The Truth-Teller's Lie (25 page)

21

4/8/06

‘THE BRONTËS CAME from Haworth,’ said Simon. ‘Robert’s surname is Haworth.’

‘I know.’ Charlie had had the same thought.

‘Know the name of the man Charlotte Brontë married?’

She shook her head. It was the sort of thing Simon knew and most normal people didn’t.

‘Arthur Bell Nicholls. Remember Robert Haworth’s sister Lottie Nicholls, the one he told Naomi Jenkins about?’

‘Jesus. The three sisters! Juliet hinted that they were dead.’

‘Looks like Haworth took his identification with Branwell Brontë a bit too far,’ said Simon grimly. ‘What about his surname? Think it’s a coincidence?’

Charlie told him what she’d told Naomi Jenkins the previous day: ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Gibbs is pursuing the Giggleswick School and Oxenhope angles, so we should have something concrete soon. No wonder we got nothing from the Lottie fucking Nicholls connection.’

‘I don’t like these interviews.’ Simon swirled an inch of lukewarm tea around the bottom of his Styrofoam cup. ‘Robert Haworth’s two crazy women. They give me the creeps.’

He and Charlie were in the police canteen, a bare-walled, windowless hall with a broken one-armed bandit machine in one corner. Neither was happy with the backdrop, or the tepid, weak tea. Normally, they would have had a conversation like this in the Brown Cow over a proper drink, but Proust had made a comment to Charlie about how in future he wanted his detectives to do their work
at
work, not slope off to sleazy lap-dancing clubs in the middle of shifts.

‘Sir, the only thing you’re likely to find in your lap at the Brown Cow is one of Muriel’s red napkins, before she serves you your lunch,’ Charlie had objected.

‘We come to work to work,’ Proust roared. ‘Not to indulge our tastebuds. A quick dash to the canteen every day—that’s the lunch I’ve had for twenty years and you don’t see me complaining.’

Funny, that was exactly what Charlie saw. Nor was it an unfamiliar sight. The Snowman was in a foul mood at the moment. Charlie had got him some prices from the most economical sundial-maker she’d been able to find, an ex-stonemason based in Wiltshire, but even he had said the final price, for the sort of dial Proust was after, would be at least two thousand pounds. Superintendent Barrow had vetoed the plan. Funds were limited, and there were higher priorities. Like fixing the one-armed bandit machine.

‘Do you know what the cretin told me to do?’ Proust had ranted to Charlie. ‘He said the garden centre near where he lives sells sundials for much less than two grand. I’ve got his permission to buy one from there if I want to. Never mind that those ones are freestanding and our nick’s got no perishing garden! Never mind that they don’t even attempt to tell the time! Oh, did I forget to mention that crucial fact, Sergeant? Yes, that’s right: Barrow doesn’t see the difference between an ornamental, garden-centre dial that’s just for show and a real one made to keep solar time! The man’s a liability.’

Charlie heard Simon say, ‘Proust.’

She looked up. ‘What?’

‘I think what we’re doing’s unethical. Tossing Naomi Jenkins into Juliet Haworth’s cage, using her as bait. I’m going to talk to the Snowman about it.’

‘He approved it.’

‘He doesn’t know what’s being said. Both women are lying to us. We’re getting nowhere.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare, Simon!’ Threats wouldn’t work with him. He was a contrary bugger, prone to thinking he was the sole guardian of propriety and decency. Another thing to blame on his religious upbringing. Charlie softened her tone. ‘Look, the best chance we’ve got of working out what the fuck’s going on here is if we let those two keep going at each other and hope something comes out of it. Something already has: we know more about Robert Haworth’s background than we did yesterday.’

Seeing Simon’s sceptical expression, Charlie added, ‘All right, Juliet might be lying. Everything she says might be a lie, but I don’t think so. I think there
is
something she wants us to know, something she wants Naomi Jenkins to know. We’ve got to give it time to come out, Simon. And unless you’ve got a better plan, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t run snivelling to Proust and try to persuade him to fuck up mine.’

‘You think Naomi Jenkins is tougher than she is,’ said Simon in a level voice. He didn’t rise to the bait anymore, Charlie had noticed. ‘She could crack at any time, and when she does, you’ll feel shit about it. I don’t know what it is with you and her . . .’

‘Don’t be ridiculous . . .’

