Everyone Lies (5 page)

Jim followed her line of sight. ‘Hey, don’t sweat it – they’re here to do the heavy lifting. All you need to do is look intelligent and thoughtful.’

The aftertaste of her years in the London Met wilderness soured her gullet. ‘What am I – window dressing?’

He seemed to consider the question seriously. ‘Ballast, maybe – but don’t take it personally – your boss won’t be saying much, either. With the ACC here, it’s all about the shiny buttons and the performance targets.’ He looked at her. ‘Okay?’

She nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘You shouldn’t have to take any questions, but if you’re asked something direct, make eye contact, speak slowly and enunciate clearly.’

Tanford had done the rounds and now it was her turn. He paused and looked down at her with a quizzical smile, but just as she put her hand out, he switched his attention to Jim Allen.

‘Jim,’ he said, opening his arms wide as if he’d just run into an old school friend. He reached past Simms and shook hands with the press officer. ‘Good to know we’re in safe hands. Can I have a word?’ He put his free arm around Jim Allen’s shoulder, edging Jim into a space a few feet from her, effectively giving her his back.

Seeing an opportunity, one of Jim Allen’s assistants hurried across the room and offered her a mirror. Exasperated, Simms glanced again at Jim. His discussion with Detective Superintendent Tanford was becoming heated. Suddenly, Tanford laughed.

‘Put that in a memo for me, will you, mate?’ He raised his hand, fingers splayed, in a general gesture of farewell. Then he was gone.

She joined Jim Allen by the door. ‘Where’s he going?’

‘Officially? He’s been called away on an urgent matter.’ He glared after Tanford. ‘Unofficially, his instincts tell him this won’t go well. And Tanno’s got the survival instincts of an alley cat.’

Gifford called them together to establish the running order. He didn’t offer Simms his hand, nor did he introduce her to the psychologist, and he never once looked her in the eye. Minutes later, they filed into the press room with Jim Allen tagged on at the end of the line to balance the numbers.

Gifford sat in the centre, Jim and the psychologist to his right, Kate Simms to his far left, on the other side of Spry.

‘I would like to begin by offering my condolences to StayC’s family and friends,’ he said. ‘Drugs are a blight on society, and we in Greater Manchester Police take every drug death seriously.’ He paused. ‘However, we should not lose sight of the fact that violent crime in the city and outlying areas is down, and Manchester’s streets are safer and more crime-free today than they have been at any time in the last decade.

‘Drugs-related crime is a priority for us,’ he went on, reading from a prepared statement, ‘and we’re proud of our “Ditch the Drugs” partnership with local communities and drugs rehabilitation services.’

He handed over to the psychologist, who spoke about the nature of drug addiction, signs that parents might look out for if they suspect their children are abusing drugs, where they could go for help and advice.

A fat, grey-haired hack on the second row put his hand up. ‘It’s all very well setting up partnerships and initiatives, but what are you doing to stop the drugs coming into the area in the first place?’

It was a hostile question, and Superintendent Tanford would have been best placed to answer it, but Gifford had been well briefed. ‘We have officers collecting information on drugs crime on a daily basis,’ he said. ‘We work in partnership with HM Customs and other police authorities, intercepting drugs as they come into the country, disrupting the supply chain, arresting and prosecuting dealers and suppliers and seizing their assets. Last summer, as a result of Operation Snowstorm – a joint operation between Greater Manchester Police, the Met and Customs – we took thirty kilos of heroin off Manchester’s streets.’ He paused before adding silkily, ‘That’s four and a half
million
pounds worth of Class A drugs out of the hands of dealers and addicts.’

The journo looked put out by the good news. Simms felt his gaze settle on her, and resisted the urge to shift in her seat. ‘So why are drugs deaths in the region up substantially over the last six months?’

Where the hell did they get that?

Gifford began to answer, but the journalist said, ‘The question is for Chief Inspector Simms.’

Simms remembered Jim Allen’s advice and made eye contact. ‘The Crime Pattern Analysis Unit does a six-monthly review of crime stats across the force,’ she said. ‘They look for anomalies or unusual patterns.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question – how many deaths are we talking about?’

‘Until the review cases have been fully investigated, we won’t know whether there
is
a genuine increase,’ she said.

