The Truth-Teller's Lie (18 page)

‘Another similarity between Jenkins’ account of her rape and Kelvey and Freeguard’s accounts is the invitation to a member of the audience to join in,’ said Kombothekra. ‘A man called Paul, in the case of Jenkins. Kelvey said her rapist extended his invitation to join in to all the men present, but he was particularly keen for a man named Alan to get involved. He apparently kept saying, “Come on, Alan, surely you want a go?” And the other men encouraged this, also egging on this Alan character. Same story with Sandy Freeguard, except the man was called Jimmy.’

‘And? Did Alan or Jimmy partake?’ asked Proust.

‘They didn’t, neither one,’ said Kombothekra. ‘Freeguard told us that Jimmy said, “I’ll play it safe, I think.”’

‘When you hear about men like these, you start to mourn the absence of the death penalty,’ Proust muttered.

Charlie pulled a face behind his back. The last thing they needed was a diatribe from the Snowman about the good old days of hanging. He seized upon any excuse to lament the abolition of capital punishment: a theft of some CDs from HMV in town, nocturnal fly-posting. The inspector’s readiness to wish death upon random civilians depressed Charlie, though she happened to agree with him about the man who had raped Naomi Jenkins, Kelvey and Freeguard, whoever he was.

‘Why the differences, then?’ she wondered aloud. ‘It has to be the same man . . .’

‘His method evolves with each rape?’ Sellers suggested. ‘He likes his basic routine, but maybe a bit of variety within that makes it more exciting for him.’

‘So he made Kelvey and Freeguard undress in the car,’ said Gibbs. ‘To make the drive more fun.’

‘Why the change of venue, for Freeguard and Kelvey, and why take the elaborate dinner out of the equation?’ The Snowman barked impatiently. Charlie had been expecting his mood to deteriorate. When there were too many uncertainties, he usually grew ratty. She noticed that Sam Kombothekra was suddenly very still. He’d never met Proust before, never experienced one of his invisible ice installations, and was no doubt wondering why he felt unable to move or speak.

‘Maybe the theatre became unavailable,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe the panto season started and the stage was needed for
Jack and the Beanstalk.
’ She spoke in a deliberately relaxed way, trying to diffuse the atmosphere; she knew from long experience that she was the only one of the team who could. Simon, Sellers and Gibbs seemed to accept it as inevitable that they would all congeal in the Snowman’s disdain for hours, sometimes days. ‘In Jenkins’ statement, she says her attacker was serving the food as well, in between sexual assaults on her. Survivor number thirty-one alludes to the same thing.’

‘So you’re saying he decided to streamline his operation?’ asked Simon.

‘Maybe,’ said Charlie. ‘Think of what Naomi Jenkins described. That must have taken it out of him, don’t you reckon? A kidnap followed by a long drive, multiple rapes, serving a posh dinner to more than ten guests, then a long drive back.’

‘It’s possible our man moved to West Yorkshire between the Jenkins rape and the Kelvey rape,’ said Kombothekra. ‘That could explain the change of venue.’

‘Or he always lived in West Yorkshire, since Jenkins said her drive was much longer,’ said Sellers.

‘Maybe that was a red herring, though, and another part of what made this scrote’s “act” too tiring to sustain long term,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe he lived in Spilling—and that was how he knew Jenkins, or knew of her—and he drove her round and round in circles to make her think the site of the attack was at the other end of the country.’

‘This is just pointless speculation,’ Proust murmured in disgust.

‘Has he got a day job?’ asked Gibbs. ‘Does he take time off to kidnap his victims?’

‘There’s one thing we haven’t talked about yet,’ said Charlie.

‘That sounds unlikely,’ Proust grumbled.

She ignored him. ‘All the women say their kidnapper knew their names and numerous details about them. How? We need to find out if these women have got anything in common other than the obvious: they’re all successful, middle-class, professional. Naomi Jenkins makes sundials. Sandy Freeguard is a writer—she writes children’s books. Prue Kelvey’s an asylum and immigration lawyer.’

‘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 information 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?’