The Lying Kind

by Alison James

  ‘I see,’ said Rachel, weighing up the plush carpet and expensive desk and concluding that this news wasn’t exactly a surprise. Even if Gavin hadn’t fled the country, you’d have to wonder how he would manage to pay for all of this. ‘But you’ll presumably be aware that his daughter, Lola Jade Harper, has been missing for five months? I’m part of the team that’s investigating her disappearance, and I need access to Gavin Harper’s divorce file.’

  Bell leaned, back, shooting his cuffs. ‘I am aware, yes: most unfortunate. But as a law-enforcement officer, you will be aware of my duty of confidentiality to my client. Unless records are subpoenaed by a judge, or a government body that has the statutory power to request them.’

  Rachel parried with her blandest professional smile. ‘Though of course under the 1989 Children Act, you are under a duty to reveal any experts’ reports commissioned for the purposes of proceedings involving a child.’ Touché, she thought.

  Bell looked annoyed, but returned to the bland, professional geniality. ‘There is, of course, the possibility of voluntary disclosure. I could ask Mr Harper if he’s willing to let you view the papers.’

  ‘Do you have a number for him?’ Rachel thought of the disconnected UK mobile and the burner phone in Portugal, now in an evidence store.

  ‘Indeed,’ he parried smoothly. ‘My client has recently returned from a trip overseas…’

  That’s one way of putting it, thought Rachel, picturing Gavin Harper handcuffed to her over a plane armrest.

  ‘… and our office has recently been in touch with him, so if you’d care to wait, I could speak to him.’

  Rachel did care to wait, and was led into a conference room with a huge glossy table at its centre. Camilla glided in as if on wheels, bearing a tray with a cafetière of freshly brewed coffee, a porcelain cup and saucer and a tray of Belgian biscuits. She reappeared about thirty minutes later with a couple of thick manila folders that had Harper, G. J. written on their spines.

  ‘I may need copies of some of this,’ Rachel told her.

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded, and floated out.

  There were dozens of documents, and Rachel quickly realised that she would not be able to read them all unless Hepburn, Willis & Bell provided a bed for the night. She poured herself some coffee, settled into her chair and began to read the story of Gavin and Michelle’s marriage.

  Twelve

  Rachel started by flicking through the correspondence and weeding out what she thought was most important. First up was a lengthy report from a Dr Marian Flugman, MB BS, MPsych. She had been commissioned to conduct a psychological examination of Mrs Michelle Leslie Harper, née Kenny.

  The complainant, Mr Gavin Harper, reports that his wife seemed to have a mood disorder and to be, in his opinion ‘unstable’. She made repeated false allegations of child sex abuse with regard to their daughter Lola Jade Harper, aged 6.

  According to Mr Harper, she catastrophised his late return of the child after a contact visit and made a complaint of spousal abduction, later withdrawn. He describes constant mood swings, alternating rage and coldness or withdrawal. Her relationship with her daughter is described as ‘obsessive’, with the need to have total control over the child, while at the same time treating her with emotional indifference, as though she is a trophy or a possession. Mr Harper wonders if his wife might be suffering from undiagnosed bipolar disorder, and consequently be unsuitable to have primary care of their daughter.

  Mrs Harper initially refused to attend for diagnostic interview, but when it was explained to her that her refusal would be a material factor in the upcoming decision about her daughter’s residence order, she complied, with marked reluctance.

  * * *

  Method

  I employed the World Health Organisation’s IPDE assessment (International Personality Disorder Examination), comprising a self-administered screening questionnaire and a semi-structured interview booklet with scoring materials.

  * * *

  Findings

  I was able to reject the diagnosis of bipolar disorder, where manic behaviour and depression must remain consistent for at least four days at a time. In Michelle Harper’s case, the fluctuations were more short-lived, and triggered by external events, particularly the perceived failings of others. This is consistent with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder.

  The clinical definition of BPD is a pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, indicated by five or more of the nine diagnostic criteria. My assessment concluded that Mrs Harper demonstrates the following:

  A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterised by alternating between extremes of idealisation and devaluation.

  Identity disturbance: a markedly and persistently unstable self-image.

  Inappropriate intense anger or difficulty controlling anger: e.g. frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights.

  Transient stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms.

  Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood: e.g. alternating irritability and anxiety.

  There is clearly a discussion to be had regarding Mrs Harper’s ability to care for her daughter appropriately. Parents with BPD typically lack insight into their own parenting abilities and become enraged when their child does not agree with them. They also attempt to control their children’s behaviours, feelings and actions to a degree that inhibits their child’s ability to develop independently. Lola’s father reports the child becoming increasingly withdrawn as she constantly attempts to please her mother, who in turn believes her own behaviour is that of an exemplary parent.

  Rachel thought back to the photos of Lola Jade: rarely smiling and with a generally unhappy air. To Gavin’s description of Michelle’s parenting style. Had someone snatched Lola to get her out of her mother’s clutches, or was this something else altogether?

