Hurting Distance aka The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Same to you. I’m not the one phoning my sister.’ The words came out in a torrent, spat in Charlie’s direction. She stared at him in disbelief.

  Sellers was shaking his head. ‘How to Make Life Easier, by Christopher Gibbs,’ he muttered, fiddling with his tie. As usual it was too loose round his neck and the knot was too tight, dangling low like a pendant. He reminded Charlie of a dishevelled bear. How was it, she wondered, that Sellers, who was larger, fatter, louder and physically stronger than Gibbs, appeared entirely benign? Gibbs was short and thin, but there was a condensed ferocity about him, one that had been packed into too small a container. Charlie used him to scare people when she needed to. She’d worked hard not to be scared of him herself.

  Gibbs turned on Sellers. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Charlie switched her phone off and threw it into her bag. Olivia would try to ring while she was busy with this interview, and by the time Charlie could call her back, her sister would have gone out again—wasn’t that the way it always worked? ‘To be continued,’ she said coldly to Gibbs. She couldn’t deal with him now.

  ‘Hols tomorrow, Sarge!’ Sellers called out cheerfully as she left the room. It was code for ‘Go easy on Gibbs, won’t you?’ No, she bloody well would not.

  In the corridor, at a safe distance from the CID room, she stopped, pulled her hand-mirror out of her bag and opened it. People talked about bad hair days, but they never mentioned bad face days, and that was what Charlie appeared to be having. Her skin looked worn, her features ungainly. She needed to eat more, do something about the severity of those cheekbones, flesh out the hollows. And her new black-framed glasses did nothing to make her bleary eyes look better.

  And—if you wanted to go beyond the face, which Charlie didn’t—there were three strands of grey in her short, dark, wavy hair. Was that fair, when she was only thirty-six? And her bra didn’t fit properly; none of her bras did. A few months ago she’d bought three in the size she thought she was, and they all turned out to be too big around her body, the cups too small. She didn’t have time to do anything about it.

  Feeling uncomfortable in her clothes and in her person, Charlie snapped the mirror shut and headed for the drinks machine. The corridors in the original part of the building, the part that used to be Spilling Swimming Baths, had walls of exposed red brick. As Charlie walked, she heard the sound of water travelling at speed beneath her feet. It was something to do with the pipework for the central-heating system, she knew, but it had the odd effect of making the police station sound as if its main function were still an aquatic one.

  She bought a cup of café mocha from the machine outside the canteen, recently installed for the benefit of those who didn’t have time to go in, though the irony was that the drinks available from the buzzing box on the corridor were far more varied and appealing than the ones made by real people with alleged expertise in the field of catering. Charlie gulped down her drink, burning her mouth and throat, and went to find Simon.

  He looked relieved when she opened the door of interview room one. Relieved, then embarrassed. Simon had the most expressive eyes of anyone Charlie knew. Without them, he might have had the face of a thug. His nose was large and uneven, and he had a wide, prominent lower jaw that gave him a determined look, like a man intent on winning every fight. Or afraid he might lose and trying to hide it. Charlie gave herself a mental shake. Don’t go all soft about him, he’s a shit. When are you going to realise that it takes effort and planning to be as irritating as Simon Waterhouse is? But Charlie didn’t really believe that. If only she could.

  ‘Sorry. Got held up,’ she said.

  Simon nodded. Opposite him sat a slim, pale, sharp-eyed woman wearing a long black denim skirt, brown suede clogs and a green V-necked jumper that looked like cashmere. Her hair was wavy, shiny reddish brown—a colour that made Charlie think of the conkers she used to fight Olivia for as a child—and she wore it in a shoulder-length bob. At her feet was a green-and-blue Lulu Guinness handbag, which Charlie guessed must have set her back a few hundred quid.

  The woman pursed her lips as she listened to Charlie’s apology, and folded her arms more tightly. Irritation or anxiety? It was hard to tell.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Zailer,’ said Simon.

