Hurting Distance aka The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Do we know any others?’

  ‘I don’t know how she is. Why would I know?’

  ‘You said you were going to meet her.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I didn’t.’

  ‘You cancelled?’

  Simon looked puzzled. ‘No. I never arranged to see her.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘All I said is, I might get in touch, see if she fancied meeting up. But I decided not to, in the end.’

  Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh or throw cold tea in his face. Anger and relief struggled for dominance inside her, but relief was the weaker feeling and didn’t stand a chance. ‘You fucking arsehole, ’ she said.

  ‘Hey?’ Simon adopted his most innocent expression: the bewilderment of a man who has been randomly accosted by trouble he could not have foreseen. What made it even more bloody irritating was that it was genuine. About work, Simon could be arrogant and overbearing, but in any personal matter he was self-effacing. Dangerously humble, Charlie had often thought. His modesty made him assume that nothing he said or did was likely to have an impact on anyone.

  ‘You told me you were going to meet her,’ she said. ‘I thought it was all fixed up. You must have known I’d think that.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to give that impression, if I did.’

  Charlie didn’t want to talk about it any more. She’d shown that she cared. Again.

  Four years ago, at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party, Simon had rejected Charlie in a particularly unforgettable way. Not before he’d raised her hopes, though. They’d found a quiet, dark bedroom and closed the door. Charlie was sitting astride Simon, and they were kissing. That they would end up having sex had seemed a foregone conclusion. Charlie’s clothes were in a pile on the floor, though Simon hadn’t removed any of his. She should have been suspicious then, but she wasn’t.

  Without explanation or apology, Simon had changed his mind and left the room without a word. In his hurry, he’d not bothered to shut the door. Charlie had dressed quickly, but not before at least nine or ten people had seen her.

  She was still waiting for something to happen to her that would neutralise that moment in her memory, make it cease to matter. Graham, perhaps. So much better for the ego than Simon and more accessible too. Perhaps that was the problem. Why was that invisible barrier so attractive?

  ‘Go and see how Gibbs is getting on,’ she said. It was strange to think that if she hadn’t got the wrong end of the stick about Alice, she would not have invented a fictional boyfriend called Graham. And if she hadn’t done that, she might not have been so determined to make something happen with Graham Angilley when she met him. On the other hand, she might have. Wasn’t she Tyrannosaurus Sex, man-eater and all-round freak?

  Simon looked worried, as if he thought it might be unwise for him to get up and leave now, though it was clearly what he wanted to do. Charlie didn’t return his tentative smile. Why haven’t you asked me a single question about Graham, you bastard? Not one, since I first mentioned him.

  Once Simon had gone, she pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag and dialled the number of Silver Brae Chalets, wishing she’d remembered to get Graham’s mobile number. She didn’t want to have to navigate her way through a stilted conversation with the dogsbody.

  ‘Hello, Silver Brae Luxury Chalets, Steph speaking, how may I help you?’

  Charlie smiled. Graham had answered the phone the only other time she’d rung, from Spain, and he hadn’t gone through that whole spiel. It was typical of him to make the dogsbody do the full receptionist bit that he’d never dream of doing himself.

  ‘Could I speak to Graham Angilley, please?’ Charlie put on a strong Scottish accent. A purist might say she didn’t sound Scottish, but she didn’t sound like herself either, which was what mattered. The disguise was purely strategic. Charlie wasn’t scared of a confrontation with Steph—in fact, she was looking forward to telling the silly tart what she thought of her the next time they met; she’d been too stunned to respond after Steph’s tirade in the lodge—but now wasn’t the time for a verbal scrap. Charlie had no doubt that the dogsbody would prevent her from talking to Graham if she could, so subterfuge was her best bet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Graham’s not here at the moment.’ Steph tried to make her voice sound more refined than the one Charlie had heard her use earlier in the week. Pretentious cow.

  ‘Do you have a mobile number for him at all?’

  ‘May I ask what it’s regarding?’ An edge crept into Steph’s voice.

