The Truth-Teller's Lie (13 page)

‘You should have been on to Kent police straight away, as soon as Mrs Haworth gave you an address. You should have faxed them the details and followed it up an hour later.’

Kent police would have loved that. Simon would have looked insane if he’d chased them after only an hour. ‘That would have been unwarranted, sir. I didn’t know then what I know now. Naomi Jenkins hadn’t accused Haworth of rape at that point.’

‘You’d know a damn sight more
now
if you’d contacted Kent police
then.
’

‘Would you have done that, sir? In my position?’ A direct challenge was risky. Sod it. ‘Mrs Haworth told me she’d make sure Mr Haworth got in touch as soon as he got back. She said he was trying to end his relationship with Naomi Jenkins but Jenkins wasn’t having any of it. I left a message on his mobile and I was waiting for him to get back to me. It seemed straightforward.’

‘Straighforward,’ said Proust quietly. Almost wistfully. ‘Is that how you’d describe it?’

‘Not
now,
no. It’s not straighforward any more . . .’

‘Indeed.’

‘Sir, I followed correct procedure. I decided to put it to one side for the time being and chase it up early next week if I hadn’t heard anything.’

‘And what factors contributed to that decision?’ Proust flashed a frightful false smile in Simon’s direction.

‘I did a standard risk assessment. Haworth’s an adult, there’s no indication he’s unstable or suicidal . . .’

The Snowman unleashed a small tidal wave of tea as he whirled round, faster on his feet than Fred Astaire. Simon wished Charlie wasn’t away on holiday. For some reason, life was always bad when she wasn’t around. ‘Robert Haworth has a wife and a mistress,’ said Proust. ‘More precisely, he has a wife who’s found out about his mistress, and a mistress who won’t allow him to call it a day. You’re not married, Waterhouse, so you perhaps won’t know this, but living with one woman who claims to be reasonably fond of you and whom you’ve never wronged in any appreciable way is hard enough. Take it from me, as a man who’s done thirty-two years’ hard labour in the matrimonial field. To have two to deal with, one at each ear, both blubbing about how
betrayed
they feel . . . well, I’d have gone a lot further than Kent if I were him.’

Hard labour in the matrimonial field? That was a classic. Simon would have to remember it, pass it on to Charlie. It was only thanks to the unstinting efforts of Lizzie Proust that the Snowman was able to appear to be a sane, functioning human being for even a fraction of the time.

If this conversation had taken place two years ago, or even last year, Simon would have been feeling hot and impatient by this stage, gritting his teeth and fast-forwarding, mentally, to the day when he would break Proust’s nose with his forehead. Today, he felt weary from the effort of remaining in adult mode while talking to a man who was effectively a child. Oh, very good, Waterhouse, very
psychological,
Proust would have said.

Simon wondered whether it would be reasonable to start thinking of himself as someone who used to have a violent temper. Or was it too soon for that?

‘What would you have done, sir? Are you saying that, on the basis of what we knew yesterday morning, you’d have chased it up with the Kent police?’

Proust never gave you the satisfaction of an answer. ‘Risk assessment, ’ he said scornfully, though he was the person who had given Simon the ACPO 2005 guidelines on missing persons procedure and instructed him to commit every word to memory. ‘Haworth’s at risk, all right, and I shouldn’t have to tell you why. He’s at risk because he’s involved, in some way that has yet to be determined, with this Naomi Jenkins woman. Risk assessment! She turns up one day and reports him missing, claiming he’s been her lover for the past year and she’s lost without him, and then the next day she’s back saying forget all that, it was all a big lie, and accusing Haworth of a three-year-old abduction and rape?’ He shook his head. ‘This’ll be a murder investigation by the end of the week, you watch.’

‘I’m not sure, sir. I think it’s premature to assume that.’

‘I wouldn’t need to assume anything if you’d taken control of the situation in a professional way!’ Proust yelled at him. ‘Why didn’t you interview Naomi Jenkins properly on Monday, get the full story out of her then?’

‘We did . . .’

‘This woman’s wrapping us round her little finger. She comes in whenever she feels like it, says whatever she fancies saying, and all you can do is nod and write down each new lie in great detail—a missing person report one minute, a rape statement the next. She’s staging a pantomime, and she’s cast you as the hind legs of the donkey!’

