The Truth-Teller's Lie

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Marital separations,’ muttered Simon, thinking about the poem Juliet Haworth had written on the envelope. She wasn’t a typical lorry driver’s wife, any more than Naomi Jenkins was the average lorry driver’s mistress. They’ve got more in common with each other than with him, thought Simon. Hard to know if he was right, with Haworth saying even less than the two women were. ‘What’s the idea?’ he asked Sellers.

  ‘A sundial.’

  Simon laughed in his face. ‘For Gibbs? Wouldn’t he prefer a can of Special Brew? Or a porn video?’

  ‘You know the Snowman’s got a book about sundials?’

  ‘Yeah. Do you know who bought him that book, and didn’t get paid back?’

  ‘I had a look at it. You can get this thing put on called a nodus.’

  ‘You mean a gnomon?’

  ‘No, all sundials have got those. A nodus is usually a round ball, although it doesn’t have to be. It goes on the gnomon, so that there’s like a blob that stands out on the edge of the shadow. Anyway, you can have a horizontal line put on the dial if you’ve got a special date or something—Gibbs and Debbie’s wedding day for example. The horizontal date line crosses the downward time lines, the ones that mark out the hours and half-hours. And on that date every year, the shadow of the nodus follows the line all the way along. Do you get what I mean?’

  ‘The specifics are irrelevant,’ said Simon. ‘In general, it’s a bad idea. Gibbs wouldn’t want a sundial. He’d perk up when he heard the words “date line”, but ultimately he’d be disappointed.’

  ‘Debbie might want one.’ Sellers sounded hurt. ‘They’re nice, sundials. I’d like one. Proust said he would too.’

  ‘Debbie wants to marry Gibbs. We can assume her taste’s as bad as his.’

  ‘All right, you fucking killjoy! I just wanted to get it sorted, that’s all. When I get back from my week with Suki, the wedding’ll only be a couple of days off. You lot’ll have to sort it while I’m away, if you leave it till the last minute. God, talk about putting a dampener on things. I know Gibbs isn’t exactly—’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘—but, you know, I just thought maybe we should aim high for a change.’

  ‘“Look up in the sun’s eye and give what the exultant heart calls good that some new day might breed the best, because you gave not what they would but the right twigs for an eagle’s nest.”’ Simon smiled. He wondered if Juliet Haworth would recognise the quote. Sellers didn’t. ‘W. B. Yeats. But he’d never met Chris Gibbs, and if he had, he’d have thought again.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Sellers wearily.

  ‘Which way round do you think it is?’ Simon asked him. ‘Did Robert Haworth rape Naomi Jenkins and tell his wife about it? Or was Jenkins raped by someone else, confided in her lover, and then he broke her confidence and told his wife?’

  ‘Fuck knows,’ said Sellers. ‘In both scenarios you’re assuming Haworth told Juliet about the rape. Maybe Naomi Jenkins told her. I can’t get it out of my head that the two of them might be working together to mislead us. They’re both cocky cows, and we know they’ve both lied. What if they aren’t the enemies and rivals they seem to be?’

  ‘What if anything?’ said Simon despondently. ‘With Haworth still unconscious and both women messing us around, we’re getting fucking nowhere, aren’t we?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Charlie, coming up the corridor behind them. Simon and Sellers turned round. Her face was grim. She didn’t sound pleased, as she normally did when progress was being made. ‘Simon, I need a DNA sample from Haworth as soon as possible. And not one forensics took from the house, before you tell me we’ve already got it. I want one from the man himself. I’m not taking any chances.’ Charlie was marching as she spoke; Simon heard Sellers panting behind him as they struggled to keep up with her.

  ‘Sellers, get me background on Haworth, Juliet Haworth and Naomi Jenkins. Where’s Gibbs?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Sellers.

  ‘Not good enough. I want Yvon Cotchin brought in for questioning, Jenkins’s lodger. And get forensics on to Robert Haworth’s lorry.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Sellers, red in the face, once the sound of Charlie’s high heels click-clacking along the corridor had faded.