  Charlie wondered if her Scottish accent was more rubbish than she’d allowed for. Had the dogsbody guessed who she was? ‘Oh, just a booking. It’s not important,’ she backtracked. ‘I’ll ring again later.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Steph, sounding sure of herself again. The hostility had vanished from her voice. ‘I can help you with that, even if you spoke to Graham originally. I’m Steph. I’m the general manager.’

  You’re the fucking dogsbody, you liar, thought Charlie. ‘Oh, right,’ she said. She couldn’t be bothered to go through the rigmarole of making a fake booking, one that’d need to be cancelled later, but she couldn’t think of a way out. Steph was keen to demonstrate her efficiency. ‘Erm . . .’ Charlie began tentatively, hoping she sounded like a busy, multitasking Scot who was leafing through her diary.

  ‘Actually,’ said Steph conspiratorially, filling the gap in the conversation, ‘don’t tell him I told you this, but you’re better off dealing with me, not Graham. My husband’s not the most precise person when it comes to admin. His head’s usually somewhere else. I’ve lost count of the number of times people have turned up and I’ve had no idea they were coming.’

  Charlie gulped air as the shock blasted through her. She felt winded, as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

  ‘Oh, it’s never a problem,’ Steph chattered on confidently. ‘I always sort it out and everybody’s happy. We only ever have satisfied customers.’ She giggled.

  ‘Husband,’ said Charlie quietly. No Scottish accent.

  Steph didn’t seem to notice the change, of pronunciation or of mood. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I must be mad, living with him and working with him. Still, like I always tell my friends, at least I won’t have that culture shock that a lot of women get when their husbands retire and suddenly they’re around all the time. I’m used to having Graham under my feet.’ As Steph spoke, Charlie felt herself slowly deflating.

  She pressed the end call button on her phone and marched out of the canteen.

  When Charlie got back to the CID room and found Gibbs waiting for her practically on the threshold, his face contorted with impatience, her first thought was that she couldn’t do it, couldn’t speak to him. Not now. Conversations with Chris Gibbs required stamina and a certain amount of hardiness. She needed an hour alone. Half an hour, at least. Tough. Hers wasn’t the sort of job where that was possible.

  It had been a mistake coming straight back here. She’d passed the ladies’ toilets on the way back from the canteen and considered going in, hiding in there until she was ready to face the world again. But who the fuck knew when that would be? And if she locked herself in a cubicle, she would cry, and then she’d have to wait fifteen minutes or so until her face looked normal again. Whereas going straight back to the CID room meant crying wasn’t an option. Good, she’d thought. She had known Graham Angilley less than a week, for Christ’s sake. She’d seen him a total of three times. It ought to be easy to forget about him.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Gibbs demanded. ‘I’ve got that background on Robert Haworth.’

  ‘Great,’ said Charlie weakly. She didn’t want to ask him to tell her what he’d got until she was sure she’d be able to stay and listen. It wasn’t out of the question that she’d need to run to the loo after all.

  ‘Well worth the wait, I’d say.’ There was triumph in Gibbs’ eyes. ‘Giggleswick School and Oxenhope—both true. Sarge?’

&n
bsp; ‘Sorry. Go on.’

  ‘You told me it was urgent. Do you want to hear it or not?’ Gibbs jabbed his head in her direction as he spoke, like an angry turkey. The body language of a bully.

  At that moment Charlie couldn’t have cared less about Robert Haworth’s village of origin or education. ‘Give me five minutes, Chris,’ she said. That startled him. She’d never called Gibbs by his first name before.

  She left the room and went to stand in the corridor, leaning her back against the wall. The ladies’ toilets were tempting, but she resisted. Crying wasn’t the answer—she bloody well refused to cry—but she needed to allow the adjustment process to complete itself. She couldn’t be around any of her team for as long as she could feel a weight sinking inside her, while this loop of thoughts was endlessly repeating in her head. Five minutes, she thought, that’s all I need.

  Steph hadn’t known it was Charlie on the phone, so why would she lie? She wouldn’t.

  Steph knew Graham had spent part of Wednesday night in Charlie’s chalet, in bed with Charlie. In the lodge, after the row about the computer, Graham had ordered Steph to bring him and Charlie a full English breakfast in bed in the morning. He’d been specific: Charlie’s bed, he’d said. ‘That’s where we’ll both be.’ Flaunting his infidelity in front of his wife.

