Once he’d gone, Olivia said, ‘That is a good sign. I’d choose a tepidarium over a sauna or sanarium any day.’
Charlie was mystified, but decided not to ask. She wondered if her sister ever did a full day’s work.
‘Not sure I want to risk Steph’s cooking, though. We need to arm ourselves as soon as possible with a local taxi number, so that if we’re starving and the food here is awful, we can get to Edinburgh before our ribs start to protrude.’
Charlie shook her head in mock despair. It would take months, possibly years, of deprivation before Olivia’s ribs protruded. ‘I assume you want the mezzanine?’ she said, hauling her suitcase over to the other bed.
‘Definitely. Otherwise I’ll feel as if I’m sleeping in the lounge. You will be sleeping in the lounge.’
‘It stops being the lounge there—’ Charlie pointed ‘—and becomes my bedroom.’
‘What’s wrong with walls, that’s what I want to know. What’s wrong with doors? I hate all this open-plan nonsense. What if you snore and keep me awake?’
Charlie began to unpack, wishing she’d been on a proper shopping trip and bought some new, sexy clothes. She looked out of the open window, at the steep bank of tall trees on the other side of the stream that flowed right outside their chalet. There was no noise in this place, if you didn’t include Olivia’s loud voice: no rumble of traffic, no general hum of the world going about its business. The occasional exclamation from a bird was the only thing that interrupted the stillness. And Charlie loved the crisp, fresh air. Thank God Spain was a disaster. People said things always worked out for the best, but Charlie had always thought that was preposterous, a downright insult to anyone who’d ever experienced something tragic or horrific.
‘Char? We are going to have a nice holiday, aren’t we?’ Olivia sounded uncharacteristically anxious. She was lying on her bed. Charlie looked up, saw her sister’s bare feet through the wooden railings. Unpacking was another thing Olivia dismissed as being too much effort. She treated her large suitcase as a small cupboard.
‘Of course.’ Charlie guessed what was coming next.
‘Promise you won’t let your Tyrannosaurus Sex alter ego take over and wreck everything? I’ve been really looking forward to this week. I’m not having it ruined because of some man.’
Tyrannosaurus Sex. Charlie tried to bat the words away, but they had already embedded themselves in her brain. Was that how Olivia saw her, as a huge, ugly monster, a rampant sexual predator? She felt as if a series of doors were slamming inside her, in a futile attempt to protect her ego against damage that had already been done.
‘Which man?’ she said in a clipped voice. ‘Angilley or Simon?’
Olivia sighed. ‘That you need to ask that question neatly illustrates the seriousness of the problem,’ she said.
‘In other words, a mess,’ said Inspector Giles Proust. ‘Is that a fair assessment of the situation, would you say, Waterhouse? I’d call it a mess. What would you call it?’
Simon was inside Proust’s transparent cubicle. The place not to be, unless you enjoyed feeling as if all your colleagues were watching you being ripped into ragged pieces by the small-framed, bald inspector: a silent but brutal movie, seen at a safe distance, through glass. Simon sat on a green armless chair that was spewing its stuffing, while the inspector stepped around him, occasionally spilling tea from the ‘World’s Greatest Granddad’ mug he held in his hand. Simon ducked every now and then to avoid being scalded. If this were a film, he thought, any minute now Proust would whip out a razor and start slashing. But a razor wasn’t Proust’s preferred weapon; he was happy to make do with his toxic tongue and his distorted view both of the world and his place in it.
Simon had taken the foolhardy step of entering the inspector’s lair without having been summoned. By choice, insofar as anyone in CID ever sought out the Snowman by choice. The nickname was a reference to Proust’s ability to transmit whatever mood he happened to be in—especially the bad ones—to rooms full of innocent bystanders. If he switched from relaxed to tense, from sociable to dour, the whole of the CID room froze mid-breath. Words turned to stone in every mouth, and actions became self-conscious and stilted. Simon didn’t know how Proust managed so wholly to cripple the general atmosphere. Was his skin porous? Did he have special psychic powers?
Just talk to him like he’s a normal bloke.
