Where the Truth Lies

by Julie Corbin

  I smile. ‘No.’

  ‘I do it.’ She leans across again and gives the quail’s egg the merest of kisses. ‘Is it better now?’ she whispers.

  I move my eyes right and left to show that I’m thinking. ‘You know what, it is better!’

  She claps her hands and jumps a couple of times so that the chair tips to one side and threatens to topple. I catch her arm to steady her and she sits back down again.

  ‘Porridge time,’ I say.

  ‘And Lara.’ She knocks all the porridge off the spoon, then brings it up to her mouth. ‘She is my special friend too. She sleeps in my bed. She can stay for ever and ever, amen.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I ask Sezen.’ She drops the spoon and is off out of the kitchen before I can remind her that Sezen spent the night elsewhere – in a police cell. Not something I’ll tell Bea, but it is something that’s constantly on my mind. I look at the clock. It’s only just after seven. A bit too early to ring Mac. He won’t have got to the station yet. I fill the sink with hot soapy water and start cleaning the kitchen surfaces. I’ve been at it for twenty minutes or so, trying to lose myself in the rhythmic motion, when Bea comes back with Lara, who has dressed herself and even managed to brush her hair and put a hairband across the front to keep the hair out of her eyes. She is as composed as ever and it makes me wonder how often Sezen has left her and with whom. When Lara sits at the table to have breakfast, Bea bobbing around on the floor behind her as she tries to master her hula-hoop, I ask her whether Mummy often has to leave her with a friend.

  ‘Mummy has to work.’ She nods into her bowl of porridge. ‘She has to make money to help Jalal.’

  ‘Of course.’ I give her a reassuring smile. ‘And does Jalal live in Brighton too?’

  She pulls her sleeve back and shows me a multicoloured bracelet, the threads woven together like a plait and then tied to form a circle. ‘He gave me this. It is for friendship.’ She says the last word very deliberately as if she has been practising it.

  ‘I see. And did you meet Jalal yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, but he has to do work for the men. To make them leave him alone.’

  ‘Right.’ My pulse rate begins a steady climb. I stand up and lift my mobile from the dresser. ‘I’m just going to make a phone call, girls. I’ll be next door.’

  I go through to the sitting room, select Mac’s number and wait for it to connect. The two policemen outside see me at the window and I raise my hand by way of a hello.

  ‘Mac.’

  ‘It’s me. Claire.’

  ‘Morning.’ He takes a big breath. ‘We’re still questioning Sezen. She’s a tough nut. Whoever she’s protecting, he either means a lot to her or she’s afraid of reprisals.’

  I tell him about the conversation I’ve just had with Lara. ‘I think you could get more out of her. She’s a bright little button. She might even be able to show you where he lives.’

  ‘Well, if nothing else, the threat of questioning her daughter will be more power to our elbow with Sezen.’ He stops talking and I hear the rustle of cellophane. ‘Officers have questioned Jem Ravens but couldn’t find anything suspicious.’ He’s speaking through a mouthful of something doughy. ‘She was shocked and upset and appeared very genuine in her assertion that she knew nothing about this.’

  ‘Well, that’s always something, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t sound very convinced.’

  ‘Well . . . honestly, Mac, I never believed it would be Jem. And let’s face it, we still don’t have a lot to go on, do we?’

  ‘No, but by the end of the morning we will have ruled Sezen either in or out and that’s what police work is all about – finding the clues, following them to see where they might lead, fitting together the pieces.’

  I think of those jigsaw puzzles where the picture is baked beans or jelly babies – almost impossible to put together. Especially when there’s time pressure.

  ‘Can we have a chat on our own today, Mac? Please.’

  There’s a split second of hesitation before he says, ‘Of course. How does later this morning sound?’

  ‘That’s good for me.’

  ‘I’ll come to you. Around eleven?’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you then.’

  I put my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and think about what I’ll need to say, or do, for him to give me the witness’s details. I’ll promise. I’ll plead. I’ll beg. I’ll flirt. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. While Julian seems to be happy with a David and Goliath scenario, I’m not.

