Hurting Distance aka The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  Simon froze. This was among the more hurtful things he’d had said to him over the years. Charlie would have said, ‘Peculiar, as far as the Snowman’s concerned, is any man who doesn’t have a bread-baking, sock-darning wifie at home.’ Simon could hear her voice clearly in his mind, but it wasn’t the same as having her with him.

  His life was peculiar. He didn’t have a girlfriend, had no real friends apart from Charlie.

  ‘Sellers has picked up a stack of evidence from Silver Brae Chalets,’ he went on. ‘Angilley had it all neatly filed, as if it were completely legitimate: contact numbers for dozens of men, and a list of twenty-three women’s names—past victims and future ones, by the look of it. Some names with dates and ticks beside them, some without. Sellers has Googled all the women—they’ve all either got their own websites or a page on a company one. They’re all professional—’

  The telephone in front of Simon began to ring. He picked it up. ‘DC Waterhouse, CID,’ he said automatically. It wasn’t going to be Charlie: she’d have rung his mobile.

  ‘Simon? Thank fucking God!’

  His heart soared. It wasn’t Charlie. But it sounded a bit like her. ‘Olivia?’

  ‘I lost your mobile number and I’ve spent the past hour being pissed around, first by an electronic imbecile and then by a human one. Never mind. Look, I’m worried about Charlie. Can you send a police car round to her house?’

  Simon’s nerves buzzed as he said to Proust, ‘Get some uniforms to blue-light it round to Charlie’s place.’ He’d never given the Snowman an order before.

  Proust picked up a phone on the adjacent desk.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Simon asked Olivia.

  ‘Charlie left a message for me today—well, yesterday, I suppose, except I haven’t been to sleep yet. She told me to go round to her house. She said the key’d be in its usual place, and to let myself in if she wasn’t back yet.’

  ‘And?’ Simon knew about the key Charlie left underneath her wheelie-bin. She’d left it there for him on the odd occasion. He’d remonstrated with her; what was the point of being a detective if you left your key in the first place any burglar would look? ‘I haven’t got the mental energy to think of a better hiding place,’ she’d said wearily.

  ‘I got there at about eight,’ said Olivia. ‘Charlie wasn’t there, and neither was the key. I stuck a note through the letter box, telling her to ring me. I went to the pub, had something to eat and a couple of drinks, read my book, didn’t hear anything. Eventually I got really worried and went back to the house. She still wasn’t back. I sat in my car and waited for her, basically. Normally I’d have sacked it and gone home, but the message she’d left me . . . she sounded really upset. She as good as told me something bad had happened.’

  ‘And?’ Simon tried hard to keep his voice steady. Get to the fucking point.

  ‘I fell asleep in my car. When I woke up, a light was on in Charlie’s lounge and the curtains were closed. Before, they’d been open. I assumed she was back, so I went and rang the bell, ready to have a go at her for not phoning me as soon as she got in and saw my note. But no one answered the door. I know someone was in there, I saw movements in the hall. In fact, I’m sure it was two people. One of them must have been Charlie, but then why didn’t she let me in? You’ll probably think I’m being neurotic, but I know something’s not right.’

  ‘Charlie’s in Scotland,’ Simon told her. And Graham Angilley isn’t. ‘She can’t be in her house.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. It was a last-minute thing.’

  ‘Has she gone back to Silver Brae Chalets?’ asked Olivia, sounding more like the journalist that she was. ‘You rang and asked me all those questions about Graham Angilley . . . Why the fuck didn’t Charlie tell me, if she was going to see him again, instead of letting me turn up at her house like an idiot?’ There was a pause. ‘Do you know what she’s so upset about?’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Olivia.’ Simon wanted to get off the phone, wanted to get round to Charlie’s house himself. Proust already had his coat on.

  ‘Simon? Don’t put the phone down! If it’s not Charlie in the house, then who is it?’

  ‘Olivia—’

  ‘I could drive back there, smash a window and find out for myself! I’m only five minutes away.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Olivia, do you hear me? I can’t explain now, but I think there’s a dangerous, violent man in Charlie’s house. Keep well away. Promise me.’ His failure to protect Charlie made him all the more determined to protect her sister. ‘Promise me, Olivia.’

  She sighed. ‘All right, then. But ring me as soon as you can. I want to know what’s going on.’

