All the Lies Read online

  All The Lies

  A DCI Will Blake Thriller

  Obolus Books

  1

  Copyright © 2021 by Jon Mayhew

  The right of Jon Mayhew to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and

  Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be

  reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written

  permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  About the Author

  Also by JE Mayhew:

  To Cousin Angela,

  who seems to read all my nonsense

  and is kind enough to say she enjoys it!

  Although the story is set on the Wirral, the names of some establishments and roads have been fictionalised to protect the unloved and godless...

  but you can have fun guessing...

  A truth that's told with bad intent

  Beats all the lies you can invent.

  Auguries of Innocence ― William Blake.

  Chapter 1

  The whole forest had turned on him. It felt like it was fighting him and trying to stop him from getting away. The earth beneath his feet had actually tilted and become a slick mudslide. Every tree lurched into his path, so that he smacked painfully into each gnarled trunk. Branches clawed at his eyes and brambles pulled his legs from under him. Soon he was no longer running but rolling down the hillside. Even then, roots took a swipe at his temple, sending sparks of pain shuddering through him.

  He couldn’t feel the wound in his stomach. The pain of that had just become a part of the agony that engulfed his entire body as he pitched down the hill through the trees. The warm wetness of the blood had been lost in the icy soaking from bushes he’d tumbled through. He knew it was deep and he knew he was in serious trouble.

  A tree stump stopped his fall abruptly, cracking a rib and punching the breath from his body. He howled silently and lay still for a second, gasping for breath.

  He couldn’t rest, though. Higher up the hill, the snapping of twigs told him that he was still being chased.

  Hunted.

  The lights of the big house flickered through the canopy of the forest. He wasn’t far away from safety, but it seemed like miles. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet. For a second, a few stars glittered through the branches, then swirled around. He blinked and steadied himself, then leaned forward and vomited onto the needle-coated forest floor.

  Another twig snapped back in the depths of the forest and he launched off, like a startled deer. But the ground betrayed him again, sending him plummeting through the undergrowth; pitching and hurtling like a deranged acrobat, bouncing off rocks and wood as though he’d been flung. And then he was there on the edge of the big house’s front courtyard.

  He tried to call out, but his throat was dry and clogged with blood and dirt. His breath came out in short, strangled gasps and every shuffling step towards the light of the windows sent needles of pain up his legs. The lights in the house swayed. Footsteps scrunched on the gravel behind him, but he heard voices crying out from the house and the front door unlocking. Then the light grew brighter and whiter until he had to close his eyes and let gravity take him.

  *****

  In all her born years, Duana Lambert had never seen so much blood. It covered the poor boy and stained the gravel beneath him. Even on this cloudy night where the moon only occasionally broke through to shed a cold blue light, she could see the dark liquid soaked into his clothes. More shocking, somehow, was the sight of Rosie standing over him with a large knife in her trembling hands. Streaks of red smeared her cheek, her hands, even her apron.

  She looked at Duana, wide-eyed. “Phone my brother. Phone Will Blake.”

  Chapter 2

  Quite how Detective Chief Inspector Will Blake ended up with the responsibility of a cat and a small dog was a constant wonder to him. It was a duty that weighed more heavily on him than his job sometimes, maybe because of his job, with its long and unpredictable hours. He’d reluctantly inherited both animals but wouldn’t part with either of them now. He sat in his neighbour, Ian Youde’s, kitchen, cradling Charlie, his Jack Russell.

  Although Youde lived alone in a big house, he kept it immaculate, something that shamed Blake often. Youde’s kitchen was spotless and smelt of home baking even this early in the day. The stack of dishes in Blake’s own sink was at least two weeks old and he was running out of plates and cutlery.

  “I know you’re not a big fan of cats, Ian, but it’d only be for a couple of days. I’ll take Charlie with me but Serafina has to stay here,” Blake said, scratching Charlie behind his ear as he snuffled under Blake’s chin. He’d fleetingly considered a cattery but, knowing Serafina, he realised that would be asking for trouble. Serafina had an aptitude for causing chaos. It was a good job she and Charlie had taken to each other. They’d been rivals at first but Serafina had developed a kind of possessive tolerance of the dog. She put up with him most of the time and might even show him some affection but if anyone else went near him, she growled like a tiger.

  “Charlie is fine with me, too, you know, Will,” Youde said. He was a mean-looking man with cropped, silver hair, a suntanned face, and narrow, suspicious eyes. Blake hadn’t liked Youde at first and had assumed he was as grudging and curmudgeonly as he looked. But Youde had saved his life since then and proved himself to be a good neighbour and a friend.

  “I know, Ian,” Blake said. “But he may prove useful. I’m hoping if Laura sees him, it might help her think about coming back…”

  Youde looked pained. “You think emotional blackmail is goin’ to work, Will? She ran away to escape from a criminal gang, not because she felt like a change.”

