Where the Truth Lies

by Julie Corbin

  I climb into my car and set off. The traffic is light and it’s not long before I’m heading up the A23 towards London. I turn on the radio and try to get lost in the inane chatter. At any rate, it keeps my mind occupied, and so when I arrive in Tooting and find the café, I’ve yet to think about how to approach this meeting with Mac. I’m fifteen minutes early. I sit in a quiet corner near the back of the room, order a coffee and wait.

  The waitress can’t be more than sixteen. She has a nose-ring and lank brown hair that reaches her collar. Her eyes are bright, interested, older than her years. She looks me up and down. ‘Nice sandals, those,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you.’ My legs are crossed and I rotate my raised foot in the air. ‘Haven’t had them long.’

  The table is wooden and has one leg slightly shorter than the other three, so when she puts the coffee down, some spills over the lip of the mug.

  ‘Sorry.’ She uses the cloth hanging from her belt to wipe it up. ‘Sure you don’t want anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You waiting for someone?’

  I nod.

  ‘It’s not a date, is it?’

  ‘No.’ I almost laugh. ‘Far from it.’

  ‘You’ve got that look about you,’ she says, walking back to the counter. ‘Nervous but excited too.’

  I can’t believe I look excited. Tense, scared, anxious – definitely. After all, my daughter’s life is being threatened and the man who’s in charge of helping us prevent such a thing is Mac. And I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse. We haven’t been alone in each other’s company since after Kerry’s funeral, when we gathered at her parents’ semi in Gravesend. They were both wide-eyed and bewildered. Every now and then the gravity of the situation seemed to dawn on her mother and she’d gasp, clutch a hand to her chest, then turn towards the family gallery on the wall and calm herself, reassured by the smiling ten-year-old Kerry in the photographs.

  That morning, the morning of her funeral, my breakfast had been a muesli bar on the Underground and I hadn’t eaten any lunch, so two quick, large whiskies and the alcohol ran through me, leaking into my bloodstream, into my limbs and my head until I drifted into a numb, cocoon-like state. I climbed the stairs to the bathroom. When I came out, Mac was standing in the hallway and I lurched into him. He had his jacket off, his tie was loose, and his shirt was coming untucked. He was attractive; everyone thought so. And he was completely unaware of it. A fact that made it all the more potent.

  Before Kerry’s burial, we had spent two long weeks together building the case against Abe. We worked all hours sifting through the evidence, living on coffee and muffins and the odd takeaway. Our thoughts were in synch, our ideas mutually appreciated. Our closeness was professional. It didn’t feel sexual, but it did feel meaningful. I liked and respected him. I recognised that he was attractive, but I wasn’t aware that I wanted him until the moment outside the bathroom.

  I was drunk and I was exhausted and I should have kept on walking, but I didn’t. I went back over that moment a hundred times, trying to work out why I did what I did. All I could come up with was that I’d drifted too far away from the person I really was: a wife and mother who valued her husband and children above all else. At that moment my family were in a parallel world, cared for by another me. Mac, on the other hand, was slap bang in front of me. He looked both familiar and foreign and overwhelmingly desirable. He held my hand. I examined his fingers and then kissed them. He walked us into the bathroom. I locked the door behind us. He undid my blouse. I undid his trousers. He wrapped his arms round my waist. I leaned in to him. He kissed me slowly, teasingly. I pulled back to look into his eyes. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He sat on the edge of the bath. I pushed his head into my breasts. He pulled me on to his knee. He slid a hand up my skirt.

  We didn’t speak. We held eye contact throughout. It felt like the most uncluttered sexual experience of my life. It was a perfectly erotic, electric episode. At first the rhythm was quick, and then he slowed us down – held me away for a moment while we looked at and into each other – and then we moved quickly again. I came almost at once and so did he. I rested my head on his shoulder. My limbs were soft; my insides felt profoundly relaxed. We stayed like this for several long seconds before somebody tried the door handle. It rattled, swung to the right and then to the left.

