The Truth

by Peter James

  ‘Why not?’

  Now Mr Sarotzini’s face was close to her own, so close, and he was smiling, smiling so fervently. ‘Because, Susan, the Great Impostor’s followers have prevented it. For two millennia the world has been in the grip of a conspiracy of evil. My people have been labelled gnostics, witches, heretics. They have been hunted, persecuted, tortured, butchered.’

  The jolt of the wheels on the runway woke Susan and woke Verity also. Mr Sarotzini was staring hard at her. Susan looked away, and when she looked back, Mr Sarotzini was still staring at her. She felt strange and disoriented.

  Outside it was a fine Sunday morning. London was in bloom. It was spring, and it felt like summer here in the jet as the engines died and the air-conditioning was switched off.

  But then the stewardess opened the exit door, and a wind blew in, a harsh, savage wind that felt as if it had come from somewhere else, some distant place, carrying to Susan in its icy blast all the depths of an Arctic winter.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  In contrast to the grand, post-modernist reception area of the law firm, Elizabeth Frazer’s office was small and sparsely decorated. A framed drawing of the Bridge of Sighs hung on the otherwise bare walls. There was a photograph on the desk of a man and two small children on skis posing in front of a chairlift. A vase of flowers on the desk. Two shelves of law books. Otherwise it was just stacks of files, some piled on the floor behind her desk, others on the window-sill, obscuring the view of another office block across the Aldwych, and a computer terminal.

  Susan had told him that Elizabeth Frazer was the country’s leading specialist in child law, and his own lawyer had agreed.

  She was in her late thirties. A tall, wiry woman, with curly brown hair and steel-rimmed granny glasses, dressed in a denim blouse and black trousers, she had the air of a radical student revolutionary who had never mellowed. She was not unpleasant, but there was a brittleness about her with which John did not feel comfortable.

  Coffee arrived, and the solicitor dealt him a cup. ‘This is all very different from when your wife came to see me in March,’ she said.

  ‘You told her that she had a strong case.’

  ‘You’ve given me a lot of new information, Mr Carter. Under the Human Fertility and Embryology Act, the donor has complicated rights when he is not anonymous. When Mrs Carter came to see me, I advised her that our best chance would be to take out a Prohibitive Steps Order, which can taken against either a parent or someone who tries to act as a parent.’

  ‘But Mr Sarotzini would actually have to be served with this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That could be difficult – I mean, embarrassing. I would rather he didn’t know.’

  Scathingly, she said, ‘If he doesn’t know he’s not allowed to take your daughter away, what is to stop him?’

  John had no immediate answer.

  She glanced at her scrawled notes on a large pad. ‘Your wife’s mental state is the biggest problem here. You won’t tell me exactly what she’s done – and you will have to before we go to court. But you say this Mr Sarotzini has sufficient evidence to enable serious criminal charges to be brought against her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is she guilty?’

  ‘No, of course not …’ He hesitated. ‘No. And one of these I don’t believe at all. The other –’ He thought about the video of Susan stabbing Van Rhoe. ‘I mean – it would be a question of interpretation. She did something in self-defence and, I think in her mental state, she over-reacted.’

  ‘What’s your opinion of your wife’s mental state?’

  John grimaced. ‘I think she’s in a bad way. She was close to a breakdown – if not actually having one – in the last couple of weeks of her pregnancy. Our family doctor saw her yesterday and his diagnosis is that she’s suffering post-natal depression.’

  ‘Which kind?’

  ‘Puerperal psychosis.’

  ‘That’s the worst kind.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So she has delusions? Hallucinations? Suicidal tendencies? And she’s very tired?’

  ‘Yes, all of those. He’s prescribed antidepressants and he’s arranging for the community psychiatric nurse to visit her. He’s also suggested I should think about a residential nursery nurse for a period of time – either that or have her admitted to hospital.’

  The solicitor glanced at her notes again. ‘Verity was born three weeks and three days ago.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re going to have problems if we try going the Prohibitive Steps Order route. If Susan starts telling a judge all this stuff you’ve been telling me about satanism and black magic, she’s not going to get a sympathetic hearing, unless you can come up with some convincing evidence. All judges are aware that this occult activity really does go on, but most of the time it’s a bunch of perverts using the trappings as an excuse for ritual abuse. And do we have enough to convince anyone here? Tell me honestly, Mr Carter, do you believe that Verity is in danger from the occult?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve found weird stuff in your attic, but you have no idea how long it’s been there. Anything else?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not tangible.’

  ‘Your wife’s fears could be connected to her mental state. Hallucinatory in nature?’

  ‘I have a lot of respect for Susan, but she’s in a bad way. Yes, they could be connected, I just don’t know.’

  She pulled a plastic dispenser from a drawer in her desk and, with a daintiness that surprised John, clicked two artificial sweeteners into her coffee. ‘I think a better option for us would be to apply to have Verity made a ward of court, on the grounds of your wife’s mental state.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means effectively that the court would have custody of Verity, it would act in loco parentis. It would decide everything to do with Verity and monitor her future. No one could remove her from England without the court’s permission.’

