Here The Truth Lies

by Seb Kirby

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  I show my Herald ID. “I’m working on a story about Adam Stanley. I need to know what Stanley is doing in that video. Why he’s handing out money.”

  Grant draws back and holds up his hands. “A word of caution, lady. Be careful. Be very careful. I wish you a long and happy life but prying into Stanley’s affairs isn’t a good way of going about that.”

  “You’re threatening me?”

  He shakes his head. “The opposite. I’m warning you to take great care round Stanley and anyone who has anything to do with him.”

  “He’s an MP.”

  “Don’t let that fool you. There’s many a man, woman too, who’s got too close to him and paid the price.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you’re here to find.”

  “So tell me. What’s happening in the video?”

  He draws back once more. “You don’t think it was me, do you? Would anyone be as stupid as that?” He pauses. “Let’s get this clear. I’m just an agent here. A helper. Yes, I sent the video to Hyslop. Am I the one in it? Course not.”

  “But you know who is?”

  He smiles. “Now that’s what I’m not about to do. How much would the Herald offer me?”

  I begin to think there is a sign hanging round my neck saying: This woman has money. Grant is the third to ask. “Depends on what you have.”

  “I’ll make this clear. Unless you’re talking high thousands, there’s no way you’re going to get another word out of me.”

  There’s no chance of being able to cover a sum like this from my own funds. “I’ll have to take this to my editor. See what we can do.”

  A well-dressed man comes into the café and approaches the counter, causing Grant to pause to look around in case we are now being watched. His voice becomes a whisper. “OK. But make it worth my while. Compensation for the risk.”

  I feel my confidence draining away from me. I can’t stop thinking about the tall man who has just come into the café. He has the same build as James Walsh and is about the same height. His dark coat also looks similar. Surely James Walsh wouldn’t have followed me here, not after what he’d said earlier. But from where the man is standing I can’t see his face. If only he would turn.

  Worse, the fragile equilibrium that I’ve put together on leaving the Herald offices is deserting me. It’s becoming ever more difficult to hold at bay the destabilizing thoughts that I need to know who I am and why I’m here at all.

  Grant interrupts me. “Did you hear what I said?”

  I struggle to concentrate. “Yes. Make it worth your while. I’ll do my best.”

  The man at the counter turns towards me. He’s not James Walsh. He doesn’t even look much like him.

  I can’t keep up the pretense of confidence while being alone here in this place. My hands shake and a cold finger of fear runs down my spine. “I’ll get back to you.”

  I stand and walk out onto the street as calmly as I can. The noise of the traffic on the Commercial Road is overpowering. My breathing becomes short and irregular. One overpowering feeling dominates. I have to flee from this place.

  The image of Jenny standing beside my bed, pleading with me, comes to me in full focus. I try to deny it but the vision remains. I close my eyes and open them again. The girl is still there.

  A black cab is cruising past on the opposite side of the road. I hail it and the driver makes an elaborate U-turn to stop and pick me up.

  “Where to?”

  I feel like saying anywhere but manage enough control to say I want to return to the Herald building.

  As soon as I arrive, I gather up my courage and walk straight into Bill McLeish’s office.

  He must have been expecting me from the enquiring glance he gives me as I come in. “You’ve cracked the Stanley story?”

  I’m taken off guard, feeling that whatever I might have to say now will fall short. “Not exactly, Bill. But I’m part way there.”

  I tell him about the meeting with Terry Grant on the Commercial Road. “Grant is not the man in the video.”

  McLeish gives a disappointed sigh. “And that’s what you’re here to tell me?”

  “But he does know who is.”

  “And?”

  “He’s asking for money.”

  “How much?”

  “Something in the thousands.”

  McLeish shakes his head. “We don’t do checkbook journalism, Emma. It’s not just the ethics. We don’t have the cash to splash around, anyway, so temptation is seldom an issue for us. Just about all we get comes from hard graft, from convincing people it’s in their interest to speak. All my experience tells me stories sourced that way are more reliable. You’re never sure what the truth of a source is if they’re paid.”

  “But we have offered money before?”

  “Petty cash.”

  “Sometimes more?”

  “Rarely. Only when there was no alternative and the outcome justified it.”

  “You need to trust me, Bill. Grant could be trying to string us along but I don’t think so. I saw the look in his eyes when I asked him about the video. He knows what it means. The one he’s protecting has a real reason to be in hiding. I’m sure that if we get to that person, we really can crack the story. But that will take money. Grant has no other reason to want to tell us anything.”

  “So what do you think this person is hiding from?”

  “Demanding and receiving money from Stanley. Filming the hand-over. Arranging for the tape to be sent to the press. I’d be lying low.”

  McLeish holds up his hand. “OK. I get it.” He pauses. “So, you want me to go against company policy and you’re confident we won’t be wasting what little money we have?”

  “As sure as I’ll ever be.”

  “I don’t like it but here’s what we can do. You offer Grant five hundred now and five thousand when the story appears on our front page. If he says no, you tell him you have to walk away, that you’ll find another way.”

