Blinding Lies Read online

  In Ireland, they had relaxed. Helen had fallen in love with the house at Willow Rise and Michael had beamed as he handed her the keys. Alex remembered the day they moved in with fondness. Helen had been heavily pregnant, and Michael had laughingly attempted to carry her over the threshold, while Alex groaned in embarrassment – looking back, it was one of his happiest childhood memories. His parents had finally joined community groups and attended parent-teacher meetings, had made friends and a real effort to settle in. Michael had met a good friend in Jason Walsh and resumed his Taekwon-Do training. He had set up an accountancy practice in the city. Baby Anna had completed their happiness.

  The man that arrived when Michael and Helen disappeared introduced himself as “Bob”. Back then, Alex had accepted what the man told him and was most likely in shock at the time. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, he was suspicious. He had never met the man before, nor heard his mother or father speak of him. Helen had spoken of a sister and her parents who had died many years before he was born. Alex knew his father had been raised in London by his grandmother, and never knew his parents. He had certainly never mentioned a “Bob” to Alex, but the man identified himself as a close friend of his father’s, and at the time Alex had believed him.

  Bob told Alex and Anna about a trust fund their father had set up in the event anything should happen to him or Helen. Alex had been surprised but accepted it as something his prudent father might do. When five hundred thousand euro was transferred to his account, Alex was astonished. Even more so when he never heard from Bob again. The man had left a business card; Alex had called the number but it had always rung out. He had eventually stopped calling. He had hesitated to throw away the card though – it was in a box in the attic somewhere with old medical receipts and birth certificates.

  Now that he was older and a father himself, Alex had many questions. Why take such measures, setting up such a large trust fund in the event of your death? It seemed extreme. His parents had insurance policies that had eventually paid out, but nowhere near the amount of the trust fund. And how did his father even have half a million euro to put aside?

  Alex had unanswered questions, and not just relating to his parents’ disappearance.

  As dawn broke, he had to admit a tiny part of him was intrigued – what could the private investigator possibly uncover?

  12

  Saturday

  William Ryan stood with his hands in his pockets and surveyed the house. He had parked a few hundred yards away and had approached the house on foot. It was early on Saturday morning. He planned to knock, hard, on the front door and ask his questions. He didn’t have a warrant yet. But that needn’t stand in his way.

  Gina had been less than thrilled that William was leaving so early. She had plans to go into the city and start her Christmas shopping. She wondered whether he might like to come. William wondered why she stuck out her bottom lip when he refused. Her childish response was the latest in a line of protests that he was working at the weekend, or late at night, and he was growing tired of it. He had explained when they met that he had sought a transfer to a busier Garda station because he loved the job and wanted a more demanding post. And he had explained to Gina over dinner the night before that he had a pressing matter very early in the morning. Lately, William felt that he was always explaining his choices to a woman he had only met a few months ago. She hadn’t seemed too upset last night – perhaps she thought her fillet steak and bedside manner would persuade him to abandon his plans. This morning she had hurled the bedside clock at his departing back and told him to go to hell.

  The bungalow was set in a crowded estate just outside the city. A small white van was parked in the driveway, a ladder securely attached to the roof. Magnetic business signs decorated the doors of the van: Dean Harris Security. The man was unimaginative. And cheap. He had been the cheapest quote available, according to the seven homeowners William had spoken to yesterday.

  It had taken William less than an hour to contact the victims of the break-ins yesterday and discover the information he needed. Anna Clarke had made detailed notes, including their phone numbers. The woman was thorough. William had identified himself, and said he was following up. No-one had queried that. He had enquired if they had installed house alarms after the break-in. All had said yes, and that they had done so within a few days.

  One by one, all the homeowners had given William the name of the “very nice young man” who had installed the alarms for them. Dean Harris had given them the most reasonable quote, and was “so obliging”, able to fit the alarms almost immediately. He even returned a few times over the following days to make sure everything was just as the client wanted. And to scope out the neighbourhood, William was sure. He thought he had enough probable cause to get a search warrant of the house, but he knew that would take time. And he also wanted a DNA sample.

  He stood now, near the gate outside the house, with his hands in his trouser pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels. He had looked up Dean Harris, of course. Harris lived alone, and was clean – no points on his license, no drunk and disorderly arrests as a teenager, not even a parking fine. His DNA was not in the system. Perhaps he was very clean-living. Or perhaps he was a very careful serial sexual predator.

  The driveway was unkempt. William passed weeds shrivelling in the winter morning wind as he walked slowly up the short path. The front door to the house was a faded shade of blue, peeling in many places. The house paint wasn’t much better. There was no door knocker, nor doorbell for that matter. So, William pulled off his black leather glove and knocked hard on the faded wood. Repeatedly.

  It took a few minutes of knocking before a rattling noise at the door indicated Dean Harris was awake and attempting to open a chain at his front door. He yanked open the door.

  “What the fuck! Do you know what time it is?”

