PAIN HAS A PERMANENT ADDRESS - READ BETWEEN THE LIES

READ BETWEEN THE LIES - EPISODE TWO

6  

Next morning, I woke early and made myself a cup of tea as the sky gradually lightened, I thought about the past twenty-four hours.  Normally, I'd have turned on the radio to listen to the news or go online.  But I didn't want to disturb Yazmin and the house didn't have Wi-Fi.  Instead, I sipped my scalding tea in the armchair beside the arched window, looking at ducks and swans paddling on the estuary outside. 

 The morning chorus of birdsong reminded me of the owl.  Pulling on my coat and boots, I went outside.  The fog had lifted, although there was still an early haze, part drizzle, part mist.  It frosted the branches of the apple trees, beading the cobwebs with Quicksilver as I crossed the wet grass.  I noticed the window had a dusty smeared mark where the owl had flown into it, but the only other sign of the bird was a few delicate pale feathers on the floor of the shed.  The impact could have dislodged them, although there was another, less happy explanation.  There was no shortage of foxes around here.  With the shed door left open, the injured predator could easily have become prey.   I went back into the house.   

 It was late before Yazmin started moving about, and while she took a shower, I put the kettle on and had a mug of tea waiting. 

 "Morning," I said, handing her the mug.  "I wasn't sure if you were a tea or coffee person first thing." 

 She looked bleary-eyed and a little self-conscious.  She was wearing one of my sweaters over her jeans, hair pulled back and still damp from the 

shower.  "Tea's great.  I'll save my caffeine fix till later.  Did you sleep well?"  "Fine," I lied.  "How are you feeling?" 

 "Not too bad.  How about the owl?  Is it still there?" 

 "No, I checked earlier.  It's gone." 

 She grinned.  "See?  I told you it'd be all right in the shed." 

 I didn't mention the feathers on the shed floor.   

 "I'd thought I'd set off back before lunch," she told me, as I cracked the eggs into a bowl. 

 I paused.  "You're leaving?" 

 "I might as well.  I can't stay here forever.  And if I don't go back to my flat soon, I never will." 

 "I suppose so," I said, slightly disappointed.  "Not as if there's anything keeping you here, is there?" 

 I had my back to her.  I clattered the frying pan on the cooker and the silence stretched and grew heavy. 

 "I can stay longer if you want me to." 

 I slapped rashers of bacon into the pan, the hot fat setting up an angry hissing.  "I thought we could help each other, that's all." 

 She came and stood beside me.  "Why do you really want me to help you,

John?" 

 I stabbed a fork into the bacon and flipped it over as though it were to blame.  "I am a private detective.  People treat me like the plague, but you're a journalist.  A vocation disliked almost as much as mine, but you can still open doors that I can't." 

 "I thought you had connections with the local police?" 

 "I did, but on my last case the investigating officer was murdered and my consultancy contract with the Suffolk Constabulary was cancelled."  I moved the pan from the heat. 

 "I'm sorry, I'd no idea."   

 I turned the heat back up under the pan.  "Anyway, let's have breakfast."  We ate but Yazmin grew distracted, pushing the food around listlessly on her plate.  She offered to do the dishes and would not take no for an answer.  I got the impression she wanted some time to herself, so I left her in the kitchen and went to shower and change my clothes. 

 When I returned, the radio was playing, and Yazmin stood by the sink, her hands motionless in the water. 

 "Is there anything -" I began. 

 "Shh!"  She silenced me with a quick shake of her head.  For the first time, I paid attention to what was being played on the radio. 

 ". . . Police can now confirm that the deceased was found with a gash in his neck which it seemed was an injury not concomitant with the circumstances of the crash.  In other news . . ." 

 Yazmin's face was white.  "Did you hear?" 

 "Only the last part." 

 "They've just confirmed that Charles Steele was murdered." 

 "I think it's time we visited where the UFO was seen." 

 The road out to the forest streamed with slow-moving traffic.   It had started raining, the water came down in sheets. The windscreen wipers hard-pressed to clear the glass.  The fields we passed were shorn to an untidy stubble or ploughed into muddy ridges of soil, while the dead leaves that clung to the bare trees gave them the ragged appearance of scarecrows. 

