Hurting Distance aka The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Fucking hell. As soon as I told her, she must have thought what you did: that there’s a strong chance Angilley’s the other rapist. And if she’s been screwing him . . .’

  ‘That’s why she took off in such a hurry,’ said Simon. ‘She must be in a right state.’

  ‘I feel like shit now,’ said Gibbs. ‘I’ve been giving her a hard time.’

  ‘Not only her.’ Sellers raised his eyebrows at Simon.

  ‘Yeah, well. You two deserve it. She doesn’t.’

  ‘Fuck off! I’ve done nothing,’ said Sellers.

  Simon had an active—some might say overactive—conscience. He knew when he’d done something wrong. There were no sins with Chris Gibbs’ name on them, last time he looked. There was a big fat file under the name Charlie Zailer.

  ‘I’m getting married in June. You’re both invited. He’s my best man.’ Gibbs jerked his head at Sellers. ‘And he’s off round the world with his secret shag the week before. I haven’t heard anything about a stag night. I’ll probably be sat in on my own the night before I sign my freedom away, watching Ant and fucking Dec, while he shakes the empty condom packets out of his suitcase . . .’

  ‘Give me a chance.’ Sellers looked sheepish. ‘I haven’t forgotten about your stag night. I’ve been busy, that’s all.’ Simon noticed his cheeks were slightly pink.

  ‘Yeah—busy thinking about your cock, as usual,’ Gibbs fired back.

  ‘This can wait,’ said Simon. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about than hiring strippers and tying you to a lamp post with no clothes on. We’re in deep shit here.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Sellers. ‘Where’s the sarge gone?’

  ‘Olivia says Charlie left a message on her voicemail telling her to go round later, so she’s obviously planning to be at home this evening, even if she isn’t there now. I’ll go round and talk to her. In the meantime . . .’ Simon braced himself. They might both tell him to fuck off. He wouldn’t blame them if they did. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but . . . any chance you could keep this well away from the Snowman?’

  Sellers’ eyes widened. ‘Oh, shit. Proust’s going to go ballistic when he . . . Oh, shit. The skipper and the prime suspect . . .’

  ‘She’ll have to be taken off the case,’ said Simon. ‘I’m going to try and persuade her to tell Proust herself. Shouldn’t be hard. She’s not stupid.’ He said this more to reassure himself than anything else. ‘She’s probably in shock and needs to be on her own for a bit to get her head round it.’ He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Proust found out before Charlie told him.

  ‘How can we keep it quiet?’ asked Gibbs. ‘Proust asks for the sarge every five minutes. What do we say?’

  ‘You won’t need to say anything, because you’ll be on your way to Scotland.’ To Simon’s amazement, neither Sellers nor Gibbs questioned his authority. ‘Bring Graham Angilley back with you, and Stephanie, his wife. I’ll deal with Proust. I’ll tell him Charlie’s gone to Yorkshire to talk to Sandy Freeguard, now that we’ve got a possible ID for the man who raped her. Proust won’t question it. You know what he’s like—he does his most energetic fault-finding first thing in the morning.’ Seeing their faces, he said, ‘Have you got any better ideas? If we tell him Charlie’s gone awol, we’ll make things worse for her, and that’s the last thing she needs.’

  ‘What’ll you be doing?’ asked Gibbs suspiciously. ‘While we’re in haggis country chasing a pervert?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Yvon Cotchin, and then Naomi Jenkins if I can find her.’

  Sellers shook his head. ‘If the Snowman finds out about this, all three of us’ll be giving fire-safety talks in primary schools before the week’s out.’

  ‘Let’s not shit ourselves before we have to,’ said Simon. ‘Charlie must know she’s put us in an impossible situation. I bet she’s back here within the hour. Check the Brown Cow before you set off to the chalets, just in case she’s in there. If she is, ring me.’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ said Gibbs sarcastically.

  ‘This isn’t a joke.’ Simon stared at his shoes. The idea that Charlie had been romantically involved with Graham Angilley—a man who was very probably a monster, a sadistic rapist—bothered Simon more than he could understand or explain. He felt almost as if it had happened to him, as if he’d been assaulted by Angilley. And if that was how he felt, he didn’t like to think how much worse it must be for Charlie.