  I smile. “That’s the best we can offer?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Thanks for having faith in me. I’ll get back to Grant as soon as.”

  I’m about to book a taxi back out to the East End when I realize that I’ve almost forgotten about lunch with James Walsh.

  CHAPTER 21

  When Ives and Lesley arrive at Glenridge House, they are shown straight to the garden where an incident tent has been set up near the summerhouse. Julienne is there, working on the body. She looks up as they push their way in through the tent entrance.

  “Mr. Walter Bishop. He’s been dead less than two hours, I’d say.” She shines the green laser pointer to highlight the kidney region on the man’s back. “Same MO as with Cavendish. A single deep incision with a serrated-edge blade. Enormous strength used to force the knife upwards while still inserted. The fatal wound.” She pauses to turn off the laser and clip it in her tunic pocket. “And, just as before, although that was enough to kill him, there are add-ons. The throat cut to produce maximum blood loss and the ritualistic markings between the nipples.”

  Ives shakes his head in dismay. “We have a serial killer?”

  Julienne agrees. “There’s not much doubt.”

  “So, what’s different this time?”

  “That’s the real point, Steve. The two killings are so similar, even down to the fact that both men were trying to flee in the moment before the attack. Should tell us something about the attacker.”

  “From what you’re saying about the strength required to deliver the killing blow, he must be physically threatening, enough to deter any potential victim.”

  “Yes, so what would make them let him get so close before they tried to run? Because that’s what stands out. Neither of these men shows signs they were pursued any great distance. I’ll need to do more extensive tests back at the mortuary, but from what I’ve seen so far, there’s nothing on their clothing or on th
eir skin to indicate any kind of sustained flight. It’s as if he had the means to attract them to him while their guard was down and once they realized the danger it was too late to escape more than a few yards.”

  Ives thanks her before turning to Lesley and whispering. “So, what’s the attractor? What makes these men allow themselves to be drawn that close to a pathological killer?”

  Lesley leaves the question unanswered as she accompanies Ives to the house where Bishop’s wife, Eliane, is waiting. Ives would have preferred to leave her some time before questioning her but she has demanded to see him.

  Sitting in a high backed chair in the oak paneled study, she shows unexpected calm. “This was Walter’s favorite room. The place he most called home. Where he could gather his thoughts.”

  Ives takes a seat in a similar chair opposite her while Lesley stands and makes notes. “If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs. Bishop, you seem remarkably composed.”

  She gives a knowing stare. “Don’t misinterpret me, Inspector. I have my grieving to do. Walter was a wonderful man and the love of my life. But now is not the time for grief. It’s a time for action to find his killer.”

  “Is that why you asked to see me?”

  She nods. “You know he was a magistrate. He had a public service ethic second to none. Being a justice of the peace is not a job that’s suited to everyone. You don’t get anything like the life-long protection of a judge. They say that’s because they only sit on crimes of lesser importance. But let me ask you this, Inspector. How many criminals, extortionists and murderers began their careers before the magistrates’ courts? I can tell you, the answer is most of them. And why would anyone not expect that one or more of those serious criminals might develop a lasting hatred of the man who first put them away and set their lives on a path from which they were unable to escape?”

  “You’re saying your husband told you about such threats?”

  She shakes her head. “He made a point of not bothering me with any of that. He would never have wanted to worry me. But I know he was keeping track of those he’d sentenced. That’s why I asked to meet you here.” She points to the computer on the desk beside her. “You’ll find all you need there. You see, Walter didn’t believe in punishment. He championed prisons as a place for reform. But even he had to admit prison doesn’t work out that way for everyone. I know he was tracking what was happening to those he sent there. Whether they reformed and didn’t offend again. And he was aware of what he called his failures. Those that went deeper into crime.”

  “And you think one of them might be responsible for his death?”

  “Who else, Inspector. Who else?”

  Ives takes her through the events leading up to the killing. “I know you’re going to find this an intrusion at this time, Mrs. Bishop, but it’s important that we miss nothing.”

  She describes the gathering in detail and itemizes each guest. Ives asks the right questions to eliminate them as having any involvement. Eliane Bishop then recalls the look of consternation on her husband’s face when he left to take a phone call.

  Ives interrupts her. “And that led him to leave and go out into the garden?”

  She has no doubt. “I’m sure of it. Have you recovered his phone?”

  “No, it’s not been found. His assailant may have taken it. But that doesn’t matter. If you give us a access to his account, we can trace whoever made that last call.”

  As Lesley drives them back to Lions Yard, Ives sums up. “Perhaps she’s right. Ask the technical boys to get all the available information from Bishop’s computer. And start drawing a list of villains whose careers have blossomed since they were sent down by him.”

  “Could be quite a roll call, Steve. He was known for taking the toughest line on sentencing.”

  “Does our killer think he’s being cunning by making off with Bishop’s phone?”

  “I hope so, June. I do so hope that’s the case.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Five minutes late.

  I have second thoughts all over again about keeping the meeting with James Walsh. After all, I’d all but accused him of stalking me and, though he was understanding, this is no way to meet anyone. But here I am.

