you’d want to make up your own mind.’

He had me there, of course.

‘I suggest we pay a visit to the Champion of the Thames. I can buy you a drink and explain, and then you can ask me more, or tell me to go to hell as the mood takes you.’

I thought for a moment. I’d been planning to order one of Claudio’s takeaways and hole up. But naturally, I was too curious to refuse. ‘Just let me get a coat and lock up.’ I went back indoors and nipped up the stairs to my flat. As I grabbed my outer layer from a hook by the door, his name came to me. Quentin – that was it. Quentin Patrick-John.

When I got back to the street he was standing bang in the middle of the pavement, just as before. A gang of students, heading for warmth and garlic bread, were forced to swarm round him, but he seemed oblivious.

We must have looked like a strange pair, heading into the pub; I in my jeans and donkey jacket, and he in his precisely tailored clothes.

He stood at the bar, his dark hair shiny in the glow from the open fire. I wondered if he dyed it; he looked more than old enough to have had some grey streaks by now.

‘Whisky?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll get my own.’ I asked the barman for an IPA.

Quentin laughed as he took a sip of his drink. ‘I can see why you and Nate are together. Same habitual caution. Though that suits his profession.’

It’s true that an incautious PI would probably get into trouble pretty quickly. Not that he was doing PI work any more. Or at least, not as far as I knew. His life had been torn apart a couple of years earlier. That was when he’d swapped detection for running a house-sitting outfit. He was a good businessman, and it brought in the money, but I could see it bored him.

Quentin motioned me to the one free table in the tiny bar and I peeled off my outer layers as the warmth began to penetrate. The logs on the fire crackled and popped and the whole room smelled of wood smoke.

Opposite me, he loosened his scarf and eased out of his coat. ‘Well, there’s no need to be quite so much on your guard. I’m here with an offer of work. No pressure.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘My sister died earlier in the year. She was a world-renowned academic and I’m after someone to write about her life. I’d like it to be you.’

It wasn’t what I’d expected. Thinking about it, my career had come up briefly when Nate had introduced us. He must have looked me up after that, for whatever reason. I took a sip of my beer and waited.

He gave a small smile. ‘I didn’t expect you to bite my hand off, and you’re not disappointing me. Here’s my proposition: I know your books sell well; you’re good at capturing the public’s attention by writing about experiences people can relate to.’

He didn’t need to remind me about that. He might as well have said, ‘I know you capture the public’s attention by writing about topics that give people a voyeuristic kick.’ I was out of love with my work. I’d finally come to see it for what it was when I’d written my latest book on mid-life crises. In the middle of it all, my partner Luke – now very much ex – had chosen to have a fling with a seventeen-year-old neighbour. To cap it all, we’d been trying for a baby at the time. I went from browsing books on pregnancy to walking out on him, at double-quick speed. So, there I’d been, nicely on the receiving end, in just the same position as the subjects I’d been interviewing. Yes, if someone had turned up to ask about my experiences just then, I’d probably have been delighted to tell them all the gory details. It would have been a great way to get back at him. I’d have regretted it afterwards though, when it was all too late. I wondered how many people wished they’d never let Ruby Fawcett into their lives. Not a good feeling. Still, it had been an eye-opener.

‘I think your name, and your writing style will draw in readers for the book about Diana. You’d get a lump sum for the work.’

On the face of it, it sounded like a good opportunity to move away from the pulp non-fiction I’d come to despise. And a lump sum could work all right if it was decent. I didn’t imagine the book would sell in vast numbers, so the lack of royalties might be okay. ‘And you want a life story, bringing in her ideas and academic achievements, rather than a scholarly appraisal of her work?’ Then I pulled myself up and gave a hollow laugh. ‘Well, of course you do, or you wouldn’t be asking me.’

He nodded. ‘There’s lots more detail I can give you, but I wanted to sound you out first.’

‘Fair enough.’ I took a swig of my drink. ‘But why did you go through Nate, instead of coming straight to me?’

He glanced up and met my eyes, but didn’t say
anything.

‘What?’

‘You’re not going to like it. I assumed you’d already know the background to Diana’s death, but if you did you’d have answered your own question.’

I took a long breath. ‘You wanted Nate’s help too? There were suspicious circumstances?’

He gave me a look. ‘You could say so. She was found strangled in her sitting room six months ago. The police haven’t found her killer.’

