Silent Truths (3 page)

On the landing, where an ironing board and iron partially blocked the way, Beth took a large holdall from the top shelf of a linen cupboard, opened it to check it was empty, then carried it into the master bedroom – the inner sanctum of a marriage. Georgie wondered how many shared bedrooms had such a pervasive air of intimacy as this one. Everything about the room was redolent of the couple who slept here, from the cologne-scented air, to the music centre built into the shelves, to the untidy collection of blues and soft rock CDs; the
jazzy ties draped over the top of an open wardrobe door, the exquisite iron bedstead they’d bought at a French antiquities fair, then had Georgie and Bruce rent a van to come and help bring home; the eleven years’ worth of photographs that were on every surface, some partly obscured by fancy perfume bottles, coloured feathers, or pearl beads, or the kind of silly notes lovers wrote. Several pairs of Colin’s shoes made a disorderly pile against one wall; his trouser press was open as though awaiting a fresh pair. A tangle of clean laundry spilt from a basket over in one corner, Beth’s tights entwined with Colin’s socks, her bras wrapped around his boxers, their shirts, tracksuits and shared towels. It was no wonder Beth had expected him back, when just one glance around this room made it hard to believe he’d even gone.

The brief anger Beth had shown at the foot of the stairs had vanished. Now she seemed tightly wrapped up in herself, fiercely guarding her emotions, suppressing her pain. Georgie could only guess at the extent of her dread and confusion. How strange her life must seem at this moment, not only because of what had happened today – though God knew that alone was enough to derail anyone from their senses – but because of the whole new world Colin and his ambitions had catapulted them into during these past three months, since his long-awaited government appointment. Becoming a public figure had been the most natural and smoothest of steps for him, with his easy charm and intellect, as well as his multiple Oxford honours and Establishment connections. He was born to it, unlike his shy,
intensely private wife who’d lately been showing signs of the strain. And who could blame her, when this public path wasn’t one she’d ever have chosen for herself, despite knowing how passionately Colin coveted it. Not that she’d ever tried to talk him out of it – she knew better even than to try – she’d just wanted him to understand how deeply she resented the intrusion into their private life, which to Beth was more precious than any amount of power or success. The worst part of it, at least so far, had been having to measure virtually every word she uttered for fear of how it might be construed, by his colleagues and their stiletto-tongued wives, and, of course, the press, a couple of whom had already dubbed her rude or standoffish for turning down their requests for interviews or comments.

What the hell were the next few weeks going to be like?

Georgie looked at Colin’s photograph on the nightstand and wondered what was happening to him now. It was utterly bewildering to think of him being read his rights, handcuffed and locked up in a cell. Despite the seriousness of the situation, and his understandable dread of how Beth would take it, Georgie couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t called her first. As a journalist himself, who until recently had been editor-in-chief of one of the leading nationals, he would know very well what kind of press barrage she was facing now. And there had to have been a window somewhere between his arrest and the inevitable media tip-off, when he could have got through to her. So maybe he’d taken their recent rift to be more serious than
Beth realized. When Beth had told Georgie she hadn’t made it sound any different from the previous bust-ups, though unusually there hadn’t been any mention of an affair. This time, if Georgie’s memory was holding up, it had been about some function Beth had refused to attend because he’d told her about it too late, and as it was the anniversary of the first time they’d made love she’d already prepared a candlelit dinner at home. Apparently Colin had gone to the function anyway, so Beth had called the twenty-four-hour locksmith she was by now on first-name terms with, and when Colin had returned in the early hours he’d found his keys defunct and a pile of his dirty laundry providing a bed for someone’s cat on the doorstep. Whether they’d spoken at all since, Georgie didn’t know, though it had seemed an irony to her that Beth had thrown him out of a house that they were both due to leave at the end of next week. No more turn-of-the-century, yuppified mid-terrace in Fulham for one of the Prime Minister’s right-hand men. The entire upper storey of a Philip Gruben converted warehouse, with all the fancy lancets and loggias the stocky Italian was famous for, three en-suite bedrooms with gazebo-style bathrooms, and a view of the Thames that stretched from Wapping to Waterloo was much more like it. Georgie hadn’t asked where all the money was coming from, and now, with a sinking dismay, she couldn’t help wondering what connection it might have to what had happened today.