  A uniformed constable was walking purposefully towards them along the corridor. The conversation ended abruptly, and Simon, Sellers and Gibbs felt the silent conspiracy hanging in the air around them as PC Meakin got closer.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Meakin said, though all he was interrupting was an atmosphere of mute awkwardness. He addressed Simon. ‘There’s an Yvon Cotchin here to see you or Sergeant Zailer. I’ve stuck her in interview room two.’

  ‘Another coincidence,’ said Gibbs. ‘Saves you a trip.’

  ‘Did she say what she wants?’ Simon asked Meakin. Behind him he heard Sellers insisting, ‘I was going to arrange a bloody stag night for you, all right? I am.’

  ‘Her friend’s disappeared, she said. She’s worried about her because when she last saw her, the friend was pretty upset. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Cheers, Meakin,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Once the young constable had gone, he turned to Sellers and Gibbs. ‘Upset, disappeared—ring any bells?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Simon’s first thought, on hearing what Meakin had to say, was too ludicrous and paranoid to be worth repeating. Sellers and Gibbs would think he was losing his grip. He decided to play it safe. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘But if I were a betting man, I’d put money on this being something else that isn’t a coincidence.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she tell me where she was going?’ asked Yvon Cotchin. ‘We’d sorted everything out, she wasn’t annoyed with me anymore, I know she wasn’t . . .’

  ‘It’s unlikely to be anything you did wrong,’ Simon told her. They’d been talking for less than three minutes, and he was already impatient with Cotchin’s hand-wringing and lip-biting. She seemed to care more about how her friend’s unexplained absence might reflect on her than about the risk of harm to Naomi.

  Simon had just heard, second-hand, Naomi Jenkins’ theory that Robert Haworth had cooked the food that the audiences watching the staged rapes had eaten. It was possible, he supposed, and a good reason for Haworth to withhold from Jenkins the fact that he’d once been a chef.

  What Simon couldn’t make sense of, no matter how hard he tried, was why Haworth should want to strike up relationships with both Sandy Freeguard and Naomi Jenkins, knowing his brother had raped them. He thought back to the two recorded interviews between Naomi and Juliet Haworth. He and Charlie had listened to the tapes again, only a few hours ago. He doesn’t see any of his family. Robert’s the official black sheep. But if his family comprised a serial rapist, a slag who sold sex to strangers on the phone, and a National Front-supporting racist thug . . .

  Simon felt excitement stir inside him. If Robert Haworth was the black sheep of a rotten family, wouldn’t that make him, by any objective ethical assessment, a white sheep? The only good thing to come from a bad family?

  Simon was desperate to talk to Charlie. Her scepticism was the acid test for all his theories. Without her, it was as if half his brain was missing. So he was probably wrong, but still . . . what if Robert Haworth had known what his brother Graham was doing to women and decided to seek at least some of those women out and try to make it up to them?

  Why didn’t he just go to the police? Charlie would have said.

  Because some people would never do that, no matter what. Shop a member of your own family to the law? No; too big a betrayal, too public.

  The more Simon tried to squash the theory down, the more determined it seemed to sprout wings and take off. If Robert knew about t
he rapes and felt unable to report them to the police, he’d have felt all the more guilty. Wasn’t it possible that he made it his mission to try to compensate Graham’s victims in another way?

  No, dickhead. Robert Haworth had raped Prue Kelvey. That was beyond question.

  ‘Naomi’s not thinking straight at the moment,’ Yvon Cotchin said tearfully. ‘She could do any crazy thing.’

  Her voice returned Simon to the moment. ‘She left a note saying she’d be back later,’ he said. It was more than Charlie had done. ‘That’s a good sign. We’ll think again if she doesn’t turn up soon.’

  ‘This’ll sound mad, but . . . I think she might have gone to that village, where Robert grew up.’

  ‘Oxenhope?’

