Truth Will Out

by A. D. Garrett

  He made coffee and drank it black, standing at the window of his sitting room, looking down on the dense canopy of trees bordering the gardens. His apartment was on the second floor of a converted bank. It had one bedroom, and a combined sitting- and dining-room with kitchen and bathroom off. Plain and compact, because all he needed was a place to eat and sleep, and recently refurbished, because he wanted a place he could leave unattended for weeks without worrying about leaks or burst pipes. Most of his books and personal correspondence were in tote boxes in his university office. He appraised the room, wondering if he could make space for the accumulated papers from twenty years of academic work, but the prospect was overwhelming, and he abandoned the task for the twentieth time that summer.

  The red light was blinking on his answerphone; he was ex-directory, but that was no guarantee of privacy, even post-Leveson. He eyed the flashing light with dislike, thinking of Carl Lazko. Leave it? He sighed. It would only eat at him until he dealt with it, so he refilled his cup and stood close to the machine so that he could hit the delete key fast. The first five, as he’d expected, were from Lazko. He wiped them before the journalist got to the last syllable of his name. A few more from other journalists requesting interviews. The next was a message from the firm that managed his accounts and investments: they needed to clarify a few points – could he please ring Mr Vincent in—

  Fennimore stopped the message but left it on the machine. He had no patience with accounts and tax returns: he sent his receipts, income and royalty statements direct to the firm, and they saw to it that his liabilities were fulfilled and investments were made in a tax-efficient way. The money came in, it went out, he wrote cheques from time to time, made transfers when asked – beyond that, he had no interest. He would have to respond at some point, and maybe he would feel better inclined in a day or two. He sipped the last of his coffee and stared at his shoulder bag, leaning where he had left it next to the front door, thinking about taking one quick look at his laptop. Kate would call that obsessive. He shrugged. What the hell.

  He set down his cup, but before he reached the bag, his landline rang. With Kate still in his mind, he picked up.

  ‘Professor Fennimore? It’s Carl Lazko – please don’t hang up.’

  Fennimore cut him off, pulled the phone jack out of the wall socket, scooped his bag from the floor and headed out.

  There was a short cut across Union Terrace Gardens, and he headed for one of the access points: the sunken gardens were bounded on his side by a stone balustrade. The air carried the sharp-sweet smell of new-mown grass and the sound of shouts and laughter – the warm spell had continued, and families and sightseers sat in brightly coloured clusters across the lawns. He paused at the top of the flight of steps, then changed direction, keeping to the road and skirting the edge of the park instead. He stopped on Rosemount Viaduct to admire the ruin of Triple Kirks; he planned to climb its spire before the developers moved in to turn it into yet another city centre bar. The echo of a lorry passing under the viaduct on Denburn Road sounded like the moan of a trapped bull, but a sharp right took him into the relative quiet of St Andrew Street and his destination.

  Fennimore went straight to the tiny staff common room on the third floor to brew coffee.

  Josh Brown was seated at the low table, a sheaf of papers next to his laptop, a stack of books on the floor beside him.

  ‘Josh,’ Fennimore said.

  ‘Professor.’

  The student closed his laptop and tapped his fingers nervously on the lid. It was new, Fennimore noticed – a replacement for the one he’d had stolen a couple of weeks before.

  ‘I wanted to apologize for my screw-up on the American investigation,’ Josh said. He had withheld vital information about a serial killer, which put two victims in grave peril.

  ‘You already have,’ Fennimore said. The student’s actions were hubris, rather than malice, but Fennimore couldn’t work with someone he couldn’t trust, and he intended to hand Josh off to a new supervisor. Josh was bright, he would know that, and he must be waiting for the hammer to fall.

  Fennimore took a mug down from the shelf and tossed a few coins into the donations tin. Technically, he was still Josh’s doctoral supervisor, so he felt obliged to ask how the thesis was going.

  ‘Good,’ Josh said, and his hand went to the stack of papers on the table. Fennimore nodded, keeping his expression bland.

  The spark of hope that flared in the student’s eyes was quickly extinguished.