 Neither Yazmin nor I spoke much during the journey.  She sat staring out of the windows as wrapped up in her thoughts as I was in mine.  We left the drab marshland behind us and entered another world of dense forest that closed around us, plunging us into shadow as the road wound through them.   There was less traffic now.  In a few weeks, it would be busier, but this was still spring and there were hardly any other cars to be seen.  I turned onto a gravelled side road. 

 I parked and turned to Yazmin.  "Are you okay?" 

 "I think so," she said.  Her confidence had abandoned her.  "What are we going to do?" 

 "We've come this far.  No point going back now," I said, and climbed out of the car.  "Let's keep going and find an alien spaceship." 

7  

With a whiff of dampness, a cold breeze plucked at my hair.  I felt the past overlap the present as I looked into a forest, I'd last set eyes on nearly twelve months before.  The forest stretched for miles. No corridor of police tape, nor would we come across a forensic tent hidden among the trees.  But it was hauntingly familiar.  The months had fallen away since my last case, leaving me hollow by how long a time had passed since then. 

 So much had changed. 

 Beside me, Yazmin stood with her hands jammed in her coat pockets, eyes scanning the trees.   

 "Are you okay?" she asked. 

 The question shook me out of my reverie.  "Yes, I'm fine.  Ready?"    "Yes."  She looked up through the tops of the trees at the grey sky.  "We'd better hurry.  It'll be dark soon." 

 She was right: the afternoon was already shading into a dusty twilight.  A thin mist rose from the ground like steam from a horse's back.  Before I locked the car, I removed my torch from the glove compartment.  We should be back long before dark, but I'd been lost in this forest at night once before.  

It wasn't an experience I wanted to repeat. 

 We set off along the footpath that bisected the forest. The trail levelled out as the woods parted. It revealed a small, grassy clearing, paved with a gravel path clogged with weeds.  Other paths forked from it; all the colour coded by the

National Trust, so you wouldn't get lost.  The one we were heading along was at the furthermost edge of the forest. About halfway Yazmin stopped, turning to look at the denseness off to our left. 

 "Did you hear that?" 

 "Hear what?"   

 "I thought I heard something." 

 I turned around, but the forest was empty.  I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to shatter the quiet, and forced myself to relax.  I'd thought I was past flinching at shadows. 

 "You're tired and imagining things," I said.  "It's nothing." 

 She leaned nearer to me, her hand resting lightly on my arm.  "You're probably right." 

  We started walking again.  An embankment running down the footpath was not so steep here, but it was more overgrown than I remembered.  I scrambled down, then turned to help Yazmin.  She started down, almost tumbling, flashing me a self-conscious smile as I steadied her. 

 It was hard going.  My footwear alternatively squelched into mud or twisted on some hidden root or hole.  But Yazmin seemed confident of where she was going, skirting the dangers underfoot, as if following her own invisible path. 

 "Charles Steele brought you here, didn't he?"  I asked. 

 "Once or twice."  Yazmin pushed her hair out of her eyes.   

 "Why?"  There would not be anything to see now, surely. 

 "Right on our doorstep, we have had the most significant UFO incident to have ever occurred in this country." 

I felt a prickling sense of unease.  Like we were being watched.  That was stupid, but I was uncomfortably aware of how alone we were, how far we'd come from the road.  And the light was still dropping, wisps of wraith-like ground mist obscuring the dips and hollows in the forest. 

 "How much further?"  I asked. 

 "Not far.  In fact, it's just . . ."  She trailed off, staring directly ahead. 

 "What is it?"  

 "We're here," she said quietly. 

 Most of the trees around the clearing were tall and mature but some of them now had broken tops.  I crouched down near the small triangular impressions.  They were slightly faded from what we'd seen on the DVD, but they were still clear to see. 

 I stood. To the east of the clearing, across farmland, was the North Sea.  In the distance behind the trees, the beam of the Headland lighthouse was 

visible. 