  The Altan is close to being full but I have no difficulty in finding him. He must have described me to the waiter at reservations and I’m shown to a table near the rear of the Turkish restaurant where James is waiting.

  He stands and smiles as I approach. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

  I smile back as I take my seat. “I had a meeting out on the Commercial Road. You know what the traffic is like.”

  Inside I’m still reeling, trying to fight back the effects of the panic attack. Yes, that’s what it was. A panic attack. Nothing I can’t overcome.

  “Well, I’m just pleased you came.” He shows me the menu. “The starters are best. I’d recommend sharing five or six of them. Like tapas.”

  He helps me choose. Falafel, tabbouleh, mantar, borek and mucver. House white wine.

  I give him a quizzical glance. “How did you guess I like Turkish food?”

  He responds with a pretend look of someone who’s been rumbled. “Well, since I’ve been stalking you, following your every move, isn’t that the very thing I would know?”

  I can’t hold back a smile. I’m becoming comfortable with this man. “Wouldn’t it be taking it a touch far to be hacking my Internet to find out what meals I order?”

  “Well, stalkers have to be thorough. There’s no excuse for slacking.”

  I give him a longer, more serious look. “So, come on, how did you know?”

  He smiles. “It’s easy. I like Turkish myself and I was certain you would too.”

  “That doesn’t explain it.”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious? Can’t you just sense we have a lot in common?”

  I can tell I’m being wooed but it’s a long time since a man has said anything as appreciative as this. What’s wrong about responding to a little flattery?

  Yet I choose to change the subject. “What’s it like working at the Globe?”

  He warms to my question. “It’s more than a job. It’s what I do. I swear I’d turn up every day even if they didn’t pay me.”

  As the starters arrive in individual white bowls and we tuck into the delicious food, he tells me about his work as a stage manager. “I wanted to be an actor. There’s nothing unusual in that. It didn’t pan out, but this keeps me involved with so many aspects of the theatre that I don’t miss the acting rat race.” He pauses to top up my wine. “Every day is different. There’s no way of saying what it will bring. One day it’s sourcing the right costumes for a new production. The next it’s checking over the prompts script with the director of a play to make sure that the actors are comfortable with the pacing. Or liaising with the lighting and sound technicians to make sure they’re coordinating everything. Or just dealing with emergencies like one of the actors falling ill. Or, more likely, trying to do all those things at the same time on the same day.”

  I like the sound of his voice and the enthusiasm he shows for his work. “So, it would be unfair to say you have to be a jack of all trades?”

  He doesn’t show any discomfort at this. “That’s a good description. Except you have to be the master of everything. That’s what makes it so interesting.”

  Yet I have a problem with what he’s saying. “That’s a demanding twenty-four-seven job, a little like mine. So, how come I’ve seen you on the same train quite a few evenings?”

  He isn’t fazed. “Well, that’s the beauty of working at the Globe. It’s open air, you see, with the roof bare to the elements. So, it’s never possible to stage performances in the winter months. But there’s a mass of planning to do before each new season begins. And that’s why I can work more regular hours at the moment.”

  I feel more of my doubts about James Walsh subsiding. I wish I understood more about what took place at the Globe. Perhaps it’s time to admi
t it. “And you only stage Shakespeare?”

  “Mainly. We present the occasional play by Marlowe or Ben Jonson but most years we stage three or four by the Bard. It’s our core business.”

  I expect him to continue to enthuse about this but he changes the subject. “That’s enough about me. Tell me about yourself.”

  I begin by describing my work at the Herald and how I’ve worked hard to establish myself as an investigative journalist.

  He’s generous in his interest. “And I can see you thrive on every challenge you face.”

  It doesn’t feel like that. But I find myself wanting to impress him. Complaining about McLeish or Angela Smith or telling him my nerves are shredded by the pressure of being driven to deliver each story against an unrealistic time frame would not create the impression I want to convey. Instead, I smile. “It gets tough at times. But don’t they say that’s what makes you stronger?”

  “You must face deadlines worse than mine?”

  “Of course, but that’s the nature of the game. No one wants yesterday’s news.”

  “But surely you’re allowed more leeway for more in depth investigations?”

  “You’d think so, but it doesn’t always turn out that way.”

  “So, what are you working on now?”

  I smile again. “I’m afraid I can’t say. But it’s going to be big. Really something.”

  He looks impressed and doesn’t press me further.

  As we finish the meal, I check the time. “I have to get back.”

  He smiles. “Me too. We should do this again.”

  “OK.”

  “When?” He pauses. “What about in a few day’s time? Same place?”

  I agree. “Day after tomorrow. Same place.”

  I didn’t want to give him the impression I was too keen.

  CHAPTER 23

  When I return to Fine Line Taxis, Hamid Sherif faces me again from his desk, as if he hasn’t moved in all the time I’ve been away.

  I don’t have to speak. Sherif picks up the phone. “She’s here.”

  His eyes direct me to a broken-backed chair in the corner of the tiny office. “Take a seat. He won’t be long.”