Serial part 2: Caught In A Web by Gabrielle Mullarkey

In an attempt to prove her innocence, Beth takes a dangerous step that can only implicate her further

Trying to make sense of everything that’s happened so far, I sit glumly in the caff, waiting for Simon to speak first. I’ve already rung work to say I’ll be taking a half-day off, apologising for the short notice.

‘How long’s it been since..?’ Simon asks delicately, as we sip our coffees. It’s not the question I’ve been expecting, given all that’s just happened.

‘Three years, three months and seven days.’

My reply is automatic. That was how long it was since John had been hit by an unmarked, blue van while crossing the road to break up a ruckus outside a kebab shop. It wasn’t like he’d put any big shots behind bars who’d have been out for revenge.

The more I’d thought about it, the more it seemed he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of circumstance and the actions of a drunken coward – a coward who’d never been

found and brought to book.

Simon murmurs, ‘I didn’t mean since John…I meant since we talked – properly?’

‘About the same,’ I admit. ‘It was too painful seeing you socially, even though you and Sheila kindly invited me along to things.’

‘We’re getting divorced.’ ‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’

He sighs. ‘She’d been on at me for years to cut back my workload, though she’s been enjoying the fringe benefits well enough. But it turns out sharing them wasn’t enough. Might’ve been different if we’d had kids…’

I mumble again, feeling awkward. ‘Sorry.’

Truth is, I don’t know Sheila well. I met her socially a few times when John was alive, and have bumped into her occasionally since. Last year, she passed me at a bus stop when my car was in the garage, backed up and gave me a lift home. She’s a nice woman, a solicitor, in a different law firm from Simon’s, but I was never in that tight quartet that went around together – her and Simon, John and his ex, Lisa.

We revert to talking about the mess I’m in regarding the late Jez Lambert. ‘It’s all circumstantial, right?’ I ask.

‘First things first,’ he frowns, pulling out his phone. ‘I’ll call in a favour to find out cause of death, get a jump on the official word from Foster.’

He keys in a phone number, and my heart booms. Hearing him murmur replies, I try to work out what he’s learning, and whether it will help me.

Finally, he hangs up. ‘Struck with a blunt object, probably an ashtray, judging by the imprint on his skin. Time of death estimated at between 9 and 11pm.’

‘I’d left his flat by half eight!’ ‘It’s a close call. Police will check to see if he made any calls on his mobile that night. He didn’t have a landline.’

‘He might’ve gone out to use a phone box,’ I point out.

‘How’s Lacey?’ Simon asks, changing tack – perhaps to stop me brooding.

‘She’s fine,’ I reply, crossing my fingers. ‘Good thing I quit the force to give her the stability she needed after John. Imagine if she’d lost both of us in the line of duty.’ ‘Sure you quit for her sake?’ I bridle. ‘Meaning?’

‘Must’ve been tough, coming into the station every day, knowing John should be there. Not that I blame you,’ he adds hastily. ‘So – you head up security at the shopping centre now, I hear?’

‘Anything wrong with that?’ I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.

‘You rile easy,’ he says sombrely. ‘Did Lambert get on your wrong side and pay the price?’

‘You rile easy. Did Lambert get on your wrong side and pay the price?’

I glare at him, speechless. ‘Just playing devil’s wotsit,’ he shrugs. ‘You’ve already admitted being at his flat.

Two kids and a woman gave a matching description of you. What were you playing at, going in all guns blazing to get Lacey’s money?’

‘I just wanted to look after her – it sounds stupid, but I wanted to show John I could.’

He grips my hand across the table. ‘It’s not stupid at all, but look what it’s led to, Beth.’ ‘Will it…will it be all right?’ Simon’s firm nod is a balm to my soul. ‘We’ll have to box cleverer than Charlotte Foster and co, that’s all,’ he says, then gives me a buck-yourself-up smile. ‘It’s only a matter of time before it’s all sorted.’

He drops me off back home.

‘I’ve often wondered,’ he says, as I open the car door. ‘Don’t answer if you don’t want to, but did John say anything to you in the hospital – you know, before he…’

I shake my head. ‘He never came round.’

‘Before your time, we’d knock around together, me and Sheels, John and Lisa. Think we were meant to live happily ever after. Whatever happened to that, eh?’