  Fennimore splashed coffee from the jug into his cup and headed quickly to his office.

  Josh Brown scowled miserably at the papers on the coffee table. He had meant to explain his actions, to try and make the professor understand that his intention had been to help – he’d screwed up, no question, but—

  ‘Give it a rest, Josh,’ he muttered, disgusted with himself. There were no ‘buts’ in the case. A man died who might otherwise have lived – a bad man, it was true, and Josh had few qualms about his death – but a boy was still missing in the Oklahoma backwoods, and maybe the bad man could have saved the boy’s life. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered.

  He opened his laptop. On the screen was an image stolen from Fennimore: a photograph of a girl in an orange sundress walking next to a man on a sunny street in Paris. That was the day everything turned to shit. He knew now that his actions that day might just have screwed up Fennimore’s best chance of ever finding his daughter.

  Josh groaned, pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘You stupid bloody idiot,’ he said again.

  Cold sweat broke out on his face and neck; he felt sick. He stood, but stumbled over his books, almost launching headlong into the door. He kicked them out of the way, made it to the sink and dry-heaved, then splashed cold water on his face, leaning over the bowl until the nausea subsided.

  He should go home, but his thoughts would only follow him there. So he yanked a few paper towels from the dispenser, dried his face and poured more coffee, the glass jug clattering against his mug.

  For two hours he picked up books and put them down unread. He scanned his notes, but couldn’t make sense of them; highlighted journal extracts without judgement or intelligence, and at last he threw them on the table in disgust. He was staring blankly at the mess of notes and books and extracts on the coffee table when he heard Fennimore’s office door slam. He sighed; he wasn’t going to get any more work done, anyway – might as well head for home. He closed the books and stacked them on the floor, giving Fennimore time to leave before making his way slowly down the stairs.

  It was dark. Mist had rolled in off the North Sea, so Josh could barely make out the traffic lights at the crossroads. Grey mist against grey stone; he would have to find his way home by touch, the fog was so thick. He paused on the steps of the building to take out his mobile phone and turn on the GPS, but heard footsteps. The mist thinned and he saw Fennimore a little way ahead, walking alongside the curved wall towards Blackfriars Street.

  He held still, hoping the professor wouldn’t notice him, and, as he watched, a second figure ghosted out of the mist, turning the corner into St Andrew Street from the opposite side.

  The man called Fennimore’s name. English accent, from the south-east, like Josh’s own. Josh felt a stab of animal fear.

  Fennimore spun to face the man and the figure crossed the street at a run.

  No. No – this can’t be happening. Josh stashed his phone and broke into a sprint. By now Fennimore was in close quarters with the shadowy figure. The man’s right hand went to his pocket and Josh came at him from the side, slamming him against the wall. He gripped the stranger’s right arm, holding it where it was, wrenching the left arm up his back.

  ‘What d’you want, you fucker!’ Josh snarled.

  ‘Josh.’ He could hear Fennimore’s voice, but like he was in another room – in another dimension.

  ‘Call him off, Fennimore.’

  The man sounded panicky. He struggled, but Josh increased the pressure on
this left arm.

  ‘Bloody hell, Fennimore,’ the man yelled. ‘Call him off!’

  ‘Josh. It’s okay.’ The professor tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I know him – and much as I would like to see this obnoxious bastard squashed like a bug, you should let him go now.’

  Josh released the man’s arm, but spun him round, yanking his right hand out of his pocket. ‘Let’s see what you got,’ he said.

  ‘Business cards,’ the man said, opening his hand. ‘Just business cards. Jesus wept, Fennimore – will you please put your Rottweiler on a leash?’

  Fennimore actually smiled.

  ‘Josh, this is Carl Lazko. He’s a regional hack with London ambitions – and he doesn’t know when to piss off and leave things alone.’

  Josh knew the name. He appraised the man: he was barely average height, podgy, with thinning hair, a small, pinched nose, and large, dark eyes.

  ‘You heard what the man said – piss off.’ Josh twisted Lazko’s wrist and gave him a shove as he let go, sending him a couple of steps back the way he’d come.

