Where the Truth Lies

by Julie Corbin

  I don’t know how much longer Julian will be in theatre. Dr Kitto said I should rest, but resting is impossible. I’m wide awake. The feeling inside is too big for me to contain. I want to lift a car, scale a building, die if that’s what it takes. But there’s nothing I can do except walk up and down and hope and pray. I feel like a beggar. I want to drop to my knees in front of God and explain why my husband and my daughter can’t die. I know that every minute of every hour of every day someone loses a loved one, but please not me, not my husband, not my child.

  It’s after seven o’clock in the morning now and I risk using both phones in the relatives’ room. No emails have arrived, and Mac has nothing else to tell me. Bea has been gone for more than six hours and we have no idea where she is. She could be anywhere. She could be in London or Manchester or Birmingham, and the more minutes that tick by, the harder she’ll be to find. We have no leads. No clear direction.

  I start to cry. I try to hold the tears back, I make great, loud gulping sounds, but there’s no catching them. I ache with everything that I am for this to be over and for both Julian and Bea to be safe. I will never again take my life for granted. I will never complain. I will live each day in the knowledge that I am blessed beyond words.

  There’s a knock at the door – Julian is out of theatre. It’s a relief to get the message and I hope that this might be it. Lowest point reached, we will now begin the slow climb back to normality. I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair and blow my nose. I look at the clock, remembering that when my mother died, I would hold my breath, convinced that if I held it for long enough, I could stop time and maybe even reverse it and then my mum would come back to us. But now I know different. I know that time has its own engine, fuelled as much by death as by life. It won’t stop. It won’t even wait. Not for any of us.

  I walk out of the room and a tall man with grey hair and large feet approaches me. He’s called Mr Murray and he’s the surgeon who’s just sewn my husband’s throat back together. He’s still wearing green theatre garb. He takes me aside and asks me about the attack. I tell him what little I know.

  ‘Your husband was lucky,’ he says. ‘He must have turned his head just as the knife was used. The aim was slightly off and missed completely severing his carotid artery, otherwise he would have bled to death before anyone could help him. As it is, we’ve managed to repair the damage.’ He takes my elbow. ‘Come through and see him now.’

  He leads me to a bed. I don’t recognise the man lying there as Julian. He’s not breathing for himself. He has a tube down his throat. The ventilator is pushing air into his lungs. There’s a constant beeping noise from all the machinery registering his blood pressure, temperature, oxygen saturation levels and heartbeat. Areas of the mattress blow up and then down to relieve his pressure points. Fluid is going in through one arm and blood through the other. One side of his head has been partly shaved. Matted black hair is pushed back under a bandage that stretches round his head and down over his throat. His face is bruised, his eyelids swollen. And then I recognise his left hand. This is Julian. These are his long, slender, pianist’s fingers, his freckled skin, blue veins and paler skin where his watch normally is. This is my husband’s hand. I bring it up to my cheek, then bend down to kiss the motionless face.

  ‘My darling,’ I say, ‘the operation was a success. You’re going to be OK.’

  ‘Talking is good.’

  I look up. A nurse is reading results from one of the machines and jotting it down on a chart. She finishes writing and brings a chair around behind me. ‘Hearing is the last sense to go and the first sense to return. Talk to him as much as you can.’

  ‘Right.’ I sit down and I start to talk. At first I feel self-conscious and then I forget all that and just talk about anything and everything: memories from university, Charlie’s love of eco-politics, Jack’s love of rugby, what we’ll do with the summerhouse, whether we’ll go to France this year or submit to pressure from the boys and fly to New York. What I don’t talk about is the trial or Megan. And I don’t mention Bea because I can’t tell him she’s still missing and I’m too afraid that if he can hear me, he’ll grow agitated and upset.

  The nurse caring for him is called Teresa and she doesn’t look much older than a teenager. She explains everything to me and whenever I ask a question she answers me slowly, looking into my eyes as she does so. Every fifteen minutes she tries to rouse Julian. I stay out of the way so that she can make her observations. She asks Julian to open his eyes and she tests his motor response. Then she gives him a score: 7 out of 20.