  Simon didn’t want to guess, didn’t want to speculate about what might constitute both progress and bad news. ‘You can’t keep covering for Gibbs,’ he changed the subject. ‘What’s wrong with him, anyway? Is it the wedding?’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said Sellers determinedly. Simon thought of the sundial on Naomi Jenkins’ business card, its motto. He couldn’t remember the Latin, but it translated as ‘I only count the sunny hours.’ That was Sellers to a tee.

  13

  Thursday, April 6

  SERGEANT ZAILER UNLOCKS the door of my cell. I try to stand up, and only realise how worn out I am when my knees buckle and a jangling noise starts up inside my head. Before I manage to convert the tangle of my thoughts into a coherent question, Sergeant Zailer says, ‘Robert’s doing well. The haemorrhaging’s stopped and the swelling’s going down.’

  This news is all I need by way of an energy boost. ‘You mean he’s going to be okay? He’ll wake up?’

  ‘I don’t know. The doctor I just spoke to said that with head injuries nothing is predictable. I’m sorry.’

  I should have known: the ordeal is never over. It’s like an endless race—the straight white finishing line dissolves into powder and scatters as I approach, and as it disappears, I glimpse a new line in the distance. And then I run towards that one, panting for my life, and the same thing happens. One wait comes to an end and another starts. It is this that is eroding me more than lack of sleep. I feel as if there’s an animal trapped inside me, straining to get out, rocking back and forth. If only I could find a way to be still inside my head, I wouldn’t mind lying awake all night.

  ‘Take me to the hospital to see Robert,’ I say, as Sergeant Zailer leads me out on to the corridor.

  ‘I’m taking you to an interview room,’ she says firmly. ‘We’ve got some talking to do, Naomi—a lot of explaining and straightening out.’ My body sags. I haven’t got the energy for a lot of anything. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Sergeant Zailer. ‘You’ve got nothing to fear if you tell the truth.’

  I could never be afraid of the police. They follow rules I understand and, apart from the odd exception, agree with.

  ‘I know you wouldn’t and didn’t hurt Robert.’

  Relief washes over me, sinking into my tired bones. Thank God. I want to ask if it was Juliet who hurt you, but there’s been a power cut in the part of the brain that controls my speech, and my mouth will not open.

  The interview room has pale coral walls and smells strongly of aniseed.

  ‘Would you like a drink before we start?’ Sergeant Zailer asks.

  ‘Anything alcoholic.’

  ‘Tea, coffee or water,’ she says in a cooler voice.

  ‘Just water, then.’ I wasn’t being facetious. I know the police are allowed to let people smoke. I’ve seen it on television, and there’s an ashtray on the table in front of me. If tobacco and nicotine are permissible, why not alcohol? There’s so much pointless inconsistency in the world, most of it the result of stupidity.

  ‘Still or sparkling?’ Sergeant Zailer mutters on her way out of the room. I can’t tell if she’s angry or joking.

  As soon as I’m alone, my mind goes blank. I ought to be anticipating, preparing, but all I do is sit completely still while the thin fabric of my consciousness stretches to cover the chasm between this moment and the next.

  You are alive.

  Sergeant Zailer comes back with my water. She fiddles with the machine on the table, which looks more sophisticated than anything I would call a tape recorder, though that’s clearly its function. Once it’s recording, she says her name and mine, the date and the time. She asks me to state that I do not wish a solicitor to be present. Once I’ve done this, she leans
back in her chair and says, ‘I’m going to save us both a lot of time by skipping the question-and-answer rigmarole. I’ll describe to you the situation as I understand it. You can tell me if I’m right. Okay?’

  I nod.

  ‘Robert Haworth didn’t rape you. You lied about that, but for the best possible reason. You love Robert, and you believed something had happened to prevent him from meeting you at the Traveltel last Thursday, something serious. You reported your concerns to DC Waterhouse and myself, but you could see that we weren’t as certain as you were that Robert had come to harm. You didn’t think finding him would be a priority for us, so you tried a different tactic—you tried to make us believe Robert was violent and dangerous, and needed to be found quickly before he hurt anyone else. Right from the start, you planned to tell us the truth as soon as we found him. It was only going to be a temporary lie—you knew you’d redeem it with the truth eventually.’ Sergeant Zailer pauses for breath. ‘How am I doing so far?’

  ‘It’s all true, everything you’ve said.’ I am slightly stunned that she has managed to work it out. Could she have spoken to Yvon?

