Believing the Lie (36 page)

So she stepped back and said, “Caught me just about to begin the housework,” such a blatant lie that she nearly choked on it.

Hadiyyah looked doubtful but Angelina didn’t know Barbara well enough to realise that, for her, housework was akin to pulling out one’s eyelashes a single lash at a time.

Barbara said, “Coffee? Tea? I c’n wash a couple of the mugs,” of which there were ten in the sink, along with various other bits of crockery and a pile of cutlery.

“No. No. We can’t stay,” Angelina said hastily. “But I did want to tell you about Dusty.”

Who the hell…? Barbara wondered, till she remembered that this was the name of the hairstylist in Knightsbridge who was destined to alter her appearance forevermore. “Oh, yeah,” she said. She went to the table and hastily crushed out her fag.

“I’ve got you an appointment with him,” Angelina said, “but it’s not for a month, I’m afraid. He’s booked. Well, he’s always booked. That’s the nature of success for a hairstylist. Everyone wants in to see him yesterday.”

“Hair crises, yeah,” Barbara said sagely, as if she knew something about this topic. “Damn. Too bad.”

“Too bad?” Hadiyyah echoed. “But, Barbara, you must see him. He’s the best. He’ll do such a lovely job.”

“Oh, I’ve got that point on a slice of toast, kiddo,” Barbara agreed. “But I’ve told my guv that I’m off work getting my hair seen to, and I can’t be off work for a month and I can’t show up
without
my hair seen to. So…” And to Angelina, “Know anyone else?” because she herself certainly did not.

Angelina looked thoughtful. One perfectly manicured hand went to her cheek and she tapped upon it. She said, “You know, I think something could be managed, Barbara. It wouldn’t be Dusty but it would be the same salon. He’s got hangers-on there, stylists in training…Perhaps one of them? If I can get you in and if I went with you, I’m sure Dusty could have a wander across the salon to inspect what the stylist is doing. Would that work?”

Considering she’d spent the last ten years hacking her hair off in the shower, anything moderately more professional would be just fine. Still, Barbara thought it wise to sound somewhat uneasy about this prospect. She said, “Hmm…I don’t know…What d’you think? I mean, this is important because my guv…She takes this stuff seriously.”

“I expect it would be fine,” Angelina said. “The salon’s top-notch. They’re not going to have just anyone in training. Shall I…?”

“Oh yes, Barbara,” Hadiyyah said. “Do say yes. P’rhaps we can all go to tea afterwards. We can dress up and wear hats and carry nice handbags and—”

“I don’t think anyone wears hats to tea any longer,” Angelina cut in. Clearly, Barbara thought, she’d read the expression of horror that had flitted across Barbara’s face. She said, “What do you say, Barbara?”

Barbara really had no choice in the matter since she was going to have to turn up at the Met with a hairstyle and unless someone with some training did it, she was going to have to do it herself, which was unthinkable at this point. She said, “Sounds good,” and Angelina asked if she could use the phone. She’d make the call right from Barbara’s, she said. That way they wouldn’t need to engage in more backing and forthing in the matter.

Hadiyyah bounced over to where the phone was, behind the telly on a dusty shelf, and Barbara noted then that the little girl’s own hair was not done in plaits as it usually was. Instead, it hung down her back in a well-brushed wavy mass, and it was neatly fastened with an ornate hair slide.

As Angelina was making her call to the salon, Barbara complimented Hadiyyah on her own locks. Hadiyyah beamed, as Barbara had reckoned she would. Mummy had done it, she said. Dad had only
ever
been able to manage plaits but this was how she’d worn it
always
before Mummy’s trip to Canada.

Barbara wondered if Hadiyyah had been wearing her hair like this ever since Angelina’s return, which had occurred four months earlier. God, if that was the case, what did it say about her, that she’d only noticed it just now? Barbara avoided the answer to that question, since she knew it was going to tell her that for that last four months she’d had her attention focused on Angelina herself and, worse, on Angelina and Taymullah Azhar.

“Excellent, excellent,” Angelina was saying into the phone. “We shall be there. And you’re certain Cedric—”

Cedric
? Barbara thought.

