By the Light of a Lie (Thane & Calder Book 1)

by Marjorie Orr

  ‘Soooo... ’ she said, stifling a yawn as she made herself a coffee, ‘you’re going to watch the watchers. What then?’

  ‘Well, follow them back where they came from, of course,’ he said.

  ‘In that rig-out?’

  ‘Never you mind, I have my methods.’

  ‘Which are?’ she demanded.

  ‘None of your business,’ he replied smartly. ‘Though on second thoughts, maybe you do need to know. I have a helper and he’ll need paid.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that.’

  ‘Herk, it’s too early in the morning for pussyfooting around,’ she snapped.

  He smiled, making her more irritated, and said, draining his tea: ‘Your life would not be enriched knowing his name. He’s a mate with a white van. That’s all. If you could sub me maybe a hundred quid I’ll let you know how much he cost and give you the change tonight.’

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ she said, handing him five twenty-pound notes from her handbag, suddenly anxious.

  ‘Do I look dumb?’ the door slammed behind him with a solid clunk.

  What would Rupert Wrighton expect a sympathetic interviewer to be wearing? Standing in front of her wardrobe, she ruffled through possibilities. Nothing too masculine, otherwise he’d think she was a subversive lesbian. Frilly and feminine were in short supply, but she might make do with a long scarf tied in a bow. She shuddered.

  What would ‘just call me Felicity’ wear? Short, tight skirt, stilettos and a figure-hugging blouse probably. No, if he really was into underage, he’d appreciate a hint of schoolgirl mischief. She didn’t possess a short, pleated skirt. What she did have were loose, blue, pleated trousers that were a tragic mistake and had been hanging unworn in the spare room wardrobe since. They would do with a white shirt, tie, blazer-type jacket and flat shoes. The image that stared back at her from the mirror made her glad Herk was out.

  Downstairs, Bob was waiting inside the BMW. He was roly-poly with a cheerful, ruddy face and thinning black hair, combed in a slick over his scalp. She averted her eyes from a workman leaning against a road drill at the corner with three road cones at his feet. Classic FM on the radio was turned up, indicating that conversation would not be invited, so she checked messages on her phone. Michel’s from Paris said simply: ‘Call me lunchtime.’ Jin had sent a picture of himself smiling, with a sand dune behind him and three Xs underneath. Long-distance love affairs with adventurers had their pluses and minuses. Instead of suffocating boredom, there was anxiety about whether he’d come back in one piece.

  Lost in her thoughts, she came to as the car slowed in front of the cream-stuccoed columns of Eaton Square.

  Drat, she really should have been concentrating on her strategy for the interview. He’d have a high-wire temperament, from what she remembered of his chart, hair-trigger impatience, spraying off in all directions at once like a sackful of fighting ferrets. She sighed. Sweet smiles would have to do until she sensed which way the wind was blowing.

  The front door was opened by a short, motherly woman in a mauve cardigan and floral skirt, who gave her a welcoming beam and said in a squeaky voice: ‘I’m Felicity. How nice to meet you.’ Got that one wrong.

  She was ushered across a white marble floor flanked by white walls, thrown into relief by yards of black ornamental ironwork on doorways and up the imposing staircase. It looked dusted and polished to within an inch of its existence, camera-ready and unlived in.

  Inside the vast sitting, no, most certainly drawing room, framed on both sides by three floor-length windows looking out onto greenery, there was a hushed calm. The beige, taupe and slate grey furniture was designer-placed in neat groups on a cream carpet with polished parquet surrounds.

  Standing in front of an impressive stone fireplace and a glinting pewter fire basket was a vision in pale blue. Slighter than she expected – he was only five foot nine at most – in freshly ironed jeans and a cashmere V-neck over a striped shirt, with casual, tasselled moccasins on his feet. Friendly, man next door, common touch. I’m not the only one who dressed to fit a role.

  What spoiled the illusion were his eyes, shifting constantly, not meeting hers when he offered a perfunctory hand. She was waved to a seat on a long, uncomfortable couch and he ordered Felicity to bring tea. At the opposite end was a full-length oil painting of a young girl, dressed in red, in an embossed gilt frame.