  ‘That’s not good?’

  ‘No.’ She looks regretful. ‘But his heart is strong and Mr Murray is an excellent surgeon. Let’s give him time.’

  I stay with him until ten o’clock and then I take a taxi back home. I want to make sure the boys are OK. I want to have a shower. But mostly I want to stand in Bea’s bedroom and feel her presence. I want to see whether Bertie’s there. I don’t know whether him being there or not being there will make me feel worse or better. I just need to know.

  The police tape is still cordoning off the area in front of my house. No through traffic is allowed into the street. ‘Something happening along there this morning,’ the driver says, craning his neck to see better. ‘You’ll have to climb out here.’

  I pay him and step out on to the pavement. It’s thirty yards or so to my house and I’m about halfway along when a figure rushes into my peripheral vision. I jerk round quickly, not so much afraid of what’s coming, more to get myself in a good position if I need to fight back.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not— Oh God.’ It’s Mary Percival. She puts her hand over her mouth. Her face twists. ‘I heard about Julian and about Bea.’ She takes a tearful breath. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I feel the weight of her sincerity, but just like with Lisa and with Jem, I can’t take it on board. I don’t want to see what they see. My husband is alive, only just, but he is alive. And Bea is alive. She is. If she wasn’t, my heart would stop. I put my hand to my chest, reassured to feel it beat through my sweater. ‘And I’m sorry to have been rude to you. It was Megan we should have been watching out for. Not you.’ I continue walking. After a few seconds she follows me.

  ‘Megan?’

  ‘She worked with Julian. It seems she fooled us all.’ My phone beeps twice. It’s the sound of a text arriving. I take it out of my pocket and read the message: Come to the playing fields on the London Road. Alone.

  My heart starts to pound. I look along the street. I need to get to my car. It’s in the cordoned-off area.

  ‘Mary,’ I say, ‘will you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I want to get my car out. The police will ask me where I’m going. I need to have a reason. I’m dropping you at the vet. Douglas isn’t well, so I’m taking you there.’

  Mary looks down at Douglas and then at me. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘But he looks well. Shall we say it’s for his vaccinations?’

  ‘Fine.’ I walk quickly and Mary follows me. I go into the house. The first thing I notice is that someone has washed Julian’s blood off the floor. Mac is in the hallway making a phone call and stops as soon as he sees me.

  ‘How’s Julian?’ he says.

  ‘He’s out of theatre.’ I walk past him and lift my keys off the hall table. ‘We’ll know more later.’

  ‘Are you driving somewhere?’

  ‘I’m dropping Mary at the vet. Douglas is due injections.’

  He starts back in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘I need to stay busy.’ I go back outside and run down the steps.

  ‘Claire?’

  I ignore him. Mary and I climb into the car. The policeman on patrol moves the barrier and I drive off while Mac stands on the kerb and watches.

  20

  ‘I’ll drop you round the corner,’ I tell Mary. ‘Thank you for covering for me.’

  She sits beside me with Douglas on her k
nee, his tail wagging as he sniffs the air, then stares straight ahead through the window. Mary is completely upright, the tension in her body palpable as I overtake on the bend, then have to brake abruptly when an old lady steps off the pavement. ‘Come on, come on.’ I’m tapping the steering wheel. My mobile rings.

  ‘Do you want me to get that?’ Mary asks.

  ‘No,’ I say. I know it’ll be Mac. I don’t want him along. I don’t want him taking charge and doing it his way. I don’t have much of a plan, but what I do know is that if Megan comes to meet me, then I’ll offer myself and the information as a trade for my daughter.

  ‘How is Julian?’ Mary asks.

  ‘He’s . . . holding his own.’ I think of him lying in the bed plugged into machinery looking both strange and vulnerable. My heart aches. I try to breathe. ‘We don’t know yet whether there’ll be any permanent damage.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She brushes Douglas’s fur out of his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. This is a horrible time for you.’

