The Truth-Teller's Lie (31 page)

Steph’s bottom lip trembled. ‘Graham’ll kill me,’ she said. ‘He’ll blame me, and it’s not fair! We were only providing a service, that’s all. Entertainment. The men didn’t do anything wrong, they didn’t touch those women.’

‘Did you cook the food?’ asked Gibbs. ‘The elaborate dinners? Or did Robert Haworth do that? We know he was involved in the rapes, and we know he used to be a chef.’

Charlie hid her surprise. Robert Haworth, a chef?

‘I cooked,’ said Steph.

‘Is that another lie?’

‘She’s trying to protect Robert because he’s Graham’s brother,’ said Charlie. ‘If Graham’s sentimental about his customers, imagine how he must feel about his brother.’

‘You’re wrong there, actually,’ Steph gloated. ‘Robert and Graham aren’t speaking, haven’t for years.’

‘Why?’ Gibbs asked.

‘They had a huge row. Robert started going out with . . . one of the women. He told Graham he was going to marry her. And then he did marry her, the stupid bastard.’

‘Juliet?’ said Charlie. ‘Juliet Heslehurst?’

Steph nodded. ‘Graham was furious that Robert would even think of going near her, after . . . well, you know. It was such a risk to the business. Graham could have ended up behind bars, and Robert didn’t give a toss, just went ahead and married her.’ Her lips twitched in anger. ‘Graham’s way too soft on Robert. I keep telling him, if Robert was my brother, I’d never speak to him again.’

‘I thought you said Graham doesn’t speak to him,’ Charlie reminded her.

‘Yeah, but he keeps trying to make up. I’m the go-between, and I’m bloody fed up of passing messages back and forth. He’s too soft, my husband. It’s Robert who keeps the feud going.’ She frowned, deep in thought. ‘Graham says he can’t give up on him, though. Robert’s his kid brother, he’s always looked after him. More than their useless parents did, anyway.’

‘So Graham was willing to forgive Robert for endangering the business?’ said Gibbs.

‘Yeah. Family’s family to Graham, whatever they do. He was the same with his mum and dad. Robert was the one who cut them off, both of them. Didn’t speak a word to them after he left home. Claimed they’d let him down. Well, they had, but . . . then he said the same about Graham, after the row when he started seeing that Juliet woman. As if that was in any way the same!’ Old indignation, newly expressed.

‘If Graham cares about Robert, that gives you a reason to lie about Robert’s involvement in the rapes,’ said Charlie.

Steph frowned. ‘I’m not saying anything about Robert.’

‘He raped Prudence Kelvey,’ said Gibbs.

‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I don’t know that name. Look, I don’t remember most of the women’s names. I was busy in the kitchen most of the time.’

‘Prue Kelvey was raped in Robert’s lorry,’ Charlie told her.

‘Oh, right. In that case, I wouldn’t know. Once there were no meals involved, I kept out of it. Apart from when I was . . . being the victim.’

‘Why the change from chalet to lorry?’ asked Gibbs.

Steph examined her fingernails.

‘Well?’

She sighed, as if the questions were putting her out. ‘The chalet business started doing better and better. It got to the point where there were people around, guests, nearly all the time. Graham thought it was too risky—anyone might have seen or heard something. And the lorry was . . . mobile. It was more convenient. For me, especially. I was fed up of all the bloody cooking. I’ve got enough on my plate without that as well. The only downside is, we can’t charge as much now that we’re offering a package that doesn’t include dinner. But we still provide drinks.’ Steph’s voice was shrill, defensive. ‘Champagne—good-quality champagne. So it’s not as if we don’t offer them anything.’

Charlie decided she’d be quite happy if Steph Angilley were to die, suddenly, of an unforeseen but particularly painful heart attack. Gibbs looked as if he felt the same.

‘I hate Robert,’ Steph confided tearfully, as if she couldn’t keep it in any longer. ‘Changing his name like that—the bastard. He only did that to hurt Graham, and it worked. Graham was devastated. He’s in a terrible state at the moment, ever since
you
told him Robert was in hospital.’

She spat the words at Charlie, who tried not to flinch as she remembered talking to Simon on her mobile in front of Graham. ‘So, what’s happened to this Haworth chap?’ Graham had asked casually afterwards. And Charlie had told him about Robert, that he was unlikely to live. Graham had looked upset; Charlie remembered thinking it was sweet of him to be concerned.

‘Graham really cares about family, and his are all shit,’ Steph went on. ‘Even his little brother turned out to be a traitor. Who does Robert think he is? He was the one in the wrong, not Graham. It’s so unfair! Everyone knows you don’t mix business with pleasure, and you certainly don’t try to ruin your own brother’s business. He did it again as well.’

