The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Was,’ Sam Kombothekra corrected her. ‘She hasn’t worked since the attack.’

  ‘We can’t be sure in the case of survivor number thirty-one,’ Charlie went on, ‘but she writes like an educated person.’

  ‘Jenkins, Kelvey and Freeguard all say that their rapists asked them how it felt to be successful career women, so we’ve got to assume that’s a motivational link,’ said Kombothekra.

  ‘But then there’s the survivor story from the SRISA website, Tanya from Cardiff,’ Simon reminded him. ‘She’s a waitress, and her written English is poor. I’m not convinced her rape’s part of the same series.’

  ‘Chronologically, she was the first one,’ said Sellers. ‘Do you think she was the trial run, and then the rapist thought, That was great, but I’d prefer it with a posh bird and an audience?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe—’ She broke off, thinking.

  Proust emitted a leaden sigh. ‘Are we about to embark upon a flight of fancy?’

  ‘The two men Tanya described were in the restaurant where she worked, having a curry. She was the only member of staff there, the men were both drunk, it was late. Maybe that was the first attack, a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment one. One of the men forgot all about it, or saw it as a one-off, but the other found he’d acquired a taste—’

  ‘Enough, Sergeant. You’re not—what do they call it?—pitching to Steven Spielberg. Now, if there’s nothing else . . .’ He rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Tanya from Cardiff’s an odd one out, for whatever reason,’ said Charlie. Let’s pursue the professional-women angle. Gibbs, look into businesswomen’s associations, anything like that.’

  ‘There was something on Radio Four yesterday,’ said Simon. ‘Some organisation that brought self-employed people together. Jenkins and Freeguard are both self-employed. Maybe the rapist is too.’

  ‘Kelvey isn’t. Wasn’t,’ said Gibbs.

  ‘Any progress on Yvon Cotchin?’ Charlie asked him.

  ‘I’ll get on to it,’ he said, looking bored. ‘But we’ll get nothing from her. She’ll tell us exactly what Jenkins has told her to tell us.’

  Charlie stared at him sharply. ‘You should have spoken to her already. I told you to, and I’m now telling you again. Sellers, look for anything that might be someone trying to sell tickets to live rapes over the Internet, live sex shows, that sort of thing. And get on to SRISA and Speak Out and Survive, see if they’ve got contact details for Cardiff Tanya and survivor thirty-one. Name and address withheld is different from name and address not supplied.’ Sellers stood up, already on his way.

  ‘Simon, you explore the small theatre angle. Have I missed anything?’

  ‘You have, I think.’ Sam Kombothekra looked embarrassed. ‘The eye masks. Each of the three women was taken back, after the rape, to the spot where the attacker first approached her. Each was still wearing her eye mask when he drove away. Might he work for an airline? A pilot or steward would have easy access to as many masks as he needed, presumably.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Charlie diplomatically. ‘Although . . . well, it’s easy enough to buy eye masks at any branch of Boots.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kombothekra blushed. ‘I never go to Boots,’ he mumbled, and Charlie wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Proust edging towards his office. ‘Sir, I need a word,’ she said, holding her breath. The inspector hated it when one thing followed on immediately from another without a proper interval in between.

  ‘A word? Would that it were only one. I’m going to make myself a cup of green tea, if I’m permitted,’ the Snowman growled. He’d recently given up all things dairy without offering an explanation to any of his colleagues. ‘All right, Sergeant, all right. I’ll be in my office. Inflict yourself upon me without delay or hesitation.’

  ‘Crikey! Is he always like that?’ Sam Kombothekra asked after Proust had slammed the door to his glass Tardis. The room shook.

  ‘He is.’ Charlie grinned. Kombothekra would never guess she was taking the piss.

  ‘Absolutely not. If it was your own terrible idea, I might try to make you feel better about it—though I dare say I wouldn’t—but this is someone else’s terrible idea. You’re usually good at demolishing those.’ Proust stopped to slurp his drink. He’d always been a loud sipper, even when his drink of choice was PG Tips with lots of milk and three sugars. Charlie thought he had to be the least spiritually enlightened of all green-tea-drinkers.