“—will do a good job?…Wonderful…Yes, thank you. We’ll see you then.” Then to Barbara once she’d rung off, “We’re set for three this afternoon. Dusty’ll come over and give his input as well. Just remember to ignore his appalling attitude and don’t take it personally. And afterwards, we’ll take up Hadiyyah’s idea of tea. We’ll take a cab and do things properly at the Dorchester. My treat, by the way.”

“Tea at the Dorchester?” Hadiyyah cried. She clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh yes, yes, yes. Do say yes, Barbara.”

Barbara wanted to go to tea at the Dorchester as much as she wanted to give birth to octuplets. But Hadiyyah was looking so hopeful and, after all, Angelina had been very helpful. What else could she do?

“Tea at the Dorchester it is,” she said, although she wondered what in God’s name she was going to wear and how in God’s name she’d survive the experience.

Once those plans were set in stone, Barbara bade her friends farewell, made herself relatively decent in appearance, and took herself over to Portland Place and Twins, Bernard Fairclough’s club. She reckoned that chances were good Lord Fairclough parked himself at the club when he was in London. If that was the case, it was likely that someone who worked there would have beans to spill about the bloke if there were any beans involved.

Barbara had never been into a private club, so she wasn’t sure what to expect. She was reckoning on cigar smoke and blokes walking around in Persian slippers and the sound of billiard balls clicking sonorously somewhere. She figured there would be leather wingback chairs drawn up to a fireplace and dog-eared copies of
Punch
lying about.

What she didn’t expect was the ancient woman who answered the door when she rang the bell. The woman looked like someone who’d worked there since the club’s inception. Her face wasn’t lined; it was creviced. Her skin was tissue and her eyes were cloudy. And it seemed she’d forgotten to put in her teeth. Or she didn’t have any and didn’t want false ones. A possible way to diet, Barbara noted.

She might have been two thousand years old, but she was shrewd. She took one look at Barbara—head to toe—and seemed deeply unimpressed. She said, “No admittance to nonmembers without the company of a member, dear,” in the voice of a woman fifty years younger. Indeed so disconcerting was it to hear her speak that Barbara had to prevent herself from looking round for a lurking ventriloquist.

Barbara said, “I was hoping to apply,” to get her foot in the door. Over the woman’s shoulder she could catch a glimpse of panelled walls and paintings, but that was it.

“This is a gentleman’s club,” she was then informed. “Women are admitted only in the company of a gentleman member, I’m afraid. Dining room only, dear. And to use the facilities, of course.”

Well, that wasn’t going to get her anywhere, Barbara reckoned, so she nodded and said, “There’s another matter, then,” and fished out her Scotland Yard identification. “Afraid I have a few questions about one of your members, if I could come inside.”

“You said you were interested in membership,” the old lady pointed out. “Which is it, really? Membership or questions?”

“Both, more or less. But looks like membership isn’t going to happen, so I’ll settle for questions. I’d prefer not to ask them on the doorstep, though.” She took a step forward.

This usually worked, but it didn’t work now. The old lady held her position. She said, “Questions about what?”

“I’ll need to ask them of whoever’s in charge,” Barbara said. “If you’ll just track him down…? I’ll wait in the lobby. Or wherever you put the cops when they come calling.”

“No one’s in charge. There’s a board and it’s made up of members and if you wish to speak to one of them, you’ll have to return on their meeting day next month.”

“Sorry. That can’t happen,” Barbara told her. “It’s a matter of a police investigation.”

“And this is a matter of club rules,” the lady said. “Shall I phone the club’s solicitor and have him come round? Because, my dear, that’s the only way you’re getting in this door, aside from running straight through me.”

Damn, Barbara thought. The woman gave new definition to
tough old bird
.

Barbara said, “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. I have serious questions to ask about one of your members and this could be a matter of murder.”

“I see.” The woman considered this, her head cocked to one side. Her hair was thick and completely white. Barbara reckoned she was wearing a wig. One didn’t get this old with all the follicles still churning. “Well, my dear,” the woman said, “when
could be a matter
becomes
is a matter
, we’ll have something to discuss. Until then, we don’t.”

That said, she stepped back and closed the door. Barbara was left on the step, realising she’d lost the battle because she’d used a bloody conditional verb.

She swore and fished a packet of Players out of her bag. She lit up and considered her next move. There had to be someone else who
worked in this place, someone with information to impart: a chef, a cook, a waiter, a cleaner. Surely, the old bag didn’t run the place on her own.