‘But if you’re looking at “review cases” you must have a list of names.’

If she answered that she would open the floodgates – every family in the authority who had lost child or sister or brother in a drugs-related death would want to know why their name wasn’t on the list; Simms would spend more time talking to bereaved families than doing the actual review.

‘The investigation is ongoing,’ she said, knowing she sounded evasive, feeling sweat break out on her forehead. From the corner of her eye she saw Spry lean a few inches away from her.

‘“Ongoing”,’ the journalist said. ‘What does that mean?’

A woman at the far side of the room called out, ‘When can we expect the results of the review?’

Another shouted, ‘Is StayC’s death linked to your investigation?’

‘Can you assure the people of Manchester that StayC’s death isn’t part of an epidemic?’

They smelled blood. Suddenly, they were all baying at once; cameras flashed and clicked – all of them aimed at her – but neither Gifford nor Spry intervened; she was on her own.
Okay
,
Kate,
she thought.
You’ve been here before
.

She quelled a panicky flutter in her chest and took a breath, feeling the throb of her heart in her throat, and spoke over the rising clamour.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘tragic though it is, clusters of deaths happen simply by chance. The job of the review process is to sift through the data and establish if there’s something we need to investigate, or if the increase in fatalities is just random, horrible, bad luck. That takes time, and right now, it’s too early to talk about numbers or speculate about a link.’

There was a mumble of discontent, but as she looked around the room, she saw a grudging acceptance, and Simms began to breathe easier.

Crisis over, Gifford stirred himself. He said that anyone with information about crime in their area could call the Crimestoppers national hotline free of charge, and completely anonymously. He gave the number as a new rumble of noise started at the back of the room. Heads turned, Gifford’s words were drowned out by excited chatter, journalists got to their feet, and the crowd at the back parted to make way for a middle-aged woman.

Her hair was dyed black and cut urchin-style, with long grey strands swept right to left across her forehead. She was squeezed into an orange boiled wool skirt suit and carried an oversized Galliano tote bag in a clashing pink. It could be StayC, fifteen years on – it was Evette Lyons, StayC’s mother.

‘That’s what they do round here,’ she said. ‘Stand back and wait for bad things to happen, then they stick it in a report so they can say they take crime serious. Well, it’s all shit and shine on.’

‘Mrs Lyons,’ Gifford said. ‘If you would like to speak about this in private—’

‘I have spoke about it, I’ve talked till I’m hoarse. My daughter was killed and nobody cares.’ Her eyes were swollen with crying and the skin of her face showed red through a heavy layer of make-up, as though her tears had scalded her skin, leaving it raw.

The TV crews were at a disadvantage: their microphones were arrayed in front of the panel; they swung their cameras around and made hasty adjustments. An Asianlooking radio reporter shoved through the crowd and thrust a microphone in front of Evette Lyons. ‘What do you mean, StayC was killed?’

‘Don’t you understand English, or are you just stupid?’ Evette demanded, her face flushing a dull red under her make-up. ‘She was killed, murdered.’

A couple of sound men snatched microphones off the table in front of Simms and directed them towards Evette and the radio reporter. Simms stole a glance at Spry, but he was staring intently at his hands, clenched on the table in front of him.

Alarmed, Gifford stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’

The audience wavered for a moment, unsure who to turn their cameras on, but most settled for Evette. They waited, quiet and expectant.

‘Mrs Lyons,’ Gifford said. ‘I understand that you’re upset, but this is neither the time nor the place—’

‘Don’t you talk down to me!’ she yelled, her lips quivering with rage.

‘I’m not – really, I’m not,’ he soothed, ‘but these allegations are—’

‘“Allegations” – d’you think I’m making it up?’ She took a step towards Gifford and a path opened up for her. In news terms, this was pure gold. She dug into her tote bag and came out with a fistful of papers. ‘Well, what d’you call this?’

She stood in front of the row of tables, and looked Gifford in the eye. ‘Emails. Letters. Postcards. Hate mail, every last one of them.’ She slapped them on the table and reached into her bag for more, then turned to face the press with a bundle of sheets in her hand. ‘Death threats.’ She swivelled on one foot, turning 180 like a pro, as the cameras flashed. ‘Someone wanted my StayC dead, and now she is dead, and this useless bunch of
wankers
is doing a review.’

