The Convenience of Lies (3 page)

Four

Lexie had flipped McCall’s life into the air on that morning of incalculable chance in Cambridge all those years ago. Heads or tails, someone wins, someone loses.

Each
waking hour since they first met, McCall thought of little else but finding her again. He’d loitered about the Arts Theatre that weekend. On the following Monday morning, he saw her coming down St Edward’s Passage in her camel-coloured duffel coat. And she wasn’t with Mr Gannex. McCall would have her to himself, if only for a moment.

She
immediately gave him that smile again – that leftward tilt of her slightly parted lips, the slight widening of those eyes which knew so much and promised more.

‘Hello,
what are you doing here?’

‘I
thought… well, I often come this way. My college, not far from here.’

‘Aren’t
you terribly cold?’

‘No,
not really.’

‘You
look it. Want a coffee or are you going to a lecture?’

‘Coffee,
yes. I’d like that.’

She
winked broadly at the elderly stage door keeper, part concierge, part spy, peering from behind the fug of Woodbine smoke clouding his sentry box.

‘Friend
of yours, is he, Miss?’

‘My
brother. Just want to show him around.’

‘’Course
you do, dear.’

It
all smelt of sawn timber and fresh paint. Stagehands up ladders were finishing off flats of scenery. Here was a parallel reality which that night’s audience would pay to enter before disappearing back into lives from which there was no escape.

A
song called My Girl played on a transistor. McCall thought it an omen but that was an illusion, too. He followed her through an un-swept corridor and down a set of concrete steps to a storage area lit by a bare electric bulb. Somewhere on the stage above, a nasally hysterical Kenneth Williams was in a final run-through with the other actors.

‘It’s
our big night, tonight. A premiere.’

‘What’s
it about?’

‘These
two thieves who rob a bank then hide their loot in a dead woman’s coffin.’

‘Sounds
outrageous.’

‘Joe
Orton’s written it so half the punters are bound to be offended and demand their money back but a bit of scandal is always good for the box office.’

She
filled a kettle from a tap above a dirty sink, put it on a gas ring, then found two cups and a bottle of Camp coffee in a cupboard.

‘So,
are you going to tell me your name, funny man?’

‘Me?
I’m McCall.’

‘McCall?
Is that it?’

‘Well,
it’s Francis but I’m usually called Mac.’

‘Saturday
was great, wasn’t it? Meeting up like that.’

‘Yes…
it was lovely.’

‘I
hoped we’d bump into you again.’

‘Did
you? Honestly?’

‘Yes.
Why wouldn’t I?’

He
dried, couldn’t express what it was he so wanted to say. She smiled at his gaucheness. Everything was understood between them.

The
kettle whistled. She poured their drinks and apologised for having no milk or sugar or anywhere to sit.

‘You
didn’t ask, but I’m Lexie.’

‘Sorry,
that was rude. What’s Lexie short for?’

‘Alexandra.’

‘And you said you’re the dogsbody around here?’

‘’Fraid
so but I start my first proper acting job next week.’

‘Really?
I bet you’ll be brilliant.’

‘It’s
hardly the West End, just touring round lots of schools putting on Shakespeare.’

‘But
you’ll steal it. I just know you will.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘No, seriously you will and I shall come and watch every performance.’

She
laughed but wasn’t mocking him. Her eyes seemed to peer deep within him. McCall sensed she’d really like him to be there.

‘What
about your studies? You can’t just walk away from them.’

‘I
almost have already.’

‘But
you told us you’re only in your first year.’

‘I
am but it’ll be my last. I know it.’

Lexie
looked at him as if her mercurial mind has made a decision. She took his cup and put it on the floor by hers, drew him close, her fingers in his twisting gypsy curls. She kissed his lips - kissed him because this is what she wanted and time was short. Her lipstick tasted vaguely sweet and her perfume carried the scent of pleasures unknown.

Then
her hands ran the contours of his gaunt, drum-tight body which craved only hers. Lexie backed him through a rail of Victorian dresses left over from some past production.

They
lay in the musky, dusty darkness beyond and she unzipped him and took him for herself. There was an elemental remoteness about her, almost animal, disconnected from the then and there. McCall held to her, drawn by such a force of nature he’d never encountered before.

And
when at last she was done, when she opened her eyes and was satisfied, then came that coded smile between initiates who now shared a secret. He hadn’t language equal to the moment or to calm his trembling elation.

‘Oh
God, Lexie…’

‘Oh
God, what?’

‘I’ve
never… you know, I’ve never - ’

But
they heard footsteps approaching. Lexie quickly led him through another subterranean passage and into the light of a day for which he was born and could never forget.

‘Listen,
I have to see you again.’

‘Sure,
but I’m late for work now.’

‘I
know, but when can we meet?’

‘There’s
a big party here tonight. Come to that.’

‘Can
I? But what about Mr Gannex?’

‘Evan?
He doesn’t like parties.’

‘But
he’s your fiancé, isn’t he?’

‘How
wonderfully archaic that sounds.’

‘Yes,
but he is, isn’t he? You’re going to marry him.’

‘Who
knows? Who cares?’

‘Me
- I care. Please don’t, Lexie.’

‘Listen,
you really have to go now or I’ll be fired.’

‘Don’t
do it, Lexie. Don’t marry him. Please, I mean it.’

‘Go
on, funny man. See you tonight.’

So
the cruel drama of their affair began. McCall was to be tortured by infatuation and jealousy, the ache of separation, of being alone while knowing she was with him.

