The Truth-Teller's Lie (20 page)

Something in Simon’s head snapped. He was on his feet. ‘How the fuck do you know all that?’

‘I want to talk to Naomi,’ said Juliet. Her smile had returned.

‘You lied to us about your husband’s whereabouts. You spent six days living in the house with him upstairs, beaten nearly to death, unconscious, lying in his own filth, and you didn’t phone an ambulance. Your bloody fingerprints are on that doorstop, prints in Robert’s blood. We’ve got enough to convict you several times over. It doesn’t matter what you say to us or don’t say.’

Juliet’s face was impassive. Simon might as well have read her his shopping list instead, for all the difference it would have made. ‘I want to speak to Naomi,’ she repeated. ‘In private. Just the two of us, nice and cosy.’

‘Tough.’

‘You must know that’s a non-starter, so why bother asking?’ said Sellers.

‘You want to know what happened to Robert?’

‘I know you tried to kill him, which is all I need to know,’ said Simon. ‘We’re going to charge you with attempted murder, Juliet. Are you sure you don’t want that solicitor?’

‘Why would I try to kill my own husband?’

‘Even without a motive, we’ll get a conviction, which is all I care about.’

‘That might be true of your friend—’ Juliet nodded at Sellers ‘—but I don’t think it’s true of you. You want to know. And so does your boss. What’s her name? DS Zailer. She’s a woman, you see, and women like to have the whole story. Well, I’m the only person who knows it.’ The pride in her voice was unmistakable. ‘You tell your boss from me: if she doesn’t let me talk to that bitch-cunt Naomi Jenkins, I’m the only person who’ll ever know the truth. It’s up to you.’

‘We can’t,’ Simon said to Sellers as they walked back to the CID room. ‘Charlie’ll say it’s out of the question, and it is. Jenkins and Juliet Haworth alone together in an interview room? We’d have another attempted murder on our hands. At the very least, Haworth’d taunt Jenkins with the details of her rape. Imagine the headlines: “Police allow murderess to taunt rape victim.”’

Sellers wasn’t paying attention. ‘Why does Juliet Haworth think I don’t care about knowing the truth? Arrogant bitch. Why would you care more than I do?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Does she think I’m thick or something? Unimaginative? That’s fucking ironic. She ought to hear the story I’ve told Stace to cover my week away with Suki. You know, I’ve even typed up a programme of activities for our team-building retreat, on police headed paper?’

‘I don’t want to know,’ said Simon. ‘I’m not lying to Stacey if I meet her while you’re away and she asks me why I’m not with you in . . . wherever we’re supposed to be.’

Sellers chuckled. ‘You say that now, mate, but I know you
would
lie for me, if it came to it. Let’s have less of the false modesty!’

Simon was keen to drop the subject. They’d discussed it before, too often. Sellers was always good-humoured in the face of criticism, which irritated Simon nearly as much as having his scruples treated as if they were some kind of endearing affectation. Sellers
was
unimaginative, in this respect at least: he couldn’t conceive of anyone genuinely, sincerely, disapproving of his ongoing infidelity. Why should anybody want to spoil his fun, when it was all gain and no pain, nobody was getting hurt? He was too optimistic, Simon thought. It was fun at the moment, and Sellers couldn’t see that it had the potential to turn into anything else. Like losing his wife and kids, if Stacey Sellers ever found out. Until you’ve really suffered, thought Simon, you can’t imagine what that level of pain might feel like.

‘I had an idea for Gibbs’ wedding present,’ said Sellers. ‘I know it’s not for ages, but I want to get it sorted sooner rather than later. I’ve got more important things to think about.’ He made a lewd gesture. ‘Holiday preparations . . . lubrications . . . ejaculations . . .’

‘Marital separations,’ muttered Simon, thinking about the poem Juliet Haworth had written on the envelope. She wasn’t a typical lorry driver’s wife, any more than Naomi Jenkins was the average lorry driver’s mistress. They’ve got more in common with each other than with him, thought Simon. Hard to know if he was right, with Haworth saying even less than the two women were. ‘What’s the idea?’ he asked Sellers.