‘Okay, she’s intelligent, she’s not a scuzz like a lot of the people we deal with. But you’re treating her like she’s one of us, and she’s not. You’re expecting her to do too much, you’re telling her too much . . .’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘You’re telling her everything to arm her against Juliet because you’re sure Juliet’s the one who tried to kill Haworth, but what if she isn’t? She hasn’t confessed. Naomi Jenkins has lied to us from the get-go, and I say she’s still lying.’

‘She’s withholding something,’ Charlie admitted. She needed to get Naomi on her own. She was sure she’d be able to get the truth out of her if they were alone.

‘She knows something about whatever Juliet’s not telling us,’ said Simon. ‘And Juliet can see that, and doesn’t like it one bit. She wants to be the one with all the knowledge, releasing it piece by piece. She’s going to stop talking, I reckon. No more interviews. It’s the only way she can exercise her power.’

Charlie decided to change the subject. ‘How’s Alice?’ she said casually. The question she’d resolved never to ask.
Damn.
Too late now.

‘Alice Fancourt?’ Simon sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t thought about her for a while.

‘Do we know any others?’

‘I don’t know how she is. Why would I know?’

‘You said you were going to meet her.’

‘Oh, right. Well, I didn’t.’

‘You cancelled?’

Simon looked puzzled. ‘No. I never arranged to see her.’

‘But . . .’

‘All I said is, I might get in touch, see if she fancied meeting up. But I decided not to, in the end.’

Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or throw cold tea in his face. Anger and relief struggled for dominance inside her, but relief was the weaker feeling and didn’t stand a chance. ‘You fucking arsehole, ’ she said.

‘Hey?’ Simon adopted his most innocent expression: the bewilderment of a man who has been randomly accosted by trouble he could not have foreseen. What made it even more bloody irritating was that it was genuine. About work, Simon could be arrogant and overbearing, but in any personal matter he was self-effacing. Dangerously humble, Charlie had often thought. His modesty made him assume that nothing he said or did was likely to have an impact on anyone.

‘You told me you were going to meet her,’ she said. ‘I thought it was all fixed up. You must have known I’d think that.’

Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to give that impression, if I did.’

Charlie didn’t want to talk about it any more. She’d shown that she cared. Again.

Four years ago, at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party, Simon had rejected Charlie in a particularly unforgettable way. Not before he’d raised her hopes, though. They’d found a quiet, dark bedroom and closed the door. Charlie was sitting astride Simon, and they were kissing. That they would end up having sex had seemed a foregone conclusion. Charlie’s clothes were in a pile on the floor, though Simon hadn’t removed any of his. She should have been suspicious then, but she wasn’t.

Without explanation or apology, Simon had changed his mind and left the room without a word. In his hurry, he’d not bothered to shut the door. Charlie had dressed quickly, but not before at least nine or ten people had seen her.

She was still waiting for something to happen to her that would neutralise that moment in her memory, make it cease to matter. Graham, perhaps. So much better for the ego than Simon and more accessible too. Perhaps that was the problem. Why was that invisible barrier so attractive?

‘Go and see how Gibbs is getting on,’ she said. It was strange to think that if she hadn’t got the wrong end of the stick about Alice, she would not have invented a fictional boyfriend called Graham. And if she hadn’t done that, she might not have been so determined to make something happen with Graham Angilley when she met him. On the other hand, she might have. Wasn’t she Tyrannosaurus Sex, man-eater and all-round freak?

Simon looked worried, as if he thought it might be unwise for him to get up and leave now, though it was clearly what he wanted to do. Charlie didn’t return his tentative smile.
Why haven’t you asked me a single question about Graham, you bastard? Not one, since I first mentioned him.

Once Simon had gone, she pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag and dialled the number of Silver Brae Chalets, wishing she’d remembered to get Graham’s mobile number. She didn’t want to have to navigate her way through a stilted conversation with the dogsbody.

‘Hello, Silver Brae Luxury Chalets, Steph speaking, how may I help you?’

Charlie smiled. Graham had answered the phone the only other time she’d rung, from Spain, and he hadn’t gone through that whole spiel. It was typical of him to make the dogsbody do the full receptionist bit that he’d never dream of doing himself.

‘Could I speak to Graham Angilley, please?’ Charlie put on a strong Scottish accent. A purist might say she didn’t sound Scottish, but she didn’t sound like herself either, which was what mattered. The disguise was purely strategic. Charlie wasn’t scared of a confrontation with Steph—in fact, she was looking forward to telling the silly tart what she thought of her the next time they met; she’d been too stunned to respond after Steph’s tirade in the lodge—but now wasn’t the time for a verbal scrap. Charlie had no doubt that the dogsbody would prevent her from talking to Graham if she could, so subterfuge was her best bet.

