Believing the Lie (29 page)

Fairclough offered drinks. It was a little early for Lynley, so he demurred, but Fairclough poured sherry for himself. He indicated the chairs, and they sat. He said, “You’re seeing more dirty laundry than I expected. I’m sorry about that.”

“Every family has its share,” Lynley noted. “My own included.”

“Not like mine, I wager.”

Lynley shrugged. He said, because at this point it had to be asked, “Do you want me to proceed, Bernard?”

“Why do you ask?”

Lynley steepled his fingers beneath his chin and looked at the coal fire. Lit by candle stubs beneath it, it was building nicely. The room would soon be quite warm. He said, “Aside from this business about Cresswell’s farm, which bears looking into, you may already have the result you prefer. If the coroner has declared it an accident, you might well want to leave it that way.”

“And let someone get away with murder?”

“At the end of the day, no one gets away with anything, I’ve found.”

“What have you uncovered?”

“It’s not a matter of what I’ve uncovered. So far, that’s little enough as my hands are somewhat tied by the pretence of my being a visitor here. It’s rather a matter of what I might uncover, which is a motive for murder. I suppose what I’m saying is that while this easily could have been an accident, you run the risk of discovering things about your son, your daughters, even your wife that you’d
rather not know, no matter
how
your nephew died. That sort of thing happens in an investigation.”

Fairclough seemed to give this some thought. Like Lynley, he directed his gaze to the fireplace and then to the Willow pattern pottery above it. One of the vases, Lynley saw, was cracked and had been repaired at some time. Long ago, he reckoned. The repair was inexpert, not like what could be done today to hide damage.

Lynley said, “On the other hand, this could indeed be a murder, perpetrated by someone you love. Do you want to face that?”

Fairclough looked at him then. He said nothing, but Lynley could see that the man’s mind was ticking away at something.

Lynley continued. “Consider this as well. You wanted to know if Nicholas was somehow involved in what happened to his cousin. That was why you came to London. But what if someone else is involved, other than Nicholas? Some other member of your family. Or what if Ian wasn’t the intended victim? Do you want to know that as well?”

Fairclough didn’t hesitate. Both of them knew who the other intended victim would have been. He said, “No one has a reason to want Valerie hurt. She’s the centre of this world. Both my world and theirs.” He indicated the out-of-doors, by which Lynley took that he meant his children, and one of them in particular.

Lynley said, “Bernard, we can’t avoid looking at Mignon. She has access to that boathouse every day.”

“Absolutely not Mignon,” Fairclough said. “She wouldn’t have lifted a finger against Ian and certainly not against her own mother.”

“Why not?”

“She’s fragile, Tommy. Always has been. She had a head injury as a child and ever since…She’s incapacitated. Her knees, her surgery…No matter…She wouldn’t have been able to manage it.”

Lynley pressed him. “If she somehow were able, has she a motive? Is there something I should know about her relationship with her mother? With her cousin? Were they close? Were they enemies?”

“In other words, did she have a reason to want Ian dead?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

Fairclough took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Ian advised me on financial matters, as you know. He was in charge of all finances. That was his job. He was good at that and I needed him.”

“I understand,” Lynley said.

“He’d insisted for a while—perhaps three years—that I cut Mignon off. He never understood that the girl
can’t
work. She’s never been able. Ian’s point was that giving her money was what had crippled her and she was otherwise perfectly fine. It was a bone of contention between us. Not a big one and it only came up once or twice a year. But I had no intention of…I just couldn’t. When your child’s been badly injured…When you have children of your own, you’ll understand, Tommy.”

“Did Mignon know about Ian’s wanting to cut her off?”

Fairclough nodded, reluctantly. “He spoke to her. When I wouldn’t agree to stopping her allowance, he went to see her. He talked to her about ‘bleeding money from her father,’ as he put it. Mignon told me. She was hurt, of course. She told me I could cut her off at once. She invited me to do it, in fact.”

“I daresay she knew you wouldn’t.”

“She’s my child,” Fairclough said.

“And your other children? Had Manette a reason to want Ian out of the picture?”

