The Truth-Teller's Lie (28 page)

‘It’s unlikely to be anything you did wrong,’ Simon told her. They’d been talking for less than three minutes, and he was already impatient with Cotchin’s hand-wringing and lip-biting. She seemed to care more about how her friend’s unexplained absence might reflect on her than about the risk of harm to Naomi.

Simon had just heard, second-hand, Naomi Jenkins’ theory that Robert Haworth had cooked the food that the audiences watching the staged rapes had eaten. It was possible, he supposed, and a good reason for Haworth to withhold from Jenkins the fact that he’d once been a chef.

What Simon couldn’t make sense of, no matter how hard he tried, was why Haworth should want to strike up relationships with both Sandy Freeguard and Naomi Jenkins, knowing his brother had raped them. He thought back to the two recorded interviews between Naomi and Juliet Haworth. He and Charlie had listened to the tapes again, only a few hours ago.
He doesn’t see any of his family. Robert’s the official black sheep.
But if his family comprised a serial rapist, a slag who sold sex to strangers on the phone, and a National Front-supporting racist thug . . .

Simon felt excitement stir inside him. If Robert Haworth was the black sheep of a rotten family, wouldn’t that make him, by any objective ethical assessment, a white sheep? The only good thing to come from a bad family?

Simon was desperate to talk to Charlie. Her scepticism was the acid test for all his theories. Without her, it was as if half his brain was missing. So he was probably wrong, but still . . . what if Robert Haworth had known what his brother Graham was doing to women and decided to seek at least some of those women out and try to make it up to them?

Why didn’t he just go to the police? Charlie would have said.

Because some people would never do that, no matter what. Shop a member of your own family to the law? No; too big a betrayal, too public.

The more Simon tried to squash the theory down, the more determined it seemed to sprout wings and take off. If Robert knew about the rapes and felt unable to report them to the police, he’d have felt all the more guilty. Wasn’t it possible that he made it his mission to try to compensate Graham’s victims in another way?

No, dickhead.
Robert Haworth had raped Prue Kelvey. That was beyond question.

‘Naomi’s not thinking straight at the moment,’ Yvon Cotchin said tearfully. ‘She could do any crazy thing.’

Her voice returned Simon to the moment. ‘She left a note saying she’d be back later,’ he said. It was more than Charlie had done. ‘That’s a good sign. We’ll think again if she doesn’t turn up soon.’

‘This’ll sound mad, but . . . I think she might have gone to that village, where Robert grew up.’

‘Oxenhope?’

Yvon nodded. ‘She’d want to see it. Not for any real purpose, just because it’s associated with Robert. That’s how obsessed she is.’

‘Did Naomi know that Robert Haworth wasn’t the name he was born with?’ asked Simon.

‘What? No. Definitely not. What . . . what did he used to be called?’

Time for a change of subject. ‘Yvon, I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you about your work. Is that all right?’ He planned to ask them anyway, whatever she said.

‘My work? What about it? How’s that relevant to Naomi, or Robert?’

‘I can’t discuss that with you. It’s confidential. But take my word for it, your answers will be incredibly useful.’

‘All right,’ she said, after a slight pause.

‘You designed the website for Naomi Jenkins’ sundial-making business.’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Erm . . . I’m not sure.’ She fidgeted in her chair. ‘Oh! It was September 2001. I remember because I was working on it when I heard about the planes crashing into the World Trade Center. Awful day.’ She shuddered.

‘When was the website up and running?’ asked Simon.

‘October 2001. It didn’t take me long.’

‘You also designed a website for Silver Brae Chalets in Scotland.’

Yvon looked surprised. Her mouth twitched. Simon guessed she was fighting the urge to ask him again what all this was about. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Do you know Graham Angilley, the owner? Is that how you got the work?’

‘I’ve never met him. He’s a friend of my father’s. Is . . . Graham in some kind of trouble?’

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Simon, not caring if Yvon heard the venom in his voice. ‘When did you design his website? Do you remember?’ Was there a convenient terrorist atrocity that made it stick in your mind? ‘Before or after Naomi’s?’

‘Before,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Long before—1999, 2000. Something like that.’

Disappointment made Simon flinch. Bang went his theory that Graham Angilley had looked at Naomi Jenkins’ website to get an idea of the standard of Yvon Cotchin’s work. If Simon had been wrong about that, what else might he be wrong about?

‘Are you sure? It couldn’t have been the other way round, Naomi Jenkins first and then the chalets?’

‘No. I did Naomi’s long after Graham’s. I’ve got all my old work diaries at home—at Naomi’s house. I can show you the exact dates I worked on both, if you like.’

‘That’d be helpful,’ said Simon. ‘I’m also going to need a complete list of all the websites you’ve designed, since you started. Is that do-able?’