‘I’m sorry, Graham’s not here at the moment.’ Steph tried to make her voice sound more refined than the one Charlie had heard her use earlier in the week. Pretentious cow.

‘Do you have a mobile number for him at all?’

‘May I ask what it’s regarding?’ An edge crept into Steph’s voice.

Charlie wondered if her Scottish accent was more rubbish than she’d allowed for. Had the dogsbody guessed who she was? ‘Oh, just a booking. It’s not important,’ she backtracked. ‘I’ll ring again later.’

‘There’s no need,’ said Steph, sounding sure of herself again. The hostility had vanished from her voice. ‘I can help you with that, even if you spoke to Graham originally. I’m Steph. I’m the general manager.’

You’re the fucking dogsbody, you liar, thought Charlie. ‘Oh, right,’ she said. She couldn’t be bothered to go through the rigmarole of making a fake booking, one that’d need to be cancelled later, but she couldn’t think of a way out. Steph was keen to demonstrate her efficiency. ‘Erm . . .’ Charlie began tentatively, hoping she sounded like a busy, multitasking Scot who was leafing through her diary.

‘Actually,’ said Steph conspiratorially, filling the gap in the conversation, ‘don’t tell him I told you this, but you’re better off dealing with me, not Graham. My husband’s not the most precise person when it comes to admin. His head’s usually somewhere else. I’ve lost count of the number of times people have turned up and I’ve had no idea they were coming.’

Charlie gulped air as the shock blasted through her. She felt winded, as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

‘Oh, it’s never a problem,’ Steph chattered on confidently. ‘I always sort it out and everybody’s happy. We only ever have satisfied customers.’ She giggled.

‘Husband,’ said Charlie quietly. No Scottish accent.

Steph didn’t seem to notice the change, of pronunciation or of mood. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I must be mad, living with him
and
working with him. Still, like I always tell my friends, at least I won’t have that culture shock that a lot of women get when their husbands retire and suddenly they’re around all the time. I’m used to having Graham under my feet.’ As Steph spoke, Charlie felt herself slowly deflating.

She pressed the end call button on her phone and marched out of the canteen.

When Charlie got back to the CID room and found Gibbs waiting for her practically on the threshold, his face contorted with impatience, her first thought was that she couldn’t do it, couldn’t speak to him. Not now. Conversations with Chris Gibbs required stamina and a certain amount of hardiness. She needed an hour alone. Half an hour, at least. Tough. Hers wasn’t the sort of job where that was possible.

It had been a mistake coming straight back here. She’d passed the ladies’ toilets on the way back from the canteen and considered going in, hiding in there until she was ready to face the world again. But who the fuck knew when that would be? And if she locked herself in a cubicle, she would cry, and then she’d have to wait fifteen minutes or so until her face looked normal again. Whereas going straight back to the CID room meant crying wasn’t an option. Good, she’d thought. She had known Graham Angilley less than a week, for Christ’s sake. She’d seen him a total of three times. It ought to be easy to forget about him.

‘Where have you been?’ Gibbs demanded. ‘I’ve got that background on Robert Haworth.’

‘Great,’ said Charlie weakly. She didn’t want to ask him to tell her what he’d got until she was sure she’d be able to stay and listen. It wasn’t out of the question that she’d need to run to the loo after all.

‘Well worth the wait, I’d say.’ There was triumph in Gibbs’ eyes. ‘Giggleswick School and Oxenhope—both true. Sarge?’

‘Sorry. Go on.’

‘You told me it was urgent. Do you want to hear it or not?’ Gibbs jabbed his head in her direction as he spoke, like an angry turkey. The body language of a bully.

At that moment Charlie couldn’t have cared less about Robert Haworth’s village of origin or education. ‘Give me five minutes, Chris,’ she said. That startled him. She’d never called Gibbs by his first name before.

She left the room and went to stand in the corridor, leaning her back against the wall. The ladies’ toilets were tempting, but she resisted. Crying wasn’t the answer—she bloody well refused to cry—but she needed to allow the adjustment process to complete itself. She couldn’t be around any of her team for as long as she could feel a weight sinking inside her, while this loop of thoughts was endlessly repeating in her head. Five minutes, she thought, that’s all I need.