  ‘Naomi, your lie saved Robert’s life. One more day and he’d have been dead for sure. The brain compression from his bleeds would have killed him.’

  ‘I knew it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Naomi? You’d better make sure you never lie to me again. Just because you were right about Robert doesn’t mean you can introduce a new set of rules whenever it suits you. Are we clear on that?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to lie, now that you’ve found Robert and he’s safe. Did . . . did Juliet try to kill him? What did she do to him?’

  ‘We’ll get to that in due course,’ says Sergeant Zailer. She takes a packet of Marlboro Lights out of her bag and lights one. Her fingernails are long, painted a burgundy colour, the skin chewed and raw around the edges. ‘So, if Robert Haworth didn’t rape you, who did?’

  Her words hit me like bullets. ‘I . . . Nobody raped me. I made up the whole story.’

  ‘A pretty elaborate story. The theatre, the table . . .’

  ‘The whole thing was a lie.’

  ‘Really?’ Sergeant Zailer balances her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and folds her arms, looking at me through the rising wisps of smoke. ‘Well, it was a bloody imaginative lie. Why add so many weird elements—the dinner party, the acorn bedposts, the padded eye mask? Why not just say Haworth raped you one night at the Traveltel? You had a row, he got angry . . . et cetera. It would have been a lot simpler.’

  ‘The more concrete details that go into a lie, the easier it is for people to believe,’ I tell her. ‘A fiction needs to contain as many specifics as a truth would contain, if it wants to disguise itself as a truth.’ I take a deep breath. ‘A row at the Traveltel wouldn’t have been good enough—it’s too personal to Robert and me. I needed you to believe Robert was a threat to women in general, that he was some kind of . . . ritualistic perverted monster. So I made up the worst rape story I could think of.’

  Sergeant Zailer nods slowly. Then she says, ‘I think you used that particular story because it was true.’

  I say nothing.

  She takes some papers out of her handbag, unfolds them and spreads them out in front of me. One quick glance tells me exactly what they are. Their meaning rises to smother me, although I avoid looking at the words. There is a blockage in my throat.

  ‘Very clever,’ I say.

  ‘You think these aren’t real? Robert didn’t rape you, Naomi, but you and I both know someone did. And whoever he is, he’s done it to other women. These women. Why did you think you were the only one?’

  Steeling myself, I look at the pieces of paper in front of me. They could be real. One of them is semi-literate. And the details are slightly different in each one. I don’t think Sergeant Zailer would have done that. Why should she? It’s like what she said about my story: it’s too elaborate.

  ‘Some women go to the police after they’re raped,’ she says in a conversational tone. ‘Swabs are taken. Now that we’ve got Mr Haworth, we can take a sample of his DNA. If he’s responsible for these rapes, we can prove it.’ She watches me carefully.

  ‘Robert?’ This sudden about-turn confuses me. ‘He could never hurt anyone. Take a sample of his DNA if you must. It won’t match any . . . swabs.’

  Sergeant Zailer smiles at me sympathetically. This time I’m determined not to fall for it. ‘I think you could be a brilliant witness if you wanted to be, Naomi. If you start telling us the full truth, it’ll help us to catch this evil shit who raped you and these other women. Don’t you want that?’

  ‘I was never raped. My statement was a lie.’ Does she think I’m saying this to thwart her quest for justice, the stupid cow? It’s because of me that I can’t admit it. I’m the one who has to get through the rest of my life, and the only way I can do that is as a person it didn’t happen to.

  I’ve seen countless films in which people blurt out the truth they are desperate to hide after mild to moderate psychological prodding from a detective or shrink or lawyer. I’ve always thought those individuals must be pretty dim, or have a lot less stamina than I have. But maybe it’s not stamina; maybe it’s self-knowledge that enables me to resist Sergeant Zailer’s appeals. I know how my mind works, so I know how to protect it.

  Besides, I’m not the only liar in this room.

  ‘These are stories from rape websites that you’ve printed out,’ I say. ‘You haven’t got any swabs. You can’t have.’

  Sergeant Zailer smiles. She pulls some more papers out of her handbag. ‘Have a look at these,’ she says.