‘Sergeant Zailer and I—’

‘What, in the name of all things bright and beautiful, were you thinking of, taking a rape statement from her? Clearly she’s a rabid fantasist, and yet you choose to indulge her!’

Simon thought about Naomi Jenkins’ account of her rape, what she said those men had done to her. It was the worst thing he’d ever heard. He considered telling Proust how he’d actually, honestly, felt when she’d told him. No chance. The physical proximity of the Snowman repelled any ideas he’d foolishly harboured about the possibility of genuine communication taking place; you only had to take one look at the man.

‘If she’s lying about the rape, how do you explain the letter, signed N.J., that she sent to that website in May 2003?’

‘It’s a fantasy she’s had for years—since birth for all I know or care,’ said Proust impatiently. ‘Then she met Haworth and fleshed it out a little, added him to her absurd tale. Nothing she says can be relied upon.’

‘I agree her behaviour’s suspicious,’ said Simon. ‘Her instability’s obviously cause for greater concern about Haworth’s safety.’ We don’t disagree, he might have added. Pointless. ‘Which is why, as soon as I’d finished taking her statement, I
did
get on to Kent police. And they’ve just got back to me.’
In other words, you narrow-minded shit, I’ve got some facts you might be interested in if you’re willing to stop chucking blame at me for two seconds.
Simon had a sense of his words trickling back to him, having failed to get through, failed to permeate the rigid, invisible barrier that surrounded Proust at all times.

He persisted. ‘The address Juliet Haworth gave me exists, but no one there knows anything about Robert Haworth.’

‘She’s unstable as well,’ said the Snowman flatly, as if he suspected the two women in Robert Haworth’s life of deliberately conspiring to create problems for him, Giles Proust. ‘Well? Have you been back to the house and searched it? Have you searched Naomi Jenkins’ house? If you’d read the new missing persons gubbins I gave you—’

‘I have read it,’ Simon cut in. The ACPO 2005 guidelines for the management of missing persons were hardly new. Proust was averse to change. For weeks after the clocks went forward or back, he made a distinction between ‘old time’ and ‘new time’.

‘—you’d know that under Section 17, part c—or is it d?—you can enter any premises if you have cause to believe someone’s at risk—’

‘I know all that, sir. I just wanted to check with you first, as Sergeant Zailer’s away.’

‘Well, what did you think I’d say? A man’s missing. His bit on the side’s a conniving lunatic, and his wife, far from being worried about his whereabouts, is actively trying to put you off the scent. What did you think I’d say? Put your feet up and forget all about it?’

‘Of course not, sir.’
I have to consult you, you fucking wanker.
Did Proust think Simon enjoyed their little exchanges? It wasn’t as bad when Charlie was around: she acted as a buffer, shielding her team from the inspector’s bullying as much as she could. She also, more and more in recent months, made decisions that by rights were Proust’s to make, in order to minimise his stress and allow him to have the sort of short, easy days he liked.

‘Of course not, sir,’ Proust mimicked. He sighed and swallowed a yawn—a sign that he’d run out of steam. ‘Do the obvious things, Waterhouse. Search Jenkins’ house, and Haworth’s. Run the usual credit-card and telephony checks. Talk to everyone Haworth knows: friends, work contacts. You
know
what to do.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and while I’m underlining the absolutely elementary: bring in Naomi Jenkins’ computer. We’ll be able to tell, won’t we, whether the letter she claims she sent to the rape website originated from her machine?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Simon, thinking, Someone will, you won’t. Proust was an expert on everything that required no expertise, that was his problem. ‘If it’s the same machine. She might have bought a new one since.’

‘Get Sellers and Gibbs on to it too. As of today, it’s our highest priority.’

You get them on to it, Simon nearly made the mistake of saying. Was Proust preparing for retirement, he wondered, handing out his responsibilities to anyone who’d have them?

‘Grill Jenkins again. And go to the Traveltel—’

‘I’ve just got off the phone with the receptionist.’ Simon was pleased to be able to decapitate at least one of Proust’s unnecessary instructions. Giving redundant advice was one of the Snowman’s favourite hobbies, though he marginally preferred issuing completely uncalled-for warnings. He was forever telling Charlie and Simon and the rest of the team not to crash their cars or leave their front doors unlocked or fall off the sides of mountains if they went walking.

