Invisible Lies

By Terry Murden

A suspected suicide and an attempt to kill a former US defence official are linked to an organised crime ring led by a woman tortured by war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291870183

Book preview

Invisible Lies

Invisible

Lies

TERRY

MURDEN

Copyright © 2014, Terry Murden

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-291-87018-3

Design: Vizual Edinburgh

About the author

TERRY MURDEN has been a financial journalist for more than 25 years. He is the Business Editor of The Scotsman and Scotland on Sunday newspapers and has also worked for The Northern Echo and The Sunday Times. He has received more than a dozen honours for journalism and in 1989 he won three awards, including UK Industrial Journalist of the Year for his coverage of the closure of the Sunderland shipbuilding industry. He was born and raised in Yorkshire and now lives in Edinburgh. Invisible Lies is his first novel.

Dedication

To my true and honest friends

Prologue

June 2013

The young woman opened a small Louis Vuitton purse and paid the taxi driver, adding a generous tip for keeping her amused during the journey from the airport. He smiled and gave her his card, offering to pick her up later if she required another cab.

She travelled light, her only other luggage being a matching holdall and a suit bag, and after skipping up the few steps to the hotel entrance, she was guided by a doorman into the spacious marble-floored reception. She made her way to the desk, removing her sunglasses and giving her name to a uniformed young man of oriental appearance who tapped her details into the computer. He handed her the key card and wished her a pleasant stay. As she had arrived earlier than expected she decided to fit in a massage and a facial before dinner in the restaurant at nine o’clock.

Her room was of a standard one would expect here; the finest bed linen, a courtesy bottle of wine cooling in a bucket of ice on the mock mahogany coffee table. There were chocolates, too, laid out on the sideboard with a note from an unnamed admirer. Her one night stay was costing more than she had once earned in a month. She could get used to this.

After dining alone in the hotel restaurant and politely rejecting an offer to join a smartly dressed middle-aged man at his table, she enjoyed a glass of Prosecco in the lounge before returning to her room. She undressed and wrapped herself in the courtesy white bathrobe, noting that her toenails were due a fresh paint. Now relaxed and sipping a black coffee, she opened the sliding window and stepped out on to the balcony. She leaned over the rail to take in the panoramic view of Port Hercules, gleaming in all its majesty twelve storeys below. It was difficult not to be impressed by this picture postcard location where the rich gathered conspicuously to show off their wealth.

Luxury floating palaces, lit up like bobbing lanterns, were as familiar in this playground on the Riviera as the casinos up the hill. Tonight, though, a 210-foot superyacht was attracting an unusual level of attention from onlookers on the quayside. The following day it would be hosting a VIP party to which a couple of Hollywood stars were rumoured to have been invited, along with younger members of the Grimaldi family and, of course, a sprinkling of local dignitaries and their partners, keen to mix in only the best company. Even amongst this exhibition of ostentatious vessels, tugging gently at their moorings, the powder-white Ocean Pearl stood out with its three floors above deck making it taller as well as longer than all those around it.

Next morning the young woman was up early for her regular two-mile jog, returning for a shower and her usual breakfast of fruit, yoghurt and peppermint tea. She never liked to break this routine, whatever commitments she had and wherever she may be. She spent the afternoon on the beach, accompanied only by her e-reader and a magazine she had picked up at the airport. Just after four o’clock, the sun being past its best, she gathered her things and strolled back to the hotel to prepare for the evening’s entertainment and her appointment.

She laid out her clothes on the bed and showered again, leaving at eight o’clock to join the throng of guests. A woman queuing with her on the gangway complimented her on her choice of evening wear, a green halter-neck dress that she had bought in Galeries Lafayette a few days before leaving Paris. It was the most expensive item of clothing she had ever bought, more than her mother may have thought decent to spend on a dress when there were mouths to feed and a home in need of some care and attention.

It was difficult to mingle, given that she knew no one, though she did engage in conversation with a small group of women whose husbands had abandoned them to join the power players on board. The women clearly knew each other and from what they discussed it was apparent that this separation of the sexes was a regular occurrence; from the golf club to the dinner party, the ladies regrouped while their menfolk did their own thing. The young woman found them amusing and convivial although she detected sadness in all their eyes. They lacked nothing, apart from what they really wanted.

It was easy enough to enjoy their stories and their jokes, but the young woman revealed nothing of note about herself or how she came to be invited to the party. In an attempt to bond with them she chose to invent a negligent husband of her own, claiming that he had taken ill and been unable to join her. She said she was a kept woman with no means of supporting herself so that no one could check out what she did for a living.

The party provided a musical backdrop to the vicinity until well into the early hours, and once she was satisfied that everything was going to plan she opened her small evening bag and retrieved her mobile phone, tapping in six digits, a mix of letters and numbers. Within seconds it vibrated, confirming receipt of the message. It was time for her to leave.