  I stop by the kerb. ‘Is this OK?’

  ‘Thank you.’ As she’s climbing out, she turns back and says, ‘If you need any more help, please ask.’

  ‘I will. And, Mary?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About Dad. About you. We’ll talk soon. I promise.’

  She gives me a grateful smile and I set off for the playing fields. I drive too fast. I watch one speed camera flash and then another. I talk myself through what I need to do. Park the car. Go into the playing fields and wait, and when I see her coming, I’ll give her the piece of paper Mac gave me and— ‘Shit.’ I bang the heel of my hand on my forehead. I’ve left the paper in the pocket of my blood-stained jeans and they’re lying on the floor in my bedroom. I don’t have time to go back for the paper and anyway Mac would start questioning me. I rack my brains and find that I can remember the witness’s name – Kaloyan Batchev – and he’s being held in a safe house in East London, but was it Gordon Place or Gordon Avenue? Number fifteen or number thirteen?

  Think, Claire, think.

  I could call Charlie or Jack and ask him to find my jeans and read me the address, but I don’t want to involve either of them. I can’t expect them to keep it a secret. It’s too much responsibility and if something were to go wrong, they would blame themselves. I could call Mac, but there’s no way he’ll let me handle this my way. He might decide to bring a tactical unit and Bea could get caught up in the crossfire. I know I have to be realistic. Megan Jennings is more than just the solicitor I’m familiar with; she is with the two men who killed Baker and Faraway last night and left Julian for dead – Julian, whom she’s worked with for the last nine months. If she’s capable of that, then what chance do I have of coming out alive?

  The answer is probably zero, but that’s not my main concern. It may look like blind recklessness, but to me it feels like the last few days have been leading up to this and I’m not going to let the police or anyone else take this chance away from me. With me in charge, Bea is put first, if necessary at the expense of my own safety. And that’s the way it has to be. That’s not to say I’m fearless – I am, in fact, so afraid that my skin feels tight from the terror that’s been growing inside me since Bea first disappeared – but I’m not afraid for myself. I’m only afraid for Bea. My sanity has been walking a tightrope and I have to stare straight ahead or else I see what’s pressing in around me: images of my daughter lying cold and dead on a mortuary slab. And the only sure way to prevent this is for Megan to get the information she wants. The police won’t give it to her. But I will. I rack my brains some more and decide the house number was fifteen. If it was thirteen, I’m sure a thought along the lines of unlucky-for-some would have gone through my head. So was it avenue or place? I think hard. I try to visualise the piece of paper. It doesn’t work. I have no idea which one it is. All I can do is choose one and hope I can secure Bea’s release before Georgiev’s men arrive at the address.

  It takes me ten minutes to get to the playing fields. On one side are the fields, their perimeters dotted with trees. On the other is a row of 1930s semi-detached houses. Several boys are kicking a football into the goal in the far field, and there’s a man walking his dog along the street, but otherwise it’s quiet. I walk on to the field and send a text back: I’m here.

  I hold my phone in my hand and wait. I look around me. There’s no one in sight. I stand there for a quarter of an hour, each minute feeling longer than the last. When my phone finally rings, I get such a shock that I drop it. I scrabble around in the grass for it and press the green button.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Walk diagonally across the field.’ It’s Megan’s voice. ‘Cross the road and come in the front door of number thirty-nine. If I get so much as an inkling that you’re being followed, you won’t see Bea again.’

  ‘I’m not. I—’ She ends the call.

  I start walking. I know she’ll be watching me. This is an open spot, the perfect place for her to see whether or not I’ve brought anyone along with me. I walk at a normal pace, being careful not to break into a run. I feel remarkably calm. Somewhere inside there is the terrified me, but she’s behind triple-glazed glass and although she’s bashing her fists against it, the sounds are muffled. I can ignore her.