  And Charlie wasn’t the only one, or the only one Steph was party to. There had been Static Sue as well. And countless other chalet customers, if Steph was to be believed.

  Had Graham lied? Not technically. He’d admitted he’d slept with Steph, more than once.

  Yes, he’d fucking lied.

  He not only called Steph ‘the dogsbody’; he treated her like one. He treated her terribly. No wonder Steph had been so antagonistic towards Charlie. And yet she stayed with Graham, joked about him affectionately on the telephone. My husband’s not the most precise person when it comes to admin. Why did she stay with him?

  He’d told Charlie about Steph’s white line, the skin the sunbeds couldn’t reach.

  What had he told Steph about Charlie’s anatomy?

  He’d persisted in calling Olivia Fat Girl Slim, despite Charlie’s protests.

  Fact after fact, truth after unpalatable truth, stood out from the haze of rage and confusion in Charlie’s brain. She knew the way it went, had been through something similar after Simon pushed her off his lap at Sellers’ party and disappeared into the night: first there was the explosion of the big shock, then the many smaller after-shocks, as associated, subsidiary grounds for pain and horror presented themselves. Hundreds of small incidents demanded to be reconsidered in the light of the new knowledge. Sometimes several occurred to you all in one go, and it was like being peppered with tiny, lethal bullets.

  Only after you’d been thoroughly peppered and pierced, and once the tremors had subsided, could you see the whole picture. Eventually, the succession of blows, major and minor, came to an end and you were more stable; you settled into your misery as if it were an old jumper.

  Charlie didn’t love Graham. She’d had to struggle to keep Simon out of her mind, for Christ’s sake, even when they were having sex. So it was hardly the romance of the century. If Graham had phoned her and suggested calling it a day, that would have been fine. It wasn’t losing him that stung; it was being made a fool of. She felt utterly humiliated, more so when she thought that, by now, Steph must have realised who the mysterious Scottish caller had been. She and Graham were probably having a hearty laugh at her expense at this very moment.

  It was too similar to what Simon had done to her, that was what Charlie couldn’t take. Was everyone’s life full of such indignities, or was it just hers?

  She wanted to make Graham pay in some way, but if she did or said anything at all, he would know she cared. To respond to his humiliation of her would be to acknowledge it, and Charlie was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction, him or Steph.

  Still leaning against the wall outside the CID room, she dialled Olivia’s number. Please, please answer, she thought, trying to transmit the words telepathically to her sister.

  Liv was out. Her answerphone message had changed. It still said, ‘This is Olivia Zailer. I can’t come to the phone at the moment, so you’ll have to leave a message after the beep,’ but a new bit had been added: ‘I’m particularly keen to receive messages from anyone who wants to apologise profusely to me. Any such calls will definitely be returned.’ The tone was acerbic, but it didn’t detract from the reassuring message. Two tears slid down Charlie’s cheeks and she wiped them away quickly.

  ‘Here’s that message you’ve been waiting for,’ she said to her sister’s answerphone. ‘I apologise profusely and more than profusely. I’m an enormous pillock and a dickhead, and I deserve to be keel-hauled. Although I don’t think people are keel-hauled anymore—’ She stopped abruptly, realising she sounded like Graham. It was the sort of joke he’d make: self-conscious, protracted. ‘Ring me tonight, please. Once again, my head and life are totally fucked up—sorry, I know it’s getting a bit tedious—and I might have to throw myself under a train if you don’t come to my rescue. If you’re free tonight and can be arsed slogging up to Spilling, please, please come round. I’ll leave the key in the usual place.’

  ‘Sarge, for fuck’s sake!’ Gibbs had materialised in the corridor.

  Charlie whirled round to face him. ‘If I ever catch you eavesdropping on a call of mine again, I’ll cut your bollocks off with a steak knife, have you got that?’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘And don’t fucking swear at me, and don’t fucking order me around! Clear?’

  Gibbs nodded, red in the face.

  ‘Right.’ Charlie took a deep breath. ‘Good. What have you got on Haworth, then?’