  She sipped the excellent coffee and flicked through the file again. Her eye was caught by the cream and pink paper. Certified copy of an entry of birth: Lola Jade Harriet Harper, 13 September 2009. Attached to it with a paper clip was a copy of a second birth certificate: Oliver Jake Terence Harper, 7 April 2008. And behind that was a third certificate, the stark black-and-white print stating: Certified copy of an entry pursuant to the Births and Deaths Registration Act 1953: DEATH. That bleak word in capitals, inside a black-framed text box. Oliver Jake Harper, 2 July 2008. Cause of death: 1. Unascertained 2. Ear infection. The death certificate had been signed by the Surrey county coroner, and there was a police report and a summary of the post-mortem findings, both of which were inconclusive. The baby had been a little grizzly when he had been put down for a nap, and had been found dead by Michelle two hours later.

  Rachel thought back to the baby photos in Michelle’s album, and on display on the wall of her house. They were all of infants in lacy dresses and pale pink. Not a single image of a boy. Odd.

  At the top of the file was the bill for Conrad Bell’s services and other defrayed expenses, totalling £9,875 plus VAT. Stapled to it was a red bill for the same amount, with ACCOUNT OVERDUE stamped on it. So Bell had declined to move past his preliminary investigations when it looked as though he wasn’t going to be paid.

  Camilla sashayed in to collect the tray, and Rachel gave her the documents she wanted copied, firing off a text to Brickall while she waited.

  We definitely need a chat with Gavin Harper. Meet you at the office?

  * * *

  ‘So here’s an alternative theory, based on the divorce case.’

  Rachel and Brickall had repaired to the Pin and Needle, where they held a lot of their informal case conferences. And in Rachel’s current predicament, it was a lot more comfortable than sitting at her desk. She could stretch out her right leg.

  ‘Go on.’ Brickall bent his head and carefully siphoned up lager fr
om an overfilled glass, then started on a bowl of chips. Rachel had limited herself to mineral water, but stole one of the chips.

  ‘Gavin Harper wants to get full custody of his daughter, so employs a top lawyer who finds a psychiatrist willing to say that Michelle is a dangerous nutter. But he runs out of money to retain said lawyer long before the case reaches the family court. So he takes matters into his own hands and runs off with Lola.’

  Brickall squinted, his expression sceptical. ‘But you said that apart from the nightdress – which we’ve cleared up – there was no sign he’d taken the kid to Portugal with him.’

  ‘There wasn’t. At least not in Albufeira. But what if that was just a move to take us down the wrong track? What if he’s actually hidden her somewhere else?’

  ‘According to Surrey Police, since he was bailed, he’s been shacked up at his dad’s. At least that’s the reporting address he’s given them.’

  ‘So we should start by visiting Terry again. And possibly Andy. He obviously knew more than he was letting on. The family are certainly not fans of Michelle: it’s perfectly plausible they’d want to see Lola Jade taken away from her.’

  Brickall shovelled in the remaining chips and drained his lager. It never ceased to amaze Rachel that not only was he not overweight, but he never seemed to gain an ounce, despite his shocking eating habits. ‘Shall we head down to Eastwell then?’ He jangled his car keys in her face.

  She checked the time. Nearly 5 p.m. ‘Not this evening. I’m going out.’

  He did a mock double-take. ‘A date, Prince?’

  She nodded. ‘It is, as it happens.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky man? Married, is he?’

  ‘Yes. To me.’

  * * *

  The restaurant Stuart had chosen was on the South Bank, and boasted a Michelin star.

  It was a combination of the setting and her nervousness that made Rachel break with tradition and wear a dress. Her sole little black dress was short, made of heavy crêpe and trimmed with a pleated flounce that flared as she walked. She added red suede heels – wincing at the effect on her knee – and bright red lipstick. Style it out, she told herself. Make it look as though you’re in control.

  Stuart stood up when she came into the dining room, and his very physical presence made her catch her breath. She was reminded of how she had felt when she first met him, how impressed she had been by his self-possession. Everything he said and did was deliberate and carefully considered, in contrast to men her own age, who had seemed chaotic and immature.

  He was fifty now, and had lost some of his glamorous aura, but still carried himself well. Distinguished, Rachel thought. That’s what men like Stuart become. She hesitated for a long time near the maître d’s station, part of her willing herself to turn and walk out.

  I don’t want do this. I don’t want to talk to him about that time.

  As she prevaricated, he turned his head and saw her, standing up and beckoning her over. He reached in for a European double-cheek kiss, as though they had last seen each other only months ago. Rachel did not return it.

  ‘Rachel, look at you! You look magnificent. And you haven’t aged at all.’

  She looked askance at him as she sat down. ‘That’s very gallant, but not true.’

  Stuart smoothly summoned a waiter and pointed to something on the wine list. ‘It’s making me wonder why we didn’t do this a lot sooner.’

  Rachel flushed slightly. ‘I think we both know why we didn’t. And that that’s my fault.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Well, you certainly made it as challenging as possible for me to get in touch with you. But I’ve kept track of your career: you’re a high-flying member of Interpol.’

