The Truth-Teller's Lie (10 page)

7

4/5/06

‘A ROZZER?’ THE man who was showing Charlie and Olivia around their holiday chalet threw up his hands in alarm. ‘I wouldn’t have told you we had availability if I’d known you were one of the boys in blue. Girls in blue, rather.’ He winked and turned to Olivia. ‘You a rozzer as well?’ He had the sort of polished accent Charlie thought of as ‘public school’.

‘No,’ said Olivia. ‘Why does everybody who meets us together always say that?’ she asked Charlie. ‘No one asks you if you’re a journalist. It makes no sense. Is it meant to run in the family, the desire to enforce the law?’ Anyone who knew Olivia would have known how ludicrous it was, the idea of her chasing a teenage thug down the street or breaking down the door of a crack house. ‘Does your brother own a holiday-chalet business?’ she enquired innocently.

The man wasn’t offended, thank goodness. He laughed. ‘This might come as a surprise, but, yes, my brother and I have been in business together for several years. So, you’re a journalist, are you? Like whatsername? Kate Adie!’

Charlie wouldn’t have put up with the man’s prying if he had been any less handsome or if she had been any less thrilled with the chalet. She could tell Olivia loved it too. There was a bath big enough for two people, which stood on four gold feet in the centre of a large bathroom with a black slate floor. A straw basket beside the basin overflowed with Molton Brown products and the large, flat, gleaming shower-head in the glass stall in the corner looked capable of unleashing a satisfying downpour.

Both beds in the chalet were wider than ordinary doubles. The frames were sleigh-shaped, cherry wood, with curved head- and footboards. Their friendly if slightly intrusive host—Mr Angilley, Charlie assumed, the one whose name was on the card—had given them a pillow menu when they’d first arrived. ‘Duck down,’ Olivia had said without a moment’s hesitation. Charlie had thought, I wouldn’t mind sharing my pillows with you, Mr Angilley, but she’d kept the thought to herself. He was the sort of good-looking that was unusual, verging on implausible—as if he’d been designed by a great artist or something. Almost too perfect.

A huge, flat-screened television was set into the wall in the living area, and although there wasn’t a minibar, there was something called a ‘larder’ by the entrance to the kitchen that was stocked with every conceivable variety of alcohol and snack. ‘Just tell us what you’ve had at the end of the week—we trust you!’ Angilley had said, winking at Charlie. She didn’t normally like to be winked at, but perhaps it wasn’t sensible to be so rigid about things . . .

The kitchen was tiny, which Charlie knew had pleased her sister. Olivia was opposed to the big, sociable, island- and table-stuffed kitchens that most women loved. She thought cooking was a waste of time and that nobody who didn’t have to do it professionally should do it at all.

‘Not at all like Kate Adie,’ she told Angilley. ‘I’m an arts journalist.’

‘Very sensible,’ he said. ‘Much better to get stuck at the Tate Modern than in downtown Baghdad.’

‘It’s a moot point,’ Olivia muttered.

Charlie examined Angilley’s big brown eyes, which had laughter lines round them. How old was he? Early forties, she guessed. His centre-parted floppy hair gave him an agreeably unkempt look. Charlie liked the greeny-grey tweed jacket he was wearing, and his scarf. He was stylish, in a country sort of way. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Much more attractive than Simon bloody Waterhouse.

‘What’s your name?’ Charlie decided to do a bit of counter-prying.

‘Oh, sorry. I’m Graham Angilley, the owner.’

‘Graham?’ She looked at Olivia and grinned. Her sister glared at her. ‘What a coincidence.’ Charlie moved automatically into flirtatious mode. She tilted her head and gave Angilley a mischievous look. ‘My made-up boyfriend’s called Graham.’

He seemed disproportionately pleased. Pink spots appeared on his cheeks. ‘Made-up? Why would you want to make up a boyfriend? I’d have thought you’d have plenty of real ones.’ He bit his lip and frowned. ‘I don’t mean
plenty,
I mean . . . well, you must have lots of admirers.’

Charlie laughed at his embarrassment. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

‘Sorry. I’m usually much more suave and cool than this.’ He put his hands in his pockets and smiled sheepishly. He also knows how to flirt, thought Charlie; she didn’t normally go for the shy, hapless approach.

Olivia said loudly, ‘Are there any good restaurants nearby?’

‘Well . . . Edinburgh’s within reach, if you don’t mind an hour or so’s drive,’ said Graham, ‘and there’s an excellent restaurant right here. Steph cooks for any guests who want top-notch home-cooked meals. All ingredients organic.’

‘Who’s Steph?’ Charlie asked as nonchalantly as possible. She felt unaccountably irritated.

‘Steph?’ Graham grinned at her, letting her know that he’d understood the implications of her question. ‘She’s all my staff rolled into one: cook, maid, secretary, receptionist—take your pick. My dogsbody. Though I shouldn’t malign our canine friends.’ He laughed. ‘No, to be fair, Steph’s perfectly attractive if you like peasant girls. And I’d be lost without her, she’s a darling. Shall I bring you over some menus later?’ He was looking only at Charlie.

‘That’d be great,’ she said, feeling slightly giddy.

‘And don’t forget to check out the spa, which is in the old barn building. We’ve just had a tepidarium put in. Perfect place to relax and pamper yourself.’

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?’

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.’