A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  He stepped onto the cairn that marked the summit of the headland, the ocean seven hundred feet below stretching immeasurably beyond the horizon. The sky was cloudless, transformed from the grey of the day before, the sun low behind him as he looked out. His favourite sight over the past year had been its evening setting. If there was no skein of cloud obscuring its final disappearance, he sometimes remembered the French film The Green Ray – two young lovers waiting for the flash at the moment of solar obliteration – and imagined Sophie and Isla standing beside him, arms around each other.

  By the time he returned to the bench on the cliff, dawn had become day. He watched a black-suited figure turning its surfboard, a rising wave curling up behind, an avalanche of water about to thunder down.

  At 9 a.m. he was ready to go, Mrs Trelight standing on the doorstep to wave him safely on his way. Their final exchange over his last breakfast had also not disappointed.

  ‘So, that board of mine, Mrs T. I’ve removed what you might call the decorations but I said I’d take down the board too and repair the screw holes.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that, Mr Q!’ He recalled the firmness with which she had insisted on it a year ago. ‘It will be no trouble at all.’

  ‘I promised I would.’

  ‘What a gentleman you are. You just leave it with me. But…’ he sensed her searching for the way to put something, ‘what about all those “decorations” you mentioned, what will become of them? Will some of them go in your book perhaps?’

  ‘They may indeed.’

  She moved closer and lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. ‘He’s not just bad. He deserves to die.’

  He paused. ‘There are one or two things I’d prefer not to be carrying around.’

  ‘Official secrets?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You give it to me. They’ll be well-hidden.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said fiercely.

  He got out to open the back door, removed a few items and retrieved a brown box of files. From it he extracted six and handed them over. ‘The crown jewels.’

  ‘I’ll guard them with my life.’

  He returned to the driver’s seat, fired the ignition and Beatrice spat into life. He knew some thought him silly for being sentimental about an old camper van, but Beatrice was, in many ways, his most loyal companion. In his darkest hour, when he thought he might have to sell her, he had checked the internet for the going rate. The results had been astonishing; the ugly old contraptions had achieved iconic status – prices from twenty thousand pounds up to fifty thousand. Beatrice, a 2006 VW Danbury Diamond, could fetch upward of twenty-seven thousand pounds!

  He wound down his window.

  ‘I’ll be back, Mrs T.’

  ‘And I’ll be waiting for you. With the crown jewels.’ She was wiping an eye. He held back a tear of his own. ‘You take care.’

  Beatrice eased up the lane and he cut through the fields to go by the village to get a Mail on Sunday. The newspaperman within him felt an itch to see whether headless torsos or more Morland-Cross revelations would be the headline.

  He turned right off the track onto the ‘main’ road which narrowed to a single lane for the final descent. Shifting the gears and pushing up to forty miles an hour, the maximum speed he allowed Beatrice to go, he sat back, glancing at a passing field of cows and the grey sea beyond. The outcome of his strange collaboration with Sandford was unknowable. But an outcome there would be. He felt an excitement he thought he had lost for ever.

  Ahead of the shallow incline leading to the village, he put the gear into neutral and raised his foot from the accelerator, swinging around the bend. Once over the brow Beatrice gathered speed on the final descent. As the road narrowed to a single lane, he applied the footbrake. Nothing. He slammed it down. Nothing. He was going faster. He changed down gears, the engine screaming. Frantically pushing the footbrake, he hoiked the handbrake up as far as he could. A smell of burning, the speedometer not slowing. If anything, gaining… fifteen, twenty, the needle moving upwards… at the bottom of the hill, the white concrete wall beside the fish and chip bar and the beach shops beyond. He turned the steering wheel towards the right verge. Beatrice began to overbalance. He straightened.

  He opened his door. He saw his laptop on the passenger seat – he had to grab it. He jumped. As he rolled into the verge, his left leg felt a harsh crunch. Beatrice accelerated downhill. He prayed there was no one below.