  My chest feels tight. I have started to sweat. I don’t want to take the pages from her hand, but she’s holding them out. They’re right under my chin. I have to take them.

  I feel dizzy as I look down at the print. They are police statements, like the one I signed for DC Waterhouse on Tuesday. Rape statements, similar to mine in form and in content. In almost every ugly detail. There are two of them. Both were taken by a Detective Sergeant Sam Kombothekra from West Yorkshire CID. One is dated 2003, one 2004. If I weren’t such a coward, if I’d reported what happened to me, I might have prevented the attacks on Prudence Kelvey and Sandra Freeguard. I can’t help looking at the names, making it personal.

  Two named women, one who chose to be anonymous, a waitress from Cardiff who gives only a first name—four other victims. At least.

  I am not the only one.

  For Sergeant Zailer, it’s business as usual. ‘How does Juliet Haworth know about what happened to you? She knows everything—all the things you claim you invented. Did Robert tell her? Did you tell him?’

  I cannot answer. I am crying uncontrollably, like a pathetic baby. The ground is falling away and I am floating in the dark. ‘Nothing happened to me,’ I manage to say. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Juliet wants to talk to you. She won’t tell us if she attacked Robert, or whether she wanted to kill him. She won’t say anything to us. You’re the only person she’ll talk to. What do you reckon?’

  The words are recognisable as objects, but they make no sense to me.

  ‘Will you do it? You can ask her how she knows you were raped.’

  ‘You’re lying! If she knows, it’s because you told her.’ My thighs are wet with sweat. I feel faint, as if I might throw up. ‘I want to see Robert. I need to go to the hospital.’

  Sergeant Zailer puts a photograph of you on the table in front of me. My heart jolts so violently it feels as I imagine whiplash would. I want to touch the picture. Your skin is grey. I cannot see your face because it’s turned away from the camera. Most of the photo is blood, red around the edges, black and globular in the middle.

  I’m glad she’s shown it to me. Whatever’s happened to you, I don’t want to shy away from it. I want to be as close to you as I can be.

  ‘Robert,’ I whisper. Tears stream down my face. I have to get to that hospital. ‘Did Juliet do this?’

>   ‘You tell me.’

  I stare at Sergeant Zailer, wondering if we’re taking part in two different conversations, two different realities. I don’t know who did it. I have no idea. If I knew, I’d kill them. I can’t think of anyone who might have attacked you apart from your wife.

  ‘Perhaps it was you who hurt Robert. Did he tell you it was all over? Did he dare to fall out of love with you?’

  This absurd proposition rouses me. ‘Are all the detectives around here as dense as you?’ I snap. ‘Isn’t there some kind of graduate-entry programme? I’m sure I read about one. Any chance I could talk to a graduate cop?’

  ‘You’re talking to a PhD.’

  ‘In what? Imbecility?’

  ‘We’ll need a DNA sample from you, to put against the forensic findings from the scene where Mr Haworth was attacked. If you did it, we’ll prove it.’

  ‘Good. In that case, you’ll soon know that I didn’t. I’m glad we’ve more to rely on than your intuition, because that seems to be about as accurate as a—’

  ‘Sundial in the dark?’ Sergeant Zailer suggests. She is mocking me. ‘Will you talk to Juliet Haworth? I’d be present throughout. There’d be no safety risk.’

  ‘If you take me to see Robert, I’ll speak to Juliet. If you don’t, forget it.’ I take a sip from my glass of water.

  ‘You’re something else,’ she says under her breath. But she doesn’t say no.

  14

  4/6/06

  ‘PRUE KELVEY AND Sandy Freeguard.’ Detective Sergeant Sam Kombothekra from West Yorkshire CID had brought photographs of both women with him, which were pinned to Charlie’s whiteboard, alongside pictures of Robert Haworth, Juliet Haworth and Naomi Jenkins. Charlie had asked Kombothekra to tell the rest of the team what he’d already told her on the phone. ‘Prue Kelvey was raped on the sixteenth of November 2003. Sandy Freeguard was raped nine months later, on the twentieth of August 2004. We took a full kit from Kelvey, but nothing from Freeguard, so no DNA there. She waited a week before reporting it, but the attack was identical to Kelvey’s, so we were pretty certain we were dealing with the same man.’