Believing the Lie

by Elizabeth George

  “Lancaster University? What’s going on?”

  “I’m following Alatea Fairclough. She’s come here in the company of a woman from a disabled soldiers’ home. I want to see where they’re going.” She didn’t give him time to consider what this might mean, instead continuing with, “This entire situation has got to do with Alatea Fairclough. Something’s not right, Tommy. I know you can sense it.”

  “I’m not sure I sense anything other than the distinct possibility that you’re walking into trouble, Alatea Fairclough or not.”

  “There can hardly be trouble in my following them. They don’t know I’m behind them. And even if they work that out…” She hesitated. To tell him more would risk his telling Simon.

  He was shrewd as a fox. He said, “You didn’t answer my other question, Deb. Whose call are you waiting for?”

  “The journalist.”

  “That bloke from The Source? Deb, this is a mad sort of business to be engaging in. Anything can happen.”

  “I see nothing worse happening than my photo appearing on the front page of The Source with a caption misidentifying me as Detective Sergeant Cotter. And I see that as hilarious, Tommy. It’s hardly dangerous.”

  He was silent for a moment. Ahead, Deborah saw that the women had come to their destination, which was a modern upended box of a building constructed of brick and concrete in the unattractive fashion of the 1960s. Deborah gave them a minute to enter and to get themselves out of the lobby and into a lift. In the meantime, Tommy said, “Deb, have you any idea what it would do to Simon if something happened to you? Because believe me, I have.”

  She paused at the building’s front door. She said gently, “Dearest Tommy.” He made no reply. She knew what the question had cost him. She said, “You’re not to worry. I’m quite safe.”

  She heard him sigh. “Take care,” he said.

  “Of course,” she replied. “And please. Not a word to Simon.”

  “If he asks me— ”

  “He won’t.” And she rang off.

  Immediately her mobile chimed again. Zed Benjamin demanded, “Who the hell were you talking to? I was trying to ring you. Where the hell are you?”

  Deborah told him the truth. She was talking to a DI from the Met. She was standing in front of… Well, the building was called George Childress Centre and she was about to go inside and see what was housed here. He could join her, but she wouldn’t recommend it since, as before, he was rather more difficult to camouflage than she was.

  He seemed to see the sense in this. He said, “Ring me when you know anything, then. And this better not be a double cross of some kind or you’re in the paper tomorrow morning and the gaff is blown.”

  “Absolutely understood.”

  She flipped the phone closed and went inside the building. There were four lifts in the lobby as well as a security guard. She knew she couldn’t bluff her way past the guard for love or money, so she looked round and saw that to one side of the lobby and between two languishing bamboo plants, a glassed-in notice board was hung on the wall. She went to this and studied its information.

  It identified offices, surgeries, and what appeared to be laboratories, and above all of these was something that made Deborah whisper, “Yes!” For the building itself fell under the aegis of the Faculty of Science and Technology. When she saw this, Deborah searched the list feverishly and found what she knew at heart would be there. One of the laboratories was dedicated to the study of reproductive science. Her intuition had been correct all along. She was on the right path. Simon had been wrong.

  NEWBY BRIDGE

  CUMBRIA

  When Lynley rang off, he looked at his friend. St. James had watched him the entire time he’d been speaking to Deborah, and there were few people Lynley knew who were more adept at reading between the lines than St. James, although there actually wasn’t much reading between the lines that St. James would have had to do. Lynley had framed the conversation with Deborah in such a way that her husband would understand where she was and with whom without Lynley overtly betraying her.

  St. James said, “She can be the most maddening woman.”

  Lynley raised and lowered his fingers in a gesture that indicated his acceptance of this idea. “Isn’t that the nature of women in general?”

  St. James sighed. “I should have put my foot down in some fashion.”

  “Good Lord, Simon. She’s an adult. You can hardly drag her kicking and howling back to London.”