Simon had a lot he needed to say, and he knew there was no point stalling. ‘It’s certainly a difficult and worrying situation, sir.’ He would happily have agreed to ‘mess’ as a definition, were it not for the clear implication that he was in some way responsible. In some way? He chided himself for being naïve. Proust held him entirely responsible. What he couldn’t work out was why.
‘You should have been on to Kent police straight away, as soon as Mrs Haworth gave you an address. You should have faxed them the details and followed it up an hour later.’
Kent police would have loved that. Simon would have looked insane if he’d chased them after only an hour. ‘That would have been unwarranted, sir. I didn’t know then what I know now. Naomi Jenkins hadn’t accused Haworth of rape at that point.’
‘You’d know a damn sight more now if you’d contacted Kent police then.’
‘Would you have done that, sir? In my position?’ A direct challenge was risky. Sod it. ‘Mrs Haworth told me she’d make sure Mr Haworth got in touch as soon as he got back. She said he was trying to end his relationship with Naomi Jenkins but Jenkins wasn’t having any of it. I left a message on his mobile and I was waiting for him to get back to me. It seemed straightforward.’
‘Straighforward,’ said Proust quietly. Almost wistfully. ‘Is that how you’d describe it?’
‘Not now, no. It’s not straighforward any more . . .’
‘Indeed.’
‘Sir, I followed correct procedure. I decided to put it to one side for the time being and chase it up early next week if I hadn’t heard anything.’
‘And what factors contributed to that decision?’ Proust flashed a frightful false smile in Simon’s direction.
‘I did a standard risk assessment. Haworth’s an adult, there’s no indication he’s unstable or suicidal . . .’
The Snowman unleashed a small tidal wave of tea as he whirled round, faster on his feet than Fred Astaire. Simon wished Charlie wasn’t away on holiday. For some reason, life was always bad when she wasn’t around. ‘Robert Haworth has a wife and a mistress,’ said Proust. ‘More precisely, he has a wife who’s found out about his mistress, and a mistress who won’t allow him to call it a day. You’re not married, Waterhouse, so you perhaps won’t know this, but living with one woman who claims to be reasonably fond of you and whom you’ve never wronged in any appreciable way is hard enough. Take it from me, as a man who’s done thirty-two years’ hard labour in the matrimonial field. To have two to deal with, one at each ear, both blubbing about how betrayed they feel . . . well, I’d have gone a lot further than Kent if I were him.’
Hard labour in the matrimonial field? That was a classic. Simon would have to remember it, pass it on to Charlie. It was only thanks to the unstinting efforts of Lizzie Proust that the Snowman was able to appear to be a sane, functioning human being for even a fraction of the time.
If this conversation had taken place two years ago, or even last year, Simon would have been feeling hot and impatient by this stage, gritting his teeth and fast-forwarding, mentally, to the day when he would break Proust’s nose with his forehead. Today, he felt weary from the effort of remaining in adult mode while talking to a man who was effectively a child. Oh, very good, Waterhouse, very psychological, Proust would have said.
Simon wondered whether it would be reasonable to start thinking of himself as someone who used to have a violent temper. Or was it too soon for that?
‘What would you have done, sir? Are you saying that, on the basis of what we knew yesterday morning, you’d have chased it up with the Kent police?’
&
nbsp; Proust never gave you the satisfaction of an answer. ‘Risk assessment, ’ he said scornfully, though he was the person who had given Simon the ACPO 2005 guidelines on missing persons procedure and instructed him to commit every word to memory. ‘Haworth’s at risk, all right, and I shouldn’t have to tell you why. He’s at risk because he’s involved, in some way that has yet to be determined, with this Naomi Jenkins woman. Risk assessment! She turns up one day and reports him missing, claiming he’s been her lover for the past year and she’s lost without him, and then the next day she’s back saying forget all that, it was all a big lie, and accusing Haworth of a three-year-old abduction and rape?’ He shook his head. ‘This’ll be a murder investigation by the end of the week, you watch.’
‘I’m not sure, sir. I think it’s premature to assume that.’