I wouldn’t know. For a moment, I’m gripped with jealousy, imagining this cosy quartet, building memories long before I came on the scene. Then, when I did, John was a frazzled, single parent juggling 12-hour shifts with raising a teenager.

‘Listen,’ adds Simon gently. ‘Do you fancy dinner one night this week?’

‘To discuss the case?’ ‘Exactly. Try not to worry too much.’ He restarts the car. ‘I’ll call you.’

By the time I put my key in the front door, I’ve recalled Simon using those self-same words, ‘It’s only a matter of time’, about catching John’s hit-and-run killer.

Indoors, Lacey’s at the breakfast bar. I decide to tell her about Fisk/Lambert before it hits the local news.

‘And no, I had nothing to do with his death,’ I add, exhausted. ‘Now I just have to convince my ex-colleagues.’

‘They don’t think you’d kill some bloke for a few hundred quid, do they?’

‘They found my fingerprints in his flat. And, of course, I’ve got previous for being “easily riled”, as Simon Cosgrave put it. I made a scene at your dad’s inquest, if you remember, calling drinkdrivers murdering scum.’

‘You were entitled.’ She winds hair round her finger.

‘Is Simon Cosgrave going to be your lawyer?’

‘Looks like it, if it comes to that. Had you seen Lambert in the pub before you got talking to him that time?’

‘On and off. Rob reckons he visited different pubs with the same scam.’ She blushes. ‘Maybe an angry dad turned up at his flat after you left, and took things too far when there was no more cash to recover.’

‘Well, Lambert did say the money I retrieved was already spoken for…’ I smile wanly at a frightened-looking Lacey. ‘Try not to worry.’

Now I’m echoing Simon’s words to me, although not very convincingly.

‘How do I look?’ It’s two nights later, and I’m doing a twirl, Lacey assessing me.

‘You’re in jeans and a cardie, Beth. It’s hardly an LBD!’

‘I’m wearing a necklace!’ The truth is, I don’t want to give Simon any ideas about our dinner date.

‘What will you be up to?’ ‘Rob’s coming round.’

‘Well, make sure he gets the last bus home.’

‘I’m 19! And he’s got his own bike.’

‘Yes, but…’ Heck, she’s got a point. I just feel I should say what John would want me to say. Somewhere in the ether, he’s backing me. I murmur, ‘I know you’re sensible, love. Just make sure Rob is, too.’

‘He’s scared enough of my ex-cop mum as it is!’

Halfway down the drive,

I’m suffused with a warm glow – she called me ‘Mum’, sort of. It doesn’t happen often, and I hug it to myself like a secret treasure.

Simon and I have arranged to meet at the restaurant, which is a good bit out of town. I suspect we’ll spend the evening talking shop.

As I head for my car, hairs rise on the back of my neck. I whirl round, peering into the dark street. ‘Hello?’ I croak foolishly. ‘Anyone there?’

Hearing a rustle, I whirl round again, meeting a pair of glittering, green eyes.

It’s next door’s cat, fixing me with its basilisk stare. Shivering, I get into my car. Dinner, as expected, becomes an update on the murder. Lambert’s phone calls on his mobile had proved to be innocuous, the last one made at 7.30pm on the night he was killed.

‘He could’ve had a burner,’ I hazard. ‘A cheap, prepaid phone for temporary use, easy to discard and replace.’

‘I know what a burner phone is, Beth.’

‘Point is, I’m still in the frame,’ I say bleakly.

Simon hesitates. ‘Lambert didn’t own a car, but did have a conviction for drink-driving.’

‘So that ups my motive! But I’d only have known that if Lambert had told me!’

‘Scamming young women for modelling portfolios looks like a new departure for him,’ explains Simon. ‘You followed him from the pub, you said?’

I nod. ‘Had to be careful because I didn’t want him noticing me crawling behind in the car. I let him go into his flat before I made my move.’

‘If you’d got in touch with me, I’d have lit a fire under

Continued overleaf

him on Lacey’s behalf, you know that.’

‘Will I be charged?’

He drops his gaze. ‘It’s looking likely.’

I felt the blood drain from my face.

‘Beth, we’ll fight it all the way. I just have to gather more evidence first. Be patient.’

But my appetite is gone, and even the most reassuring words ring hollow.

Back home, I park up on my driveway. I’m so busy getting my front-door key out, I fail to notice someone behind me. ‘Beth?’