 "Is it possible the beam of light Charles Steele and the patrolmen saw was from the lighthouse?" 

 "It was something else," Yazmin said, glancing around uneasily. 

 "How can you be so certain?" 

 Yazmin didn't answer.  She stared across the farmland.  "John . . ."   I followed her gaze.  A silver figure stood motionless, watching us.  It had appeared from nowhere: there were no bushes or rocks nearby where it could have hidden behind.  In the fading light, it was little more than a silhouette in the rising ground mist. 

There was an instant when everything seemed frozen.  Then the figure started towards us.  I took hold of Yazmin's arm. 

 "Come on." 

 "Who is it?  Is it one of those men from the Audi?" 

 "Just keep walking." 

 But that was easier said than done.  White tendrils of mist spread across the darkening forest like a vast cobweb.  At another time I might have appreciated the sight.  Now it made each step potentially treacherous.  If either of us fell or turned an ankle . . .  

 Don't think about that. 

 I kept my grip on Yazmin's arm, urging her back towards the footpath.  My car was just visible through the trees ahead, a tiny block of silver disappearing into a dusk of dark green foliage.  I felt sick at how far away it looked.  It was tempting to ignore the footpath and cut straight through the forest, but even though that was the shortest route, it would mean slogging over the rough, uneven ground.  That would've taken even longer, and in the fading light, we dare not risk it. 

 Both of us were already out of breath as I took another glance behind us.   

The figure was closing the gap. 

 Don't get distracted.  Keep going. 

 I turned away and focused on the path ahead of us.   

 We stumbled over tree roots, footwear squelching into the mud and water concealed underneath.  I took another look back and saw the figure cutting through the forest towards the car park. 

 He was going to beat us to the car. 

Yazmin had seen him as well.  "John. . ." she panted. 

 "I know.  Just keep going." 

 The track was tantalizingly near, but if we reached it, we still had to get back to the road.  The figure didn't have nearly so far to go.  He was moving through the forest in a steady, unhurried stride. 

God, we're not going to make it.   

The ground rose more steeply as we reached the bank immediately below the track.  Yazmin was struggling now, and I had helped her scramble up the last few yards, clutching at handfuls of heather to pull ourselves up. 

 Then we were on the track's firmer surface.  My chest burned as I tugged Yazmin into a lumbering run.  "Come on!"  

 "Wait . . . Get my breath. . ." she gasped.  Her face was white and slick with sweat. 

 "We need to run," I told her. 

 She shook her head, pushing me away.  "Can't . . . I can't . . ." 

 "Yes, you can," I said, tightening my arm under her shoulders, dragging her down the track. 

 My legs felt like jelly as we lurched towards the car.  The figure was no more than thirty or forty yards away, off to one side and slightly below us as he slogged through the dense trees.  But he'd begun to slow now himself, turning his head in our direction as we stumbled the last few yards.  He'd stopped, barely a stone's throw away.  I could feel his eyes on us as I fumbled for my key fob and unlocked the car.  Yazmin collapsed inside while I ran around to the driver's side, conscious of the shadowy figure watching from the knee-deep mist. 

He'd beaten us. Why did he give up?  I'd no idea and didn't care?  Slamming the door, I turned on the engine and stamped on the accelerator.  As the car roared away, I looked in the rear-view mirror. 

 Both the road and car park behind us were empty. 

8  

I was forced to slow to a crawl, my headlights almost useless against the white gauze.  The mist had thickened to a full-blown fog by the time we reached Oxmarket.  I didn't even realize we'd reached the Suffolk coastal town until the shadowy outline of the old church loomed up. 

 I pulled onto the cinder driveway and switched off the engine.  As the ticking silence cooled, we might have been at the bottom of the sea.  I found myself glancing around uneasily as we walked up to the front door.  "Jesus," I blasphemed.  "You can hardly see the hand in front of your face, the fog is so dense."  

 "You should get security lights," she said, as the shadow of my shed took form on one side, close to the spectral branches of my small apple orchard.  "I don't need them out here," I said, struggling to find my keys in my coat pocket. 