‘I wouldn’t need to assume anything if you’d taken control of the situation in a professional way!’ Proust yelled at him. ‘Why didn’t you interview Naomi Jenkins properly on Monday, get the full story out of her then?’
‘We did . . .’
‘This woman’s wrapping us round her little finger. She comes in whenever she feels like it, says whatever she fancies saying, and all you can do is nod and write down each new lie in great detail—a missing person report one minute, a rape statement the next. She’s staging a pantomime, and she’s cast you as the hind legs of the donkey!’
‘Sergeant Zailer and I—’
‘What, in the name of all things bright and beautiful, were you thinking of, taking a rape statement from her? Clearly she’s a rabid fantasist, and yet you choose to indulge her!’
Simon thought about Naomi Jenkins’ account of her rape, what she said those men had done to her. It was the worst thing he’d ever heard. He considered telling Proust how he’d actually, honestly, felt when she’d told him. No chance. The physical proximity of the Snowman repelled any ideas he’d foolishly harboured about the possibility of genuine communication taking place; you only had to take one look at the man.
‘If she’s lying about the rape, how do you explain the letter, signed N.J., that she sent to that website in May 2003?’
‘It’s a fantasy she’s had for years—since birth for all I know or care,’ said Proust impatiently. ‘Then she met Haworth and fleshed it out a little, added him to her absurd tale. Nothing she says can be relied upon.’
‘I agree her behaviour’s suspicious,’ said Simon. ‘Her instability’s obviously cause for greater concern about Haworth’s safety.’ We don’t disagree, he might have added. Pointless. ‘Which is why, as soon as I’d finished taking her statement, I did get on to Kent police. And they’ve just got back to me.’ In other words, you narrow-minded shit, I’ve got some facts you might be interested in if you’re willing to stop chucking blame at me for two seconds. Simon had a sense of his words trickling back to him, having failed to get through, failed to permeate the rigid, invisible barrier that surrounded Proust at all times.
He persisted. ‘The address Juliet Haworth gave me exists, but no one there knows anything about Robert Haworth.’
‘She’s unstable as well,’ said the Snowman flatly, as if he suspected the two women in Robert Haworth’s life of deliberately conspiring to create problems for him, Giles Proust. ‘Well? Have you been back to the house and searched it? Have you searched Naomi Jenkins’ house? If you’d read the new missing persons gubbins I gave you—’
‘I have read it,’ Simon cut in. The ACPO 2005 guidelines for the management of missing persons were hardly new. Proust was averse to change. For weeks after the clocks went forward or back, he made a distinction between ‘old time’ and ‘new time’.
‘—you’d know that under Section 17, part c—or is it d?—you can enter any premises if you have cause to believe someone’s at risk—’
‘I know all that, sir. I just wanted to check with you first, as Sergeant Zailer’s away.’
‘Well, what did you think I’d say? A man’s missing. His bit on the side’s a conniving lunatic, and his wife, far from being worried about his whereabouts, is actively trying to put you off the scent. What did you think I’d say? Put your feet up and forget all about it?’
‘Of course not, sir.’ I have to consult you, you fucking wanker. Did Proust think Simon enjoyed their little exchanges? It wasn’t as bad when Charlie was around: she acted as a buffer, shielding her team from the inspector’s bullying as much as she could. She also, more and more in recent months, made decisions that by rights were Proust’s to make, in order to minimise his stress and allow him to have the sort of short, easy days he liked.
‘Of course not, sir,’ Proust mimicked. He sighed and swallowed a yawn—a sign that he’d run out of steam. ‘Do the obvious things, Waterhouse. Search Jenkins’ house, and Haworth’s. Run the usual credit-card and telephony checks. Talk to everyone Haworth knows: friends, work contacts. You know what to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh, and while I’m underlining the absolutely elementary: bring in Naomi Jenkins’ computer. We’ll be able to tell, won’t we, whether the letter she claims she sent to the rape website originated from her machine?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simon, thinking, Someone will, you won’t. Proust was an expert on everything that required no expertise, that was his problem. ‘If it’s the same machine. She might have bought a new one since.’
‘Get Sellers and Gibbs on to it too. As of today, it’s our highest priority.’