CHAPTER TWO

Nate turned off the A14, moving away from the orange glow and sea of headlights to quieter roads. As he turned towards Little Nighting the streetlights gave way to darkness; expanses of inky fields stretched out left and right. The moon was hidden behind a cloud and he switched to full beam. Once, he’d enjoyed the move from the hubbub to the peace that meant he was nearing Two Wells Farm and home. All that had changed two years earlier. He could still remember the acrid smell when he’d returned to his house that night, and the haze of smoke drifting across the lane. An echo of the hollow feeling of fear that had gripped him then took hold of his insides every time he came home now. Friends were always asking why he didn’t sell up, but he couldn’t leave the place. It would seem like a betrayal. All the more so, when the business was unfinished.

He glanced at his watch for a second, pressing the button to illuminate its face. He still had time to spare. Overshooting the village, he took a right towards Faddenham, which made no sense. Didn’t stop him doing it though, every time since he’d found out the truth. They’d be in The Feathers. Squire was a friend of the landlord, which seemed to mean the place had escaped being shut down on no less than three occasions. He was a man who could pull strings in countless circles.

Nate pulled up between a BMW and a Merc. His knackered Volvo would stick out like a sore thumb, but he wasn’t staying. He could already see them through the leaded window. Squire laughing, holding court; the rest of the gang currying favour; queuing up his drinks. Mel was there too, slinking around, perching for a moment on his lap. So that meant her dad, Tony Dukes, Squire’s right-hand man but also his main rival, must be absent. As Nate watched Squire’s haughty face, he felt his heart rate increase. He was conscious of the almost painful thudding in his chest, and of the blood pumping in his ears. It hurt to sit there, powerless, looking at the man who’d ordered the murder of his sister. Yet somehow he couldn’t stop. Any opportunity and he’d be there, however useless it was.

But it was time to go. He turned the car and set off back in the direction of Little Nighting, his mind on Ruby. He’d been scared to start a relationship with her back in the summer; worried he might be putting her in harm’s way. But at that point he hadn’t known what he was dealing with. For a long time he’d just been up against the bald facts, hitting him with force and shock like mentally slamming into a concrete wall at breakneck speed. Someone had torched his house. Just beforehand, his sister had come to stay unexpectedly and he’d been called out, also without warning. She’d been upstairs, alone, when someone had walked round, dousing the perimeter of Two Wells Farm with petrol, shoving soaked rags and then fire lighters through the letterbox. She must have been sleeping when the fire was set. She was only wearing a T-shirt when she was found, and the sheets on the spare bed had been rumpled. Nate had pictured what must have happened so many times. She’d have woken and smelled the smoke; heard the crackle of the fire as it tightened its hold on the building. Maybe she’d looked out of the window, but escape that way would have seemed impossible. The thatch that reached down either side of it would already have been alight, as well as the thick ivy clinging to the wall below. So, already coughing, breathing in far too much smoke, she’d have looked for a way out through the house.

She’d died of smoke inhalation. The firemen found her body at the top of the stairs; her way out would have been blocked by the fierce flames below. He could only imagine the terror she must have experienced.

For many months he’d been convinced the attack had been meant for him. After all, he’d collected plenty of enemies in his work as a PI. But as time went on he’d made no headway in identifying the killer from amongst the criminals he’d crossed. And at last he’d started to think the unthinkable; that maybe his kid sister – cheerful, impish Susie, ten years his junior – had been the killer’s target after all.

And then, just after he’d got together with Ruby, he’d found out he was right. And the potential danger now was far worse: Squire had to be brought down. But he was the kind of man who’d stop at nothing. If he once worked out Nate was onto him, he’d use any means to control matters, and that included using Ruby. His possible methods didn’t bear thinking about …

Even before he’d found out the truth, Nate had refused to let Ruby stay at Two Wells. If someone had been out to get him, they might also target anyone he loved. He’d done his utmost to minimise the chances of her being seen by the wrong people. Limiting their relationship to her flat in Cambridge just about worked, but matters would come to a head, sooner or later. He could tell her patience was wearing thin. But now he knew the truth, it was all the more impossible to let down his guard. And worst of all, he was keeping his knowledge from her. The longer he did that, the bigger the lie became, but there was no other way. If she found out what was going on she’d want to be involved, and that risk was just too great.