“Manette adored Ian. I think at one time she would have liked to marry him. Long before Kaveh, of course.”

“And his feelings for her?”

Fairclough finished off his sherry and went to pour another. He motioned the decanter in Lynley’s direction. Again Lynley demurred. “He was fond of Manette,” Fairclough said. “But that was the extent of it.”

“She’s divorced, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Her former husband works for me. Freddie McGhie. So does she for that matter.”

“Is there any reason Freddie McGhie might have wanted Ian out of the way? You did tell me that you haven’t definitely fixed on a successor at Fairclough Industries. How do things stand with Ian gone?”

Fairclough said nothing at first. It seemed to Lynley that they were getting close to something Fairclough preferred to ignore. Lynley raised an eyebrow. Fairclough said, “As I’ve said, I’ve not decided. Either Manette or Freddie could take over. They know the business. They’ve worked for me their entire careers. Freddie especially would be a good choice, despite being Manette’s ex. He knows every department and he’s worked in them all. I’d prefer a member of the family, as would Valerie, but if no one has the experience and the proper outlook, Freddie would be the logical one to take up the reins.”

“Would you consider Nicholas?”

“That would be madness, with his history. But he’s trying to prove himself to me.”

“What did Ian think about that?”

“He reckoned Nick would fail. But as Nick had promised me that he was a changed man once and for all, I wanted to give him a chance to demonstrate it. He’s working his way up from the bottom at the business. I rather admire him for that.”

“Is that the deal you struck with him?”

“Not at all. It was his idea. I expect it’s what Alatea advised him to do.”

“So it’s possible he could take over the company?”

“Anything’s possible,” Fairclough said. “As I said, it’s not been decided.”

“But you must have given thought to it at one point or another, else why have me come up here and look into Nicholas?”

Fairclough was silent. It was answer enough. Nicholas was, after all, the son. And the son, not the meek, was generally the one to inherit the earth.

Lynley went on. “Anyone else with a motive to be rid of Ian? Anyone you can think of with an ax to grind, a secret to keep, an issue to clear?”

“No one at all, as far as I know.” Fairclough sipped his sherry, but his eyes stayed on Lynley’s over the rim of the glass.

Lynley knew he was lying, but he didn’t know why. He also felt they hadn’t got to the bottom of why he himself was there in the
first place: at Ireleth Hall, investigating something that had already been resolved in a way that should have relieved the man. Lynley said, “Bernard, no one is actually in the clear on this except those who had no access to the boathouse. You’ve a decision to make if you want the truth, whatever it is.”

“What sort of decision?”

“If you actually do want to get to the bottom of the matter, you’re going to have to agree to let me be who I am.”

“And that is?”

“A cop.”

FLEET STREET
CITY OF LONDON

Barbara Havers chose a pub near Fleet Street, one of the watering holes that had long ago been a gathering place for journalists in the heyday of the newspaper business when nearly every tabloid and broadsheet had its headquarters in the immediate vicinity. Things had changed, with property in the Canary Wharf area luring more than one news organisation to the east end of the city. But not all had heeded that siren call of lower rents, and one in particular had stubbornly remained, determined to be close to the action. That was
The Source
, and Barbara was waiting for
her
source at
The Source
to show up. She’d phoned and asked him for a meeting. He’d been reluctant till she let him set the time and offered lunch. He’d still been reluctant till she mentioned Lynley. That got his attention. He asked, “How is he?” and Barbara could tell the reporter was hoping for something suitable to whet the readers’ appetite in the Recovery from Personal Tragedy department. It wouldn’t make the front page, but he could hope for page 3 plus photos, if the details were good.

She’d said, “I’m not prepared to say a word about a word over the phone. C’n you meet?”

That had done the trick. She hated to use Lynley that way—she hated to use him any way if it came down to it—but as he himself
was the one who was asking her for information, she reckoned she was on the safe side of what was appropriate between friends.

Isabelle Ardery had been more difficult to deal with. When Barbara phoned to ask for the time off that she was owed, Ardery had been at once suspicious, as her questions of “Why? Where are you going?” indicated. Barbara had known the acting detective superintendent was probably going to be the difficult nail to pound into the board, so she’d had her excuse ready.