Out in the darkness, off the coast of Brittany, the multi-national crew of a cargo ship were spending another night in their cramped sleeping quarters, some playing cards, while others curled up in their bunks with a paperback or computer game. Generally, they rubbed along, coping as well as they could with living and working in such close confinement. It was tough work, often boring, and the men needed to bond like a close family if they were to accept each other’s company over the many weeks and sometimes months at sea. Occasionally, and inevitably, the daily routine of sharing everything flared up into petty squabbles that threatened to boil over into something worse.

Hey, Stoller, you owe me, said one of the crewmen.

Owe you for what?

The poker two nights ago. You haven’t paid.

You’ll get your money, Fashkin. Leave me to sleep. I’m on at five.

You also fucking lousy cheat, screamed Fashkin, levering himself from his bed and pointing a threatening finger towards his shipmate. Aleksandar Fashkin was among a group of Slavs who had joined the crew of the ship earlier that year. He was a giant of a man with the biceps of a prize-fighter and was wearing a vest that seemed to be glued to his bulging chest.

Leave it out, Fashkin, said a third crewman from behind his magazine. A weary groan spread around the cabin from others trying to relax after another long and draining day. Fashkin banged his fist like a sledgehammer into his bunk and climbed back into his bed, swearing and cursing, his anger prompting a taunting laugh from his debtor.

You’ll get your money when you learn to keep your filthy mouth shut, said Stoller. The dispute could have turned nasty, but the crew was too weary to tolerate a late-night bust-up and after more reprimands for the two warring sailors silence once again fell over the sleeping quarters.

The ship’s captain, Luis Fizzaro, had spent the evening alone in his cabin thinking about his plans to become involved in his brother’s coffee plantation when he retired home to Costa Rica. Despite devoting his life to the sea, Fizarro had always hankered after working on the land, and at the age of 50 he had decided he could wait no longer. This voyage from Hamburg to the port of Aqaba in Jordan had been delayed because of a change of schedule that had not been fully explained to him, but as it would be his last he decided it was not worth pursuing enquiries.

A call from the bridge informed him they were making good progress and he afforded himself a little time to finish off the day’s paperwork before retiring to his bunk for the night. He unbuttoned his starch-white shirt and contemplated the penultimate day of a career spent delivering produce to the world. Within a couple of days he would no longer spend so much time away from home and his family, but it was with a twin sense of excitement and trepidation that he looked forward to his new life, one he had been planning for some time without any certainty that it would suit him.

The following morning, the Riviera glowed in the mid-summer heat and the wailing seabirds reclaimed the bay from the beat of the previous night’s jazz-fuelled party. Once the empty bottles of Champagne and fine wine had been cleared and the rooms cleaned, the Ocean Pearl slipped gracefully away to begin her ten-day mini-cruise around the western Mediterranean. She skimmed the northeast coast of Corsica and into the Bay of Naples where Bryson Duller treated his new wife to dinner at an onshore restaurant he knew from his time working in the city in the late eighties. They discussed their plans for the next few days, berthing next in Palermo in Sicily where they would stay two nights in a hillside cottage.

The $70 million vessel would be the toast of every port, though Duller was not one for seeking attention, maybe because his career as a government official had instilled in him a need for relative anonymity. He left the exhibitionism to Alexa whom he had met in New York a year earlier. It was not that Duller did not enjoy the finer things in life. He was 52 and twice-divorced, a result of a few too many inappropriate liaisons and a lifestyle not necessarily suited to his former wives. But being a faceless strategist in the defence department did not prevent him living life to the full. After his latest messy marriage break-up his new pin-up partner had reinvigorated him and he intended to spoil her. He had been offered use of the yacht as a wedding gift from an old friend, a French billionaire who was more than happy to let the American borrow it to show off his new bride.  Duller was a wealthy man himself, a result of a talent for stock picking and some useful inheritance money from his late father who had been a Wall Street banker. Alexa, a model and occasional singer, seemed to share his love of sailing and he had plans to invest in a vessel of his own when he returned home. It would be an interest they could share and time they could spend together.

The next morning, wearing only shorts and flip-flops, he strolled along the port side deck, a large towel under his arm and a large pair of sunglasses resting on top of his thinning hair. Members of the crew greeted him with a courtesy verging on deference as he made his way to the small pool at the bow. He swam alone, Alexa preferring to enjoy a manicure and body wax while her husband exercised. He had an athletic build and liked to keep fit. Here he could bathe undisturbed by the pressures of his day job. As he rested at one end of the pool, he chatted idly with his only companion, a crewman who was undertaking some routine repairs.