  ‘And you’re Naomi Jenkins.’ Again, Charlie smiled apologetically. She’d made a resolution to be more soothing, less abrasive, in interviews. Had Simon noticed? ‘Let me have a look at what we’ve got so far,’ she said, picking up the sheet of A4 paper that was covered with Simon’s tiny, neat handwriting. She’d once teased him about it, asking if his mother had forced him to invent a fictional country when he was a kid and fill leather-bound notebooks with tales of his made-up land, like the Brontë sisters. The joke hadn’t gone down well. Simon was touchy about his television-free childhood, his parents’ insistence on mind-improving activities.

  Once she’d skim-read what he’d written, Charlie turned her attention to the other set of notes on the table. These had been taken by PC Grace Squires, who had interviewed Naomi Jenkins briefly before passing her on to CID. She’d insisted on speaking to a detective, the notes said. ‘I’ll summarise what I take the situation to be,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re here to report a man missing. Robert Haworth. He’s been your lover for the past year?’

  Naomi Jenkins nodded. ‘We met on the twenty-fourth of March 2005. Thursday the twenty-fourth of March.’ Her voice was low-pitched, gravelly.

  ‘Okay.’ Charlie tried to sound firm rather than abrupt. Too much information could be as obstructive as too little, particularly in a straightforward case. It would have been easy to leap to the conclusion that there was no case here at all: plenty of married men left their lovers without adequate explanation. Charlie reminded herself that she had to give it a chance. She couldn’t afford to close her mind against a woman who said she needed help; she’d done that before, and still felt terrible about it, still thought every day about the chilling violence she might have prevented if only she hadn’t leaped to the easiest conclusion.

  Today she would listen properly. Naomi Jenkins looked serious and intelligent. She was certainly alert. Charlie had the impression that she’d have answered the questions before they’d been asked if she could.

  ‘Robert is forty, a lorry driver. He’s married to Juliet Haworth. She doesn’t work. They have no children. You and Robert have been in the habit of meeting every Thursday at the Rawndesley East Services Traveltel, between four o’clock and seven o’clock.’ Charlie looked up. ‘Every Thursday for a year?’

  ‘We haven’t missed one since we started.’ Naomi sat forward and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘And we’re always in room eleven. It’s a regular booking. Robert always pays.’

  Charlie cringed. She could have been imagining it, but it seemed to her that Naomi Jenkins was imitating her—Charlie’s—way of speaking: summarising the facts briskly and efficiently. Trying too hard.

  ‘What do you do if room eleven’s not available?’ asked Simon.

  ‘It always is. They know to expect us now, so they keep it free. They’re never very busy.’

  ‘So last Thursday you set off to meet Mr Haworth as usual, except he didn’t arrive. And he hasn’t been in touch to explain why. His mobile phone’s been switched off and he hasn’t replied to your messages, ’ Charlie summarised. ‘Correct?’

  Naomi nodded.

  ‘That was as far as we got,’ said Simon. Charlie skimmed the rest of his notes. Something caught her eye, struck her as unusual. ‘You’re a sundial-maker?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Naomi. ‘Why is that important?’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s an unusual job, that’s all. You make sundials for people?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked slightly impatient.

  ‘For . . . companies, or . . . ?’

  ‘The odd company, but usually private individuals with big gardens. A few schools, the odd Oxbridge college.’

  Charlie nodded, thinking that it would be nice to h
ave a sundial for her tiny front yard. Her house had no garden, thank God. Charlie hated the thought of having to mow or prune anything—what a waste of time. She wondered if Naomi did a petite range, like Marks & Spencer.

  ‘Have you phoned Mr Haworth’s home number?’

  ‘My friend Yvon—she’s also my lodger—she phoned last night. His wife, Juliet, answered. She said Robert was in Kent, but his lorry’s parked outside his house.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’ Charlie asked, at exactly the same time as Simon was saying, ‘What kind of lorry is it?’ The difference between men and women, thought Charlie.

  ‘A big red one. I don’t know anything about lorries,’ said Naomi, ‘but Robert calls it a forty-four-tonner. You’ll see it when you go to the house.’

  Charlie ignored this last comment, avoided catching Simon’s eye. ‘You went to Robert’s home?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes. Earlier this afternoon. I came straight here from there—’ Her words cut off suddenly, and she looked down at her lap.