  “I know,” Will said, stroking the dog, absentmindedly, “but she’d be safe here and she must be lost without her animals. I know it. Charlie will remind her of who she really is, not who she was in the past.”

  “Well, good luck with that, Will. And you think you’ve tracked her down?”

  “Possibly,” Blake said. “Her mobile phone was used in Andover…”

  “You’ve been tracking her? Is that even allowed?”

  “A colleague of mine is trying to
trace her as part of the case,” Blake said, not meeting Youde’s gaze. “Somebody ran off with a lot of money, Ian, but there’s no solid evidence that it was Laura.” He almost believed the lie himself, but Laura had phoned him. She’d told him that she’d done terrible things, that he wasn’t to look for her but what else could he do?

  “And what if she doesn’t want to come back, Will? What if you travel all that way to find her and she runs away again?”

  Blake shrugged. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Right now, I’m heading down to Andover. That’s all I know.”

  *****

  The phone call that changed everything came as Blake was hurtling down the M56 in his 1988 Opel Manta. It had been his father’s pride and joy, the first brand new car he’d bought, and he’d kept it going long past the time it should have been scrapped. For that reason alone, Blake had a fanatical attachment to the car, even though he hadn’t been as skilled as his dad at keeping the car in tiptop condition. Blake had worried about making such a long journey in the car but hiring another vehicle seemed like a betrayal. A cradle stuck to the windscreen held his phone and let him see Google Maps. It all looked a little Heath Robinson but seemed to do the trick. Until the phone rang.

  Charlie lay in his puppy carrier, safely strapped into the passenger seat and the roar of the car’s engine had sent him into a deep slumber. When the phone began to ring, Charlie leapt up inside the cushioned crate and started yapping wildly. Blake stabbed his finger at the screen to answer the call, accidentally closing the map of where he was going. He stabbed at it again and managed to put it on speaker, before the whole lot fell off the windscreen onto the floor.

  “Will?” It was a woman’s voice, but Charlie’s yapping was making it difficult to hear.

  “Laura?” Will said. “Is that you? Are you okay? Charlie, be quiet!”

  “Will? It’s me, Rosie…”

  “Oh,” Blake shouted, trying not to sound disappointed. “Hi, Rosie, long time no…”

  “Will, you’ve got to help me. I’m in big trouble,” she said. The line broke up and Blake couldn’t work out what she said next.

  “What kind of trouble Rosie?”

  “I need you up here now…” Her voice dropped out again.

  “I can’t do that, Rosie, I’m on my way down south. I’m sort of on a case. It’s important…” Blake glanced in the mirror, wondering how long ago he’d passed junction 10. Junction 9 was the turn-off for the M6 and if he missed it, then he’d have to double back. “Where are you?”

  “The police station…” The signal broke up again. Blake saw the junction ahead and pulled the Manta into the lane for the M6 heading south.

  “The police station? Rosie what’s going on?”

  “It’s murder, Will… I’ve murdered…someone!”

  The lanes taking traffic north and south were about to split. “Sod it,” Blake muttered and swerved the Manta into the North lane. Horns blared behind him, but he’d made the decision. He’d have to search for Laura another day.

  Chapter 3

  As static caravans abandoned in a farmyard went, it was quite classy, Laura Vexley thought. But she’d stayed in some terrible places and was setting the bar low. In fact, she was probably digging a hole and burying the bar. The place smelt vaguely fungal, like the inside of an old training shoe and black mould spotted the corners and windows frames. Yellowed net curtains hung limply in front of the filthy windows. One end of the caravan had a seating area and a chipboard table that looked like a Pitbull had bitten chunks out of it. The other end housed a cramped bedroom and a toilet. Washing, it seemed was to take place in the tiny sink by the gas cooker.

  A dog barked furiously at something she couldn’t see in the total darkness. Laura looked down at the suitcase full of money and knew it wasn’t worth it. She had known that when she’d run. The money would be something to live on. Cash opened doors that would otherwise stay shut and it left no trail. She looked around, concluding that some doors just didn’t need opening. But this would do for now. She was just passing through anyway.

  When she had arrived in Ludlow station, she’d walked to the town’s centre and entered the first pub she could find. That way, there would be no taxi driver to remember her at the station. A quick search on her phone found her the static caravan at the back of Sourwater Farm. The name sounded forbidding enough. Even better, it had a string of condemnations on Trip Advisor: shabby, run down, isolated, inconveniently situated for any tourist sights. The last one was 2017. It sounded perfect. She wanted to lie low for a while before she made any decisions about the future. After a swift glass of cider and a bite to eat, Laura had stocked up on snacks and fast food from a convenience store. This crap food was going to kill her, she knew that but needs must. Once she was stocked up, she called for a taxi to take her to the farm.