You get them on to it, Simon nearly made the mistake of saying. Was Proust preparing for retirement, he wondered, handing out his responsibilities to anyone who’d have them?
‘Grill Jenkins again. And go to the Traveltel—’
‘I’ve just got off the phone with the receptionist.’ Simon was pleased to be able to decapitate at least one of Proust’s unnecessary instructions. Giving redundant advice was one of the Snowman’s favourite hobbies, though he marginally preferred issuing completely uncalled-for warnings. He was forever telling Charlie and Simon and the rest of the team not to crash their cars or leave their front doors unlocked or fall off the sides of mountains if they went walking.
‘A man and a woman fitting Haworth’s and Jenkins’ descriptions have spent every Thursday night at the Traveltel, in room eleven, for roughly a year. Exactly as Jenkins said on Monday. I’m waiting for the Traveltel receptionist to get back to me and confirm it’s them. I’ve couriered a copy of the photo over to her—’
‘Of course it’s them!’ Proust slammed his mug down on the desk.
‘Sir, you’re presumably not saying that I shouldn’t have bothered to check?’ Such a basic failure—in a parallel universe in which Simon had still done lots of things wrong, but different things—would undoubtedly have resulted in a bollocking very similar to the one he was getting now.
The inspector looked thoroughly disgusted. Sounded it, too, as he said, ‘Just get on with it, Waterhouse, all right? Anything else, or might you allow me a few minutes’ calm in which to piece together the fragments of my shattered day?’
‘The receptionist said the couple—Haworth and Jenkins, assuming it’s them—seem very keen on one another.’
Proust threw up his hands. ‘That’s one mystery solved, then. That explains why they go to a roadside motel together every week. Sex, Waterhouse. What did you think: they both had a thing for eight-pound-ninety-nine platters?’
Simon ignored his sarcasm. The relationship between Robert Haworth and Naomi Jenkins was crucial, at the centre of this whole peculiar business, and the Traveltel receptionist, as far as Simon knew, was an objective, independent witness. He said firmly, ‘She told me they always had their arms round each other. Stared into each other’s eyes a lot, that sort of thing.’
‘At reception?’
‘Apparently.’
Proust snorted loudly.
‘And the woman always stayed the night, left the next morning. Whereas the man left at about seven the same evening.’
‘Always
?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘What sort of nonsense relationship can that be, then?’ said Proust, looking into his empty mug as if hoping to find that it had filled itself.
‘Possibly an abusive one,’ Simon suggested. ‘Sir, I was thinking about Stockholm syndrome. You know, where women fall in love with men who abuse them . . .’
‘Don’t waste my time, Waterhouse. Get out there and do your perishing job.’
Simon stood up, turned to leave.
‘Oh, and Waterhouse?’
‘Sir?’
‘You might buy me a book about sundials, while you’re out and about. I’ve always found them fascinating. Did you know that sundial time is more accurate than clock time, than Greenwich Mean Time? I read that somewhere. If you’re talking about measuring the precise position of the Earth in relation to the Sun—solar time—then a sundial’s your man.’ Proust smiled, startling Simon: happiness looked wrong on the inspector’s face. ‘Clocks would have us believe that all days are the same length, exactly twenty-four hours. Not true, Waterhouse. Not true. Some are a little bit shorter, and some a little bit longer. Did you know that?’
Simon did, only too well. The longer ones were the ones he was forced to spend in the company of Detective Inspector Giles Proust.
8
Wednesday, April 5
I HEAR MY back door slam. This sound is followed by the sound of footsteps. They are coming from the house towards the shed, where I’m working. When I talk to customers I call it my workshop, but it’s really just a medium-sized shed with a table, a wooden stool and all my tools in it. When I started up the business, I had two windows put in. I couldn’t work in a place that had no windows, not even for one day. I have to be able to see.
There are too many footsteps for it to be Yvon on her own. Without turning to look, I know it’s the police. I smile. A home visit. Finally I am being taken seriously. There are probably police officers on their way to your house as well, if they’re not there already. Knowing I will soon have news of you makes the passing of time bearable. It won’t be long. I try to focus only on getting the news, not on what it will be.
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