Believing the Lie il-17

by Elizabeth George

  She said to Tim, “Sure you don’t want to buy a new doll, luv?”

  As could be, Tim told her. Could she repair it? There was no other shop. He’d tried all over town.

  She said reluctantly that she’d see what she could do, and Tim told her he would give her the address where the doll had to be sent when it was completed. He took out a crumpled wad of bank notes and some coins, all of which he’d cadged over time from his mother’s bag, his father’s wallet, and a tin in the kitchen where Kaveh kept pound coins to use when he ran out of money and hadn’t thought to stop at the cash point in Windermere on his way home from work.

  J. Bobak said, “What? You not coming back for it yourself?”

  He said no. He wouldn’t be here in Cumbria by the time the doll was repaired. He told her to take as much money as she liked. She could send any change back with the doll. Then he gave her Gracie’s name and the address, which was simple enough. Bryan Beck farm, Bryanbarrow, near Crosthwaite. Gracie might well be gone by then, but even if she’d returned to their mother, certainly Kaveh would send the doll on. He’d do that much, no matter what sort of lie he was living with his pathetic little wife at that point. And she’d be pleased to see it, would Gracie. Perhaps she’d even forgive Tim for having wrecked the poor doll in the first place.

  That done, he’d found his way to the business centre and there he stayed. On his way, with what remained of his money he bought a packet of jam mallows, a Kit Kat bar, an apple, and a nachos kit of chips and salsa and refried beans, and, squatting between a filthy white Ford Transit and a wheelie bin overloaded with soaking Styrofoam, he ate it all.

  When the car park began to empty as people left the various businesses for the day, he ducked behind the wheelie bin and kept out of sight. He fixed his eyes upon the photo shop and just before the hour when it was to close, he went across to it and opened the door.

  Toy4You was taking the cash drawer out of the till. His hands full, he didn’t have the chance to remove his name tag. Tim saw part of it, William Con-, before the man flicked away. He ducked into the back and when he returned, he was without the cash drawer and without the name tag. He was also without good humour.

  He said, “I told you I’d text. What’re you doing here?”

  Tim said, “It happens tonight.”

  Toy4You said, “Get this straight: I’m not playing power games with some fourteen-year-old. I told you I’d let you know when I had it set up.”

  “Set it up now. You said not alone this time and that means you know someone. Get him over here. We’re doing it now.” Tim pushed past the man. He saw Toy4You’s face darken. It didn’t matter to Tim if it came to blows. Blows were just fine. One way or another, things were going to be concluded.

  He went into the back room. He’d been here before, so nothing about it surprised Tim. It wasn’t a large space, but it was divided into two distinct sections. The first was for digital printing, supplies, and articles relating to the photographic business. The second, at the far end of the room, was a studio in which subjects posed for their pictures in front of various backgrounds.

  At the moment, the studio took the form of a photographic parlour from another century, the sort of place where people used to pose stiffly, sitting or standing or both. It contained a chaise longue, two plinths upon which sat artificial ferns, several overstuffed chairs, thick faux curtains drawn back with fancy tasselled cords, and a backdrop. The backdrop made it look as if anyone posing had dragged their furniture outside to the top of a cliff: It comprised a painted landmass ending in a deep sky filled with cumulus clouds.

  Tim had learned that this setup was all about contrast. And contrast, he’d also learned, was all about two things being in direct opposition to each other. When this had been explained to him on his first visit, he’d thought immediately of the contrast between what he’d once counted upon as his life — a mum, a dad, a sister, and a house in Grange-over-Sands — and what his life had been reduced to, which was nothing. Entering the space now, he thought about the contrast between how Kaveh Mehran had lived with his dad at Bryan Beck farm and how Kaveh Mehran intended to live in what was going to go for the next phase of his miserable excuse for a life. When this thought came upon him, Tim forced himself to think instead of the real contrast that lay ahead, which was the contrast between the mock innocence of this setting for photos and what the photos themselves consisted of.

  Toy4You had explained all this to him the first time he had posed for the pictures as he had been instructed to pose. Certain kinds of people, he’d been told, liked to look at or purchase photos of nude young boys. They liked the boys posing in certain ways. They liked to see certain body parts. Sometimes it was just the suggestion of a body part, and sometimes it was the real thing. Sometimes they wanted a face included in the picture. Sometimes they didn’t. A pout was good. So was something Toy4You referred to as a you-can-have-it look. Make a stiffie for the camera, and it was even better. Certain people would pay a good sum of money for a picture of a boy, a pout, desire in the eyes, and a decent stiffie as well.

  Tim had gone along. He, after all, had been the one to start this ball rolling towards its destination. But money wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d wanted action and so far that action had been denied him. That was going to change.

  Toy4You had followed him into the back room. He said to Tim, “You need to leave. I can’t have you here.”

  Tim said, “I already told you. Call your friend or whoever it is. Tell him I’m ready. Tell him to get down here. We’re doing the pictures now.”

  “He’s not about to do that. No fourteen-year-old tells him how to run his affairs. He tells us when the time is right. We don’t tell him. What is it about this that you don’t understand?”