  I’ll get the details and I’ll give them to the blackmailer. And in the meantime, if Julian can email the blackmailer with his intentions, then I can surely do the same. I log on to my laptop and open my email. I click on ‘New message’ and type her address into the first box.

  Subject: Witness Details

  Please do not attempt to take my child. I will get you the details. I will have them to you by midnight tonight.

  Claire Miller

  17

  I’m in a limbo of waiting. I’ve brought my laptop into the kitchen beside me. Every five minutes I press the refresh button. Nothing yet. While I wait for eleven o’clock to come round and Mac to arrive, I keep myself busy in the kitchen, dusting and polishing the Welsh dresser. The girls are under the table, playing house. They have draped two tablecloths over the surface so that they hang down almost to the floor and have dragged the small rug from the hallway for them to sit on. An assortment of pans and plates, wooden spoons and jars are under the table with them and they are deciding what to cook.

  ‘. . . for when the men come back from the fields,’ Bea says.

  ‘. . . with two dead rabbits and a fish,’ Lara says.

  ‘No fish.’ Bea is insistent about this because ‘Fish have feelings,’ she tells Lara. ‘Like Nemo.’

  When the doorbell rings, I expect the postman, but Jem is standing on the step. Her hands are in her pockets. Her clothes are grubby; her hair is unkempt.

  ‘I spent the night in the van.’ She moves from one foot to the other as if the step is hot. ‘I hadn’t told Pete about prison. I should have done.’ Her face flushes and I see she’s close to tears. ‘I’m hoping he’ll cool off.’

  ‘It was quite a secret you were keeping, Jem.’

  ‘I know. I was ashamed.’ She purses her lips. ‘Pete has always been too good for me.’

  ‘Oh, come on! That simply isn’t true.’ For a moment I forget about the blackmailer and the threats and give her a hug. ‘I’m sorry that my troubles brought this out, but Pete will forgive you. You two are bigger than this. Give him time.’ I’m about to offer her a shower and a place to stay when I remember that, unlikely as it is that Jem is involved, I can’t risk it. I’ve seen unlikely. I’ve seen people barefaced lying and I’ve seen people successfully fool even the most experienced police officers.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a place to stay,’ I say, ‘but I can give you the money I owe you for painting Lisa’s room.’

  She shakes her head. ‘So the cops were watching out for you?’

  ‘Yeah. Who would have thought it, eh?’ I hesitate. ‘What happened, though? Back then, I mean.’

  ‘The assault?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Temper. Tiredness. Too many free drinks. I was saving up for a deposit on a house and worked two jobs: daytime with a builder and evenings in a pub. There was a bloke there who had been lairing me off all evening. He was a regular bully and harassed all the female members of staff. In fact, several of them were able to testify that he’d been harassing me all evening and that I’d asked him to back off.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway, I went to change a keg and he caught me in the cellar, hands everywhere, stinking breath in my face. The golf club was handy and before I knew it I’d thumped him over the head with it. Hard.’ She shakes her head. ‘It was absolute bloody madness and I deserved every minute of the five months I served.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. It sounds like you wer
e provoked,’ I say. ‘Did you have a decent defence counsel?’

  She gives me a small smile. ‘I used unreasonable force. He spent three weeks in intensive care. To be honest, I was just grateful I hadn’t killed him.’

  ‘Sounds like he deserved it.’

  ‘Maybe. But tell me, what’s going on with you? The police wouldn’t give me any details. Just that someone was threatening your family.’

  ‘Yes . . . it’s to do with Julian’s case.’ I think about Mac. He’ll be here in an hour. ‘Hopefully, it will all be over soon.’

  ‘Well.’ She sees I’m not going to say any more and goes down a couple of steps. ‘If I can do anything . . . help in any way . . . get in touch.’

  ‘I will. Sure you don’t need the money?’

  ‘No. I’ll get it some other time.’

  I stand on the step and watch as she climbs into her van, then drives off. It’s a bit late for me to hope our friendship hasn’t suffered, but still I hope it hasn’t been damaged beyond repair because she’s my best friend in Brighton and I’d hate to be without her. With or without a criminal record, she’s still the same Jem, and when this is over, I intend to make it up to her.