Yvon looked worried. ‘None of this has got anything to do with me,’ she protested.

‘We don’t think you’ve done anything wrong,’ said Simon. ‘But I need that list.’

‘Okay. I’ve got nothing to hide, it’s just . . .’

‘I know. Does the name Prue Kelvey mean anything to you?’

‘No. Who is she?’

‘Sandy Freeguard?’

‘No.’

She looked as if she was telling the truth.

‘Okay,’ said Simon. ‘I’m particularly interested in women with businesses, like Naomi Jenkins, who you’ve designed sites for. Any names you can think of offhand?’

‘Yeah, probably,’ said Yvon. ‘Mary Stackniewski. Donna Bailey.’

‘The artist?’

‘Yeah. I think those are the only ones you might have heard of. There was a woman who ran a dating agency, another one who made models—she was the daughter of my—’

‘Juliet Haworth?’ Simon cut her off, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up. Models? It had to be.

‘That’s Robert’s wife.’ Yvon looked at him as if he were insane. ‘Don’t be daft. I could never work for her. Naomi would string me up from the nearest lamp post and shoot me as a traitor—’

‘What about Heslehurst, Juliet Heslehurst?’ Simon cut her off. ‘Pottery models of houses?’

Yvon’s eyes were round with amazement. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘That’s the woman who made the models. Hers was the first site I ever did. Is there . . . She was also called Juliet. Is that . . . ?’

‘I’m asking the questions. How did you know Juliet Heslehurst?’

‘I didn’t, not really. Her mother, Joan, used to be my nanny when I was little. Before she had any kids of her own. Our families kept in touch. Joan mentioned to my mum that her daughter needed someone to do her a website . . .’

‘So Juliet Heslehurst’s website was your first? Before Graham Angilley’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you, by any chance, suggest to Mr Angilley that he look at Juliet Heslehurst’s site, to get an idea of the standard of your work?’

Yvon’s face had turned red. Sweat beaded her upper lip. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

Naomi would string me up from the nearest lamp post.
That was the second time Simon had heard the word ‘lamp post’ in a very short space of time. He’d said it himself, first time round, talking about Gibbs’ stag night, the one Sellers had forgotten to arrange. Simon had wondered why Gibbs cared so much—a sane man would want to avoid being stripped and tied up, which seemed to be what happened at these—

Simon’s heart screeched to a stop. Then it started with a hefty jolt. Bloody hell, he thought. Bloody, bloody hell.

He excused himself and left the room, his mobile phone already in his hand. A few things were becoming horribly clear; the least important of these was that, from now on, the whole team would have to look back on Chris Gibbs’ weeks-long huff as something to be grateful for, however unpleasant it might have been while it lasted.

24

Saturday, April 8

‘I’M GOING TO pull over at the next services,’ says Charlie Zailer. Then, as an afterthought, ‘All right?’ Her voice sounds choked. She doesn’t look at me, hasn’t since we set off. She faces straight ahead as she talks, as if she’s using a hands-free mobile phone, speaking to someone far away.

‘I’ll stay in the car,’ I tell her. I want to close myself in, put a metal box around my body so that I’m invisible. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. How do I know she’s telling the truth about the man and wherever it is we’re going?

If I’m going to see him again, it shouldn’t be on his territory. It should be at a police station, in a line-up. Panic starts to chew at the corners of my mind. This feels wrong. I ought to tell Sergeant Zailer to stop the car and let me out now, here, on the hard shoulder. It was a bright day when we set off, but we’ve been driving for an hour, and the sky in this part of the country is light grey with darker grey jagged patches scrawled across it. The wind is hissing, blowing the rain diagonally across the windscreen. I picture myself cold and drenched by the side of the road, and say nothing.

The faint, rhythmic beat of the indicator makes me look up. We pass blue signs with slanted white lines: three, two, one. Motorway language. You once told me you find motorways relaxing, even if the traffic’s stalled. ‘They have a special rhythm,’ you said. ‘They
go
somewhere.’ The intense look in your eyes; was I capable of understanding this thing that was so important to you? ‘They’re like magic, like a yellow-brick road for adults. And they’re beautiful.’ I pointed out that most people wouldn’t agree. ‘Then they’re fools,’ you said. ‘You can keep your listed buildings. There’s no sight more impressive than a long, grey strip of motorway stretching into the distance. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Apart from here with you.’

I push the thought from my mind.

Sergeant Zailer drives faster than she should into the service-station car park. I stare at my lap. If I allow myself to look out of the window, I might see a red lorry that looks a bit like yours. If I go inside, I might see a food court that resembles the one at Rawndesley East Services. My breath stops in my throat when it occurs to me that here, too, there might be a Traveltel.

‘You should come in, get a coffee, stretch your legs,’ Sergeant Zailer says gruffly, climbing out of the car. ‘Go to the toilet.’ The last few words are faint, carried away by the wind.