I faltered as I realized the irony of what I'd just said.  "Not usually, anyway."   "How are you holding up?"  I asked as she pulled off her coat. 

 "I've had better days."  Her smile was unconvincing.  "God, I really need another drink." 

 So, did I, but not yet.  "I think it might be a good idea to eat first.  Not a good idea to drink on an empty stomach with the shocks we've had."  Yazmin sat on the doorstep, unfastening her muddy boots.  "I guess you're right.  Boring, but right." 

 Dinner was a vegetable curry, thrown together from what little was left in the cupboards and fridge.  The meal was a subdued affair.  I was acutely conscious for the first time since I'd moved into the house, of how isolated we were out here, and despite her bravado, I think Yazmin was, too.  The last few days had taken their toll.  She insisted a headache she mentioned was just tension, but she looked exhausted.  When I told her, I'd clear up while she went to bed, she didn't put up much of a fight. 

 "If you're certain."   

 "Yes, I'm certain,” I confirmed.  "Do you still want that drink?" 

 "No, I think I'll leave it, thanks."  

 I was tired, but I knew if I went to bed, I'd only lie awake, listening to every creak and bump in the old house.  After Yazmin had gone to bed, I washed and dried the dishes, then went hunting down a drink.  The whisky was a generic blend, but the brandy I had been a fifteen-year-old Armagnac that had hardly been touched. 

 I poured myself a healthy measure, sank back on to the sofa and sat in the quiet, staring into the darkness.  Even while she slept, I could sense Yazmin's presence by the faint trace of her scent on the cushions.  I sipped the Armagnac, puzzling over the case. 

 My mobile phone woke me.  I snatched it up before it could ring again, glancing at my watch.  Half past two. 

 "Hello?"  There was no answer.  Please yourself, I thought irritably, about to hang up.  Then I heard a sound down the line. Someone breathing. 

 The hairs on my forearms prickled as they stood up.  I found my voice. 

 "What do you want?" 

 Nothing.  The breathing continued.  The moment stretched on, then a soft click as the connection was broken.   

 I realized I'd been holding my breath.  I lowered the handset.  The house was silent: I'd answered the phone before it could wake Yazmin.  I hurried into the kitchen, searching through drawers, for a pen and paper before retrieving the caller's number and scribbling it down. 

 From the code, it looked like a local number.  I stared at the piece of paper, slowly sliding down from the rush of adrenalin. 

 I made sure the front door was still locked and bolted, then went from room to check the windows, to lock them as well.  I'd just had them replaced, so they were in good condition.  I returned to the sofa and settled down to wait for morning. 

 Despite my best intentions, I fell asleep on the sofa as the chorus of birdsong had begun to sound outside.  The hour's uneasy rest had left me feeling groggy and put a crick in my neck.  Leaving Yazmin to sleep, I stood under a hot shower until I felt a little more human. 

 Yazmin was in the kitchen, wrapped in one of my bathrobes when I came out of the bathroom dressed and a little more refreshed.  "Morning.   You're down to just cereal today.  You really do have to go shopping later." 

 "I know," I admitted. 

 She rubbed her eyes.  "God, I feel wrecked.  I bet I look it, too." 

 I'd been thinking just the opposite.  Even with her sleep-tousled hair and loosely tied bathrobe, there was a natural poise to her.  She caught me looking. 

 "What?" she asked, smiling. 

 "Nothing," I lied and quickly changed tack.  "I want to go to 

Southern stream." 

 "Could we call at my flat on the way.  I'd like to pick up some fresh clothes."   Fresh clothes were the least of her worries when we arrived at the flat?  Once she'd opened the door, stood to stare in dismay at the scattered contents of the open drawers and cupboards. 

 "It's not as bad as it looks," I said feebly, cursing myself for not anticipating this.  I should have realized all along what they were looking for, and this would be the first place they'd look.  

 Yazmin didn't say anything.  I realized she was crying silently, tears running down her cheeks. 