  “Her point exactly.” St. James rubbed his forehead. He looked as if he hadn’t slept during the previous night. He continued. “It’s unfortunate we needed two hire cars. I’d have been able to give her a clear choice otherwise: Come with me to Manchester airport or find your own way home.”

  “I doubt that would have gone down very well. And you know what her reply would have been.”

  “Oh yes. That’s the hell of it. I do know my wife.”

  “Thank you for coming up here, Simon, for lending a hand.”

  “I would have liked to give you a more definitive answer. But it all stacks up the same way, no matter how I look at the facts: an unfortunate accident.”

  “Despite the plethora of motives? Everyone seems to have one. Mignon, Freddie McGhie, Nick Fairclough, Kaveh Mehran. God knows who else.”

  “Despite,” St. James said.

  “And not the perfect crime?”

  St. James glanced out of the window at a copper beech hedge aflame with autumn as he considered this. They had met in a rather crumbling Victorian hotel not far from Newby Bridge, where in its lounge they were able to order morning coffee. It was the sort of place about which Helen would have happily declared Lord, how deliciously atmospheric it is, Tommy in order to excuse the hideous carpets, the layer of dust on the wall-mounted deer heads, and the tattered condition of the sofas and armchairs. For a moment, Lynley missed his wife with a crushing force. He breathed through it as he’d learned to do. Everything passes, he thought. This also would.

  St. James stirred in his armchair and said, “There were perfect crimes at one time, of course. But today, it’s so difficult that virtually no one can carry one off. Forensic science is too advanced, Tommy. There are ways to pick up trace evidence now that were unheard of even five years ago. Today a perfect crime would have to be one in which no one thinks there was a crime at all.”

  “But isn’t that the case here?”

  “Not with a coroner’s investigation having been completed. Not with Bernard Fairclough coming to London and getting you involved. A perfect crime now is one in which there’s no suspicion that there could have been a crime. An investigation is neither ordered nor needed, the coroner signs off on the death on the spot, the victim is conveniently cremated within forty-eight hours, and there you have it. But with the situation you’ve got here, all the bases were covered and there was ultimately nothing to suggest Ian Cresswell’s death was anything other than what the coroner decided: an accident.”

  “And if Valerie and not Ian was the intended victim?”

  “Exactly the same problem, as you know.” St. James took up his coffee. “If this was intentional, Tommy, and if Valerie and not Ian had been the intended victim, you’ve got to agree there are far better ways to be rid of her. Everyone knew Ian used the boathouse as well as Valerie. Why risk killing him if she was supposed to die? And what’s the motive anyway? And even if there is a motive for her death, trying to go at this problem through forensic data isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

  “Because there is no forensic data.”

  “None that suggests this wasn’t what it appears to be: an accident.”

  “Something other than that filleting knife could have been used to dislodge the stones, Simon.”

  “Of course. But the stones themselves would have borne the marks of a tool being used on them. And they had no marks. You saw that. Beyond that, look how many others were loose. That boathouse has doubtless been an accident waiting to happen for years
.”

  “No case to present, then.”

  “That’s my conclusion.” St. James smiled regretfully. “So I’d have to say to you what I’ve said— quite unsuccessfully— to Deborah. It’s time to go back to London.”

  “What about a crime of intent?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning one wishes another dead. One hopes for it. One even plans it. But before the plan can be put into action, an accident supervenes. The intended victim dies anyway. Could we have that here?”

  “We could, of course. But even if we do, the point is in this case no guilt can be established, and no one’s behaviour is suggesting guilt.”

  Lynley nodded thoughtfully. “Still and all…”

  “What?”

  “I have the nagging feeling— ” Lynley’s mobile rang. He glanced at the number then said to St. James, “Havers.”

  “Could be something new, then.”

  “I can only hope.” Lynley answered the call with, “Tell me something, Sergeant. At this point, anything will do.”