“Haircut,” she said. “Or perhaps I should say hair
style
. I’ve found a place in Knightsbridge.”

“So you just need the day,” Ardery had clarified.

“So far,” Barbara replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Sergeant?” There was that suspicion again. The super needed to do something about the sharpness in her voice if she wanted to hide her paranoia, Barbara thought.

She said, “Have some mercy, guv. If I end up looking like last night’s dinner, I’ll have to find someone to repair the damage. I’ll be in touch. I’m owed the time anyway.”

This was no lie, and Ardery knew that. Besides, she herself had been the one to order—in the guise of making a recommendation—an improvement in Barbara’s personal appearance. The superintendent had reluctantly agreed, although she’d added, “No more than two days,” to make certain Barbara knew which one of them was in charge.

On her way to the pub, Barbara had taken care of another of Lynley’s requests. She’d searched out the latest edition of
Conception
magazine, finding it at King’s Cross Station, where a WH Smith in the railway terminal provided every journal imaginable. That had been convenient since Barbara’s underground route from Chalk Farm took her through King’s Cross Station anyway. So all it had involved was a brief stop there, not to mention putting up with an evaluative glance from the young man behind the till when she paid for the journal. She could see it in his eyes and in the ever-so-slightly-amused movement of his mouth: Conception?
You? Not bloody likely
. She’d wanted to pull him over the counter by the neck of his white shirt, but the dirty ring round its collar stopped her. No
need to expose herself so closely to someone whose personal hygiene didn’t extend to washing his clothes regularly, she’d decided.

She was leafing through
Conception
as she waited in the pub. She was wondering where they found all the perfect babies to photograph, along with all the mothers who looked dewy fresh and not at all like what they probably were, which was haggard with lack of sleep. She’d ordered herself a jacket potato topped with chili con carne and she was dipping into this and reading about the care of one’s nipples during breast-feeding—who knew it was so painful? she wondered—when her inside guy at
The Source
showed up.

Mitchell Corsico came into the pub in his usual getup. He always wore a Stetson, jeans, and cowboy boots, but Barbara saw he’d added a fringed leather jacket. God, she thought, chaps and six-guns were probably next. He saw her, jerked his head in a nod, and approached the bar to place his order. He looked at the menu for a moment, tossed it down, and told the publican what he wanted. He paid for it as well, and this Barbara took for a positive sign till he walked to her table and said, “Twelve pounds fifty.”

She said, “Bloody hell, what did you order?”

“Did I have a limit?”

She muttered and pulled out her purse. She dug for the cash and shoved it over as he reached for a chair and mounted it like a cowboy onto a horse. She said, “Where’s Trigger?”

“Say what?”

“Never mind.”

“That’s bad for your arteries,” he noted with a nod at her potato.

“And you ordered…?”

“All right. Never mind. What’s up?”

“Back-scratch situation.”

She saw the wariness across his features. Who could blame him? Corsico was the one who was usually coming to the cops for information and not the reverse. But hope crossed his features as well because he knew his stock was very low at the Yard. He’d been embedded with the police during the hunt for a serial killer nearly a year earlier, and he wasn’t popular because of that.

Still, he was careful. He said, “I don’t know. Let’s see. What d’you need?”

“A name.”

He remained noncommittal.

“There’s a reporter from
The Source
been sent up to Cumbria. I need to know who he is and why he’s there.” At this, he began to reach into his jacket pocket, so she said, “Uh, we haven’t started scratching yet, Mitch. Hold Trigger’s rein, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh. A horse.”

“Yeah. Just like Silver. Hi ho, and all that. I’d expect you to know this, all things considered. So who’s gone up there? And why?”

He considered. After a moment during which his meal arrived—roast beef and Yorkshire bloody pud and all the trimmings, and Barbara reckoned he didn’t eat like
that
unless someone else was footing the bill—he said, “I need to know what’s in it for me.”

“That’s going to depend on the value of your information.”