 "Yazmin.  I'm really sorry-"  

 "It isn't your fault."  She wiped furiously at her eyes.  "Twice in less than a week.  Is what we're doing really worth it?"  Before I could answer she continued.  "Thanks for bringing me home, but I think you'd better go and visit Mr Puttock." 

 "At least let me. . ." 

 "No!  It's all right.  Really.  I - I just want to be on my own.  Please."  I could see she was only holding herself together by force of will.  I hated to leave her like that, but I didn't know her well enough to do anything else. 

 "I'll call you tomorrow.  If there's anything else, you need . . ." 

 "I know.  Thanks." 

  Feeling helpless, I started down the staircase from her first-floor flat.  I got as far as the bottom step before I stopped.  Why hadn't this been reported to the police?  Looking at the state of the place, someone must have heard something, surely?  Apart from the sound of the rain outside, there wasn't a sound.  No radio, or television or vacuum cleaner going to break the silence.  

This converted Victorian house was a bleak and lonely place. 

 I turned and went back upstairs. 

 The door was still partly open, and I found Yazmin on the hallway floor.  

She was hugging her knees, head bowed as she shook with silent sobs.  Without saying anything I crouched next to her.  She buried her face against me. 

 "Oh, G-God, I'm so scared.  I'm s-so s-scared . . ." 

 "Shh, it's OK," I told her.  

 I hoped I was right. 

9  

At my insistence, Yazmin packed a suitcase while I cleared up the mess.  Most of the damage was superficial – her belongings were scattered about but there were few breakages.  Once I'd cleaned up, there was little evidence of what had happened. 

 When she reappeared, she'd changed into clean jeans and a baggy sweater and was pulling a bright pink suitcase behind her. 

 "Any jewellery or valuables, missing?" 

 "Nothing's missing.  Can we go?" 

 The Southernstream parish church was set in the fields to the east of the main road, and we passed cottages and farms scattered along the lanes.  The rain continued its monotonous downpour, making the countryside look lifeless beneath the incessant grey sky. 

 We passed a sign thanking us for keeping to thirty-miles-an-hour. Not far beyond it, we could see a fairground strobing of blue lights on the road. 

Yazmin's hand went to her throat.  "Oh, God.  Is that Simon Puttock's house?" 

 A heaviness settled in my stomach.  "I think so, yes." 

 A cordon of police tape stretched across the road, shivering in the wind and the rain.  Beyond it, police cars and trailers were parked on either side of the driveway, along with a few press members and TV vans.  An ambulance was on the driveway outside the house, but the lights weren't flashing 

 I parked a little way before the cordon, and we climbed out of the car.   

A stiff wind blew from the cliffs overlooking the sea.  It carried a faint hint of saline, tainted by exhaust fumes.  I heard the chug of a generator from somewhere nearby.  A police officer in a bright yellow reflective jacket moved to block us as we approached. 

 "The road's closed." 

 "I know.  My name is John Handful.  Is DI Draw here?"  I asked. 

 He regarded us for a few seconds, then spoke into his radio.  "Got a John 

Handful here, asking for . . ." 

 "DI Peter Draw," I said as he looked at me for confirmation. 

 He repeated it and waited.  The pause seemed to go on a long time, then a crackling voice.  He lowered the radio. 

 "Sorry." 

 Yazmin spoke up before I could say anything.  "Does that mean he isn't here, or he won't see us?" 

 The police officer regarded her stonily.  "It means you're going to have to leave." 

 "Who's dead?  Is it Simon Puttock?" 

 "Are you relatives?" 

 "No, but-" 

 "Then you can read about it in the papers.  Now, for the last time: go back to your car." 

 "Come on, Yazmin," I said, taking hold of her arm.   

 She pulled free, facing up to the PC.  "I'm not going anywhere until I know what's happened." 

I'm not sure how it would have gone, but at that moment there was a flurry of activity from the house.  A group of police officers came down the driveway.  At the front, a woman whose smart uniform and peaked cap marked her as police top brass.  Slim, she held herself with an almost military bearing.  You could just about make out dark hair beneath her cap, and she wore no makeup.  Her mouth was full and curving; the lips hinting at sensuality the rest of her tried to deny.  