  In a T-shirt, boxer shorts and bare feet, Dean Harris was a few inches shorter than William Ryan, which put him at six foot by William’s estimation. His brown hair was receding, and he had a pallor that suited a man accustomed to late nights. There was nothing resembling stubble on his thin cheeks – perhaps he was one of those middle-aged men that had trouble growing a beard, William wondered, as he pushed his fingers back into his leather glove.

  William’s ice-blue eyes connected with Dean Harris’s and gave nothing away. He stayed silent for a beat too long, and saw it had the desired effect. Dean Harris looked around William, left and right, and his voice shook when he spoke again. He was less aggressive now, and adopted a conciliatory tone, perhaps sensing he was in a dangerous situation.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet,” William answered, enjoying the look of sleepy confusion on the man’s face. “Let me introduce myself.” He pulled his ID from a pocket in his black overcoat and flashed it quickly.

  Dean Harris reacted as all guilty men do, in William’s experience. His eyes bulged slightly, his shoulders tensed a little higher, and a small breath escaped his lips, captured in the cold air as a chilly puff of guilt. All slight, almost imperceptible movements and responses, all detected by William countless times before. He lived for moments like this.

  “Tell me. Do you employ any other personnel?”

  “What? What’s that?”

  “It’s a very simple question, Mr. Harris. Anyone else on the payroll in the security-alarm company?”

  “What? No. Why?”

  “I’m investigating a series of crimes. Your alarm company has been in the vicinity of each of those incidents. It puts you at the scene, so to speak. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Harris?”

  Dean Harris did understand. A red blush crept up his neck and enflamed his pale face. When he spoke again, spittle flew into the air in front of him.

  “This has nothing to do with me!”

  “Wonderful!” William offered a broad smile. “You won’t mind giving a DNA sample then. Shall we head down to the station?”

  Th
e door slammed in William’s face, flecks of blue paint landing on the concrete.

  With his hands back in his pockets, William sauntered slowly down the drive. From the corner of his eye he noticed a curtain twitch inside the house, and so he paused a little to inspect a strangled-looking plant halfway down.

  William was in a buoyant mood. He loved rattling a suspect. It might not yet be eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, but it was time to go in search of a warrant. Dean Harris was, without doubt, as guilty as sin.

  13

  Anna realised she was fast becoming a creature of habit. She was only twenty-six years old, but somehow her life had sure and solid routines, and she loved the secure feeling that offered. Her degree in mathematics offered little in helping her to understand what that meant about her personality. She could guess, though, that the order of her life offered a safety that had been forever threatened ten years ago.

  Last night she had laughed and gossiped with her old friend Vivian, and on Saturday morning she felt revived for it. There was no party or offer of a night out that could deter Anna from taking Vivian’s call. She missed her friend, and sometimes the longing to hug her and catch up in person was overwhelming. But Anna understood; Vivian was getting to know her birth mother and she was happy. So, Anna kept her feelings to herself and soaked up their weekly chats.

  On Saturday mornings, Anna followed a routine that a hangover would never permit. She rose at six, often while it was still dark. Every Saturday she drove to the gym in a nearby hotel and pushed her body hard, with Jason as her training companion. Then they headed to the small room off to the side of the gym and trained in Taekwon-Do for at least an hour. Anna was keen to progress her skills further.

  By ten o’clock Anna was showered and changed and driving home. She had the boot of her car full of groceries and sipped a latte as she navigated the frosty roads. She felt alive and invigorated, as she did every Saturday morning. And there was a nervous flutter in her stomach that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Her date with Myles was only hours away, and Anna realised she was excited.

  Anna drove into Willow Rise and pulled up outside the Pearsons’ house. She gazed up at the exterior walls and saw what she had been looking for – a rectangular white box with a blue flashing light. A security alarm. So, her neighbours had had one installed … Anna wondered if they would tell her by whom.

  She pulled two bags of groceries from the boot and made her way up the driveway, before ringing the doorbell. She jumped slightly as the Pearsons’ cat purred beside her and wound himself between her ankles.

  “Hello, Rebus.” She bent to stroke his soft fur.

  As the front door was opened Anna stood up and smiled. Mrs. Pearson opened the door slightly, allowing only a view of a sliver of her face. Rebus streaked inside.

  “Hi there, Mrs. Pearson, it’s Anna Clarke.”

  Anna heard a chain rattle and the door was opened wide. Mrs. Pearson smiled and stepped aside.

  “Hello, love. Do come in, it’s freezing!”

  “I’ve brought you some groceries. Just a few essentials.”

  Anna stepped inside, relishing the warmth of the house.

  “Ah, you’re very kind. There was no need. Bring them through to the kitchen and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

  Anna followed Mrs Pearson through to the kitchen at the back of the house. The house smelled like a home – scones were baking in the oven, and there was a faint smell of lemon and disinfectant – Anna felt a pang of sadness wash away her earlier excitement and tears stung her eyes. Her neighbour’s home was laid out exactly like her own, with a small kitchen at the back, adjoining a living room. Her own home was much more eclectic in its style; the Pearsons had more traditional decorative tastes.