An owl flew across the Volvo’s path, bringing him abruptly back to the here and now. The pinewoods that swallowed up the countryside this side of his village loomed into sight, making the dark night even darker. The track where walkers normally parked was on his right now, but he kept going, pulling in a little further on, down a narrow rutted avenue where the trees crowded in on either side. He glanced behind him and cut the engine. The road was barely visible at this distance. He clambered out, feeling the frost-hardened earth under his feet, and trod through the trees. An ice-coated pine needle carpet replaced the dirt of the main track, giving as he made each step. In summer he loved the smell of the pines, but in weather this cold you could hardly detect it. The harsh night air caught at his throat. After five minutes, he registered movement: a faint shifting of shades of indigo between the trunks. Steve. He must have left The Feathers soon after Nate had.

As usual, Nate had mixed feelings on seeing his thin, shivering silhouette, revealing hunched shoulders and lank hair. There was pity, combined with the pull of some kind of bond, born out of familiarity and shared experiences. But there was always anger too – not fair, but something he couldn’t damp down entirely – and a plunging feeling of regret that tugged inside his chest. Steve met his eye for a moment, then looked at the ground, as though reading Nate’s mind. Without looking up, he took a cigarette and lighter from his pocket.

Steve was the link – the unwitting key to the tragedy. Three years earlier, the boy’s uncle and aunt had asked Nate to find him. He’d been living with them for six months since his parents had died, but after a spate of trouble at his sixth-form college, and a few run-ins with the local police, he’d taken off. His uncle had reckoned he was somewhere in East Anglia; he’d let that much slip to a schoolmate.

Nate first met Steve’s relations at their tidy two-up, two-down in Swansea. He’d felt for the boy’s aunt, Mary, with her red eyes, prematurely lined face and exhausted complexion. ‘We’ve failed Steve’s parents,’ she’d said. ‘We only wanted what was best for him, but we’ve driven him away. I took time off work, so I could meet him straight after school – but that turned out to be the final straw. What eighteen-year-old would want that? I should have known.’ He’d watched her knuckles whiten as her hand clenched round a tissue that was in shreds.

Steve’s uncle, Len, had put a large, ruddy hand on her shaking shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mary. The boy had been through too much. He needed to kick back at life, and that included us.’

Nate could empathise: he’d lost his own mother when he was twenty-five, and even in full adulthood he’d pretty much stopped functioning for a couple of months.

When he’d got up to leave Mary and Len’s home, Len had glanced up, and Nate had seen his eyes glisten for a moment before he’d looked away. ‘We’re hoping someone’s shown Steve some kindness,’ he’d said at last. ‘You know: taken him under their wing. But whatever’s happened, we really want him to know we’d love him back. He’s my brother’s son.’

Someone had taken Steve under their wing all right. Unfortunately, that someone had been Squire: one of the most ruthless and charismatic crooks in the region.

It hadn’t taken Nate long to find the boy. Armed with the photo supplied by Len and Mary, just a few words to key connections had confirmed Nate’s worst fears. It so often worked like that with runaways. No doubt Steve had exhausted what little cash he’d set out with, and had started looking for a quick way to earn more. Enter Squire. Nate could imagine how he would have portrayed himself: the big boss of a close-knit team, interested in Steve personally, despite his youth. Flattery went a long way when you felt vulnerable and alone. And after that, Nate knew how the slippery slope worked; he’d seen it before. By the time you realised what was going on, you were in too deep to turn your back.

At last he’d managed to meet the boy, through a friend of a friend. Very gradually, over a number of weeks, he’d started to get to know him. When at last the moment came for Nate to admit that Steve’s uncle and aunt had sent him, it went smoothly. The boy didn’t fly off the handle or refuse to see him again – but he wouldn’t return home, either. By that stage, Squire had made Steve aware that working for him was a one-way street. Leave, and his oh-so-charming boss could turn nasty.

‘And he’d get away with it, of course,’ Steve had told Nate. ‘He’s clever like that.’ His eyes were wide – a combination of fear and a grudging admiration that still lingered, Nate reckoned. ‘And he’d go after my uncle and aunt if I left. I know he would. It’s the kind of thing he’s done before.’

Nate had pointed out that Steve’s uncle and aunt were in Wales, and that it would give Squire far more hassle to go after them than to let things lie. But the boy hadn’t believed him; Steve was a small cog in Squire’s machine, but he was convinced his boss would do anything to hang on to him.

And Nate’s current knowledge had left him questioning his own gut instinct about how far the man would go. It all depended on how bothered Squire was. Nate was willing to bet he’d move heaven and earth to get revenge if he was seriously riled.