  ‘And I would have to testify that Susan was not in a fit mental state to look after her?’

  ‘No, we’d have a psychiatrist do that.’

  ‘Would Mr Sarotzini have to be notified?’

  ‘As the biological father, yes.’

  John shook his head. ‘That’s the problem. I’m scared of what he would do.’

  ‘Surely that’s the point of why you are here, because you’re scared of what he might do, or try to do?’

  John nodded gloomily. ‘Yes. But it’s not that simple.’

  ‘You realise you might have another problem if we go to court? The court might decide that Mr Sarotzini is a better parent to bring up the child than your wife.’

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  The Venerable Doctor Euan Freer walked through the fine May sunshine. It was a Saturday and normally this would be his quiet day, but this was not a normal day.

  He was wearing a suit, which was unusual for him: he habitually wore clerical robes, and when not in robes then a dog collar, at least. But today there was nothing outwardly to identify him as a priest, he looked like an overweight, middle-aged businessman with an imposing presence and greying hair, pessimistically carrying a raincoat over his arm on such a fine day.

  He was perspiring heavily, but this wasn’t from the heat of the afternoon sun, it was from his nerves. He was shaking inside. On his face there was a grim mask of determination but inside the mask there was fear.

  And inside the raincoat there was a Sabatier kitchen carving knife.

  He had to do this. There was no choice, it had to be done, and quickly. With every day that passed, the news of this infant, this monster, this beast, gave strength and confidence to its people.

  There were channels he should have gone through, sanctions he should have sought, but their bureaucracy alarmed him. It could take years and, in any case, there would be informers inside the Church. And besides, in the end, what could the Church do?
Make a feeble condemnation? Issue a public warning? Increase the prayers? What teeth did the Church have?

  This was a decision he had had to take by himself, and at least he knew, from the guidance he had sought in his own prayers, that for this deed he had the highest sanction of them all.

  It was the only one he needed.

  A swirl of leaves rose up from the verge and rattled past his face with the fury of a striking serpent. The wind plucked at the roots of his short-cropped hair, a deep, icy wind full of hatred, that had slid inside his skin and was blowing though his veins. He could feel it shaking his sinews, he could hear it screaming in his ears, he could feel it freezing the sweat on his skin.

  But he walked determinedly on, down to the end of the street. He did not know this part of London well. He’d never been in this tree-lined street before, but he knew it was the right street – he knew that, without even having to look at the sign bearing its name. He could feel the presence here.

  He walked on, until he reached the house with the turret.

  The temperature was in the early seventies. It was too hot in the garden for Verity: she was asleep in her room, in her cot, after her noon feed.

  Susan lay, with her eyes closed, in a recliner in the garden. Caroline Hughes, the nanny sent by the agency, who had been with them for three days now, sat at the barbecue table assembling a farmyard-animals mobile that Kate Fox had brought round this morning.

  Caroline was a pleasant girl in her late twenties, solidly built with short brown hair cut like a page boy, and dressed in a cream blouse and a pleated navy skirt. Clipped to her belt was the radio intercom, relaying the sounds from Verity’s room. All was quiet there, just the strong, steady, reassuring noise of her breathing.

  Across the fence, Susan heard the swishing of a lawn sprinkler. Both the old people had died, within a couple of days of each other apparently, and someone had rented the house, so Lom Kotok at the Thai restaurant, who knew everything, had told her – although he’d heard it was in a pretty grim state. Susan had not yet caught a glimpse of her new neighbours.

  She was exhausted. Dr Patterson had given her some capsules, and yesterday they’d turned her into a zombie. Despite all John’s entreaties, she had refused to take them today. She wanted to be able to think clearly, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. The same confused thoughts and fears haunted her brain. Casey. The air line. The broken connector. She had got out of her car, gone into Casey’s room and found the air line separated. Surely she would remember if – if she had –?

  She shivered. It was as though there was a compartment in her mind that she could not reach. She had been in her car and then she had been on the floor in Casey’s room holding the two separated bits of air line. Some space in between was locked in that compartment. The same compartment that contained something that had happened with Miles Van Rhoe. She had been running and then Miles Van Rhoe was sinking to the ground with a cellular phone sticking out of his eye. And still no one had said a word about him. Every time she mentioned his name to John, he blanched and changed the subject. Yesterday she had rung Van Rhoe’s office and spoken to his ice-queen secretary, who told her that Miles Van Rhoe was out of the country.

  If he was away, abroad, he must be all right, mustn’t he?

  But she still felt that John was trying to protect her from something – or, as she suspected more strongly, was trying to hide something from her. The truth?

  What truth?

  Was John playing for time, just keeping her sweet? Helping Mr Sarotzini? Were they going to come for Verity today, tomorrow? Next week? When?

  John had met with the lawyer, Elizabeth Frazer, on Tuesday. When he’d come home, he said there was nothing they could do because any action they took would involving serving papers on Mr Sarotzini. Elizabeth Frazer hadn’t said anything about that to her.

  Had John been lying?