  The sun is shining and my eyes are watering, but I daren’t raise my hand to shield them in case Megan thinks I’m signalling to someone. I walk up the path to number thirty-nine, my shoes scrunching noisily on the gravel. The door is slightly ajar. I push it open and walk inside. As I turn to close it, the back of my right knee is kicked. It buckles and I topple backwards. In one flowing movement Megan’s left hand yanks my arm up my back and her right hand comes to the front and round my throat, where I feel a blade settle against my skin. She moves with such speed and precision that I am disabled before I even register the kick.

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, Claire, would you?’

  I can’t speak. Her hold is too tight. I have to fight hard to stave off a feeling of panic because I know that when I try to breathe, I won’t be able to. She twists round and throws me ahead of her into the front room, where I land on the floor with a thud. I automatically rub my throat and then look up at her. ‘Where’s Bea?’

  She’s dressed completely in black – trainers, T-shirt and trousers. Her hair is tied back and she isn’t wearing make-up. The Megan I know is never without her mascara and her lip gloss and her perfectly pressed white shirts. Gone is the accommodating tilt to the head, the work-focused, slightly shy, slightly breathless air. In its place there is a deliberate lack of expression. She slides the knife back in the sheath attached to a belt round her waist.

  ‘Where’s Bea?’ I say again.

  ‘Get up.’ The room is about twelve feet square and dingy. The décor doesn’t look as if it’s been refreshed for forty or more years. The fitted carpet is a mottled greeny-brown nylon, the curtains the same. There is a mirror above a disused fireplace, but otherwise the walls are bare apart from yellowed wallpaper, which is curling at the corners. The only items of furniture are two hardback chairs facing each other in the centre of the room. She points to one of them. ‘Sit.’

  I do it. I’m not about to argue. I just want to see Bea.

  In another part of the house, I hear a phone ring, followed by a man speaking in short, staccato sentences. Then two men appear at the entrance to the room. They could be twins. They are stocky; their faces are pockmarked and scarred. They each have a diamond stud in one ear and a chunky gold bracelet on their right wrist. I recognise them from the CCTV footage. I don’t know which one of the three of them cut Julian’s throat, but my gut feeling tells me it wasn’t Megan. Despite the fact that she’s carrying a knife, I don’t believe she could swing so radically from solicitor to murderer. I think it far more likely that her job was to get the information, and when that was not forthcoming, these men were called in to provide the muscle. One or both of these men murdered Baker and Faraway, and seriously injured Julian.
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  They repulse me. My eyes burn as I stare at them. I would like to make them pay for what they’ve done, slowly and painfully, so that they never find peace again. I know my feelings are showing on my face, but fortunately neither of them is looking at me. It’s as if I don’t exist and it gives me the chance to observe Megan’s interaction with them. One stays silent, while the other talks to her. His tone is irritable and short-tempered. Megan replies in Bulgarian, her voice rising and falling with annoyance and then agreement. She is different from her ‘English’ self. Not only is her tone of voice more forceful, more masculine, but so too is her body language, which is pushy and dominant.

  Abruptly, the men turn and leave the room. They go out through the front door, closing it behind them. I feel like I’ve just been given a gift. Without the men here, I have more chance of persuading Megan to set Bea free.

  She comes towards me, stopping inches from my feet. ‘Tell me who the witness is,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s Bea?’

  She cuffs me across the face with the back of her hand. I don’t see it coming. My lower jaw takes the brunt of it and is pushed to one side so that an intense pain, worse than any toothache, shoots up the side of my face. I feel my cheekbone gingerly. It’s still in one piece, but the ache grinds through my facial bones from my chin to the backs of my eyes.

  ‘Tell me who the witness is.’

  ‘Where’s Bea?’

  She cuffs me again. This time, my vision jumps and then blurs. I blink several times until finally it clears and I’m left with ringing ears and a battered cheek.

  ‘How long do you think you can keep this up?’ She pulls the chair in close and sits down. She taps my knee. ‘Three or four minutes?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’ I make a point of holding my back straight. ‘Where’s Bea?’