So, my friend, did you manage to relax at all last night? asked Duller, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Not really, sir. It was a long shift. But this more than makes up for it.

She’s quite a beauty, eh? I guess you could say I’m lucky.

The sun-drenched afternoon gave way to a cool evening breeze and that night Duller had dinner with Alexa in the yacht's oak-veneered dining room. He lit a candle on the table and kissed his wife of six days. She reprimanded him for staring at her, but he smiled and kissed her again. She was 26 years his junior, stunning but shy with it.

Duller was a fitful sleeper, partly a result of a chronic back problem, and after weeks of tough negotiations with Congress over a new plan for the Middle East, he had looked forward to spending a few peaceful nights with only the sound of the waves to disturb him. He had barely fallen asleep when he was woken by a knock at the cabin door. He turned back the quilt, groaning as he sat up, and clicked open the lock. One of the crew, a Tunisian known as Andre, stood in the corridor.  I am sorry to disturb, you, sir. The ship has to be anchored immediately, he said.

After reassuring his half-awake partner that there was nothing to be concerned about, Duller donned his dressing gown and his flip-flops and went up on deck, more out of curiosity than any expectation of learning anything.

He leaned on the rail and stared out to sea, its blackness only separated from the sky by the light of a full moon. Andre joined him.

Do we know what this is about? asked Duller.

Not yet, sir. But I believe the captain has received an order from Washington to stay here and await further instructions.

It was well into the early hours and Andre was a little giddy from the Cognac he had been drinking in the lounge over a game of cards with other members of the crew.

Andre offered Duller a cigarette, which he declined, and after lighting one for himself he blew a long plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth and coughed. It echoed around the still ocean. Duller breathed in the sea air. It was a beautiful evening, not a sound to break the gentle lapping of water on the side of the now motionless vessel.

Any idea where we are? asked Duller.

About a hundred miles north west of Palermo, sir.

Duller tightened the dressing gown cord and plunged his hands into its deep pockets.  It’s a little cool, I think I’ll go back down, he said.

Andre guided him to the narrow stairwell. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything, sir, although you could always join us in the poker game. There’s room for one more.

Do you know, Andre, I might just do that. 

Duller, however, was spared the prospect of losing a few euros when the yacht’s captain came scurrying up the stairs towards them. Mr Duller, I trust you are enjoying the voyage, he said.

Well, I was until we were forced to anchor.

I am sorry about that, sir, but I do have some information. I don’t wish to alarm you, sir, but there is a cargo vessel just visible on the horizon.

Why should that alarm me?

Our passage was supposed to be clear, sir. I have contacted the ship’s captain and he insists they are following the correct route and that it has been travelling southeast. I had to tell them they were mistaken and that they are heading northeast.

So, what are you saying?

If we had not anchored, sir, then in precisely twenty minutes that ship would have hit us. We would have stood no chance.

Part One

1

November 2013

Robert Frame peeled back his black leather glove and glanced at his watch. He was running late. Tonight, however, curiosity had got the better of him and he couldn’t leave, not until he knew what all the fuss was about. He wanted to avoid another fiery evening with Martha, but he told himself she would understand this time. It was, after all, an incident just a couple of streets from home and everybody liked a bit of gossip, particularly about their own neighbourhood. He could trade on that, deflecting her anger with a juicy tale, if that was what it turned out to be.

A police officer stood sentry at the door to one of the four-storey tenements, his luminous yellow vest glowing in the darkened street and the warm air on his breath mingling with the evening mist. Blue and white ribbon sealed off the pathway and had forced Frame to walk in the road.

He caught the policeman’s eye and they nodded to acknowledge each other, but neither of them spoke. The officer dutifully locked his hands behind his back and gently rolled backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. He turned his head to look down the street, as if to emphasise that he did not intend to engage in conversation.

Frame turned up the collar of his Crombie overcoat, pinching it at the neck to keep out the quickening drizzle. The silence was broken only by a hum of vehicles from the main road. It was a community in transformation, gradually being colonised by young middle class professionals, singletons and an increasing number of European immigrants looking for better opportunities than those available at home. Latvian, Polish and Russian names were now a familiar sight on the doorway intercoms, but their growing presence was creating a little tension among the older, indigenous residents who had expressed some resentment at the changes to their neighbourhood, often through angry letters to the local papers or in radio phone-ins. Usually, it was just a little moan: too many foreign voices, the council giving special treatment to incomers, that sort of thing. They were also soaking up the sparse number of jobs available, though there was evidence that the Poles in particular were good workers, and employers liked them for it. Occasionally, the mood and opinions verged on something more sinister, but as there was already an ethnic mix in the area, including a substantial population from the Indian sub-continent, it was never taken too seriously and everyone, by and large, made the most of their differences. There was certainly no shortage of foreign restaurants and their thriving trade was evidence of a community that welcomed rather than resented the ethnic mix. That night, however, Frame wondered if someone had finally lost it.    