Nate shivered and shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as Steve moved closer, puffing on his cigarette.

‘Pleasant evening at the pub?’

‘Yeah, right. Two hours in Squire’s company isn’t something I enjoy.’

‘Sorry I had to cut you short earlier. I can’t talk when Ruby’s around. There’s no way I want her knowing about any of this. And you want to make damn sure no one overhears you calling me.’

Steve looked up at him, his eyes in shadow, arms folded against the cold. ‘I understand that. After what happened, you don’t exactly need to explain.’

Nate nodded, but still he worried. Steve was twenty-one now, but a naive twenty-one. ‘So, what have you got?’

His demeanour changed. Suddenly Steve looked like a happier version of the teenager he’d been when Nate had first traced him. ‘Bit of a breakthrough.’ He handed over a small, empty plastic pill bottle. ‘Squire’s getting Melanie hooked on something, I reckon. Earlier this evening I heard her tell him she’d run out of the “present” he’d given her. And just before that, I saw her chuck that in the bin.’ Nate glimpsed his smile broaden. ‘I fished it back out again when no one was looking. Don’t know what was in there; packaging’s plain, but I doubt it was vitamin C. It’s information that could get Tony right where we want him. You know what he’s like about Melanie.’

Tony was overprotective of his only daughter. Coupled with that, he was known for his short temper and skill with a hammer – or indeed any other blunt instrument that came to hand. The image of his large, ruddy face flicked through Nate’s mind. It must have shown in his expression.

‘It’s no use looking like that, mate. We can’t hope to pull off this kind of stunt without Tony on our side. Besides, you know we can sort him out later. You want to take the bottle and see if you can find out what was in it?’

Nate nodded. Much as he hated the thought of promoting Tony’s cause, what Steve said made sense. There was no other way. The relationship between Squire and Tony was already uneasy, but Nate wanted them at daggers drawn. It was a dangerous game.

He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’

He heard him let out a breath. ‘Yeah. I’ll watch myself. And, I know: I can go home any time, and you’d prefer it if I did. But my uncle and aunt would be in danger if I backed out. Besides, I can help you, being on the inside. Your sister was good to me, and it’s my fault she met Squire in the first place. I’m not leaving until this is over.’

Nate watched as Steve ambled off through the pine trees.

He remembered the day that had changed everything: the day he’d arranged to meet Steve at Two Wells for the very first time, to get him to talk to his aunt on the phone. They’d been in the kitchen together, drinking coffee, when Susie had turned up. She’d come without calling ahead, just as she had on the day she’d died. He’d heard her Fiat 500 screech to a halt in his driveway and known who it was before she’d pounded on his door. She’d got halfway through telling him about the job she’d landed, working for a local paper, before she’d pulled up short at the sight of Steve, sitting in the shadows. Nate hadn’t even paused for thought before introducing them. Then Susie had helped herself to coffee and they’d all congregated around his large oak table. Steve hadn’t been keen to call his aunt; it was Susie who’d talked him round, sympathising and recounting her own wild times. She hadn’t been much older than him, and had also known what it was like to lose a parent in your teens.

So thanks to his sister, the boy had called his aunt, and it had gone well. Mary had been in floods of tears – the good sort this time – to know that he missed her and Len, even if he didn’t feel he could go home.

Nate had been vaguely aware that Susie had given Steve her number, just in case he wanted to talk more. But Steve had never mentioned her again, nor she him. A few weeks had passed when none of them had been in touch. His task to persuade Steve home had reached stalemate and Susie was busy with her new job.

And then there’d been the night of the fire. Susie had arrived mid-evening, and he’d been pissed off with her; she’d turned up unexpectedly as usual, and made him late for an appointment that had been arranged at the last minute. They’d exchanged a sentence or two at most.

And then his world had collapsed.

It wasn’t until two months after his sister’s death that he’d managed to get it together enough to check in with Steve. And it was then that he’d realised their friendship must have progressed after that first meeting at Two Wells. Steve felt her loss strongly; that much was clear. Of course, he hadn’t known then that his own boss was responsible. Now that he did, he was risking everything to help Nate bring Squire down.

Even though Susie had met Squire through Steve, the boy was wrong about her death being his fault. It was he, Nate, who’d allowed Susie and Steve’s paths to cross; he who’d never asked about any future meetings they’d had. He simply hadn’t seen the danger.

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