  Yvon nodded. ‘She’d want to see it. Not for any real purpose, just because it’s associated with Robert. That’s how obsessed she is.’

  ‘Did Naomi know that Robert Haworth wasn’t the name he was born with?’ asked Simon.

  ‘What? No. Definitely not. What . . . what did he used to be called?’

  Time for a change of subject. ‘Yvon, I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you about your work. Is that all right?’ He planned to ask them anyway, whatever she said.

  ‘My work? What about it? How’s that relevant to Naomi, or Robert?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that with you. It’s confidential. But take my word for it, your answers will be incredibly useful.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, after a slight pause.

  ‘You designed the website for Naomi Jenkins’ sundial-making business.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Erm . . . I’m not sure.’ She fidgeted in her chair. ‘Oh! It was September 2001. I remember because I was working on it when I heard about the planes crashing into the World Trade Center. Awful day.’ She shuddered.

  ‘When was the website up and running?’ asked Simon.

  ‘October 2001. It didn’t take me long.’

  ‘You also designed a website for Silver Brae Chalets in Scotland.’

  Yvon looked surprised. Her mouth twitched. Simon guessed she was fighting the urge to ask him again what all this was about. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know Graham Angilley, the owner? Is that how you got the work?’

  ‘I’ve never met him. He’s a friend of my father’s. Is . . . Graham in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Simon, not caring if Yvon heard the venom in his voice. ‘When did you design his website? Do you remember?’ Was there a convenient terrorist atrocity that made it stick in your mind? ‘Before or after Naomi’s?’

  ‘Before,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Long before—1999, 2000. Something like that.’

  Disappointment made Simon flinch. Bang went his theory that Graham Angilley had looked at Naomi Jenkins’ website to get an idea of the standard of Yvon Cotchin’s work. If Simon had been wrong about that, what else might he be wrong about?

  ‘Are you sure? It couldn’t have been the other way round, Naomi Jenkins first and then the chalets?’

  ‘No. I did Naomi’s long after Graham’s. I’ve got all my old work diaries at home—at Naomi’s house. I can show you the exact dates I worked on both, if you like.’

  ‘That’d be helpful,’ said Simon. ‘I’m also going to need a complete list of all the websites you’ve designed, since you started. Is that do-able?’

  Yvon looked worried. ‘None of this has got anything to do with me,’ she protested.

  ‘We don’t think you’ve done anything wrong,’ said Simon. ‘But I need that list.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve got nothing to hide, it’s just . . .’

  ‘I know. Does the name Prue Kelvey mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Who is she?’

  ‘Sandy Freeguard?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked as if she was telling the truth.

  ‘Okay,’ said Simon. ‘I’m particularly interested in women with businesses, like Naomi Jenkins, who you’ve designed sites for. Any names you can think of offhand?’

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ said Yvon. ‘Mary Stackniewski. Donna Bailey.’

  ‘The artist?’

  ‘Yeah. I think those are the only ones you might have heard of. There was a woman who ran a dating agency, another one who made models—she was the daughter of my—’

  ‘Juliet Haworth?’ Simon cut her off, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up. Models? It had to be.

  ‘That’s Robert’s wife.’ Yvon looked at him as if he were insane. ‘Don’t be daft. I could never work for her. Naomi would string me up from the nearest lamp post and shoot me as a traitor—’

  ‘What about Heslehurst, Juliet Heslehurst?’ Simon cut her off. ‘Pottery models of houses?’

  Yvon’s eyes were round with amazement. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘That’s the woman who made the models. Hers was the first site I ever did. Is there . . . She was also called Juliet. Is that . . . ?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions. How did you know Juliet Heslehurst?’

  ‘I didn’t, not really. Her mother, Joan, used to be my nanny when I was little. Before she had any kids of her own. Our families kept in touch. Joan mentioned to my mum that her daughter needed someone to do her a website . . .’

  ‘So Juliet Heslehurst’s website was your first? Before Graham Angilley’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you, by any chance, suggest to Mr Angilley that he look at Juliet Heslehurst’s site, to get an idea of the standard of your work?’