But she was jumping to conclusions, thinking the worst, when there was every chance that by this time tomorrow they’d be celebrating his release
and raising a glass to the PM in much the same way as they had the day he’d called to ask Colin to head the Downing Street Press Office. In truth the call had been a formality, since Colin had already privately been promised the job, and no one had worked, or angled, harder than he had to get it, first as a reporter on one of the better tabloids, then as a TV news producer, then as the editor-in-chief of one of the nation’s leading broadsheets. And over the years he’d done everything in his journalistic power to elevate his old university chum Edward Carlyle from the relative obscurity of the back benches to the hallowed interior of the nation’s most famous political address.

Not surprisingly Colin’s appointment had received several scathing attacks from the far right, though none so bitter as those from the previous incumbent, Alan Dowling, whose fall from grace had been much more ignominious than it need have been, largely because he’d publicly vowed to bring Colin down too. Considering that threat, today might not be a good day for Dowling either, Georgie thought, if he didn’t have an alibi. And God only knew what the bullish, ruthlessly ambitious Edward Carlyle and his icily glamorous wife, who now reigned at Number Ten, were making of it all, particularly when they’d already come to rely heavily on Colin’s inimitable gift for damage control. When had they ever needed him more – Colin Ashby, the silver-tongued hero of blundering politicians, unskilled leaders and unworkable policies? What kind of spin would he have put on this, Georgie couldn’t help wondering. Anyway, it was going to be interesting to see just
how the PM handled this awkward little snag in his new party image.

‘I should check the machine,’ Beth suddenly said.

Abandoning her packing she started back down the stairs.

Together she and Georgie listened to the endless messages. None was from Colin.

Beth’s eyes were burning as she turned to Georgie. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ she demanded. ‘How could he not have called?’

‘Maybe there’s still a rule about only one call,’ Georgie said. ‘We can ask Bruce.’

‘Is Bruce with him now?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Beth’s gaze drifted with her thoughts. ‘How much do you know?’ she said finally. ‘I mean, they’ve arrested him, so the police must think he did it.’

‘I don’t know any details,’ Georgie answered. ‘When we got the call I came straight here.’

‘Maybe we should turn on the TV.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it. Let’s just get you away from all that out there, maybe then we’ll be able to think straight.’

Beth didn’t move. ‘I’m not saying I foresaw this,’ she said, staring at nothing. ‘How could I? How could anyone? But ever since he got that job …’ Her voice became husky with emotion. ‘I’ve had a feeling something bad would happen.’ Her dark eyes met Georgie’s. ‘How am I going to get through this?’ she whispered, her mouth trembling with the effort of holding on.

‘You will,’ Georgie said, hugging her. ‘And I know it might not look good right now, but by this
time tomorrow it could all be totally different –’

The phone rang, cutting her off. Without thinking she picked it up. ‘Can you speak to who?’ she said, watching Beth turn away. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong number. Well, yes, that is the right … No, there’s no one here by that name. Yes, I heard what you said, but there’s no Ava Montgomery here …’

Beth spun round and took the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she said, almost breathlessly. ‘Yes, this is Ava speaking.’ Her eyes avoided Georgie’s as twin patches of colour rose up in her cheeks. ‘I’m so glad,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course I’ll be there. Would you tell me your name again, please?’ She wrote it down, then a time and a date, and after thanking the caller she dropped the phone back in its cradle.

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Beth clasped her hands to her cheeks and started to shake.

‘What was that about?’ Georgie began. ‘Who on earth’s –’

‘Don’t ask,’ Beth interrupted. ‘Please. Just don’t ask.’

By the time they were ready to leave the house, several uniformed police had arrived and a couple of detectives, who agreed, after a few perfunctory questions that established Beth had been at home all day apart from a short trip to the stationer’s, to delay further interrogation until she came into the station tomorrow. The uniformed officers helped clear a path to Georgie’s car. Nevertheless, the crush was terrifying and despite keeping her eyes lowered Beth was blinded by flashguns and jostled
so hard against one of the officers that a flower of blood bloomed on his lip where her head banged it into his teeth. Everyone was shouting at once, but she forced herself not to listen. Small satellite dishes were sprouting up like electronic daisies, news-gathering vehicles cluttered even the pavements, while reports were yelled live from the scene of Colin Ashby’s home where Mrs Ashby was just leaving, presumably to go to see her husband.