  ‘I agree with you, sir,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to check I wasn’t being too rigid. Juliet Haworth told me unambiguously that if she was allowed to talk to Naomi Jenkins alone, she might reveal the truth. I didn’t want to rule out that avenue and that chance without consulting you.’

  Proust waved his hand dismissively. ‘She wouldn’t tell us anything, even if we agreed to her request. She just wants to torture Jenkins. One of them’d end up dead, or in hospital, alongside Robert Haworth. This is enough of a mess as it is.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Charlie. ‘Then what about an interview between Juliet Haworth and Jenkins with me sitting in? I could interrupt if I thought things were turning nasty. If Juliet Haworth’d agree to that—’

  ‘Why would she? She’s already specified: alone with Jenkins. And why would Jenkins agree?’

  ‘She already has. On one condition.’

  Proust stood up, shaking his head in agitation. ‘Everybody has a condition! Juliet Haworth has one, Naomi Jenkins has one. If Robert Haworth survives, no doubt he’ll have one too. What are you doing wrong, Sergeant, that makes them think they can all put in these special applications?’

  Why do I always have to be wrong? Charlie wanted to scream. In Proust’s eyes, in Olivia’s . . . Not being on good terms with her sister made Charlie feel insubstantial. She had to sort it out, soon. Why had she been so stupid? She’d heard the name Graham and that was it: the coincidence had made her lose all sense of proportion. Her fictional boyfriend made real. She’d allowed herself to get caught up in it. She would explain all this to Olivia. She’d ring her tonight—no more putting it off.

  Tyrannosaurus Sex. Charlie pushed Olivia’s insult out of her mind and, wearily, began to defend herself to Proust. ‘Sir, I’ve approached this matter in exactly the same way that—’

  ‘Do you know what Amanda told me the other day?’

  Charlie sighed. Amanda was the Snowman’s daughter. She was studying sociology at Essex University. Her birthday wasn’t too far off either; Charlie made a mental note to circle it on Proust’s desk calendar later.

  ‘Twelve students in her year, doing the same subject—twelve!—are having some sort of special circumstances taken into account when it comes to the exam. They’re all claiming to be dyslexic or . . . what’s that other thing?’

  ‘Naomi Jenkins will talk to Juliet Haworth if, in return, we take her to the hospital to see Robert Haworth.’ Seeing the inspector’s furious expression, Charlie added, ‘And she hasn’t asked to see him alone. I’d be there the whole time, supervising her.’

  ‘Don’t be a spastic, Sergeant!’ Proust bellowed. ‘She’s a suspect in his attempted murder. How would that look, if the press got hold of it? We’d all be stacking shelves in Waitrose by the end of the week!’

  ‘I’d agree with you if Haworth were conscious, sir, but for as long as he isn’t, for as long as we’re not sure if he’ll even live—’

  ‘No, Sergeant! No!’

  ‘Sir, you’ve got to be more flexible!’

  Proust’s eyebrows slid closer together. There was a long silence. ‘Have I?’ he said eventually.

  ‘I think so, yes. There’s something really disturbing going on here, and the crucial thing, the key to it all, is in the relationships. Between Haworth and Jenkins, Haworth and his wife, Juliet and Jenkins. If they’re keen to see one another, in any combination, we should seize the chance. As long as we’re with them at all times, the pros outweigh the cons, sir. We could pick up crucial info
rmation from seeing how Jenkins behaves at Haworth’s bedside . . .’

  ‘You mean if you see her pull a large rock out of her cardy pocket?’

  ‘. . . and how Juliet Haworth and Jenkins relate to one another.’

  ‘You’ve had my answer, Sergeant.’

  ‘If it makes any difference, Simon agrees with me. He thinks we should say yes to both, with the proper level of supervision.’

  ‘It makes a difference,’ said Proust. ‘It strengthens my opposition to everything you propose. Waterhouse!’ Not that useless reprobate, the tone implied. Simon had closed more cases than any of the other detectives under Proust’s supervision, including Charlie.

  ‘On another matter . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Gibbs?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Or care.