  Anna smiled to herself as she remembered how kind the Pearsons had been to her and Alex after their parents’ disappearance, often dropping over food, and they had taken care of Anna a few times when Alex needed to go away for work. But they had busy lives of their own, with four grown children and some grandchildren. Now that Anna spent her days at work, contact with the Pearsons had been largely reduced to waving as she drove in and out of the estate, and a box of biscuits dropped over at Christmastime.

  Mrs. Pearson put the kettle on to boil and Anna settled herself on a wooden kitchen chair, setting the groceries on the floor beside her.

  “Tell me how you take your tea, Anna.”

  “Lots of milk, no sugar please. I hope you both are recovering well. I was sorry to hear about the break-in.”

  A shadow crossed Mrs. Pearson’s face as she busied herself with making and pouring the tea. When she sat down opposite Anna her face betrayed her emotions – she was barely holding it together. Her skin was pale, and she had dark shadows under her eyes.

  “It was a terrible ordeal, truth be told. I don’t know if Derek will ever get over the shock.”

  Mrs. Pearson raised her eyes to the ceiling, to the bedroom upstairs.

  “He’s still asleep now. Never have I known him to sleep in – he’s always up and about, doing some job or other, or going to get the newspaper. He’s had such a shock, you see. We both have.”

  Anna sipped her tea and nodded sympathetically. The oven-timer beeped – the scones were ready and Mrs. Pearson rose to tend to them. She placed a plate of them in the middle of the table with some butter and jam, and sat down again.

  “Help yourself, love.”

  “Thank you, they smell delicious.” She took a scone and began to butter it. “Were either of you injured at all?”

  Anna knew from the report at work that Mr. Pearson had been seriously assaulted. She sensed that Mrs. Pearson needed to talk it all through.

  The elderly woman was putting jam on her scone, holding its hot edges gingerly. “Yes, the poor man! One of the fellows that broke in punched him, knocked him to the ground, then kicked him. He has a cracked rib, and the doctor said he needs to take it easy. But he’s always been such an active man! It’s terrible, just terrible.” Her voice wobbled as she spoke. “People have been so kind. And we’ve had an alarm fitted, by a lovely young man. We should have done it years ago!” She laughed a little. “How that man didn’t kill himself up on that ladder all day is beyond me! It took him such a long time to fit it. Luckily he wasn’t charging by the hour!”

  Anna offered a tight smile and took a bite of her scone. So – the “lovely young man” had taken his time up the ladder, affording himself a view of the neighbouring houses. The scone was moist and perfectly cooked but felt like a lump of cement in her throat.

  “That’s really something I should look into getting myself. Could you tell me the name of the company you used?”

  Mrs. Pearson pursed her lips, trying to recall, eventually blushing with embarrassment.

  “Gosh, my memory isn’t what it used to be! I’ll have to fish out his card – I have it here somewhere.”

  As she rose from her seat a feeble cry from upstairs startled them both. Mrs. Pearson looked to the ceiling, then back at Anna.

  “Poor Derek. He’ll be needing some breakfast.”

  Anna rose quickly.

  “I’ll see myself out. Give Mr. Pearson my best. And you have my number – could you call me with the name of the security company?”

  “Of course! And thanks for checking on us.”

  Anna didn’t want to press the issue and intrude any further; the Pearsons were clearly still suffering from their ordeal. But she would have to get the name of that security company! She decided to call again on Monday after work if she had not heard from Mrs. Pearson by then.

  When she sat into her car, she found that her hands were shaking. She carefully manoeuvred her car the short distance home and brought her gym gear and groceries inside the house. Once the door was closed, she leant against it, drawing air deep into her lungs. The house was quiet and still. Tears spilled down her cheeks – catching her off-guard. She was disappointed not to have the contact details of the security-alarm company – bu
t that was not why she was upset. In truth, she wasn’t sure why she was crying.

  Yes, the Pearsons had suffered a terrible attack, and their suffering was obvious. But Anna had known that all along. And yes, she was agitated to see that the Pearsons had had a security alarm installed, but she had suspected that they would.

  Anna realised she had felt close to tears ever since she had set foot inside the Pearsons’ home. Perhaps it was the smell of a home that had made her emotional? Anna’s house hadn’t smelled like that for years. It wasn’t just the baking, and the cleaning products – it was the smell of warmth, and other people. Anna realised she was lonely. She was tired of living alone. And she really missed her parents.

  It was a long time since Anna had been inside her attic. In fact, she usually did everything she could to avoid going up there. Her fear of cramped spaces was irrational, she knew that, and not something she could trace back to any childhood trauma. But the fear remained. When Alex had left the house to buy his own home with Samantha, Anna had used some of her trust-fund money to redecorate her home. One of the first things she had done was have a wide, pulldown staircase fitted to the attic, followed by a skylight window. Now, with the sense of space the wider opening and natural light offered, she could just about tolerate being up there.

  There weren’t many photographs of her parents throughout the house. Today, Anna felt like looking back over old memories. And while she was up there, she reasoned, she could pull out some Christmas decorations. Chloe loved to help with that – decorating the house together would bring some warmth into the place.