  ‘I’ll be a minute,’ Mac said.

  I stood up, gasped – sudden emptiness; my legs were unsteady. He buttoned his trousers. I pulled down my skirt and buttoned my blouse. He straightened his tie. I tried to unlock the door. My fingers weren’t working together. He covered my hands with his, unlocked the door, turned me towards him and hugged me. I shut my eyes. He stroked my hair.

  ‘We should go back down now,’ he said. He opened the door. The hallway was clear. ‘You first.’

  He pushed me gently forwards. I went downstairs. My whole body was zinging with energy. I felt more vital than I had in years. I ate four sandwiches one after the other and then I had a cup of coffee. I was just finishing up when Mac came back into the room. We had travelled here together, but I already knew that he was driving back to Scotland Yard, while I had accepted the offer of a lift to the station and then home. I watched as he said his goodbyes to Kerry’s parents, held Mrs Smith while she cried into his shirt. He promised to ensure that Abe was locked up for as long as possible. Then he moved around the room, saying a quick goodbye to the rest of us. He gave me a casual hug, as he usually did, and then he left.

  Mac didn’t call me; I didn’t call him. I saw him at work and there was nothing in his face to suggest that he knew me any better than he had before. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to feel. Neither my feelings nor my thoughts could settle on one course of action. Like a deck of cards thrown up in the air, the pieces of me were all muddled up. I knew I didn’t want him – not really, not the way I wanted Julian – but still there was something about him that made me feel both ashamed and exhilarated. Some clever, insidious charm that once under my skin, was hard to shift.

  I finish the last of my coffee and know that the waitress is right. In a small, dark corner of myself I feel a flicker of excitement at the thought of seeing him again. And when, at just after ten, the door to the café opens, that flicker becomes a flame.

  6

  Mac sees me at once. He walks towards me and I stand up. Unlike Julian, he’s not conventionally handsome. He is tall and broad as a rugby player and has a receding hairline, a nose that’s too large for his face and brown eyes that are slightly too close together. What makes him attractive is the powerful charisma he exudes. Wendy would call it animal magnetism.

  We kiss cheeks. He hugs me. He feels warm and solid. He smells of peanuts. And so, after not having seen each other for five years, it’s the first thing I say: ‘Have you been eating peanuts?’

  He brings a half-empty bag out of his pocket. ‘I missed breakfast. You want some?’

  We both sit down. I take a handful of nuts and put some of them in my mouth and the rest down on a paper napkin in front of me.

  ‘So . . .’ He smiles. It’s not just about his mouth or his eyes. It comes from deeper than that. And I remember that he uses his smiles sparingly. Must be why they’re so effective. ‘Long time no see.’

  I nod.

  ‘You look well,’ he says.

  ‘Do I?’ I half smile, ignoring the way my spirits lifted as soon as I saw him and lift further still with his compliment, because this isn’t about me. It’s about Bea. ‘What I feel is afraid.’ I breathe deeply. ‘I have a lot of questions.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Why were you assigned this case?’

  ‘Someone had to be.’

  ‘Did you request it?’

  He steals a quick glance at me. ‘No.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have turned it down?’

  He frowns. ‘Why?’

  ‘We know each other.’

  ‘Claire!’ He
throws his arms out in mock surrender. ‘I don’t see any conflict of interest here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ He holds my eyes as he says this. It’s a look that’s both serious and compassionate. ‘I will do my absolute best to ensure we get a good result. You know I will.’

  There’s no doubting his sincerity. The sceptic in me takes a step back. Maybe the fact that we know each other will be to my advantage. I can approach him directly. I don’t have to observe male protocol and go through my husband.

  ‘It was just a bit of a shock.’ I shrug. ‘Of all the policemen in London . . .’

  ‘There are three teams working this aspect of serious crimes. Makes it a one-in-three chance of it being me.’