I drop my keys, whirl round. ‘Sheila?’ I gape, guilt prickling up my spine for no good reason, as I gaze at Simon’s soon-to-be-ex wife. She must have followed me from the restaurant. Unless… I recall my earlier feeling of being watched.

‘Can we talk?’ she murmurs. ‘Inside, if possible?’

I hope Lacey’s gone to bed. ‘About what?’

‘About that man they found murdered.’ She pauses. ‘I think Simon knew him.’

I gaze at her in shock, biting my lip. ‘You’d better come in.’ She follows me inside. ‘Come through,’ I say, glad to find that Lacey has, indeed, gone to bed. ‘What’s this about, Sheila?’ I gesture towards an armchair, but she remains standing.

‘Were you here earlier this evening?’ I ask.

She twists her bag straps in her hands. ‘Yes. I came round, but you were just going out. I got back in my car and waited. I don’t know what to do, Beth. I thought that perhaps you might.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve moved out of the marital home now, but a few weeks ago, while I was packing, I overheard Simon talking on the phone to someone he called “Jez”. Si was in the next room and didn’t know I was listening.’ She blushes. ‘I know how my eavesdropping must sound, but my solicitor told me to keep a close eye on Simon, in case he tried to hide assets in the divorce. Sounds awful, I know.’

‘I wouldn’t presume to judge, Sheila.’

‘Anyway, my ears pricked up at the name because I’d heard it before at work. My first case as a rookie was representing a Jez Lambert in juvenile court. You don’t forget your first case. So when I heard Simon calling someone “Jez”, I wondered if he could be one and the same. Simon was telling him to just sit tight, that everything would be all right, that they were “nearly home and dry”. I couldn’t let on I’d been earwigging, so I filed the conversation away mentally – might even have forgotten about it if news of Lambert’s murder hadn’t broken at work.

‘We have a news feed that highlights local crimes,’ she explains. ‘I really got interested in Si’s conversation after that. How many men called Jez could he know?’

‘Could Simon have been his lawyer since his juvenile court days?’ I muse – though, if he had been, surely Simon would have mentioned it to me?

‘Possibly, but we never discussed work at home. Then I learnt you’d been questioned about Lambert’s murder – but I didn’t hear it from Simon.’ She hesitates for a moment. ‘I have a contact down at the police station…’

‘I don’t know a lawyer who doesn’t!’

‘You must listen, though, Beth. The other thing I heard Simon say to Lambert was, “Don’t worry, I’ve got the computer stick, safe and sound”. He has a locked filing cabinet in his office. The stick could be in there. I’ve no idea how to get access.’

I get up and pace the room. ‘Could Jez have been working for Simon on the fly, doing casual surveillance work?’

‘Simon’s firm has expert investigators for that, all qualified and licensed. This man Lambert seemed to blunder about, drawing attention to himself.’

I nod. Investigators for legal firms do tend to be discreet, unlike Lambert with his outlandish scams.

I recall his words: ‘I’ve got friends in high places’, and go cold down. Suddenly, I know what I have to do. I have to find a way to get into Simon’s filing cabinet.

‘Thanks for telling me,’ I say. ‘Look, Beth, I’m not saying Simon is corrupt or behind Lambert’s murder, but be wary of him. He loves career, cash and women, in that order. I’m letting him have our house, as it holds no happy memories for me.

You must think me bitter.’

‘I think you’re principled, resourceful and brave. Thanks for coming round, Sheila.’

I stand in the hallway after she’s left, heart racing, realising just how much I distrust Simon Cosgrave. What exactly is his relationship with Jez Lambert?

Next morning, hearing giggling, I stumble groggily down to the kitchen and push open the door. Rob’s there, sitting at the breakfast bar, and he’s wearing John’s old dressing gown.

‘Beth, please don’t go off on one!’ begs Lacey. ‘We were watching films in my room last night and it got late – and I thought it’d be OK to lend him some of Dad’s stuff.’

But I’m still distracted by what Sheila has told me, and find myself blurting it all out.

I need a sounding board for my own tumbling thoughts.

Lacey and Rob gaze at me, wide-eyed. ‘So, to recap,’ frowns Lacey, ‘You’re going to break into Cosgrave’s safe?’

‘It’s a filing cabinet. I’ll get myself invited to dinner at his house and have a snoop.’

