The Truth

Book 12: A DC Smith/Kings Lake Investigation

by Peter Grainger

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

“He said if he hadn’t heard from you by high noon today, he was going to strap on his six-guns and ride back into town. So I think you should call him, Charlie. Call him before you come home.”
     Charlie Hills, former desk sergeant at Kings Lake Central, is in trouble. He hasn’t told DC Smith, his old friend and sparring partner, but someone has, and now the two former policemen are about to embark on a difficult and potentially dangerous search for the truth. For one of them, it could be life-changing. 

Release date: January 27, 2026

Publisher: Union Square & Co.

Print pages: 304

Sample

Emma Hills looked at her daughter, smiled convincingly and said, ‘Of course you can go and wake up daddy. He loves to see you first thing in the morning.’

She watched as her five-year-old ran to the foot of the stairs, and the smile didn’t altogether disappear – when Gracie wakes you up it involves landing on top of you and her bony little knees can go anywhere. She could picture it and she was guessing that her husband would still be asleep and entirely unprepared for the assault. Serve him right. He’d had almost the whole weekend to himself and she could make the payback last the rest of this week if necessary.

At the kitchen table her two-year-old was examining the consistency of his porridge by taking a spoonful out of the bowl, holding it up and watching it fall in long, elastic lumps. A surprising amount was actually landing back in the bowl, and she let him get on with it; Angus was a challenging child, they had decided, and there ought to be limits as to how many times a day they should discipline him. He also appeared to be very bright, which was, no doubt, a part of the problem.

She drew back the blinds and blinked at the May sunshine streaming into the kitchen, looking away until her eyes had adjusted to it. The garden was a generous one for a modern house, and she was still secretly pleased with it all, despite the trampoline and the swings and the ride-on toys that currently seemed to occupy most of the lawn. When Anthony had been made a director of the firm two years ago, their lives had taken off and they’d been living here in Bishops Green, one of the best estates in Lake, for a year now. It had a nearby primary school to match, and she had made some really nice new friends at the school gate as a result. Thinking of which, she glanced at the clock on the oven and realised Gracie had to be going through those gates in a little under an hour. She went to the foot of the stairs and could hear screams and tickled laughter. She waited until it subsided and called up, ‘Come on, you two! Breakfast!’

She made sure they all sat around the same table at mealtimes, for at least a few minutes – something else Emma had instituted since they moved here. Curiosity satisfied for now, Angus managed to consume some of his porridge, Anthony and Gracie ate toast – she always had what her father had at the moment – and Emma finished the packet of muesli. She made a note on her phone to add that to her shopping list for later. It was almost a busy day already – Gracie to school, Angus to kindergarten, shopping followed by a visit to the gym she’d joined in January. This had been Anthony’s Christmas present to her, a full, flexible membership at Leon’s, costing close to a thousand pounds a year. Her school-gate friends had raised their envious eyebrows and laughingly asked what she had to do for that – she didn’t explain that it was his way of compensating for the money he’d spent on the boat. But she mustn’t call it a boat or even the boat; the Galene was a luxury yacht. In dry-dock in Lowestoft for repairs over the winter, it was now at moorings in Lake’s recently reopened Leisure Harbour – that’s what he’d been doing over the weekend, sailing it back around the coast. Emma had yet to lay eyes on it but she had no doubt Anthony would finish work early today and they would all be driven down to admire it this evening. She had only been out on small boats with him, something she endured as part of their courtship, but this was a big thing – he had paced out fourteen metres down the garden to show her just how big – and it might be fun over the summer.

She watched her husband spreading another piece of toast for Gracie and then carefully trimming off the crusts. He looked up at her with his guilty schoolboy expression, and she shook her head but they were only joking with each other. They still did that a lot, which was good, and she knew there were not many fathers as involved with their children as Anthony.

She said to him, ‘Have you got much on today?’

He was drinking his coffee quickly, and she knew he’d soon be leaving.

He said, ‘Plenty. Mondays are always busy.’

‘With what? I don’t know what it is you directors do half the time…’

He knew she was teasing but he said, ‘Hiring and firing today. Did you ever meet Liam, one of the trainee sales execs? I think you did around Christmas. Anyway, he’s going.’

‘Why?’

‘Not hitting the targets. He’s been on a warning for the past three months, so it won’t come as a surprise. If he’d got any sense he would have left by now on his own terms.’

Emma Hills began to sort out the chaos of the breakfast table as she said, ‘That’s a shame. He has a family, doesn’t he?’

Anthony said, ‘I think so,’ as he got up from the table.