‘A sundial.’

Simon laughed in his face. ‘For Gibbs? Wouldn’t he prefer a can of Special Brew? Or a porn video?’

‘You know the Snowman’s got a book about sundials?’

‘Yeah. Do you know who bought him that book, and didn’t get paid back?’

‘I had a look at it. You can get this thing put on called a nodus.’

‘You mean a gnomon?’

‘No, all sundials have got those. A nodus is usually a round ball, although it doesn’t have to be. It goes on the gnomon, so that there’s like a blob that stands out on the edge of the shadow. Anyway, you can have a horizontal line put on the dial if you’ve got a special date or something—Gibbs and Debbie’s wedding day for example. The horizontal date line crosses the downward time lines, the ones that mark out the hours and half-hours. And on that date every year, the shadow of the nodus follows the line all the way along. Do you get what I mean?’

‘The specifics are irrelevant,’ said Simon. ‘In general, it’s a bad idea. Gibbs wouldn’t want a sundial. He’d perk up when he heard the words “date line”, but ultimately he’d be disappointed.’

‘Debbie might want one.’ Sellers sounded hurt. ‘They’re nice, sundials. I’d like one. Proust said he would too.’

‘Debbie wants to marry Gibbs. We can assume her taste’s as bad as his.’

‘All right, you fucking killjoy! I just wanted to get it sorted, that’s all. When I get back from my week with Suki, the wedding’ll only be a couple of days off. You lot’ll have to sort it while I’m away, if you leave it till the last minute. God, talk about putting a dampener on things. I know Gibbs isn’t exactly—’

‘Exactly.’

‘—but, you know, I just thought maybe we should aim high for a change.’

‘“Look up in the sun’s eye and give what the exultant heart calls good that some new day might breed the best, because you gave not what they would but the right twigs for an eagle’s nest.”’ Simon smiled. He wondered if Juliet Haworth would recognise the quote. Sellers didn’t. ‘W. B. Yeats. But he’d never met Chris Gibbs, and if he had, he’d have thought again.’

‘Forget it,’ said Sellers wearily.

‘Which way round do you think it is?’ Simon asked him. ‘Did Robert Haworth rape Naomi Jenkins and tell his wife about it? Or was Jenkins raped by someone else, confided in her lover, and then he broke her confidence and told his wife?’

‘Fuck knows,’ said Sellers. ‘In both scenarios you’re assuming Haworth told Juliet about the rape. Maybe Naomi Jenkins told her. I can’t get it out of my head that the two of them might be working together to mislead us. They’re both cocky cows, and we know they’ve both lied. What if they aren’t the enemies and rivals they seem to be?’

‘What if anything?’ said Simon despondently. ‘With Haworth still unconscious and both women messing us around, we’re getting fucking nowhere, aren’t we?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Charlie, coming up the corridor behind them. Simon and Sellers turned round. Her face was grim. She didn’t sound pleased, as she normally did when progress was being made. ‘Simon, I need a DNA sample from Haworth as soon as possible. And not one forensics took from the house, before you tell me we’ve already got it. I want one from the man himself. I’m not taking any chances.’ Charlie was marching as she spoke; Simon heard Sellers panting behind him as they struggled to keep up with her.

‘Sellers, get me background on Haworth, Juliet Haworth and Naomi Jenkins. Where’s Gibbs?’

‘Not sure,’ said Sellers.

‘Not good enough. I want Yvon Cotchin brought in for questioning, Jenkins’s lodger. And get forensics on to Robert Haworth’s lorry.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked Sellers, red in the face, once the sound of Charlie’s high heels click-clacking along the corridor had faded.

Simon didn’t want to guess, didn’t want to speculate about what might constitute both progress and bad news. ‘You can’t keep covering for Gibbs,’ he changed the subject. ‘What’s wrong with him, anyway? Is it the wedding?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Sellers determinedly. Simon thought of the sundial on Naomi Jenkins’ business card, its motto. He couldn’t remember the Latin, but it translated as ‘I only count the sunny hours.’ That was Sellers to a tee.