  30

  Sunday was the one day that Sandford read the newspapers. On the other six, he scanned a digest from the Number 10 press office. Sometimes he caught a snatch of the Today programme if there was a lead interview with a big-name politician.

  He particularly looked forward to a Sunday morning at Chequers; the papers neatly spread over one sideboard, a gloriously unhealthy English breakfast beckoning from hot plates on another. This one was ruined by the prospect of today’s headlines. As Carol had come down with him, he glanced first at the Sunday Times, Observer and Telegraph. Then, idly holding up the Mail on Sunday – with its screaming headline ‘HEADLESS TORSO MATCHES SEVERED HAND’ and a small box at the foot of the front page announcing ‘TWO MORE STUDENTS ACCUSE CHANCELLOR’ – he turned to Carol. ‘They’ve found something to outdo M-C!’ he grinned, helping himself to a double ration of fried eggs, bacon and sausage.

  ‘Something to be glad for, I suppose,’ she replied. ‘How high does the M-C score have to rise before this is all done?’

  ‘Some might admire his prowess,’ said Sandford, feigning good humour as he rifled the pages and, stomach churning, counted the number devoted to the torso.

  ‘I’m not one of them,’ said Carol at a sufficient volume to attract the attention of one guest already seated at the table, who wondered whether someone had got out of the wrong side of bed.

  Dimmed light, a haze, nothing in focus. He tried to force his eyes open. Liquid trickled down them. He began to move his arm.

  A voice. ‘Stay still, my friend.’ Who was calling him ‘friend’? The fuzzy shape of a hand hovered over him. He felt touches on his forehead, around his eyes and nose. Then down to his mouth. Dabbing and wiping. ‘Just a bit of blood. We’re keeping you clean. We don’t want you to move just yet.’ He tried to concentrate on the figure above him – yellow jacket, big square face, eyes going in and out of focus.

  Something touched his leg. Pain shot through him, he yelped.

  ‘You’ve had a bash. It’s good you can feel it.’ Was the face trying to smile? ‘Can you tell us your name?’

  Of course I can tell you my fucking name. He began to form it with his mouth. ‘J… J… J…’

  ‘It’s OK, don’t push it.’

  Why was nothing coming out? He forced himself, ‘Joe.’ Had the word come out? He felt sick rising in his throat; he coughed, just a dribble.

  The face came nearer. ‘Did you say Joe?’

  He faintly nodded his head. Too hard to speak.

  ‘OK, Joe, you’ve had an accident but you’re doing fine. Are you hearing me OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I want you to relax. I’m going to give you a shot of something to ease the pain. Before I do that, do you have any friends or family nearby we can contact?’

  Why? What were they…? He hadn’t the energy to ask. ‘Mrs T…’

  ‘What was that you said, Joe? Mrs Something?’

  He nodded. ‘Mrs T. Tre…’ He felt so tired, his head throbbing, his leg screaming.

  The face looked upward and over him. He heard words. ‘Sounds like Mrs T, maybe Mrs Tree. Ask in the shops. It’s a small place.’

  He caught the glint of a needle and started shaking his head. His neck hurt. ‘It’s OK.’

  The call came around 5 p.m., while Robin and Carol Sandford were packing up for the drive back from Chequers to London.

  ‘It’s Mark,’ said the familiar voice.

  ‘I know it’s you, Mark,’ said Sandford, sti
ll wearing the smile he had somehow preserved through the day.

  ‘Jed Fowkes has been on again,’ continued Mark Burden. ‘He insists on seeing you.’

  ‘This time to discuss his boss, I presume. Seven more allegations, I make it. Though all but one saying it was consensual.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll see Fowkes but I won’t be hurried. Give it a couple of days. Then fit in the Chancellor afterwards. We’ll see how he deals with it in the meantime.’ He cut the call.

  Carol appeared from the bathroom from where she had been eavesdropping.

  ‘Whatever you can or can’t tell me, surely M-C has to go.’

  He looked at her, eyes narrowing. ‘Sometimes in politics, as in life, it’s best to allow solutions to find themselves.’

  ‘And appear weak?’