  The postman’s van has stopped close to the kerb. I’m expecting some of the macrobiotic ingredients Sezen and I ordered on the Internet, so I wait to see what he has for me. He comes up the steps with three parcels, which I sign for and take indoors. Charlie is beside the kettle making coffee. The girls are still under the table.

  ‘You’re not forgetting that later today we’re having a family meeting, love, are you?’ I say.

  ‘Nope. Four o’clock, wasn’t it?’

  ‘About then. Whenever Dad gets back from the pre-trial hearing.’

  ‘So is it some big bombshell?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pick up the smallest parcel. It’s an oblong shape about six inches long and four inches high. There’s no company logo on the box, and the postmark is local. I slice the packing tape with the end of a pair of scissors, being careful not to go too deeply into the box.

  Charlie is staring at me, his arms wide. ‘Well, what is it?’

  Inside is a black plastic bag. I lift it out. It fits the shape of my palm and feels as if it weighs a couple of pounds. I frown. ‘I’m not sure what this is.’

  ‘Not that! The bombshell.’

  ‘You’ll find out later.’ I look straight at him. ‘I would tell you now. I have been tempted to tell you, but I think it’s something your dad and I should tell you together.’

  His lips tremble. ‘You’re getting divorced?’

  ‘No! Heavens above!’ Still holding the plastic bag, I walk across and give him a hug. Then I point with my free hand under the table and put my finger to my lips. I don’t want Bea announcing to all and sundry that we’re getting divorced. ‘It’s to do with Dad’s trial.’

  ‘Not that again. Dad told me he’d resigned. I thought the emails had stopped. I thought I’d be able to ask Amy back.’

  ‘Not yet, darling.’ I think of the sight of her with her tongue down some other boy’s throat. ‘I know it’s hard, but we all need to be patient.’

  ‘So what is it, then?’ he whispers.

  ‘Charlie, honestly, I can’t say.’

  ‘Fine, then.’ He turns away, just a bit disgruntled, mumbling to himself.

  I go back to the table and check the box for a delivery note. Nothing.

  The bag is made of tough plastic and is secured at one end with tape. I put it on the table and pull off the tape. As soon as the seal is broken, I notice a smell: earthy, metallic, sharp. Something in my head says, Stop now! Don’t open it. Don’t go any further, but my hands keep unwrapping. I slide it out of the bag on to the table and stifle a scream. It’s a piece of meat shaped like a fist. There are thick, rubbery, tube-like vessels coming out of the top. I know without anyone having to tell me that it’s a heart. My jaw clenches tight against the nausea rising into my throat. I hold my hands away from me, staring at them and then staring at the bloody mass on the table.

  Charlie takes control. He guides me to the sink, squirts liquid soap on my hands and runs the hot tap. He holds my hands under the flow of water and says, ‘What the hell, Mum? I didn’t know you were ordering body parts.’

  ‘I didn’t order it,’ I say, my mind locking down on what this could mean.

  He goes over to the table and peers at it. ‘I’m not sure what animal it’s from. We dissected hearts in biology once. Oh, look!’ Inside the black plastic bag there is a cellophane envelope. He holds it at the edge so as not to get blood on his fingers, brings it to the sink and runs it under the tap. ‘There should be a delivery note inside.’ He dries it with a paper towel and slits the packet with a knife. Inside is a piece of paper folded down the centre. He hands it to me. I take a breath and then I read it. There are seven words printed in a regular font: Next time it will be your daughter’s.

  A scream resounds inside my head, insistent as a police siren. I clamp my mouth shut to stop the sound escaping.

  ‘Mum?’ Charlie looks panicked. ‘What does it say?’

  I slip the note into my pocket. ‘Charlie, I need you to take Bea and Lara downstairs.’ He goes to protest. ‘Please. Please do this for me. Don’t let them see what’s on the table. Ask Jack to stay with them, and then when you come back, I will try to explain what’s going on.’

  ‘OK.’