‘What?’

‘That Naomi woman you were with before. Robert must have been shagging her, because she tried to book a chalet for the two of them. She pretended she was called Haworth too, but I knew it was her as soon as I heard the name Naomi. Graham was spitting feathers. “Robert’s done it again,” he said.’

Charlie tried to clear her mind. There was nothing like talking to a very stupid person for bringing on a sort of mental claustrophobia. ‘Graham and Robert aren’t speaking. Yet you use his lorry for your stag nights.’

‘Yeah,’ said Steph. ‘Graham had his own key cut.’

‘You mean to say Robert doesn’t know you use the lorry for your stag dos?’ Gibbs’ voice was incredulous. ‘He must notice it’s missing some nights. Does Graham pretend he uses the lorry for some other purpose?’

Charlie didn’t like the slant of Gibbs’ questions. Why was he trying to find a way for Robert Haworth not to be guilty of anything? They
knew
Haworth had raped Prue Kelvey—there was solid, incontrovertible evidence to prove it.

Steph bit her lip, looking wary.

Gibbs tried again. ‘If Robert wants nothing to do with Graham, why let him use the lorry? For money? Does Graham hire it from him?’

‘I’m not saying anything about Robert, all right?’ Steph folded her arms. ‘As it is, Graham’s going to bloody kill me. If I talk about Robert, he really will murder me. He’s very protective of his little brother.’

28

Sunday, April 9

IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time I get to my house. I hitched a lift with a chatty young lorry driver called Terry, and made it back safely. I wasn’t nervous about being in a stranger’s car. All the worst things that might happen to me already have. I feel immune to danger.

Yvon’s car isn’t here. She must have gone back to Cambridge, to Ben’s. I knew she would, when I left home yesterday without telling her where I was going. Yvon is one of those people who can’t be alone. She needs a strong presence in her life, someone to rely on, and my recent behaviour has been too unpredictable. She imagines life with Ben Cotchin will be safer.

The cliché ‘Love is blind’ should be replaced with a more accurate one: ‘Love is unconscious.’ Like you, Robert. If you’ll pardon the sick joke. Yvon sees everything Ben does, but can’t draw the right conclusions. It’s her mind that’s not working properly, not her eyes.

I go straight to my workshop, unlock the door and pick up the largest of my dummy mallets, weighing it in my palm. I stroke its gold head with my fingers. I’ve always found dummy mallets satisfying to hold; I like the absence of straight lines. They’re the same shape as the pestles some people use for grinding herbs into pastes, except they’re made of wood and bronze. With this one in my hand, I could do serious damage, which is what I want to do.

I pick up a length of rope from the floor, under my work table, then some more. I have no idea how much is enough. I’m used to tying up wrapped sundials, not men. In the end, I decide to take all the rope I’ve got, and a large pair of scissors. I lock up the workshop, go back to my car and drive to Charlie’s house.

No one could blame me for what I’m about to do. I’m performing a service, a necessary one. There’s no alternative. Graham Angilley attacked us all too long ago—Juliet, me, Sandy Freeguard. Simon Waterhouse told me on Wednesday that the conviction rate for years-old rapes is low, and Charlie said there’s no DNA evidence from Sandy Freeguard’s attack. Only Prue Kelvey’s, and Angilley didn’t touch her. It would be his word against mine.

Charlie’s house is dark, as it was when Terry the lorry driver—your colleague, as I like to think of him—dropped me off outside it forty-five minutes ago, to collect my car. I wasn’t prepared to go inside then, unarmed.

The building looks empty, radiates cold stillness. If your brother Graham is inside, he must be asleep. I take Charlie’s keys and, as quietly as I can, try them in the lock one by one. The third one works. I turn it very slowly, then, inch by inch, I push open the front door.

Holding the dummy mallet in my hand, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once they have, I begin to climb the stairs. One step creaks slightly, but not enough to wake someone who’s sleeping, oblivious. On the upstairs landing, there are three doors. I assume they lead to two bedrooms and a bathroom. I tiptoe into the bedrooms, one by one. Nobody. I check the bathroom: also empty.

I’m not as frightened as I probably should be. I’ve slipped back into I-can-do-anything mode. Last time I felt like this, I went to the police station and told a detective that you’d raped me. Thank God I did. It’s thanks to me that Juliet’s attempt to kill you failed.