In
that moment outside the Arts Theatre where all was make-believe and pretence, he could only shiver at what he feared and had yet to understand.

But
slowly, very slowly, McCall would begin to learn the convenience of lies.

Five

Lexie folded herself into one of the wing back chairs either side of Garth’s wide brick
inglenook.
The wind sent spatters of rain bouncing down the black void of the chimney to hiss against the burning logs. She wore a red check shirt with the top buttons missing so the soft white slopes of her breasts were just visible.

McCall
had been persuaded in bed that there could be a story in the disappearance of Lexie’s ten-year-old niece, Ruby. Lexie was never to be denied.

‘She’s
an unusual child,’ she said. ‘Quite brilliant in one way but so, so vulnerable.’

A
photograph taken at Manor Hill primary school in north London showed a querulous-looking child, small for her age, with wild curly hair, a floral pinafore dress and sandals. Police had rung Lexie’s apartment in Bristol to check if Ruby was there.

‘I
told them she’s so unworldly that she barely understands the concept of money or buying tickets for a train or coach,’ Lexie said. ‘She gets bullied a lot so escapes into her own fantasy world of fairy castles and unicorns.’

Other
children said Ruby had been taken over by demons. She’d hit one and made his nose bleed and been excluded from school last term.

McCall
poured Lexie a glass of Italian liqueur made from almonds and set it down on the hearth by her side, glowing gold in the firelight.

‘So
there’s something wrong with Ruby… psychologically?’

‘It’s
called Asperger’s syndrome,’ Lexie said. ‘It means she can’t read other people’s feelings, hasn’t got a clue about the effect of what she says or does has on anyone.’

‘It
must be a great strain living with her. How does your sister cope?’

‘Badly,
I’m afraid. But Etta’s never lived in the real world, either.’

‘How
do you mean?’

‘She’s
into tarot cards and mythology, paganism. All that alternative tosh.’

‘So
you two don’t get on?’

‘No,
we grew apart but then I started feeling bad about her struggling to bring up Ruby on her own. I’m her only relative and I said she could move to be near me and work in this business I’ve got.’

‘What’s
that?’

‘We
supply vintage clothes and props for the theatre and TV companies.’

‘But
she didn’t want to?’

‘No,
she didn’t want any charity, which was nonsense because she would’ve had to earn her wages and not sit dreaming all day… but that’s always been her problem.’

‘What
about Ruby’s father?’

‘Him?
A one-night stand, never to be seen again.’

‘Hardly
sounds like a happy home. Could Ruby just have run away or wandered off?’

‘No,
I really don’t think so. She depends so much on her own routines which is why I know something’s happened to her.’

‘What
are the police doing?’

‘Talking
to the neighbours, doing the usual searches of lock-ups and empty building and there’s been some publicity in the local media.’

‘But
nothing’s come of any of it?’

‘No,
and when I ring, they just say they’ve no new developments to report.’

‘Then
that must be the case. What does your husband think?’

‘Evan?
No idea. He and I were divorced ages ago.’

McCall
knew this already but had reason to feign ignorance.

‘Sorry
to hear that,’ he said. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘Don’t
think I haven’t noticed your by-line in the press over the years, Mac… and all those credits on serious TV programmes.’

‘But
how does that help?’

‘Look,
I know how the media works. Ruby isn’t the kind of cuddly, blonde-haired kid missing from suburbia that the papers would go big on every day. She’s a plain Jane from a grotty council estate with a weirdo mother so her disappearance isn’t getting the sort of coverage we need to keep what’s happened in the public mind.’

‘So
you want me to try and put a piece together… a feature, something like that?’

‘That’d
be terrific - and if someone prominent like you turns up asking questions, the police can’t just put Ruby’s case on the back burner.’

‘Have
they dragged the reservoir yet?’

Lexie
winced at this question, grimly logical though it was. She shook her head then unfolded a large sheet of paper from her shoulder bag and handed it to McCall. It was a minutely detailed pencil drawing of a huge stone castle, almost photographically reproduced with turrets, castellations, arrow-slit windows, studded oak doors and all perfectly reflected in a tree-lined lake.

‘What’s
this?’

‘Another
place the police have searched.’

‘I
thought Ruby lives in north London not Scotland.’

‘So
she does. This is a fake castle they built years ago to disguise the pumping station on the reservoir just around the corner from where Ruby lives and that’s where she always goes to act out her fantasies.’

‘And
the police found nothing?’

‘No,
but there’s something you need to know…. Ruby drew this picture.’

‘A
child of ten did this?’

‘Yes,
she did.’

‘I
don’t believe you.’

‘It’s
true. She might be the weirdest kid you’ll ever meet but she’s incredibly gifted.’

‘I’ve
never seen anything like it.’

‘And
she’ll have done it from memory.’

‘It’s
astonishing. This alone would walk her story into any of the colour supplements.’

‘She
only has to see something once, a building or a face, and she can go home and draw it.’

‘What
an amazing talent. Shouldn’t she be at a special art school?’

‘You’d
think so, but I doubt it’d happen.’

‘Why
ever not?’

‘Well,
I’m sure Etta does her best but a pushy mum she isn’t. Life hasn’t been easy for her with Ruby so if she’s occupied drawing and pretending she’s a princess in a castle and has a pet unicorn, Etta gets a few hours peace but she can’t see beyond that.’

A
colour supplement article was already forming in McCall’s head.