She thought so, too – a shy young man at the Christmas drinks, she remembered wondering whether he was going to survive in the cut-throat world of car sales, especially at a company like Prestige. Grateful for someone talking to him, Liam had told her his girlfriend, who wasn’t present, was expecting and they were planning to get married. They might have that baby by now, and this morning her husband was going to dismiss him. This was a side to Anthony that few outside his work ever got to see. To most people he was the affable, likable man she had met at a friend’s barbecue in her mid-twenties; funny, pushy sometimes but in a nice way, into fast cars and sport, and involved with a five-a-side football club for, as he put it, Lake boys who get into a bit of bother sometimes. It was the right time for her, and Anthony had been easy to fall in love with – they were married in less than a year. When Gracie came along, Emma had continued with her job as deputy HR manager at Marshlands Fleet Hire, but when Angus was born they agreed she should become a full-time mother for a few years. And by then Anthony was earning better money and destined for greater things.

He was already on his mobile, up on the landing. He had a business voice and sounded like a proper boss these days. She thought briefly again about Liam, the young sales rep who hadn’t made it, about him going home and telling his partner. Did they have a mortgage as well as a baby? Even if not, how would they pay the rent in a couple of months’ time? It was horrible to think about, but you have to be tough to survive. She’d heard Anthony say it often – you’re only as good as last month’s sales figures in this business. That was the side most people didn’t see – he could be a little ruthless. But that’s what had bought them a detached, four-bedroomed house in Bishops Green. Anthony was a victor, these are the spoils and who was she to complain?

She called up to him, ‘Can you make sure Gracie’s getting dressed before you come down? I’m going to be late,’ and then she turned her attention to the porridge that was beginning to congeal in Angus’s blond hair. She talked to him as she did so, making encouraging noises – sometimes he went for hours without saying anything, which was just one more thing for her to worry about. But she’d read somewhere that Albert Einstein didn’t speak at all until he was five years old, the same age as Gracie is now. If Angus was that intelligent, they’d need to be thinking about his schooling, wouldn’t they? Wisbech Grammar or even public school…

Anthony returned to the kitchen and said, ‘She is. Miss Independent – wouldn’t let me do up the buttons on her blouse.’ He ruffled his son’s hair and said, ‘Goodbye, boy. Knock ’em dead.’

Emma said, ‘He’s going to the kindergarten playgroup, Anthony.’

‘It’s never too early to get ahead of the pack.’

She straightened up, waiting to be kissed goodbye – he did that every morning, without fail. She said, ‘You look very smart. Is that your firing suit these days?’

He always impressed in a suit – this one was the very dark grey with a fine pin-stripe.

‘And hiring, it does for both. We’re interviewing for Liam’s replacement this afternoon.’

The shaking of her head amused him, and then the front-door chime began to ring. He said, ‘Amazon, no doubt. What’ve you ordered this time?’

She said, ‘I’m not expecting a thing. Can you deal with it on your way out? I’m ten minutes behind already.’

His look said he didn’t believe her but he didn’t mind, and he kissed her, briefly but firmly and full on her mouth.

The chime was ringing again before he’d had time to take his keys off the hook, and he muttered, ‘Jesus! I know it’s probably twenty deliveries before lunch or else, but…’

Through the frosted glass panel he could see a figure, either a tall, broad man or someone standing very close to the front door. Anthony pulled it open, and indeed there was a man meeting all of those conditions, and wearing jeans, black boots and a dark blue zipper jacket with some sort of logo on the breast pocket that he didn’t recognise. He said, ‘Good morning. You’re about bright and early. Something for Emma Hills?’

He noticed another figure behind the first, standing a couple of paces back – a smaller, older man – and later he would recall being dimly aware that there was an unusual number of vehicles parked in St Margaret’s Drive.

‘Good morning to you, sir. Are you Anthony Hills?’

It was the nearest man who had spoken. That wasn’t a local accent.

He said, ‘Yes, that’s right. How can I-’

As the man interrupted, he lifted his right hand and there was a document in it.

‘Anthony Hills – my name is Grant Evans. I’m an executive officer of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. I have a warrant to search these premises.’

In those split seconds you think it’s a mistake, and then, perhaps, it’s a joke. His mouth was open but before any words could be said, this character was moving closer to him, just inches away and intending to go past him. It’s instinctive in a man on the threshold of his home to resist, and Anthony put out an arm. A large hand landed on his shoulder and pushed hard, turning him ninety degrees. Suddenly both men were in the hallway, heading towards the kitchen.

As he recovered his balance, Anthony glanced outside. There were two women coming up the driveway, and other people were getting out of cars and vans. He turned back into the house and shouted as he caught up with the smaller man, ‘Hey! What the hell? You can’t just barge in! What-’

The figure stopped, turned and faced him. He was bald on the top and had a tonsure of ginger hair that was going grey. The face was thin, lined and weary-looking, as if it had aged faster than the rest of him – as a result it was impossible to guess whether he was closer to thirty or fifty. The man stopped Anthony with a look and said, ‘In the execution of a warrant, that’s exactly what we can do, sir. Please remain calm. How many people are in the house?’

