The Liar’s Inn: A Cumbria Crime Novella by Rachel McLean and Joel Hames, book 4.5 in the Cumbria Crime series - Chapter 1

“You taking part?”

DI Carl Whaley turned towards the voice. Tall, lean, white hair to his shoulders: the man would have been a dead ringer for an Old Testament prophet if it weren’t for the green stain of mushy peas on his teeth.

“I’m sorry?” Carl said.

“You. You look like you could spin a yarn or two.” The man pointed towards the makeshift stage, where a microphone awaited the next contestant. “Not one of them politicians, are you?”

His partner, DI Zoe Finch, laughed. “He’s not taking part, and he’s not a politician, either. A good thing, on both counts, as far as I’m concerned.”

Besides, when it came to the World’s Biggest Liar competition, politicians were banned. It was supposed to be an amateur event, after all. Zoe and Carl had been joking about it just a few minutes earlier as they tucked into the tatie pot stew that was a traditional feature of the event. She’d told him the Professional Standards Division of Cumbria Police should be banned for the same reasons. He’d pretended to be offended, but hadn’t managed to keep it up for long.

PSD might be cloak and dagger, but if there was one thing Carl wasn’t, it was the World’s Biggest Liar. Zoe and Carl had secrets from each other, but those were professional secrets, not personal ones. And if she didn’t know what Carl’s secrets were, at least she knew why he kept them. PSD and CID couldn’t tell each other everything.

For the time being, things between them seemed to be working.

The murmur around the room dropped as Stu Cosby marched onto the stage. He grabbed the microphone like the seasoned performer he was, and took up position in front of the screen where the name of the event had been briefly displayed, before a technical problem had turned it dark. Zoe had read up about the event and knew Cosby was a regular, a runner-up in the past, and, apparently, a traditionalist, whatever that meant.

She listened in silence as he regaled the crowded function room with tales of the secret supervillain’s lair located beneath the surface of nearby Wastwater. His accent was strong and some of the dialect was new to Zoe, but she’d been in Cumbria long enough to pick up the general sense.

There were a few laughs as Cosby strode about the stage, insisting it was all true and he had the evidence to prove it. But from her spot near the front, Zoe could see the frustration on his face. The crowd was restless, people coming and going while he spoke, whispers at the back. His tale was too wild, too impersonal, and there wasn’t enough of Cosby’s own life in it – real or fictional – to make it stand out.

Cosby thanked them and edged into the crowd, and then Izzie Hopkirk took to the stage.

If politicians were banned, and lawyers had been until recently, women were hardly encouraged. A female comedian had won the event nearly twenty years earlier, but since then, there had been precious little representation from the women of Cumbria. Zoe was keen to see how Izzie would perform.

Izzie Hopkirk was a tall woman in her early forties, with short, spiky brown hair, and an engaging smile that started nervous, but broadened as she sensed the crowd warming to her theme. Unlike Cosby, she kept to the same spot throughout her monologue.

“The thing is,” Izzie was saying, her voice lowered as if imparting serious, confidential information, “it’s always been something I’ve been obsessed with, you know? As long as I can remember, I used to dream about the Beast of Cumbria. Because, unlike the rest of you, I’ve seen it.”

Nobody was talking now. Zoe sensed movement at the back of the room and turned to see a man push his way in from the main bar, past the forlorn figure of Stu Cosby. But apart from the rustle of people edging out of each other’s way, there was absolute silence.

“But that’s not the thing,” Izzie continued. “I mean, I know I’ve seen her, and the husband believes me, but he’ll believe anything I say. But you lot? You’re experts, you are. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I dragged the thing in here on a lead.”

Laughter. She went on. “What I’m here to tell you – and keep it to yourselves,” she added, her voice dropping to almost a whisper, “is what I’ve done about it.”

She paused, and Zoe glanced around the room.

Every head was turned towards the stage. There was a woman a few seats away, her hair piled messily on the top of her head, who was scowling as Izzie spoke, but everyone else was captivated. Izzie Hopkirk was a natural.