‘A man and a woman fitting Haworth’s and Jenkins’ descriptions have spent every Thursday night at the Traveltel, in room eleven, for roughly a year. Exactly as Jenkins said on Monday. I’m waiting for the Traveltel receptionist to get back to me and confirm it’s them. I’ve couriered a copy of the photo over to her—’

‘Of course it’s them!’ Proust slammed his mug down on the desk.

‘Sir, you’re presumably not saying that I shouldn’t have bothered to check?’ Such a basic failure—in a parallel universe in which Simon had still done lots of things wrong, but different things—would undoubtedly have resulted in a bollocking very similar to the one he was getting now.

The inspector looked thoroughly disgusted. Sounded it, too, as he said, ‘Just get on with it, Waterhouse, all right? Anything else, or might you allow me a few minutes’ calm in which to piece together the fragments of my shattered day?’

‘The receptionist said the couple—Haworth and Jenkins, assuming it’s them—seem very keen on one another.’

Proust threw up his hands. ‘That’s one mystery solved, then. That explains why they go to a roadside motel together every week. Sex, Waterhouse. What did you think: they both had a thing for eight-pound-ninety-nine platters?’

Simon ignored his sarcasm. The relationship between Robert Haworth and Naomi Jenkins was crucial, at the centre of this whole peculiar business, and the Traveltel receptionist, as far as Simon knew, was an objective, independent witness. He said firmly, ‘She told me they always had their arms round each other. Stared into each other’s eyes a lot, that sort of thing.’

‘At reception?’

‘Apparently.’

Proust snorted loudly.

‘And the woman always stayed the night, left the next morning. Whereas the man left at about seven the same evening.’

‘Always?’

‘That’s what she said.’

‘What sort of nonsense relationship can that be, then?’ said Proust, looking into his empty mug as if hoping to find that it had filled itself.

‘Possibly an abusive one,’ Simon suggested. ‘Sir, I was thinking about Stockholm syndrome. You know, where women fall in love with men who abuse them . . .’

‘Don’t waste my time, Waterhouse. Get out there and do your perishing job.’

Simon stood up, turned to leave.

‘Oh, and Waterhouse?’

‘Sir?’

‘You might buy me a book about sundials, while you’re out and about. I’ve always found them fascinating. Did you know that sundial time is more accurate than clock time, than Greenwich Mean Time? I read that somewhere. If you’re talking about measuring the precise position of the Earth in relation to the Sun—solar time—then a sundial’s your man.’ Proust smiled, startling Simon: happiness looked wrong on the inspector’s face. ‘Clocks would have us believe that all days are the same length, exactly twenty-four hours. Not true, Waterhouse. Not true. Some are a little bit shorter, and some a little bit longer. Did you know that?’

Simon did, only too well. The longer ones were the ones he was forced to spend in the company of Detective Inspector Giles Proust.

I HEAR MY back door slam. This sound is followed by the sound of footsteps. They are coming from the house towards the shed, where I’m working. When I talk to customers I call it my workshop, but it’s really just a medium-sized shed with a table, a wooden stool and all my tools in it. When I started up the business, I had two windows put in. I couldn’t work in a place that had no windows, not even for one day. I have to be able to see.

There are too many footsteps for it to be Yvon on her own. Without turning to look, I know it’s the police. I smile. A home visit. Finally I am being taken seriously. There are probably police officers on their way to your house as well, if they’re not there already. Knowing I will soon have news of you makes the passing of time bearable. It won’t be long. I try to focus only on getting the news, not on what it will be.

After days of blind, flailing panic, I feel as if I’ve scrambled up on to a small ledge. It’s a relief to be able to rest on it for a while, knowing that while I am passive, others are active.

I continue to apply gold leaf with my badger-hair brush. The motto on the dial I’m working on at the moment is ‘Better today than not at all’. It’s a belated silver-wedding-anniversary present from a forgetful husband to his wife; he told me he hopes the gesture is grand enough to get him out of her bad books. He wanted a standing sculpture, for a particular spot in their back garden. I’m making him a pillar out of Hornton stone, with the dial part on its flat top surface.