  ‘Your daughter?’ she said, with what she hoped was an interested look, tucking the pleats behind her legs.

  ‘No. It’s an Annigoni.’ His tone dripped condescension. ‘My mother.’

  ‘Of course. Silly me.’ As big a prat as everyone said, although not quite the bruiser she had expected.

  In answer to his questions, she explained her credentials from Der Spiegel again, praying he hadn’t checked since there had been no confirmation from her contact there. Then she launched into a half-thought-out spiel about wanting to write a balanced piece that gave accused fathers fighting for custody a chance to have their say.

  ‘Balanced?’ he said sharply. ‘You’ll be talking to the other side?’

  The smile she gave him stretched her cheekbones back to her ears. ‘Oh no,’ she purred. ‘They’ve had a great deal of coverage. This will be just for you. Your campaign, I mean.’

  The door opened and Felicity entered, carrying a tray with a silver teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and fine porcelain teacups sitting on a linen cloth. He extended his head forward. ‘There’s no lemon, Felicity. Our guest might like some.’ She flinched and milk slopped out as she laid the tray down.

  ‘No, I don’t take lemon.’ Tire jumped up and moved to block his view of the tray, winking at Felicity with the eye he couldn’t see. ‘Why don’t I pour?’

  The older woman hesitated, whispering that he liked a dash of milk and one sugar stirred in, then sidled off towards the door.

  When she carried his cup across to him, he gestured to the occasional table beside the fireplace and started talking at high speed. The iniquities of a court system biased towards mothers, willing to believe any lies that money-grubbing wives wanted to tell. The pain suffered by fathers cut off from their children.

  ‘Their children,’ he emphasised with an outraged expression.

  She might have been persuaded that in some instances what he said held a kernel of truth, were it not for the fact that he clearly regarded children as a possession. He could probably work up the same level of hostility if a business rival tried to poach on his territory. She let him rave on, writing occasional notes on her pad, with the recorder sitting on the table in front of her.

  When he finally drew breath, she said: ‘What is your view of the lawyers who become involved in these abuse allegation cases?’

  His cup, halfway to his mouth, froze and tilted as his hand shook. ‘What do you mean?’ His eyes could have lasered holes across the carpet.

  She looked down and rearranged the pleats on her knee before replying with as much faux sympathy as she could dredge up.

  ‘They facilitate these allegations. How do you feel about them?’

  ‘I’d string them up. Bury them in a landfill. They spread lies and cause immense damage.’ He spat the words out and then turned away from her to face the fireplace, putting both hands on the lintel, his knuckles clenched white.

  Suppressing an instinct to get up and kick him, she remembered something an old therapist had once said about how to get people to talk. Through gritted teeth, she echoed his sentiments. ‘Those who do damage should certainly be brought to justice. What you say is so true. They should be named and shamed.’

  When he didn’t answer, she prodded: ‘Do you have any plans to expose lawyers who support these wicked allegations and stop them destroying lives?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He swivelled, not to face her, but to look out of the window, with an unpleasant smirk on his face. ‘We have plans. But none you are going to print. Don’t want to give them forewarning.’ That was an order,
she thought with grim satisfaction. Getting him rattled. But don’t push too hard.

  ‘Tell me about your father.’

  ‘Why? What’s he to do with this.’

  ‘You’re supporting fathers. I thought you must hold him in high esteem.’

  A quiet knock on the door diverted his attention. It opened to reveal a thin, pale-faced girl of around twenty with long blonde hair, clutching a violin case. She stood in the doorway, nodding a polite smile at Tire and a tentative glance at him.

  ‘I’m back, Papa.’

  ‘Well, give me a kiss, Miranda, and sit down till I’m finished with this interview. Where were we?’

  She dropped her eyes and walked across to put her violin carefully on a chair and walked back towards him with her head hung down. Then she stood dutifully as he pecked her on both cheeks and retreated to perch on the furthest end of the couch, putting Tire between herself and her father.

  His stance at the fireplace became more exaggerated, his chest puffing out.