SERGEANT ZAILER UNLOCKS the door of my cell. I try to stand up, and only realise how worn out I am when my knees buckle and a jangling noise starts up inside my head. Before I manage to convert the tangle of my thoughts into a coherent question, Sergeant Zailer says, ‘Robert’s doing well. The haemorrhaging’s stopped and the swelling’s going down.’

This news is all I need by way of an energy boost. ‘You mean he’s going to be okay? He’ll wake up?’

‘I don’t know. The doctor I just spoke to said that with head injuries nothing is predictable. I’m sorry.’

I should have known: the ordeal is never over. It’s like an endless race—the straight white finishing line dissolves into powder and scatters as I approach, and as it disappears, I glimpse a new line in the distance. And then I run towards that one, panting for my life, and the same thing happens. One wait comes to an end and another starts. It is this that is eroding me more than lack of sleep. I feel as if there’s an animal trapped inside me, straining to get out, rocking back and forth. If only I could find a way to be still inside my head, I wouldn’t mind lying awake all night.

‘Take me to the hospital to see Robert,’ I say, as Sergeant Zailer leads me out on to the corridor.

‘I’m taking you to an interview room,’ she says firmly. ‘We’ve got some talking to do, Naomi—a lot of explaining and straightening out.’ My body sags. I haven’t got the energy for a lot of anything. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Sergeant Zailer. ‘You’ve got nothing to fear if you tell the truth.’

I could never be afraid of the police. They follow rules I understand and, apart from the odd exception, agree with.

‘I know you wouldn’t and didn’t hurt Robert.’

Relief washes over me, sinking into my tired bones. Thank God. I want to ask if it was Juliet who hurt you, but there’s been a power cut in the part of the brain that controls my speech, and my mouth will not open.

The interview room has pale coral walls and smells strongly of aniseed.

‘Would you like a drink before we start?’ Sergeant Zailer asks.

‘Anything alcoholic.’

‘Tea, coffee or water,’ she says in a cooler voice.

‘Just water, then.’ I wasn’t being facetious. I know the police are allowed to let people smoke. I’ve seen it on television, and there’s an ashtray on the table in front of me. If tobacco and nicotine are permissible, why not alcohol? There’s so much pointless inconsistency in the world, most of it the result of stupidity.

‘Still or sparkling?’ Sergeant Zailer mutters on her way out of the room. I can’t tell if she’s angry or joking.

As soon as I’m alone, my mind goes blank. I ought to be anticipating, preparing, but all I do is sit completely still while the thin fabric of my consciousness stretches to cover the chasm between this moment and the next.

You are alive.

Sergeant Zailer comes back with my water. She fiddles with the machine on the table, which looks more sophisticated than anything I would call a tape recorder, though that’s clearly its function. Once it’s recording, she says her name and mine, the date and the time. She asks me to state that I do not wish a solicitor to be present. Once I’ve done this, she leans back in her chair and says, ‘I’m going to save us both a lot of time by skipping the question-and-answer rigmarole. I’ll describe to you the situation as I understand it. You can tell me if I’m right. Okay?’

I nod.

‘Robert Haworth didn’t rape you. You lied about that, but for the best possible reason. You love Robert, and you believed something had happened to prevent him from meeting you at the Traveltel last Thursday, something serious. You reported your concerns to DC Waterhouse and myself, but you could see that we weren’t as certain as you were that Robert had come to harm. You didn’t think finding him would be a priority for us, so you tried a different tactic—you tried to make us believe Robert was violent and dangerous, and needed to be found quickly before he hurt anyone else. Right from the start, you planned to tell us the truth as soon as we found him. It was only going to be a temporary lie—you knew you’d redeem it with the truth eventually.’ Sergeant Zailer pauses for breath. ‘How am I doing so far?’

‘It’s all true, everything you’ve said.’ I am slightly stunned that she has managed to work it out. Could she have spoken to Yvon?

‘Naomi, your lie saved Robert’s life. One more day and he’d have been dead for sure. The brain compression from his bleeds would have killed him.’