6

Marta is lying in bed, cradled in Trevor’s arms. He interlaces his fingers with hers and kisses the top of her head.

‘You know everything about me, but I know almost nothing about you,’ he says.

It’s true. In fact she knows more than she ever really wanted to know about Trevor. He is forty-nine years old, his hair is thinning and he uses Regaine because he doesn’t want to lose any more. He’s a teacher of English at a good independent school near the city, disappointed that he will never rise above second in department, bitter with his ex-wife, whom he calls a frigid whore – Marta doesn’t point out the clash of ideas here – and angry with his daughter who dropped out of her A-level studies to work in a garden centre. ‘What kind of transferable skills is she going to learn from working in a fucking
garden centre
?’ he wants to know. He resents his head of department, who is too pally with the kids, and an all-round, arse-licking petty politicker, who encourages extra-curricular activities – like his staff haven’t enough to do – and just
loves
putting on plays and shows,
because it gives the kids what they want
. If he had half a brain, he’d know that giving kids what they
want
is not the same as giving them what they
need
. The kids, he despises, as lazy, pig-ignorant boors who have never read a book for pleasure and think that knowledge is like chicken nuggets and can be served up on a plate for them in convenient, bite-size morsels.

She also knows that he has certain sexual needs that some women would find off-putting. Because Trevor likes the girlfriend experience, but only if the girlfriend he pays for is really, really clean.

She has to brush her teeth with Trevor’s toothpaste and gargle with Trevor’s mouthwash before Trevor will kiss her – a feature of the girlfriend experience which Trevor likes very much. Trevor insists on bathing her before he fucks her. Not a sensual, sexy shower, with lots of lather and gentle friction, but a businesslike and uncompromising scrub down, paying special attention to her hands and belly button and arse. Then he’ll hand her the sponge with an apologetic smile and say, ‘My turn.’

What Trevor knows about Marta is her name – Marta McKinley; her nationality – Russian; her favourite colour – red. She has a liking for cats, her promising ballet career was ended when she grew too tall. She has a mother and two sisters – identical twins; she let this slip after she heard that Trevor used to visit a set of twins who worked for the Henrys in the year before Marta came to England.

‘Is any of what you told me even near the truth, Marta?’ he asks.

She smiles. ‘You know I’m good in bed.’ She avoids the word ‘fuck’ – Trevor doesn’t like her to use what he calls ‘obscenities’. ‘You know I’m a good listener.’ She gently disengages her hand and strokes his chest. ‘Don’t I make you feel nice?’

He traps her hand before she can work lower. ‘No,’ he says. ‘You make me feel cheap.’

She chuckles softly. ‘Shouldn’t that be my line?’

‘It’s not funny, Marta. I’m serious.’

‘Me too.’ She struggles onto one elbow and he reluctantly lets go of her hand. ‘Look, Trevor. You get what you pay for and a little extra – otherwise, why would you come back?’

‘You really don’t know?’

She sees hurt in his eyes, and decides she doesn’t want to know. ‘You’re confused,’ she says. ‘This is a trade: you want something, I give it, for a price.’

‘Jesus, you sound like my wife.’

She widens her eyes, smiling a little. ‘You
paid
her?’

His eyes darken. ‘She got the house, the kid, half my earnings, and the damn car – what d’
you
think?’

She thinks it is strange that he put his daughter in his list of belongings, but she smiles, says, ‘Love is like war: easy to begin, hard to end.’

He huffs a laugh. ‘You got that right.’

‘Sex is easier.’ She leans forward and kisses his chest, his stomach, his abdomen; he smells of sex and desire. She reaches across to the dish on the bedside table for a new condom. ‘Sex is not so complicated.’ She tears open the packet, eases the rubber from it. ‘More fun?’

He sit up, twists to grip her elbows and searches her face, his eyes filled with a frantic urgency, as if he is convinced she’s hiding something deeper, something more meaningful than the exchange of sex for cash. Finally, he shoves her away, plucks the condom from her fingers and throws it across the room. ‘I don’t want that,’ he says, as though the thought of having sex with her disgusts him.