  ‘Well, find out, and whatever’s wrong, right it. I’m fed up of finding him skulking outside my office like the spectre at the feast. Has Sellers told you his idea?’

  ‘Gibbs’?’

  ‘Obviously not. Sellers’ idea is to buy Gibbs a sundial as a wedding present.’

  Charlie couldn’t help smiling. ‘No, no one’s mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Sellers thinks a dial with a date line, the date of Gibbs’ matrimonials, but I’m not sure. It’s too messy. You can’t have a date line that represents only one day of the year, Sergeant. I’ve been reading up on it. Any such line would have to represent two days, because each date has a twin, you see. There’s another day, somewhere in the year, when the declination of the sun is the same as it is on the date of Gibbs’ wedding. So the little gismo—the nodus, it’s called—its shadow would fall on the date line on this other day as well.’ Proust shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. It’s too messy, too random.’

  Charlie wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

  ‘But Sellers’ idea gave me one of my own. What about a sundial for our humble nick, on the back wall outside, where the old clock used to be? Nothing’s replaced the clock—there’s just a big, empty space. How much do you reckon a sundial would cost?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Charlie imagined Proust putting his proposal to Superintendent Barrow and nearly laughed out loud. ‘I’ll ask Naomi Jenkins if you like.’

  The inspector tutted. ‘Obviously we can’t commission one from her. And I’d have to get approval from the higher-ups. But it shouldn’t be too expensive, should it? What do you think, maybe five hundred quid for a nice big one?’

  ‘I really have no idea, sir.’

  Proust picked up a big black book that was on his desk and began to leaf through it. ‘Waterhouse very kindly bought me this. There’s a section here on wall-mounted sundials . . . where is it? There are also dials that can be fixed directly to a wall, without even a mount, you know.’

  ‘Sir, do you want me to look into it? Prices, waiting time, all that? You’re so busy.’ She knew it was what he wanted her to say.

  ‘Excellent, Sergeant. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Proust beamed, and Charlie found, to her embarrassment, that she felt heartened by the unexpected gust of praise. Was it human nature always to crave the approval of the most disapproving people one knew? She turned to leave.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘You do see my point, don’t you? We can’t possibly let Juliet Haworth and Naomi Jenkins have a private interview without a police presence. And we equally can’t afford to leave Jenkins and Haworth unattended in his hospital room. The risks are too great.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ said Charlie tentatively.

  ‘You tell Naomi Jenkins and Juliet Haworth that we’re the ones who impose conditions around here. We run the show, not them! If these two . . . encounters are to take place, then there must be detectives present at all times. Not just detectives—I want you there, Sergeant. I don’t care about your workload, or your stress levels.’ He winced at the words. ‘This isn’t something to be delegated.’

  Charlie faked a glum look, but inside she was rejoicing. ‘If you insist, sir,’ she said.

  15

  Friday, April 7

  ‘WHAT DO YOU know about my husband?’ Juliet asks me.

  ‘That he loves me,’ I tell her.

  She laughs. ‘That’s about you, not him. What do you know about Robert? His family background, for example.’

  DC Waterhouse picks up his pen. He and Sergeant Zailer exchange a look that I can’t interpret.

  ‘He doesn’t see any of his family.’

  ‘True.’ Juliet makes a tick mark in the air with her index finger. With her other hand, she rubs her eyebrow, as if trying to smooth down the thin arc of hair, over and over again. A machine is recording our conversation. At the same time, my memory is recording all Juliet’s mannerisms and expressions. This is your wife, the woman who often, I imagine, has spoken to you about everyday things—servicing the car, defrosting the fridge—while brushing her teeth, with a mouth full of toothpaste. That’s how close she’s been.

  The more carefully I watch her, the longer I spend sitting here in this small grey room with her, the more ordinary she will seem. It’s like when you can’t bear to look at a picture of some gruesome deformity because you’re too squeamish. When you eventually force yourself to stare at it and familiarise yourself with all its details, it soon becomes something mundane, nothing to be scared of at all.