  So did Proust. He raised an eyebrow as Simon put the phone down. ‘A dangerous, violent man?’

  Simon nodded, feeling his skin heat up. ‘Graham Angilley.’ He was already heading for the door, patting his jacket in search of his car keys. Proust followed; Simon was surprised to discover that the inspector—normally so slow and deliberate—could run faster than he could.

  Both men were thinking the same thing: Naomi Jenkins had Charlie’s handbag, had the keys to her house. If Olivia was right about having seen two people, Naomi could be inside the house with Angilley. They had to get there, fast.

  The Snowman waited until they were in the car, driving at double the speed limit, before saying, ‘It’s just a small thing, a tiny detail, but why is Graham Angilley in Sergeant Zailer’s house? How does he know where she lives?’

  Simon kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t answer.

  When Proust next spoke, his tone was quietly courteous, his lips thin and white. ‘I wonder how many people are going to be getting their marching orders, once all this is over,’ he mused.

  Simon clung to the steering wheel as if it were all he had in the world.

  30

  Sunday, April 9

  GRAHAM ANGILLEY STANDS over me, holding the scissors I brought with me from home. He cuts at the air in front of my face. The blades make a metallic slicing sound. In his other hand, he holds my dummy mallet.

  ‘How considerate of you to come well equipped,’ he says.

  There is only one thought running through my head: he cannot win. That can’t be how the story ends, with me being stupid enough to come here, knowing there was a good chance he’d be here, carrying with me everything he needs to humiliate and defeat me. I try not to think about my own recklessness. I must have been crazy to think I could overpower him. But I can’t dwell on that. Three years ago I allowed myself to feel powerless in his presence and that’s what I was: utterly helpless. This time I must do everything differently.

  Starting with showing no fear. I will not cower or beg. I haven’t so far, not when he held the scissors to my throat and not while he tied me to one of the two straight-backed wooden chairs in Charlie’s kitchen. I was silent, and tried to keep my face blank, free of expression.

  ‘It’s just like old times, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Except you’ve got your clothes on. For the moment.’

  My hands are bound together behind the chair, and each of my feet is tied to one of the back legs. The strain on my thigh muscles is becoming worse than uncomfortable. Angilley closes the scissors and puts them down on the kitchen table. He rolls the dummy mallet in both hands.

  ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘What have we here? A long conical object with a blunt, round end. I give up. Is it some sort of sex toy? A big bronze dildo?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit on it and find out?’ I say, hoping he’ll think I’m not scared.

  He grins. ‘Fighting back this time, are you? You do right, as we Yorkshire folk sometimes say. I like a bit of variety.’

  ‘Is that why you do the same thing over and over again: tie up women and rape them? You even say the same thing: “Do you want to warm up before the show?” What a ridiculous line.’ I force myself to laugh. Whatever I say to him, whether I’m defiant or timid, will make no difference to what he does to me. H
e knows how he wants this to finish. No words of mine will affect him either way, because he takes nothing to heart. Realising this enables me to speak freely. ‘You might think you’re adventurous, but you’d be lost without your stupid routine. That stays the same, whoever the woman is, whether it’s Juliet, me, Sandy Freeguard . . .’

  The skin round his eyes crinkles as his frown becomes a twisted smile. ‘How do you know about Sandy Freeguard? From Charlie Zailer, I bet.’

  ‘Or from Robert,’ I suggest.

  ‘Nice try. Charlie told you.’ Angilley sniffs the air. ‘Yes, I thought I detected the unmistakable odour of female solidarity and mutual empowerment. Do the two of you make patchwork quilts together in your spare time? You must be pretty close if you’ve got her house keys. A bit unprofessional of her, I’d say. Not as bad as doing the deed of darkness with yours truly, though. That’s the sarge’s most serious faux pas to date.’

  I try to shift my position to make my legs more comfortable, but it doesn’t work. My feet are starting to tingle; soon they’ll be numb.

  ‘You do look sexy when you wriggle and writhe like that. Do it again.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He puts the dummy mallet down on the table. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to use this later,’ he says. My insides lurch. I have to keep him talking.

  ‘Tell me about Prue Kelvey,’ I say.