  ‘Look, love, we’re not quite there yet.’

  ‘Robbie, you’re starting to talk in riddles. I’ve been trying to help you. Cash. The email. I know there may be confidences but it’s never been like this before. It’s not just about wanting to share, I think I’ve the right, too.’

  He frowned. ‘Do you think I’m covering something up?’

  ‘No,’ she replied softly. ‘I just want you to be open with me. It’s an old-fashioned word called “trust”. I thought we were a partnership.’ She moved to the window, surveying the Chilterns beyond. ‘We’ve achieved all this together, haven’t we?’

  She had never before even hinted at the advantage her wealth had brought him. There was a change in tone. He told himself not to rise.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’ A bright light above, his head on something soft, a pillow. A needle stuck in an arm. A young woman’s face looked over him, her hair gathered in a net and covered by a neat little bonnet. She wore a blue dress with a badge.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Just after six.’

  ‘Can’t be. Where am I?’

  ‘You’re in Truro hospital. I’m Anna. You had an accident.’

  ‘Yes, but that was this morning.’

  ‘You remember it?’ She sounded Welsh. What was she doing in Cornwall?

  He felt his mind clicking into action, his memory catching up. ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s great you do.’

  He frowned. ‘What happened to my camper van?’

  ‘There’s someone waiting to see you.’

  As she slipped through a gap, he took in more of his whereabouts. A bed surrounded by a pink plastic curtain, a strip light in the ceiling above. A TV screen, a bedside table. His head ached but he could see and hear normally. The burble of what must be a ward outside, the pings of monitors, the groans of patients. The nurse reappeared through the curtain, an instantly recognizable figure following her.

  Quine’s surprised grin was cut short by a jolt from his knee. ‘Mrs T!’

  She sat down. ‘Oh dearie me.’

  ‘It seems Beatrice let me down.’

  ‘That old jalopy. Proper death trap.’

  ‘I’m not dead.’

  ‘You’ve had a lucky escape.’

  ‘What’s happened to Beatrice?’

  ‘No need to worry about that.’

  ‘It’s all right, I know she’s really just rivets and steel.’

  ‘I’m afraid it caught fire.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Thank heavens you’re alive. They said it can’t have been going too fast when you jumped out.’

  He looked at her, all trace of humour vanishing. ‘Those brakes have never failed before.’

  ‘Best not to think about that.’ He could see she was not dismissing it.

  ‘They won’t come again.’ He stopped himself. If she also was wondering who ‘they’ might be, she was considerate enough not to say so.

  ‘And your book?’

  ‘That’s fine. Everything’s backed up except what’s in those files. All scanned.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Perhaps I should take them myself. I don’t want to—’

  ‘Don’t you even think of it. Now, I need to hand you over. Family? Friend?’

  ‘I have a daughter, lives in London. If my phone – or computer – survived, the number’s saved there. She’s in the contacts under “Sophie”. Oh… Could you ask her to get a Mail on Sunday for me?’

  She arrived at noon the next day.

  ‘I didn’t say you had to come.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Dad.’

  ‘I’m fine, just nothing fit to wear.’ Quine, a large rectangular bandage on his forehead and dressed in striped pyjamas that made him look like a concentration camp inmate, rose from the wooden-armed chair by his bed to give Sophie a kiss.

  ‘They’ve said you can leave?’ she asked dubiously, inspecting the bandage.

  ‘I was lucky. Mild concussion but CT scan shows nothing more. Just cuts and bruises. This one,’ he waved a hand at his forehead, ‘has a few stitches.’

  He gathered his computer and phone, stood up and pointed to a plastic bag. ‘Clothes in there – all damaged – plus wallet, keys and whatever else they retrieved from the pockets. My glasses are cracked but usable.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not going to be driving.’

  Seeing them make tracks, a staff nurse in a crisp white uniform walked over. ‘I’ll go through the dos and don’ts so your daughter can hear them for herself.’

  ‘He’s not prone to taking advice,’ said Sophie.

