Silent Truths (5 page)

The usual neatness of his slightly greying dark hair had been wrecked by the continuous anxious sweeps of his hands; he was unshaven, crumpled and grubby. Hunger rumbled quietly through his gut, though he knew he’d be unable to eat, even if food were available. His long limbs ached, his teeth felt furry and he needed a drink. He wouldn’t ask for one though; he was trying to get used to how it would be not having his needs on tap. What would be the worst, he wondered. Being unable to use a bathroom in private, or being prevented from seeing or contacting those he loved whenever he chose? How was he going to deal with losing everything he’d worked for all these years: his position and reputation, the power to make a difference as he had as a journalist and an editor, as well as a government adviser – as a husband too? Dread was a burgeoning monster inside him.

He wondered if Beth was asleep now, or if, like him, she was torturing herself with what might happen next. He knew she’d be upset that he hadn’t called, but he wouldn’t – not yet. He had to find out what was really going on first; decide how much he should tell her.

There was so much more to this than even he knew, so until his worst suspicions were confirmed or denied it would probably serve him better, beyond asserting his innocence, to continue to stay silent. Already his failure even to suggest who
might
have murdered the girl was frustrating the hell out of Bruce and Giles Parker. A defence had to
be built on something, but Colin certainly wasn’t going to tell them yet that from the moment the cleaning woman had blundered into Sophie’s flat, catching him in the most incriminating, not to mention humiliating scene of his life, he’d known beyond any doubt that he’d been set up. If he told them that much he’d have to go further, and if he went further then God only knew what would happen to those he loved. Sophie’s murder had been the most effective warning he could ever receive, he didn’t need another.

Hearing footsteps trudging down the corridor, he looked over at the door. Adrenalin immediately began pumping through his system. There was something different about this. He sat straighter, his senses rapier sharp, his heart a thick, pounding mass of fear. He’d been expecting this visit, in the dead of night, when no one would know except those who were ordered to forget.

The door opened, a dim overhead light was switched on and a man he’d never seen before, wearing an expensive-looking tracksuit and top-of-the-line trainers, stepped into the cell. He was clean-shaven, around fifty, with a silver-grey crew cut, prominent cheekbones, and a jaw like an iron wedge. Of course, Marcus Gatling, the faceless, voiceless power behind the Carlyle throne, would never come himself; Colin had been a fool even to think it.

His uninvited guest didn’t bother to introduce himself, but Colin knew very well who he was; Gatling wouldn’t think twice about availing himself of the services of Special Branch.
Shit!
How the hell had he managed to get himself mixed up in
this? From as far back as their Oxford days he’d loathed and feared Marcus Gatling, and over the years those feelings had only grown. Life dealt strange blows to those who opposed the stout, angry-faced man with his killer intellect and chilling genius for persuasion. His quest for power had always been lethal, and resoundingly effective, which was why Edward Carlyle had convinced Colin, during those early days, that they needed him on their side. Back then Colin had neither the sense nor the power to resist, but even if he had he shuddered to think where it might have got him. Now, all these years later, despite the fact that Gatling’s name was virtually unknown to the public, there wasn’t a senior newspaper editor, high-ranking politician or top-level financier in London who wasn’t aware of exactly who he was. Each would have had to deal with him, and Colin knew only too well that Gatling’s unerring talent for never setting a challenge he couldn’t win or granting a favour without a high price was unparalleled. It was at the very core of his success, and what made him the single most powerful ally anyone at the top could have – or the very deadliest foe.

The Special Branch detective kept his questions brief and to the point. Colin answered the same way. Yes, he did understand the concerns of their mutual friends. No, he had not seen anyone else in Sophie’s flat. Yes, he had gone there for sex. No, he hadn’t taken anyone into his confidence over matters regarding the syndicate. Not his wife. Nor his lawyers. No, Sophie hadn’t known anything either. Yes, he was sure. No, there was no one she
could have told. He had never discussed anything with her, so she had nothing to tell.

The man hesitated. The air in the cell became clammier, edgier with tension, making it hard to breathe. Colin watched him, waiting, knowing there was more to come. He was at this man’s mercy. The rest of his life moved forward from here.