“Me and my husband have been saving for a bigger house,” Izzie said, her voice relaxed again. “Only, he spends most of his time offshore on the rigs, and there’s me, all alone, with my dreams of the Beast, in our pretty little house with its pretty little garden. And I decided, what the place really needs is a Beast of its own.”

A pause. Izzie stared earnestly around the room.

“Get on with it,” called a voice from the back. Stu Cosby. Zoe realised what being a ‘traditionalist’ meant.

“Nearly done,” replied Izzie, smiling, as the crowd shushed Cosby. “What I did, then, is I found myself an ironsmith. Old Jimmy Metal, he calls himself, although I’m not asking you to believe that’s his real name. All I know is, he’s an artist. What that man can do with his hands…”

She shivered theatrically, and continued. “And he’s skilled professionally, too,” she said with a wink. “He’s built me a twenty-foot model of the Beast in steel and iron and put it up in my back garden. And yes, I’ve spent every penny me and the husband saved for more than a decade, but I promise you it was worth it.”

“Come on,” called Cosby. “There’s a time limit!”

Izzie ignored him. “And the thing is,” she said, “Nat’s due back from the rigs any day now, so what’s a girl to do?”

She surveyed the crowd. Zoe followed her gaze, and was surprised to see that the woman she’d spotted earlier was still scowling at the stage, her face twisted in what looked a lot like hatred. Maybe Stu Cosby wasn’t the only ‘traditionalist’ in the room.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve done, anyway. I’ve shacked up with Old Jimmy and changed the locks, and when Nat makes it back from the North Sea, he’ll be in for the shock of his life.” Izzie ended, bowed at the audience, and exited the stage through a small door in the rear.

The crowd went wild. The story itself had been decent enough. But even a newcomer like Zoe could tell the delivery was something special.

Izzie would have been a tough act for even a decent competitor to follow, but the next liar on stage wasn’t close to decent. Sid Carmichael spoke so quietly Zoe struggled to make out most of the words, and the bits she did hear seemed to be a confused ramble about aerial dogfights during the Second World War.

There was a short break while Sid left the stage to a smattering of polite applause. The screen was finally working, the words ‘WORLD’S BIGGEST LIAR’ marked out in black on a white background.

The next competitor was an earnest-looking twenty-something called Alan, who bounded onto the stage with the energy of youth, grabbed the microphone, and shouted something incomprehensible.

“What’s that?” called the white-haired man who’d spoken to Carl earlier.

“There’s a dead woman in the dressing room!” shouted Alan.

“Very good,” the white-haired man shouted back.

“I mean it,” said Alan.

There was laughter in the crowd, and a little applause. Alan’s eyes were wide, and what Zoe had thought of as the energy of youth now looked more like an excellent impression of a man in the throes of panic.

“Love it,” shouted someone from behind. “Hanging from the ceiling, is she?”

The crowd laughed its approval.

“No, really,” Alan insisted. “There’s a dead woman. She’s… It’s horrible.”

He was an excellent actor. The eyes. The way he stood there, stock still, then moved, then stopped again.

“I’m not joking,” Alan shouted. “Is there a police officer in the room?”

The young man had nailed the part. It was so authentic, it could almost be…

Zoe turned to Carl and saw her own thoughts reflected in his eyes. Without a word, the two of them stood.

“Are you police officers?” Alan shouted, spotting them.

“Yes,” Zoe called back.

“Sit down,” shouted someone from behind, but Zoe ignored it.

“Come on,” Alan said, heading for the door at the back. Zoe and Carl followed him onto the stage, through the door, and into a short, dark corridor with another door set in one wall. Alan went to turn the handle, but Zoe pushed him out of the way, wrapped her hand in the napkin she’d grabbed from the table, and turned it herself.

The dressing room was a small space. A mirror, a little desk, three chairs.

On the middle chair, right in front of the mirror, sat Izzie Hopkirk. She was pale and unmoving. As Zoe reached for her neck to check her pulse, she saw dark marks there. Bruises that hadn’t been present when Izzie had been on stage just minutes earlier.

Zoe waited, counted, waited. Nothing. No pulse.

Izzie Hopkirk was dead.