  CHALK FARM

  LONDON

  Barbara had placed the call to Lynley from her home. She’d been into the Met long before the crack of dawn to engage in some further investigating using the vast resources there. Afterwards, not wishing to be anywhere near the place when acting Detective Superintendent Ardery showed her face, she’d scarpered home. Twelve cups of coffee had seen her through the early morning, and at this point she was so lit up by caffeine that she doubted she’d be able to sleep for days. She was also smoking like a steam engine going full throttle. Her head felt as if her brain were about to begin sending out torpedoes.

  The first thing she told Lynley was, “There’s a kid, Inspector. This may be important. This may be nothing. But turns out Vivienne Tully’s got an eight-year-old daughter called Bianca. I think she also knew I was going to show my mug on her doorstep. Her flat was swept clean of everything personal, and she didn’t exactly swoon with shock when I told her I was from the Met. I only found out about the kid because I’m bonding with the building’s porter in a very big way. Expect an announcement soon in that quarter.”

  “You got inside, then.”

  “My talents, sir, know not a single bound. I live to impress you.” Barbara went on to tell Lynley what she’d learned from Vivienne. She gave him everything from the woman’s education to her employment to her intention to return to New Zealand, land of her birth. “Didn’t deny a thing about Fairclough: knowing him, acting as a board member of his foundation, seeing him regularly for meals and such at Twins. But she threw up a roadblock when it came to why he has a key to her digs.”

  “This child, Bianca. Could she be Fairclough’s?”

  “Possibly. But she could also be his son’s, Ian Cresswell’s, the prime minister’s, or the Prince of Wales’s for that matter. She could be a wild night on the town, a little whoops, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this Vivienne hasn’t worked for Fairclough for years. She hasn’t worked for him since before she even had the kid. It’d be hard to believe she’s maintained a long-distance romance with him, wouldn’t you say, a long-distance romance enduring enough to have had his kid?”

  “Perhaps it’s not a romance that’s been maintained for years, Barbara. Perhaps Bianca’s the result of a chance encounter that brought Vivienne back into Fairclough’s life at some point.”

  “What? Like they find themselves in a lift somewhere, lock eyes on each other, and the rest is Bianca? I s’pose that’s possible.”

  “He established a foundation,” Lynley pointed out. “He needed board members, and she’s one of them.”

  “Can’t be that. Foundation’s been around long before Bianca was a gleam in anyone’s eye. Anyway, accepting a position on the foundation board’s one thing. Getting involved with Fairclough and staying involved with him is another. Why would she want to do that? He’s decades older. I’ve seen his picture as well and believe me, they’re not close to being a physical match. Wouldn’t she have preferred a bloke nearer to her own age and also available? Getting enmeshed with a married bloke is generally boarding a train to nowhere and she seems far too clever for that.”

  “In a sensible world she would have understood your point and made a different sort of decision. But if she didn’t, you’ll have to agree that there’re always things making people far less than sensible, Sergeant.”

  Barbara heard the murmur of someone’s voice in the background. Lynley identified the voice with, “Simon’s saying that vast amounts of money make people less than sensible all the time.”

  “Okay. Right. But if the kid’s Fairclough’s, and if he’s been doing the horizontal rumba with Vivienne Tully for God only knows how long, then why bring in a Scotland Yard investigation into his nephew’s death, which has already been called an accident? He’d have to have known that everyone would be looked into, including himself. What the hell sort of risk is he taking?”

  “If it’s unrelated to Cresswell’s death, he may be reckoning on my keeping a lid on this particular aspect of his private life.”

  “If it’s unrelated,” Barbara said. “But if it is related, that bloody well explains why Hillier picked you for this particular job, doesn’t it? The earl covering up for the baron. He’d like that touch, Hillier would.”

  “I can’t disagree. He’s done it before. Anything else?” Lynley enquired.

  “Yeah. I’ve been busy. Kaveh Mehran’s not lying about ownership of that farm. Cresswell left it to him. Interesting bit is when he did it. Prepare for a drum roll: He signed the will one week before he drowned.”