Your thoughts, if they can even be called that, are all over the place, but Anthony Hills had an inner voice trying to make itself heard – it was saying, come on, you know something about this, a little more than most people. So he said, aware that others were now in the hallway behind him, ‘You haven’t shown me any identification.’

‘That’s more like it, sir. I have it here.’

A black flip-open wallet appeared from an inside pocket as the man said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Marcus Revell, from the Regional Serious Crimes Unit. How many people are in the house, sir?’

‘Serious crimes? What the hell are you on about? You’ve made a serious mistake.’

He could hear Emma calling his name, frightened.

‘Sir. I need to know how many people are in the house.’

‘Four! Plus however many there are of you.’

‘Thank you. Could you confirm their identities for me?’

‘Their identities? For God’s sake… Me, my wife and our two children.’

The detective seemed satisfied with that, and nodded. He said, ‘Good. We’ll get everyone in one place and then I’ll explain what’s happening.’

Revell turned and continued towards the kitchen. Anthony looked back and into the faces of the two women, one middle-aged, the other younger. He could read nothing there. It was as if they were here for a house clearance and did this sort of thing every day.

Emma was pale and for now too shocked to cry. She had Angus in the crook of her left arm and Gracie next to her, a hand protectively around her daughter’s shoulders. She looked searchingly into her husband’s face for something, anything that could account for this, but he had nothing to offer in return.

The Customs officer was waiting for the detective to say something now. Revell looked around, seemed to be listening, and then said to him, ‘All accounted for. Go ahead.’

Evans took a breath as if he had a great deal to say, moving to stand in front of the man he had pushed aside just moments before. And then, ‘Anthony Hills. I have reason to believe you are knowingly engaged in the fraudulent evasion of duty. I am arresting you under Section 170 of the Customs and Excise Management Act of 1979. I am also informing you that we have, under the said Act, a warrant to search these premises. You do not have to say anything at this point but anything you…’

At some point the mind begins to stop recording every detail, protecting itself, conserving resources for what is to come. Anthony Hills later remembered his daughter looking up at Emma and saying, ‘Is it a party, mummy?’

They didn’t stop Emma walking behind as they escorted him in handcuffs to the front door. He could see neighbours across the road, watching from their doorsteps and drives. He still remembers turning to her and saying, ‘Call my dad.’

Couldn’t have imagined this, not in a million years. Who could or would have? He said at the time, they’re turning it into a dentist’s waiting room, and they had, that’s exactly what it resembled, but he’d never imagined he’d be sitting in it, this side of the counter, the wrong side. Except that there was no counter, of course. Beautiful old English oak it was, all ripped out and replaced with a one-way security screen. One-way, that was the point. Policing stopped being a two-way process the day they did that. He’d said so at the time – we’ll be able to see them but they won’t be able to see us. They won’t be able to see us. We’ll become faceless, anonymous, just voices out of a speaker on the wall. He’d fought it every inch of the way. Not that they were ever going to take notice of an old desk sergeant – it was a county-wide initiative, see. Charlie Hills looked up and stared at his reflection in the screen. He’d put in his papers a week after it had been installed. Now he was angry enough to tear the bloody thing out with his bare hands.

And he felt sick to his stomach. He’d been up early and had a cooked breakfast, intending to spend the morning on his allotment – always plenty to do down there at this time of the year. Now the bacon and eggs lay heavily, uncomfortably, and he wished he’d had nothing at all. They hadn’t let Emma call him for more than hour, and by the time she did, she was in a right state. She wasn’t allowed to tell him any details but she was frightened about what this was doing to the kids, especially Gracie. And she said, ‘Charlie, they’re taking loads of stuff. They’re putting it into plastic bags. They’ve almost emptied Anthony’s office. I don’t know what to do…’

A DI called Revell had agreed to speak to him on her mobile. No, they could not allow Emma to leave the house – she was herself a suspect. By then, Charlie had his old head back on and he didn’t react to that, absurd though it was. He’d made the right noises about the welfare of the children. Revell had said they’d brought trained female officers for the contingency but then Charlie had said, ‘Fair enough, send one of them along but I want my grandchildren out of the house. They’ll be much better off with their grandmother at our place. You have a duty of care, detective inspector.’

It was the last phrase that probably did it – at any rate, Gracie and Angus were now spending the day with Susan. One of the women had brought them over but hadn’t stayed around. Once that was sorted, Charlie had come here, back to Central where he’d been a copper for nigh on thirty years. Thirty bloody years.