  ‘This isn’t advice, it’s orders,’ the nurse responded tartly. ‘He has concussion, not bad enough to be kept here but enough to respect it. Paracetamol will help with headaches. I’ll give you co-codamol too in case they’re really bad. No drinking for a week.’ Quine gave her a dirty look; she glared back, then allowed herself a quick grin. ‘You’ll throw up if you do. No audiovisual stimuli, it’ll upset the brain till the concussion’s fully gone. Otherwise, take it easy, rest, no sudden or violent movements or running up and down staircases. Or excitement.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ll put him on a lead.’

  They found a Marks and Spencer where she bought a grey suit, white shirts, a couple of ties and enough other clothes for him to get by with, and then a Boots for a shaver and washbag contents.

  ‘Right,’ she announced. ‘You’d better stay with Isla and me for a week at least so we can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, ‘that fascist nurse was exaggerating.’

  ‘Dad!’ She slammed the door, silence fell briefly. ‘That camper van was lethal,’ she said a few minutes later. ‘Not even a bonnet to protect you.’

  ‘She’d never failed me.’ He smiled, remembering journeys along other coasts and nights alone, glimpsing stars through the roof-window.

  ‘Was it MOT’d?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Insured?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then at least you’ll get some money.’

  ‘Yes, they’re valued antiques.’ He hadn’t the heart to tell her that changing his insurance from third party only to comprehensive had been right at the top of his to-do list as soon as the first Sandford funds arrived.

  As they headed inland, he had a constant urge to lean forward and peer through the left-hand wing mirror.

  Sophie noticed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just keeping a look-out.’

  ‘A look-out for what?’

  It had slipped out, he should never have let it. Too late – even if he was digging himself a hole. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I was just thinking it’s odd the brakes failing like that.’

  She glanced at him. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘If you’re trying to suggest that rusty old heap was tampered with, I want to know.’

  ‘She wasn’t rusty.’

  ‘You’re not answering my question.’

  ‘OK, yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Deschevaux. Not him personally, one of his sidekicks.’

  She frowned. ‘Just to stop a book?
Honestly, Dad, you know any serious publisher’s going to run a mile from it. We can’t afford to be sued these days.’

  ‘I’m thinking of the web.’

  ‘On the web he’ll laugh it off as your invention. He doesn’t need to scare you for that.’

  He reflected. ‘You’re right.’ He needed to regain ground. ‘Come to think of it, I remember those brakes not being too clever once or twice before.’

  ‘Unless it’s anything to do with what you told Isla.’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘definitely not that.’

  ‘Good.’

  Sun yielded to cloud hanging over Dartmoor. Sophie replaced her dark glasses with tan-rimmed spectacles from a case on the dashboard. Within seconds oversize drops of rain bombarded the windscreen, the clouds darkening. She turned on the wipers and headlights. The downfall eased as quickly as it had begun. He looked around – yesterday’s Mail on Sunday was lying on the back seat.

  ‘Thanks for getting the paper.’

  ‘God knows why you read it.’

  ‘I don’t usually.’

  ‘A vain politician, silly trophy-hunting girls and a headless torso. You’d think they could find just one thing in this world of greater significance.’ She looked fiercely ahead.

  A further silence fell. He had to tell her now, didn’t he? It wasn’t fair otherwise. It seemed every exchange with her was being based on a false premise. He stopped himself. Isla would never do that, would she? It was the best way, the sane way to ground their relationship. He must force himself to do the same. What possible good could it do her to know everything? And his daughter knew and understood the deal. Don’t be weak, don’t confess.

  They were back at the flat by dusk, Isla arriving home shortly afterwards. ‘You’re a lucky boy, Joe,’ she said, eyes popping.

  After a few minutes, Sophie, as was now the rhythm of an evening, left them alone in the sitting room.

  ‘Right,’ began Isla, ‘is the threat to you – let’s hope it was intended only as that – a warning to lay off Deschevaux?’ She clearly had no doubts the crash was not an accident. ‘Or has someone discovered you’re investigating the dead girl? Or are they connected?’