‘Mrs Ashby! Beth! Do you have any words for Sophie Long’s family?’

‘When did you last speak to your husband?’

‘Can you tell us what he told you?’

‘Is it true your husband is claiming he’s innocent?’

‘Have you heard from the Prime Minister?’

‘Do you think this is the end of your husband’s career?’

‘How did you feel when you found out?’

Beth hunched her shoulders, fixed her vision on her feet and made herself think about the weather. Georgie and a policeman guided her through the mayhem. Tears scalded her eyes as she reminded herself that rain hadn’t been forecast today, but there had been a brief shower around lunchtime. She tried to reconnect with the calm, early summer warmth she’d felt earlier, while walking, unmolested, along this very street. She imagined the blue sky, and struggled with the dreadful weight in her heart. If they’d stop shouting she might hear the birds, or a jet passing overhead en route to Heathrow, or the traffic speeding up and down the Fulham Road.
Had she remembered to pop into the stationer’s earlier?

A sob lodged in her throat halting her breath. Yes, she’d got the paper she needed for her printer. She’d kept the receipt for her accountant.

Oh God, Colin! Colin! Colin!
It was her own voice, screaming inside her. But mercifully no sound came out, so nobody knew just how afraid and alone she was feeling.
Why hadn’t he called?

‘It’s OK, we’re here,’ Georgie said, opening the door of her Mercedes estate.

Beth got into the passenger seat. Someone rapped on the window. ‘Lock the door,’ the policeman warned.

Bodies, cameras, faces loomed up over the bonnet as the car pulled away. The police were battling to gain control, but the mêlée was a near-impenetrable mass.

‘Someone’s going to get hurt,’ Georgie murmured.

‘They’re bound to follow us,’ Beth said, not even daring to look back as they reached the end of the street. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To my house, I think. Get the mobile from my bag, will you?’

After she’d spoken to Bruce, Georgie passed the phone to Beth.

Beth froze. ‘Is he with Colin?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so. He didn’t say.’

‘Bruce?’ Beth said softly.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure. How’s Colin? Can I talk to him?’

‘I’m not with him.’

‘So what’s happening?’

‘A lot. Too much. Did you call Inspector Jones?’

‘I’ve just seen him. He’s asked me to go to the station tomorrow. What’s he going to ask?’

‘It’s mainly procedure. He’ll probably want to know if you knew about Sophie Long before any of this. Did you?’

‘No. Did you?’

Avoiding the question, Bruce said, ‘I’m trying to get hold of Giles Parker to see if he’ll take the case.’

Beth’s mind reeled away from that. ‘Giles Parker? The QC?’ she said. ‘Does that mean he did it?’

‘No. It just means he should have a good barrister. Hang on.’ A muffled sound told her he’d put his hand over the receiver.

She looked out at the familiar shops and restaurants of the Fulham Road; the flower stall at the end of Callow Street, the Pan Bookshop, the cinema, the scaffolding around the Royal Marsden Hospital. It was as though she was travelling through it in a dream, because nothing seemed real despite the fact she knew it so well. How many times had she and Colin driven this road, eaten at the restaurants, gone to see a film, chosen a book, chatted with the lady on the flower stall? Just last week, the day of their special anniversary when he’d ended up going off to that damned party, he’d actually stopped on the way home to pick up some roses. She’d known where he got them because she’d recognized the wrapping. Besides, they never bought their flowers anywhere else.

It had been hard to believe that twelve years had passed since their first fumbled, though glorious time on the sofa bed of his Pimlico bachelor pad. They’d known each other for five weeks by then,
having met because Beth had called his office to complain about the reporters who’d started hanging round the kindergarten where she worked. They were hoping to snatch some shots of the child of a celebrity couple who’d recently joined the school. It turned out that the journalist she’d cornered had lied about which paper he was with, but somehow she’d been put through to Colin Ashby anyway, who had generously offered to see what he could do. To her amazement, the wolves vanished the next day, so she called again, this time to say thank you. She’d then ended up spending the best part of her lunch hour laughing and chatting to him on the phone as easily and flirtatiously as if they actually knew what each other looked like and approved. Before he rang off he invited her for a drink that evening. She didn’t even hesitate, despite the fact she already had a boyfriend whom she’d been seeing for the past four months.