He closed his eyes and tried to think. The DI had said they’d brought female officers for that contingency – all planned out then. They knew well beforehand there were children in the house. Had they been watching the place? For how long? God, what a nightmare… Anthony had never been in any bother, even at school. He’d never needed to play up, he’d always been successful. Fraudulent evasion of duty? On what, for heaven’s sake? Fags? Booze? This had to be some mistake but he needed to see his son and look him in the eye, because decent people can do the wrong thing. You see that often enough in the job. He’d know as soon as he could set eyes on his boy, he was certain of that.

‘I’m ’ere for my daughter. What about you?’

The woman, the only other occupant of the waiting area, had been sitting there when he arrived. Charlie hadn’t taken any notice of her, hadn’t even acknowledged her – too preoccupied with his own problems. He didn’t want to talk but wasn’t prepared to ignore her either, now she had spoken to him. After a few seconds he said, ‘What happened? What did she do?’

‘Got ’erself properly hammered last night. Out with her mates. They were all the same but it was Bianca who ’ad to mouth off at the coppers, who was only trying to get them ’ome off the streets. Give ’em their due, they even gave a couple of ’em lifts ’ome. But like I say, Bianca ’ad to start givin’ it all this’ – making the talking gesture with her fingers and thumb – ‘and then according to Charmaine she shoves one of the officers, so they bundle ’er into the van and that’s that. She spends the night in the cells.’

Charlie nodded and thought, when I was the other side of that wall I must have done a thousand of these. He didn’t have a log book to look in but he didn’t need one – the woman would be from the east side of the town, from The Towers or the social housing estates beyond. There was animal hair on her ill-fitting black trousers where a cat or a small dog had been sitting on her lap, and the pink puffer jacket had a stain on the front and a tear in the left sleeve.

She said, ‘In my day…’ and shook her head like a bad actress in a soap opera. Charlie thought, in your day things were not so different. Bianca is only spending her inheritance, fulfilling her destiny, and then his stomach churned once more as he remembered his own son’s predicament. Anthony might be in the cell next to this woman’s daughter.

She went on, ‘I mean, I can understand it on a Friday or a Saturday night. But on a bleedin’ Sunday? They don’t seem to ’ave no sense of respect no more. ’S’every bloody night of the week.’

Beyond the door that led into the station, he heard the sound of another door opening. A look at his watch – a retirement gift – told him he’d been left in here for forty five minutes now but you couldn’t ask anyone what was going on nowadays. You had to keep pressing the button on the wall, as if you were in a cell yourself.

‘So, who you ’ere for then?’

Charlie couldn’t bring himself to say ‘My son’. He thought of ways around it and eventually managed, ‘Yes, the same. Family.’

Then he was grateful the woman had enough sense not to pry, but she couldn’t sit in silence now they had begun to talk. Charlie had always taken a certain pride in the fact that he’d got where he did in life without being what he called an educated man, but he knew the first circle of hell was being in limbo – that was bad enough without this woman being sent to add to his misery.

She said, ‘I’m just worried they’re goin’ to charge her. She’ll ’ave a record then.’

Charlie said, despite himself, ‘How old is she?’

‘Seventeen.’

He said, ‘They won’t charge her. Not unless she’s hurt someone or there was a weapon involved. She’ll get a warning.’

‘Oh. Right. Well that’s good…’

She frowned, folded her arms and took another look at her new acquaintance. Charlie caught a whiff of cat and stale cigarette smoke. His stomach heaved a little.

‘So. You done this before, then.’

The sound of a coded lock being pressed, a bleep and the door opened at last. This could have been someone to deal with the woman – he would have preferred that, to get her out of the way – but of course it wasn’t. A sharply-suited man whom Charlie didn’t recognise stepped into the waiting room and said without ceremony, ‘Someone for Anthony Hills?’

There was no need for that, to call the name out loud, making it so public. As Charlie got up out of the seat, he felt the woman’s eyes all over the pair of them. Serious Crimes something Emma had said, and that’s where this youngster was from – he was no older than Anthony, might not even be that old.

‘And you are, sir?’

‘Charles Hills. Anthony Hills’ father.’

‘How can I help you this morning, Mr Hills?’

Training manual stuff, a junior officer sent down after a suitable delay. Charlie said, ‘Have you started interviewing him yet?’

‘Mr Hills is being interviewed this morning.’

If it had been someone Charlie knew it would have been excruciating, obviously, but he’d have got somewhere pretty quickly. This detective constable didn’t know him from Adam.

Charlie said, ‘I meant, have you begun interviewing my son?’

‘Yes, we have, sir.’

‘Who’s doing it?’

The young man was closely shaved, had been up early this morning, and Charlie was near enough to pick up the scent of his aftershave – it was having about the same effect as the woman’s eau du chat with essence of Benson and Hedges.

‘I cannot divulge the names of any officers involved in the investigation, sir.’

‘I meant,’ Charlie said, with exaggerated patience, ‘is it Serious Crimes or Revenue and Customs? My daughter. . .