  He picks up the scissors and walks slowly towards me. A scream rises in my throat. It takes all my willpower to subdue it. If I show even the tiniest bit of fear, I won’t be able to pretend after that. My act has to be constant, impervious. He lifts the collar of my shirt and tells me to lean my head forward. Then he starts to cut, all the way round the back of my neck. I feel the cold metal of the scissors against my skin.

  He throws the collar into my lap once he’s cut it off. ‘How about you answer my questions first? How did my brother end up nearly dead in hospital? The good sarge would only tell me so much. Did you put him there, or did Juliet?’ He sounds less flippant now. As if he cares.

  I look at his eyes, wondering if it’s some kind of trick. Letting me see that this matters to him is like handing me a weapon. But maybe he thinks there is nothing I can do to him. He’s tied me to a chair to make sure of that.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I say. ‘My legs are hurting and I can’t feel my feet. Why don’t you untie me?’

  ‘I always do eventually, don’t I?’ Angilley says flirtatiously. ‘What’s the hurry? I should point out that if my little brother dies and if I find out that it was you who tried to murder him, I will kill you.’ He cuts the top button off my shirt.

  ‘Shall we just have sex and get it over with?’ I suggest, feeling my heart pound in my mouth. ‘There’s no need for foreplay.’

  The man looks irritated, briefly. Then his smooth smile reappears.

  ‘Robert isn’t going to die,’ I tell him.

  He puts the scissors down on the table. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve been to the hospital.’

  After a pause, he says, ‘And? There’s no point being enigmatic and mysterious with me, Naomi. Don’t forget, I know you inside out.’ He winks. ‘You’ve been to the hospital and . . . ?’

  ‘You don’t want Robert to die, and I don’t want Robert to die. We’re on the same side, whatever happened between us in the past. Why don’t you untie me?’

  ‘Not a chance, old beanie. So, who does want Robert to die, then?’ the man asks. ‘Somebody seems to.’

  ‘Juliet,’ I tell him.

  ‘Why? Because he was taking a dip into you behind her back?’

  I shake my head. ‘She’s known about that for months.’

  He picks up the scissors again. ‘My patience was wearing thin when this conversation started,’ he says. ‘Now it’s Karen Carpenter anorexic. So why don’t you be a good girl and tell me what I want to know?’ He snips off another button.

  ‘Leave my clothes alone,’ I snap, as panic rears inside me. ‘Untie me and I’ll take you to see Robert in hospital.’

  ‘You’ll take me? Why, thank you, Fairy Godmother.’

  ‘The only way you’ll get to see him is with me,’ I say, making it up as I go along. ‘He’s not allowed any visitors, but I could get you in. The ward staff know me. I’ve been in to see him with Charlie.’

  ‘Stop boasting before you embarrass yourself. I’ve seen Robert today, as it happens. Just a couple of hours ago.’ The man laughs at my shock, which I’ve obviously failed to hide. ‘Yes, that’s right. I got into the intensive care unit all by myself, like a big boy. It was a piece of piss. There’s a keypad outside the ward door with letters and numbers on it. All I had to do was watch a couple of doctors going in, and memorise the code they were good enough to tap in right in front of me. It makes me laugh, actually.’ He puts down the scissors, pulls the other kitchen chair away from the table and sits down beside me. ‘The trappings of vigilance and security— keypads and alarm codes and the like—all they do is make people less vigilant. In the old days, ward sisters and doctors probably kept beady eyes peeled for unsavoury elements like moi. But there’s no need, not anymore. Now that there’s a digital panel on the door and a code—a code, no less!—everyone can wander around with their heads in the clouds, like sheep on Valium, trusting some paltry appliance to take care of safety for them. All it took was a quick tap-tap and I was in, slipping through the door in a cloud of invisible drug-resistant superbugs.’

  ‘How is Robert?’

  Your brother chuckles. ‘Do you love him? Is this a love sort of thing? It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘How is he? Tell me.’

  ‘Well . . . can I be tactful and say he’s a good listener?’

  ‘But he’s still alive?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s a little better, actually. The nurse I was flirting with told me. He’s no longer—what did she call it?—intubated. I should explain, in case you went to a sink school—no more tubes. He’s breathing on his own. And the old heartbeat was chugging away. I watched it on the screen. The green line went up and down and up and down . . . I tell you what: real hospital’s nothing like a TV hospital drama, is it? I was quite disappointed. I was in Robert’s room for ten minutes or so, and I encountered not one single nurse or doctor who was determined to interfere in our personal business. There was no stern sister instructing me to confront my unresolved issues. I felt a little bit neglected.’

