Hurting Distance aka The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  What sort of stupid bitch would believe a man like Graham Angilley?

  Steph looked up. ‘What choices?’ she said, tears and snot dripping down her face.

  ‘Get me a photograph of Graham. And I’ll need the keys to that chalet.’ She indicated the pistachio-coloured door. ‘Naomi needs to identify the man and the place. After she’s done that, we’ll go to the lodge and you’ll tell me everything I want to know. If you fob me off with even the smallest lie, I’ll know, and I’ll make sure you rot in the shittiest prison I can find,’ Charlie lied confidently. In reality, the police had no control over where prisoners served their sentences. Steph might end up in the new, cushy Category D resort on the other side of Combingham. Everyone in CID knew it as ‘The Resort’ because it had boarding houses instead of cells, and the inmates’ food was rumoured to be reasonable.

  Steph staggered across the field towards the lodge. The back of her skirt was soaking. She’d been lying on the wet grass, but Charlie was pretty sure she’d pissed herself as well: the smell gave it away. I ought to feel some compassion for her, thought Charlie. But she didn’t. There was not even an ounce of sympathy for Steph inside her.

  ‘What if Graham forced her into it?’ said Naomi. ‘What if she really doesn’t know anything about it?’

  ‘She knows. Nobody forced her into anything. Can’t you tell when someone’s lying to you?’

  Naomi rubbed her hands together and blew on them. ‘You and Graham—’ she began tentatively.

  ‘We’re not going to talk about that,’ Charlie cut her off. Naomi couldn’t have chosen a worse combination of words than those three if she’d tried.

  The lodge door opened and Steph emerged. She began to make her way across the field, steadier on her feet. She’d changed into black tracksuit bottoms and trainers. From a distance, Charlie saw the photograph in Steph’s hand, saw Naomi recoil. ‘It’s only a picture,’ she said. ‘It can’t hurt you.’

  ‘Spare me the therapeutic crap,’ Naomi snapped. ‘You think it can’t hurt me to see his face, after all these years? What if he comes back? I’m not sure I can do this. Can’t we just go?’

  Charlie shook her head. ‘We’re here,’ she said, as if that state of affairs were somehow irreversible. That was how it felt. She would always be stuck here, at Silver Brae Chalets, with the wet grass tickling her ankles through her tights.

  Steph looked as terrified as she had before. As she approached, she began to speak frantically, too desperate to wait until she got closer. ‘I didn’t know they were raping the women,’ she said. ‘Graham told me they were actresses, that the frightened-victim thing was all an act. Like it was when I did it.’

  ‘When you did it?’ Charlie echoed. She snatched the photograph out of Steph’s hand and passed it to Naomi, who looked at it for a second and passed it straight back. Charlie tried to catch her eye, with no success; Naomi was staring fixedly in the opposite direction, at a bank of trees. Charlie put the photo in her handbag, which she dropped on to the driver’s seat of her car. She didn’t want to be anywhere near a picture of Graham. Why wasn’t Naomi saying anything? Was Graham the one who’d raped her or not?

  ‘Most of the time, I was the victim,’ Steph went on, breathless. ‘I was the one Graham tied to the bed, I was the one who had to scream and beg and try to struggle free. It was knackering. I had the chalets to see to as well, all the cleaning and the reservations, the confirmations—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’ Charlie held out her hand. ‘Give me the key. Go and wait for me in the lodge. And do nothing else, do you hear me? Don’t try to ring Graham on his mobile. If you phone anyone, I’ll find out. I can get the information from BT, from your mobile service provider—easy. One wrong move and you’ll spend the next twenty years in a dirty, stinking cell. You won’t see daylight till you’re an old woman, and even when you get out, someone’ll probably knife you in the street.’ If only, Charlie thought. Still, she was enjoying the pretence. ‘Women who collaborate with serial rapists tend not to be popular,’ she concluded.

  Whimpering, Steph handed her the key and stumbled back towards the lodge. ‘Well? Is that the man who attacked you?’ Charlie asked Naomi.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ Please be lying.