  “I don’t have the time,” Tim protested. “The time is now. I’m not waiting any longer. If you want me doing it with some bloke, then this is your chance because you’re not getting another.”

  “That’s the way it is, then,” Toy4You said with a shrug. “Now get out.”

  “What? You think you’ll find someone else to do it? You think it’ll be that easy?”

  “There are always kids looking for money,” he said.

  “For a picture, maybe. They’ll take your money for a picture. They’ll stand there naked and maybe they’ll even do it hard. But the rest? You think someone’ll do the rest? Someone besides me?”

  “And you think you’re the only one who’s found me online? You think this is a bit of work I’ve just taken up recently for my health or something? You think you’re the first? The one and only? There’re dozens of you out there and they’re willing to do it the way I want it done because they want the money. They don’t make the rules, they follow the rules. And one of the rules is that they don’t show up — this is twice now, you little bugger — and make demands.”

  Toy4You had been standing among the supplies, but he came forward as he spoke. He wasn’t big and Tim had always reckoned he could take him down if that was going to be necessary, but when the man grabbed him by the arm, Tim felt a strength emanating from him that he hadn’t suspected was there.

  “I don’t play games,” Toy4You told him. “I don’t get manipulated by little bits of boy-ass like you.”

  “We had a deal and — ”

  “Bugger your deal. It’s over. It’s off.”

  “You promised. You said.”

  “I don’t need this shit.”

  Toy4You jerked him, hard. Tim saw that he meant to eject him from the premises. That couldn’t happen. He’d worked too hard and he’d done too much. He pulled away.

  He cried, “No! I want it to happen, and I want it now,” and he began to tear at his clothes. He pulled off his anorak, his heavy sweater. Buttons flew from his shirt as he ripped it off. He began to shout. “You promised. If you don’t do it, I’ll go to the cops. I swear. I will. I’ll tell them. What I did. What you want. The pictures. Your friends. How to find you. It’s all on my compu
ter and they’ll know and — ”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” Toy4You looked back over his shoulder, in the direction of the shop. He strode to the doorway that had brought them both into the back room and he slammed it shut. He returned to Tim. He said, “Christ, calm down. All right. But it can’t happen now. Can’t you get that?”

  “I want… I swear… The cops’ll come.”

  “All right. The cops. I get it. I believe you. Just calm the fuck down. Look. I’m going to make the call. Now. In front of you. I’ll set it up for tomorrow. We’ll do the pictures then.” He appeared to think for a moment, then he looked Tim over. He said, “It’ll be film, though. Live action. And all the way this time. You understand?”

  “But you said — ”

  “I’m taking a risk here!” Toy4You roared. “You’ll make it worth my while. Do you want it or not?”

  Tim flinched, cowed. But he knew fear only for a moment before he said, “I want it.”

  “Good. Two blokes as well. Do… you… get… it? You and two blokes and the real thing, live on film. Do you know what that means? Because no way in hell are we starting this and finding out midway that you’ve changed your mind. You and two blokes. Say you understand.”

  Tim licked his lips. “Me and two blokes. I understand.”

  Toy4You looked him over, as if expecting something to ooze from his pores that would indicate the future. Tim stood his ground. Toy4You nodded sharply and punched in some numbers on the phone.

  Tim said, “And after… when it’s over… you promise…”

  “I promise. When it’s over, you die. Just like you want it. However you want it. You get to make the rules for that.”

  10 NOVEMBER

  MILNTHORPE

  CUMBRIA

  When Lynley phoned her early in the morning, he was clever enough to ring the inn and not her mobile. Because of this, Deborah answered. Simon or Tommy, she’d reckoned, would ring the mobile. She’d see the caller’s number and decide whether to answer or not. Even the reporter from The Source rang her mobile. A call on the phone inside her hotel room meant Reception was probably enquiring about the length of her stay.

  Thus, Deborah winced as Lynley’s pleasant baritone came over the line. When he said, “Simon’s not happy with either of us,” she could hardly pretend he’d phoned the wrong number.

  It was quite early, and she was still in bed. Clever Tommy to have thought of that as well: Catch her before she left the inn, and there was little she could do to avoid him.

  She sat up, pulled the blankets closer against the chill, and said as she rearranged the pillows, “Well, I’m not happy with Simon, either.”

  “Right. I know. But as it happens, he was correct, Deb. From the start.”

  “Oh, isn’t he always?” she said tartly. “What are we talking about anyway?”

  “Ian Cresswell’s death. He could have prevented it if he’d been paying closer attention to where he was tying up his scull that night.”

  “And we’ve reached this conclusion because…?” Deborah waited to hear him say he’d reached his conclusion because of Simon’s insufferably logical presentation of the facts, but he didn’t go in that direction. Instead he told her about a family imbroglio he’d witnessed among the Faircloughs and a conversation he’d had with Valerie Fairclough afterwards.

  He concluded it all with, “So it seems I’ve been brought up here as a means of Valerie’s delving into her husband’s doings. It was a fool’s errand with me as the fool. Hillier as well. I daresay he’s not going to be happy when I tell him how we’ve both been used.”