  I wait until he’s crawled under the table to speak to the girls and then, without looking at the heart, I go to the front door and down the steps. I’m still holding my hands away from me. They’re scrubbed clean, but the smell clings inside my nose. And I’m whimpering. I stagger towards the police car. They see me coming and are out of the car before I get that far. I don’t trust myself to speak. I point towards the house and then turn so that they can follow me inside. I lead them into the kitchen and point at the table.

  ‘What the . . .’ Faraway, the younger of the two, visibly shivers when he sees the heart, a solid, bloody lump of muscle and sinew.

  DS Baker looks at the heart, then back to me. ‘This was delivered just now?’

  I nod. My hands are shaking as I hand them the note. They both read it and then everything happens quickly. Faraway calls Mac and within ten minutes he arrives. Brisk and efficient, he takes a statement from me and from the policemen and then from Charlie. The forensic team arrive to deal with the heart. First of all, they take photographs and then they dust the packaging for prints, taking fingerprints from all of us to exclude us from the investigation.

  The whole thing takes over three hours. In the middle of it all Wendy turns up. ‘Claire, what on earth is going on?’

  The kitchen out of bounds, we’ve all congregated in Jack’s room. Lisa and I are on beanbags on the floor; Bea and Lara are lying on their fronts on the bed watching television; Charlie is pacing up and down. I’ve told him that this is the emailer taking the threat to the next level.

  Jack, sitting cross-legged on his bed, has brought milk and cereal down from the kitchen. He is eating one bowl after the next, his noisy munching punctuated with questions: ‘Why would someone send a heart to us?’, ‘How come that cop already knows you, Mum?’ and ‘What’s this got to do with Dad’s case?’ To every question I say the same thing: ‘When Dad gets back from London, we’ll give you all the details.’

  I answer Wendy’s questions in the same way. She sits down on the chair at Jack’s desk and looks around at us all. ‘And where’s Sezen?’

  ‘She’s . . . out.’ I stand up. I know that Wendy will have questions lining up on her tongue, none of which I’ll be able to answer to her satisfaction. ‘I’m going upstairs to see how things are progressing.’

  Charlie steps forward to come with me, but I shake my head. He sighs and throws himself down on the beanbag next to Lisa. I climb the stairs, my mind tormented with what I’ve just seen and read, the words ‘Next time it will be your daughter’s’ flashing in neon letters in my mind – a headline that can’
t be ignored. All the more reason why I need to get the details from Mac.

  He’s at the top of the stairs finishing off a phone call. ‘That was Julian. He’s on his way back. The judge has upheld the anonymity order.’

  It’s what I expected but still it feels like another blow and I slump against the wall. ‘Well, that’s that, then,’ I say.

  ‘The trial date has been set for two weeks’ time.’

  Fourteen whole days. Unless I can put a stop to this we will be in a safe house, wondering at every footstep on the pavement or knock on the door. And then when the trial begins, how long will it be before the witness has given his testimony? One week? Two? Three?

  ‘We finally got something out of Sezen.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘This bloke she’s been protecting is called Jalal Khatib. He’s an illegal immigrant and, what’s worse, he owes money to a couple of heavies who live in North London.’

  ‘But at the roundabout, he was the one who gave her money.’

  ‘She puts a certain amount in a bank account. As well as paying off the heavies with cash, she sends money back to his parents in the Middle East.’

  I raise my eyebrows at this.

  ‘It’s true,’ Mac says. ‘We’ve checked her bank statements.’

  ‘What about the business of her having two passports?’

  ‘She was born Sezen Serbest, Turkish but living in Bulgaria. In 1984 all Bulgarian nationals who were ethnically Turkish were ordered to exchange their names for Bulgarian ones or be forced to leave. Sezen translates to Sylvia and her father had to choose another surname. He chose Cyrilova.’

  ‘Do you believe all this?’

  ‘It’s historically accurate.’

  ‘So she was telling the truth when she told us she was Turkish?’

  ‘In effect, yes.’

  ‘It can’t be legal to have two passports in two different names, surely?’

  ‘No.’ It’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. ‘But I’m in no mind to pursue it.’