  Naomi turned to face her and Charlie saw how white her skin had gone, almost translucent. It was as if she’d been bleached by the shock of seeing that face, Graham’s face. ‘I don’t want it to be him,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to say yes. In a way it was easier not to know, but . . . it’s him. That’s the man who raped me.’

  ‘Let’s look at the chalet, get it over with,’ said Charlie, walking towards the door with the key between her thumb and forefinger, ready to stab anyone who got in her way. She stopped when she realised Naomi wasn’t following her. ‘Come on,’ she said.

  Naomi was staring up at the window. ‘Why do I have to go inside?’ she said. ‘I know it’s the place.’

  ‘You might, but I don’t,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sorry, but you said in your statement that you didn’t see the outside of the building you were in. I need you to recognise the inside.’ She unlocked the door and walked into darkness. She felt the walls on either side of the door and found a panel of light switches. Most of them were dimmers. She fiddled with them until a few came on. It was just like the chalet she and Olivia had rented, except bigger. Nobody appeared to be staying at the moment: there was no evidence of clothes or suitcases. The place was empty apart from the furniture, immaculately clean. The dark-red curtains on the rail around the mezzanine bedroom were open and Charlie saw a wooden bed. At the top of each of the four bedposts, an acorn had been carved out of the wood.

  She heard laboured breathing coming from behind her. When she turned, she saw that Naomi was shaking. She climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, wondering if Graham had chosen the bed precisely because of these protuberances, because of how easy they were to tie rope around. For a second she thought she might throw up.

  ‘Can we get the hell out of here now?’ said Naomi, from the bottom of the stairs.

  Charlie was about to reply when the lights went out. ‘Who’s there?’ she shouted, at the same time as Naomi shrieked, ‘Charlie!’

  There was a loud thud, the sound of the chalet’s front door slamming shut.

  26

  Saturday, April 8

  IT’S THE WORST sort of darkness that surrounds us, the sort that folds you in and makes you feel you might never claw your way back to the light. It only lasts a second. I hear a buzzing sound, and the chalet’s interior is visible again. Just. Everything looks grey. A man’s voice says, ‘Shit.’ I see two forms in the dimness—a thick one, and a smaller, narrow one. The broader shape could be yours, Robert. For a moment I convince myself it is and my heart soars. I do not think about DNA matches and the lies you have told me, or the real name you share with your brother, a rapist. Not immediately, anyway. I think about your kisses, and how they felt, how I felt when you told me to go away and leave you alone. The loss of you.

  Gradually the room gets brighter. The buzzing was the sound of a dimmer switch. Neither of the two men is you, or Graham Angilley. My shoulders sag as the tension drains from my body. It’s DC Sellers and DC Gibbs.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Charlie yells at them. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  I look at Gibbs, expecting him to react badly to being reprimanded, but he doesn’t look as fierce as he did on Wednesday, in my workshop. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I must have leaned against the switch.’

  Sellers, the fat one, is angry. ‘What are you playing at?’ he says. ‘Just buggering off without a word to anyone. What were we supposed to tell Proust?’

  Charlie doesn’t respond.

  ‘Switch your bloody phone on and ring Waterhouse,’ says Sellers. ‘He’s not all right. He’s more worried about you than about lying to the Snowman. I’ve seen men with wives missing in less of a state. If he doesn’t h
ear from you soon, God knows what he might do.’

  A small gasp comes from Charlie, as if his words have shocked or upset her.

  ‘Where’s Angilley?’ says Gibbs.

  Charlie looks at me, then back at her two colleagues. ‘We’d better talk in private. Naomi, wait here. We’ll go outside.’ Halfway to the door, she stops. ‘Unless you’d rather wait outside,’ she says.

  I feel three pairs of eyes on me. I don’t want to stay here in this place where I was tortured, especially not on my own, but outside I will be unprotected if Graham Angilley suddenly returns. I might be the first person he sees. But Steph said she thought he was at Charlie’s house . . . ‘Why would Graham Angilley be at your house?’ I ask her.