‘What are you, my mother?’

She shrugs and slams the door. I shut my eyes and wait. Thinking is impossible. I try to point a spotlight at my brain and find it empty. After a few minutes, I hear the car door open. I smell coffee and cigarettes; the combination makes me feel sick. Then I hear Charlie Zailer’s voice. ‘The man who raped you is called Graham Angilley,’ she says. ‘He’s Robert’s brother.’

Bile rises in my throat. Graham Angilley. Where have I heard the name Angilley before? Then it comes to me. ‘Silver Brae Chalets,’ I manage to say.

‘The theatre where you were, where the audience was . . . it wasn’t a theatre. It was one of the chalets.’

This makes me open my eyes. ‘It
was
a theatre. There was a stage, with curtains.’

‘Each of the chalets has its master bedroom on a mezzanine floor. It’s like a room without walls, a high square platform that you could easily mistake for a stage. And there are wooden railings around the mezzanine, with curtains, to give the bedroom more privacy.’

As she speaks, I can see it. She’s right. That’s the detail I couldn’t quite remember about the curtains—I knew there was something. They didn’t fall down from the ceiling. They
were
attached to a sort of rail. If I hadn’t been tied to the bed, if I’d stood up, I’d have been able to peer over the top.

Silver Brae Chalets. In Scotland. A real place, where people go for their holidays, to have fun. Where I wanted to take you, Robert. No wonder you were so shocked and upset when I told you I’d booked it.

‘Yvon, my best friend, designed their website,’ I say. ‘There were no wooden railings between me and the audience. Just a horizontal metal rail, going round three sides of the stage.’

‘Maybe each chalet’s slightly different,’ Sergeant Zailer says. ‘Or maybe the one you were in was unfinished.’

‘It was. The window I looked through—there was no curtain there. And the skirting boards were still bare wood, not painted yet.’ Why has this not occurred to me before?

‘What else can you tell me?’ Sergeant Zailer asks. ‘I know you’ve been withholding something.’

I stare at my hands in my lap. I’m not ready. How does she know Graham Angilley’s name? Has she been to Silver Brae Chalets? Something feels not quite right.

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Let’s talk about the weather, then. Shit, isn’t it? I’m surprised you make a living out of sundials, in this country. Anyone ever invents a raindial, they’ll make a mint.’

‘There’s no such thing.’

‘Yeah, I know that. I was talking crap.’ She lights a cigarette, opening the window a fraction. Cold rain slices in through the rectangular slit, hitting me in the face. ‘What do you think of sundials that don’t tell the time, ornamental ones?’

‘I object to them,’ I tell her. ‘It doesn’t take that much longer to make a proper dial. A sundial that doesn’t tell the time isn’t a sundial. It’s just a piece of junk.’

‘They’re cheaper than real ones.’

‘Because they’re rubbish.’

‘My boss wants one for our nick. He wants a real one, but the powers-that-be won’t let him spend the money.’

‘I’ll make him one,’ I hear myself saying. ‘He can pay me whatever he can afford.’

Charlie Zailer looks surprised. ‘Why would you do that? Don’t say as a favour to me—I won’t believe you.’

‘I don’t know.’ Because if I promise to make something for your boss, I will have to survive this trip. If I talk as if I believe I’ll survive, then maybe I will. ‘What sort does he want?’ I ask.

‘One that can go on the wall.’

‘I’ll do it for free if you’ll take me to the hospital again to see Robert. I have to see him, and they won’t let me in without you.’

‘He told you to leave him alone. And he’s a rapist. Why do you want to see him?’

She will never guess. Nobody could guess the truth, apart from me. Because I know you so well, Robert. However you feel about me, I
do
know you well.

‘Juliet Haworth wasn’t involved in organising the rapes,’ I say. ‘Whether they were . . . done for some kind of perverted pleasure or whether money was made out of them . . . whatever. Juliet has nothing to do with it.’

‘How do you know that?’ Sergeant Zailer takes her eyes off the road, interrogating me with her sharp glare.

‘I’ve got nothing you’d regard as evidence,’ I tell her. ‘But I’m sure it’s true.’

‘Right.’ She sounds bitter. ‘So that pottery model of the chalet, the same chalet you saw through the window while you were being assaulted . . . Juliet just guessed what it looked like, did she? Divine inspiration. Nothing to do with her putting on rape shows with the help of Graham Angilley and her husband, and knowing exactly where they took place.’

‘I said she wasn’t responsible for the rapes. I never said she hadn’t seen that chalet.’

‘So . . . you mean Graham Angilley
asked
her to make a model of it? Because he knew its significance even if she didn’t?’ She smokes furiously as she demolishes what she thinks is my theory. ‘But Juliet told us what had happened to you, for fuck’s sake! She guessed you’d accused Robert of raping you—she knew all the details. If she wasn’t involved, how the hell would she know?’