  ‘It’s part of the National Crime Agency now, but yes, I am.’

  ‘Mind you, as soon as I met you, I knew you’d go far. You were so adorable, so fresh-faced, with all that blonde hair pinned up under your uniform hat, but there was a fire in your eyes. The only person I could look at in that courtroom was you.’

  He was referring to the case of an unidentified body that Rachel had found in an alley when she was on the beat. They had both been witnesses at the subsequent coroner’s inquest.

  His admiring tone made Rachel uncomfortable, and she pretended to examine the menu. A waitress arrived with a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet in an ice bucket, and two glasses. ‘I think you’ll love this: it’s the style of white you used to go for.’

  ‘Actually I tend to drink red these days.’

  Stuart looked suitably chastened. ‘Yes, well, an awful lot of water – and wine – has flowed under the bridge since then.’

  For a while they kept to more neutral topics: his work – he now held a prestigious chair in pathology at the University of Edinburgh – the weather, London property prices. But Rachel had no desire to prolong the encounter, so eventually she saw no option but to blunder straight in. ‘So, why did you get in touch?’

  She took a sip of the wine to calm her jangled nerves. He was right: it was delicious. But then Stuart being right about everything had been the root of the problem: the reason she ran away. She had felt micromanaged, suffocated.

  ‘I want a divorce.’ He softened this bald statement with a smile. ‘It’s silly that we’re still legally married after all this time. Time to formally sever the tie.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘I’m with someone now, in a stable relationship, and I expect she’ll want to get married at some point.’

  ‘She wants to… but you don’t?’

  The waiter was hovering. ‘Shall I order for us both? Simpler that way?’ And without waiting for her response, he did so, selecting dishes that Rachel had no objection to but wouldn’t necessarily have chosen herself. Case resting, she thought. She’d spent much of the day reading the story of the Harpers’ marriage and here, in a nutshell, was the story of hers.

  Stuart gave her a rueful look. ‘Obviously my view of marriage has been tainted somewhat. But Claire’s never been married before, and she’d like to have children, so… I feel I should be in a position to offer her that. Do you have children?’

  Rachel shook her head firmly, looking down at her lap. ‘No.’

  ‘Ever wanted them? Since we split, I mean.’

  Rachel created an imaginary problem with one of her shoes, reaching under the table to fiddle with it, then launching into a treatise on the effects of wet leaves on light-coloured suede. To her relief, the waiter then arrived with the starters,

  ‘This is delicious.’ She stuck her fork into the turbot mousse, still avoiding his probing.

  She should have known he would not be deterred. Not Stuart’s style. He set down his own fork and gave her a long, steady look; the look of a disappointed parent. ‘So what happened, Rae? Leaving me was one thing, but taking off and vanishing, with no contact at all – it’s… well, it was just plain bizarre.’ He hesitated, colouring slightly. ‘Not to mention deeply upsetting. I had no idea what I was supposed to have done, and therefore no means of making it right.’

  She gave a half-shrug and dropped her gaze to the floor, returning to scrutiny of the red suede courts. He put his fingers under her chin and tried to lift it and re-establish eye contact. She flinched.

  ‘Don’t, Stuart. Please.’

  ‘Do you really not think I’m entitled to an explanation?’

  That exasperated, paternal tone.

  ‘Yes, I do. But…’

  ‘So what did I do? What was it about being married to me that was so terrible you had to run off one night while I was at work?’

  ‘It wasn’t just about you. I was—’

  ‘Rachel, please. Don’t insult me with the “it’s not you, it’s me” excuse. You owe me better than that.’

  She suppressed a sigh of exasperation. ‘I don’t doubt that; it’s just that after so many years have elapsed, it seems futile to go over it all again.’

  ‘But that’s just the point,’ Stuart said
insistently, raising his voice enough to make the other diners glance in their direction. ‘There is no “again” about this. How can there be when we didn’t have a single conversation about what was going through your mind?’

  Rachel stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry: I just can’t do this. I can’t talk about it.’

  She flung her starched linen napkin onto the table and hurried out of the restaurant as fast as her stilettos would allow.

  Thirteen

  ‘He’s here, and he’s not here.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Brickall demanded. He and Rachel were once again in the tiny hallway of Terry Harper’s house. ‘We’re not after riddles. We’re after facts. And your son, who’s given this as his bail address.’

  ‘Gav’s been staying with me, yes, but he’s hardly ever indoors. He’s spending most of his time with Andy.’

  ‘Is he working?’ Rachel was aware, as she asked the question, that she couldn’t remember what Gavin Harper did for a living, even though it had been mentioned on the original police file.

  Terry filled in the gaps for her. ‘He’s getting a bit of plastering work – you know, he trained as a plasterer back in the day, before he set up his own building contractor’s outfit.’

  ‘That’ll explain how he managed to hire the big shiny divorce lawyer,’ said Brickall as they headed out to the car after checking the small single bedroom where Gavin was sleeping and ascertaining that the contents were much the same as in the apartment in Albufeira. ‘Plasterers make a bloody fortune.’