  Suspicion begins to swell inside me when I see Gibbs and Sellers looking as embarrassed as Charlie. They know something. ‘What’s going on?’ I try not to sound as if I’m pleading for information, begging to be allowed in. ‘Are you and Graham . . . Have you been seeing each other? Are you having sex with him?’ As crazy as it sounds, I can’t think of any other explanation.

  ‘How?’ I yell at her. ‘How could you be? Did you know him before you met me? When I gave you that card—’

  ‘This’ll have to wait,’ Sellers interrupts. ‘We need a chat, Sarge.’

  Charlie rakes her short hair with her fingers. ‘Give us five minutes, Naomi. Please. We’ll talk later, okay.’

  None of the detectives moves, and I realise that I am being sent outside. As quickly as I can, I walk to the door, which seems a million miles away. I close it behind me. Trying to eavesdrop proves pointless: the walls are too thick, the building too well made. It’s like a sealed container; nothing escapes.

  It’s dark now, but there is a floodlight attached to the wall of one of the chalets. I feel as if I’m right in its beam, attracting the full glare. If Graham Angilley drives up in his car, he will see me immediately. I crouch down, hugging my knees, feeling like a hunted animal.

  My breath starts to come in short, sharp bursts. There are too many connections, too many links that are wrong, that shouldn’t be there. You shouldn’t be the brother of the man who raped me. Yvon should not have had his business card, or designed a website for him. Charlie shouldn’t be sleeping with him, but she is, she must be.

  Sellers and Gibbs didn’t know she was in Scotland. They didn’t know she brought me with her. Why did she run off without telling anyone? Why did she bring me? As some sort of bait? There was shock on Sellers’ face when he looked at her before. Horror, almost. As if he’d never have thought her capable of whatever it is she’s done.

  It could happen again.

  Here I am, in the place where I was once raped, with a woman who has blithely lied to me and to her colleagues. What the hell am I doing? I spring to my feet. I need to move, to replace thought with action before my suspicions turn into full-blown terror.

  Charlie’s handbag is on the driver’s seat of her car. The door is closed, but not locked. I pull it open and unzip the bag, looking for keys. If I were brave, I’d escape on foot, but I’m not much of a runner and this place is miles from anywhere.

  No keys inside the purse, in the zipped compartment, anywhere in the bag. Damn. In desperation, I bend down to look in the ignition, knowing I’m not the sort of person who has that kind of good luck. I blink several times, to check it isn’t a stress-induced hallucination: the keys are there, a whole bunch. Home, work, car. Perhaps one to a neighbour’s house as well. I stare at the dangling bundle of metal, wondering why it doesn’t annoy Charlie to have it hanging there as she drives. If it were me, I’d take the car key off the ring and keep it separately.

  I throw the handbag on to the passenger seat, climb into the car and start it. The engine is quiet. I drive over the grass to the edge of the field and bump on to the gravel. Within seconds I am driving along the narrow lane away from Silver Brae Chalets. It’s a good feeling. Better than standing under Graham Angilley’s spotlight, on his property, waiting for him to come and find me.

  Which didn’t happen because he’s at Charlie’s house. I’ve got her keys. I could go and find him. He doesn’t know I know where he is, or who he is.

  I gasp at the idea that, finally, I have the advantage over him. I don’t want to lose it. I won’t, can’t. I’ve lost enough already. Now would be a good time to try to remember, in detail, all those revenge fantasies that used to play in my head all day every day until I met you. Which one did I like best: stabbing, shooting, poisoning? Tying the man up and doing to him what he did to me?

  I need to ditch Charlie’s car as soon as possible, leave it by the side of the road, as soon as I get to a proper road, and hitch a lift. Otherwise it won’t be long before I’m stopped by a police car. Believe me, Robert, nothing is going to stop me this time. With or without Charlie, I am coming to that hospital, and if you tell me again to go away and leave you alone, I won’t care.

  Because I understand now. I know why you said it. You thought I’d been talking to Juliet, didn’t you? You assumed it. Or, rather, that she’d been talking to me. Giving me her version of events, ruining everything, telling me all the things you couldn’t bear for me to know. And so you gave up.