  It helps to remember that Juliet no longer shares something with you that I don’t. People say marriage is no more than a piece of paper, and usually that’s untrue, but not in this case. You and Juliet are as apart now as it’s possible for a man and wife to be, separated not only by geography, by your respective incarcerations, but also by the fact that she did her best to kill you. If you wake up—no, when you wake up—there will be no question of your forgiving her.

  ‘I know Robert’s got three sisters, that one of them’s called Lottie. Lottie Nicholls.’ I had to drag this information out of you, and felt so guilty afterwards that I didn’t ask for any more names.

  Another shrill laugh from Juliet, for Waterhouse and Zailer to play back later. But they won’t remember her cold, empty eyes in the way that I will. ‘Why doesn’t Robert ever speak to these sisters?’ she asks me.

  I remember your exact words, only have to paraphrase slightly. ‘They think he’s not good enough for them, and by thinking that, they proved they weren’t good enough for him.’

  ‘I was the cause of the big family feud,’ Juliet says proudly. ‘I bet Robert didn’t tell you that. His nearest and dearest were horrified when they heard he’d got together with me. Which was bang out of order, considering I’d never done them any harm. The words “pot” and “kettle” spring to mind.’

  I haven’t a clue what she means.

  ‘Has my husband ever said anything to you about any or all of his three sisters being—er, how shall I put this?—dead?’ She leans forward, her pale blue eyes gleaming.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Zailer and Waterhouse look as surprised and repulsed as I feel, but they say nothing. Your sisters, dead? Any or all of them. It’s not possible. Juliet could easily be lying. She must be. Unless there was some sort of tragedy . . .

  I’ve thought before that tragedy seems to be your element. You are passionate and sorrowful, like a condemned man, due to face the gallows any day, snatching a rare, precious moment with the woman he loves. When we first got together, once we’d established that the feeling was mutual, that neither one of us was more or less ardent than the other, I blurted out, like an idiot, ‘This is so amazing. I can’t believe there isn’t a catch.’

  You looked at me as if I were crazy. ‘Oh, there’s a catch, all right,’ you said.

  ‘So, I wonder who bashed Robert’s brains in, then,’ Juliet says matily, as if discussing the latest storyline in a soap opera. ‘You didn’t do it, did you? You luurve Robert. You’d never hurt him.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She can’t mock me wi
th something I’m proud of. ‘You did it. Everyone knows you did it. Robert knows. When he wakes up, he’ll tell the police it was you. Did you intend to kill him? Or was it a fight that got out of hand?’

  Juliet grins at Sergeant Zailer. ‘Have you trained her? She sounds like one of you lot.’ She turns to me. ‘Maybe you are. I don’t know what you do for a living. Are you a cop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. There’s only so much irony I can take.’ Juliet leans forward. ‘Why do you love my husband?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a simple question. I suppose Robert’s reasonably attractive, even now he’s got a bit lardy. He was thinner when I met him. But is physical attractiveness enough? You must have noticed by now that he’s a miserable sod and a tightarse.’

  ‘I made a statement about a rape on Tuesday,’ I tell her, trying not to look at Sergeant Zailer or Waterhouse. ‘I pretended Robert had raped me, to make the police look for him.’

  ‘You really are off the rails, aren’t you?’ says Juliet.

  ‘How did you know the details of what I put in my statement?’

  She smiles. ‘Why pretend he’d raped you? Rather than, say, beat you up or stolen your handbag?’

  ‘Rape’s the easiest crime to fake,’ I answer eventually. It has often enraged me, the idea that there might be as many women pretending to have been raped as pretending not to have been. ‘I had no bruises, so he could hardly have beaten me up.’

  ‘You didn’t pretend anything,’ says Juliet. ‘You were raped. Just not by Robert. I know exactly what happened to you. Scene by scene, frame by frame.’ Juliet makes a loud clicking noise and mimes pushing the button of a camera.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ I say, as soon as I am able to speak. ‘Unless the police have shown you my statement.’

  She looks suddenly impatient. ‘No one’s shown me any statements. Look, I might not answer all your questions, but I won’t lie to you. If I give you an answer, it’s an honest one.’