  “That’s telling,” Lynley agreed. “Although one would have to wonder at a murderer so dimwitted as to kill someone one week after a will was signed in his favour.”

  “There is that,” Havers admitted.

  “Anything more?”

  “Oh, I’m the early bird, all right. Getting up at ungodly hours of the morning also allows one to make international phone calls whose recipients are easy to reach because they’re still in bed.”

  “Argentina?” Lynley guessed.

  “In a pie tin. I managed to get through to the home of the mayor of Santa Maria di all the et ceteras. I tried his office first but that turned out to be a case of someone at one end saying quien and que and me on this end shouting, ‘Let me talk to the bloody mayor for God’s sake,’ before I finally worked out the time difference and twigged I was talking to the cleaner. I had to give up that idea, but I did get to the house. And let me tell you, that was not an easy task.”

  “I’m all admiration, Barbara. What did you uncover?”

  “The fact that no one speaks English in Argentina. Or that everyone pretends not to speak English. Have it either way. I did manage to corner someone I think was Dominga Padilla y del Torres de Vasquez, though. I kept repeating the name and she kept saying si when she wasn’t saying quien. I went with Alatea’s name, then, and this Dominga started babbling. There was a lot of Dios mios and dondes and graciases. So I wager this bird knows who Alatea is. What I need just now is someone who can talk to her.”

  “Are you onto that, then?”

  “Like I said before, Azhar’s got to know someone at the university.”

  “There’ll be someone at the Yard as well, Barbara.”

  “With some fishing. But I go that route, and the guv will be all over me like groupies on a rock star. She’s already asked me— ”

  “I’ve spoken to her. She knows I have you doing some work for me. Barbara, I’ve got to ask this. Did you tell her?”

  Barbara felt deeply affronted. They had years of history, she and the inspector. That he would think she’d betray those years made her back go up. “I bloody well did not.” For that was the God’s truth of the matter. The fact that she’d allowed Isabelle Ardery to work it out for herself without sidetracking her with some sort of red herring was not Barbara’s problem.

  Lynley was silent. Barbara had a sudden anguished feeling that they wer
e heading towards a her-or-me moment. This was the very last thing she wanted since if it came down to the superintendent or herself, she knew how unlikely it was that Lynley would make the choice that would put him at odds with his own lover. He was, after all, and she had to face it, a bloke.

  So she went back to where they’d gone off track, saying, “Anyway I’d planned to speak to Azhar. If he can come up with someone adept at Spanish, we’ve solved that problem and we’ve got the key to Alatea Fairclough.”

  “As to that, there’s something else.” Lynley told her a tale about Alatea Fairclough’s modeling career in her pre-Nicholas Fairclough days. He ended with, “He told Deborah it was ‘naughty underwear’ and said she’s embarrassed and afraid she’ll be found out. Naughty underwear hardly being a crushing issue to anyone but a nun or someone marrying into the royal family, we’re thinking it might be pornography instead.”

  “I’ll see what I can do with that as well,” Barbara told him.

  They exchanged a few more words during which Barbara tried to read him through his tone. Did he believe what she’d said about Isabelle Ardery and his presence in Cumbria? Did he not? And was it important, in any case, what he believed? When he ended the call, she had no answers. But she had no love for her questions, either.

  CHALK FARM

  LONDON

  Barbara heard the sound of raised voices as she approached the ground-floor flat at the front of the property. She was already crossing the patch of lawn to the terrace in front of the flat’s front doors when the unmistakable voice of Taymullah Azhar shouted furiously, “I will take steps, Angelina. I promise you that.” Barbara froze at once. Angelina Upman cried, “Are you actually threatening me?” and Azhar returned at top volume, “You can ask me that? This matter is settled.”

  Barbara spun on her heel to beat a quick retreat, but she was too late. Out of the door Azhar strode, his face as black as she’d ever seen it. He clocked her, for there was no place for either of them to hide. He turned away and hurried off the property, setting off down Eton Villas in the direction of Steeles Road.