  I told you I loved you, at the hospital. You must have been able to see that I meant it, how much I meant it, from my eyes and from my voice, yet you still gave up. And expected me to do the same, to walk away. Until I can get to the hospital again, you will be certain that I am never coming back.

  How could you think that, Robert? Don’t you know me at all?

  27

  4/8/06

  ‘SHE’S TAKEN MY fucking car!’ Charlie yelled into the darkness.

  ‘You didn’t leave the keys in it, did you?’ said Sellers, running up behind her.

  ‘Keys, handbag, phone, credit cards. Jesus! Don’t say it, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t either of you tell me I shouldn’t have brought her with me, or left the car unlocked with my bag inside, all right? In fact, can we steer clear of any discussion of what I should and shouldn’t have done? I’m still your sergeant, remember.’ Charlie wanted to ask them how much Proust knew, but was unwilling to show weakness. Extreme situations called for a return to the crude playground tactics that had got her through at school: never show you care.

  ‘Sellers, get on your mobile. I want my car back.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky, Sarge. You know what Scottish police are like.’

  ‘She won’t be in Scotland for long. She’s heading for Culver Valley General Hospital and her beloved psychopath, Robert Haworth. Get some uniforms to meet her in the car park. Gibbs, you and me’ll talk to Mrs Graham Angilley.’ The arrival of Sellers and Gibbs had given Charlie a jolt, and now she felt a bit more like her old self. Enough to do a passable impression, at any rate.

  Steph was in the lodge, sitting behind one of the desks, with a roll of pink toilet paper and a bottle of nail-varnish-remover in front of her, rubbing at the nail of her index finger with the tissue. The skin around her neck was red. She made a point of not looking up. Her face—like her arse, if her husband’s word could be relied upon—was sunbed orange, apart from just above and below her eyes, where paler patches of skin remained. She looks like a fucking owl, thought Charlie.

  ‘Stag nights,’ she said loudly, slapping her palms down flat on the desk.

  Steph’s body seemed to contract. ‘How did you find out? Who told you that? Was it him?’ She jerked her head in Gibbs’ direction.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just asked how I found out. Nobody says “found out” about something that isn’t true. You’d say, “What makes you think that?” Or are you too dense to understand the difference?’

  ‘My husband only wanted to fuck you because of your job,’ said Steph, her voice full of venom. ‘He never fancied you. He gets a buzz from taking risks, that’s all. Like letting you use our computer the other night, even though he knew you were a cop. If you’d bothered to look, you
’d have found all sorts. I told Graham he was daft letting you, but he can’t help himself. It’s a buzz—that’s what he said.’ Steph sniggered. ‘Do you know what he calls you? The Boob Tube. Because you’re skinny and your tits are too big.’

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Graham. Or Simon.

  ‘What’s on the computer that your husband wouldn’t want me to find?’ asked Charlie. ‘I thought you said the women were all actresses, that it was all consensual and above board? If that were true, Graham would have nothing to fear from the police, would he? You’d better face it, Steph. You’re not intelligent enough to be able to lie to me convincingly. You’ve just contradicted yourself twice, in less than a minute. And I’m not the only person who’s considerably sharper than you and who might well want to shaft you. Think about Graham. Don’t you reckon he’d love to pin it all on you? Don’t you think he could string together a story that’s . . . oh, miles better than anything you could come up with? He’s got a first from Oxford. You’re just his dogsbody.’

  Steph looked cornered. Her eyes were roaming uncomfortably, landing on objects around the room for no particular reason.

  Her eyes. The skin around them wasn’t orange because Steph wore an eye mask when she went on the sunbed, like the masks the rape victims were made to wear. Unlike DS Sam Kombothekra, who claimed never to go to Boots, Steph would know where to buy eye masks in bulk. Did Graham send her on a shopping trip every now and then, to stock up? Charlie knocked the roll of toilet paper and the nail-varnish-remover on to the floor. ‘I’ll ask you once more,’ she said stonily. ‘Is it stag nights, your little business?’