  ‘My father. Never really knew him. My mother brought me up. But since you ask, quite a hard man, very successful. Did what he had to in a tight corner.’ And apples never fall far from the tree.

  The presence of his daughter was freezing Tire’s brain as she sensed the nervous tension beside her. What a nightmare situation to be trapped in. Having found the courage to accuse her father, she was back here trapped in Bluebeard’s cave, being brainwashed into saying it had all been Erica’s doing.

  ‘You look just like your grandmother,’ she said, half-turning towards Miranda, who blushed and shook her head.

  ‘Hardly.’ The sardonic tone made the girl jump. ‘She’s much more like her mother.’ Tears filled Miranda’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks and she jumped to her feet, running towards the door, pausing only to grab her violin case.

  ‘I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?’ Tire said as evenly as she could, wanting to plunge a dagger into his chest.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘She’s still not got over her mother dying and that was eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Poor soul. Miranda must have felt abandoned.’ She was pushing the limits of her tolerance for this asshole. Her fingernails ground into her palm.

  ‘Don’t know about that. Her mother spent most of her time malingering in bed. And then took the easy… ’ He stopped and frowned at himself. Tire jotted down ‘check mother’s death’, flipped over to a clean page and looked up, smiling expectantly.

  He checked his watch. ‘Perhaps you’d let me see the first draft of what you’re writing, so I can check it. Just for factual inaccuracies, I mean. Never good to be tripped up.’ No indeed. ‘Then if you need more time with me I’m sure it can be arranged.’

  A sheaf of brochures and photocopied articles was waved at her. Dismissed. There was no handshake. By the time she had reached the door she no longer existed in his universe.

  In the hall, Felicity was fussing in the alcove below the curving stairs over a giant vase of flowers the size of a small Christmas tree. She stepped forward to open the front door with a well-prepared smile. Tire put a hand on her arm and whispered: ‘Look after Miranda. She needs it.’ The look of consternation, hopelessness and fear that evoked stayed with her all the way back home.

  CHAPTER 19

  Her front door was ajar when she returned, giving her a flutter of apprehension. Ali hadn’t been at his desk when she let herself in downstairs and gusts of damp chill were blowing in from the rear entrance, which was open. Footsteps inside from the left made her curse; she had left her illegal but useful pepper spray in her bedroom.

  ‘You gonna stand there all day, then?’

  Thank god. Herk. She summoned up a laid-back smile.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘How do you think? Bob phoned me. Coffee?’

  In the kitchen they compared notes about their morning’s work. Herk had lost the watcher, who had left his post just after Tire. He had been picked up by a red Citroen minivan, which they tailed onto the M4 spur but were stymied by traffic lights and lost him heading up Holland Park Avenue towards Ladbroke Grove.

  ‘I’ve got someone checking out the number plate. Hope that tells us something.’ He didn’t look hopeful. ‘How was Wrighton?’

  She scratched her head, tugged her hair, lit another cigarette and said with a long sigh: ‘Depressing. A five-star, tin-plated shit. Guarantee he abused his daughter. She looks totally beaten. He’s a bully with a mother complex. Wife dead. From what he said that sounded like suicide though it isn’t written up that way in his biog.’

  A nervous twitch like an electrical discharge spun along the wires from the memory of the girl on the couch. She turned to him with an anguished look. ‘That poor kid, you should have seen her.’

  ‘We’re not social services. Keep your focus.’

  ‘Not much given to sentiment, are you?’

  He sighed. ‘You can’t solve all the problems of the universe at once. One at a time.’

  ‘OK, you’re right.’ She dragged her attention away from Miranda. ‘He does loathe lawyers.’

  ‘Enough to kill one?’ His bald question rattled her head and she banged her foot down, scraping a heel along the tiles. ‘And put the heavy mob out to menace the lawyer’s friend?’

  ‘He might have bumped off his wife and made it look like suicide.’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws. And we’re not investigating the wife’s death. Only Erica’s. For which we have no hard evidence of any variety. I’ll just have to keep tracking these watchers. They’re the best lead we have.’