I go back downstairs, holding the mallet level with my head in case I need to use it suddenly. I’ve got the rope over my arm and the strap of my bag round my neck. I open the only door in the hall and find a long, thin lounge with open glass doors in the middle, off which is a small, messy kitchen, with lots of washing-up heaped on one side of the sink.

Satisfied that there’s no one in the house, I close the curtains in the lounge and pat the walls near the door until I find the light switch. If Graham Angilley comes back to the house and sees a light on, he’ll assume it’s Charlie. He’ll ring the bell. I’ll open the door, but not wide enough for him to see me. Then I’ll hide behind it, and when he pushes it all the way open and walks in, I’ll smash the dummy mallet down on his head.

I blink, dazzled by the sudden bright glare in the room. I see a lamp and switch that on instead, turning the main light off again. There’s a note on the table, next to the base of the lamp. It says, ‘Where the hell are you? You didn’t leave a key. I’ve gone to get something to eat and a few stiff drinks. I’ll come back later. Ring me on my mobile when you get this message—I’m v. worried. Hope whatever you’re doing isn’t mad/life-threatening.’

I drop the piece of paper as soon as I’ve read it. I don’t want to hold your brother’s handwriting, don’t want it to touch my skin. The message puzzles me. Why did Angilley need a key? He must already have been inside the house, in order to put the note on the table. Then it occurs to me that if he wanted to go out, he would need to be able to let himself back in. He is probably somewhere nearby, phoning every so often to see if Charlie has come back. No one’s rung since I’ve been here, though. Why isn’t he trying the landline?

And the front door was locked when I arrived. Who locked it, if Angilley has no key?

I pull Charlie’s mobile phone out of my handbag. It’s switched off. I turn it on, but don’t know her pin number, so I can’t access any messages Angilley might have left.

I’m v. worried. Hope whatever you’re doing isn’t mad/life-threatening.

He cares about her. Pain and bitterness rise inside me like a tidal wave. There’s nothing worse than to be confronted with evidence that a person who has nearly destroyed you is capable of being kind to somebody else.

I shiver, telling myself it’s not possible. Charlie Zailer cannot be Graham Angilley’s lover. I could have spoken to any detective about your disappearance on Monday; I gave her the Silver Brae Chalets card by mistake. And she just happens to be sleeping with your brother?

I don’t believe in coincidences.

I hear a car door open and close in the street outside. Then it cuts out. It has to be him. I run to the hall, take up my position by the front door. Dropping the rope on the floor at my feet, I grab the handle, ready to twist it as soon as the bell rings. Just one, soft, small turn should do it.

Then I hear the noise I imagine the door will make when I open it. Except I’m not imagining it; I’m really hearing it. Inside the house—the sound is coming from behind me, where there should be silence. In my shock, I loosen my grip on the dummy mallet and it drops to the floor. I swallow a scream, and bend to pick it up, but I can’t see it. My hands get tangled in the coils of rope.

The hall is darker than it was only seconds ago. How can that be? Was the noise I heard the sound of a light bulb dying? No; the lounge door has swung almost shut. Get a grip, I tell myself, but my heartbeat races on, heedless. I need to get back in control.

I hear footsteps, tapping up the path towards the door. I drop down on to my haunches, patting the floor to find the dummy mallet. ‘Where is it?’ I whisper, desperate. The bell rings. A female voice says, ‘Char? Charlie?’ I hold my breath. It’s not your brother. I haven’t a clue what to do now. Who else could it be? Who drops round at one in the morning?

I hear the voice mutter, ‘What the fuck sort of welcome is this?’ but I don’t dare to open the door. My fingers close around the dummy mallet. Should I say something?

‘Charlie, open the door, for Christ’s sake.’

The woman sounds frantic. She must be the one who wrote the note I found, not Graham Angilley. But the note was in the lounge, on the table. Not on the hall carpet near the letter box, where it should have been . . .

The woman bangs her fists against the stained glass. I leave the mallet on the floor and crawl back into the lounge, pushing the door open with my head. That’s when I see him. He’s standing, feet wide apart, in the centre of the lounge. Smiling at me.

‘Naomi Jenkins, as I live and breathe,’ he says.

Panic engulfs me. I try to stand up, but he pulls me towards him, clamping his hand over my mouth. He tastes of soap.

‘Ssh,’ he says. ‘Listen. Can you hear it? Footsteps. Quieter and quieter and . . . there we are! Charlie’s little sis is squeezing her fat bot back into her car.’

I hear the engine again. His touch corrodes my skin. I am slipping away from myself.

‘There she goes. Bye-bye, Fat Bitch Slim.’ Still pressing his hand down over my mouth, he puts his lips against my ear. ‘Hello, you,’ he whispers.