  ‘Why?’ asked Charlie.

  Naomi Jenkins took a few seconds to compose herself. When she looked up, there was a defiant glint in her eyes. ‘After I’d been to the house, I knew something was seriously wrong.’

  ‘Wrong in what sense?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Juliet has done something to Robert. I don’t know what.’ Her face paled slightly. ‘She’s arranged it so that he can’t contact me. If for some reason he couldn’t get to the Traveltel last Thursday, he’d have rung me straight away. Unless he physically couldn’t.’ She flexed the fingers of both hands. Charlie had the sense that she was putting a lot of effort into appearing calm and in control. ‘He isn’t trying to give me the brush-off.’ Naomi directed this comment to Simon, as if she expected him to contradict her. ‘Robert and I have never been happier. Ever since we first met we’ve been inseparable.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘You’re separable and separate six days out of every seven, aren’t you?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Naomi snapped. ‘Look, Robert can barely last from one Thursday to the next. I’m the same. We’re desperate to see each other.’

  ‘What happened when you went to Mr Haworth’s house?’ asked Simon, fiddling with his pen. Charlie knew he hated anything like this, anything emotionally messy. Though he’d never use that phrase.

  ‘I opened the gate and went into the garden. I walked round the side of the house to the front—the front is at the back, if you’re coming from the street. I was planning to be quite direct, just ring the bell and ask Juliet straight out: “Where’s Robert?”’

  ‘Did Mrs Haworth know you and her husband were having an affair?’ Charlie interrupted.

  ‘I didn’t think so. He’s desperate to leave her, but until he does, he doesn’t want her to know anything about me. It’d make life too difficult . . .’ Creases appeared on Naomi’s forehead and her expression darkened. ‘But later, when I was trying to get away and she ran after me . . . But that was afterwards. You asked me what happened. It’s easier for me to tell it as it happened, in the right order, or else it’ll make no sense.’

  ‘Go ahead, Miss Jenkins,’ said Charlie gently, wondering if this ticking-off was a prelude to uncontrollable hysteria. She’d seen it happen before.

  ‘I’d rather you called me Naomi. “Miss” and “Ms” are both ridiculous in different ways. I was in the garden, heading for the front door. I . . . passed the lounge window, and I couldn’t resist looking in.’ She swallowed hard. Charlie waited. ‘I could see the room was empty, but I wanted to look at all Robert’s things.’ Her voice tailed off.

  Charlie noticed Simon’s shoulders stiffen. Naomi Jenkins had just alientated half her audience.

  ‘Not in a sinister, stalker-ish way,’ she said indignantly. Apparently the woman was a mind-reader. ‘It’s well known that if the person you love has a completely other life that doesn’t involve you, you desperately miss those everyday details that couples who live together share. You start to crave them. I just . . . I’d imagined what his lounge might look like so often, and then there it was in front of me.’

  Charlie wondered how many more times the word ‘desperately’ was going to make an appearance.

  ‘Look, I’m not scared of the police,’ said Naomi.

  ‘Why would you be?’ asked Simon.

  She shook her head, as if he’d badly missed the point. ‘Once you start looking into it, you’ll find that Robert is missing. Or something else is very seriously wrong. I don’t want you to take my word for it, Sergeant Waterhouse. I want you to look into it and find out for yourself.’

  ‘DC Waterhouse,’ Charlie corrected her. ‘Detective Constable.’ She wondered how she’d feel if Simon were to take and pass his sergeant’s exams, if she were no longer higher than him in rank. It would happen eventually. It shouldn’t bother her, she decided. ‘Does Mr Haworth have a car? Might he have taken that to Kent?’

  ‘He’s a lorry driver. He needs his lorry for work, and he works every minute that he can when he’s not with me. He has to, because Juliet doesn’t earn anything—it’s all down to him.’

  ‘But does he also own a car?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Naomi blushed. ‘I’ve never asked.’ Defensively, she added, ‘We hardly have any time together, and we don’t waste what little we have on trivialities.’

  ‘So, you were looking through Mr Haworth’s lounge window—’ Charlie began.