  Even though the taxi driver was chatty and friendly, Laura had kept as tight-lipped as possible. With a psychopath like Kyle Quinlan waiting to pounce on her, she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Quinlan was her ex-husband, a cruel, violent man. She’d stolen money from him and he had disappeared, only to return with wealth, power and a desire to make her his own. When she rejected him, he turned against her. In his own twisted way, he thought he was doing her a favour by letting her run for it and giving her a head start. She’d been moving from town to town since November, staying in cheap B&Bs and avoiding anywhere that involved using a credit card or anything that might give her whereabouts away. She had spent Christmas in a motel near Peterborough, watching the crackly television wondering what Blake was doing and desperately resisting the urge to call him. Quinlan would be watching, she knew it. If Blake came to find her, then Quinlan wouldn’t be far behind.

  Shadows were growing longer by the time Laura had reached Gilmore Farm. The taxi driver had taken several wrong turns and had to double back on himself twice before they found it. The farmhouse stood on the junction of two narrow lanes, hemmed in by a high, straggly thorn hedge The old building loomed above it, a Victorian dwelling with crumbling brickwork and peeling paint. She checked the farm out first, sneaking round the back of the dilapidated farmhouse. The muddy yard looked fairly orderly; a tractor sat in the shelter of a dutch barn. Big round bales of hay filled one side and a trailer was parked in the other. A few empty steel drums stood sentry outside an old wooden shed. A brindled terrier strained at its chain, flecks of spit flying from its jaws as it barked. That was what had brought the farmer himself to the back door.

  He was a big man, with close cut black hair and a tall, square frame. With his chiselled jaw and sharp, intelligent eyes, he reminded Laura of Blake. But it was less to do with his looks than an air of vulnerability that the man had. He wore a faded denim shirt under a ragged set of overalls. “Can I help you?” he had said, ignoring the dog carried as it carried barking and testing the length of its chain.

  “You the owner?”

  “I am,” he had said in a slow, gentle voice. “Steve Gilmore. Can I help you?”

  “I believe you have a caravan to rent. I’ve come to look at it,” Laura had held Gilmore’s gaze until he coughed and looked away.

  “I haven’t had many takers recently,” he muttered, scratching his head. “It’s over there. I normally charge forty quid a week...”

  Laura glanced over at the dirty green box squatting in the corner of the yard. “I’ll give you thirty and you’ll throw in some bleach and cleaning products. If it’s as manky on the inside as it is on the outside, I’ll need to disinfect it, won’t I?”

  Gilmore had grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. “Fair enough, miss…?” He left the question of her name hanging in the air.

  “Stacy,” Laura said. “Stacy Smith.”

  “You a scouser, Stacy?”

  “Sort of,” Laura said. There was no point trying to hide her accent.

  Gilmore narrowed his eyes. “If you could give me that rent upfront, that would help. I’ve had people do a flit without paying in the
past. How long are you thinking of staying?”

  Laura had encountered this before. Some people just didn’t like the accent or had preconceived ideas about scousers. Personally, she blamed newspapers who had demonised people from Liverpool and the surrounding area repeatedly over the years. “A couple of weeks at the most. Here,” she said, stuffing sixty pounds into Gilmore’s huge palm.

  He pocketed the money. “Thanks,” he said, with an embarrassed grin. “It’s quiet out here if that’s what you’re looking for. Just me.”

  An involuntary shiver ran through Laura and she glanced up at the house. It looked tall and forbidding. A light glowed in the bedroom window. “Great,” she said.

  “The caravan’s open; the lock doesn’t work, I’m afraid,” Gilmore said, giving her a sheepish smile. “But like I said, nothing ever happens here.”

  “Okay,” Laura had muttered and watched Gilmore limp back to his house.

  Now, sitting in the flimsy, old caravan, with the dog barking in the background, she suddenly felt vulnerable. Her hand strayed to the pay-as-you-go mobile in her pocket and, yet again, she considered calling Will Blake. No. Quinlan had said he’d be watching Will, too. The moment Will came to her, he would be followed, bringing Quinlan or one of his cronies close behind him. Despite being the great policeman, Will Blake couldn’t keep her safe now. Besides, it was probably best for Will’s career if he wasn’t burdened with a criminal as a girlfriend. She pulled back the crispy net curtain and looked at the farmhouse. It was tall and narrow, the gables sharp and pointed. A weak light still shone in the upstairs window, and Gilmore’s huge silhouette framed in it as he stared out at her.

  She dropped the curtain and sat down again, listening to the dog barking. Her work at the cat sanctuary and as a pet behaviourist seemed like another time completely. It was something she had chosen because of her love of animals first and foremost. But there was also a feeling that all creatures deserved a chance at redemption. Dogs and cats weren’t savage by nature; often they had been taught to be scared or wary of people. They attacked when they felt threatened. Most crazy pets were the product of lazy or ignorant owners. Or cruel ones. But with a little effort and compassion, most animals could be helped. She believed that about people, too. She had to.