  Lazko staggered, but righted himself and turned, standing his ground. ‘Will you just hear me out?’ he said, addressing Fennimore.

  ‘After what you did?’ Fennimore said. ‘And now you’re doorstepping me again?’

  ‘Well, you don’t answer your messages – what else was I supposed to do? Look, I trekked all the way up here – the least you can do is listen.’

  ‘The least—’ Fennimore took a step towards the journalist, and Lazko backed off.

  ‘Okay, that didn’t come out right. Look, I swear I’m not after an interview or a quote.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Fennimore said.

  The journalist looked hurt. ‘It’s all over the Net – you got Killbride off—’

  ‘He was innocent.’

  Josh heard the suppressed rage in Fennimore’s voice and he went up on the balls of his feet, ready to act.

  Lazko pointed a trembling finger at Josh. ‘He needs to stay cool – ’cos if he goes for me again, I’ll have him nicked.’

  Josh took it down a notch, waiting on a signal from Fennimore.

  ‘I’m not here to hassle you,’ Lazko said. ‘Just – I need help.’

  Fennimore threw back his head and laughed, the echo bouncing between the wall and the university building opposite, like pebbles on rock. ‘You think I’m going to help you? You’re a funny man, Lazko.’

  The journalist licked his lips. ‘You’re pissed off with me – I get that.’ He stalled, started again. ‘And I want to say right from the off, I know you had nothing to do with Rachel and Suzie’s—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what you think of me,’ Fennimore said. ‘Did it ever occur to you that while you put the focus on me, you kept police eyes off the guilty man?’

  Lazko opened his mouth and closed it again. He nodded as though making a decision. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready to let go of all that. I get it. But, seriously, this case is right up your street. Goes back to 2008. Graham Mitchell – convicted of the murder of a prostitute. I’m convinced it was a miscarriage of justice.’

  Josh shifted his stance and Lazko’s gaze fixed on him. Even softened by the swirling mist, that dark-eyed stare was off-putting and Josh had to resist the impulse to look away.

  ‘Police decided they’d got their man, forced a confession out of him, stopped looking for anyone else,’ Lazko said, keeping his eyes on Josh for a few seconds longer. ‘Just like Killbride.’

  The professor tilted his head. Josh saw it and so did Lazko.

  ‘There’s a case summary,’ Lazko pushed on. ‘Wouldn’t take more than an hour to read through. If you want, I could—’

  ‘You know where your can stick your case summary,’ Fennimore said.

  Perversely, Lazko seemed encouraged, and Josh knew why. Despite his dislike of the man, the professor was curious about the case – it was obvious in the tilt of his head and the gleam in his eye. The fact that he’d let Lazko finish his sales pitch was the biggest tell of all. Fennimore would make a crap poker player.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking him seriously,’ Josh said. ‘He’s a scummy journo who did everything in his power to make you look guilty of abducting and murdering your own wife.’

  Once again, he felt the journalist’s intense, dark gaze on him.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Lazko said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Josh said, but his mouth went dry and he avoided eye contact.

  ‘I think I do. I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.’ The reporter took a step towards him.

  ‘No, mate.’ Josh backed away. ‘You got me mixed me up with someone else.’ He turned abruptly and plunged into the fog.

  9

  Abduction, Day 2

  There’s hope, Julia thinks.

  Over the hours, the close, suffocating darkness, alive with furtive scurryings and high squeaks, turned from black to a dirty sepia and she could just make out the grey square that Lauren had seen high above them the night before. A thin sliver of lighter grey marked the line of a skylight; one of thirty – she counted them all – they’d been boarded up, but the hardboard or metal plate covering this one must have slipped a fraction. It was the source of the constant ticking sound, and rainwater dripped from it almost continuously. But it did let in a little daylight, too, and they were grateful for it. In those hours, their place of captivity changed by subtle degrees from the stifling closeness of a tomb to the soaring emptiness of a vault. High rafters emerged from the smoky darkness.