  He has forgotten about the scissors for the time being. I decide to try a more direct approach. ‘Graham, I want to go and see Robert. I need to see him. He’s your brother, and I know you care about him, however flippant you are about it. Please will you untie me so that I can go to the hospital?’

  ‘I’m more concerned about myself than I am about either you or Robert,’ he says, smiling apologetically. ‘What’s going to happen to me? I’ll be arrested, probably, and you’ll tell the police I did all sorts of unmentionable things to you. Won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘Listen, I know for a fact that the police have got no forensic evidence against you. No DNA. Charlie told me.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Angilley rubs his hands together. There is something inclusive about his pleasure, as if he expects me to share it.

  ‘If you let me go, I swear on my life I’ll tell the police that you weren’t the man who attacked me. There’s no way you’d be convicted of anything.’

  ‘Hm.’ He rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘What about Sergeant Charlie? What have you already said to her? I know women and their big mouths. Intimately, remember?’

  My brain is buzzing with the strain of trying to think faster than I can. He can’t have spoken to Steph or else he would know that Charlie knows a lot more about his involvement in the rapes than I could have told her. ‘She trusts you,’ I say. ‘She thinks you’re her boyfriend.’

  ‘Sweet. But like all great romances, ours can’t last. It’s only a matter of time before Charlie finds out Robert’s real name and works out that I’m his brother. And
then she’ll wonder why I haven’t told her. I thought the game was up when you let yourself in, actually. I assumed you were Charlie, and hid behind the lounge door. It was only when you started creeping around and I snuck a peek that I realised it was you. If the Boob Tube had found me in her house when I wasn’t supposed to be there, I dare say we’d have had a big bust-up.’

  ‘What were you doing? Why were you here when Charlie wasn’t?’

  ‘I wanted to see if she’d brought any work home with her, anything to do with the attempted murder of my little brother. I want to know who to blame.’

  I cannot feel my feet at all anymore, can’t ignore the shooting pains in my legs and back. ‘Look, if I say you weren’t the man who raped me, the police can’t touch you.’

  Angilley frowns. ‘Raped? Isn’t that putting it a bit strongly?’

  ‘Will you untie me? Please?’

  ‘What about Sandy Freeguard?’

  ‘She doesn’t know who you are, and I won’t tell her. Untie me.’

  ‘I might. If you tell me why Juliet tried to kill Robert.’

  I hesitate. Eventually, I say, ‘He told her he was leaving her for me.’ I do not need to go into detail about how you told Juliet, the precise words you chose. It must have taken you a long time to explain everything. The abbreviated version’s good enough for your brother. ‘Now you tell me about Prue Kelvey,’ I say.

  ‘What about her? She was one of my leading ladies, like you.’ He picks up the scissors again and cuts the last two buttons off my shirt. It falls open. ‘You can’t go to the hospital like that, with your boobs hanging out. Most unseemly.’ His voice hardens. ‘How do you know about Prue Kelvey?’ Slowly, he closes the scissors around my bra strap, cutting it on one side.

  ‘You didn’t have sex with her. Robert did. Why? Did you make him?’

  ‘“Made” is putting it a bit strongly. I encouraged him. Or rather, I asked my wife to pass on a message of encouragement. Robert and I weren’t speaking, and I wanted to put things right. Prue Kelvey was my peace offering. Robert accepted, and I was thrilled. I thought he’d enjoy it. Sadly, he didn’t, and I ended up regretting my generosity. And things were made worse instead of put right.’ Angilley sighs. ‘Robert’s my kid brother. I wanted him to be part of things, properly involved. He was there at the beginning, on my stag night, when I first had the idea for the business. We went to Wales for the weekend, to Cardiff, just me and Robert. We ended up pissed in a grotty little Indian restaurant, which was a bit of an anticlimax. Until I had the inspired idea of giving the mousy waitress a night to remember. It was just us and her, I was drunk—it seemed the obvious thing to do. I made sure Robert also had his turn with her. And from that acorn of experience grew the great oak of a very successful business. I’ve single-handedly revolutionised stag nights in this country.’