  ‘You’re going to love this.’ Gibbs looked, for the first time in weeks, as if he wouldn’t mind delivering some good news. Charlie would have put money on a deterioration in his attitude, not so swift an improvement. Maybe she ought to give him more regular tongue-lashings. ‘What Juliet Haworth told you and Waterhouse was true: shag-happy mum with a phone-sex business, dad heavily involved in far-right politics, one older brother, parents divorced, Giggleswick School—’

  ‘What about the surname?’ Charlie interrupted him.

  Gibbs nodded. ‘That’s the reason we weren’t finding the background on him: he wasn’t born Robert Haworth. He changed his name.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This is interesting too. Three weeks after he met Juliet in the video shop. But I’ve spoken to her parents, the Heslehursts, and they always knew him as Robert Haworth. That’s who he said he was.’

  ‘So he’d been planning the change for a while,’ Charlie deduced aloud. ‘And this was all long before he raped Prue Kelvey. Did he have a criminal record he wanted to lose?’

  ‘Nope. Not a sausage. Clean as they come.’

  ‘Why the name change, then?’ said Charlie thoughtfully. ‘Because he idolised Branwell Brontë?’

  ‘He grew up on Haworth Road. Number fifty-two. His new surname was his old road name. Anyway . . . criminal record or no criminal record, he must have had something to hide.’

  ‘Why won’t he fucking wake up so that we can interview him?’ Charlie snapped.

  ‘He might, Sarge.’

  ‘He won’t. He’s still having epileptic fits. Every time I speak to the ward sister, she tells me something new and bad: cerebellar tonsillar herniation, tonsillar haemorrhagic necrosis. Layman’s terms? He’s on his way out.’ She sighed. ‘So he was born Robert? You said “his new surname”.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gibbs. ‘Born on the ninth of August 1965. Robert Arthur Angilley. Unusual name, isn’t it? Sarge? What’s—’

  Gibbs stared after her as she ran along the corridor and through the double doors that led to reception. Should he follow her? After a few seconds, he decided he ought to. He hadn’t liked the way she’d looked before she ran: white-faced. Scared, almost. What the fuck had he said? Perhaps it wasn’t anythi
ng to do with him. He’d overheard the tail end of her phone call, and she’d said something about her head being fucked up.

  He felt a bit low for having vented his frustration as much on the sarge as on Waterhouse and Sellers. Sellers, especially. He was the one who really deserved it. The sarge was a woman; women’s minds worked differently. He ought to have let her off the hook.

  Gibbs ran through reception and out on to the steps, but he was too late. Charlie was already in her car, pulling out of the car park on to the road.

  Part III

  22

  Saturday, April 8

  IN FILMS, FOLLOWING someone in a car is always made to look difficult. If the person ahead knows he or she is being pursued, there are sudden turns down hidden alleyways, sideways lurches on to fields, brief flights through air that end with metallic crashes and fires. If the prey is oblivious, there are other hurdles: traffic lights that change at the worst moment, large vans that overtake and block the follower’s view.

  I’ve been lucky so far. None of these things has happened to me. I am in my car, following Sergeant Zailer in her silver Audi. I passed her as I was driving towards the police station, on my way to see her. She was zooming off in the opposite direction, apparently in a hurry. I did a three-point turn in the middle of the street, blocking the traffic on both sides, and set off after her.

  I don’t think Charlie Zailer has seen me, and I’ve been right behind her all the way out of the town centre. Spilling isn’t the sort of place where other drivers cut in front of you. Most people are probably chugging along to some local antique or craft fair. The only person on the road with a sense of urgency is Sergeant Zailer. And me, as I can’t risk losing her. I am careful not to let a space open between my car and hers. If she overtakes somebody, I glide past in her wake.

  At the second roundabout after the High Street ends, she takes the first left turn. This is the road that leads to Silsford. It goes on for miles, winding through countryside, dark like a tunnel because of the overhanging trees on both sides. I am fiddling with the radio, distracted, searching for loud music so that I won’t have to be alone with my thoughts, when she turns again. Right, this time. I do the same. We’re on a small street of red-brick terraced houses, all of which are set back from the road, with tiny square yards at the front. Most of the houses look smart from the outside. Some have brightly coloured external paintwork: jade green, lilac, yellow.