‘Mum,’ protests Lacey (and I’m so distracted, I don’t even compute her use of the word). ‘You won’t be able to just waltz in there and rifle through his stuff!’

‘I’ve got to try! If Cosgrave’s doing something illegal and was in on it with Lambert, I can’t just stand by!’

‘Yeah, but that means

Simon Cosgrave might’ve bumped off Lambert and framed you! It’s just not safe.’ ‘What choice do I have?’ Lacey and Rob glance at each other. ‘We’re coming with you,’ Lacey decides.

‘Not on your nellies!’

‘Mrs P,’ says Rob, suddenly looking grown-up. ‘We’ll wait near this bloke’s house. If you’re not out by an agreed time, we’ll come for you.’

Rather ungraciously, I agree to this plan. Then I ring Simon’s mobile to say I need to come round to talk. He names a time for that same evening. The plan is in motion. I’ve never been to Simon’s current address before. He’d explained that he and Sheila moved here 18 months ago, before their marriage went pear-shaped. It’s a lovely, detached cottage on the edge of a village, surrounded by thick evergreens.

‘I learnt you’d been questioned about Lambert’s murder – but

I didn’t hear it from Simon’

Rob and Lacey have headed for the pub I passed just before Simon’s, The Green Man. There’s no car park, so I’ve suggested that Rob hide his bike alongside my car, under one of the yew trees edging Simon’s drive.

The bike was my idea. I hadn’t been thrilled when Rob and Lacey had met me here on his Honda 150cc.

‘I’ve passed my proficiency test,’ Rob told me. But still…

Dropping the brass knocker on glossy wood, I glance over my shoulder, unnerved by the dark depths of those evergreens. There’s a lot to be said for privacy, but it’d make me wonder who might be lurking around at night.

Simon answers his door, looking relaxed. ‘There goes the timer!’ he says, as I step into a tiled hallway. ‘Hope you like chicken.’

As he shuts the door, I say, ‘You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.’

‘I enjoy cooking. Come into the kitchen, grab some wine.’

‘What about a guided tour?’ I say, looking around. ‘Surprised Sheila isn’t fighting you for this place in the split.’

I don’t let on that she’s already told me she doesn’t want it.

‘Oh, she’s got her eye on a garden flat at my expense. I’ll check the oven. Have a gander upstairs.’

I don’t want to go upstairs. I’ve spied an interesting door at the end of the hallway. It could be the door to his den or office and its filing cabinet.

As I’m hovering, Simon scurries away, returning with a glass of red wine.

‘A cheeky Chilean,’ he grins, as I take a sip.

‘Mmm. OK if I take it upstairs?’ I ask.

‘Be my guest.’

As he returns to the kitchen, I climb the stairs. Halfway up, I pause, then sneak back down, past the open kitchen doorway, to try that ‘den’ door.

The stair creaks underfoot like a ship pitching on the high seas. Great!

A saucepan lid drops on the kitchen floor – also tiled, by the sound of it. The lid rattles loudly, supplemented by Simon’s curses.

I hurtle back downstairs under cover of the racket, and head for the den. If it’s locked and Simon emerges from the kitchen, I’ll pretend I needed the loo and thought this was the cloakroom.

I look at my watch. If I’m not out in half an hour, Rob and Lacey will pitch up, saying they need me urgently. I’ve just long enough to have a shufty, make my excuses and leave (evidence secreted about my person).

I turn the door handle. It’s not locked. Maybe he has nothing to hide? Once inside, I shut the door softly and lean against it, swigging wine.

It’s a study, all right, with a polished desk, a briefcase by a swivel chair. I creep over and try the briefcase. Locked. Same with the desk drawers, and the grey filing cabinet.

I feel under the desk for a Sellotaped key. Nothing.

Then I feel the underside of each drawer, tapping for a false bottom or a spring that might open one. That’s when I notice a big, earthenware plant pot in the corner of the room. The plant is askew – as if it’s been recently taken out and dropped back in.

I peer into the pot. Some of the soil looks freshly turned over. I dig my fingers in and pull up a zip-locked plastic bag. Inside, gleaming metallically, is a USB stick for a computer.

I angle the plant back into the pot, preparing to slip the bag into my pocket. Then…

‘What exactly do you think you’re doing?’

For a long, long moment, I play for time before I turn to face the doorway.

TO BE CONTINUED Gabrielle Mullarkey, 2018