  Failure was never an option in Tire’s book. The way to tackle no results was to redouble effort. But where Wrighton was concerned she had no sense of what else she could do. Keep concentrating. Even if the answers didn’t come, new questions might. And Herk was right. Getting dragged into Miranda’s dire situation, however tempting, would be a mistake and a distraction. Which didn’t stop her wanting to throw Wrighton into a slurry pit.

  Her head shot up. ‘Landfill. He mentioned disposing of bodies there. Well... ’ she wriggled her fingers, ‘maybe that’s stretching a point. But I wonder if his father’s old scrap business was sold and moved into wholesale rubbish disposal.’

  ‘Which would tell us what, precisely?’

  She strode into the office, sat down, fired off an email to Russell asking about Wrighton Senior’s old business and then remembered Michel. She glanced at the time: 11.15 am. So 12.15 am in Paris. Too early for him to be at lunch? No, he’d probably been in since six that morning.

  His precise, clipped tone with a murmur of voices in the background when he answered the call indicated he was in professional gear for the day.

  ‘Le Lorier. Un moment, s’il vous plaît, mam’selle.’

  Half a minute later he’d obviously walked into a quieter room.

  ‘Cherie, I have to be quick, we are about to close a deal. I spoke with my father last night. He remembered Paul Stone well and thoroughly disliked him. Imperious and arrogant, he said, and something he did not trust. There was a problem over a son from his first marriage.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her interest sparked.

  ‘You know, French succession laws are very particular about children. They cannot be cut out of inheritances. And it is the notaire’s responsibility to check that they are all itemised in the paperwork. Stone was very evasive about the boy, kept saying he wasn’t important, just a stepson. But if the boy had been adopted by Stone in Italy, then he would have the same rights. He became quite nasty about it and threatened to take his business elsewhere, so my father caved in. And has had a conscience ever since.’

  ‘Italy?’

  A voice in the distance summoned Michel. ‘Ma belle, I must go. My father is sending me the sale documents that will have the name of Monsieur Stone’s first wife and his second listed. I will email you them. It’s not really appropriate, but he would be grateful if you find out anything about
the son. He has worried about him all these years. Bisous.’ The call ended.

  Keeping an open mind was like living inside a kaleidoscope with fragments flying around, none of them sticking long enough to form a solid mass. The favourite had to be whoever was after the Kubek activist, although Harman Stone and Wrighton were a close-run second. Maybe she should go up to Wakefield Prison to interview Dugston, just to be sure she wasn’t overlooking the obvious.

  Her usual modus operandi wasn’t any help in this situation: an archaeological dig through archives and paperwork and finding bystanders happy to lift the lid on misdeeds. But a murder? No one would keep records or confess. Anyone in the vicinity would be too scared to open up. Felicity? She had enough on her plate looking after Miranda, and Wrighton would have contracted the job out anyway. She sighed. Herk was right. The watchers were the best bet and that was his department. Being superfluous to requirements did not feel good.

  The slow, pulsing strings and lamenting soprano of Gorecki’s ‘Symphony of Sorrowful Songs’ echoed through the apartment, doing little to calm her impatience. The morning’s outfit had been tossed in favour of slim-cut black trousers and jacket, with a wide-collared, white shirt underneath. A long, emerald green scarf hanging loose gave her a Parisian look, although she was feeling anything but coolly chic.

  At Herk’s suggestion she left by the back door and met him two streets away for the drive to the north London crematorium. Throughout the thirty-minute drive he said nothing, but constantly checked the mirror to monitor vehicles behind. Through the archway into the parking area, she could see there was a large turnout.

  ‘Text me when you’re ready to leave,’ he said, as he held the door open for her.

  There was a smartly dressed turnout of legal and City types, who were chatting avidly and viewing with disdain the few of Erica’s poorer ex-clients who had turned up to pay their respects. Several men eyed Tire appreciatively, which earned them a steely glare before she turned away.

  Her hackles were up before she moved into the crematorium, sitting deliberately far back, away from the thrusters in their Gieves & Hawkes suits and the icily severe women in their Louboutin spiky heels. Like a bloody school uniform, she thought. Clones who don’t have the guts to be themselves, if they even know who that is.