  ‘I heard you’re a DI now.’ For the first time I smile fully. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I have a good team to work with.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ I lean towards him. ‘Is there a chance the blackmailer could be bluffing?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Georgiev is known for this sort of intimidation. Sofia and Rome are proof of that.’

  I’m reminded of the cases mentioned in the emails – Carlo Brunetti, Rome, 2006, and Boleslav Hlutev, Sofia, 2008. ‘What happened with those two cases?’

  ‘Both of them involved blackmail.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And family members ended up paying the price,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Georgiev had them killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I swallow quickly. ‘Did either of them involve children?’

  ‘The Italian one. A little boy.’

  ‘Was he—’ I stop abruptly, thinking about the blackmailer spying on Bea as she played in the sandpit. I could have taken her then. I could take her still. And you’d never see her again. ‘Was the little boy—’ I stop again. ‘Was he kidnapped?’

  Mac nods. ‘I believe so. We don’t have all the details at the moment.’

  ‘Will you show me the details when they come through?’

  ‘Claire—’

  ‘Crime-scene photos. All of it. Whatever you have, I want to see it.’

  He sits back and looks down at his hands. He’s in two minds. I’m not having any of it.

  ‘Whose idea was it to keep me out of the loop, yours or Julian’s?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It wasn’t a case of keeping you out.’ He shakes his head at me. ‘It was more about not worrying you unnecessarily.’

  ‘Was it your decision or Julian’s?’

  He sighs. ‘It was Julian’s.’

  ‘And you just went along with it?’ My mouth trembles. I didn’t expect this, but as I ask the question, I realise that Mac’s silence has hurt me too – not nearly as much as Julian’s – but it still feels like a betrayal.

  ‘I have to accept that he knows you better than I do.’

  ‘Forewarned is forearmed.’

  ‘He’s only trying to protect you, Claire. And anyway, there really was nothing to be gained by you knowing earlier.’

  ‘Because the threat will only be realised after the pre-trial hearing?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And yet after Bea’s birthday party, when Julian thought she had been taken, two policemen appeared in the street.’

  ‘Getting a feel for the place. Taking note of the comings and goings.’

  ‘They aren’t exactly subtle, you know.’

  ‘They’re not meant to be.’

  Anger simmers inside me, against both these men who have made decisions that affect Bea’s safety and yet have neglected to include me. I look away from him and across at the counter. The young waitress is putting glasses on a shelf, her mind only half on the job as she catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up. I rub my forehead and then look back at Mac. ‘Did I ever strike you as the sort of woman who needs to be protected from the truth?’

  ‘Yes . . . and no.’

  ‘I’ve coped with worse than this.’

  ‘Yes, you have. But this isn’t work. This is your family. That makes it different.’

  ‘I want to know everything you know.’

  He gives me a prolonged look as if checking to see how much I mean this. I hold myself steady. I feel like I’m treading close to the edges of my own strength and that at any moment I might break down, run home and lock Bea up so that no one can reach her.

  ‘All right,’ he says at last. ‘But some of it makes for uncomfortable listening.’

  ‘I understand that.’ I reach down to the floor and bring my handbag up on to the table. ‘I’ve brought copies of the emails with me.’ I lay the pages out in front of him. ‘I’d like to go through them. Hear your thoughts.’

  ‘So Julian showed you these?’

  ‘He doesn’t know I have them.’

  He cocks his head on one side. ‘Who gave you them?’

  ‘No one. I logged on to his email. I didn’t feel good doing it,’ I acknowledge, ‘but when I’d worked out there was a problem, I couldn’t just sit on my hands until he came home.’

  ‘OK.’ He weighs this up, then tips the last of the nuts into his mouth, managing to chew and speak at the same time. ‘Firstly, I want you to know that we’re giving this top priority.’ He tells me about the manpower and resources that are being thrown our way. He has carte blanche with the budget. This case is important to the government and to the police force. It shows they’re fighting crime and winning, that they aren’t afraid to target the big boys. I listen to everything he has to say, hearing words like ‘imperative’ and ‘risk assessment’ and ‘profilers’. My brain hasn’t felt this engaged since I gave up being a solicitor and I realise that the person I thought I left behind was just waiting for the chance to show her face again.