  Deborah shoved off the blankets, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and looked at the clock. She said, “And you believe her?” as she read the time. A phone call from Tommy at six thirty in the morning could mean only one thing and she was fairly certain she knew what that was.

  He said, “In the ordinary course of things, I might not. But with the coroner’s conclusion and with Simon’s assessment, along with what Valerie told me — ”

  “She could be lying. There are motives, Tommy.”

  “Without anything more than motives, there’s no case to present, Deb. That’s how it works. Frankly, people often have motives to do away with other people. They often have the wish to do away with other people. And still they never lift a finger against them. That’s what apparently happened here. It’s time to return to London.”

  “Even without putting the matter of Alatea Fairclough to rest?”

  “Deb — ”

  “Just listen to me for a moment: Everything about Alatea suggests secrecy. People with secrets have motive to do all sorts of things to protect those secrets.”

  “That may be, but whatever she might have done or might be doing to protect her secrets — assuming she has them — what she didn’t do was murder Ian Cresswell. That’s why we came up here. We now know the truth. As I said, it’s time to go home.”

  Deborah got out of the bed. The room was cold. She shivered and moved to the electric fire. It had clicked off in the night, and she turned it on. There was moisture climbing the window, against which she brushed her hand to look out at the day. It was still quite dark outside, she saw, the road and the pavement wet. The glitter of the street lamps and the traffic lights on the corner winked brightly against it.

  She said, “Tommy, those missing pages from Conception magazine have said from the first that something’s going on with Alatea.”

  “I don’t disagree,” was his perfectly reasonable reply. “And we have a good idea of what that something is. Conception. But you already knew that. Didn’t Nicholas Fairclough tell you that when you first met?”

  “Yes. But — ”

  “It’s reasonable that she wouldn’t want to talk about this with a stranger, Deborah. Do you like to talk about it with anyone?”

  That was an unfair blow, and he had to know it. But Deborah wasn’t about to let her reaction to the question get the better of her ability to reason. She said, “None of this makes much sense, talking about conception or not. This woman, Lucy Keverne, told me she has her eggs harvested. All right. Perhaps she does. Then what was she doing at Lancaster University in the company of Alatea Fairclough? Why was she in the George Childress Centre with her?”

  “Perhaps donating an egg to Alatea,” Lynley said.

  “The egg needs to be fertilised. Wouldn’t Nicholas need to be there?”

  “Perhaps Alatea had his sperm with her.”

  “In a turkey baster, you mean?” Deborah asked pointedly. “So why would Lucy be there as well?”

  “To donate eggs on the spot?”

  “Really? Fine. All right. Then why wouldn’t Nicholas be there to donate sperm as fresh as possible, real little swimmers, that sort of thing?”

  Lynley sighed. Deborah wondered where he was. On a land line somewhere since his sigh had come to her so clearly. This suggested he was still at Ireleth Hall. He said, “Deb, I don’t know. I don’t know how it’s done. I don’t know how it all works.”

  “I know you don’t. But I do, believe me. And one thing I know is that even if they do the business with one egg or two dozen from Lucy and sperm from Nicholas, they’re not implanting them in Alatea on the spot. So if Lucy’s a donor as she claims to be and if she’s giving Alatea eggs for some reason and if sperm from Nicholas are being used — ”

  “None of it matters,” Lynley cut in firmly. “Because it has nothing to do with Ian Cresswell’s death and we need to get back to London.”

  “You need to. I do not.”

  “Deborah.” His voice was losing that patient tone. Deborah heard Simon in it. How alike they were at the end of the day, he and Tommy. The differences between them were only superficial.

  “What?” she asked sharply.

  “I’m heading back to London this morning. You know that’s why I’ve phoned. What I’d like to do is stop in Milnthorpe, follow you to the car hire so you can return your car, then take you back to London with me.”<
br />
  “Because you don’t trust me to get there on my own?” she demanded.

  “I rather wanted the company,” he replied. “It’s a long drive.”

  “She said she’d never be a surrogate, Tommy. If all she’s going to do is donate eggs for Alatea to use, why not just say that? Why tell me she wouldn’t discuss it?”

  “I have no idea. And it’s not important. It doesn’t matter. Ian Cresswell’s death was no one’s fault but his own. He knew about the loose stones in the boathouse. He didn’t take care. That’s where things lie, Deb, and nothing about this woman in Lancaster is going to change that. So the question is: Why can’t you let it go? And I think we both know the answer to that.”

  His words were quiet enough, but they were unlike Tommy. They spoke of the degree to which Simon had persuaded him to take his side. But then, why wouldn’t he? Deborah asked herself. They had years of history, Tommy and Simon. They had decades of history. They shared one terrible automobile accident and the love for a murdered woman as well. These things bound them to each other in ways she would never be able to surmount. That being the case, there was only one alternative.

  She said, “Very well. You win, Tommy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I’ll go back to London with you.”

  “Deborah…”

  “No.” She gave a hearty sigh, one she knew he’d be able to hear. “I do mean it, Tommy. I give up. What time shall we leave?”

  “Are you being quite serious?”

  “Of course I am. I’m stubborn, but I’m not a fool. If there’s no point carrying on with this business, then there’s no point, is there.”