 She didn't so much as glance in our direction as she strode towards an unmarked black BMW, but someone else did.  One of her entourage stared at us:  Sergeant Pat Higgins. 

 He hurried over and spoke to his superior.  She stopped, her pale eyes turning to us.  Now we're for it, I thought as they came over. 

 The PC who stopped us stood rigidly to attention.  "Ma'am, I was just-" 

 She paid him no attention.  Her eyes touched on Yazmin without interest before pinning me again.  There was an aura about her.  Her insignia identified her as an Assistant Chief Constable, a rank few CID officers ever made. 

 Sergeant Higgins looked well.  It had been over a year since I'd seen him.  

He'd lost weight, and he looked better for it. 

 The ACC didn't seem pleased to see us.  She had a pair of black leather gloves clenched in one hand, tapping them impatiently against her thigh. 

 "John Handful, isn't it?"  she said.  "I am Assistant Chief Constable Angela

White.  May I ask what you're doing here?" 

 Yazmin didn't give me a chance to answer.  "What happened?  Who's been 

killed?" 

White regarded Yazmin for a beat, then pointedly turned to me again.  "I asked what you're doing here." 

 "We were visiting Simon Puttock on the off-chance he could help us with our investigation." 

"And what investigation is that?" 

 "The UFO sighting and the unexplained death of Charles Steele." 

 "And that concerns you how, exactly?" 

 ACC or not, her attitude was starting to rankle.  "I've been hired by Charles Steele's widow to find out how he died." 

 Sergeant Higgins glanced uneasily at White.  The ACC's expression didn't change, but her eyes were glacial. 

 "Let him through," she told the PC. 

 I hid my surprise and ducked under the tape.  Yazmin moved to do the same.  

 "Just Mr Handful," White said. 

 The PC stepped in front of her.  "Oh, come on!"  Yazmin protested. 

 "Mr Handful has been hired by Charles Steele's widow," White's gaze lingered. 

"As far as I'm aware you were not." 

 Yazmin drew herself up to argue.  "I'll see you back at the car," I said quickly, knowing White wouldn't change her mind.  Yazmin shot me a furious look, then snatched the keys off me and strode back down the road.  White was already heading towards the house, her polished black shoes crunching on the gravel driveway.  Higgins fell into step beside me. 

 "Good to see you, John," he said, quietly.  "I heard about you and Dr Reed, and I was saddened by the news.  I really thought she could be the one." 

"So, did I."  

 He motioned with his head back at Yazmin.  "Not happy, is she?" 

 I changed the subject.  "What happened to DI Draw?" 

 "DI Draw is working on another case.  About five or six female refugees were dropped off by a Dutch human trafficker at Oxmarket Ferry. Can you imagine?

DI Draw working with immigrants?" 

 I couldn't.   

 White had stopped by the entrance to the house, where a trestle table had been set up with boxes of protective gear. 

 "I wasn't anticipating having to do this again," she said irritably, tearing open a sealed packet of overalls.  "I don't have time to spare.  I have a press conference soon." 

 "Need me for anything else, ma'am?"  Pat asked. 

 White didn't so much as glance at me as she pulled on overshoes and gloves.  "Not right now but stay here until Mr Handful and I have finished."  Without checking to see if I was ready, she went inside. 

 White-suited CSIs were packing away equipment, but evidence of what had happened was everywhere.  Every surface was finely coated with fingerprint powder, as though the house had been gathering dust for years.  Glass from a broken window was scattered on the parquet floor among spilt soil from an overturned potted plant.  The house smelt of chrysanthemums, but beneath it was a faint tang of faeces and drying blood, a lingering essence of violent death. 

 "The intruder forced open the kitchen door," White told me, skirting a line of muddy footprints that were being photographed by a CSI.  "No attempt at concealment, as you can see.  We've also found several patches of sputum, which should enable a DNA analysis." 

 "Sputum?" 

"It appears the killer spat on the floor."  She was walking down the hallway in front of me, blocking my views.  She stepped aside, and I saw the body of 

Simon Puttock.