He jangled his door keys, mingled with some loose change and a couple of boiled sweets in his coat pocket. He was looking forward to a pizza, a warming glass of whisky and a night in to watch the match. That was after he had taken Fliss to her dance class. He checked the time once more. Better call home, he thought.

I’ll be going, then, he declared, deflated by the wall of silence from the policeman who tapped his cap in mock salute but did not reply. Frame retrieved his phone from deep in an inside pocket, and under a nearby street light he tried to pick out his home number. He had just made a connection when an ambulance turned into the street, pulling up sharply behind the police car double-parked alongside the nose-to-tail line of residents’ vehicles. Two paramedics leapt out, spoke briefly to the policeman at the door, and rushed into the building. Frame hung up.

The growing commotion prompted some curtain twitching on both sides of the street and a young man in a sleeveless t-shirt braved the cold air to lean out of a second floor window to the left of the main door. The onlookers were rewarded for their nosiness when one of the paramedics returned to the ambulance to retrieve a stretcher.

Frame looked up towards the unkempt youth, just making out his features in the darkness. A tattoo ran from his left shoulder to his wrist and his mop of thick black hair looked like it had not seen a comb in years. He sucked on the last remnants of a cigarette and flicked the burned out tab to the floor below, abruptly slammed the window shut, and drew the curtain.

What’s going on, pal? said a voice behind Frame. He turned to see two workmen standing behind him, one with a frizzy beard and hair to match, the other bald and sporting a large gold earring giving him the appearance of a pirate. It was the bald man who was asking the questions. Another poor bugger getting knocked about, eh? he said.

Frame felt uneasy when the bearded man sniggered at the remark. He shrugged his shoulders and told them all he knew, which wasn’t much. They quickly lost interest and disappeared into the gloom.

Despite their response, they were probably right about the incident, thought Frame. Domestic violence was all around, yet it was the hidden crime, often going unnoticed until it was too late. It respected no class, no neighbourhood. Too many times he had heard of an incident, no doubt frightening for the victim, dismissed as just another domestic, meriting meagre attention from the police or the support services. There were moves by the parliamentarians to draw more attention to a problem that, by and large, had rarely made much of a splash in the papers.

He could hear voices in the stairwell and the door to the tenement edged open, the bright light illuminating the porch. The young man from the upstairs apartment, now wearing a black hooded top, nudged clumsily past the police officer, offering no apology. He stood alongside Frame, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

It’s that one, across the corridor from our place, he said, pointing to the window where Frame could now make out a shadowy figure silhouetted against the orange glowing curtains.

The young man seemed agitated, his body shaking. It could have been the cold, but more likely he was disturbed by something and he was beginning to make Frame feel edgy. 

Police want to talk to me, said the youth. They’ve let me run to the corner shop first before it closes.

He pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his knee-length chinos and flicked it open, gesturing half-heartedly to Frame to take one. Frame noted there were only two left, but as he was trying to kick the habit, and assumed his donor could hardly afford to give the contents away, he declined the offer. He sensed the young man’s relief.

We’ll no doubt read about it in the morning if it’s anything serious, said Frame, again pulling his collar tight around his neck as a cold breeze whipped up along the street.

It’s serious, all right, said the youth, shivering slightly and rotating his next cigarette between his fingers. Josie thought it were kids setting off fireworks. I said it was no’ fireworks. It made the door judder. Sounded like it was coming off its hinges. I was just sitting watching the telly. Then: Bang!

An explosion?

The youth paused while trying to light his cigarette, using one hand to shield the lighter from the wind. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke through his pursed lips, suddenly seeming to relax as if he’d been re-charged. He lowered his voice, obviously not wanting to alarm any neighbours who might be within earshot.

No. It was a gun, he said. Young feller, apparently. The police say it’s a bit of a mess.

So who lived there? asked Frame. You must have seen someone come and go.

The lad zipped his jacket up to his chin and turned to set off on his errand. I wish I had, he said. There are lots of things I’d like to know.

The radio alarm burst into life and Frame gently lifted Martha’s arm from across his chest. She groaned in a disapproving gesture and turned over, pulling the quilt over her shoulders. He silenced the clock and snuggled up behind her. It was cold enough in the apartment even with the heating on. A listed building may be full of character, but how grateful he would be right now for some double-glazing.

He contemplated the ensuing contest with the chilly air, made worse by the darkness and the rain lashing on the window. Just five more minutes he muttered to himself, burying his head in the soft, comforting pillow and grabbing Martha around the waist, pulling her towards him.  Frame had stayed up to watch the football which ran late and now he felt tired and wished he