  Yvon’s face had turned red. Sweat beaded her upper lip. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  Naomi would string me up from the nearest lamp post. That was the second time Simon had heard the word ‘lamp post’ in a very short space of time. He’d said it himself, first time round, talking about Gibbs’ stag night, the one Sellers had forgotten to arrange. Simon had wondered why Gibbs cared so much—a sane man would want to avoid being stripped and tied up, which seemed to be what happened at these—

  Simon’s heart screeched to a stop. Then it started with a hefty jolt. Bloody hell, he thought. Bloody, bloody hell.

  He excused himself and left the room, his mobile phone already in his hand. A few things were becoming horribly clear; the least important of these was that, from now on, the whole team would have to look back on Chris Gibbs’ weeks-long huff as something to be grateful for, however unpleasant it might have been while it lasted.

  24

  Saturday, April 8

  ‘I’M GOING TO pull over at the next services,’ says Charlie Zailer. Then, as an afterthought, ‘All right?’ Her voice sounds choked. She doesn’t look at me, hasn’t since we set off. She faces straight ahead as she talks, as if she’s using a hands-free mobile phone, speaking to someone far away.

  ‘I’ll stay in the car,’ I tell her. I want to close myself in, put a metal box around my body so that I’m invisible. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. How do I know she’s telling the truth about the man and wherever it is we’re going?

  If I’m going to see him again, it shouldn’t be on his territory. It should be at a police station, in a line-up. Panic starts to chew at the corners of my mind. This feels wrong. I ought to tell Sergeant Zailer to stop the car and let me out now, here, on the hard shoulder. It was a bright day when we set off, but we’ve been driving for an hour, and the sky in this part of the country is light grey with darker grey jagged patches scrawled across it. The wind is hissing, blowing the rain diagonally across the windscreen. I picture myself cold and drenched by the side of the road, and say nothing.

  The faint, rhythmic beat of the indicator makes me look up. We pass blue signs with slanted white lines: three, two, one. Motorway language. You once told me you find motorways relaxing, even if the traffic’s stalled. ‘They have a special rhythm,’ you said. ‘They go somewhere.’ The intense look in your eyes; was I capable of understanding this thing that was so important to you? ‘They’re like m
agic, like a yellow-brick road for adults. And they’re beautiful.’ I pointed out that most people wouldn’t agree. ‘Then they’re fools,’ you said. ‘You can keep your listed buildings. There’s no sight more impressive than a long, grey strip of motorway stretching into the distance. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Apart from here with you.’

  I push the thought from my mind.

  Sergeant Zailer drives faster than she should into the service-station car park. I stare at my lap. If I allow myself to look out of the window, I might see a red lorry that looks a bit like yours. If I go inside, I might see a food court that resembles the one at Rawndesley East Services. My breath stops in my throat when it occurs to me that here, too, there might be a Traveltel.

  ‘You should come in, get a coffee, stretch your legs,’ Sergeant Zailer says gruffly, climbing out of the car. ‘Go to the toilet.’ The last few words are faint, carried away by the wind.

  ‘What are you, my mother?’

  She shrugs and slams the door. I shut my eyes and wait. Thinking is impossible. I try to point a spotlight at my brain and find it empty. After a few minutes, I hear the car door open. I smell coffee and cigarettes; the combination makes me feel sick. Then I hear Charlie Zailer’s voice. ‘The man who raped you is called Graham Angilley,’ she says. ‘He’s Robert’s brother.’

  Bile rises in my throat. Graham Angilley. Where have I heard the name Angilley before? Then it comes to me. ‘Silver Brae Chalets,’ I manage to say.

  ‘The theatre where you were, where the audience was . . . it wasn’t a theatre. It was one of the chalets.’

  This makes me open my eyes. ‘It was a theatre. There was a stage, with curtains.’

  ‘Each of the chalets has its master bedroom on a mezzanine floor. It’s like a room without walls, a high square platform that you could easily mistake for a stage. And there are wooden railings around the mezzanine, with curtains, to give the bedroom more privacy.’