  The iron frame that holds Julia immobile and helpless has taken shape – faintly at first, but gradually gaining substance. Now she recognizes it. A loom, she thinks. We’re in an old mill.

  Julia takes careful stock. Above the loom, a rail as thick as her forearm runs for twenty feet; at the far end, a section has fallen, gouging a line in the concrete. On stormy nights the wind must rock the entire structure. Julia shivers, imagining the remaining stays working loose, the rail, the roof, the entire building crashing down on their heads. She shakes off her fear – the weakness of the building could help them to get out, to find a way home. She has made herself measure the length of it, estimating the span of one section of rail and, with the help of Lauren’s sharper eyes, counting the total number of sections. The place must be at least thirty metres long and fifteen or twenty wide. Her eyes can’t penetrate the gloom sufficiently to locate a door, but Lauren sees it, about two-thirds of the way along one wall.

  ‘Mummy, I think I can see your bag.’

  ‘My bag – where?’ Julia strains to see. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘By where he left the shopping bag. I couldn’t see it before. I’m sorry, Mummy.’ Lauren sounds close to tears.

  ‘It’s all right, love – it’s very dark in here – and I can’t even see it now. Can you point to it?’ She follows the line of her daughter’s finger and sees a faint black hump in among other debris – discarded cloth and broken machinery. ‘Can you reach it, Lauren?’

  She hears her daughter grunt with the effort.

  ‘I can’t. It’s too far.’ Lauren begins to cry.

  ‘Never mind. Have a little rest, I’ll see what I can do.’ Julia rubs the plastic around her wrist against the rusted iron of the loom until it’s hot, but there are no sharp edges, and soon the skin of her wrist chafes and tears and she has to stop, choking back a sob.

  ‘Lauren. Sweetie …’ she says, raising her voice above her daughter’s grizzling. ‘You’re going to have to try again.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t.’

  ‘Hey, YP, come on, it’s all right …’

  ‘It isn’t. Stop calling me that.’ Lauren’s voice has risen to a screech.

  It was Julia’s mother who gave Lauren the nickname YP – meaning ‘Yellow Peril’ – a reference to her particularly strong reaction to the food dye, Sunset Yellow. But it wasn’t only food additives that set Lauren off: lack of sleep; sugary or salty foods; chocolate – they
all had their effects, and Lauren has had little sleep and a mountain of junk food in the last two days. She’s teetering on the edge of a full-blown episode. And Lauren’s episodes can be frightening in their intensity.

  They hear the sound of a key in a lock, and Lauren gives a yelp of fear. The click of a padlock hasp follows, the rattle of a chain. Finally, the solid sound of a door-bolt being drawn back.

  Lauren sees him first, standing in the doorway. Her breathing comes fast and shallow. ‘Mummy,’ she whispers.

  ‘Stay very still,’ Julia says. ‘Don’t say a word.’ Her own heart is beating so hard that she can hear it reverberating in her ears, in the tremor of her voice.

  A second click and she is blinded.

  The man shines a flashlight from Julia to Lauren, as if checking it’s safe to enter. Satisfied, he strides towards them alarmingly fast; Julia braces herself, expecting violence. He plays the beam over Lauren and she shrinks back.

  ‘Hey,’ Julia says, but he ignores her.

  He dumps a carrier bag on the floor, two blankets. In the reflected light of the torch beam Julia can see that he is masked, as before, and she feels almost weak with gratitude.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says, still trying to distract him from her daughter. But the beam remains on Lauren, and Julia takes the opportunity to search her child’s face, her arms, her limbs for signs of injury. Unharmed. Thank God, she looks unharmed.

  ‘We don’t have much money,’ she says, trying again. ‘But—’ Abruptly, the man crouches, seizing Lauren’s ankle. The child lashes out with her free foot, scratching, screaming, ‘Get off! Get off me! You horrible— Get off! Mummy. Mumm-eee!’

  ‘Get away from her,’ Julia screams, trying to pull her arm free of the bindings, to catch him with her foot, but he’s too far away.

  Suddenly, the man falls flat on his rump and scuttles backwards to escape the clawing, spitting fury of her child.