The man’s eyes were like granite. Sweat trickled down Colin’s back.

Then came the question that took the floor from under Colin’s world. If Sophie Long knew nothing, why had he killed her?

Fear filled his head like a cloud of hot ash. He understood only too well what he was being told, and he had no words to protest.

The man spoke briefly again, then he turned and left. As the door closed Colin’s breath was still skimming the top of his lungs. This was the first time the force of Gatling’s will had been levelled at him, and it was like standing in the path of a wrecking ball with his feet anchored to the ground. He was on his own now – the detective’s parting words had made that abundantly clear – and he knew very well that no one who could make a difference would be fool enough to run up against Gatling even if they wanted to. For one wild moment he considered making contact with Elliot Russell, perhaps the smartest reporter around, but not even Russell was going to take this on.

So he had no friends in high places now, only enemies, and until he figured out how to fight this, the only way he was going to keep those he loved safe was to stay silent and take the rap.

*

Beth was in the basement kitchen of Charlie and Sandra Sheldon’s lavish Maida Vale mansion. It was still only eight in the morning, but Bruce and Charlie had left an hour ago, and Georgie’s mobile had already started ringing.

The morning papers were spread out on the huge glass-topped dining table, where solid shafts of sunlight streamed in through the bay windows like spotlights on the many and various pictures of Colin and the cute, twenty-two-year-old Sophie Long. Every front page carried the story, the tabloids crowing with sanctimonious outrage at all its scandalous glory, while the broadsheets had taken a slightly more tempered, though none the less outspoken, approach. None was in any doubt of his guilt: he’d been caught red-handed and the only confusion seemed to be over whether or not he had denied it. Some papers claimed he had, while others were insisting he’d confessed either at the scene or under early interrogation. As for motive, the general opinion seemed to be that the evil Svengali, whose reputation as an adulterer and womanizer spanned at least two decades, had been systematically abusing his recently achieved power to seduce young girls with promises of high-paying jobs and the kind of flashy, celebrity-studded parties that would turn the head of anyone with a small income and social ambition. Where it had all gone wrong with Sophie was that she had threatened to go to Ashby’s wife when he’d repeatedly failed to deliver.

Plausible, Beth supposed, if you didn’t know him. Highly implausible if you did, since you’d be
only too aware of his wife’s pathetically long history of tolerance and forgiveness, so why go to the length of killing someone to stop her telling Beth a story she’d heard countless times before?

Dimly she wondered where the reporters had got the story from, for she’d been unable to find any interviews or statements from Sophie Long’s friends or family, but maybe she just hadn’t looked hard enough. Nor would she, for going through the papers like this, seeing her husband connected in such horrifying circumstances with a girl who should only ever have been a stranger, was a perversely self-punishing exercise that was doing frightening things to her mind.

‘Here,’ Sandra said, a clean, lemon smell wafting from her freshly washed hair as she set down a pot of coffee and warm croissants. ‘I know you’re not hungry, but you should try to eat something.’

Beth smiled weakly, then forced herself to show more warmth. After all, she really was touched by Charlie and Sandra’s kindness, for not everyone would be willing to shield the wife of a suspected killer from the press, even if it was only for one night.

Georgie walked in from the garden, still talking into her mobile phone. ‘I know, Elsa,’ she was saying, ‘but I’m sorry, I can’t tell you where we are right now. It’s not that we don’t trust you … Oh, come on, Elsa, you’re a really good friend, and we know you wouldn’t … Listen, I’m just saying, as long as we tell no one … No, we’re not in Gloucestershire. Nor in the London house. Elsa, stop it! I know this is hard, but try to think of what it’s like for Beth. OK, I’ll send her your love.’ She
paused, then through gritted teeth said, ‘Just tell them the truth, Elsa. For heaven’s sake, what else would you tell them?’

After she’d rung off she sat down at the end of the table and took the mug of coffee Sandra was passing over. ‘It seems the police are contacting just about everyone you know,’ she told Beth, taking a sip. ‘And Elsa’s about the fifth who’s asked me what she should say. What do they think – that we want them to lie, or something?’