I can’t believe she hasn’t got there yet. She’s supposed to be a detective. But she doesn’t know you, Robert—that’s why she’s lagging behind. It’s why I was lagging behind, the first time I spoke to Juliet in a police interview room. Your wife knew you better than I did at that point.

Not anymore.

‘Juliet knew what had happened to me because it happened to her too.’ Am I saying this aloud? Yes; it seems I am. ‘The man, Graham Angilley—he raped her too.’

‘
What?
’ Sergeant Zailer pulls over on to the hard shoulder. The screech of the tyres makes me wince.

‘Think about it. All the women Graham Angilley raped were successful professional women. Juliet was too, until she had a breakdown. That’s why she had one: because she was raped. She was tied to the same bed as I was, on the same stage—mezzanine, whatever. There will have been an audience, men eating and drinking. And while she was tied to that bed, she saw exactly what I saw through the window. She made a model of it. She put it in the display cabinet in her living room.’ I stop, fill my lungs with air.

‘Go on,’ says Sergeant Zailer.

‘She didn’t know Robert knew what had happened to her, so she had no reason to think the little pottery house with the blue arched door would be familiar to him . . . Like me, she hadn’t told anyone what had been done to her. She was too ashamed. It’s not easy, to go from being envied and successful to being pitied.’

‘But Robert did know, didn’t he? And when he met Juliet in the video shop that night, it wasn’t a chance meeting.’

‘No. Nor when he met me at the service station. He must have followed us both, for weeks, maybe months. And Sandy Freeguard. Didn’t you say she crashed her car into his? He was within crashing distance because he was following her too. That was the pattern: his brother raped us, then Robert followed us until he was able to arrange a so-called chance meeting.’

‘Why?’ Sergeant Zailer leans towards me, as if greater proximity will coax the answer from me. ‘Why did he want to meet and start relationships with his brother’s victims?’

I don’t answer.

‘Naomi, you’ve got to tell me. I could charge you with obstruction.’

‘Charge me with high treason if you want. What do I give a shit?’

Charlie Zailer sighs. ‘What about Prue Kelvey? She doesn’t fit the pattern. Robert raped her, and she saw him before he put the mask on her. He couldn’t follow
her
and contrive a meeting, couldn’t become
her
boyfriend.’

‘Juliet tried to kill Robert because she found out he knew about her rape all along. Probably the only reason she was able to marry him, or even to look him in the face, was because she was sure he didn’t know, sure he’d
never
know. In his eyes, her dignity was intact. She wasn’t . . . violated and disgusting; she was how she used to be. But Robert
did
know, and Juliet found out, and she realised he’d been lying to her for years, letting her think her secret was safe, and her privacy, but actually all the time . . .’ I swallow hard, trying to quell the lurching in my chest. ‘She thought he’d been laughing at her behind her back, that the whole relationship was a mockery, him taunting her. His secret knowledge was a way of having power over her, power he could wield at any time, or keep in reserve for as long as he wanted. He didn’t need to tell her he knew until he was ready, didn’t have to tell her at all if he didn’t want to.’

Charlie Zailer frowns. ‘Are you saying this is how it was, or how Juliet saw it?’

‘How she saw it. I’m explaining why she tried to kill him.’

She nods.

‘I won’t speak to her again. Juliet. Those interviews—I’m not doing it again.’

Your wife is out of control, Robert. Well, I don’t need to tell you that, do I? Talk about stating the obvious. So far she’s been content to goad me with her maddening ambiguities. If I talk to her again, she will become more explicit, step up her campaign of hate. She will start to tell me things, and I can’t allow that to happen. Next time I come to the hospital, I want to tell you what I know in my heart and soul, not what I’ve been told. There’s a big difference; it’s the difference between power and helplessness. I know you’d understand, even if Sergeant Zailer wouldn’t.

‘How did Juliet find out that Robert knew?’ she asks me. ‘Do you know that too?’ An uncomfortable silence fills the car, one I am determined not to break. ‘Naomi, this is no time to clam up! Jesus! How did she know? Why did Robert want to go out with women his brother had attacked?
Why?
’ She taps the dashboard with her fingernails. ‘You know, everything you’ve just told me about Juliet could be true of you as well. You didn’t know Robert knew about what had happened to you, did you? But he did. Perhaps you’re the one who feels he was laughing at you behind your back, wielding some sort of sick power, manipulating you. Perhaps you want revenge, and that’s why you want to go to the hospital—to finish off what Juliet started.’

‘I want to see Robert because I need to talk to him,’ I say. ‘I need to explain something to him. Something private that’s between me and him.’ Just the two of us, Robert, and nobody else. It’s what I’ve always wanted.