She descended the steps and looked back at the building. It was perfectly shut up and forbidding, a fortress for its members’ secrets.

She glanced around. Perhaps, she thought, there was another way. A shop with a curious shop assistant inside, gaping out of the window at the well-heeled as they arrived and entered the club? A florist who made regular deliveries through the front door? A tobacconist selling members snuff or cigars? But there seemed to be nothing at all aside from a taxi rank on Portland Place, not far from BBC Broadcasting House.

She decided a taxi rank was possible. Drivers of cabs probably had their favourite routes and their favourite ranks. They’d know where the pickings were best and they’d haunt that area. If that was the case, it stood to reason that a cab driver could as easily cart a member of Twins somewhere as he could cart someone ducking out of the BBC.

She walked over to have a chat. The first three drivers in the line got her nowhere. The fourth was her lucky charm. The driver sounded like an extra from
EastEnders.
Barbara reckoned he spent his Sundays shouting “Pound a bowl” in the vicinity of the Brick Lane market.

He knew Lord Fairclough. He knew “most them toffs,” he said. He liked to chat to them cos it rankled ’em, it did, and he liked to see how long it’d take ’em to tell ’im to plug his mug. Fairclough was always ready for a chat, when he was alone. When someone was wif him, things was diff’rent.

The
someone was with him
piqued Barbara’s interest. Anyone special with him? she asked.

Oh, aye, the cab driver told her. Al’as the same bird, it was.

His wife? Barbara asked.

The cab driver guffawed.

Remember where you took him and the bird, then? she asked.

The driver smirked. He tapped his head, the repository of all
knowledge including the Knowledge. He said that course he remembered cos it was al’as the same place. And, he added with a wink, the bird was a young’n.

Better and better, Barbara thought. Bernard Fairclough and a young woman always going by taxi to the same place after meeting at his club. She asked the driver if he could take her to that place now.

He glanced at the rank of taxis ahead of him and she knew what that meant. He couldn’t move off with a passenger until it was his turn or there would be hell to pay. She said she’d wait till he was at the head of the line but could he take her to the exact place and show her where Fairclough and his companion went? She showed her ID. Police business, she told him.

He said, “You got the fare?” and when she nodded, “Climb in, then, darlin’. I’m your man.”

MILNTHORPE TO LAKE WINDERMERE
CUMBRIA

“Don’t you see what all of this means, Simon?”

Whenever Deborah said that to him, St. James knew to take care in their conversation. She intended to attach something to the conclusion of her remarks, and in this situation what she intended to attach could put her into a dangerous position. So he said, “I don’t, actually, my love. What I see is that while you were talking to her, Alatea Fairclough became upset for reasons that aren’t completely clear, but those reasons don’t seem to have anything to do with Ian Cresswell’s death. The best course is for you to return the call from her husband and tell him something’s come up and you’ve got to go back to London.”

“Without seeing what he
wants
?” Deborah’s tone was incredulous and her expression suspicious. In the way of most husbands and wives, Deborah would know his weak spots. She would also know his weakest spot was Deborah herself. “Why on earth should I do that?”

“You yourself said she knows you’re not who you said you were. You can’t think she hasn’t told Nicholas that. If he rang you and said he’d like a word—which he did, yes?—he’s going to want that word to be about the state his wife was in when you left her.”

“That’s what
you
would want to talk about.
He
might want to talk to me about a dozen things. And I’m not going to know what they are unless I ring him back and agree to see him.”

They were standing in the car park of the Crow and Eagle, next to his hire car, and he was due to meet Lynley at Ireleth Hall. He wasn’t at this point late, but if the conversation went on much longer he was going to be. Deborah had followed him down from their room because although he’d considered their conversation finished, she had not. She was dressed to go out and this was not a good sign. She hadn’t brought her shoulder bag or camera, however, so this counted in his favour.

Deborah had given him chapter and verse on her encounter with Alatea Fairclough, and as far as he was concerned Deborah’s cover was blown, and it was time for her to back away from the situation. Deborah’s point was that the Argentine woman’s reaction had been so extreme that she had to be hiding something. Her additional point was that if Alatea was indeed hiding something, chances were very good that her husband didn’t know what it was. So the only way she was going to discover what was truly going on was to speak with the man.