Beth’s haunted, tired eyes came to hers. Her insides were like lead weights. ‘I wonder who’ll be the first kiss-and-tell,’ she said hoarsely. At least one of the many mistresses would speak out, that much was certain, and dread of it was already piling up with everything else. ‘Not that half of Fleet Street doesn’t know already what he’s like,’ she added. ‘I suppose it’s a measure of how popular he is that no one’s exposed him before this. After all, his new position made him a prime target.’

‘They don’t seem to be exhibiting much loyalty here,’ Sandra commented bleakly, looking down at the papers. ‘Did you see this? They’re trying to say here that
you
think he did it.’

‘Is that the Laurie Forbes piece?’ Beth said.

Sandra nodded. ‘She’s obviously completely misquoted you.’

‘Or she used words you said and put them together her own way,’ Georgie declared. ‘What’s the matter with these people? Don’t they understand shock?’

‘She practically forced her way in,’ Beth told them, staring down at her coffee. ‘I hardly knew
what I was saying, but the chances are she’s right, I did ask her who he’d killed. Obviously, I meant to say, “Who’s he
supposed
to have killed?” but I wasn’t actually thinking of the precise words I was using, or how she might read them.’ Her eyes closed for a horribly anguished moment. ‘Do you think Colin’s seen it?’ she said in a whisper.

Sandra and Georgie glanced at each other. In their own ways they too were feeling disoriented and bemused, for neither had ever had to deal with anything like this before.

‘Probably not,’ Sandra answered. ‘I don’t think they deliver the papers with breakfast where he is.’

It was a poor joke that made no one laugh.

Somewhere deep inside herself Beth wanted to cry and maybe never stop. But her eyes remained dry as her tormented mind searched this madness for a road back to safety. Instead, it only returned her to last night, when she and Bruce and Georgie had sat up talking until long after midnight. Bruce had brought no message from Colin, nor had he been able to explain why Colin hadn’t called, except to say that it was difficult for him to get to a phone, and the police interrogation had been tough and extremely long.

However, she now knew how Colin had been discovered by a cleaning lady, sitting on the bed beside a naked Sophie Long, with the tights that had presumably choked the life from her still wrapped around his hands. The extra detail, that he’d been wearing only a shirt, jacket and tie – no trousers or underpants – had yet to come out in the papers. When Bruce had first told her that she’d felt sick. Then quite suddenly she’d started to laugh,
breathlessly, almost dementedly until she’d fallen sobbing into Bruce’s arms and clung to him hard. He was such a solid, dependable man. Why couldn’t she have married someone like Bruce? Why did
her
husband have to repeatedly deceive and humiliate her? What was wrong with her that he should feel the need to do that? Yet, despite everything, she loved him.
Dear God in heaven, nothing was making any sense
.

Her breath caught on yet another wave of fear. Whether Bruce or the other lawyers actually believed in his innocence, she didn’t know. It was their job to say they did and, to his credit, last night Bruce had sounded convincing. He was certain, he’d told her, that new evidence would come to light in the next day or so that would, at the very least, cast some doubt on Colin’s guilt. Beth didn’t confess that she was afraid of what the new evidence might be, or where it would lead them. She just instinctively knew that the best thing she could do right now was stay silent, for there was so much more to this than any of them knew.

‘What time do you have to go to the police station today?’ Sandra asked.

Beth glanced at Georgie as the dread of it drove hard into her heart. ‘One o’clock,’ she answered. ‘I wonder if they’ll let me see him while I’m there.’ How was she managing to sound so calm?

‘Will you be back later?’ Sandra asked.

Georgie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. The plan at the moment is for us to drive down to Gloucestershire later today. We’ll probably stay there until all the fuss dies down.’ As she finished she clicked on her mobile to answer it. ‘Hello?’ she
said. ‘Oh, yes, hi,’ and getting up from the table she took the phone back out to the garden.

‘I don’t think you should read any more,’ Sandra cautioned, as Beth picked up another paper.

Beth stared blindly down at it, then let it go. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It could become an obsession, and, God knows, I don’t want to find out any more through the press. One murder’s enough.’