  Maybe her parents were in on this too? On all their visits to the clinic, she’d repeatedly told them exactly what had happened that pre-dawn morning in Casey’s room – at least, as much as she could recall – and although they had nodded convincingly, she had caught those glances between them, those furtive, fleeting moments of eye contact.

  And, sometimes, in her darker moments, Susan wondered if there had been another reason why they glanced at each other. Did I do it? Had I flipped?

  Am I insane?

  Her mouth was parched. Her lemonade stood on the grass beside her, but she was too tired even to reach down for it.

  The constant stream of visitors was wearying. For the past three days it had been just like in California; and it was much the same mix of people, mostly middle Europeans but others too. All were unfailingly polite: they came to pay their respects, left their gifts and departed. Even so, mistrustful, Susan sat in vigilant guard by the cot throughout every visit.

  Verity had received so many gifts that they were starting to have problems over where to put them. Two of the spare rooms were already at capacity. She heard the doorbell ring. Must be after two: the visitors never came before then, as if observing the courtesy of allowing her the mornings to herself. John could deal with them, or the nanny. She drifted into a troubled doze.

  John had the entire contents of his golf bag spread out on the hall floor in an endeavour to find his swipe card for the clubhouse locker room. Late for his game, and in a filthy mood, he opened the front door and saw an overweight but distinguished-looking man in a business suit with a raincoat over his arm, perspiring heavily. He reminded John of someone, and then he realised who: the actor Robert de Niro.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the man said, in a gentle, cultured voice. ‘My name is Doctor Freer. I was a friend of Fergus Donleavy.’

  ‘Ah,’ John said. The man didn’t look like a medic. ‘Yes. Very sad, that. Terrible.’

  ‘It was, it was quite terrible,’ Freer said. ‘Tragic. He was a fine man, remarkable intellect. Formidable.’

  John wasn’t in the mood right now for eulogies. And he’d always thought Susan had been a bit too fond of Fergus Donleavy. ‘Is my wife expecting you?’

  ‘No, no, I just called, on the off-chance. I hope it’s not –?’

  ‘Susan’s resting at the moment. She’s very tired.’

  Freer tried not to show that he was pleased by this news.

  ‘Would you like to come in? You’re welcome to wait, but I don’t want to wake her.’

  ‘Well, if it’s no trouble?’

  John glanced at his watch. One twenty. He had to get going. He went through to the garden and signalled for the nanny. ‘Caroline,’ he said as she came hurrying in, ‘Doctor Freer’s come to see Susan. He’ll wait until she’s woken up. Could you look after him?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Carter.’ She turned to the priest. ‘Would you like to sit out in the garden?’

  Freer mopped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Thank you. If it’s no trouble, I would prefer to sit inside in the shade.’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked at John for instructions.

  ‘It’s cool in the drawing room,’ John said.

  She led him through. John knelt down again and began hastily to repack his golf bag. He heard the nanny ask the priest if he would like a drink, and the priest, politely, requested a glass of water.

  Euan Freer sat down on a large, comfortable sofa. The young woman came in with a tumbler of iced water. ‘Can I hang that up for you?’ she asked.

  He placed a protective arm over his raincoat, which lay carefully folded beside him. ‘No, thank you, it’s fine.’ He smiled at her.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ she said. ‘I’ll let Mrs Carter know you’re here as soon as she wakes.’

  He thanked her and sipped his water. He heard the front door open then close and a few moments later the sound of a car starting and driving off. Then silence.

  He stood up and walked over to the window. A woman in a cotton dress lay sleeping in a lounger – Susan Carter, he presumed. The young woman who had brought h
is drink was seated at table near her, absorbed in threading cotton through an object, a mobile of some sort. No sign of the baby: it must be in its room.

  Good.

  Scooping up his raincoat he walked quickly into the hallway, then stood still, holding his breath, listening. Trying to be quiet, he climbed the stairs, panting from the exertion as he reached the top and perspiring even more heavily now, his nerves in shreds.

  He stopped and listened. His heart was tugging inside his chest and his throat felt tight. He looked down at the empty hall, then turned and stared along the landing. It was cold here and the air felt sluggish, as if all the energy was being drained from it. A door was ajar at the far end.

  A voice inside his head told him to forget this crazy idea, to go back downstairs, to leave this house, to make an appointment with the bishop and deal with this via the proper channels.

  And yes, yes, that would be much easier. Walk away. Forget about this. Yesterday, when the plan had been forming in his mind, it had seemed so simple. He had slept remarkably well and had woken this morning with his conviction strengthened and his courage high. But now that he was actually here, he felt daunted.

  And taking a life, any life –

  It was sanctioned, yes, in the Bible, but –

  Closing his eyes, he prayed, ‘Oh, God, give me strength.’ Then, as quietly as he could, he tiptoed down the landing, entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  The cold air made him gasp. A vapour trail rose from his mouth. His eyes jumped around, looking for an air-conditioning unit, but could see none. The curtains were drawn and it was dim in the room, but not dark. There to his right, against the wall, was a plain, simple cot, prettily draped in white, embroidered linen, with a small rug in front of it on the otherwise bare floorboards.