  ‘And are you having any luck tracing the emails?’ I say.

  ‘Not yet. The messages have been coming through several IP addresses that were hacked into. Tracing them back to source is nigh on impossible.’ He widens his eyes. ‘But what we are doing is bringing in for questioning all known criminals and informants who work or have worked with Georgiev.’

  ‘And at one point you thought you had a lead?’

  ‘Turned out to be a dead end.’ He stands up, takes off his jacket and puts it over the back of the chair. ‘I need something to drink. You want another coffee?’

  ‘Please.’ I watch him as he goes up to the counter, the waitress tripping over herself to serve him, smiling for all she’s worth. He comes back with two coffees and a packet of biscuits. Over his shoulder, I see her giving me another thumbs-up.

  ‘So I hear Charlie’s at university now. And Jack’s what – year eleven?’

  I nod. ‘Charlie’s doing well. Jack’s sixteen. He’s had a bit of a rocky year at school – in with the wrong crowd – but so far his GCSEs have gone without a hitch.’

  He breaks open the packet of biscuits. ‘And then there’s Bea.’

  ‘Bea.’ Precious Bea with her funny little ways. My baby girl. ‘She’s very sweet and happy. She’s brought so much to our family.’ And somebody intends to harm her. A wave of fear passes through me, so intense that I hold on to the table to stop myself tipping over. I feel Mac watching me. I dredge up a polite smile. ‘And how’s life been treating you?’

  ‘Much the same.’ He offers me a biscuit. I shake my head. ‘Got married a couple of years back.’

  ‘You’re married?’ I feel a pang of something like envy. It’s brief because it’s immediately extinguished by the thought that follows – Mac’s a lot of things, including intelligent and sexy, but he’s not a man to marry. He’s a man’s man through and through, and they don’t make the best husbands. ‘You didn’t mention that in the texts you sent me.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ I drink some coffee. It’s too hot and my mouth burns. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘She’s . . . nice.’

  ‘Nice? Nice?’ I roll my eyes. ‘I
think you need to try a bit harder than that.’

  ‘She’s pretty. Interesting. She has long legs.’ He thinks for a bit. ‘She has long legs,’ he confirms, ‘and she has a liking for—’

  ‘Wrapping them round you?’

  He laughs. ‘She has a liking for tiger prawns and holidays in Crete.’ He dunks a biscuit in his coffee. ‘And country walks.’

  I smile. The Mac I knew was always exercise-resistant unless it involved a football. I rest my hand on the copies of the emails. ‘Do you think the blackmailer will leave us alone because Julian has resigned from the case?’

  ‘We’re hoping.’

  ‘But it doesn’t alter the fact that Julian knows who the witness is, does it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t Georgiev able to work out who it is?’

  ‘It’s harder than you might think. He’s had a lot of criminal associates over the years, most of whom would rather slit their own throats than give evidence against him. But this man, the witness, is . . .’ He shrugs. ‘He’s got balls.’

  ‘The blackmailer also says he wants to know his whereabouts. Julian knows this too?’

  Mac nods.

  ‘Who else knows the details?’

  ‘In this country, there’s myself, Julian, James Alexander at Crown Prosecution and a couple of others.’

  I know James Alexander. He is single-mindedly devoted to his job, a public servant in the truest sense.

  ‘And in Bulgaria, there’s Iliev, who is Sofia’s chief of police, and a couple of his men. They’ve been tracking Georgiev’s movements for over twenty years now.’

  ‘And are any of them being threatened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They don’t have children?’

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘One of the emails’ – I find the one I’m looking for and read it out – ‘dated 31 May, says, “How will Claire react, I wonder, when she finds out you’re sacrificing your own daughter in order to protect the witness, a criminal out to save his own skin?”’ I look at Mac. ‘Is that true?’