  ‘The Traveltel has a cancellation policy,’ Naomi talked over her. ‘If you cancel before noon on the day you’re due to arrive, they don’t charge you. I asked the receptionist and Robert hadn’t cancelled, which he definitely would have if he’d been planning to stand me up. He would never waste money like that.’ There was something hectoring—punitive, almost—about the way she spoke. You try to be tolerant and patient and look what happens, thought Charlie. She guessed Naomi Jenkins would remain in this mode for the rest of the interview.

  ‘But Mr Haworth didn’t turn up last Thursday,’ Simon pointed out, ‘so presumably you paid.’ Charlie had been about to make exactly the same objection. Once again Simon had echoed her thoughts in a way that no one else ever did.

  Naomi’s face crumpled. ‘Yes,’ she admitted eventually. ‘I paid. It’s the only time I have. Robert’s quite romantic and old-fashioned in some ways. I’m sure I earn a lot more than him, but I’ve always pretended I earn hardly anything.’

  ‘Can’t he tell from your clothes, your house?’ asked Charlie, who had known as soon as she’d walked into the interview room that she was looking at a woman who spent considerably more on clothes than she did.

  ‘Robert’s not interested in clothes, and he’s never seen my house.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Naomi looked tearful. ‘It’s quite big. I didn’t want him to think . . . but mainly because of Yvon.’

  ‘Your lodger.’

  ‘She’s my best friend, and she’s lived with me for the past eighteen months. I knew she and Robert wouldn’t like each other from the second I met him, and I didn’t want to have to deal with them not getting on.’

  Interesting, thought Charlie. You meet the man of your dreams and instantly know that your best friend would hate him.

  ‘Look, if Robert had decided to end our relationship, he would have turned up as planned and told me face to face,’ Naomi insisted. ‘We talk about getting married every time we meet. At the very least he’d have phoned. He’s the most reliable person I’ve ever known. It comes from a need to be in control. He’d have known that if he suddenly vanished, I’d look for him, that I’d go to his house. And then his two worlds would crash into one another, as they did this afternoon. There’s nothing Robert would hate more. He’d do anything to make sure his wife and his . . . girlfriend never met, never talked. With him not there, we might start comparing notes. Robert would rather die than allow that to happen.’

  A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘He made me promise never to go to
his house,’ she whispered. ‘He didn’t want me to see Juliet. He made her sound as if . . . as if there was something wrong with her, like she was mad or sick in some way, like an invalid. And then when I saw her, she seemed so confident—superior, even. She was wearing a black suit.’

  ‘Naomi, what happened at Mr Haworth’s house this afternoon?’ Charlie glanced at her watch. Olivia was sure to be back by now.

  ‘I think I saw something.’ Naomi sighed and rubbed her forehead. ‘I had a panic attack, the worst I’ve ever had. I lost my footing and fell down on the grass. I felt as if I was suffocating. I got up as soon as I could and tried to run away. Look, I’m sure I saw something, okay?’

  ‘Through the window?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Yes. I’m starting to feel clammy now just talking about it, even though Robert’s house is miles away.’

  Charlie frowned, leaning forward in her chair. Had she missed something? ‘What did you see?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know! All I know is, I panicked and had to escape. My whole reason for being there was . . . obliterated suddenly, and I had to get away as quickly as possible. I couldn’t stand to be anywhere near the house. I must have seen something. I was fine until that moment.’

  It was all far too hazy for Charlie’s liking. People either saw things or they didn’t. ‘Did you see anything that led you to believe harm had come to Robert?’ she asked. ‘Any blood, anything broken, any evidence of a fight or struggle having taken place?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Naomi’s voice was petulant. ‘I can tell you all the things I remember seeing: a red rug, a wood-laminate floor, loads of not very tasteful pottery houses in all shapes and sizes, a candle, a tape measure, a cabinet with glass doors, a television, a sofa, a chair—’

  ‘Naomi!’ Charlie interrupted the woman’s agitated chanting. ‘Do you think you might be assuming—mistakenly—that this sudden reaction must have been an immediate one to some mysterious, unidentified stimulus, something you saw through the window? Couldn’t it have been an eruption of stress that had been mounting for a while?’